of steel, an inner strength that draws people to him. It drew me to him. I worked for him for a year, while I was getting my master’s degree in criminal psychology. I loved what he was trying to do as a senator. That he fought for crime victims. That he stood up for those who couldn’t speak for themselves. No one cared as much as Jonathan. I knew I looked like his daughter, and maybe in the back of my mind there were warning signs, but I either didn’t understand them or intentionally ignored them because I believed in Jonathan and his strong sense of justice.
“He is a master of charm and manipulation. He uses people—instead of helping them find real peace and forgiveness, he stokes their anger, milks their grief, and turns good people into killers. Good people like Sergio Russo.”
He flinched. It was his only movement since she started talking.
“Good people like you.
“I know exactly what you’re thinking, Mike. The people you kill escaped justice. They hurt others and saw no punishment for their crimes. The allure to end them is strong. They do not deserve to live. And you have convinced yourself of the righteousness of your cause. Because if not you, who will stop them before they hurt another child?”
Lucy took out her phone and opened her photos. She’d spent two hours compiling the photos and memorizing the facts while waiting for Stockton to arrange this interview.
“You were on trial for two murders, ostensibly you were hired to kill the men. But we both know that you weren’t hired. At least not in the traditional sense. You are, essentially, on staff for Jonathan Paxton. But this wasn’t about money. It’s never been about money. It’s about vengeance. It’s about righting wrongs—a noble cause. Jonathan fueled your anger. You live with your dead daughter every day. You can never truly find peace, because Jonathan uses that pain to wind you up to kill for him.”
She flipped to the first picture. “The teacher you killed in San Antonio. But Jimmy Hunt didn’t hire you, and he wasn’t killed because he was a drug dealer. You knew that he had facilitated rape through selling date rape drugs. And if I dig down? I’ll find his victims. I’ll know how he ended up on Jonathan’s radar.”
She showed the next photo. “Randy Corbin. He was killed in a hit-and-run in Michigan. A quiet little suburb … where he was a youth pastor for a church. Four parents went to authorities and filed reports that their teenage daughters had been raped by Corbin. Four victims. And one by one, they all recanted. The church did nothing. And one of those girls ended up committing suicide. What you didn’t know was that there was an active FBI investigation into not only Corbin but other members of that church for sexual assault and the creation of child pornography. He would have been arrested. He would have been held accountable for his crimes.”
Lucy flipped to the next photo. One by one she showed Thompson the photos of his victims. He had no reaction, at least on the surface. She recounted their suspected crimes—things she and Megan had dug up over the last few hours. Some unprovable, some rumors, but Lucy was certain if the FBI opened an investigation, they would find the victims of these people.
One by one until she’d finished. Then she waited until Thompson looked her in the eye. He didn’t waver. She had rocked him—she could tell in his posture, by the tension in the room, the tightness in his jaw. But he didn’t look away.
“Your victims weren’t good people. But you created other victims. Among your known kills, they had thirteen minor children. Nine adult children. Twenty-six siblings. Three were married. Six had at least one living parent. Corbin, for example, had fathered two children out of wedlock, but the mothers were either too ashamed or too scared to name him as the father. He had a net worth of three million dollars, but they can’t claim it now. They could have, had he been arrested and they came forward. You took that option away from them.
“I understand why you did what you did. It does not make it right or just. You think because Jonathan Paxton lost his daughter that he understands your grief? He doesn’t. He used you. And your silence is going to allow him to use others.
“Honestly, I probably wouldn’t care. I’m not going to lose