Judged

by E. H. Reinhard

  We entered and found our way up to the serial crimes unit on the second floor. I pulled the door open for Beth, and we walked inside. I glanced back toward Couch’s office, which looked empty. Beth nodded her head toward the large room off to the right. Behind the glass, Couch was standing at the front of the room. At a quick count, I spotted at least ten people seated inside. Most looked like agents, from the style of dress. We walked over.

  I gave the door a knock, and Agent Couch waved us in.

  “Right on time,” Couch said. “You guys can grab a seat up here.”

  Beth and I walked toward the front and took chairs at the end of the long rectangular table.

  “These are Agents Hank Rawlings and Beth Harper from our Manassas office,” Couch said. “They’re here to head up this investigation. Agent Rawlings here is the one who really got the ball rolling on this and has been on it since before we have.”

  I made a quick hand gesture to acknowledge the rest of the seated agents.

  “Okay. We’re all here. You guys can introduce yourselves to Rawlings and Harper when we conclude.” Couch looked at the dark-haired midthirties agent seated beside me. “What’s the latest on our possible suspects, Rivera?”

  The agent opened the folder before him. He flipped the pages, found the one he was looking for, and ran his finger down to the last paragraph. Then Agent Rivera looked up. “One ninety-two in law enforcement that still fit the adjusted profile. The count balloons up to three hundred plus if we account for family.”

  Couch rocked his head back and forth. “How can there possibly still be that many?”

  “Well, Miami Dade PD employs three thousand plus officers. We looked into grievances, suspensions, terminations, basically anything that would give motive, and this is what we have.”

  “Okay,” Couch said. He looked at me. “Preference on how these people are contacted?”

  I cleared my throat. “Personally,” I said. “Get in front of them, feel them out, and see where they were the night that this last group of murders happened. That would be a good start. We should be able to trim the list pretty fast. Follow up with alibis—see where the ones that sift through were on the nights of previous killings.”

  “Is everyone here going to be working this?” Beth asked.

  “In this room, yes,” Couch said. “We have a few more at our disposal as well.”

  Beth appeared to be contemplating something. “That’s a little under twenty people a piece if we’re working solo on just the law-enforcement angle, forty in groups—a hell of a lot more if we take family into account.” She seemed to be thinking out loud, not really looking for comments on her train of thought. She looked at Couch. “We’re going to need to get this organized by location of the possible suspect’s homes. Maybe local officers can assist us? One agent with an accompanying officer or something? If we’re trying to do this all ourselves, it’s going to take weeks to get everyone interviewed. Maybe longer.”

  Couch stuck a finger under the lens of his glasses and swiped at his eye. “I agree with getting this mapped out geographically by where these people live. Let me get a couple people on that, and we can get a plan in place. We’re going to need to get started. We can always adjust the plan on the fly.”

  I felt my phone buzzing against my leg. I looked down and slid it from my pocket so I could see the screen. The call was coming from Lieutenant Harrington. I’d spoken with him briefly while we were looking around at the Greg Scobee scene. I was planning to meet with him sometime in the afternoon. I excused myself from the meeting and walked to the hall outside the serial crimes unit.

  I clicked Talk. “Rawlings.”

  “Hey, it’s Harrington. We have another here. I just got word a few minutes ago, and I’m heading over there now. I just wanted to give you a heads-up before I call it over to the local bureau.”

  “I’m here now. I’ll let everyone know. What are we looking at?”

  “D.B. is a known drug dealer. Confession letter left, just like the last.”

  I let out a puff of air through my mouth. “What’s the address?” I pulled my notepad from my pocket.

  “Are you going to head over?” Harrington asked.

  “Yeah, I want to see it as found.”

  “All right. I’ll make sure it remains undisturbed. Ready for that address?”

  “Ready.”

  After Harrington gave me the address, I told him I’d see him shortly, clicked off and headed back into serial crimes. I yanked open the door for the meeting room.

  “That was the lieutenant from Miami Dade. We have another one,” I said.

  “Where?” Couch asked.

  I rattled off the address.

  “Liberty City,” one of the agents said.

  “Where’s that?” Beth asked.

  “About a half-hour drive from here,” Couch said. “And about the roughest Miami neighborhood you’re going to find.”

  “Great,” I said.

  “Are you going over there?” Couch asked.

  “Yeah. Lieutenant Harrington is on his way there now. I told him I’d meet him. I want to see one of these scenes untouched.”

  “So do I,” Beth said.

  “I’ll join you two,” Couch said. He looked at the agent beside me. “Rivera, can you get some wheels in motion for getting the suspect locations mapped out?”

  “Right away,” Agent Rivera said.

  “Okay, do that. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and we’ll dig back into this.”

  Beth, Couch, and I left the meeting.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The neighborhood seemed to deteriorate more with each passing block. The homes that lined the streets all had small fences out front, and bars covered the windows and doors. Garbage and miscellaneous furniture littered the vacant areas between houses. People seemed to aimlessly wander the streets.

  Agent Couch was driving us in his truck. Though the windows were tinted, I could see people staring at our vehicle as we drove the surface streets toward the address.

  Ahead, down the block, I spotted two patrol cars parked nose to nose in the street, blocking it off. Onlookers gathered on the sidewalks, being kept at bay by uniformed officers. We pulled to the side of the street behind what looked like an undercover patrol car and stepped out. Police tape wrapped the fence of the small single-story peach-colored home on our right, one up from where we stood. Beth, Couch, and I walked along the street’s edge to the house. The crowd of people were clamoring for answers about what had happened.

  We flashed ID to the patrol officers securing the scene and entered through the open chain-link fence surrounding the property. The white metal-barred security door was propped open with a cinderblock, the wood door leading into the house also open. We entered. I spotted a six-foot gray-suited man standing in the living room—Lieutenant Harrington. He appeared to be observing another man collecting evidence from the wall behind a plastic-covered couch.

  “Lieutenant,” I said.

  He turned his head and looked back at us. “Rawlings.”

  I gave him a nod.

  “You found the place, I see.” He scratched at the stubble on his square chin and waved us over.

  “We did. These aren’t your stomping grounds, are they?” I asked.

  He shook his head and my hand. “No, but the brass says that this is my case. Whatever happens associated with this guy that’s still in Miami Dade’s jurisdiction, well, I’m getting the call.”

  I nodded and introduced him to Beth and Agent Couch.

  “We have some blood cast off behind the couch that they’re collecting. It looks like our vic took a bit of a beating, which may have happened out here.” Harrington ran his hand through his short black hair. “The main scene is in the bathroom, though. Come on, I’ll show you what we’re dealing with.”

  Harrington took a few steps toward the living room’s edge and made a quick right down a short hall. As we followed, I took in the small house, littered with garbage like
the neighborhood it resided in. The walls had numerous holes punched through them and were tinged yellow from smoke.

  Harrington stopped near an open door on our left and pointed inside. “Have a look.”

  We entered. The bathroom was free of any police, forensics, or other people, which was for the best because we probably wouldn’t have all fit inside otherwise. Beth, Couch, and I stood shoulder to shoulder against a vanity and sink looking over at a bathtub set behind a toilet.

  An African-American man lay inside the tub in his boxer shorts. The tub was empty of water. The man’s eyes were closed, and below his left were three teardrop tattoos. Above the right eyebrow was some dried blood. His bottom lip looked split open. Below his lip, a bit of white crust that might have been dried vomit covered his chin. His left arm and leg hung from the tub’s side out toward us. Beside his left hand, on the bathroom’s tile floor, was a notepad. Also, his torso was filled with hypodermic needles. With a better look, I saw all the needles were empty. The arm that hung from the tub was covered in gang ink.

  I took a step closer to the man and put my back to the toilet. I stared down at the notepad, which was face up with writing on the page, and then glanced at Harrington. “Did you read this?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Harrington said.

  I crouched to read the confession.

  “What’s it say?” Beth asked.

  “That he sold some tainted heroin to a girl that overdosed and died. It says the heroin was cut with fentanyl, whatever that is.”

  “Bad drug is what it is,” Couch said. “Fentanyl is something like a hundred times more powerful than morphine. Mixed with heroin, good chance of it being lethal.”

  “The name on here, Amy Cowan.” I looked at Harrington. “Are you familiar?”

  Harrington dipped his head in confirmation. “From a couple of years back. She bought and used some heroin that contained fentanyl. Overdosed and died. The only real reason it was a big deal was that she was from a privileged family, I guess, and young—seventeen if I remember right.”

  “I remember that,” Couch said. “Dad was some kind of politician. Don’t remember hearing much about it in the last few years, though.”

  “Well, the note says this is the guy who sold it to her.” I tried reading the name signed at the bottom of the notepad but couldn’t make it out. “Do we have an ID on our deceased here?”

  “Quincy Hightower. Neighborhood drug dealer and gangbanger. Tons of priors,” Harrington said.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket, brought up the camera app, and snapped a few photos of the written confession. Then I stood and stared down at the man in the tub. “Our suspect has some brass balls.”

  “What do you mean?” Couch asked.

  “Well, let’s think about this for a second. We have a drug dealer covered in gang ink. Drug dealers usually have guns and rarely are alone where they can be robbed. Our suspect came into this guy’s place and did this. Think about all that entails. Rolling into a rough neighborhood. Walking from wherever you left your car. Entering this guy’s place, putting a beating on him, and doing what we see here. That takes some stones.”

  I received lifted eyebrows and head nods from the team.

  “Has forensics been through the bathroom here yet?” Couch asked.

  Harrington shook his head.

  “All right. Let’s give them the room to work,” Couch said.

  We walked back through the hall to the living room.

  The forensics guy that had been working near the sofa disappeared into the hallway toward the bathroom at Harrington’s instruction.

  “We’re assuming this guy was overdosed… forcefully?” I asked.

  “The beating didn’t do it, so that’s where we’re leaning now,” Harrington said. “Medical examiner will have to take the body and do a tox screen to be sure. Yet I’m guessing those needles were full. Whatever the forensics team or the ME gets, I’ll make sure gets to you guys right away.”

  I looked over the contents of the coffee table: a full ashtray, random beer bottles, a spoon that looked burned, and miscellaneous garbage. I didn’t see any drugs laid out or firearms or cash.

  “Who called this in?” Beth asked.

  “Anonymous,” Harrington said. “Pay phone at the gas station up the block.”

  “Video there?” Beth asked.

  “Haven’t checked, but I can get someone from patrol over there, looking,” Harrington said.

  “Let’s get on that,” Couch said.

  Harrington alerted a few officers standing near the front door, gave them the order, and returned.

  “A couple of the guys are going to go over there now,” Harrington said. “Someone from the forensics team will accompany them to print the pay phone.”

  “Good idea,” Couch said. “Yeah, you never know. The caller could have been our suspect. I should be able to get us a recording of the 9-1-1 call as well.”

  I glanced around the rest of the living room and small dining-room area beside the kitchen. “This guy was a drug dealer, correct?”

  “Correct,” Harrington said.

  “Where are the drugs? Where are the weapons and cash?”

  “We looked around, and none of the three staples of drug dealing were present,” Harrington said. “Maybe Mr. Hightower retired from the business.”

  “Doubt it,” I said. “Joints in the ashtray. Cooking spoon on the table. I’d find it hard to believe that a user that once sold drugs would stop selling and be forced to get his drugs elsewhere.”

  “Do you think our killer may have cleaned the guy out?” Harrington asked.

  “The suspect doesn’t strike me as that kind of person,” I said. “He’s never taken valuables or anything like that. If I had to guess, I’d say your anonymous caller was probably a junkie that came in here looking for a morning fix. He probably saw the body and helped himself to whatever was lying around.”

  “But why even call it in?” Beth asked.

  “A junkie with concern for his dealer, maybe,” I said. “Who knows?”

  “Are you getting anywhere else with the investigation?” Harrington asked.

  “We have the updated profile that I e-mailed over to you. That and we’re basically creating a list of possibles and then trying to meet with them face-to-face. Long list though,” I said. “We’re going to need some local help with it. More than likely from patrol.”

  “I’ll get you guys in touch with Captain Benelli. He runs our patrol division. I’m sure he’ll get you guys whatever you need. I have to say the updated profile didn’t win any awards at the station. Seems people aren’t that keen on the possible suspects being part of law enforcement.”

  “It’s a profile,” Couch said. “Take it for what it is, a piece of paper.”

  Harrington shrugged.

  “What about you?” I asked. “Anything new on your front?”

  “Other than the major and captain down my throat, not much. They want this resolved, and seeing as I was the one who brought the case to light with them, somehow that means that all the shit falls on me. I’m sure this is only going to add to that. We need to find something here, anything that can get us closer to this guy.”

  “Did you guys ask around the neighborhood? Do any door knocking at all?” Beth asked.

  “We haven’t started, and I’m guessing that it won’t go so hot,” Harrington said. “This is going to be one of our more no-talking-to-cops neighborhoods.”

  “We still have to do it,” Beth said. “There’s a chance someone saw something. I’ll go and get started with the crowd out front. Worst-case scenario, maybe me standing there asking questions will make them disperse.”

  Beth walked out the front.

  Past her, through the open doorway, in the streets and sidewalk out front, the crowd of people had grown from just standing beyond the police cars to encircling the entire scene. News vans and crews could be seen in the distance. Beth was going to need a hand, and I knew she wasn’t the
best with speaking under pressure.

  “Crowd is growing, huh?” Couch asked.

  “Yeah. It looks like the media is here too,” I said.

  “Okay, let me make my call to get the 9-1-1 recording and then go give the press something,” Couch said.

  “Sounds good.” I walked outside to assist Beth with the crowd.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Can you turn off the air conditioning?” Mrs. Belford asked.

  Tim looked at the white-haired woman beside him in her power wheelchair. She suffered from sarcopenia. The muscle loss had started in her late sixties, from years of a nonactive lifestyle, or so she’d said.

  “Too cold for you, Mrs. Belford?” he asked.

  “A little.”

  “Sure.” Tim reached forward and adjusted the knob on the dash. “You let me know if that’s better.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  Tim brought his eyes back to the road in front of him. His turn into the clinic was just a half a block up. “How long today?” he asked.

  “What’s that?” Mrs. Belford asked.

  “How long will your appointment be this morning?”

  “Oh, around an hour. Just a little therapy and a checkup today. I’ll have them phone you when I’m ready to be picked up.”

  “Okay, I don’t think I have anything else pressing, so I’ll be in the parking lot, waiting. And you wanted to stop at the drug store on your way back, correct?”

  “Yes, I’ll need to pick up my prescriptions after.”

  “Okay,” Tim said.

  He put on his turn signal to pull into the medical facility and drove to the covered entrance. Tim put the van in park and hit the button to open the sliding door and extend the ramp. He rounded the nose of the van to the passenger side, opened the door, and unhooked the safety straps securing Mrs. Belford’s chair. She backed up, made a Y-turn inside the van, and pulled down the ramp that extended from the sliding side door. Mrs. Belford stopped a few feet from the ramp’s end. Tim hit the button inside to retract the ramp and close the sliding door.