The Last Innocent

by Rebekah Strong

  Every day since he poured the sand out of his boots, he wondered if it was possible to move on or if a temporary distraction was the best he could hope for. Was Tully just another way to forget for a few sleepless minutes?

  She was a witness. He slept with a material witness, and worse, he wasn’t going to stop. He rubbed his hands over his face.

  “And she was all, ‘Oh, really? I’ve never seen one of those…’.” Thad stopped and eyed Luke. “You okay, Boss?”

  “Great.” Luke yanked his tie loose and directed the conversation away from himself. “You look a little hung over.”

  “Another night might have literally killed me. I’m never drinking again.”

  “Never or the weekend, whichever comes first.” Luke finally smiled. They had this conversation every Monday and it normally annoyed him. Today it made the broom closet feel more like home. Something normal to soften this uncomfortable territory he found himself in. He should work at some point today, but work had become a problem. He changed the subject.

  “How is the autopsy search going? Are people giving you any trouble.”

  “Not really. Some of them are skeptical, but no one has told me to step off. Not yet anyway. Most of the record keepers are ladies, and you know how irresistible I am.” Thad grinned. “Bigger agencies are getting back quick. The smaller ones take a while. None of them have updated record keeping systems. They have to go through boxes of paper reports. Those are rolling in pretty slow.”

  “Don’t let up now. Stay on it.” Luke said.

  Thad nodded.

  “Good work though. Keep it up.” Luke reached into the briefcase for the thesis to hide a smile as Thad’s grin returned. At least now he had a second brain to run his thoughts through. He smoothed the crinkled stack as Thad watched.

  “What’s that?”

  “Those phone records and your handy dandy police reports yielded something interesting.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “A guy by the name of Alexander Wynn is a colleague of Cade’s. He’s a shrink. Ol’ Johnny boy called him not long before Twomey died.”

  “No way.” Thad leaned in listening.

  “This is his first doctoral thesis, written in ’82.”

  “First?”

  “He has three earned doctorates, one of them from Cambridge and two psychiatric fellowships. He's been published in every major medical journal that I’m aware exists. Guy’s a certified genius.”

  Thad whistled. “I barely made it through undergrad.” Luke offered him the stack, and he flipped through it.

  “He ended up teaching at South Eastern in the late 90’s and early 2000s. He must like the south because he never left. He’s English. He has no family here.”

  “The Cambridge?”

  “Yes. Now he lives outside of Savannah, although he travels extensively. He has a thriving practice here and in Charleston.”

  “What makes you think he’s involved, other than him being Cade’s friend.”

  “They’re not friends. They hardly talk despite living within an hour of each other. Cade called him about a month before the senator died. And,” Luke paused to make sure Thad was listening, “several months before the case Sandra gave us. No other calls on recent records.”

  “Okay wow. That doesn’t seem like coincidence.”

  “And then there’s that.” Luke motioned to the dissertation Thad was skimming.

  “Oh.” Thad bounced his palm off his forehead. “That’s where I know that name from.”

  “What?”

  “My senior year I offered to tutor this freshman. You know, ‘cuz she was really hot. I was trying to get some, so I offered to help her with a psych paper. It was one of my majors so I figured I could ‘pump’,” he made air quotes, “a little benefit out of it. Worked like a charm.”

  Luke glared at Thad who shrugged. “You wanted my input. Anyway, the class we were in had one of his textbooks assigned. I remember it. It was four inches thick and thirty pounds if it was an ounce.”

  Luke ran his hands through his hair and left them covering his face as he waited for Thad to say something useful. The wait was excruciating but short. “It was personality disorders if I remember right. That’s the one Amber did her paper on. I don’t remember much about it, except it was weird.”

  Luke peeked from behind his fingers. “Amber.”

  Thad grinned. “Some of his theories are a little controversial.”

  Luke dropped his hands and straightened in his chair. “Controversial is not even close. He doesn’t shy away from an unpopular line of thought. Some of his treatment methods are, well, they’re throwbacks. Like dipping schizo patients in ice water and electroshock therapy. But nobody’s shutting him down. His patient roster has a waiting list. Hell, he’s even worked for us a few times,” said Luke.

  “Controversial means somebody likes what he’s doing.”

  “But that’s his day job. His real obsession is criminal psychology.”

  “I’m a little confused about how you spent your weekend,” Thad said.

  Luke ignored him. “He might be a certifiable genius, but he’s also a nut job. His views on criminal behavior are as far out as I’ve ever seen. That thesis,” he gestured to the paper in Thad’s hands, “is called ‘The Evolution of the Common Man’. He outlines why he considers the common street criminal more evolved than a law-abiding citizen."

  “Clearly he holds a higher opinion of them than most,” snorted Thad.

  Luke propped his feet on his desk. “He claims the average criminal is in better physical condition and sharper focused than the average citizen. Growing up and surviving in an unforgiving environment develops skills and toughness the average person lacks. Although he admits that this so-called advantage hasn’t lofted them to greater heights than boosted cars and drug rips. Check out page 124.”

  Thad flipped through the pile. Luke didn’t wait for him to read it.

  “He comes straight out and says that anyone with a basic knowledge of forensics, that can also master the physiological effects of guilt, can become an invincible force. I guess crime doesn’t pay only if you get caught.”

  “That’s kinda true,” said Thad.

  Luke went on. “He says knowledge isn’t the key though. Behavior is. Guilt or fear always manifests in a physiological way. It’s the fight or flight response as applied to criminal behavior. When adrenaline is in the system, involuntary things happen. Anything from running, stuttering and stammering, to increased heart rate and sweating. Polygraphs are based on this principle, but you can see the signs if you’re paying attention.” Luke nodded toward the paper in Thad’s hands.

  Thad’s mouth gaped then he read out loud. “Any action executed by an expert at abating the mental strain of the consequence of guilt and detection would be sui generis. These unique actions would lead to altered trails of evidence that would be nearly untraceable to authorities.” Thad looked at Luke, his eyes wide.

  “Wynn’s got a whole noble savage thing going on. He argues that despite lower average grades, the common street criminal is better at adapting and surviving when faced with unfavorable circumstances. Strong survival skills make them more fit, therefore stronger. Wynn calls it the ‘great leap forward’, a true evolutionary feat independent of the laws of man and nature. He seems genuinely disappointed that such a person doesn’t exist.”

  “We already call that kind of person a sociopath.” Thad studied the paper.

  “No, he differentiates. He argues sociopaths simply don’t form attachments or observe social norms. His so-called missing link is average but has the ability to suppress or control the body’s reaction to adrenaline. It’s not about a lack of empathy or attachment per se. It’s about remaining calm when anyone else would panic.

  “He tries to make it seem like it would only apply to bank robberies and insurance swindles. He even throws in a few positives like infiltrating terror cells and intelligence gathering. Not very convincing though.�
�

  “There aren’t too many uses for someone with no conscience.”

  “I can think of one,” said Luke.

  “Knocking off politicians,” muttered Thad.

  Luke stood and started pacing.

  Thad spoke slowly. “Except that society would crumble if criminals are left unchecked. Criminals only survive by leeching off the accomplishments of others. How can he see them as evolved when all they do is destroy?”

  “He accounts for that. He admits the whole idea is a long shot, and the average criminal is still average in most respects. The theory is that one in a billion might possess the ability. This ‘great leap forward’ would blend the survival instincts of a street rat, and a smart, educated, genteel even, criminal.”

  “Sounds like some mad scientist shit.”

  “Funny you say that. The President of the American Psychology Association called his thesis the work of a criminal Frankenstein. They’ve been feuding via medical journals for the better part of a decade. Personally, I found it persuasive.”

  Thad frowned. “Sounds like you think he found it.”

  “Just trying to get my questions answered."

  Thad plopped the stack down and leaned back in his chair. “I mean, is it even relevant? It looked like suicide. Do you really need to be an evolutionary anomaly to set that up? All you have to do is watch Law and Order. Or get it off the Internet.”

  Luke shook his head.

  “Then what?”

  “TV is not reality. Second hand fictional accounts are not going to cut it. To be successful you’d have to know what police look for at these scenes, and how to avoid raising suspicion. Cops know human behavior better than anyone. Anything that would even raise a question has to be avoided. Like you said, even tampering leaves a trail. That kind of nuance would take more than a cursory knowledge.”

  “You mean Easton?” Thad sounded sober.

  “Maybe,” said Luke.

  “The fact that he was out of town that weekend doesn’t look good.”

  Luke stopped pacing and his head snapped up. “What? How do you know that?”

  “I was talking to one of their dispatchers last week. You’re not the only charmer in this room.” He answered Luke’s stunned look with a wink. “Sorry, I kinda forgot about it with the holiday weekend and everything. Anyway, it’s a pretty small group around here. Everybody knows everybody. Easton’s family has a huge tract of land up in South Carolina about four hours from here. He hunts up there on the regular. He always goes alone.”

  Luke said nothing but started moving again.

  “In fact, their little clique broke up that weekend. They usually go to some bar, and she goes sometimes. That week nobody went. Everybody was busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “She didn’t know about the rest of them, but Easton was going hunting. He was talking about it to his,” Thad paused, “partner. She only remembered because they seemed to have a little tiff over something.”

  “They fought?”

  “More like a disagreement from what Mary said. She couldn’t hear them. Luke? You alright?”

  Luke moved to the window while Thad talked. He stared outside not really seeing anything. “Nicely done, Aulden. Not exactly our smoking gun though is it?”

  “No,” said Thad. “But it doesn’t look good."

  Luke's phone buzzed on the desk. He picked it up and looked at the caller ID. “Hello?…Hello, sir. Thank you…Yes…We’re on our way. Thank you very much, sir.” He hung up.

  Thad pushed the thesis to the side. “Where are we going?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “That was Captain Timothy. He gave me the go-ahead to look at evidence collected at the shooting scene. It’s ready for us.”

  “Wow, he's letting us look at it?”

  “I may have overemphasized our interest in Cummings, so don’t blow it when we get there. I doubt we’ll find much, but I’d rather not burn this bridge right now. Honestly, I think he wants us out of his hair.”

  Twenty minutes later, the men walked into a converted 1960’s textile warehouse near the courthouse. The lock buzzed open, and Luke pushed the peeling paint on the metal door and swung it open to let Thaddeus pass first.

  At the far end of the small room was a large open window and counter with chipped wood veneer. A bright fluorescent light cast a blue tone over the aging vinyl floor and drab paint. A metal desk with a computer and a large table with the same chipped veneer sat along the left wall. A white-haired man perched on a stool behind the computer on the counter.

  “Hi there.” The man addressed Thaddeus with a deep southern accent. “Are you Agent Marshall?”

  Thaddeus pointed over his shoulder. “No, sir. He is.”

  Luke stepped up to the counter and reached across to shake the man’s hand. “You must be Gary. Thank you for helping us out. Can’t tell you how much we appreciate it.”

  Gary took Luke’s hand and shook it hard. He was stoic and unvarnished, likely a former cop that landed this easy job as a retirement gig. His skin was wrinkled and pocked marked. Luke’s misdirection must have worked, because Gary was pleasant despite his gruff manner. “Well, Cap’n said to let you handle whatever it was you needed. Ya'll lookin into the fella that shot Pete?”

  “We are,” said Luke. “Again, let me say how sorry I am for your agency’s loss. I know he was well respected and liked.”

  “That he was, Agent. That he was. One of the finest officers I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

  Thad shifted uncomfortably next to Luke. Luke silently willed him to keep his mouth shut as Gary went on. “I pulled these for you.” He swiveled on his stool toward two large boxes on a dented metal table behind the counter. “This is what we have. Everything except the suspect’s gun. Nothing else went to the lab. Wasn’t much need for it since the suspect was put down. Would you mind?” Gary gestured to the boxes. “They ain’t too heavy, but I got a bum L3.”

  “No problem,” said Luke a little more chipper than he intended. This was going better than he thought possible.

  Gary slid off his stool and opened the door next to the window. He held it open as Luke and Thad went behind, each grabbed a box, and went back out to the waiting area table. “Ya’ll let me know if ya’ll need anything,” Gary said and closed the door. He motioned to a bell beside the computer, then disappeared into the rows of shelves housing boxes and bags of evidence.

  “Thanks,” Luke called after him already opening his box. Inside were tightly sealed clear plastic bags containing various items of evidence. Luke could tell the items in his box were taken from the slain officer. A uniform shirt lay on top. The bloodstains looked more gray than red on the dark fabric. Luke ran his hand across the plastic. Beneath, he could feel the blood dried to a hard crust. A texture he wished he wasn’t so familiar with.

  He pulled it out quickly and set it on the table. Under it, a white T-shirt revealed the blood in blunt contrast. It covered the entire torso and lower portion of the chest. It too had dried. Luke swallowed hard and placed it beside the first bag.

  Beside him, Thad was digging through his box. He pulled out clothing too but much dirtier and rattier than the officer’s uniform. Luke looked over when Thad pulled out a pair of jeans. They had no blood on them. Only the suspect’s shirt had a small circle of blood in the dead center, front and back. The suspect’s wounds had been grouped in the middle of his chest. Luke thought about Tully wielding the rifle and suppressed a smile.

  Item after item they pulled out and examined in silence until they both had empty boxes.

  “Anything?” Luke looked in Thad’s box.

  “Nada,” said Thad.

  “Alright. We can check it off the list at least.” He turned back to his box. As he reached for the items on the table, his elbow bumped the corner. The box slid a few inches on the table, and Luke heard a small swish as something kept moving after the cardboard stopped. He looked inside.

  At the bottom of the b
ox, the corner of a small bag was visible from underneath the loose inner flap. Luke pulled it out. Inside was a small piece of white paper that had been soaked in blood. Luke checked the handwriting on the outside of the package. It was found in Easton’s uniform breast pocket.

  Luke squinted at the small type. About half of the print was obliterated by the deep reddish-brown stain. It meant nothing to the detectives investigating the case, but what Luke saw made his stomach sour. It couldn’t be.

  The receipt appeared to be from a gas station, although the items purchased were long gone. It was the date and address Luke couldn’t look away from. The gas station had an Atlanta address. It was dated the day before the senator died.

  “What? What is it?” Thad saw him freeze.

  Luke pivoted so he faced the security camera in the corner, forcing Thad’s back to it. He handed the receipt to his partner.

  Thad’s eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open, making Luke glad he had positioned this way. “I guess we know where he went that weekend,” he whispered.

  “Holy shit,” Thad said out loud.

  “Keep it down,” Luke murmured glancing over his shoulder for any sign of Gary. “We can’t take it right now, and god forbid it should go missing because someone finds out we’re interested in it.”

  Thad nodded and Luke saw him swallow hard. Luke placed the receipt next to several other pieces of paper that he had no interest in and snapped a picture with his phone. He made a big show of also photographing several of Cummings’s clothing items. No doubt Gary was in the back, watching them on the monitor.

  Then Luke motioned to Thad to put his items back in his box. Thad did so mechanically, looking over his shoulder like he expected Gary to come roaring out and grab the evidence out of their hands.

  Luke packed his box, careful to put everything in neat but random order. The plastic bag with the receipt he tucked next to a bag with other pocket contents, although he doubted anyone would look that closely. SPD's investigation on Cummings was closed.

  He and Thad hoisted their boxes up on the counter and Luke rang the bell. Gary shuffled down the aisle and typed his password into the computer. As he began checking the items back in, Luke leaned against the countertop in a nonchalant pose.