PART 25: THE EMPLOYEE FROM FIRST COUNTY BANK
The room fell silent.
Nobody spoke.
Nobody even looked away from the deputy’s radio.
The man they had chased across my backyard…
worked for First County Bank.
The same bank that held Box 314.
The same bank where someone had appeared three days earlier with a second key.
Linda recovered first.
“Bring him in.”
The deputy answered immediately.
“He refuses to talk.”
“Did he give a name?”
“Yes.”
Linda grabbed a notepad.
“What is it?”
“Martin Keller.”
Janice’s face remained blank.
“I’ve never heard of him.”
Linda looked toward me.
“Neither have I.”
“But I intend to.”
She turned back to the deputy.
“Keep him separated from everyone.”
“No phone.”
“No visitors.”
“I’m on my way.”
She ended the call.
Paula looked down at the strip of film lying on the table.
“What if the bank already knows what’s on these?”
Thomas slowly shook his head.
“If they did…”
“…they wouldn’t still be searching.”
Janice agreed.
“Harold never trusted paper.”
“He trusted proof.”
Linda carefully lifted the negatives by their edges.
“We need these developed.”
“There are only six frames.”
Thomas smiled faintly.
“Harold loved the number six.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“He used to say…”
“‘If you only need one photograph, take six.’”
“‘The truth is usually standing just outside the frame.’”
That sounded exactly like Harold.
Always thinking one step beyond everyone else.
The sheriff arrived twenty minutes later.
He studied the negatives through a flashlight.
“We’ll send these to the state lab.”
“No,” I said.
Everyone looked at me.
“No?”
I shook my head.
“I’ve trusted strangers with enough of my life.”
“I want to see these developed myself.”
Linda nodded.
“I know someone.”
“Who?”
“A retired crime-scene photographer.”
“He still has a darkroom.”
“He owes me a favor.”
The sheriff folded his arms.
“Good.”
“Because Martin Keller finally said something.”
Every face turned toward him.
“What did he say?” Paula asked.
“He claims he wasn’t stealing anything.”
“Then why was he hiding in my house?”
“He says…”
The sheriff looked down at his notebook.
“…he was trying to find the quilt before Richard did.”
Janice let out a bitter laugh.
“Convenient.”
“I thought so too,” the sheriff replied.
“But then he asked us a question.”
“What question?”
“‘Did Mrs. Ellis find the photographs?’”
Nobody answered.
The sheriff continued.
“When we didn’t respond…”
“…he smiled.”
Linda frowned.
“Why would he smile?”
“Because he said we’d already made Richard’s biggest mistake.”
A chill ran through me.
“What mistake?”
The sheriff looked directly at me.
“He said…”
“‘The negatives are worthless.’”
Everyone stared.
“Worthless?” Paula whispered.
The sheriff nodded.
“He claims the real evidence was never the film.”
My pulse quickened.
“What is it then?”
“He wouldn’t tell us.”
“He only said one thing before asking for his attorney.”
The sheriff opened his notebook again.
“He said…”
“Develop the pictures.”
“Then stop looking at what’s in them…”
“…and start looking at who’s taking them.”
Silence settled over the room.
Linda slowly reached for the strip of negatives.
“The photographer…”
Thomas finished her sentence.
“…was never standing in front of Harold.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Thomas pointed at the tiny film strip.
“If Harold appears in every photograph…”
“…then someone else was holding the camera.”
Janice’s eyes widened.
“Oh, no…”
Paula looked between them.
“What?”
Janice swallowed.
“If Harold trusted the photographer enough to stand with Richard…”
“…then the photographer knew everything.”
Linda whispered,
“And we’ve spent twenty-eight years searching for the wrong witness.”
Before anyone could respond, the telephone on my kitchen wall rang.
It was the old beige phone.
The one only a handful of people still knew the number to.
I picked it up.
“Hello?”
A calm male voice answered.
“Mrs. Ellis?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Martin Keller.”
I froze.
The sheriff frowned.
“That’s impossible.”
Martin Keller was supposed to be sitting in an interrogation room at the sheriff’s office.
The voice continued.
“I think you’ve arrested the wrong Martin Keller.”
My grip tightened on the receiver.
“Who are you?”
The man gave a soft, almost amused chuckle.
Then he said the one sentence that turned every face in the kitchen pale.
“Because the man in your jail…”
“…works for me.”
