by Lisa Gardner
“Wow,” she said, which pretty much summed up the hot-as-an-oven feel.
Having had drop-off duty for Sharlah, Rainie was dressed casually, black capris and a light green T-shirt with a dark green swirling pattern up one side. She could’ve been a hot mom on her way to yoga. All these years later, Quincy was still humbled that she was his wife.
In his case, old habits died hard. He wore what Rainie teasingly referred to as FBI casual. Tan slacks and a dark blue polo shirt. Once upon a time, his shirt would’ve been emblazoned with FBI. Today, he’d gone with one advertising the SIG Sauer Academy, where he taught firearms classes from time to time. Law enforcement related, without being false advertising.
“How’d drop-off go?” he asked now, closing his door, then coming around to greet her.
Rainie shrugged. “She’s doing her best.”
“Which means we have probably an hour before we’re called to pick her up?”
“If that.” Rainie fell in step beside him as they headed toward the building. “Do you ever think it’s ironic that we, of all people, are trying to teach a child social skills?”
“All the time,” he assured her. Reaching the door first, he held it open for her, then followed into the relative cool of the building. He already knew from experience the sensation wouldn’t last. Temperatures this hot weren’t common along the coast, meaning most air-conditioning units couldn’t keep up—assuming the building was fortunate enough to have air-conditioning at all.
Having visited before, Quincy and Rainie walked straight to the desk duty officer, flashed their IDs, and were buzzed through the heavy metal door into the heart of the unit. Like most county sheriff’s buildings, it housed everything from local lockup to a dispatch center, to several different departments, including the second-floor detectives’ unit, which is where Quincy figured they’d find Shelly now. They headed up, and sure enough . . .
Shelly stood in a moderately sized space meant to house four detectives, but not necessarily at the same time. Bone-colored walls, commercial-grade blue carpet, stock fake-wood desks—it looked like any detectives’ bull pen Quincy had ever visited, which made it on par with the rest of the building.
Someone had had the foresight to push two of the desks to the side, clearing space in the middle of the room. Shelly, her sergeant Roy Peterson, and a deputy, Dan Mitchell, stood there now, studying an image on the flat-screen mounted on the far wall. Given Rainie and Quincy knew everyone present, hellos were quick, then they were down to business.
“Call came in shortly after eight A.M.,” Shelly explained to Rainie and Quincy now. She pointed to the flat-screen. On it appeared a frozen head shot of a white adolescent male, wearing a black hoodie and staring straight back at them. His face was devoid of emotion.
“I personally responded to the call—other deputies having already logged too much overtime,” she added upon seeing their questioning looks. The sheriff was rocking lightly on her feet. Tired but wired. Quincy remembered that feeling well.
“But it was all over and done by the time I got there,” Shelly said now. “Two dead, perpetrator gone. Given the situation, I made the decision to access the security system on-site, rather than wait for the staties, as it seemed our best option for identifying the shooter.”
“Which is this person here?” Quincy gestured to the monitor.
“Yep.”
He studied the photo again, feeling a niggling sense of recognition, as if he’d both met this kid once and never seen him before in his life. He glanced over at Rainie, who was also frowning at the image.
“Can we see it from the beginning?” Rainie asked.
“Whatever you think will help.”
Shelly picked up the remote. The flat-faced young male disappeared. Then a fresh image appeared, the back of a woman’s head. Shelly hit play and the video began.
The resolution was higher quality than Quincy would’ve expected from a gas station security cam. The video was also short. Gun appeared and within a matter of seconds, much less than a minute, two people were dead. A pause, probably at least a couple minutes in length, then the UNSUB stepped fully into view. Peered directly at them. And raised his gun for one final shot.
“Weapon?” Quincy asked now, the angle of the video making it hard to tell.
“Nine millimeter, at least according to the slug recovered. We’ll know more once state’s ballistics has had a chance to analyze.”
Quincy nodded. Given the shocking nature of this crime—not to mention its soon-to-be-high press profile—the state would no doubt make evidence processing a priority.
Rainie had another question: “How did the shooter arrive on scene? Drive? Walk?” She looked at Shelly.
“Good question. EZ Gas sits off on its own. No neighbors to serve as witnesses. But given its location five miles north on the highway . . . would be a long, hot walk on foot.”
“Meaning most likely the shooter drove,” Rainie said.
“Only vehicle at the scene is a red pickup, belonging to the male victim.”
“So we don’t know if the suspect acted on his own or had an accomplice, say, a getaway driver?” Rainie pressed.
“Anything’s possible.” Shelly clicked back to the still frame of the shooter. “At this moment, this is what we got. Identify this white male—”
“And you have your shooter,” Quincy filled in for her.
“That’s the plan. Hence the press conference. Which, shit, I should be preparing for.” Shelly stared at Quincy and Rainie. “Think he’s dangerous?”
“Yes,” they both answered without hesitation.
“So I go with the standard lines. Anyone who has any information should contact us directly, do not try to approach this individual on their own.”
“Why’d he do this?” Quincy spoke up. “Why did this kid shoot and kill these two people?”
“He ambushed them,” Rainie stated. “Which is very heavy-handed if robbery was his sole motivation.” She turned to Quincy. “No hesitation,” she said.
Shelly caught the implication. “You think he’s done this before.”
“Highly possible,” Quincy murmured. “We need backgrounds on both victims. Particularly the female.”
Again, Shelly was no dumb bunny. “She was the real target? She’s close enough in age to the shooter. Maybe they had a lover’s quarrel, making the chip customer just the poor slob who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I think that scenario would make your life easier,” Quincy said. “If this was some kind of breakup gone wrong, the killer’s objective has been fulfilled. He did what he set out to do.”
“And now?”
Quincy didn’t hesitate. “If you’re very lucky, he’ll go home and shoot himself.”
“And if I’m not that lucky?” Shelly asked.
“You’re right, his adventures are just beginning. Show the photo to the press,” Quincy advised. “Get an ID. But definitely tag him as armed and dangerous. Locals should not approach.”
“What do you think the boy will do next?” Shelly asked. “Off the record. Just between us local yokels, who fortunately don’t spend a lot of time dealing with these kinds of crimes.”
Quincy frowned. He studied the picture. Frowned again.
“I think this boy gunned down two people in less than one minute,” he said, “then made sure to show us his face. I would say at this point, with this suspect, we don’t know nearly enough.”
Chapter 5
WE’VE GOT A NAME and an address.” Sergeant Peterson stuck his head in Shelly’s office, where she was sitting with Quincy and Rainie. They all had cups of coffee, though Quincy knew from experience that Shelly’s mug was actually chamomile tea in disguise.
“But I haven’t done the press conference yet,” Shelly said.
“No need. I e-mailed the photo to a c
ouple of juvenile probation officers.” Peterson glanced at Quincy. “You implied the kid had some experience. Turns out you were right. Aly Sanchez hit me right back. Boy’s one of hers.”
“Is she bringing him in?” Quincy asked with a frown. He’d already risen to his feet, Shelly and Rainie as well.
“Negative. I told her to delay contact for now. I’m worried if he heads to her office, gets any kind of bad vibe off of her at all . . . Kid’s already gunned down two; I didn’t want to put Aly in that kind of situation.”
“Sheet?” Shelly asked.
“Mostly minor offenses, trespassing, criminal mischief. But it’s a long record for a seventeen-year-old. Kid’s been busy. According to Aly, the suspect currently resides with Sandra and Frank Duvall. Frank is a teacher at Bakersville High, Sandra a homemaker. With their own son off at college, the Duvalls agreed to foster the boy last year. Now get this: Frank Duvall has six firearms registered in his name, including a nine mil.”
“Contact the family?” Shelly asked.
“Phoned the house. No answer.”
“All right. I’ll notify SWAT. When they give the green light, we’ll roll.”
“It would be best if the suspect didn’t feel cornered,” Quincy advised.
“I’ll be sure to remind them to use their nice voice. Any other advice, Profiler Man?”
“You still have the press waiting outside.”
“Ah shit.”
“It’s okay,” Rainie assured her. “If SWAT doesn’t have any luck at the Duvalls’ place, maybe they can take care of the media for you instead.”
—
THE DUVALLS’ ADDRESS TURNED OUT to be a modest, light gray ranch, set far back from the road. One side boasted a grove of towering Douglas firs, the other side a thick hedge of rhododendrons. The front porch was dotted with pots of cheery red flowers, and someone had hung a sign next to the door advertising HOME SWEET HOME.
Apparently, the foster parents cared enough to tend their house. Had their suspected shooter appreciated the effort, Quincy wondered, or was he mostly excited to be placed in a home with six registered firearms?
Quincy and Rainie waited with Shelly while half a dozen SWAT team members spread around the property, made their approach. Shelly picked up her cell, dialed the house number one more time.
All appeared to be quiet. No car in the driveway. No sign of family members through the window.
Still, Quincy felt jittery, on edge. The result of too much coffee. He glanced over at Rainie and saw she felt the same. She glanced at her watch.
“Swim camp,” she mouthed back at him.
Right. Picking up Sharlah. Things he should know better than to forget by now. Interesting how three years later domestic life was still something he had to think about. Whereas this, closing in on a suspected murderer, felt as natural as riding a bike.
Static over the radio. Shelly did the honors: “Team leader, come in.”
“Team Alpha is in position. Good to go.”
“Green light, Team Alpha. Go.”
The officers seemed to burst onto the scene. Front of the house, rear of the house. Banging on the doors, then half a second later, when there was still no response, one man dropping low, popping the door with a battering ram. Then heavily armed, heavily armored men poured into the tiny ranch.
Quincy found himself holding his breath. Straining his ears for shouts, screams, shots fired.
Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
He glanced at Rainie just as Shelly’s radio once more crackled to life.
“Team leader to base.”
“Go ahead, team leader.”
“We have secured the premises.”
“Any sign of the suspect?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Members of the family?”
“Um, ma’am. You’re going to want to see this.”
Which told Quincy all he needed to know about the fate of Frank and Sandra Duvall.
—
FRANK DUVALL NEVER MADE IT out of bed. His body lay flat on its back, thin sheet just pulled to his bare chest, single bullet hole through his forehead. Quincy could see powder burns rimming the edges of the hole, where the barrel of the gun had pressed against the flesh. This shot had been up close and personal.
Which no doubt had woken up Sandra Duvall from her place beside her husband. She’d thrown back the sheet, gotten both feet on the floor, before taking three shots to the back. Tightly clustered, the way all law enforcement officers were taught, Quincy couldn’t help but think. The shooter aiming for center mass.
She’d gone down face-first beside the bed, arms flung wide, thin nightgown bunched around her waist.
Two more rooms down the hall. The first was small, with barely enough room for a twin bed and modest desk. The window was open, trying to let in a fresh breeze, except there wasn’t any. Similar to the Duvalls’ room, a fan droned in the corner, mostly blowing around hot air.
Covers were kicked back, the August heat too sweltering for blankets. No bodies in here. Not much of anything really. The bed, the fan, a lamp. Pile of paperbacks on the bed. Mound of dirty clothes in the opposite corner. Desk held a charger for an electronic device, currently missing.
Quincy knew without being told that this was the foster child’s room, their teenage suspect. And it pained him to know Sharlah would recognize this space. Devoid of personalization. Because in a foster’s world, possessions were rewards that had to be earned. And given this seventeen-year-old’s rap sheet, he’d probably spent more time losing privileges than gaining them.
One more room down the hall. Quincy felt himself falter. A rare and telling moment for a man attempting fatherhood a second time around.
Rainie had opted not to enter the house at all.
“I know my limits,” she’d told him, and he’d accepted that.
Door was cracked open, most likely to encourage a cross breeze. Quincy approached alone, the hallway too small, the rooms too tightly bunched to allow for multiple officers. Shelly hadn’t even made the rounds yet. Recognizing the limits of the space, and wanting to reduce contamination of the crime scene, she’d asked Quincy to go ahead. Of them all, he was the most qualified.
Roy Peterson had said the Duvalls had a college-age son. Given that it was August, odds were high the boy would be home from school. . . .
With his gloved hand, Quincy pushed open the next wooden door. Another small room. Twin bed, neatly made, brown and blue quilt pulled tight. And devoid of a body. No blood, no drone of flies, no stench of death.
Just . . . a room. Beneath the window was a desk, which appeared completely cleared off. The nightstand held an alarm clock, an old brass lamp, and little more. The only hint of personality came from two posters tacked to the dark paneled walls, both featuring basketball players. The Portland Trail Blazers, Quincy judged by the uniforms, though not being a follower of basketball, he couldn’t identify the players.
He stepped back from the empty room and exhaled softly.
He retraced his steps to the modest family room, where Shelly stood next to an afghan-covered oversize gray sofa, hands on her hips, sweat beading on her face in the stifling heat. She stared at him.
“Two down. The Duvalls. Both shot and killed in their bedroom. Single shot for him, three to center mass for her,” Quincy reported. “Third bedroom appears unoccupied. Duvalls’ son not home from college?”
“Henry Duvall,” Shelly relayed. “Just learned he’s studying engineering at OSU, and currently in some kind of work-study program at a high-tech firm in Beaverton. So no, he didn’t come home for the summer.”
“You just spoke to him?” Quincy asked, because it seemed a little early to be contacting family with information of a crime they had no details on.
“Nah, just touched based with Aly Sanchez, the probation off
icer. She’s the one who personally contacted the Duvalls about taking in her charge. Needless to say, she’s a little rattled from the morning’s events. Any sign of our suspect?”
“Bed’s unmade, as if recently occupied. Also, the fan’s still on. Other than that, though . . . The bedroom appears more functional than comforting.”
“Eleven months later, kid’s not ready to unpack yet?”
“Or he has nothing to unpack.” Quincy moved into the kitchen, looked around. Three dinner plates were neatly stacked in the drying rack next to the sink. Same with glasses and silverware. Next he checked the refrigerator, which was solidly stocked with milk, eggs, orange juice, and a hodgepodge collection of Tupperware.
“It appears they ate dinner last night, cleaned up the dishes afterward.”
“Shooting was most likely early this morning,” Shelly filled in. “If it had been last night, believe it or not, the smell would be even worse.”
“Transport options?” Quincy asked.
“Good question.” Shelly got on her radio, contacted dispatch. “Vehicles registered to Frank and Sandra Duvall,” she requested, rattling off the address. It only took a minute for dispatch to come back with the answer. Two vehicles, a ten-year-old silver Honda and a fifteen-year-old blue Chevy pickup.
“Honda’s in the garage,” Shelly reported, having walked the outside perimeter.
“But no sign of the truck, which I bet Duvall kept parked in the driveway.”
Shelly nodded.
“Gun safe?” Quincy asked next.
“I’m assuming the bedroom,” Shelly said.
“Didn’t see any sign of one. The garage?”
“Nothing there.”
They split up to conduct the search. Shelly was the one who found it first. Down in the basement, which was blessedly cooler than upstairs. Quincy joined her in the gloom, the overhead light revealing an old Ping-Pong table, a deep freezer, and next to a pile of boxes, a heavy-duty gun safe, tall enough for rifles.
The door to the safe was ajar.
Using a gloved finger, Shelly slowly opened the door.
