Page 98 of Return of the Spider

He turned to me. “You got to understand that there are people out there who want to kill me for some of the things I’ve done in the past.”

“I could see that,” I said. “But why did you pull the trigger on me if you didn’t mean to shoot me?”

His head bobbed. “See, that’s the thing. There is no trigger. I had what’s called target panic when I used a trigger release, so now I use a back-tension release. You had to have found it near my bow.”

French said, “I’m sure we did. So what?”

Diggs said the back-tension release was a mechanical device with small jaws that attached to the nock of the bowstring. The system was engineered to release an arrow only after the shooter pushed hard enough against the bow handle with the left arm and pulled back hard enough with the muscles of the right shoulder to, in effect, pry open the jaws.

He stared at me. “Honest to God, when you said you were a cop, I remember thinking I’d better let down. So I shrugged, you know, like,Okay, he’s not a threat. But then the bow just went off, man. I had no idea it would do that. I would never intentionally shoot a cop. Ever.”

French was having none of it. “How about the bomb booby trap at your farm? How about all the pot and blow we found in your trailer? How about the blasting caps we found in your shed? Stolen from Keegan’s Granite, along with dynamite, no doubt.”

“What?” Diggs said, sounding frightened. “No. No, that’s BS.”

Cox, his lawyer, put her hand up in front of him. “No more, Mr. Diggs.”

Sampson said, “We almost died earlier today when we triggered the bomb you set up on the dirt road to your grandmother’s old place.”

Diggs, ignoring his attorney, shook his head violently. “No. Absolutely not. I haven’t even been down that way in months, and I sure as hell didn’t booby-trap anything there. Is that what this is about? Is that why you were out looking for me?”

“You’re here because of the murders you committed,” French said.

Diggs said, “Murders? Me? No way.”

Cox again put her hand in front of her client. “Don’t say a thing, Mr. Diggs.”

Sampson said, “We’ve got you, you puke. We’ve got your white Ford Econoline van out at the farm.”

His attorney said, “What white van?”

Diggs squinted. “You mean my grandfather’s old junker? Doesn’t even run.”

“Oh, yes, it does,” I said. “And it’s impounded. The best crime techs in Pennsylvania are all over it. We’ve already found the piece of scalp you cut off one of your victims and a shell casing from the forty-four-caliber bullet you put in her head.”

Diggs said, “Hey, hey, man, I don’t even own a gun. I can’t own a gun. I am a convicted felon and the only thing I can have is a bow. That’s all I have. And I don’t know where the drugs and those blasting caps came from. Other guys at Keegan’s, other ex-cons, lived there before me. Lots of guys just out of the stir.”

“Mr. Diggs, please,” his attorney said.

I said, “Okay, Eamon, let’s say you’re telling the truth. You never meant to stick an arrow in me, and you don’t own a forty-four.”

“Didn’t and don’t.”

I nodded. “But what about your friend? What about Harold Beech? Did he know about the farm? The van?”

Cox stood up. “Detectives, we’re done.”

Diggs sighed, then said, “Why don’t you ask Harry? On the advice of counsel, I’m shutting my yap.”

CHAPTER

81

Ryan davis, harold beech’spublic defender, was fresh out of law school. He was likely in his late twenties but looked fourteen. He had a wild shock of black hair and wore a disheveled suit and a semi-dazed expression that said he knew he was in way over his head. But when the three of us entered the second interrogation room he did his best to sound authoritative.

“My client’s done nothing wrong, Detectives,” Davis declared, pushing his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. “He has no idea why he’s here. Charge him or let him walk.”

“He’ll be sticking around for a while yet, Counselor,” French said, taking a seat across from Beech, who was wringing his hands, lips twisted like he’d just tasted something rancid.