Judged

by E. H. Reinhard

  “So he’s becoming more careless,” Beth said. “Leaving the murder weapon behind. From everything you’ve said, this guy doesn’t leave any evidence.”

  “True. But the gun still doesn’t give us anything. We have the weapon, no prints on it, and no serial number,” I said.

  “Any trace? Anything found in the homes?” Ball asked.

  I shook my head. “The lock on the service door of the married Scobee couple’s house looked to have been tampered with. Locals suggested a bump key. I guess you hit it with a hammer or something, and it pushes all the tumblers up, allowing entry. Nothing found at Glen Scobee’s is looking like forced entry, though.”

  “What’s our total number on who we can attribute to this guy?” Ball asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know for certain. I’d say at least ten that I have records on that are similar enough to attribute to him. Maybe another ten or more fall into the ‘possibility’ category. I can’t attribute anything to him since my last visit, though, beside these latest ones.”

  Ball scratched at the side of his gray hair. He pulled a sheet from the file and read it over.

  I recognized it as the original profile, which was pretty broad.

  “Anything from the locals on potential suspects?” Ball asked.

  “Not really,” I said. “I have some ideas, but in reality, and going by the original profile, it could be every single person in every branch of law enforcement. Every judge, attorney, or person in the courts. Every scorned family member of anyone who’s ever been a victim.”

  “Every person who thinks the city would be better off minus criminals,” Beth added.

  “I get all of that,” Ball said, “but this guy has to have access to rap sheets somehow. Not all of these victims’ past crimes can be available for public consumption. Forget the profile for now. What’s your gut say?” Ball looked at me.

  “Cop. Detective. Maybe retired or off active duty.”

  “Okay. Why?”

  “Well, I had that inkling from the get-go. But these last murders only further it. The guy put in footwork prior to killing these three. There’s a local homicide lieutenant in Miami that I’m familiar with from my time in Tampa. I actually met with him briefly on my last visit down there, and he’s been working on this case for Miami Dade PD. The guy’s name is Harrington. Anyway, he’s actually the one who filled me in on these latest murders. He said he spoke with some people at other precincts that had knowledge of the original home invasion and homicide that the Scobees wrote the confessions to. It all looks like it pans out. The wedding rings that were left with the confessions at the Scobee house were the same as photos of those that were supposedly stolen from the deceased Leila Scobee. I also heard that there were rumblings that Glen Scobee, who was out of town while the home invasion and murder of Leila happened, was thought to be a suspect. Seems that people who’d worked the case thought he may have hired someone.”

  “The brother that was killed, Greg—did he have priors?” Beth asked. “His confession said that he was the triggerman, correct?”

  “That’s correct,” I said. “No priors, but in his confession letter, he said he’d used the money that his brother paid him to pay off some illegal gambling debt.”

  “Who are you in contact with at the Miami office down there?” Ball asked.

  “Supervisory Agent Henry Couch. He has copies of everything I’ve put together, and he and his team are actively investigating. He’s the one that will get me the handwriting analysis as soon as it comes in.”

  Ball let out a long breath and looked down. He appeared to be examining something on his blue tie. He scratched at whatever it was, maybe breakfast, and looked back up at me. “Have Jim get you set. Are you trying to leave tomorrow?”

  “If possible,” I said. “I’d like to get there while these last ones are still somewhat fresh.”

  “Okay.” Ball flipped the investigation file closed. “Have Jim get everything set and then meet me in my office. I’ll call Bulger and let him know that we’ll be over to his office shortly for a new profile.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  The three of us left the conference room. Ball walked toward his office, Beth took a seat at her desk, and I headed for Jim’s office at the back of our unit. I rapped my knuckles on his open door and poked my head inside. Jim was sitting in front of his computer. A pencil was tucked behind his ear and pressed tightly against his short white hair.

  He looked away from his monitor at me. “Rawlings, what can I do you for?”

  “I need travel, hotel, and cars,” I said.

  He waved me in and motioned for me to sit across from him at his desk. “Give me one second,” he said. “I’m booking Bill’s return flight.”

  “Any word on how it went?” I asked.

  Jim didn’t take his eyes from his computer. “I spoke with him earlier. From what I gathered, it went well. One more second.”

  Bill had been sent to the Los Angeles office to receive training on a software update to the DIVS system we used to search databases on investigations. The new update would allow us to cross-reference investigations and suspects, and if all worked out to plan, the update could rapidly speed up the time frame needed for our research. I waited for Jim to finish.

  “Okay. Where are we headed?” he asked.

  “Miami again,” I said.

  Jim crossed his arms over his tweed sport coat. “You’re just trying to get out of this lovely dreary spring weather, aren’t you? Miami sounds nice right about now.”

  “Nah, this isn’t that bad. Mid-forties I can live with. And I don’t really care for Miami.”

  “Don’t care for Miami?” Jim asked.

  “Not really. Too many people. Too much hustle and bustle. Too many people doing whatever they can to flaunt money. It’s just not my thing.”

  “The beach has to be nice, though,” Jim said.

  “Again, the exact reasons I just stated, except there’s sand underfoot. Florida is all beaches, and there’s a hell of a lot better ones than Miami. Not that I’m a beach buff or anything.”

  “So you’re saying you’re not a fan?”

  “Correct.”

  Jim chuckled. “Departure?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Beth and I.”

  “Got it. Need exact times?”

  I stood and scooted my chair back. “Nope, just whenever you can get us out.”

  “Okay. I’ll send everything to your e-mail.”

  “Appreciate it, Jim.”

  He gave me a smile and a quick nod.

  I left his office and headed to Ball’s.

  As I passed our team’s desks, Scott wheeled himself around in his chair to face me. “You guys going out hot?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow. Back to Miami,” I said.

  “Your guy is changing his game, huh?”

  “Looks like it. Ball and I are going to go talk to Bulger and get his take on it. How did you know we were heading out? Ball or Beth say something?” I asked.

  Scott jerked his chin at the windows of the conference room. I glanced over to look. Beth was on her cell phone. She was waving her hands to emphasize words in whatever conversation she was having—it appeared heated.

  “I caught a bit of that as she was walking from her desk,” he said.

  “Who’s she talking to?”

  “If I was a betting man, I’d say the other Scott—ex-husband. Weird. It’s like I’m having deja vu. She used to do the exact same thing when they were together. Now he moves back here, and well, I guess some things don’t change.”

  “I’m sure I’ll get the details sometime over the next few days,” I said.

  Jim poked his head from his office. “Do you want to fly into Fort Lauderdale instead of Miami?” he asked. “The airport is a few minutes closer to the gazillion-dollar new building.”

  “It’s open?” I asked.

  Jim was referencing the FBI’s brand-new almost-two-hundred-million-dollar facili
ty in Miramar. I’d seen something in an e-mail a week or two back from them, dedicating it to two fallen agents. And I recalled Agent Couch, whom I’d been in contact with down there, mentioning a move.

  “As far as I know, they are completely moved over to the new facility and up and running. I can get you a hotel right there as well. If that’s okay.”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  Jim slapped his door frame and disappeared from the doorway back to his desk.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The drone of cruising at thirty thousand feet filled my ears. I glanced at the passengers beside us in business class, spotting a couple of people wearing noise-canceling headphones—they immediately made my to-buy list with the amount of flying I’d been doing. Beth had been quiet for the most part of our trip to that point. Her lack of talking told me something was wrong with her—I imagined it was relationship orientated but didn’t ask. I preferred the two remaining hours of our flight be filled with the drone of the aircraft rather than relationship talk. I closed my eyes and reclined my seat the two inches it allowed. I took a few deep breaths, readying myself for a good hour nap.

  “Guys can be such assholes,” Beth said.

  I rubbed my temples. “I’m sorry. Completely my fault. I don’t know what I was thinking. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

  “Whatever, smart ass, I’m not talking about you.”

  “Sorry. Force of habit.” I cracked my eyelids and looked over at her sitting against the window in our two-seat row.

  “Scott is so damn passive-aggressive at times.”

  I tried to keep my groan inaudible. “Now what happened? I thought everything was good? He moved here, you guys were giving it another shot, taking things slow, and all that.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought too. I called him to tell him that I was heading out on an investigation, and he got all weird—basically, tried making me feel guilty about doing my job. So I go to his condo last night, and he just acts all dismissive toward me, like he doesn’t even want me there. So I ask him if I should leave, and he tells me that I’m good at that, leaving when he needs me around.”

  I felt another groan coming on but kept it bottled up. I glanced left and right in search of help, but nothing was going to save me from the conversation. “Yeah, I don’t know. I guess I don’t know him well enough to have any insight for you.” I shrugged.

  “Well, what do you think of him? I mean, we’ve all been out a few times now. You should be able to form an opinion.”

  “He seems fine. I don’t know.” That was a lie. I didn’t care for the guy much at all.

  Karen and I had talked about it on our drive home the last time we’d all gone out, and we both agreed. The guy seemed arrogant and wasn’t much for conversation unless it was about himself or how much money he made. He spent most of our last time at dinner staring at his cell phone. That was after he’d ordered an eighty-dollar steak and two forty-dollar glasses of wine when Karen and I mentioned the dinner would be our treat.

  “I’m just not sure if it was the right decision, him moving here. It’s like the bad parts from our marriage are picking right back up. Input?”

  I let out a breath. “Just see what happens. That’s about all you can do. If it’s meant to work, it will work. If not, well, you’re young—plenty of time to explore other options and fish in the sea. Nobody knows what the future holds. Take it as it comes and do your best to enjoy life.”

  Beth rolled her eyes. “Those were about the most rational, boring, and complete bullshit sentences ever strung together.”

  A smile crept across my face.

  She swatted my shoulder. “I’m serious, Hank. What do you think I should do?”

  “What feels right to you,” I said. “Trust your gut. If it’s not working, send his ass packing.”

  “So you don’t like him, either?”

  “I’m taking the fifth on that one, and what do you mean either?”

  “My parents don’t like him. Well, not that they don’t like him—they’ve known him forever. They just don’t think we’re a good fit. It kind of seems like everyone feels that way about him.”

  I shrugged but thought Beth should listen to her parents and everyone else more.

  “All right, last question, and then I’ll drop it. What’s you and Karen’s secret?” Beth asked.

  “Secret to what?”

  Beth tucked her hair behind her ear. “You guys have been together a long time. You two seem about as happy as can be. How do you stay happy and deal with each other?” Beth stared at me as if I was going to give her some life-altering advice, which I definitely didn’t have.

  I adjusted myself in my seat. “Well, we’re both fairly normal. Neither of us has any bad personality traits—at least, I don’t think we do. We don’t argue over petty bullshit. We have an interest in if the other is happy or not.”

  “That’s it? Basically try to be decent human beings to each other?”

  “I guess. Well, that, and I let her be in charge. I’m guessing that goes a long way.”

  Beth smiled. “Okay. I’m done. But speaking of Karen, anything new with the adoption proceedings?”

  “Paperwork, more paperwork, and a home interview, which is basically an inspection, on the horizon,” I said. “We’ll see. We’re still in the beginning stages.”

  Beth nodded and faced the window. I figured that to be my cue to try for my nap again. I closed my eyes and drifted off. I woke only once the rest of the flight when the stewardess rammed my elbow with the drink cart.

  We landed a few minutes before noon local time, scooped up a pair of rental cars from the airport, and drove for our hotel.

  Beth pulled alongside me in the hotel’s parking lot and stepped out. I went to grab my bag from the trunk.

  “Where’s the local office from here?” Beth asked.

  I pointed north. “The map said it was less than a quarter mile from here.”

  “You haven’t been there yet. I mean, it wasn’t open on your last trip here, was it?”

  “No. They were still over at the old building in Miami Beach. I saw some company e-mails with photos of the new place. It looks pretty cool.”

  Beth nodded.

  We checked into our rooms, which were of the standard double-queen-bed-and-a-hundred-dollar-a-night variety, and dropped off our bags. I made one quick call to Karen to let her know I’d arrived and another call to Agent Couch to let him know we would be over around two o’clock. Then I grabbed my laptop bag with my files in it and left my room for the lobby. After filling myself a cup of coffee from the station near the front desk, I headed to the lounge area to wait for Beth. I grabbed a seat, kicked one leg up over the other, and stared at the television bolted to the wall and playing the news, the volume muted.

  The local forecast for the week showed every day in the upper seventies and sunny, except Saturday, which had a small picture of a cloud beside the sun icon. The news went on to show the upcoming stories for the rest of the telecast, which by the watch on my wrist, took about ten minutes. The final piece of the news hour was an opinion segment on the Miami Vigilante—the tagline at the bottom of the screen asked Justice or Murder? I looked around for a remote control to turn on the volume but didn’t spot one. I set my coffee down next to the magazines on the table beside me, pushed myself from the chair, and went to the television to turn it up the old-fashioned way. I stood directly in front of the screen, running my hands along the top, bottom, and then sides. I found nothing.

  “Are you trying to steal that TV?” Beth asked.

  I turned to see her standing with her arms crossed over her chest. “Yeah, give me a hand. I’ll pull it from the wall and you run with it.”

  “Funny,” she said.

  “I’m trying to find the damn volume buttons,” I said. Then my fingertips found a row of buttons tucked into the right-hand side. I clicked them randomly until the volume turned up. “There we go,” I said. “There’s a news segment on o
ur guy coming up. I want to catch it quick before we head over to the field office.”

  “Sure,” Beth said.

  The news came back from commercial shortly thereafter. I stood two feet from the front of the television, sipping my coffee and watching the anchor sitting casually in a chair, delivering his opinion piece on whether the actions of this person were justified. The reporter’s words turned to background noise as I didn’t have much use for the view of a single person who was being paid to give it. My eyes focused on the viewer poll in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen—apparently, of the twelve thousand viewers that voted, twenty-three percent believed the killings were acceptable. I clicked the button on the side of the television to turn the volume back down—I’d seen enough. “Guess I didn’t need to find the volume button after all.”

  “What do you mean?” Beth asked.

  “I thought it would be something of substance instead of an opinion segment.”

  “I wonder if that viewer poll was made up,” Beth said. “I mean, almost a quarter of their sample thinks this person murdering people is acceptable. There’s just no way.”

  “It’s probably just the demographics of the people watching,” I said.

  “I don’t follow,” Beth said.

  “Think about it—an afternoon telecast. Younger people will get their news from the Internet when they have time. Most middle-aged people are at work. I’m betting their viewer base watching right now is mostly retirees, people who have been around long enough to see the changes the area has gone through. This place was a killing field in the coke wars of the eighties. Then it got better, and now with all the recent murders and crime, the city seems to be heading back into dark times. I could see how one person taking out the so-called trash could appeal to some.”

  “I guess,” Beth said.

  “All right, let’s hit the road. I told Agent Couch we’d be over around two o’clock, and it’s around two o’clock.”

  We headed outside from the hotel. I pulled the keys from my pocket and clicked the button to unlock my rental car’s doors.

  “You’re driving?” Beth asked.