“Sounds like a good theory,” Ferguson said briskly. “Let’s go with that until we know what the autopsy findings are.” She turned to Redding. “Did this Shonda Bryant know the girl?”
“Said she didn’t know her name. She was lying, but I couldn’t get her to tell me any more.”
“Who was selling the drugs?”
Redding shrugged with the loose-limbed ease of a former basketball star. “She says it was some guy named Darrell, but my sources tell me she’s the dealer.”
“Let’s pick her up. Maybe that’ll convince her to ID the girl. Also, check out the other kids on Agricola Street. Give them the heads-up. Tell them to keep an eye—”
The phone rang. Normally, the meeting would continue while someone took the call. But not today. Everyone fell silent.
Ethan sprinted to the desk at the back of the room. He dug under the crime scene photos scattered on top to find a notepad. Grabbing a pen, he jotted down the date and time. The phone rang for a third time. He snatched it off the cradle. “Detective Drake, Major Crime Unit.”
“This is Judge Carson. You left a message.”
Ethan inhaled sharply. “Yes, Your Honor. We are investigating a homicide of a young girl—”
“Is it Lisa?” she asked abruptly.
“We don’t know. The victim has no ID.”
“Then why do you think your victim may be my daughter?”
“We received a tip that your daughter had been missing.”
Silence reverberated like an aftershock on the phone line.
In a choked voice, she asked, “Who called you?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you that.” He cleared his throat. “Can you describe her?” He prayed Kate was wrong, that Judge Carson’s daughter was fat and blond, not thin and dark.
“Fifteen years of age, five foot four, black hair.” There was a pause. “With a ridicul—with a blond stripe down the middle. And she had a scar on her left forearm.”
They couldn’t verify the scar, but the rest of the description was an exact match. His eyes met Lamond’s. Ethan gave a slight nod. Lamond closed his eyes and crossed himself.
“Your Honor.” He was dismayed to hear the hoarseness in his voice, but, Jesus Christ, it’d been one of the more disturbing sights in his career. “I regret to inform you that the initial description matches that of our victim. I need you to come to the morgue to identify the body—”
“How was she killed?”
“It appears to be a deliberate homicide.”
“I don’t want generalities, Detective. I want the facts. I want you to tell me how she was killed. Right now.” Her voice was harsh and staccato in its delivery. It was a technique that she used to great effect on the bench.
He fought to regain control of the conversation. “Until we confirm her identity, I am unable to provide you with any specifics.”
There was a sharp inhale on the phone. But Ethan knew she, of all people, would understand the need for holdback evidence. The specifics around the M.O. was the one card the police held. They could use that information to bait a suspect.
“Fine,” she ground out. “I’ll be at the morgue in twenty-five minutes.”
Ethan knew the body—what was left of it—had already been removed from the scene. “We’ll meet you there.”
The phone went dead in his ear. He’d never been so glad for someone to hang up on him. He exhaled a deep breath.
“Man, that was tough,” Lamond said. “How’d she seem?”
Ethan shook his head. “I don’t know.” No one ever knew with Judge Carson. She never let you. But one thing he knew for sure: she’d hang them by the balls if they screwed up.
Everyone in the war room knew it, too. The tension in the room rose a notch.
“Brown, start working on the warrant for searching the premises,” Ferguson said. “Make sure every t is crossed. We don’t want to get caught on a technicality with Judge Carson.”
“Already working on it,” Brown said. She flipped her portfolio closed with a sharp thud and strode with measured briskness out of the war room to her desk in the bull pen. Ethan knew without looking that Walker’s eyes would be following her long, lean figure.
“Let me know when it’s ready, Brown,” Redding called after her.
“Give me twenty minutes,” she said over her shoulder.
“Come on, Lamond,” Ethan said. “We can’t keep Judge Carson waiting.” They filled out the paperwork for the key to the morgue’s secure stall, impatience shivering through Ethan’s muscles as he waited for the Ident detective to sign it out. The key in his pocket, Ethan hurried across the road with Lamond to the parking lot holding the police vehicles, jumped into an unmarked car and drove to the morgue. They made it in eleven minutes. Good. Ethan wanted to be first to arrive. He and Lamond had just reached the main doors when Judge Carson pulled into the parking lot.
“I came straight from my office,” she said, striding across the wet asphalt toward him. She wore a stylish off-white trench coat, loosely belted at her trim waist. The rain began to make a darker pattern of wet across her shoulders. Her hair swung in a dark, sleek bob, threaded with silver and glistening with water. From a distance, she looked younger than her years. But her purposeful stride couldn’t disguise the toll the past few minutes had taken on her. Her skin was pale and crepey. Hard grooves carved a path from her nose to her mouth.
Ethan ushered her into the foyer, out of the rain. Lamond stood next to him. Ferguson had assigned him the role of family liaison on this case, but Ethan knew he couldn’t let Lamond deal with Judge Carson on his own. They couldn’t afford any mistakes. No matter how much he liked the guy, he just didn’t have the experience in homicide yet. New to plainclothes, he’d moved to homicide from sexual assault.
“Your Honor,” Ethan said, “this is Detective Constable Lamond. He is the family liaison for this case.”
Lamond stepped forward, sympathy in his eyes. “I am very sorry—”
She held up a warning hand, barely looking at him. “Let’s get this over with.”
Lamond stepped back. In silence, they signed themselves in with the commissionaire, then headed down to the path lab. Judge Carson’s heels cracked sharply on the floor. She said nothing, her mouth clamped into a tight line, her gaze straight ahead. Tension vibrated from her body.
Ethan was sweating by the time they got to the double steel doors. He needed to prepare her for what she was about to see. He wasn’t looking forward to it. The morgue attendant signed them in, then took them over to the viewing room.
He turned to Judge Carson. She was staring through the glass at the empty room on the other side. “Your Honor, there is something you need to know…”
She stiffened but continued to stare through the glass. He wished she would look at him. He could feel Lamond’s gaze on his face.
He cleared his throat. “I am afraid that the victim’s limbs were removed.”
Her face paled, became clammy. He readied himself to catch her.
“Before or after the death occurred?” she finally said, her voice tight.
“We won’t know until the autopsy has been conducted,” Ethan said gently. “It’s scheduled to begin in several hours.”
She blinked. “How do you think she was killed?”
He’d refused to answer the question when he was talking to her on the phone at the station. But now, about to view the victim, he realized there was no point refusing to answer this question on the grounds of holdback evidence. Judge Carson would recognize the significance of petechiae. “We believe it was strangulation, Your Honor.” He turned before she could ask him any more questions. “If you could please wait here, I have to unlock the stall.”
“I’ll come with you,” she said. Both Lamond and Judge Carson turned to follow him, Lamond bumping into Judge Carson’s back. It was almost funny. But not quite.
“I’m sorry, Your Honor. But you must do the identification through the glass. Detective Lamond wi
ll wait with you.” He glanced in Lamond’s direction. Lamond stood by the door. A subtle reminder she was not to leave. Ethan pointed to the window. “We will roll the gurney up.”
Judge Carson’s lips pressed together in a thin line.
“It is part of homicide procedure to conduct the identification this way, Your Honor. It helps prevent any trace evidence contaminating the victim…”
“I know.” She turned away. “Do your job.”
He closed the door and went to the secure stall that held the homicide victims. He quickly located the girl’s body, unlocking the tray. The morgue attendant placed the body on the gurney and rolled it up to the window.
How many times had he gone through this routine? Thirty, forty? He’d had to usher in the families of men with their faces shot off, women raped and stabbed, children beaten to death. It was all horrible. Some of it unthinkable.
Happened almost every day, if not in Halifax, then somewhere else.
And he had at least twenty more years of this to look forward to.
Judge Carson hadn’t moved. She stared at the body bag through the glass, her eyes tracing the lines of the plastic shroud. Lingering over how it rose and then dipped abruptly just past the middle.
Her fingers curled into her palms.
He said loudly, “Are you ready, Your Honor?”
Judge Carson squared her shoulders and stepped closer to the window. She threw a warning glance over her shoulder at Lamond. He remained by the door. She gave a brusque nod. “Do it.”
Ethan nodded to the morgue attendant. She unzipped the bag over the girl’s face.
There was a split second of silence. Judge Carson’s eyes swept the girl’s discolored features. “It’s her.”
“You are sure?”
“Yes.” She turned away.
That was that. No sobs of grief, no cries of distress over the bruising on Lisa’s neck. No demands to see below her collarbone.
Ethan let the attendant zip up the bag and roll the gurney into the freezer. He locked the stall and hurried back to the viewing room. Judge Carson waited by the door, Lamond doing his best not to hover behind her.
The room was too small for the three of them. There was a smell in there, of high emotion desperately suppressed. But what that high emotion was, Ethan couldn’t tell. Grief? Anger?
Guilt?
As soon as Judge Carson saw him, she walked out of the room toward the elevator. He fell into step beside the judge, Lamond half a step behind. “We need to trace Lisa’s final movements. We have some questions for you.”
Judge Carson kept walking, staring straight ahead. “I need to make some phone calls. I have to postpone the trial I was adjudicating. I’ll meet you at the station in half an hour.”
Ethan studied the strong profile, the smooth angles of her hair. She reminded him of a panther: fierce, her limbs moving with tensile strength. “We need to come to your home. Have a look in Lisa’s room with my team.”
She seemed on the verge of refusing, but then sighed. “Get a warrant. I have very little to tell you, Detective. I have no idea where Lisa was yesterday. I was at work.”
She headed out into the rain. Ethan watched the wet swallow her white form. Lamond gave a low whistle. “She’s a toughie.” Ethan said nothing. Who knew what was going on in her head? They’d have a better idea when they got to her condo.
As soon as he got inside his car, he called Ferguson on his cell. He didn’t want this to go over the police radio. There were sure to be lots of interested folks tuning in now that news of the homicide had been leaked. “We’ve got a positive ID. The victim is Judge Carson’s daughter, Lisa MacAdam.”
“Jesus,” Ferguson murmured.
“Has Brown got the warrant ready?” Ethan asked.
“Yes. Now that we’ve confirmed the ID, I’ll get her to fax it right away. I gave the heads-up to the J.P. He’s waiting for it.”
“Send Redding over. He and Lamond can go through Lisa’s room.”
“Agreed. And Ethan…” She paused. He knew what was coming. A muscle under his eye jumped. Ever since the Clarkson case, the message had been drummed into him. “Be on your best behavior. We need Judge Carson’s cooperation.”
11
Tuesday, May 1, 2:00 p.m.
Ethan and Lamond met Redding outside Judge Carson’s condo complex. “Here’s the warrant,” Redding said. “Brown went through it with a fine-tooth comb.” He handed it to Ethan.
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 IMs 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 Facebook hangouts, her MSN chat lists, everything. 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 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 magazines, homework, makeup, MP3 player and various other paraphernalia that marked the abode of a teenage girl?
He placed his notepad on the sleek cement-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?
Damaged Page 7
