Judged

by E. H. Reinhard

  “Middle of the night. The son found them around four in the afternoon the following day. We checked the woman’s cell phone. She’d sent a text message off to her husband, asking when he’d be home. The husband responded, ‘Around the same time as always.’ The message was sent around one thirty in the morning. The coroner said the body temps put the killings around twelve to fifteen hours prior to him arriving on scene, which was about five in the evening.”

  “What about the brother?” I asked.

  “Five in the morning or so. The scene looked as if our killer was inside waiting. Greg was shot near a doorway similar to that.” Couch motioned to the blood where Glen Scobee had dropped.

  “What did the brother do for a living?” Beth asked.

  “He drove truck, a local route with overnight deliveries. All signs point to him being shot when he returned home from work,” Couch said.

  “And the husband?” Beth asked.

  “General manager for a car dealership, right?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Couch said.

  “What is any good husband doing out past one thirty in the morning on a weekday? Dealerships close at, what, around nine o’clock?” Beth asked. “Out in the bars maybe?”

  “Whatever he was out doing seemed to be commonplace, from him telling his wife he’d be home the same time as always,” I said. “Did anyone talk to any coworkers of his?” I asked.

  “I don’t believe we have yet,” Couch said. “My guys have been interviewing neighbors, friends, and family first. Are coworkers something you want to dig into?”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” I said. “Maybe another employee there knew his routine—knew where he went or what he was doing. We can try to get some kind of video of Mr. Scobee somehow if he was in fact out in public. It kind of seems like our killer knew all of these people’s schedules and routines. He could have been following them.”

  “What makes you think he knew everyone’s schedule?” Stark asked.

  “The guy had been in the house before,” I said. “I’m guessing either this couple here had that firearm or the brother did. Either way, our killer knew where it was.”

  “The gun belonged to one of the three victims?” Stark interrupted. “From what I heard, it was left at the brother’s and had the serial numbers scratched off.”

  “We ran ballistics on it against what we had on the bullets that killed Scobee’s first wife. It was the same weapon,” Couch said.

  Neither officer responded.

  I continued. “The car in the grass at the side of the house says something as well. First, you wouldn’t drive your vehicle up the driveway of a home and directly past the front windows unless you already knew you wouldn’t be spotted—meaning he probably had a good idea the wife was asleep. Second, who was he hiding the vehicle from on the side of the house? I mean, you can’t see the driveway out front from the street. What’s the point of hiding his vehicle unless he knew that the husband had yet to arrive?”

  “Valid points,” Couch said.

  “Okay, let’s get a look at where the car was parked and the point of entry,” I said. “After that, we can head over to the other scene for a look around.” I looked at Mayweather and Stark. “That’s a different district from you guys, correct?”

  “Yeah, that’s South District,” Mayweather said.

  We left the bedroom and made our way downstairs and out back. Officers Stark and Mayweather showed us the door and the grass that had been disturbed—nothing that was going to help came from our viewing of the areas. Agent Couch excused himself to call the South District and make contact with the first responding officers that had reported to the brother’s house.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Fill them,” Tim said.

  “What the hell is this, man?” Quincy asked. He sat in his plaid boxer shorts on his plastic-covered living-room couch. The home Quincy occupied smelled of urine and chemicals. Garbage and clothing were strewn across the floors and piled in every corner. Quincy’s head was bloodied, his lip swollen. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to do exactly what I say.”

  “Fill the needles. Yeah, I heard you. You want to shoot up?” He stared at Tim, but didn’t receive a response to his question. “Nah, you don’t look like a junkie. Why don’t you tell me why you attacked me in my sleep and what the hell you’re doing in my place while you still can.”

  “Fill them, and then we’ll talk a bit.”

  “Let me get my kit.” Quincy reached over toward a drawer in the cabinet beside the couch.

  Tim smiled. “Yeah, sorry, I had a look around while you were passed out. That gun that was in there is gone, and everything you need is right in front of you.”

  Quincy stopped and placed his hands back in his lap. “This isn’t going to end well for you. People come and go from here at all hours. They see this shit going down, and you’re a dead man.”

  “Your gang-banging, drug-dealing friends don’t concern me in the least. I have no problems wiping them from the earth. Now, fill the damn needles.”

  Quincy let out a breath and unzipped the bag set out in front of him. He pulled a bent spoon and a handful of small baggies from inside. He slid beer bottles and garbage off the coffee table and laid everything out.

  “Is that your signature brand of heroin?” Tim asked. “Seems to be missing your little sticker on there.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The green happy-face stickers that you stick on the baggies—you know, for the heroin that’s mixed with fentanyl.”

  “I don’t even know what that is.” Quincy took one of the unmarked baggies in hand.

  “I’d dig a little deeper in that bag. Pretty sure there is some in there.”

  “Whatever. There isn’t, and I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Quincy said.

  Tim took a step forward, the gun outstretched. “Stick your hand back in the bag and pull out the ones with the labels.”

  Quincy jammed his hand into the bag. “There isn’t any in here like—” He cut his sentence short when he pulled out a handful of the labeled bags. “How… how the hell are these in there?”

  “I acquired some of your product a while back. Someone had told me that you got the fentanyl in lollipop form and crushed it down to mix with the heroin. Anyway, I tested it. Seems it matches up real well with a lab report from what a girl overdosed on. Her name was Amy Cowan. Ever hear of her?”

  Quincy said nothing.

  “Yeah, I know you have. ‘Rich white bitch’ you called her, right? Someone told me that as well.”

  “I never heard of anyone by that name.”

  “Right. Well, I have a feeling you’ll talk. It seems that you’re good at that when it comes to saving your ass.”

  “Look, man, whatever you’re doing here, whatever you think, I didn’t do any of it.”

  “Okay.” Tim pointed to the needles. “Fill them.”

  Quincy didn’t budge.

  Tim kicked the leg of the coffee table, causing the cigarette butts and remnants of marijuana joints to bounce from an overflowing ashtray on the table’s surface. “I said fill them!”

  Quincy leaned forward, pulled open one of the baggies with the sticker and emptied the contents onto the spoon. He squirted some water into the spoon and flicked his lighter beneath it. Tim kept the gun pointed at Quincy from a few feet away as he dropped a cotton wad onto the spoon. Quincy filled the first needle of the ten he had laid out.

  “Nine more,” Tim said.

  Quincy set the filled needle down and continued his process with the needles and baggies that remained. He set the tenth needle down and stared at Tim.

  “Now what?” Quincy asked.

  “Fill another and inject yourself. There’s a rubber tube in your little kit there if I remember right.”

  Quincy hesitated.

  “Do it,” Tim said.

  Quincy grabbed the rubber band from the bag, set it on his lap, and got a shot re
ady for himself. He tied the band around his arm, tapped near his elbow, and slid the needle’s tip into his vein. He looked at Tim.

  “Push the plunger,” Tim said.

  Quincy’s eyes went back to his arm, and he thumbed the plunger down. The brown in the syringe disappeared into his vein. His eyelids fluttered, and he sank back into the couch cushions. Tim walked to him, pistol whipped him over the head, and dragged him off to the bathroom. He dumped Quincy into the bathtub, went back to the living room for the needles, and returned. After slowly inserting each needle into its intended location, he reached into his jacket and pulled a notepad from his inner pocket. Tim set it on the edge of the tub and slapped Quincy across the face.

  “Wake up!” He reached back and hit him again. “I said wake your ass up!”

  Quincy rocked his head to one side. Tim’s presence, along with the fact that he was in a bathtub, seemed to bring him from his drug-induced stupor.

  “What the… What the hell are you doing?” Quincy looked down. The ten needles were inserted into and hanging from his chest and stomach. His hands moved toward them.

  “Leave them in. You touch one of them, and I shoot you in the face,” Tim said. “I want you to pick up that notepad beside you. You’ll write your confession for mixing the fentanyl with the heroin and selling it to Amy Cowan.”

  “I’m not confessing to shit,” Quincy said.

  Tim pressed the gun to Quincy’s forehead and reached his other hand toward one of the needles. “How many of these plungers do you think I can push in before you overdose? I bet it’s probably not more than one or two. What do you think?”

  “Wait, no, don’t. What do you want me to do?”

  “Confess to your crimes,” Tim said.

  “And then what?”

  “We’ll get to that. Confession first. Take the pad and start writing.”

  “Man, if you’re going to shoot me, get on with it. You think I’m going to sit here and play these little games with you? This is some bullshit.”

  “Pad. Write,” Tim said.

  “I ain’t writing a damn thing. Shoot me if you have to. You’ll never get out of this neighborhood if anyone hears the shot.”

  “I have no intentions of shooting you if I don’t have to. Though you’re making me question that decision right now. But just to give you a little glimpse of what you might be in for if you don’t do what I say. Do you remember what happened to your pal Adrian? Adrian Watson.”

  “What? What the hell are you talking about? Adrian got killed by some Cartel guys. Selling where he shouldn’t have been or something. They found him scattered across the city. Bits and pieces.”

  “Kind of. Except it was me and not the cartel. I chopped his ass up while he was still alive. The tub I did it in kind of looked like this one. See, I found out he shot a guy that was a witness on a case against a member of the Giomani family. Seems he owed them some money, and killing the witness was his payment. The Giomanis wanted this witness to completely disappear, so Adrian chopped the guy up and dumped pieces of him all over. I figured I’d return the favor.”

  Quincy said nothing.

  “You have some knives around here that I could probably use right? Maybe I’ll get you good and drugged up and then take a toe here or an arm there. Chop off your manhood—that’s a must. Or you could just write down what you need to write down, and we can finish this up.”

  “What are you getting out of this? Who sent you?”

  “No one. I just want you to confess. It’s good for the soul. You write down your confession, and I’ll leave.”

  “Without killing me?”

  “You’ll be alive when I go,” Tim said.

  “Are you serious?”

  “I’m serious.”

  Quincy grabbed the notepad and started writing. “What was her name?” he asked.

  “Amy Cowan. And you should remember the people you kill by their name. Calling her a rich white bitch after you killed her is disrespectful.”

  “Man, that girl knew what she was doing. You shoot heroin, you take chances.”

  “Maybe. Either way, you made my list, so now I’m here. Write down when and where you met her, what you sold her, and all of that. If you have anything else to confess, you can include that as well.”

  Quincy paused with the pen’s tip touching the paper. “What do you mean list? How did I make your list?”

  “You don’t need to worry about that part of it,” Tim said.

  “Are you giving this to the cops or something?”

  “No.”

  “What, you take some kind of pleasure in making people confess to shit?”

  “No,” Tim said.

  “Then what am I doing this for? Who is this for?”

  “It’s for you. Just keep writing.”

  Tim remained at the edge of the tub and watched Quincy craft his letter.

  “There, I’m done. Take this shit and leave.” Quincy held out the notepad.

  “Did you sign your name?” Tim asked.

  “No.”

  “Sign it at the bottom.”

  Quincy did and held it out.

  “Turn it toward me so I can read it,” Tim said.

  Quincy did as instructed.

  Tim glanced over the words as he reached out and pressed down the plunger of one of the needles hanging from the man’s midsection. “I find you guilty. Your sentence is death.”

  Quincy mumbled something prior to closing his eyes.

  Tim thumbed down the rest of the syringes one by one and stood from his position at the edge of the tub. He stopped in the doorway as he was walking out and looked back at Quincy. The man was convulsing in the tub.

  “I’m leaving, and you’re still technically alive,” Tim said. “A man of my word.” He walked from the bathroom and the house.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I cracked my eyes open and stared at my phone, lit up and buzzing on the nightstand separating the two queen beds in my room. I’d instructed Karen to call me back in ten minutes when she’d woken me ten minutes prior. I reached over, grabbed it, and clicked Talk.

  “Hey, babe.”

  “So I’m your personal snooze button now?” she asked.

  “Yup.” I kicked my legs off the side of the bed, reached over, and clicked the button to turn on a lamp. “I needed the extra ten minutes.”

  “Late night?”

  “Not really. I ended up watching some movie after we talked. Figured I’d fall asleep to it but didn’t.”

  “What’s on the agenda today?” she asked.

  “Heading over to the field office to start digging into this list of possible suspects. The agent in charge here, Couch, was going to put together a little meeting this morning. He wanted Beth and me there”—I glanced over at the clock—“in about an hour. I think we’ll split the list up a bit and then start conducting some interviews. I also wanted to get with this latest victim’s coworkers. Maybe I’ll take care of that first. Probably wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

  “You think a coworker might have had something to do with it, or…?”

  “Not really. I just wanted to see if anyone he worked with was familiar with his routine.”

  “Ah,” Karen said. “Okay, I need to run here. Just wanted to say good morning. I’m going to be in and out of the office all day in meetings. Why don’t you give me a call later on this evening when you get a minute?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Okay, love you. Have a good day.”

  “You too,” I said with a yawn. I clicked off and pushed myself out of bed. I readied myself for the day and left my room in search of coffee within fifteen minutes.

  The lobby of the hotel and the small room where they served the continental breakfast was bustling. I entered the room and fixed myself a small breakfast from the buffet, consisting of some eggs, biscuits, and gravy. I filled a cup of coffee and had a seat at a free table near the back.

  A man and woman seated beside me stood and le
ft behind a newspaper the man had been reading. I reached over and snatched it up. The front page had photos of the three Scobee victims. The article centered on the content of the confession letters, which had somehow made it to the press. The only people who could have leaked the information were law enforcement on scene or someone at the bureau—the content hadn’t been made public. I scanned the article as I shoveled down my breakfast, which tasted exceptionally awful—the eggs powdered, the gravy cold, the biscuits hard. I dumped most of the food on my plate and scooped up two muffins from the rack. Beth and I had roughly a half hour before Couch wanted us at the office. I needed to grab her and get going.

  I poured her a coffee from the machine, stuffed a bunch of sugar and creamer into my suit-jacket pocket next to the muffins and headed back toward our rooms. I stopped at her door and gave it a couple of thumps with the toe of my shoe. Beth pulled the door open a moment later.

  I held the coffee out toward her. “We should probably roll in a few minutes here,” I said.

  “Okay, I was just about to head to the little buffet deal the hotel has and grab some breakfast.” Beth took the coffee from my hand.

  “I wouldn’t recommend it. Truly terrible.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the muffins and Beth’s coffee additives. “Here—better than nothing.”

  Beth waved me in, fixed her coffee, and peeled the cellophane from her muffin. She took a big bite and chewed while she talked. “One car or two today?” she asked.

  “Up to you. I wanted to check out the car dealership, get it checked off the list.”

  Beth took another bite and washed down the mouthful of muffin with a big swig of coffee. “Let’s take two. You never know. Maybe I can get a few pop-in interviews done while you’re checking that out.”

  “That’s fine,” I said.

  “Did Couch say how many people he’s having in on this meeting?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. Guess we’ll see. I’m going to go grab my bag.”

  “Okay.” Beth popped the rest of the muffin in her mouth. “I’ll be ready in a second.”

  “Sure.”

  I grabbed what I needed from my room and met Beth in the hall, and we headed out. After our short drive and the pass through security, we pulled into two parking spots side by side at the Miramar office.