“How’d you get the access?” Donovan was starting to slur his words as his injuries took their toll.
Jackson’s smile broadened. “I was able to gain employment as a technician at the company that provided and maintained the ball machines. I was drastically overqualified for the position, which was one reason I got it. No one really cared about the geeky little techie, it was like I wasn’t even there. But I had complete and unrestricted access to the machines. I even bought one of the ball machines so that I could experiment in private as to the right combinations of chemicals. So there I am, mister technician, spraying the balls with what everyone thought was a cleansing solution to get rid of dust and other grime that might have gotten into the bins. And all I had to do was hold the winning ball in my hand while I did so. The solution dries almost immediately. I surreptitiously drop the winning ball back into the bin and I’m all set.”
Jackson laughed. “People really should respect the technicians of the world more, Mr. Donovan. They control everything because they control the machines that control the flow of information. In fact, I use many of them in my work. I didn’t need to buy off the leaders. They’re useless because they’re incompetent showpieces. Give me the worker bees any day.”
Jackson stood up and put on a pair of thick gloves. “I think that covers everything,” he said. “Now, after I finish with you, I’m going to visit LuAnn.”
Damn me for a fool for not listening to you, LuAnn,
Donovan thought to himself.
Through the glove Jackson rubbed his injured hand where the glass had cut him. He had many paybacks planned for LuAnn.
“Piece of advice, A-hole,” Donovan sputtered, “tangle with that woman and she’ll cut your balls off.”
“Thank you for your point of view.” Jackson gripped Donovan tightly by the shoulders.
“Why’re you keeping me alive, you son of a bitch?” Donovan tried to pull back from him, but was far too weak.
“Actually, I’m not.” Jackson suddenly placed both hands around the sides of Donovan’s head and gave it an abrupt twist. The sound of bone cracking was slight but unmistakable. Jackson lifted the dead man up and over his shoulder. Carrying him down to the garage, Jackson opened the front door of the Mercedes and pressed Donovan’s fingers against the steering wheel, dash, clock, and several other surfaces that would leave good prints. Finally, Jackson clinched the dead man’s hand around the gun he had used to kill Bobbie Jo Reynolds. Wrapping the body in a blanket, Jackson loaded it in the trunk of the Mercedes. He raced back into the house, retrieved his bag and Donovan’s recorder, then returned to the garage and climbed behind the wheel of the Mercedes. In a few minutes the car had left the very quiet neighborhood behind. Jackson stopped by the side of the road, rolled down the window, and hurled the gun into the woods before pulling off again. Jackson would wait until nightfall and then a certain local incinerator he had found on an earlier reconnaissance would prove to be Thomas Donovan’s final resting place.
As he drove on, Jackson thought briefly of how he would deal with LuAnn Tyler and her new ally, Riggs. Her disloyalty was now firmly established and there would be no more reprieves. He would focus his undivided attention on that matter shortly. But first he had something else to take care of.
Jackson entered Donovan’s apartment, closed the door, and took a moment to survey the premises. He was still wearing the dead man’s face. Thus, even if he had been spotted, it was of no concern to him. Donovan’s body had been incinerated, but Jackson had a limited amount of time to complete his search of the late reporter’s apartment. A journalist kept records, and those records were what Jackson had come for. Very soon the housekeeper would discover Bobbie Jo Reynolds’s body and would call the police. Their search would very quickly, largely through Jackson’s efforts, lead to Thomas Donovan.
He searched the apartment rapidly but methodically and soon found what he was looking for. He stacked the record boxes in the middle of the small foyer. They were the same ones Donovan had kept at the cottage in Charlottesville, filled with the results of his investigation into the lottery. Next he logged on to Donovan’s computer and did a search of the hard drive. Thankfully, Donovan had not bothered to employ any passwords. The hard drive was clear. He probably kept everything on disk for portability. He looked at the back of the computer and then behind the desk. No phone modem. Just to be sure, Jackson again checked the icon screen. No computer services like America Online were present. Thus there was no e-mail to search. How old-fashioned of Donovan, he thought. Next he checked a stack of floppies in the desk drawer and piled them all in one of the boxes. He would look at them later.