Jessie wouldn’t have minded a ride. Although she owned a car, she kept it in a garage and only used it for excursions outside Philly. Police Headquarters was close enough that Graham could have picked Jessie up on the way, saving her the trouble of hailing a taxi. But she didn’t need to be a mind reader to know that asking for a lift would be pushing her luck. So she forced a cheery voice, said, “That’s perfect,” and ended the call.
Outside, the autumn breeze swept her hair back. She breathed the cool air, enjoying the aroma of dry leaves and crisp air beneath the usual city-smells of asphalt and car exhaust. The sun peeked between the buildings of the Philly skyline, warming her face.
“Excuse me, Ms. Black, but do you have a moment to speak?”
She turned to find a man standing beside her. Her first impression was wealthy executive. He wore an expensive-looking business suit, the jacket buttoned. It looked good on his tall, narrow frame. His shoes gleamed. His head, almost as shiny as his shoes, was smoothly bald. His cheeks were clean-shaven. He was holding two cups of coffee, one in each hand. He extended one of them toward her. “Coffee?”
A thin ribbon of steam wafted from a hole in the plastic lid of the travel cup. She looked at it for a second, tempted, before shaking her head. “Thanks, but I’m not really in the habit of accepting coffee from strangers.”
He nodded, frowning, and turned to look for a place to set down the cup. After a few seconds, he gave up and continued to hold both cups. “I’m Wesley Lanford,” he said. “I believe you’re prosecuting my son.”
She took a step back, almost involuntarily. “We shouldn’t be talking, Mr. Lanford.”
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Were you waiting for me out here?” The thought that this man, no matter how respectable-looking, had been watching the entrance to the DA’s office so that he could intercept her made her feel suddenly vulnerable even in broad daylight.
“I wanted to speak with you in person. I didn’t think you’d agree to meet, so I came here.”
“You should talk to the police, not to me,” she said. “I’m sure Detective Graham will contact you to arrange an interview soon, if she hasn’t already.”
“I know what Russell did was horrible,” he said. “And I’m not here to defend him, or make excuses for him. He deserves most of the blame. But—”
“Most of the blame?” She knew she should just walk away, catch her taxi before she was late to her meeting with Graham, but the man’s words irked her.
“That’s what I want to speak with you about.” He sighed, looked around again for a place to unload the second coffee cup, and finally just bent down and placed it on the pavement next to his fancy shoes. “Have you heard of Vaughn Truman? Manpower?”
She had no idea what he was talking about, and this whole conversation was inappropriate. She was the attorney prosecuting his son. He was a potential witness. Even a potential co-defendant, if the police found evidence of culpability. By talking to him now, outside of proper channels, she could be jeopardizing her case. “Mr. Lanford, I really need to go. Whatever you need to say, the police—”
“They call themselves men’s rights activists. Ridiculous, right? There’s a website—Russell called it a forum. People post messages there. Anonymously, using fake names. Someone on that website manipulated Russell. I’m not saying Russell wasn’t already thinking … terrible things. But this person on the website gave him … I don’t know … the final push. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Not really.” She took another step away from him, craning her neck and hoping to spot an approaching taxi.
“I’m saying there’s another bad actor here. Russell’s just a troubled kid—more troubled, obviously, than I ever realized. But this other person is … is worse. Hiding behind a fake identity and manipulating a susceptible teenager—”
“Worse than murdering seventeen people?” The words came out before she could stop them, cold and angry. He gaped at her and the blood seemed to drain from his face. This time he was the one who took a step back. The side of his shoe hit the coffee cup and knocked it over. The plastic lid dislodged and coffee pooled on the sidewalk.
“I’m just trying to explain,” he stammered. “There’s another bad actor here—”
Jessie felt another rush of fury. She hadn’t realized how angry the senseless shooting had made her until now, face to face with the shooter’s father. “If there is, I doubt it’s some guy on the internet. More likely, it’s someone closer to home. Someone who provided an unstable fifteen-year-old with access to handguns and rifles and ammunition.”
Lanford blanched even paler. “I’m a firearms enthusiast. A collector. There’s nothing wrong with that. I have the appropriate licenses. I keep everything in a top-of-the-line gun safe.” For the first time, his cool expression broke and she saw uncertainty, maybe even regret. She felt a pang of sympathy for this man. “I don’t know how he got the code.”
“Did you have it written down somewhere?” she said. Her voice had softened.
“No. I was careful. Extremely careful.”
Jessie shook her head. “I need to go,” she said again. “I’m sure you’re going through hell right now. I understand the instinct to look for someone else to share the blame with your son.” And with you, she thought, but didn’t say. “But I’m not the right person to talk to. Maybe a loved one, or a therapist.”
She raised her hand and a taxi pulled to the curb. Before Lanford could say more, she slid into the backseat and closed the door. She watched him through the window as the car pulled into traffic. He looked forlorn, lost. And maybe, she thought as the taxi turned a corner and he passed out of sight, angry, too.
The vibration of her phone pulled her from her thoughts. It was Graham. “Are you still coming?” The detective sounded annoyed.
Jessie glanced at her watch. She was late. “I got held up. It’s related to the case. I’ll be at the school in five minutes and I’ll fill you in then.”
She heard the detective huff a frustrated breath into the phone. “I don’t have a lot of time.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Jessie hung up. As a general rule, she liked to give people the benefit of the doubt, but Detective Emily Graham was not making a good first impression. She wished Leary was still working Homicide. But that part of his life was over, and she supposed they would both have to adjust to that. Right now, she had a job to do. She took a deep breath and prepared herself for the crime scene.
5
Jessie felt a familiar jolt of adrenaline as the taxi turned a corner and the grounds of Stevens Academy came into view. A low, square building, constructed of dark red brick, sat a good distance back from the street. Grass surrounded the building, still mostly green, despite the chilly autumn breeze that ruffled it. A fence surrounded the property, looking more decorative than functional. Beyond the fence, a wall of double-parked cars and vans, many bearing the insignia of the Philadelphia Police Department, and just as many emblazoned with logos like NBC and FOX NEWS. Busy-looking men and women dotted this landscape, but no kids. She knew the school had closed today—presumably out of respect for the dead, concern for the psychological welfare of its surviving students and faculty, and to clear the way for law enforcement to work—and there was something decidedly ominous about a school without kids.
“Jeez,” the driver said. He rolled the steering wheel, pulling over. “Can’t get you any closer than this, looks like.”
“This is fine. Thanks.” She paid him and prepared herself to run the media gauntlet. She’d done it before, many times. Another one of those skills they don’t teach you in law school.
The barrage of questions began the moment the first reporter recognized her face, and then the reporters all converged on her like hungry animals. She had to walk past what felt like a hundred video cameras. She held her head up and kept her gaze straight ahead, walking silently and trying to project a determi
ned prosecutor image. She knew one of the reasons Rivera had chosen her for this case was that he’d thought she’d “play well” on TV, but she still cringed inwardly at the thought of seeing herself on the news later. Some prosecutors reveled in the quasi-celebrity that seemed to come with their office, but it had never held any appeal for her. She’d entered the profession to help people, not to worry about whether her makeup would hold up in full HD.
Her media escort fell back as she crossed the police line at the gate and entered the school property. Even then, she didn’t drop her guard. She knew from bitter experience that the news outfits’ cameras had longer range than high-powered rifles. Helicopters wheeled overhead. There was no privacy at a crime scene, especially an outdoor crime scene.
She showed her ID and told one of the uniforms at the gate why she was here. He extended an arm, pointing grimly toward a field to the left and behind the brick building.
Her heels made a crunching sound in the grass as she reached the athletic field. The two detectives came into view—Emily Graham and her partner, a veteran homicide detective named Tobias Novak who had to be pretty close to retirement by now. They met her at the yellow tape barricading the area where the murders had occurred the day before. Novak handed her latex gloves and paper shoe covers and she quickly pulled them on before stepping over the police perimeter. She felt a flutter in her chest and her heartbeat kicked up a notch.
“Good morning, counselor,” Graham said.
“Detective,” Jessie returned. She’d thought she’d heard a note of sarcasm in the woman’s voice, but had decided to ignore it. She shook Graham’s hand. Their latex gloves squeaked together. “Good to meet you, even if the circumstances are….” She left the rest unsaid, and Graham nodded curtly.
There was a moment in which Jessie could almost feel Graham sizing her up, and she supposed she was doing the same. The detective was about five-seven, athletic body, good taste in suits. Mid-twenties, maybe early thirties. Short blonde hair. A direct, intelligent stare. She made a solid, professional impression. A solid prosecution witness, she thought. Be an assistant DA long enough, and you start to assess everyone you meet based on how well they’d do on the witness stand.
But there was something about Graham that made Jessie uncomfortable, too. A confrontational posture, a look in her eyes that was angry, maybe even disdainful.
“What’s the good word?” Novak said. His big smile instantly diffused the tension, and she saw Graham visibly relax. Like most young homicide detectives, Graham had been paired with an old-timer. In this case, a real old-timer—Toby Novak had seemed ancient to Jessie the first time she’d met him when she’d started at the DA’s office years ago. Now he had to be sixty-five at least, and he looked it.
“Hi, Toby.” Jessie looked around, taking in the field, with its ominous crime scene markers and tape. “So, Detectives, you want to walk me through it?”
Graham waved a hand toward a cluster of yellow plastic signs extending from the grass, each about the size of an index card and bearing a number in bold, black print. Markers placed by the crime scene techs to mark the locations of bodies and bullets. “The girls were practicing over there,” Graham said, “and the perpetrator did his shooting from the bleachers over there.” She pointed to the bleachers, where more crime scene markers indicated the locations of casings and other evidence. “I mean, you looked at the photos, right? What else can I add? You’ve seen the evidence log.”
In other words, Why are you wasting my time?
“I just want to get a feel for the crime. On a gut level.”
“Is that a new addition to the prosecutor playbook?” A challenge flashed in the young detective’s gaze.
“No. Just my personal style.”
Graham shrugged. “When Toby and I arrived, the girls and the coach were sprawled on the grass where you see those markers. Blood everywhere.”
Jessie stared hard at the grass and thought she could see a slight reddish stain, but that could just as easily be her imagination. Outdoor crime scenes were always the most difficult to preserve because of the elements. Rain, wind, animals. And what nature hadn’t removed, the crime scene techs had, after carefully photographing, bagging, and logging all of the forensic evidence, and transporting the bodies of the victims to the Medical Examiner’s Office.
Still, the scene retained an eerie echo of the violence that had occurred here. And even though this echo was unpleasant to experience, it was the reason Jessie made a habit of visiting crime scenes. She suppressed a shiver as she approached the patch of grass where seventeen women had died.
“Watch where you step,” Graham said.
“She knows,” Novak said. “This is far from Jessie’s first rodeo.”
“Then she should know there’s no point in dragging us out here.”
Jessie took a breath. She had been hoping to avoid a direct confrontation with the detective, but she saw now that it was inevitable. Better to clear the air now. “Do you have a problem working with me?”
Graham watched her evenly. “I have a problem working with anyone who interrupts my work.”
“Assisting the DA’s office is your work.”
“Oh, so you’re my boss now? My lieutenant should find that pretty interesting.”
“I’m not your boss. The police department and the DA’s office work together.”
“This isn’t my first rodeo either, Ms. Black. But you’re the first prosecutor to order me around like her personal butler.”
“I’m helping you. You want your arrest to end in a conviction, don’t you?”
“Lanford? It’s a foregone conclusion.”
“No conviction is a foregone conclusion. Anything can happen in the courtroom.”
Graham snorted. “That I believe. Fucking lawyers.”
Novak cleared his throat loudly. “Emily, that’s enough.”
The detective shot her partner an annoyed look, but her expression softened as Novak’s unspoken thoughts seemed to get through to her. She turned to Jessie with a look that was almost apologetic. “Sorry, I.... I’m just having a bad morning.”
Jessie returned her attention to the crime scene, careful to watch where she stepped. Even though most of the evidence was gone, you never knew for sure, which was why preservation of the scene was so important. She’d come here to get a feel for this hideous crime at a gut level so that she could do a better job prosecuting Russell Lanford; the last thing she wanted to do was contaminate evidence. “Walk me through it, please.”
Graham seemed to hesitate for a second. Then she said, “We found Lanford standing on the bleachers there. He had a rifle in his hands. There was a duffel bag on the bench. To his right. The bag was full of guns and ammo.”
“Full?” Jessie said. “This was a normal-size duffel bag?”
“Yeah,” Graham said. “I’m not exaggerating. We found a ton of hardware. More than he’d ever need for one cheerleading squad, even if his aim had been bad. Which it wasn’t, by the way. Kid knew how to shoot.”
This time, Jessie did shiver. “The firearms were registered to his father?” she said.
Graham nodded. “Apparently the guy is a collector. Properly licensed, kept them in a safe, all the right things. Or so he claims.” Her voice shifted subtly. Jessie might have missed it once, but she’d been working with cops long enough to pick up on it now.
“The father interests you?” she said.
Graham’s gaze came up, and for the first time, Jessie thought she saw a hint of respect. “Yeah. I mean, nothing at the level where I’d include it in an official report, but.... There’s something.”
Before Jessie could press her for more details, Novak chuckled. The sound was so intensely inappropriate for the situation that both Jessie and Graham swung their heads to look at him. He was holding an iPhone about an inch from his face, smiling hugely.
“Jesus Christ, Toby,” Graham said. “You’re criticizing my behavior? Put that thing away.”
; “Joey’s dancing,” the older detective said. “You gotta see this.”
Graham exchanged a glance with Jessie and said, “His grandson.”
“Hold on a sec,” Novak said. “I need to Like this.”
Graham let out a weary sigh. “Novak can barely operate a police car laptop, but put his grandkid on the screen and suddenly he’s Mark Zuckerberg. He spends more time liking, favoriting, and tweeting than he does solving crimes. Why don’t you just retire already?”
He put his phone away. “Because you still need me.”
Graham shook her head with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.
Jessie said, “I ran into him earlier today. The father, Wesley Lanford. He tried to tell me something about an internet message board that might have influenced Russell. Something about men’s rights?”
“Yeah, he tried to sell that line to us, too,” Graham said. “Asking us to look into this website as if his son had been brainwashed or something. We shut him down pretty quickly.”
“You weren’t interested in what he had to say?” Jessie said.
“No,” Graham said. She started walking away from the crime scene markers, apparently satisfied that she’d done all she needed to do here and that it was time to leave. “You know the drill. We’re trying to build an airtight murder case here. The last thing we want is the police file filled with theories about unknown third persons that the defense can use against us at trial.”
“You agree with that?” Jessie said to Novak. But he was already looking at his phone again, another big smile on his face.
“What?” he said, looking up quickly. “Sorry, I missed the question. I was multitasking.”
“Jesus,” Graham said under her breath.
Jessie Black Legal Thrillers Box Set 1 Page 55
