Walking Shadows

by Faye Kellerman

  “I don’t need an offer.” He bounced his leg up and down. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Okay, you didn’t do anything. Tell me what you know.”

  “I know my rights. I can ask for a lawyer.”

  “I haven’t charged you with anything. But if I do charge you and you get a lawyer, he or she is going to tell you the same thing. Start talking. It’s your best chance. Otherwise all of you will be charged with murder. You were on the tape; you were all there.”

  “If there really is a tape, then you’d know that we had nothing to do with it.”

  Decker’s thoughts whirled around for a split second. “How would I know that?”

  A long pause. “That’s all I got to say.”

  Decker sighed. “I’m a good guy, Dash, so I’m going to be honest with you. And it’s just between you and me.”

  The kid was silent.

  “There are gaps in the tape. We can see you swinging at the mailboxes, but we didn’t get a clear picture of what happened to the body.”

  “Then you have no evidence against me.”

  “We have circumstantial evidence. We have you boys swinging at anything upright, and with a track record like yours, it’ll carry weight. It doesn’t take a whole lot of smarts to infer what else you did with those baseball bats.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone.” His voice cracked.

  “I believe you, son. But you’re not giving me much to work with.”

  The wheels were turning in his peabrain. “What happens to me if I tell you that we saw the body and then we all got spooked and took off?”

  “Is that the truth?”

  Harden nodded.

  “You need to answer yes or no for the tape. Did you see the body while you were on Canterbury Lane while you and your friends were vandalizing mailboxes?”

  The kid nodded again.

  “Dash, you need to answer yes or no.”

  “Yes. Okay . . . okay.” He exhaled, sighed, exhaled again. “We were . . . you know.”

  “I do know, but you need to tell me for the tape.”

  “Having a little fun.”

  “What do you mean by having a little fun, Dash?”

  “Okay . . . okay. We were just, you know . . .”

  “Dash, let’s get this moving. Just say what you were doing, okay?”

  “Whopping down mailboxes. I mean, it’s no big deal. It’s not like we were busting headlights or something.”

  Decker had had calls about busted head- and taillights. Be easy to goad him into talking about that, but right now, all he cared about was Brady Neil. “Go on.”

  “Life is so fucking boring! My mom smokes pot all the time, my stepdad drinks, and whenever they get mad or drunk or stoned, which is all the time, I’m the fucking punching bag. And don’t tell me to go to Social Services. I’ve smoked that doobie. It’s useless. I got no choice but to live at home. I get a bed, food, and heat in the winter. I’m working toward a car. Once I get a set of wheels, I’m never coming back.”

  “You won’t have a job if the courts find out what you’ve been doing.”

  “Meaning I’m fucked no matter what.”

  “Not necessarily, Dash. If you promise to stop whacking the mailboxes, you can walk out of here. But, first, you have to tell me about the dead body.”

  Harden looked down. “I saw it first—at the corner house with the woods in back.” His eyes got a faraway look. “Scared the shit out of me. I came back and told the bros and we all went over to look. Then we heard something and took off.”

  “Heard what?”

  “I dunno. It sounded like it was coming from the woods. We just took off.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Around three.”

  “Three in the morning? As in today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Could you identify the body?” No answer at first. “Dash, do you know who the dead—”

  “Yeah, Brady Neil.”

  “You knew that the body was Brady Neil?”

  “Not at first. When I got there, the body was lying facedown. Riley turned him over.”

  “Why’d he do that?”

  “To see who it was. To see if he was alive. He wasn’t. That’s when I saw it was Brady. His head was . . . caved in.” A long pause. “We took off.”

  “How’d you know Brady?”

  “Just from hanging around.”

  “Did Brady sell you drugs?”

  “No.”

  “His mom says he had cash. What do you know about that?”

  The kid averted his eyes. “Nothing.”

  “What do you know, Dash? It’s all going to come out anyway. I might as well hear it from you first.”

  “I don’t know anything!”

  Decker didn’t speak. He exchanged glances with Lennie. She had been calm throughout the interview and had been taking a lot of notes. If Brady Neil wasn’t a dealer or a poker champ or hadn’t made a lucky bet on the horses, there was only one other way where a kid could get easy cash.

  Decker said, “By any chance, did Brady pay you for stolen property?”

  “No. I never stole nothing.”

  Most probably a lie. Decker said, “Did Brady pay you to fence stolen property?”

  “It wasn’t stolen.” Dash realized his mistake and shut his mouth.

  “What kind of stuff did he ask you to fence?”

  “It wasn’t stolen.”

  “What was it, first of all?”

  “Shitty stuff—mostly old and broken electronics. Told us he got it dumpster diving.”

  “What kind of electronics?”

  “Old phones, laptops, and broken game systems. There’s a market for that—recycling old shit. I went where he told me, met a guy on the street, and gave him the crap. A couple of days later, Brady slipped me some cash.”

  “How much?”

  “Around ten to twenty bucks for the load.”

  “Why didn’t Brady fence it himself? Why use you as a middleman?”

  Dash said, “I have no idea. But it was easy money for me, so I didn’t ask questions.” He had averted his eyes. “And really it looked too crappy to be hot stuff.”

  Again, the kid was probably lying. Decker said, “And that’s the only thing you did for Brady? Give this man junk?”

  “Yep.”

  “What about your pals?”

  “Brady didn’t trust them. Said they were too stupid.”

  Dash was the smart one, then. The world was in serious trouble. Decker said, “Occasionally was there was a new iPhone or a new laptop?”

  “I don’t remember. Whatever. Brady said he got all the stuff from dumpsters.”

  “And I bet Brady also told you that you couldn’t get into trouble because you’re underage. Not true, you know.”

  “It was only junk,” Harden insisted. “If he was jackin’ swank, I didn’t know about it.”

  “How long were you selling junk for him?”

  “A couple of months . . . maybe six months.”

  Decker said, “And you never tried to run your own scam?”

  “It wasn’t a scam. He had the contacts and he found the stuff in the garbage. Me? I don’t dive in shit for twenty dollars. Once he cleans it up, I’ll run errands. What the fuck?”

  “You stay right here, Dash. I’ll be back.” Decker got up and Lennie followed.

  Once they were out of earshot, Decker said, “What do you think?”

  “The scheme sounds plausible.”

  “Yes, it does, but do you think he’s being truthful?”

  Lennie paused, then said, “I don’t think he killed Brady Neil.”

  “Why?”

  “I believe he may be hiding something—like peddling stolen property. He’s nervous—like shaking his leg and looking everywhere but at you. But I don’t think he’s hiding murder. He isn’t acting nervous enough.”

  “Maybe to him, human life is expendable.”

  She thought a moment. “Would he r
eally stick around if he had just murdered someone twelve hours ago?”

  “He might if he was a dumb kid, which he is . . . despite being the smart one.”

  Lennie smiled. “Smart is a relative term.”

  “It is indeed.” Decker shrugged. “I agree with you. I don’t think he murdered Brady Neil, but he’s not telling the entire truth. Let’s see how his story lines up with what Chris Gingold says. Go into the other interview room and pull out McAdams and Butterfield.”

  It turned out that Gingold mostly verified what Harden told them. Dash was the first one to find the body, and Dash told them that he knew Brady Neil. As for Chris, he denied knowing Neil. That was probably a lie, but with nothing definitive to keep the boys locked up, they were released after promising to be good citizens and stop whacking mailboxes.

  Decker said, “We have Riley Summers coming into the station tomorrow at ten, correct?”

  “That’s what he told me,” McAdams said.

  “Let’s see what he has to say.” Decker turned to Lennie. “You do the interviewing.” He turned to Kevin Butterfield, a seasoned former detective who, like Decker, had semiretired. He was tall and bald and had a professorial gaze, as if giving each question its due deliberation. “Do you mind sitting in with Officer Baccus?”

  “Not at all.” He turned to Lennie. “We should talk before—say nine-thirty tomorrow, after you’ve thought about what you want to ask?”

  She said, “That would be great. Thank you.”

  McAdams said, “What’s the plan now?”

  Decker was reading a text on his phone. He looked at the time: six minutes to six. “Uh, it looks like Brady Neil’s sister has decided I’m legit. She wants me to come to her apartment at seven-thirty instead of her coming here.” He looked up at Tyler. “As long as you’re getting a salary, you might as well come with me.”

  “Want me to check up on the canvassing?” Butterfield said.

  “They didn’t hear the mailboxes being whacked right in front of their houses, so I’m not too hopeful on that regard,” Decker said. “On the other hand, the elderly have insomnia. Maybe someone peeked through their shades and saw a car drive off.”

  “I’m gonna grab a sandwich and then I’ll go back to Canterbury,” Butterfield said.

  “Fine.” To McAdams, Decker said. “You should grab some dinner also.”

  “You’re not eating?”

  “Pick me up a toasted bagel and cream cheese at Bagelmania. And a cup of coffee. The station’s stuff is swill.”

  “I can do that,” Lennie said.

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Have you ever interviewed before?”

  “A few times.”

  “Prepare some questions, then.”

  “I’ll do it as soon as I come back with your bagel.”

  “Get yourself one on me.”

  “I brown-bagged it.” A half smile. “Working in Homicide for the first time, I guess I figured it would be a long night.”

  Chapter 6

  Before interviewing Brandy Neil, Decker hoped to glean some background, looking over the numerous articles online on the Levine double murder case. Eventually, he was able to flush out a story.

  Over two decades ago, at four in the morning, Gregg Levine had made a 911 call from Levine’s Luscious Gems. In a panicky and stunned voice, he explained that his parents—Lydia and Glen—had been robbed, tied up, beaten, and shot in the head. Police were immediately dispatched. Arriving at the bloody, gruesome scene, the officers took an initial statement from Gregg. He and his parents had been working through the night, taking annual inventory, when two men with ski masks charged into the store. Gregg had been in the back and peeked out, long enough to see his parents whacked over the head and kicked and beaten by the robbers. Fearing for his life, Gregg hid inside a utility closet behind the water heater as he heard the sound of screams and finally two gunshots. Those sounds were followed by the clang of broken glass and muffled voices. He did not open the door until two hours later, after he was fairly positive that the intruders had left the store.

  What he saw was pure horror: his parents, bound, gagged, and dead, sitting in their own vomit, blood, and filth. Although Gregg had only a quick look at the killers, he was able to offer a vague description of one of the men. Apparently, one of them got hot and whipped off his mask. Gregg made a guesstimate as to the heights and weights of the men, and he was pretty certain that the man he saw was Caucasian. If asked if he could identify that man if he saw him again, Gregg said probably.

  After investigating layers of known criminals, snitches, and fences, the police narrowed down their options. They found as persons of interest Brandon Gratz and Kyle Masterson. The two of them had been long gone from Hamilton since the robbery/murder, and a BOLO was sent out for the men and their missing vehicles. Warnings were issued: the men were “armed and dangerous” and “do not approach” without sufficient backup. After an exhaustive manhunt, the two men were found in Nashville with the stolen items on their persons. Based on the jewels in their possession and Gregg’s eyewitness testimony, they were charged, jailed, extradited, tried, and finally sent to prison. Most of the items were recovered, but a few very valuable stones and statement pieces remained missing at the time of their sentencing.

  Victor Baccus had been the lead homicide investigator, but he had a team behind him. When interviewed by newspapers, Baccus was quick to pass around the credit. He was also spent time raising money for the Levines’ five orphaned children. At twenty years old, Gregg Levine, a party boy, was forced to leave his cushy college life and take over the business to support his siblings and himself.

  There was nothing unusual in the reporting, and in his reading, Decker didn’t smell anything other than good, dogged police work. A crime was committed, there was an intensive and time-consuming investigation, and two very bad felons were apprehended. Everything made perfect sense.

  Still, Decker wondered about an alarm. There was no mention of anything going off, which usually points to an inside job, and it didn’t seem plausible that the Levines would be working late without the alarm being set. He wrote down the word, ALARM?, in his notebook and would check on it if he ever looked at the original files.

  McAdams walked into the station with Lennie Baccus. He said, “We got your bagel.”

  Decker looked up from the screen. “Thanks. You guys have dinner?”

  “A new café on Princeton Street. Indian-Thai fusion. That means everything they served kills your taste buds while causing excruciating pain in your gut.”

  Lennie laughed. “I liked it. In Hamilton, we don’t have anything like it. It reminded me of Philly. The restaurants there are phenomenal.”

  “You two went together?”

  “By chance,” Lennie said. “Tyler was already seated. The place was tiny with a sizable line for tables. He was kind enough to offer me a chair.”

  “I’ve done my good deed for the summer.” McAdams looked over Decker’s shoulder. “What are you reading?”

  “Lennie, go call up Detective Butterfield and ask him if he needs help canvassing.”

  “Of course.”

  “And thanks for the bagel.” Decker unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. Cream cheese oozed out of the sandwich. His eyes went back to the computer.

  McAdams made a face. “Why are you reading articles on a twenty-year-old case? I thought we decided that was a dead end.”

  “No, you decided it was a dead end.” Decker turned to him. “If I’m going to talk to Brady Neil’s sister, it behooves me to find out all I can about the family.” He pointed to the computer. “Brandon Gratz is family.”

  “Brandon Gratz?” Lennie hung up the phone. “Why are you looking up Brandon Gratz?”

  “Good question,” McAdams said.

  “He’s Brady Neil’s father. His mom changed the surnames of her children after Brandon Gratz was arrested and convicted.”

  “Oh my God!
I’m so stupid!” Lennie hit her head and clicked her long nails. “Wow! Of course!”

  “Why of course?” McAdams asked.

  “Because Brandon Gratz and Kyle Masterson dominated my childhood.”

  Decker said, “What do you remember about the case?”

  “I was seven when the news broke on the double murder. It scared the crap out of me and all my classmates. That something so terrible could happen. I remember I had this babysitter I adored. After the murders, she wasn’t allowed to watch me anymore. Her mom didn’t want her out alone at night. I was heartbroken, but I understood. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t let my parents go out at night for a long time.”

  “Did you know the family?”

  “No, I didn’t. Hamilton’s population at that time was maybe eighty thousand. Now it’s over a hundred. The town has three high schools. Brady and I are about the same age, but we didn’t live in the same school district so I never really knew him. He grew up in the Bitsby neighborhood—working class and welfare poor. Lots of the parents drank. Some were on drugs. Some were in jail. Lots of lost kids. It’s still that way. I grew up about six miles away in the Claremont area. Blue-collar working class but positively Beverly Hills compared to Bitsby.”

  “Did you happen to know the family of the victims?”

  “The Levines? They lived on the border between Claremont and Bellweather. Their house looked like a mansion to me when I was growing up, but in fact it’s just a two-story brick house probably not more than twenty-five hundred square feet. Which isn’t small, but it’s far from Lower Merion.”

  “That’s the posh area in Philadelphia,” McAdams said.

  “I’m aware,” Decker said. “And you didn’t know the Levines?”

  “Actually, I knew the youngest daughter, Ella. She was a grade older than me, and after it happened, they pulled her out of Hamilton, and she went to live with relatives for about a year.”

  “How many kids were there?” McAdams asked.

  “Five. The oldest was Gregg, who I thought was really old. In fact, he was only twenty or twenty-one when he was a state’s witness against the accused. It must have been horrible for him.”