He read it carefully. The last thing they needed would be for the warrant to trip them up. But Brown had done a good job. It covered everything they needed. They were only going to do Lisa’s bedroom this afternoon. See if they could figure out her last movements. If they found anything that would point to Judge Carson being involved in Lisa’s murder—like blood samples or texts with her friends implicating her mother—they’d get a new warrant and the Ident guys would come and do a thorough sweep.
Lamond looked around him and gave a low whistle. “Nice digs.”
“Yeah.” Really nice. One of the most luxurious condo complexes in the city. Where did Judge Carson get the money for that? Criminal court judges were government employees. Lawyers often took a cut in pay to sit on the bench.
Ethan glanced through the glass security doors to the main foyer. It was exactly what he expected.
A massive round pedestal table with an arrangement of orange lilies and some kind of ultramodern spiky greenery was the focal point. Gold-flecked marble on the floor complemented the massive gold-framed mirror that hung on the cream painted wall at the back.
Ethan picked up the security phone and rang Judge Carson’s number. A sudden buzz announced the door lock being released. Redding grabbed the door before it locked again.
“Nice,” Lamond muttered. He squared his shoulders. Ethan could guess what the younger detective was feeling. He’d been put in the role of family liaison but the victim’s mother wanted nothing to do with him. And, in fact, could lacerate him with a glance. Not a comfortable position to be in. Welcome to homicide, buddy.
The elevator doors slid open and they stepped inside the mirrored lift. The judge had a penthouse condo. Ethan turned to his team. “Lamond, Redding, go through drawers, closets, under the bed, inside Lisa’s stuffed animals, the usual. If she had a diary, read every entry. Go through her homework notebooks. Get on to her social media. And make sure you bag and tag everything you take. If Judge Carson turns out to be more than a grieving mother, we don’t want her ramming improper evidence collection down our throats.” The elevator neared Judge Carson’s floor. “I’m going to take the judge through Lisa’s final movements. If you need any backup, let me know.”
They nodded. As soon as Lisa’s identity was released, the papers would explode with this story. They needed to have all their ducks in a row.
They got out on the twelfth floor and walked down the hallway to the mahogany door at the end. Ethan rapped the gleaming brass knocker. It was shaped like a lion’s head. The beast’s eyes glared at him. It was the kind of welcome he expected from Her Honor.
Judge Carson opened the door. Ethan hoped his surprise at her appearance didn’t show on his face. He realized he’d expected her to appear in full battle garb—severely tailored suit, sharp heels, immaculate hair.
Her hair was anything but. She’d obviously just come out of the shower. The sleek bob required a blow dryer to make maximum impact. And instead of her work clothes, she wore a pair of tailored denim jeans with a black turtleneck sweater in a fine silk knit that clung discreetly to her breasts.
If her outward appearance was not what he’d expected, the look in her eyes was. Challenge gleamed from their tawny depths.
“Your Honor, here is the warrant,” Ethan said, handing it to her.
Judge Carson scanned the text slowly, holding it at arm’s length, a slight frown between her brows. She read the faxed document word for word as if it were the first warrant she’d ever seen. She returned it to him and stepped back from the door.
He marshaled all of his interviewing skills and walked inside. Redding and Lamond followed, hoisting their evidence kits and cameras through the doorway.
Judge Carson scrutinized the gear.
“Her bedroom is over there.” She waved a hand upstairs. “My room is on the left. Hers is on the right.”
Not once had Judge Carson referred to her daughter by name. Same as in the morgue. “It’s her,” she’d said. Not, “it’s my daughter,” or “it’s Lisa.”
Just her.
“Have a seat, Detective Drake.” Judge Carson walked down the steps into the sunken living room. A modern white L-shaped sofa and white fur rug were framed by two walls of floor-to-ceiling windows. They overlooked the Public Gardens, Halifax’s jewel in the crown.
“Nice place,” he said, settling himself on a chair, his back to the windows. Judge Carson sat on the sofa. Her dark clothing provided a stark foil to the white leather surrounding her.
Ethan looked around. Opposite the living room was a small but high-tech galley kitchen, separated by a smooth granite counter. It was remarkably uncluttered. No appliances sat on the counter, no dishes, no flowers, nothing. He wondered how anyone could function in a kitchen like that. He thought of his own kitchen: the fresh herbs growing on the windowsill, the sleek espresso machine and stainless-steel pasta maker gracing his counter. From the looks of this kitchen, Judge Carson never used it except to transfer her take-out food to real china.
But what about Lisa?
Where were the clothes strewn on the floor, the worn-out flip-flops kicked off in an untidy jumble, the backpack, homework, makeup, and various other paraphernalia that marked the abode of a teenage girl?
He placed his notepad on the sleek concrete-and-glass coffee table. It, too, was devoid of decoration. Just like the granite-and-copper mantel over the fireplace. Not a single photo.
Did Judge Carson actually live in this place or just drop in for occasional visits to check on her offspring?
“What kind of evidence have you collected?” she asked calmly.
Ethan leaned back on the sofa. Judge Carson was doing exactly what he expected: taking control of the interview, and asking questions that she, of all people, would know the police would not answer to the relative of a homicide victim. Not until they had their suspect in custody.
“We are still processing the crime scene.”
“But surely you’ve found some evidence.”
Ethan met her gaze. “Yes. We have.” It was a lie.
“Was she killed at the granary?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss our findings at this stage, Your Honor.”
She recoiled as the implications of his words hit her. “For Chrissake.”
She was about to say more, but Ethan said, “Can you tell me about Lisa’s activities yesterday? We are trying to put together a time line.”
Judge Carson closed her eyes. As if she couldn’t stand the sight of him. Didn’t matter. He had more important things to worry about. There was a brutal killer on the loose. They needed to catch this guy.
She opened her eyes. Her gaze was unflinching. “I have no idea what she was doing.”
“Did Lisa go to school?”
“I expect so.”
“What did she usually do after school?”
“Sometimes she went to her grandmother’s. You should call her. Her name is Marian MacAdam.” Her voice was flat.
“Her number?”
In the same emotionless tone, Judge Carson recited her mother-in-law’s phone number. “Lisa told me she was having supper with Marian, but her grandmother was at her cottage yesterday.”
“Did Lisa know that?”
“According to her grandmother, yes.”
“So she lied to you?” Ethan watched Judge Carson’s face closely. Would his question hurt her? Or anger her?
Neither. She shrugged. “It would appear so.”
“Do you know where Lisa had supper?”
“No. I don’t usually come home for supper, Detective. My work does not permit it. Lisa would either eat at her grandmother’s, or make herself supper at home. Sometimes she would eat out with her friends.” Ethan pictured the girl, coming home to an empty house, sticking a frozen supper in the microwave.
“What time would Lisa usually come home?”
“Around nine or ten o’clock. Sometimes later.”
So this fifteen-year-old girl basically had no
one to account to. Except maybe her grandmother.
He wouldn’t make any judgments—yet—about this woman sitting in front of him, but his heart squeezed with pity for Lisa. He kept his voice as neutral as possible. “Did Lisa have a problem with drugs?”
Judge Carson dropped her gaze to her hands. They were square, capable hands. Strong. A small cut, still pink edged, marred one knuckle.
Finally she looked up. “This is not to be put in the file. Do you understand?”
Ethan understood all right. No one wanted a record of their omissions. Because when they were written down in stark black-and-white they began to look a lot like commissions. “Your Honor, your daughter is the victim of a homicide. We need to find out who did this to her. All information is pertinent. If I don’t record it, we may miss a critical link.” He felt slightly ridiculous telling this to Hope Carson, a criminal court judge, who would know all this already. But she wasn’t giving him a choice. He and she both knew if it was something she didn’t want put on paper, it was likely to be a critical link.
Her eyes scorched his face. She had been testing him, thinking she could intimidate him. He’d called her bluff. And she hadn’t liked being spoken to like that. She was now weighing her options. Ethan waited.
“My daughter had some problems,” Judge Carson said evenly. “She fell in with a bad crowd. She began using street drugs. But I know she stopped.”
“How do you know that?” Ethan asked. How the hell could Judge Carson speak with such certainty after admitting she had no idea what her daughter had been doing every day while she was at work?
“Because I made sure of it. She had no funds to buy drugs. She also knew if she got caught with them she’d be sent away.”
“Away? Where?”
Judge Carson’s gaze became steely. As if remembering her daughter’s reaction to this pronouncement. “To a boarding school.”
“She didn’t want to go there?” Ethan thought she might have found the prospect appealing: more company and regular meals.
A small grimace twisted Judge Carson’s lips. “No. She wanted to stay near her grandmother.”
“I see.” And he did see how lonely Lisa’s life must have been. “So you believe Lisa was not using anymore.”
“Correct.”
“We’ve had officers checking all the beats of the street kids, and we found a witness who reported seeing Lisa around 10:00 p.m. last night. Apparently she sold some drugs to her.”
“But that’s impossible… She had no money. None! I made sure of it!” Judge Carson pushed a hand through her hair. “Unless…”
“Unless…?”
Her jaw tightened. “I suspect her grandmother may have indulged her and given her some pocket money.”
Ethan began to write.
“I told you not to make a record of this!” Judge Carson reached over to grab the notepad.
Ethan placed his hand firmly on the page. “Your Honor, please do not make me have to charge you with obstructing an investigation.”
Judge Carson recoiled with a sharp intake of breath. Somewhere in the tawny blaze of her eyes, Ethan thought he saw pain. He wasn’t sure.
He rose. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
Judge Carson stood. Her eyes burned into him. “If this information is leaked to the press, there will be hell to pay. I will personally see to it that you will wear this, Detective.” Her face hardened. “And I don’t think that’s something you can afford, can you, Detective?”
Ethan stood. He wouldn’t rise to the bait. Judge Carson was trying to deflect her guilt onto him. He’d gotten the message loud and clear. Judge Carson was more concerned about her career than her dead daughter.
He wasn’t.
Chapter 12
Tuesday, May 1, 4:00 p.m.
Every time Ethan walked through the long, winding corridors in the basement of the Greater Halifax General Hospital, the word bowel sprang to mind. He knew his subconscious was bracing him for what was to come.
He glanced at Lamond. “You ready?”
He’d surprised Ethan by asking if he could come to the autopsy. Ethan had agreed. This would season him like nothing else.
The detective constable nodded. His expression of grim determination would have amused Ethan if he hadn’t been so bothered by the case.
“Is this your first one?” he asked.
Lamond nodded again. “But I used to gut fish.”
Ethan remembered thinking the same thing before his first autopsy. He hadn’t wanted to listen to any advice from the senior officer then, and he doubted Lamond would want to hear it, either. But still, he’d be remiss not to give him the basics: “Get close enough to see but not too close. The smell can sometimes set people off. And make sure you stand near a garbage can.”
They reached the end of the corridor. A sign on a large set of swinging doors proclaimed the morgue. Farther down was a single door with a smaller sign: Autopsy Suite. He headed toward it, dropping his coffee cup in a garbage can. He entered the room and reached for a scrub gown folded neatly on a metal shelf by the door. Lamond hung back at the doorway.
Ethan threw him an impatient glance and slipped his arms through the sleeves. “Remember, DNA contamination. We don’t want to leave our trace on her. And besides, sometimes the blood can spatter. I hope you’re not wearing your best shoes.” He picked up his briefcase. “Although in this case, I’m not sure how much blood she has left.”
Lamond hurriedly thrust his arms into a gown and followed him, the green edges flapping around his back.
A small cluster of people stood around the autopsy table. The medical examiner’s assistant had just lifted the body bag from the gurney onto the metal surface. A member of the FIS team stood by, readying his camera.
The M.E. glanced over his steel-rimmed glasses at Ethan and smiled. “Right on time.” His voice still retained the lilt of the Caribbean. It bounced off the stainless steel surrounding them, warming the room. His face grew somber. “It’s a nasty case, Detective Drake.”
Ethan nodded. “Tell me about it.”
“Have you identified her?” Dr. Guthro asked.
“Yes.” He was glad they had, but whenever they had a name to go with the body, it made it so much more personal. “Her name is Lisa MacAdam. A fifteen-year-old private school student. Her mother is Judge Hope Carson.”
“My Lord.” Even Dr. Guthro, a forensic pathologist who had seen a lot in his day, looked shocked. “How did this happen to her?”
“Good question. It’s been a challenging crime scene.”
“From what the FIS detectives have been telling me, you couldn’t find any clothes or personal effects?”
Ethan shook his head. “Nothing. No clothes, no purse…” He glanced at the body bag. It sagged in all the wrong places. “…and so far we haven’t been able to find her limbs.”
“Obviously she was killed somewhere else.” Dr. Guthro picked up his clipboard.
“Yes. We’re hoping that there may be some trace evidence on her body.” Hope was too mild a word. They needed something to go on. Now that the tire track was unusable, they had nothing. The fog had rolled in, making the search difficult. But even before that, the Ident guys had come up with very little. It was hard to believe that the dump site had yielded so few clues. It spoke volumes about the type of killer. He was smart. He was careful.
Dr. Guthro gazed over his bifocals. “The E.T.D. rules out fingerprints.”
“Fingerprints?” Lamond threw an astonished look at the M.E. “She has no fingers.”
Ethan frowned. “Dr. Guthro is referring to the killer’s latents.”
Lamond colored. “I didn’t know you could get latents off a corpse.”
Dr. Guthro nodded. “Latents are tricky to get off the skin. Since they usually only last for an hour or two after death has occurred, I’m afraid that is no longer an option for this victim.”
Ethan swallowed his disappointment. He knew their girl had been dead for too
long for the killer’s prints—if he left any—to be lifted, but he had hoped Dr. Guthro might surprise them. They had so little to go with right now. “What time did she die?”
Dr. Guthro consulted his clipboard. “Based on the evening temperatures—which held pretty steady most of the night—we are estimating the time of death at approximately 2300 hours.” He put down the clipboard and removed his reading glasses. “Let’s have a look at what we’ve got, shall we?”
The assistant pulled the sides of the body bag open. The smell of dead, bloody flesh hit Ethan’s nostrils. He glanced at Lamond. His eyes were wide.
I bet your fish never smelled like that.
Dr. Guthro stood poised over the body, inhaling deeply several times. “No cyanidic odor emitting from the decedent,” he said into his Dictaphone.
He picked up a digital camera from a metal table and circled the body, taking photos of the naked corpse. “You’ve got a tough case,” he said. “No clothes which might have trace evidence.” His glance fell on the severed joints. “Not having her limbs is really unfortunate. I usually find excellent trace evidence under the nails.”
Ethan looked at the girl. At Lisa. She looked inhuman without her limbs, like a mannequin. Yet she was all too human: the still-childish features, the defiant stripe of bleached blond in her hair.
“No sign of external injury on the torso,” Dr. Guthro said, bending forward. “But the neck is a different matter. She was strangled. See the bruising?” It radiated from a thin red line around her neck.
“Looks like he used a ligature,” Ethan said.
“I agree. The bruising shows even pressure was applied.”
“Is that the cause of death?”
Dr. Guthro nodded. “Most likely. See the petechiae?” He gestured toward small red blotches that marred her neck. “They are quite extensive, around her mouth and—” he pulled down her lower eyelid “—in the lining of her eyes.” He gently rubbed a large cotton swab around the ligature marking, then placed it in an evidence envelope, noting the case, site and date. “Hopefully there is some residue left on her skin to indicate what the killer used to strangle her.”
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