They searched the house and moved beyond it to the shed. Radar was waiting for them at the door. He nodded for Peyton to take the other side of the opening, then he kicked the door in. They spun into the room, Radar going high, Peyton going low, but the shed was empty.
Peyton rose to her full height and looked around. A twin bed had been shoved in a back corner with a rumpled quilt covering it. Dirty plates and utensils were stacked on an apple crate in the middle of the floor.
She lowered her gun as she took it all in. A few pictures of the Caribbean were tacked on the bare shed walls, torn out of magazines. Moving toward the bed, she noticed leather straps. She bent down and fingered a strap. Something had chewed through the leather; she could see teeth marks embedded in the soft suede.
“They were tying him down?” asked Radar next to her.
“Looks that way, and he chewed his way out.” She shivered.
Tank entered the shed, filling the small space with his bulk. He studied the magazine images on the walls. “Hm?”
“What?” asked Radar.
“Well, zombie legends originated in Haitian folklore. Believers thought that a dead person could be revived by a bokor or a priest in the Voodoo religion. The revived zombie would remain a slave to the bokor, since they have no will of their own.” He tapped the magazine pictures of the Caribbean. “Hence the photos of Haiti.”
“Are you saying Old Man Harwood had his sons eat brains because he thought he was a bokor?” asked Radar.
“Could be.”
“But he ate brains himself?”
“Well, I have another theory. Maybe we’ve fixated on the brain consumption.”
Radar and Peyton exchanged a look.
“But maybe it isn’t zombism, but rather anthropophagy that’s the situation here.”
“And the difference would be?”
“Old Man Harwood engaged in exocannibalism, the consumption of a person outside the community, in this case, the Hmong culture, as a sort of victory over a rival. He may have harbored some xenophobic fears that the Asian culture was going to overcome his own Caucasian race. If that’s the case, eating the flesh of one’s rival is a way to endow oneself with their characteristics and strength.”
“And his sons?”
Tank shrugged. “Maybe he thought he was creating a super race.” Tank gave a half-smile. “Ironic, really, that his errant belief system actually caused his line to die out.”
“What about the photos of the Caribbean?” asked Peyton.
Tank looked back at them. Then he shrugged. “Pretty pictures to lighten up the atmosphere.”
Radar gave an exhalation of frustration, but Peyton’s attention was snagged by something else. The wind had blown the door into the outer wall, drawing her attention to the opening. Tucked into the corner behind the door was a sledge hammer.
“Radar?”
He followed her to the door as she reached for the handle with her gloved hands. Lifting the tool, they moved into the dying light from outside. Blood and bits of a bone were smeared on the rubber head of the hammer.
Radar gave her a nod, then turned to Tank. “Bag it and put it in the Suburban.”
Tank moved to comply.
“Let’s see if your spidey sense can find the knife,” Radar said to her.
“If he kept the hammer here, wouldn’t he keep the knife in the same place?”
“Let’s go over this mother with a fine tooth comb then.”
She and Radar searched every inch of the shed, but found nothing. They left the barn and met up with Sharpe. He shook his head. “No sign of him.”
The three of them looked out across the back of the farm where the orchards spread away on all sides of them. “Sixty acres is a lot of land to search,” said Peyton, feeling her heart sink. She’d really hoped she’d get home tonight, so she and Marco could have their long-overdue talk.
“The faster we search it, the quicker we’ll catch him,” said Radar.
They fanned out and began walking down the rows of short, squat cherry trees. In the day, it had seemed idyllic, but now, with the light failing and the fog seeping into the lower areas, it seemed nightmarish.
She remembered searching for the Janitor, the serial killer, less than a year ago. He’d killed a troop leader in heavily wooded Huddart Park and they’d had to search for him much the same way, uncertain where he was hiding, waiting for him to spring out at them. She hated that search, just as she hated this one.
She could see Radar and Sharpe’s figures on either side of her, but she still felt isolated, cut off from the world beneath these tightly growing trees. The soil was hard beneath her feet, uneven, littered with rocks and dirt clods that tripped her up.
Squinting into the dusk, she caught sight of something propped against a trunk. She quickened her pace and came upon a wooden ladder. Reaching it, she stepped back, studying it. If someone was standing at the top of the ladder, they were vulnerable to anyone coming upon them from below.
“Radar?” she called.
He and Sharpe pushed through the trees on either side to come to her. She pointed at the ladder. “I know how he got the drop on them.”
Radar looked the ladder over. “He stabbed them in the thigh with the knife when they were pruning the trees.”
“Then they fell off and he used the sledge hammer to bash in their skulls.”
“I know what the knife is then,” said Sharpe. “I’ve seen them my whole life. And I bet I know where it is. We found a smaller shed behind the house.”
He led them back the way they’d come as the light failed in the orchard. His radio crackled, communication coming in from the other patrol officers stating that they’d found nothing.
Entering the yard, he led them to a smaller metal shed tucked against the back of the house. Handing Peyton his flashlight, he told her to shine it on the door. She did so and he grabbed a rock off the ground and hammered on the door handles until they bent. Then he wrenched open the doors.
Peyton shined the flashlight across the interior, catching her breath as it gleamed off something metallic. She gave Sharpe the light and stepped forward, pulling out the curved blade of a pruning knife attached to a long pole. Reaching into her belt, she grabbed the luminol and sprayed it on the blade, then angled it so the light could fall on it.
The blade glowed blue.Blood.
CHAPTER 14
Marco hesitated as he entered the courtroom. Devan and another lawyer stood at their tables, facing the judge. Marco recognized Judge Harold Easton. He’d been in Judge Easton’s courtroom before. He was an older man, late sixties, early seventies, but he’d always been open to hearing a case, always open to studying evidence. Even now, he had his head bent over the file, reviewing the evidence Marco and Stan had collected.
Ryan Addison and his parents sat on the left side of the courtroom, directly behind their lawyer, while the Phelps sat in the last row on the right side. Marco shook hands with Matt Phelps. April Phelps gripped his hand with both her own, forcing a tense smile. They released him and he made his way to the first seat behind Devan. The ADA turned and gave him a brief nod. The other lawyer looked over at him. He was young and Caucasian, his brown hair parted on the side without a strand out of place.
Ryan Addison glanced at him and away, his leg jogging up and down. His parents didn’t make eye contact, their entire attention focused on the judge as he read the file. They were both well dressed and clean-cut, definitely middle class.
Judge Easton looked up, removing his glasses. “Do I understand this right, Mr. Adams? This young woman, Carissa Phelps, committed suicide?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And you want to file manslaughter charges against Mr. Addison?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Your Honor, this hearing is an obvious miscarriage of justice by the ADA. This is clearly a civil case that should have been filed under SB255.”
“Mr. Darby, if you don’t mind, I’ll decide what
is a miscarriage of justice,” said Easton. He shifted his attention to Devan. “While Mr. Darby is a bit presumptuous, he does have a point. Why wasn’t this case filed in civil court?”
“Because we believe Mr. Addison caused Ms. Phelps such devastating emotional distress that she had no other choice but to take her own life. As you can see from the text messages we obtained, he went so far as to tell her to kill herself.”
“I didn’t mean it!” shouted Ryan.
His parents pulled him back and his lawyer turned, shaking his head violently.
Devan clasped his hands before him. “We’d simply like the opportunity to bring this case before a grand jury.”
“And you have evidence that Mr. Addison posted the...video himself?”
Devan motioned to Marco. “Captain D’Angelo’s computer forensics team analyzed the video and was able to trace it back to the original IP address. That IP address belonged to Mr. Addison.”
“And what was Mr. Addison’s reason for posting the video? Was it to assassinate Ms. Phelp’s character?”
“Actually, it was more sinister than that, Your Honor. He was trying to gain points with a fraternity, so they would take him on as a pledge. When Ms. Phelps expressed her profound grief regarding this scandalous violation of her privacy, he showed absolutely no remorse. In fact, he rejected her with impunity and laid the blame for the event on her.”
“Your Honor?” said Darby. “Ryan has expressed his deepest condolences for the unfortunate actions Ms. Phelps took, but in no way did he know that his ill-advised behavior would result in her committing suicide.”
“Ill-advised?” said Easton. “I think his actions were a bit more harmful and pernicious than ill-advised, Mr. Darby. He exposed this young woman to societal shaming that progressed to outright verbal assaults.”
“He is aware of his actions, Your Honor, and wishes he could take it back, but in no way does this immature lack of wisdom and common sense constitute manslaughter.”
“Lack of wisdom?” said Devan. “He posted an intimate sexual encounter on-line for the world to see, then he distributed the link with no regard to the damage being done. Ms. Phelps lost a prestigious internship as a result, she was made a pariah on campus, and her academic standing was in jeopardy. He willfully and wantonly set out to assassinate her character for his own gain, until the only avenue of escape that remained in her mind was taking her own life. He caused her death. He is responsible!”
“Of a civil violation under SB255, not manslaughter!”
Easton turned his attention to Devan. “While I abhor the actions taken by Mr. Addison, I’m not certain the burden of proof has been met for a manslaughter charge, Mr. Adams.”
Devan glanced over his shoulder, meeting Marco’s eyes. Marco felt his stomach roil. Opting for a civil case would in no way make up for Carissa Phelps’ death. Facing the judge again, Devan held out his hands.
“Words have power, Your Honor.” He picked up a piece of paper from the table. “He told her and I quote, It’s not a big deal. Get over yourself. Her response, I want to die. This young woman reached out, asking for help, asking for understanding.”
Behind Marco, Mrs. Phelps began to cry. To his left, the Addisons shifted anxiously and Ryan scuffed his feet across the tiled floor.
Devan pointed at Ryan. “But instead, he told her, Then die. You keep saying that. I’m sick of it. Do it. Kill yourself. No one gives a shit. No one cares. Just get it done and leave me alone.” Devan set down the paper. “Just get it done. Do it. No one gives a shit. No one gives a shit!”
He drew a deep breath and released it. “Words have power, Your Honor. If I yell fire in a crowded theater and people die, I am culpable, I am responsible. I killed those people with my actions, with my words.” He paused and picked up another piece of paper – the picture of Carissa Phelps her parents had given Marco. “She trusted him, she gave him the most intimate part of her life, and he betrayed her. And when he was made to face this betrayal, he sought to eliminate the stain from his life, so he told her to kill herself.”
“Objection, Your Honor!” said Darby.
Easton held up a hand, stopping him. “Continue, Mr. Adams.”
“In a month, I’m going to have a daughter, Your Honor. I already have dreams for her, I have plans for her future. Just like Mr. and Mrs. Phelps did. When I look at Carissa Phelps, I see a beautiful young woman with a bright future ahead of her. I see what she could have become if only she hadn’t met Ryan Addison. I see my daughter, Your Honor, and I can’t help but put myself in their place. I can’t help but wonder how I’ll protect my daughter from predators like Ryan Addison.”
“Objection!”
Devan ignored Darby. “All I’m asking for is the chance to let a jury hear this case, all I’m asking for is a chance to give Carissa Phelps the justice she deserves and the honor that was stolen from her. I’m asking you to let me try Ryan Addison for manslaughter.”
Darby threw up his hands in disgust.
Easton sat silent, staring out at the courtroom. Marco’s fingers tightened on his cane. He had to admit Devan had done everything he could to lay down his case. This judge had to see that. He had to see that this was more than a civil complaint. Carissa Phelps had been driven to killing herself by Ryan Addison just the same as if he’d put a gun to her head. He’d destroyed her. He’d killed her with his actions and he needed to suffer more than a monetary penalty for it.
Judge Easton had to understand the opportunity standing before him. He had to know that this was the right thing to do, this was the right stand to take. If someone didn’t do it now, when would it ever be done? When would the laws change to protect people like Carissa?
Closing his eyes, Easton drew a deep breath, held it, then exhaled. He laid his hand on the file. “I agree with the ADA that Mr. Addison’s actions were more than just negligent and hateful, they were willfully aimed at destroying the integrity and dignity of this young woman.”
Marco’s heart pounded in his throat. He could hardly draw breath. He understood a little why Peyton got so involved in her cases. It was impossible not to care about people like the Phelps, about Carissa.
“His actions were beyond reproachful, reprehensible and condemnable…”
Darby started to speak, but Easton held up a hand, stopping him.
Looking down at the file, he shook his head sadly. “But is it murder? Is it manslaughter? Did he really understand that his actions would cause her to take her life?”
“Manslaughter is the crime of killing an individual without malice or forethought. What Ryan Addison did is the very definition of manslaughter, Your Honor,” said Devan.
“And had he caused her death in any other way but through his selfish behavior, I would agree with you, but consider the slippery slope this case opens up, Mr. Adams. If I agree to let it go to a Grand Jury, what family won’t want to prosecute whenever there’s a suicide? The courts will be overrun with cases, and actual murders will go unpunished.”
Devan’s shoulders slumped. The Addisons sat forward, their faces lighting up. Marco felt his stomach turn.
“While I have the utmost sympathy for Mr. and Mrs. Phelps, while I feel the world is a much poorer place with the loss of Carissa Phelps, I just cannot allow this case to go beyond this courtroom. I cannot try this reckless, feckless young man for manslaughter.”
He shook his head. “I know this is no consolation, but I do hope that Carissa’s parents pursue a civil case under SB255.”
With that, he rose to his feet and left the bench.
Marco watched him go. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. To his left, the Addisons hugged each other, shaking hands with Darby. Before him, Devan bowed his head, gathering up his papers. Still Marco couldn’t move, couldn’t process what had just happened.
He heard April Phelps’ muffled sobbing. He heard the quiet murmur of Matt Phelps as he helped his wife to her feet. He heard the courtroo
m door open and he knew the Phelps were leaving, after having relived the death of their daughter all over again.
Ryan Addison and his parents followed after them. Somehow that was more than he could stand. His fingers tightened on the cane and he had a mental image of seeing himself rise, smashing Ryan Addison’s head in with the silver handle, but the Addisons passed by unmolested and still Marco couldn’t rise.
Devan slipped the papers into his briefcase, then he snapped it shut. Darby came over and held out his hand. Devan picked up the briefcase and stared at Darby’s hand, but he didn’t take it.
“Come on. No hard feelings,” said Darby with a smile.
Marco focused on that smile and saw himself slamming the cane into Darby’s face, breaking those even white teeth.
Devan finally took his hand in a grip so hard that Darby gave an involuntary gasp. “You won nothing today,” Devan said in a low voice. “What you did is allow your client to violate a young woman and her parents a second time. Make peace with that, Darby.” Then he released him.
Darby took a step back, rubbing his hand on his jacket. He glanced at Marco, then he walked down the aisle toward the door. Devan moved beyond the barrier and stopped, looking at Marco.
“I’m sorry, D’Angelo. I did everything I could. I really thought we had him for a moment.”
Marco didn’t respond, just stared at the judge’s bench.
“Come on. I’ll buy you a beer.”
Marco shifted and looked up at him. “I don’t want a beer.”
“I told you this wouldn’t work. I warned you this would happen. You can’t blame me.”
Marco pushed himself to his feet and stepped out into the aisle, forcing Devan to back up. “No, I don’t blame you. I blame the system that places a dollar value on a life.”
“I’m sorry, D’Angelo. I did what I could.”
Marco released his held breath and started down the aisle. He felt so empty, so hollowed out. There wasn’t even room for anger. He wanted to call Peyton, but she was busy on her own case. She didn’t have time for his problems anymore.
Zombies in the Delta (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 1) Page 23
