Judged

by E. H. Reinhard

  “Right,” Beth said.

  “Anything from that pay phone that made the 9-1-1 call?”

  “They didn’t find any video that covered the area where the pay phone was located. We got the 9-1-1 recording. The caller was a man. I guess they pulled some prints that belong to a local junkie in the system. The last I heard, they were out looking for the guy.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Did they let you look at any video there?”

  “I looked through a little bit in their security closet, but nothing was really there. I got a contact for the company that handles the dealership’s security. I figured I’d pass it down to the tech guys and see if they can go through the video and find our van on the recordings somewhere.”

  “Not a bad idea. Did you want to meet me, or what is your plan?”

  “Well, I was thinking about something while I was just driving. I need to put together some printouts of vans for this Alice Schipper, Scobee’s girlfriend, to go through when she comes in. I was kind of kicking around the idea of doing that right away and trying to get the ID of my anonymous caller. I only handed two cards out, and I know I’d remember the woman’s face that I handed one to if I saw her. I could make a trip back out there and see if the woman could pick out a van like she saw. Maybe she’ll be a little more apt to talk if I show up on her doorstep.”

  “Sure,” Beth said. “What time is the girlfriend coming in?”

  “Around six.”

  “Okay. I should be back around then. I’ll meet you back there.”

  “Sounds good. Hey, did Couch head out with everyone, or did he stay back at the office?”

  “He said he was sticking around but to call him if I needed anything.”

  “Okay. I’ll catch up with you when you get back. Let me know if you get something.”

  “Will do. You do the same.”

  “Yup.” I clicked off.

  I pulled up to the Miramar office twenty minutes later, parked, and headed in. I found Agent Couch in his office and rapped my knuckles on the door, and he waved me inside. Couch pushed away whatever file he was looking at and motioned for me to sit.

  “Any luck out there?” he asked.

  “A little.”

  I gave him a quick run-through about the girlfriend, the van, the video, and the fact the woman was stopping in later.

  “What do you need from me?” Couch asked.

  “Well, I have a contact for the security company that handles the dealership’s video. I’d like to get someone on making contact there and getting the recorded footage to look through for this mystery van. I’d also like to get the ID for the anonymous call that came to my cell phone so I can make a trip to the woman’s house and stick some photos of different vans in front of her face.”

  “Sure. Let me get someone from our tech department in here to get on that. What else?” Couch asked.

  “I’m going to need a printer to start printing out photos.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I sat at an empty desk in the main office area of the serial crimes unit. In front of me sat a small stack of printed photos of late-model vans—some converted for wheelchair access, some not. I tried to limit my printouts to those of lighter colors—silver, beige, and white. I flipped open an empty folder and slipped all the papers inside. I’d printed a total of about fifty sheets, yet there were only ten different vans that it could be. Looking at them, and thinking back on what my anonymous caller had said about it not having looked like anything she’d seen, I was pretty set on the vehicle being one of three. Nissan, Chevy, and Ford each made a small van that didn’t look like your average minivan. Each van seemed to cater to the commercial market, being available in cargo trim or in other custom business specs.

  “Rawlings,” I heard.

  I spun my chair to find Agent Couch standing behind me.

  “Your caller came from this address.” He held out a sheet of paper.

  I took it from him and looked at the name and address.

  “The home is three west and then across the street from our scene this morning. Phone and house belong to a Dorothea Rice. She’s eighty-four.”

  “My caller wasn’t elderly. Do we know who else lives at the residence?”

  Couch shook his head. “Are you set with your photos there?”

  “Yeah.” I glanced over at the black-and-white analog clock on the wall. “Anything from the tech department on the security place?”

  “They wanted a subpoena, which we supplied. I’ll call up to them and get an update, to see if they actually have gotten access yet. When are you going back out to Liberty City?”

  “Probably pretty quick here. I have Alice Schipper coming in around six. I’d like to be back before that, obviously. Even if I don’t get anywhere at the home the call to my phone came from, I might show these photos around to neighboring houses as well.”

  “Let me make the call up to tech, and I’ll join you.”

  “Need some fresh air again?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “It’s just not really the neighborhood to be doing anything solo. You walk up on the wrong house at the wrong time, and things could turn south pretty quick.”

  His comment was logical, yet being from Florida, I thought I would have heard horror stories from the neighborhood if it were that bad, but I never had. Then again, most things concerning Miami I usually tuned out.

  “I’m ready when you are,” I said.

  “Sure. Give me about five or ten minutes, and we’ll take off.”

  Couch made the call to the tech department, which had access to the video and had begun the process of viewing. We left the office a couple minutes after three o’clock and drove toward Liberty City. We entered the neighborhood and, just as we had earlier that morning, received long stares as we made our way down the streets.

  I looked forward through the windshield at a group of men seemingly content to just stand in the middle of the road about a half a block up. Couch slowed a bit, looked past them to make sure we were clear, and veered into the oncoming lane around the group. I watched them as we passed, catching a stone-faced stare from one of the men through the tinted window. I heard the faint yell of someone shouting the word pig.

  Couch pulled up in front of Quincy Hightower’s home, clicked the truck into park and turned off the ignition. A few people were standing around the fence at a home a couple up, staring over at us. I looked right outside my passenger window at the home that had been the crime scene just that morning. The house and fence outside had been sealed off with yellow police tape. Then I noticed the tape on the fence was cut and the seal on the front door broken. The metal barred door and inner door of the home stood open.

  “Hey.” I pointed toward the doors.

  “Yeah, I kind of had a hunch that would happen,” Couch said. “I’m guessing some of the locals decided to go in and have a look for themselves. Probably looking for hidden money, drugs, or guns.”

  I didn’t have a response.

  “Ready?” Couch asked. “Address is three behind us on the far side of the road.”

  “Yeah, let’s see what we get.” I took my file under my arm and stepped from the truck. Up the block, the people that had been standing along the fence were gone. We crossed the street and made our way to the small tan house with the red shutters, which belonged to Dorothea Rice. Couch flipped the latch on the chain-link fence out front, and we walked to the covered porch. Couch and I climbed the five stairs, and I rapped on the front door.

  We waited. Music was coming from inside, yet no one came to the door. I knocked again, and the music cut out a few seconds later. I heard a click of a deadbolt on the door being unlocked, and the front door opened about three inches before being caught by a brass chain. A woman’s face appeared in the gap of the doorway.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  I took in what I could of the woman. She looked to be in her early twenties with a red T-shirt and a pair of tight-fitting jeans. I tried
to remember if she was the woman I’d handed a card to, but I couldn’t place her.

  Couch adjusted his black-rimmed glasses and took his credentials from his inner suit pocket. He held them up. “FBI, ma’am. Someone called us from this home. We’re going to need to speak with them.”

  “No one called you from here. You’re mistaken,” she said.

  “I assure you we’re not,” Couch said.

  “I’m telling you that you are. No one called you. Now, if you don’t mind, please leave.” The woman closed the door to the sound of another woman asking who was at the door, and the deadbolt clicked.

  Couch and I stood there and stared at each other. I could hear a conversation taking place inside of the house. The two women were discussing who was out front. Someone said FBI.

  “Knock again,” Couch said.

  I did, and we waited.

  A moment later, I heard the deadbolt flick back open and the chain slide. The door pulled open, and a different twenty-something-year-old girl stood before us. I recognized her immediately.

  “How did you know where I called from?” the woman asked. She placed one hand on a hip and put a finger through a belt loop on her jeans.

  “We’re the FBI,” I said.

  “Which one of you did I talk to?” she asked.

  I poked my chest.

  “Look, I told you everything I know. You wasted a trip out here.”

  “Your name?” Couch asked.

  “Nope,” she said. “I’m in my home and have done nothing wrong. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “Miss,” I said. “You obviously thought it important enough to call. That leads me to believe you put some kind of value in doing the right thing. We just need a minute of your time. I have a couple photos of different vans here. It would really help us if you could take a look at them. Maybe you can pick one out that is similar to the one you saw.”

  “I told you that I don’t want to be involved in any of this.”

  “We just need you to look and point. If you don’t want to give us your name or anything, that’s fine. Call this off the record if you need to,” Couch said.

  The woman rolled her eyes and held out her hand. I pulled out the stack of paper containing the photos and handed them to her. She flipped through page after page, pausing when she landed on the photo of a Ford Transit Connect.

  “Like this one,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “There are a couple more that have a bit of a different shape as well.”

  “That’s the one. Now, can you guys get off of our porch before someone sees you here?” She held the stack of papers out toward me.

  I took them as the door swung closed and locked.

  Couch dipped his head toward the street. We left the yard of that house, knocked on a few additional doors without getting any answer, and headed back for his truck.

  “Better than nothing,” Couch said once we were seated inside.

  “Agreed. If this Alice Schipper confirms and we can find it on the dealership video, we might be in business,” I said.

  “I’m going to make the call to the agents that are out doing the face-to-face interviews and have them on the lookout for a… What kind of van was that?”

  “Ford Transit Connect,” I said.

  He nodded and pulled his phone from his pocket.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tim took the bus and then walked the final mile to Jensen’s house—he didn’t know how long he would have to stay there before the doctor returned home and didn’t want to leave his van around for anyone to see. Tim’s van remained home, safely tucked away inside the garage. Tim adjusted the strap of his large duffel bag over his shoulder. Everything he needed for his stay, no matter how long, was inside.

  He neared the doctor’s block and looked around for neighbors outside. The sun had recently set, apparently sending everyone indoors—Tim spotted no one. He passed Jensen’s neighbor’s property, with a three-foot perimeter fence covered in ivy. A terracotta walkway broke up the lush palm trees and overgrown shrubbery at the entrance to Jensen’s house. Tim passed the building permits staked in the grass and made a right down the terracotta path, under an arbor mostly overtaken by nature, and toward the house. A motion-detecting light near the garage lit Tim up—he didn’t pay it much attention as the view from the street was blocked out by the overgrown landscaping. He walked around a big green garbage container overflowing with construction supplies and slipped down the right side of the Mediterranean-styled home toward the back. He rounded the rear of the house and walked to the same white, glass-paneled door that he’d entered through on his last visit. Tim knelt, fished the bump key and mallet from inside his bag, and let himself inside. He closed the door at his back.

  The home didn’t have any kind of security system even though the doctor had paid upward of three million dollars for the place just eight months prior. Tim pulled his flashlight from the bag and clicked it on. He shone the light around the kitchen, which looked as if it was halfway through its remodel.

  “Looks like your crew has been making some progress,” Tim said. He reached out and flipped on the lights.

  Tim lurked around the five-thousand-square-foot seven-bedroom house, looking for a suitable place to lie in wait for Jensen. He found himself in the master bedroom suite, and his eyes went right to the open door of the walk-in closet—perfect.

  Tim walked over, looked inside, and pulled the closet door open and closed—the hinges squeaked and squealed with each movement.

  “It looks like we’re going to need to get something for that,” he said.

  Tim made his way back through the house and into the single-car garage. He searched the garage shelves for a spray can of lubricant. After finding one in short order, he grabbed it and walked back inside. Tim tossed his duffel bag onto the kitchen table and removed his supplies.

  He pulled out two three-foot aluminum tranquilizer jab sticks from inside—one to use on the doctor, and another in case the doctor returned home with company. Tim had familiarized himself with the operation and practiced administering the shots. As soon as the doctor was in bed, Tim would come out from his hiding spot in the closet, poke him with the automatically discharging stick, and wait for the tranquilizer to take effect. From Tim’s research, he knew the drug contained in the syringes, made to incapacitate deer, should render the doctor unconscious within a minute or so—the same went for a guest if he returned home with one. As a backup, Tim had brought a pistol, which he removed from the bag and stuffed into his waistline. Tim screwed the pre-filled syringes to the tips of the jab sticks and cocked each handle. With both ready, he leaned them against the edge of the table so they stood vertically from the floor.

  A noise caught his attention from outside. Tim stood quietly, listening. The noise was that of a motor running.

  Too close to be a neighbor.

  Tim rushed to the dining-room window facing the driveway of the property. He kept his head low and glanced out. The white Aston Martin rolled toward the garage door.

  “Shit. What the hell is he doing here already?” Tim had watched the man for months, and he never returned home immediately after work. He remembered leaving the lights on upstairs, and the lights were on in the kitchen and dining-room area. He heard the garage door open and realized he wouldn’t have time to gather his things and get back upstairs to his hiding spot.

  He rushed back to the table, grabbed both jab sticks, and ran to the wall just beside the door that led in from the garage. He held both three-foot sticks against his chest, syringes up. The door opened inward and would block him upon Jensen’s entry.

  Tim felt the vibration of the wall and heard the engine rumbling as the car pulled into the garage space. He took a couple of deep breaths, readying himself. The Aston Martin’s motor went silent, and a car door closed—and then another. He heard the doctor’s voice followed by a woman responding.

  Tim cursed to himself—quietly. He wore no mask. Th
e woman would surely see his face and be able to identify him if he didn’t hit her with the jab stick immediately upon her entry. Even then, a chance remained that she’d be able to identify him. Tim’s eyes went to the door handle leading in, and he held his breath, waiting for the knob to twist. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead. He set one of the sticks down in the corner and pulled his pistol from his waistline. Jensen’s voice grew louder, and the door handle turned. Tim heard the overhead garage door lowering.

  From the brief bit of conversation, it sounded as though Jensen was explaining his multi-million-dollar renovation plans for the home. The door pushed open toward him. Tim glued himself as close as he could to the wall behind the door to stay out of sight. Half of Jensen’s body was visible, but the door blocked any view of the doctor’s face. The woman, dressed in a red cocktail dress, entered, and Jensen closed the door. Tim’s cover was gone. He turned the pistol in his hand and held it barrel first. The pair put their backs to him and walked toward the kitchen, Jensen leading.

  “The construction guys must have left the lights on,” Jensen said. “Looks like they left a bag too.”

  Tim took a step and raised the pistol, keeping the jab-stick syringe up in his left hand. He swung as hard as he could, connecting the butt of the firearm to the back of the woman’s head. She went down facefirst into the old tile floor. Tim quickly jabbed her in the back with the stick and dropped it. He switched hands with the pistol and held it out at the doctor.

  The sounds of the woman’s head cracking off the flooring and the jab stick clanking across the tile spun Jensen around. The doctor glanced down at the woman and then up at Tim. He froze.

  Tim held the pistol out at Jensen. “Don’t even think about moving,” he said.

  Jensen, dark haired and a bit over six foot, held up his hands at Tim and took a step backward.

  “I said don’t move, asshole! What are you, deaf?”