Chapter 5

THE EASTERN KENTUCKY CORRECTIONAL COMPLEX is a medium security prison and thirty-one miles from Salt Lick. Some prisons in Kentucky house death row, a punishment still enforced down here. I had no doubt that once all was proven Lance Bingham would have his suite upgraded, a last meal granted, and a lethal injection shot straight through his veins.

A guard at the front gate let us pass with a flash of Jack's creds, and after we relinquished our guns we were on our way to meet with a monster. I had studied a lot of serial killers, their methods, their means, their trophies, and their messages. I had spent hours studying their faces and peering into their lifeless eyes void of compassion, but that was through the pages of literature or through video. I wondered how much different it would be in person.

We were led into a meeting room used by lawyers to confer with their clients. Jack offered me the chair, and he paced behind me. The door opened and two security guards came in securing the prisoner by a grip on both of his arms. His hands were bound together in cuffs at the front. I wondered if the security here was always this intense, or if they were putting on a show for the FBI.

Lance Bingham had round-framed glasses that covered from his brows to his cheekbones. The silver hair on his head and face resembled steel wool, wiry and unkempt. His physique was trim and muscular.

His eyes matched with mine, and the corners of them creased as he smiled at me. His eyes, unlike the photos of killers I had studied, possessed awareness. His gaze reached inside my head and grappled onto my innate fears.

"Sit!" One of the security guards barked the order, shoving Bingham into the chair across from me.

Bingham leaned his torso as far over the table as he could before sitting down. His breath swept across my face. "You're a little youngin' ain't ya?"

The few seconds it took the guard to secure his cuffs to the restraint on the table, I looked back at Jack who bobbed his head directing my focus forward. I knew this. My training and exercises in interrogation had prepared me for this. In fact, I had excelled in this part of the course.

"We're good here," I said, releasing the two security guards. I noticed the glance they passed to Jack as if looking to him for reassurance of my directive. He must have backed me up as they left the room.

Bingham smiled. "I killed two cows." A Kentucky accent graced his speech, even though we knew he was born in Sarasota, Florida—ironically my hometown.

"We're not here about the cows."

"Then what possibly could ya be here for?" His index finger tapped the table.

The Kentucky accent by nature attributed softness to the speaker, a sense of innocence. It was uncanny to hear it coming from this man's lips, a man who had tortured, murdered, and disemboweled at least nine people.

"We found the burial sites."

Bingham sat back. The smile remained tattooed on his lips like the permanent grin painted on the face of a clown.

"You know what I'm talking about."

"You'll have to clarify that officer." He continued tapping the table with his finger.

"FBI Special Agent Brandon Fisher." I corrected him.

"Well, how-howdy Special A-agent Fisher."

My earlobes heated with anger. He kept mind-piercing eye contact. I wanted to avert his eyes, even blink for an extended period to create a barrier between his mind and my thoughts.

Empathize and establish a groundwork. Build on their ego.

"Your basement bunker. Genius really."

"Can't say I know what you talking about." More finger tapping.

My eyes wanted to sag, to shut, to close, but I fought against the urge. "Ten bodies were found buried on your property." I fanned out the crime scene photos on the table. My stomach flopped knowing I was sitting this close to the man responsible.

His eyes were unwavering. "Beneath my property you say?"

"You tortured them." I pointed out the incision marks on the most recent victim. "You killed them. You tore out their intestines. We found your meat grinder and the freezer."

"But you never found anything to prove I did it, I assume."

"It's your property, your responsibility."

Bingham laughed. "You can't prove nothin'."

Although the training prepared me to handle real life situations, it was quite another to be staring into the eyes of a sadistic killer as opposed to a colleague's.

"Do you recognize her?" I put a fingertip on the photo of the most recent victim. Her face had been brushed of dirt, swept away as if she were an object and not once a living human being.

"Can't say that I do." A smile lingered.

"That's enough!" Jack roared from behind me and came over to Bingham. He held him by the scruff of the neck. Eye contact with Bingham was broken as his face contorted and he fought for oxygen.

"You killed those people. You won't even have a fucking chance to rot in this hellhole. I'll make sure they inject you, and we'll be in the front row watching you take your last breath. Tell us the fucking truth and maybe that won't happen."

Bingham's arms pulled back, his constraints allowing him little advantage in the struggle with a free man. A guard peeked through the window in the door but stepped back when I brushed him away with the wave of a hand.

Bingham's face flushed from a pale pink to a bright red.

"Who is she?" Jack held his face inches from Bingham's.

Bingham gasped for breath and Jack eventually let go. He stepped back.

"I might recognize her." The southern accent was gone.

Jack went back for his throat.

"Go ahead. What have I got to lose?" Bingham laughed, and his eyes returned to mine. They latched on as a life-sucking vine does to the brick of a house, destroying the mortar, crumbling it to a fine powder. "I killed cows. I assaulted my neighbor."

"You must think we're idiots." Jack looked at me. "He thinks we're idiots."

"I'll talk to the youngin', not you." Another series of finger tapping.

"We're not negotiating with a murderer."

"You haven't proven that I am."

"It will only take a brief amount of time and I assure you that your ass with be in that execution chair." Jack gestured between us and repeated his earlier words, "The two of us in the front row."

"You're extremely aggressive, Special Agent." Bingham spoke to Jack yet his eyes were on me. The smile had disappeared from his lips, but the wildfire in his eyes sparked with amusement. "You leave. I'll talk to him."

My heart sped up. The government believed in me, and the least I could do was muster enough confidence.

Jack straightened up. "You have two minutes. After that I'll be coming right back in that damned door, you understand?" He passed me a glance, one I was certain not to miss. His eyes read, are you ready for this, Kid, before he left the room.

"He doesn't have faith in you."

"This isn't about me."

"But yes, it is, Special Agent Brandon Fisher. It most certainly is about you." The smile spread across Bingham's lips again.

"You said you recognized her."

"I could have been mistaken." He cocked his head, pointed to my wedding band. "You married Special Agent?"

If he were trying to manipulate me or divert my course, he wouldn't meet with success. "These people were found under your property. Forensics will tie you to the murders, the torture."

"Does your wife know about her?"

His question faltered my thinking process for a second. "You said you recognized her."

"I said I could have been mistaken." Steadfast eye contact. "My guess is she doesn't know."

"The most recent victim was murdered while you were in prison. This one." I glanced at the photograph on the table.

"Certainly you can't pin that one on me."

"Who do you have working for you?"

A proud grin ate his mouth.

"You had a partner who killed with you."

"Will your wife divorce you when she finds out about the other woman?" Bingham clasped his hands.

"Mr. Bingham, your life is on the line—"

"As is your marriage. Confess, come clean of your sin and be forgiven."

How did this man know about the affair? Or he was messing with me, taking a gamble on the statistics of the failed marriage arrangement of the twenty-first century.

"You tell me to confess? You don't even know me. Follow your own advice; cleanse your soul. You murdered ten people—"

"You just said nine."

I stared blankly at him.

"You said someone else killed another while I was in prison."

"You tortured them, you killed them and tore out their intestines, maybe ate them." My words paused as Bingham sat back; the intensity in his eyes was stronger than before.

"Who said I did that after they were dead?"

"You're confessing to the murders?"

"No, I never said that. But why assume their intestines were removed after death? How can one know true punishment for sin when dead?"

I quoted the only scripture I knew. "The wages sin pays is death."

His crooked smile enlarged. "You know your Bible, yet you preach and do not apply. One of the greatest sins." Bingham leaned across the table, and for some reason I found myself moving toward him. "Set things right before you meet with punishment."

Something in his eyes and his body language made me uncomfortable. "Are you threatening me?"

"The Lord works in mysterious ways."

The door opened and Jack walked through. "Time's up."

*****

"THAT SON OF A BITCH threatened me."

Jack laughed.

"You think that's funny?"

"I find it amusing how worked up you're getting." Jack's walking pace for a man almost twice my age proved a challenge to keep up with. "He definitely has obsessive compulsive tendencies."

Jack's comment came at me from an unexpected direction. He didn't look over at me when he spoke but kept his eyes straight ahead. We walked through a bunch of corridors in the prison, which seemed unending.

"Can you tell me why I said that?"

"What the OCD thing?"

"Yeah."

My mind was fixated on Bingham's threat housed in a few words, set things right before you meet with punishment.

"Did you learn anything in there?" Jack stopped walking and faced me.

With the absence of our tapping shoes hitting the concrete flooring, the prison was silent. "I learned a lot."

"You don't have to whisper, Slingshot."

I let out a deep breath.

"Hmm." Jack tapped his pocket. He craved another cigarette. I wondered how he had lived as long as he had without developing lung cancer or emphysema. "I'm waiting."

"He didn't deny the murders. In fact, he toyed with the idea. He wasn't disgusted by human remains or repulsed by the mention of removing intestines. He seemed intrigued by it." I thought back to his words, to his permanent smile, and then how it had expanded. "He experienced pride when I mentioned a tenth body and asked who helped him out." I took a deep breath and continued. "He didn't like it when I said the intestines were removed after death."

"Sounds like a confession to me."

"But not the way he continued to play it. I know he did it, you know he did it, but until we can prove that there's nothing we can do to him."

"Well, then I guess it's best that we get on proving it. We know he's not going anywhere. What else did you get out of him?"

"He's religious. He told me to—" I stopped there. Jack didn't know about my extramarital affair, and I didn't think it would please him to know it was with Paige.

Jack just watched me, his eyes saying, continue.

"He believes in confessing sin to be forgiven. He said that if the intestines were removed after death then the sinners would have been taught nothing."

"So he believes he's doing the Lord's work. Zach could be on to something with the religious connotation. Did he confirm the identity of the female vic?" Jack paused a few seconds. "You didn't push him."

"I tried to get it out of him but ran out of time. You came in."

Jack's face tightened; a hand flexed on his forehead. "Hmm."

"We'll find out another way."

"We'll find out another way?" Jack mocked my words. He pointed back down the hallway. "You had the opportunity to find out in there. You don't let opportunities go. It may be the last one you get."

I took another deep breath. The threat issued by Bingham had receded to the background. My foremost concern now was keeping my job. "He's religious. Based on his talk about sin, confessions and forgiveness, I would say he's Catholic."

Jack didn't say anything but kept eye contact.

"He talked about people being sinners and needing to be punished. Maybe these people were from his church? He knew their secrets and made them pay for them?" I paused for a few 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 eighty-six. 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 record their browsing history."

"We'll need a list of that," Jack said.

"Of course."

"What about Twitter, Facebook, and other social networking sites?" I asked.

"He did have a regular habit of logging onto Twitter."

"Do you know what his log-on information was?"

Moore's face contorted. "I thought it was in the file there. Uh, if I remember right he used the name the Redeemer."

*****

WE WERE IN WITH WARDEN Moore for about thirty minutes, but of everything that was said, the last two words he spoke stuck, the Redeemer. "This guy took it upon himself to exact vengeance and hold sinners accountable for their actions. Maybe he was a former priest?"

The SUV's lights flashed as Jack pressed the key fob to unlock it. "What have we got in the file?"

I looked over at Jack from the passenger seat. "It tells us where Bingham was born, also when he moved to Salt Lick."

"Things we knew already."

"Sarasota, Florida." I knew before that Bingham sprung from my hometown, but now to have witnessed his crimes, a chill ran through me.

"So he didn't move here for the warmer weather?"

"And I find it strange there aren't more addresses on file. Don't most serial killers move around a lot?"

"Just because more places aren't mentioned in a file doesn't mean Bingham was stationary."

"Guess that's true. But those tunnels wouldn't have made themselves, and even though we know he had help, I think it's safe to say he was in Salt Lick as long as the record says."

"Hmm."

"Both parents were dead by the time he was twenty. His sister Lori would have been sixteen. Four years between them." I read more from the file, still deriving facts we already knew. "Bingham worked as a farm hand. He was strong, used to manual labor." I paused and connected eyes with Jack. "It explains how he'd have the strength for all that digging and how he could have overpowered his victims."

"I don't think he needed physical strength when it came to them."

"You're thinking he drugged them."

"Possibly, but I also believe the guy is a master manipulator. Once we know more about the victims, we'll have a better idea."

I flipped a page in the report. "Bingham works out in the prison gym every day. It would explain why he's in good shape."

"We also know the guy is an obsessive compulsive, and he likes things a certain way. What does the file say about Bingham attending religious services?"

I shuffled through the sheets. "Every Sunday."

"So he is religious. He also has narcissistic qualities. He convinced himself he was in control of our meeting by requesting that I leave."

"I witnessed pride when I brought up the other killer. He loved the thought of controlling someone else."

"But there's still a lot more to fill in. We need to know what he's twitted—"

"You mean tweeted." My statement earned a glare.

"Find out who he's in contact with."

"Who follows him," I corrected Jack. For some reason, those three words brought back Bingham's threat. Jack must have sensed it.

"He's behind bars, Slingshot."

I took a deep breath, doing my best to make it undetectable to Jack. Maybe it wasn't so much Bingham that I worried about as much as the killer who wasn't behind bars. 

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