Eleven Read Online Free PDF Page B

seconds. “And why did you say OCD?”
    “He tapped his index finger on the table eleven times. Two groups of five and one single.”
    “Just like the cuts on the victims. Two groups of five, one final—” My words faded, and my stomach tossed as Bingham’s threat returned to the foreground.

 
     
    CHAPTER 6

     
    The prison warden could have been a basketball player; his height of about seven feet dwarfed both Jack and me. Maybe adding to the perception was the fact he was string-bean thin, possibly ten inches deep if he turned on the side. He wore a salmon dress shirt, which complimented his dark skin, with a navy tie to match his pants. His suit jacket hung over the back of the chair. He carried his authority confidently as if he were molded for his position. His name was Clarence Moore.
    “Sit. Please.” Moore gestured toward two chairs opposite his desk. “I’ve pulled the records you requested.” He extended a folder labeled Lance Bingham to Jack, who passed it to me.
    I opened it, and the first sheet inside was the visitor’s log. “He only had one visitor?”
    “That’s right. Seems he wasn’t, ain’t, that popular.”
    “Lori Carter, that’s Bingham’s sister, right?”
    “Yes, sir. She only came once jus’ after Bingham was sentenced.”
    Lori had been married to Travis Carter up until he went missing in ’86. She never remarried.
    I looked at Jack. “She probably came to sort out his affairs. She was paying for the property up until she died last year.” I directed the next comment to the warden. “Was their interaction recorded?”
    “Unfortunately not. It would violate his privacy rights.”
    It seemed unfair a man of Bingham’s history would be worthy of any privacy. Of course at the time of his conviction no one had known about the bodies under his property. I flipped through the few sheets in the folder.
    Moore continued. “Unless, it’s a lawyer or law enforcement, there’s always a guard in the room. Ya know jus’ to keep an eye on things. He might have heard somethin’, but he’s retired now.”
    “We’ll need his name.” Jack crossed his one leg over the other.
    “Of course.” Moore pulled a business card from the holder on the desk and scribbled a name on the back of it. “I wouldn’t normally give you his home number—”
    “Violation of privacy,” Jack said.
    “Exactly.” A hand gestured forward. “But given the circumstances.” His eyes added, because the FBI is interested, I’ll make an exception.
    “Does Bingham attend any of the religious services you offer here?”
    “That should be in the file.”
    I continued reading through it. When Bingham had been booked three years ago, he came in with a watch, a pocketknife, identification, and numerous wallet-sized photos. “The file mentions photos. Of what or who?”
    Moore leaned forward. “We don’t catalog in that detail, but I can have it released to you with a warrant. Why are you guys interested in Bingham anyhow?”
    Jack uncrossed his legs. “Let’s just say it involves more than dead cows.”
    Moore sat back. “He killed someone?”
    “We’re not at liberty to say.”
    Moore studied Jack’s eyes. Seconds later, he picked up the water bottle on his desk and drained half of it. He roughly swallowed the last mouthful. “I’ll get you a copy of the photos.”
    Jack continued. “What about access to the Internet? Most prisons allow their inmates computer time.”
    “Yes, and we do. As you’ll notice in the file there, Bingham took advantage of this.”
    “Every day about ten in the morning.” I traced a finger along the printout. “And in increments of thirty minutes each of those days.”
    “That’s right.”
    “And I assume no recorded history due to Bingham’s privacy rights.”
    A smile spread on Moore’s lips. “That we are allowed to do. When inmates sign up for computer time, they have to sign a waiver. Included with this is authorization for us to monitor, track, and