Not pretty.
Definitely not accidental.
I’d instructed Darby to dig up everything he could on the star of the evening, Miss Harper. The woman had already received more attention than a normal suspect in what was being whispered as a murder case. The men stared, slack-jawed like sex-deprived preteens, the women, like gum-popping mean-girls, scoffing and gossiping. I’d already heard the word “witch” being thrown around.
I combined the last dregs of the station’s coffee with a pain pill, a combination surely to have me gripping my own bottle of antacids before bed. Assuming I even made it home, because, as my churning gut had indicated, the “Slaying in the Park”—as it had already been dubbed—was becoming more unusual with each passing moment.
“I put her in interview room one.”
Mid-stride down the hall, I glanced over my shoulder at Colson coming down the hallway behind me. “Interview Room One” was the bullshit name given to the conference room when a situation called for it. Small town budgets, small town buildings.
“She needs to be interviewed immediately. I already don’t like this thing.”
“Agreed. What did Jessica say?” Colson asked.
Colson and I had divided and conquered everything that needed to be done at the scene. He’d updated me on old man Erickson’s statement, I’d updated him on what I’d found at the scene, but other than that, we’d yet to compare notes, or thoughts for that matter.
“COD is gunshot wound to the head, perforation of the brain. The shot that blew off half his face passed through. The one through the eye did him in.”
“The bullet didn’t lodge in his brain?”
“Nope. Blew out the back of his head.”
“You find the other casing?”
“Only the one. Bagged it up. Will get it logged and sent to ballistics at sun up, and we’ll search again for the other.”
“Probably in the woods under a pile of deer shit. Is her gun bagged up?”
I nodded.
Colson shook his head. “The chick was carrying a gun with her at midnight in the city park. A freaking nine millimeter. Ruger, right?”
I nodded.
“What the hell is a woman doing carrying that thing around?”
I reminded him that almost everyone in Berry Springs carried a weapon of sorts. Hell, everyone in the South did, for that matter. A concealed carry license was as common as a driver’s license. To his point, though, a nine millimeter was a significant weapon, especially for a “woman.”
“I meant,” Colson corrected, “who the hell carries a gun with them during a jog?”
“Someone who takes security very personally and knows their shit. The fire power alone suggests a fair amount of knowledge about guns.”
Colson’s brows squeezed together. “The most common Ruger pocket pistol for concealed carry is a 380, not a nine millimeter. I understand carrying one in her purse or something, but jogging with one in her waistband? Why not carry a taser or a shiv like a normal person?”
It was something I filed away as interesting, too. Very interesting.
“What about the knife?”
“Bagged up, too.”
“And it was next to the victim’s body?”
“Seven inches from his head.”
“No blood on it?”
“No.”
“No knife wounds anywhere?”
“Not on him. Medic said her wound wasn’t from a knife.”
“Need to figure out if it’s hers or the vics, then verify the prints.”
I nodded. “You started trying to track down his next of kin yet?”
“Not yet. That’s next on my to-do list.”
We didn’t know much about the victim other than what I’d pulled from the wallet in his back pocket. His name was Julian Griggs. A five-foot-eleven, brown-eyed, organ-donating twenty-two year old Berry Springs resident. His wallet contained two credit cards, a debit card, a coupon for a free ice-cream at Donny’s, two sticks of wintergreen gum, and six dollars cash. According to the fast-food receipt in his pocket, he’d had a double-cheese burger, large fries with extra ketchup, and a large soda two hours before Sunny Harper blew off his face in the park. A ring of keys were in his right pocket, along with some lint. He’d been wearing a black T-shirt, navy blue shorts and white joggers, now speckled with blood. A password-restricted cell phone from his other pocket and one private social media account gave us nothing. A black Chevy was parked at the trailhead, which was assumed to be his considering the keys found in his pocket unlocked it. I told Darby to run the truck plates to confirm, and if so, gather a list of his previous addresses so we could begin the arduous task of finding the next of kin to contact. If that failed, I instructed him to check Julian’s birth certificate or check for marriage licenses. All that after he found out everything he could on Sunny Harper, of course.
“Erickson was positive he saw her shoot the guy in the face?” I asked.
“What he said. Said he was driving home from the hospital—”
“What was he doing at the hospital?”
“His niece just had her first baby—”
“You verify that?”
“Yep. Said he saw someone in the woods, verbatim ‘lurking under a lamppost.’ Struck him as odd considering it was midnight, so he turned into the park. That’s when he saw Sunny Harper with Julian in a bear hold, with a gun to his head. According to his statement, he then pulled into a parking spot, called us and heard two gunshots. He grabbed his gun—idiot—and approached the scene. Said there was a dead body at Harper’s feet when he walked up. He pulled his gun on Sunny and threatened her until we got there minutes later.”
I shook my head. It was unbelievable how many times well-meaning assholes inserted themselves into dangerous situations in an effort to help when what they should have done was haul ass out and leave it to us.
The fact that Sunny Harper had overpowered Julian Griggs, almost double her weight, was nothing less than shocking. I’d been on the receiving end of her strength and while it was nothing short of impressive, combining that with the fact she’d been carrying a nine millimeter and her refusal to talk, and something just wasn’t adding up.
“Wanna take a bet on self-defense or murder?” Colson asked.
“A hundred bucks on self-defense.”
“I’ll take that bet. The woman was in the park with a gun at midnight, got the drop on the vic, then shot him twice in the head… and she’s just weird on top that. I’m going with murder, with jilted ex-girlfriend.”
We shook on it.
Colson gazed at the closed door of the conference room. “Would be interesting to know if either Julian or Sunny Harper believed in voodoo.”
It was one of the first thoughts that crossed my mind while processing the scene. What were the odds that a man had been shot yards from the newly-discovered “Voodoo Tree,” and the evening of Lieutenant Seagrave’s funeral? Coincidence?
Just then—
“Hope you brought a string of garlic.”
Colson and I turned to see Officer Haddix striding down the hall.
“Huh?”
“Wards off evil spirits, ’cording to the wife, anyway.” Haddix jerked his chin to the conference room. “Chick’s notorious around here. Y’all don’t know?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Sunny Harper. Been pulled over seven times in the last six months for traffic violations. Speeding, running red lights. Got out of every ticket. Every single one. Not even a warning.”
“How?”
“Shows a tit, hell, I don’t know. Proud to say I wrote Miss Harper her first ticket a few weeks ago. Know what happened next? The woman convinced Judge Carter to throw it out. Chick’s got some sort of power over men. Saw her at Frank’s a few times. Never pays for a single drink or food, but always leaves alone. Dick tease.”
“She ever with anyone?” I asked.
“Don’t think so. Rumor is she’s some sort of loner.
A hermit. Lives in a cabin in the middle of the woods.” He snorted. “That she probably got for free. Same goes at the coffee shop she frequents, by the way. Dax, the owner, told me she hasn’t paid for a single coffee. Gets one of those nasty skim milk drinks every time.”
“Sound like you sure keep tabs on the woman.” I said.
“Naw. Not me. Can’t stand women like that. Breezes through life on nothing more than a wink.” He scowled. “And what’s with those eyes, anyway? Gold specks in green eyes so bright they look like they’re plugged into an electrical socket. Has to be contacts. She always wears those low cut shirts too. Anyway.” He shrugged.
Colson and I exchanged a glance.
“How do I not know about this? The tickets?” Colson asked.
“You think anyone wants to admit to having their balls handed to them?”
Someone yelled Colson’s name from the end of the hall. He shook his head. “Whatever, dude.” He glanced at the clock. “I’ve got to figure out who the hell to call to verify Julian Griggs’ body.”
“Darby’s on research work now.” I said. “Go find him.”
He grunted, turned, and started down the hall. Haddix followed suit.
“Colson,” I hollered after him. “What are you going to do with her?”
Without looking over his shoulder, he threw his hands up. “She needs to be interviewed right now. You’re best around. Go see what you can get out of her.”
9
Jagg
I slipped into the eight-by-five room the chief had built onto the conference room, or “interview room one.” The small space had two chairs, a speaker with a feed that led into the room, a notebook and pen, and a two-way mirror that overlooked the conference table.
It’s no secret I wasn’t a fan of the chief, but adding an observation room to the station had given BSPD a huge leg up in interviews. Well, for me, anyway. While I’d never seen anyone use it for anything other than a nap, I’d used it at least a dozen times. I always took time to observe whoever I was about to interview.
There’s a lot of debate surrounding the validity of nonverbal behavior when it comes to distinguishing lies from truth. I happen to believe you can learn a hell of a lot more about someone by paying attention to their nonverbal, rather than listening to the words that come out of their mouths. Unfortunately, nonverbal cues don’t hold up in court. Damn shame, in my opinion.
During my door kicking days, I was trained in multiple interrogation tactics. Not only with me as the interrogator, but how to resist an interrogation in the event I found myself on the receiving end of a cloth and bucket of water. SERE training, it was called. Survival, evasion, resistance and escape. Most SEALs excelled at survival and escape, mainly because if you were one of the twenty percent who made it through BUD/S and actually became a SEAL, chances were you had that God-given grit and instinct when it came to survival. Resistance training was challenging because it targeted the most powerful part of any man, his mind.
Torture and interrogations have evolved over the years, but one thing remains true—your goal is to find the person’s weakness and exploit it. We all have weaknesses. Good soldiers, good interrogators, good detectives each have their own unique ways of finding whatever that weakness is and not letting up until one of two things is obtained: Enough actionable intel to advance whatever the end goal of the interview was, or two, to get that rare, coveted confession. Some detectives went their entire careers without hearing those three sweet little words. I’d already heard them six times in my life. How I got there, though, was questionable at best and I wondered if all my red-tape cutting was finally catching up to me. Times were changing. I wasn’t. I still used tactics behind closed doors, behind prying eyes, behind the law. I would until they kicked me out, which according to Colson, wouldn’t be too far away.
At the end of the day, though, I believed in my gut instinct. Educate, educate, educate, then fall back on your gut. Know your facts, the intel, but ultimately trust your gut.
And my gut was screaming at me about this case.
I closed the door to the observation room behind me, kicked a chair to the side and crossed my arms over my chest as I looked through the two-way mirror.
Someone had offered Sunny Harper a BSPD sweatshirt—undoubtedly, a dude—but based on its location at her feet, she’d declined the offer. Sunny was apparently still considered a loose-cannon flight risk because her hands were still cuffed. Someone had been thoughtful enough to reposition her cuffs to the front, though—also, undoubtedly a dude. The blood had been wiped from her face and neck, revealing that milky-white skin that glowed against her inky curls, which were still speckled with grass and dried leaves. I was surprised at the lack of tattoos. I figured a woman with fight like she had would’ve been covered in some sort of feminist propaganda. Chalk it up to another thing that surprised me about her. My gaze drifted away from her face, noticing her body for the first time. Even sitting in a chair, I could see the curves of her waist, the round ass, and, Lord help me, a pair of erect nipples poking from under the thin fabric of her tank top.
A wave of heat ran over my skin, the temperature in the room suddenly sweltering. I yanked at the tie I didn’t have on, almost ripping the collar of my T-shirt. Damn laser beams those things were. Her breasts were perky, a handful at best—smaller than my usual preference—but in perfect proportion to her toned, fit body. And why the hell was I spending so much time on her tits? I gave myself a mental slap in the face and focused on the baseball-sized lump swelling around the stitches on her arm.
That guilt, again. Had I done that?
There was no shifting in her seat, no frantic eyes skirting around the room, no twitches, no tears, just those feline eyes staring straight ahead. My head titled to the side as I assessed the woman, trying to get a baseline on her nonverbal before the interview. I wasn’t getting shit.
She was different.
Something was different.
My body pulled like a magnet to her, my weight shifting to my toes until I was inches from the window.
Nothing.
No tells.
No emotions to read.
Nothing.
I wasn’t sure how long had passed while I stared at her, waiting for something—anything—until her head turned and met my gaze through the two-way mirror as if she could see right through it. I pulled back, a weird quiver in my stomach as our eyes locked.
Must be the coffee, I convinced myself.
We stared at each other for a minute in a way that had me questioning the quality of the secret window, and I filed away the whisper of unease that settled around me.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I was off my game. I needed food, sleep.
So, I said to myself with another inward slap to the jaw, let’s get this shit done and end this Godforsaken night.
I stepped into the hall where the chatter in the station had doubled. Colson’s voice boomed from his office. The case was already growing legs.
I pushed through the door to the conference room and was met with the same piercing gaze I’d received from behind the mirror. I had no question Sunny had known she was being watched, and by the spite in her eyes, she knew I was the one doing the watching.
I tossed a notebook and pen on the table, passed by the open chair and stopped at her side, standing over her.
Her brows lifted with her eyes, leveled, controlled, but loaded with defiance.
But why?
It made no sense at this point. I’d had my fair share of cantankerous suspects before, but none of them—not a single one—had been found standing over a dead body literally holding the weapon that killed the victim. Why wasn’t she talking?
Scared?
Arrogant?
Fearless?
Idiot.
“Miss Harper I’ve got a lot of questions for you, but first, I’d like to know how you overpowered a man double your size.”
She blinked, the only indication that I�
��d thrown her off with an unexpected question. My specialty. Thanks, Columbo. Not all my training came from the teams.
“Krav Maga.” she responded, simply. With that voice. Deep, sultry. Sinful.
“And where did you learn martial arts?” I forced myself to keep my eyes from sliding down to those nipples that I swear had doubled in size since I walked in the room. Cold? Turned on, perhaps? Was there any other time a woman’s nipples got hard? When was the last time I’d seen a pair of erect nipples?
“I taught myself,” she said, pulling me out of my pubescent thoughts. I was beginning to understand the lack of traffic tickets.
“Online classes?”
“A few.”
“Well, Miss Harper, I hope those classes offer a full refund because you apparently missed the most important part of Krav Maga. Rule number one is that the best way to win a fight is not to get into a fight, at all. De-escalate the situation and win through avoidance of conflict.”
“Some conflict is unavoidable.”
“That’s correct, but in your case, with me, it was avoidable. I asked you to put down the gun. What did you do? Tried to flee, causing me to tackle you, where you proceeded to fight me like a rabid raccoon, making me disable and cuff you.”
Her nostrils flared, her wrists twitching against the cuff. Yeah, I didn’t like that wrestling match either, Ronda Rousey.
“Why did you try to flee? You appear to be a smart woman. Why—”
“I had three guns pulled on me in under five minutes, Detective. When I heard the old man call me a murderer…” Her voice trailed off.
“Are you a murderer?”
“No.”
“So you ran because…”
She looked away.
“You panicked?”
Her eyes drifted closed as if embarrassed. Or annoyed, I wasn’t totally sure which.
“Okay, we’ll call it panic. Well, Miss Harper, are you going to panic and attempt to flee and kick my ass again right now?”
Jagger (Steele Shadows Investigations) Page 7
