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CHAPTER THREE

Aidan paced the length of the holding cell, which took him all of three strides. He occasionally glanced at the glass-walled room where the chief and the FBI agent had been talking for the past half hour.

He had no clue what they were discussing, but it must be important since the chief was delaying interviewing him. Dawson had flat out told him he believed he was behind that stupid stunt at the festival. Refusing to listen to Aidan’s protests, the chief had promised to get the truth out of him after he made a few phone calls to try to calm the town leaders about the ruined festival.

It shouldn’t bother Aidan at this point that he was the first person the police picked up whenever something bad happened around here. After all, he was the only parolee in Mystic Lake and this wasn’t the first, second or even dozenth time they’d brought him in for questioning. But it did bother him. It bothered him more than any of those other times, because this wasn’t for something juvenile like knocking over someone’s mailbox. This was shooting an arrow into a crowd, something Aidan would never do, especially with innocent children running around. But Chief Dawson couldn’t look beyond Aidan’s past. To Dawson, a killer was a killer, regardless of the circumstances.

Aidan stopped pacing and plopped down onto the cot. As always, when he was at the police station he couldn’t help thinking about the past. He’d had a family once—a young son he adored, a wife he’d loved so much it hurt. They’d planned to grow old together, to spend their golden years with a score of grandchildren running around their front yard. But that was never going to happen. Not anymore.

He shoved to his feet again to continue pacing.

The front door opened. When Aidan saw who was coming into the station, he groaned. His parole officer was here. His shoulders slumped as he stepped to the bars to greet Mrs. Whang. But instead of taking her to see her client, Collier ushered her into the conference room.

His parole officer was speaking to an FBI agent, presumably about him. This couldn’t be good. Visions of having his parole rescinded and being sent back to prison had him sweating. He fisted his hands at his sides and waited at the cell door to be taken to the chief’s office, where he and his parole officer always met in private.

She wasn’t in the conference room for long. But whatever they’d told her had a notable impact. Her face was pale and drawn as she headed toward him. But rather than one of the officers letting him out to speak with her, Whang stood outside the locked door to his cell.

“Mr. O’Brien. We need to talk.”

A few minutes later, Whang left and it was Aidan’s turn to be led to the conference room. For the first time since leaving prison, in addition to handcuffs he was wearing leg shackles. He clenched his jaw against the added humiliation of two officers, Collier and Ortiz, escorting him into the conference room. Even more humiliating was what his parole officer had told him.

That he was under suspicion of being a serial killer.

Maybe it was a good thing that he was cuffed and shackled. Because right now a burning rage was flowing through his veins like molten lava. If his hands had been free he’d have likely punched a hole through a wall, or slammed a chair against one of the glass walls of the conference room.

Ortiz motioned Aidan to sit at the far end of the table. Once Aidan was seated, the officer secured the length of chain between his handcuffs to the steel ring bolted into the top of the table. Collier did the same with the leg shackle chain underneath the table, attaching it to a steel ring on the floor that Aidan had never even noticed before. No doubt he had the FBI agent to thank for being trussed up and for blackening his reputation even more than it already had been.

As the door closed, the agent smiled and nodded, since hand-shaking was obviously out of the question. Aidan wouldn’t have shaken her hand anyway. Right now he considered her enemy number one, ruining what little progress he’d made over the past year. Gossip blew through this town like the winds coming down off the mountains. By the time he was released—if he was released—everyone in Mystic Lake would be talking about his past again, and speculating about whether he was this so-called Crossbow Killer.

“Mr. O’Brien, I’m Special Agent Grace Malone. I work out of the FBI field office in Knoxville. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

He sat back, grateful that the handcuff chain was long enough to allow him that small comfort.

“I do mind. I’m already under arrest for allegedly shooting an arrow through a crowd of people, an arrow that could have killed children, let alone the two adults on that boat. If you’re here to arrest me for something I haven’t done, get in line.” He rattled the chains hanging from his handcuffs.

Her eyes widened.

Dawson swore. “We caught you with your bow and arrows after you ran into the woods to get away.”

Aidan leaned forward in his chair, desperately trying to tamp down his anger. But it was impossible to completely hide that he was mad as hell.

“Let’s deal in facts instead of conjecture, Chief. Fact—you found a bow and a quiver of arrows lying in the woods about ten yards behind where I’d been sitting on the hill, watching the festival. Fact—you don’t know yet whose they are. We both agree that they likely belong to whoever shot that arrow. Officer Collier’s your resident fingerprint expert, isn’t he? Have him compare any prints on the weapon to my prints that you have on file. I guarantee they won’t match.”

Malone held up her hands. “Hold it. Let’s step back a minute. First of all, Chief Dawson, I’d very much like to have your permission to send the evidence from the festival to the FBI lab for forensic examination. They can test for DNA on some parts and fingerprints on others. If that’s done in the wrong order it can ruin our chances to get a profile or viable prints.”

“How quickly can the FBI get that done?”

“The Crossbow Killer case is one of our highest priorities right now. I can have a courier pick it up this afternoon and have results in a few days.”

“That’s far better than me sending it to our state lab, which can take months. Keep me informed on the results. We’ll get everything ready for transport. It’ll be ready for your courier.”

“Thank you.”

Aidan wanted to shout his frustration about any kind of delay in proving his innocence. But he knew that wouldn’t do any good, so he remained silent.

“Mr. O’Brien,” the agent said. “The second thing I wanted to do was ask you, if you really aren’t the shooter, why did you run away when Chief Dawson took off after you?”

“Lady, I didn’t even know Dawson was there until he tackled me from behind. I wasn’t running from anyone. I was running after someone, the idiot who sent an arrow whizzing past my ear.”

Dawson’s jaw tightened with anger. “You expect us to believe that the only person in town who’s an admitted, confessed killer—you—just happened to be sitting where another killer, or would-be killer, takes a potshot from the woods? And then that phantom guy happens to drop his weapon as he runs away, making it look as if you’re the shooter? Is that the cockamamie story you’re trying to feed us?”

Aidan’s voice was hoarse from suppressing the urge to shout as he responded. “What I want you to believe is the truth. I don’t have all the answers. Conducting an investigation isn’t my job. It’s yours. But if you want to pin this on me, I’m warning you right now. I won’t go down without a fight. I’m not pleading guilty to make your job easier.”

Malone held her hands up again in a placating gesture. “I don’t believe anyone here is trying to pin anything on you. Chief Dawson and I are both after the same thing as you—the truth. Let’s try to set aside hurt feelings or even theories and focus on the facts, just as you suggested. You said someone behind you shot over your shoulder. When you turned around, were you able to get a look at them? Do you think you can give us a description?”

Dawson crossed his arms. “ I can. The shooter is male, white, six-foot-two, late thirties with brown eyes, shaggy brown hair and light facial hair wearing a dark T-shirt, jean jacket, jeans and brown hiking boots.”

The exact description of Aidan had him trying to jump to his feet but the shackles forced him down into the chair without being able to stand upright. He glared his outrage. But before he could respond, Malone rapped her knuckles on the table to get their attention.

Her blue eyes flashed with anger of her own as she looked at Dawson. “That didn’t help things one bit, Chief. Unless you actually saw the shooter and he was Mr. O’Brien’s twin.”

Dawson’s face reddened slightly. “I couldn’t swear in court who shot the arrow. But it’s obvious who did.”

Malone rolled her eyes. “We’ll have fingerprint and DNA analysis in a few days. That should help all of us.”

Dawson stood. “I’ll get my team working on readying the evidence for your lab.”

As soon as the door closed behind the chief, Malone blew out a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s try this again. Mr. O’Brien, if you’re truly innocent, I well understand your frustration and anger. But I assure you that making assumptions and going down the wrong path in my investigation is the absolute last thing I want. If I pursue the wrong person, the real killer is free to continue his sick games. More people will die. That’s not something I want on my conscience. You may not believe me, but we both want the same thing. The truth.”

He’d only just met her. He didn’t know anything about her other than her name and occupation. And yet her blue eyes were unflinching, clear, looking at him the way an honest person might, with seemingly nothing to hide. Her petite frame was relaxed. Her pink lips weren’t tightened with indignation or disgust as some people’s were when around him, knowing he was a convicted felon. The tailored navy blue blazer she wore, the perfect straight brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, screamed integrity to him. She was the quintessential federal agent. But she was still young enough to be somewhat inexperienced, idealistic, and naively believe that truth and justice were the same thing.

He knew better.

The truth could ruin lives, destroy people, annihilate families. Sometimes a lie was the only way to save someone. But that was a lesson he hoped this bright young woman never had to learn. He hoped she could cling to her idealism and view of justice forever and never experience the bitterness he tasted every single day.

“You want the truth?” he asked.

“Yes. Please.”

He relaxed back in his chair. “All right. The truth. As a convicted felon, I’m not allowed to own a gun or even a hunting knife. The knives in my kitchen are dull butter knives. If I want to cut a steak, I have to use a pair of meat scissors like they use in Korea to cut their meat. When I take down a deer, a rabbit, a turkey, I can’t clean and carve it for my own use even though I know how. I have to take them all the way to Chattanooga to have a chop house process them and package them for my freezer. That’s a price I pay for the crime to which I pleaded guilty, and I accept that. I only bring it up because in spite of those restrictions, I am allowed a bow and arrows. I had to petition the court for special permission so I could use them to hunt, only on my own property, and for self-defense in case a bear ever comes after me. It took months, but my request was approved. I’ve become an expert with a bow, which is one of the reasons the chief is so willing to believe that I’m guilty of what happened today.”

“But you’re not?”

“No, Special Agent Malone. I’m not. Can I prove I didn’t shoot today? No. But the question that really matters is can you, or Dawson, prove that I did? Unless one of you falsifies evidence, the answer is no. I’ve killed once in my life, over twelve years ago now. I went to prison, served my time, paid the price that society placed on my crime. It’s over, done, in my past, and that’s where I’d like it to stay. I’m not the serial killer you came here searching for. Now it’s your turn. Truth. Why are you even looking at me for the murders you’re trying to solve? Why did you come to Mystic Lake?”

She gave him a lopsided smile. “Fate maybe. If what you’ve said is accurate, if you have nothing to do with the murders I’m investigating, then maybe you can end up helping me instead of being a suspect. I could use an expert on bows and arrows. It sounds like you might be one.”

“Somehow I can’t quite see the FBI not having some obscure expert on staff who can answer any questions you have about that type of weapon.”

“Humor me.”

He hesitated. “What do you want to know?”

“The arrows that were found today, couldn’t they be shot with a regular bow, not just with a crossbow?”

“Not likely. Arrows for a crossbow are shorter. Some call them bolts, rather than arrows. They’re not interchangeable with the kind I use, for a regular bow. They’re not even interchangeable with a compound bow.”

“Compound bow?”

“It’s something barely resembling a traditional bow. It has gears and pulleys and a lot of plastic. Not to my taste. If the arrows you’ve found at crime scenes are less than, say, twenty-two inches, they come from a crossbow. The kind I use are around thirty inches. But I’m guessing you knew that already. That’s basic information to have researched when looking for a killer using a bow.”

“You’re right, to an extent. I knew the experts concluded the killer’s using a crossbow because of the size of the arrow. But I wanted to make sure there wasn’t some kind of exception, that their conclusions are correct. Like maybe a particular bow is supposed to use a different length arrow, but the killer is using another kind to throw us off.”

“Not likely. Using the wrong length or even weight of arrow can not only destroy accuracy, it can be dangerous. Think of it the way you do guns. Different ammunition is designed for different types of guns. They’re not interchangeable. I don’t think you’re dealing with a bow-and-arrow expert here, though. Even if he did want to throw investigators off in some way, he’s not smart enough or experienced enough to know how to do it without hurting himself.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The fletching on the arrows that were found today is all wrong.”

“Fletching. You’re talking about the fins on the end of the arrow.”

“You did your homework.”

She smiled. “I’ve read the files. We’ll leave it at that. I know the fletching is for aerodynamics. Sometimes it’s feathers, sometimes plastic. Our guy uses both.”

“Technically, no. He doesn’t. The arrows I saw today had—”

The door to the conference room opened and Chief Dawson stepped inside, holding a thick manila folder. Behind him was Officer Ortiz.

Ortiz headed to the end of the table where Aidan was sitting and knelt on the floor beneath it. The sound of chains falling had Aidan blinking in surprise. A moment later his handcuffs were removed and Ortiz left the room.

Aidan remained seated, rubbing his wrists and testing out the new freedom of movement of his legs, all while suspiciously watching Dawson.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Is this some kind of game?”

“No game. The interview is over. Mr. O’Brien, you’re free to go. There will be no charges pressed against you for today’s…incident.”

Aidan eagerly stood, but his pathway to the door was suddenly blocked by Malone.

“Just a minute,” she said. “Chief, even if you’re dropping charges, I’d like to speak to Mr. O’Brien about my case. We were just discussing—”

“You can speak to him later,” Dawson said. “Mr. O’Brien, I didn’t see your truck in the parking lot down the street or anywhere out front. Do you need a ride home?”

“My motorbike’s parked a few blocks down.”

“Chief Dawson,” Grace said. “I really wish you’d wait and—”

“Excuse me.” Aidan brushed past her and quickly left. Once he reached his motorcycle, he hesitated. The man he’d been so long ago seemed to be stirring to life inside him, trying to guilt him into going back to finish answering the questions Malone had. But he viciously tamped down those softer feelings. She didn’t need him, not really. She was with the FBI, after all. There were plenty of resources she could use to find out what he’d already figured out.

That this so-called Crossbow Killer wasn’t targeting his victims.

They were all random. If law enforcement was focusing their investigation on learning about the victims and looking for links between them, they were wasting their time.

The aerodynamics of that arrow would have been thrown off so much by that long dangling feather that hitting that boat this morning was completely by chance. The shooter was more than likely just letting the arrow fly and didn’t care who it hit. Did Special Agent Malone know that? How could she not? Someone in the FBI would have studied those arrows and come to the same conclusions he had and put it in that large file of hers she’d had sitting on the table. Which meant that Malone didn’t actually need him.

More than likely, her questions had all been a pretense. She just wanted to keep him talking, hoping he’d get comfortable, slip up and confess to a crime he didn’t commit.

His conscience quietened, if not fully assuaged, he put on his helmet and sent his bike roaring down the street.