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“He used to. It would be a big white double-wide with a front porch along the front. His name is Jonesy.”
“I’ll go talk to him and be back later,” Wade said. “I’ve got the SUV. Call if you need me.”
CHAPTER SIX
By the time the press conference began, a half-dozen news crews from across the country had gathered in front of the police station. Some were airing clips of interviews they’d done with friends and relatives of the seven victims, while others were doing live, on-the-spot feeds.
Hershel was in the crowd of people waiting for news, visiting with strangers and Red Cross workers alike. He saw Leon Mooney lurking at the edge of the crowd and turned away. He didn’t want to be bothered with Leon today. It gave Hershel a high to know this news conference was because of him, and he wanted to savor it alone. He liked causing grief to the people in power, just as they’d caused his despair. Then he heard someone call out his name and turned around. It was Laura Doyle.
“Hey,” she said as she walked up behind him.
He frowned. He didn’t want to have to go back to work right now.
“What’s going on?” he said.
“Nothing, really. I’m here for the same reason you are, I guess. I want to hear what they have to say. But, since I’m seeing you now, I’ll let you know that there’s a truck coming in around ten o’clock tonight with donations. Will you be available to help us unload?”
Relieved that they didn’t want him now, he happily agreed.
“Sure. No problem.”
“Great. Oh, I think they’re about to start. I’ll see you later,” she said.
Hershel turned toward the bank of microphones, and moments later Chief Beaudry came out, followed by two of the FBI agents. They looked very solemn—a good look when you’re the law and you can’t catch a killer for beans. He resisted the urge to smile.
* * *
Beaudry opened the news conference by introducing himself and then telling the media that Special Agent Tate Benton from the FBI would be taking the podium.
Tate was watching faces as Beaudry spoke, and was surprised to see his father standing at the back of the crowd. It was strange, but now that the dreaded confrontation was over, he felt nothing. The man no longer had the power to hurt him. When he saw Laura Doyle in the crowd, he spent a couple of frantic moments making sure Nola wasn’t there, as well. When Beaudry said his name, Tate forced himself to focus and stepped up to the podium.
“Good morning. As you already know, the Stormchaser has struck here in Queens Crossing. To date, we have seven new victims. All seven have been identified, and their families have been notified. A list of names is available on the website of the local paper. I will take a few questions, but we will not comment on the progress of the case.”
“Agent Benton! Agent Benton! Can you tell us if you’re any closer to identifying the killer than you were before?”
Tate eyed the reporter, recognizing him from Natchez and Omaha.
“Hello, Avery. I see Channel 25 is still keeping you employed.”
A few chuckles rolled through the crowd as the reporter stood firm.
“Agent Benton, I repeat, are you making any headway?”
“I just answered this question, but for you, I’ll answer it again. We will not comment in any way on the progress of this case, because if I tell you, then you’ll put it in the paper, and then the Stormchaser will know what we know and that’s obviously self-defeating.”
Another reporter shouted out. Tate recognized him from a national news crew.
“Agent Benton, is there any connection between the victims here?”
“Other than the fact that they are all locals, no,” Tate said.
Another reporter chimed in. “What about the method of death? Are they all gunshot victims?”
“Still the same,” Tate said.
“We already know that the Stormchaser sends your team texts. Have you heard from him here?”
“No comment.”
