Total pages in book: 52
Estimated words: 51744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 172(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51744 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 259(@200wpm)___ 207(@250wpm)___ 172(@300wpm)
“Chubb.” Jarvis narrows his eyes at me, tapping his finger on the table. “That sounds vaguely familiar to me.”
“Yeah, to me too.” I pull up the files on the case and do a search for the name. “Here it is. Someone by the name of Gene Chubb answered a phone when Miles Bridger dialed a number he found in a journal that presumably belonged to Joey Hopkins. I’ll be damned. I think we found our killer.”
My heart dances. I don’t need to use the hair Mom got from Grady. It’s not Chance! Not that I thought it was. Not really. But I’m elated that I can clear him now. That my trust in him wasn’t wrong.
I didn’t doubt him. I doubted me.
“You got an address for Chubb?” Jarvis asks.
I scan the screen. “Shit. No physical address is listed. But there’s a PO Box in Billings.”
“He was a suspect in an armed robbery and there’s no physical address listed?”
I shrug. “I guess no one cared enough to get one after he was cleared. But we’ll find him, Jarvis. And then we can put this baby to bed.”
“Yeehaw!” Jarvis hoots at me.
I roll my eyes. “Did you just say yeehaw? Didn’t you learn anything from the cowboy hat nonsense?”
But I can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. It’s infectious, although there’s no way I’m making that sound.
“I’m going to do a quick search through government files.” Jarvis taps on his computer. “I found an address for Eugene M. Chubb in Billings.” He stands, grabs his keys off the table. “Let’s go get him and bring him in.”
The address Jarvis found for Gene Chubb turns out to be a prefabricated home standing alone on a plot of a couple acres. Weeds have overtaken what there is of a lawn, and a few stray cats roam around outside the house. The wind’s blowing and I expect out here it never stops. I can only imagine how it is in the winter. Depressing as hell.
Jarvis parks the car on the dirt driveway, and we head to the doorway. A tattered doormat that says Beware of Dog sits on the spalling concrete stoop.
No doorbell, so I knock on the door, expecting to hear a dog bark.
No dog.
“Mr. Chubb?” I knock again.
No response. Not that I expected one.
“Chubb,” Jarvis yells. “Open up!”
Again, no response.
I knock one last time, this time pounding my fist on the wooden door as hard as I can. “FBI, Mr. Chubb. Open up, or we’re coming in!”
We have no warrant, but we have probable cause to believe a felon is inside. I nod to Jarvis, and we both draw our weapons.
I try the doorknob, and to my surprise, it turns. I open the door slowly, taking stock of the situation. “Mr. Chubb?” I call.
With Jarvis at my back, I enter. Once we’re both inside, we stay back-to-back as we creep through the small home. It’s in pretty good shape, decent beige carpeting and basic furniture that could have come straight out of the IKEA catalog. I inhale. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air. Someone is here or was here recently.
“Come on out, Chubb,” Jarvis calls.
We walk through the living area to the kitchen. A few dishes sit in the stainless steel sink. Nothing of note, until I shift my gaze to the sliding glass door to the back. The blinds are drawn, and I open them.
On the concrete deck sits a balding man smoking a cigarette. I slide the door open, my gun drawn.
“Mr. Chubb?”
The man raises his head and then gasps when he sees my weapon. “What the fuck?”
“Special Agent Marsh, FBI. Get those hands up. You’re under arrest for the murder of Joseph Hopkins.”
“I want a lawyer,” Chubb says for the umpteenth time. It’s all he’s said to us since we picked him up.
Jarvis and I are at the FBI office in Billings, sitting across from Eugene Chubb in one of the questioning rooms. The scent of cigarette smoke clings to the man.
“Someone from the Federal Public Defender’s Office is on the way,” I say, “but we’ve got you dead to rights on murder. Your DNA was found under the victim’s fingernails. There’s not much a lawyer can do for you now. You’re going down.”
“I’m not confessing,” he replies. “I’m waiting for my lawyer, but I can tell you I don’t even know the guy.”
“Then don’t confess,” Jarvis says. “We already know you did it. Your DNA under the guy’s fingernails at death? A grand jury will see it the same way. Your best bet is to talk to us.”
He says nothing.
I draw in a breath. Time to bring out the big gun. “You may find it interesting, Mr. Chubb, that although it’s used rarely, we can ask for the federal death penalty in this case.”
Chubb’s sunken eyes go wide.
“Agent Marsh is right.” Jarvis looks down at his laptop screen. “Murder of a state or local law enforcement officer—”