Touch of Red

by Laura Griffin

  “That’s correct.” Brooke looked at Ric, hoping he’d told the prosecutor about all the latest developments.

  “The DNA lead from the victim’s fingernails didn’t pan out,” Ric said. By the edge in his voice, Brooke guessed that had been the subject of the argument she’d just interrupted. “Now we’re looking for something else we can use to focus in on a suspect.”

  “Those child fingerprints,” Rachel said. “Will they hold up in court? I’m not familiar with the technology.”

  “IR microspectroscopy,” Brooke said. “Basically, you use infrared light to visualize the print. The technology is fine. That’s not the problem.”

  The prosecutor leaned back. “What is the problem?”

  “Well . . . everything.” Brooke looked at Ric, hoping for support. His expression was unreadable, so she turned back to Rachel. “Based on the location of the prints, and the time frame they were left there, it’s probable the child was at the crime scene at the time of the murder. He’s potentially an eyewitness, and as such, he’s in grave danger.” She looked at Ric. “Did you tell her about the shooting last night?”

  “Attempted shooting,” the lieutenant said. “The boy wasn’t hurt, and we haven’t established who the target was.”

  “But—”

  “The fingerprints,” Rachel said, cutting Brooke off. “Are they solid enough for court? I understand these prints don’t exist anymore, so I need to make sure our documentation is impeccable if we intend to use them.”

  “Everything’s solid. I’ve got plenty of photographs and they’re all time-stamped. But, again, that isn’t the issue here. Cameron Spence is eleven years old. This whole ordeal has been traumatic for him, and we’re not even certain he knows anything—”

  “He knows plenty.” Rachel looked at Reynolds. “Isn’t that what the child psychologist said? The boy seems scared, but underneath all that, he’s hiding something?”

  “That’s a theory,” Brooke said. “It’s not an established fact. Maybe he didn’t see anything, but regardless, a close friend of his family is dead, and this child is going through a trauma right now, and the last thing he needs is to get pulled into this case.”

  “I understand your concern,” Rachel said, “but I at least want to talk to him. We need to base this investigation on usable evidence, which means something that isn’t going to get tossed out by a judge. We need to sit him down with a sketch artist and see what he’s got.”

  Brooke’s chest tightened. “I don’t recommend that at all.”

  The prosecutor quirked an eyebrow. “Is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  Rachel smiled. “Well, we appreciate your input on the forensic evidence.” In other words, she didn’t give a shit what Brooke thought about the rest of it. “Thank you for taking the time to come by,” she added pointedly.

  Seething with frustration, Brooke stood up. She shot a look at Ric before exiting the conference room and pulling the door shut behind her.

  The bull pen was bright and crowded, and Brooke stood still for a moment to compose herself. She thought of Cameron being hauled in here for an interview and felt sick to her stomach.

  Callie strode into the bull pen, followed closely by Sean. Brooke’s heart did a flip-flop in her chest as his gaze homed in on her. He crossed the sea of cubicles, and the intense look in his eyes told her something big had happened.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I . . .” She cleared her throat. “Rachel asked me to come in and go over the fingerprint evidence.” Brooke studied his face. “What happened?”

  “A lot.”

  Callie stopped beside them. “We’re in the conference room, Sean.”

  He didn’t even acknowledge the comment as Callie walked off. He was too busy staring down at Brooke.

  “Come here.” Sean took her hand and pulled her into a break room. It was empty, luckily. Brooke tugged her hand free.

  “We’ve had some new developments.” Sean rested his hands on his hips.

  “Is this about the body at the lake?”

  “You heard about it?”

  “Just what was on the news.”

  He gazed down at her, and she realized he wasn’t going to tell her more because she wasn’t officially involved in that case.

  She huffed out a breath. “You need to talk to Rachel. You need to convince her to leave Cameron alone. She wants to sit him down with a sketch artist.”

  “I know.”

  “Sean. Think what could happen. He could end up dragged into a trial.”

  “He might not have to testify. We may just need the sketch to help get an ID.”

  Brooke’s stomach clenched. “Are you hearing yourself?”

  “What?”

  “You were there last night! You saw him in the hospital, for God’s sake.”

  “And?”

  “And I can’t believe I’m the only one concerned about this boy’s safety.”

  “That’s not true, and you know it.”

  The muscle in his jaw bunched, and she could tell she’d struck a nerve. Good. She wanted him as pissed off about this as she was. Maybe he’d stand up to the damn prosecutor.

  “A sketch is a tool for investigators,” he said. “It doesn’t mean he’s going to trial or that he’s going to be dragged into anything.”

  “You sound like Rachel.”

  “Rachel’s right. I’m right.” He raked his hand through his hair. “Look, I hear what you’re saying, but you’re not used to seeing cases from this angle. This is a homicide investigation, and we need to use every lead available to close in on a suspect and get that person into custody.”

  Brooke crossed her arms. “So . . . that’s it? She’s right. You’re right. I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, even though I was there when this child and his mom got gunned down in their front yard, but who cares? My opinion means nothing?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. I’ve seen this before. My way or the highway, right?”

  Anger sparked in his eyes. “Don’t do that. Don’t compare me to him.”

  “Sean?” Callie poked her head into the break room. “Sorry to interrupt, but we’re meeting now.”

  “You’re not interrupting,” Brooke snapped. “I’m on my way out.”

  • • •

  Sean watched her leave, pissed at himself for letting the conversation go off the rails. She didn’t need this right now. He didn’t need this right now. He had a fresh homicide on his hands, and a prosecutor to deal with who wasn’t going to like anything he was about to tell her.

  Callie waited outside the conference room, practically tapping her foot, and Sean followed her into the meeting.

  “Hey,” Ric said, looking them over as they grabbed chairs. Sean knew from Ric’s expression that he could tell something was up. “We’re updating Rachel on the leads we’re pursuing.”

  “And the ones you’re not pursuing,” Rachel added.

  “New development,” Sean said, glancing at his lieutenant. “We’ve established a link between Samantha Bonner and Jasmine Jones.”

  “Who’s Jasmine Jones?” Rachel asked.

  “The DOA from Lake Wiley,” Callie said. “Her body was recovered this morning.”

  Rachel looked at Reynolds. “Why am I just now hearing about this?”

  “They just completed the autopsy,” Sean said.

  “What’s the cause of death?” Ric asked.

  “Manual strangulation,” Callie told him. “She’d been beaten beforehand and then dumped off the dam, it looks like. The time of death estimate is twenty-four to thirty-six hours from when the body was recovered, so sometime Saturday night or early Sunday morning.”

  Rachel arched her eyebrows. “And there’s a connection between her and Samantha Bonner?”

  “Jasmine was at Samantha’s funeral Saturday,” Sean said. “Turns out, both victims were friends from AA, and they had the same socia
l worker, who also happened to be at the funeral that day.”

  “A social worker?” Rachel leaned forward on her elbows. “Man or woman?”

  “Woman,” Callie said. “Her name is Farrah Saunders. She’s been in the job twelve years, and we checked her out. Spotless record.”

  “So what’s the extent of this connection?”

  “It goes way back,” Sean said. “Both victims were removed from their biological parents as children and placed in foster care. Farrah Saunders was their social worker when they were teens, and the judge overseeing their cases was Eric Mahoney.”

  Silence settled over the room.

  “Mahoney,” Ric stated. “As in . . . a relative of James Mahoney, whose DNA is a partial match with what was found under the vic’s nails?”

  “Whoa. Wait.” Rachel held a hand up like a stop sign and turned to Sean. “You’re telling me you think Eric Mahoney, the judge, had something to do with these murders?”

  Sean didn’t respond. He simply watched her, waiting for her to process everything. The logic of it all was undeniable.

  She turned to Reynolds. “Are you hearing this?”

  The lieutenant darted a look at Sean, clearly startled by everything he’d said. “What kind of evidence do you have to back that up?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Like hell you are.” Rachel slapped her file shut. “Don’t think for one minute that you’re going to go after a sitting judge with some half-baked theory based on questionable DNA evidence.”

  “Nothing wrong with the evidence,” Ric said, obviously not liking the jab at his wife’s laboratory. “The DNA on Samantha Bonner is a partial match with a profile that’s sitting right there in the database.”

  “A partial match! As in, the man in the database is not our suspect.” Rachel turned to Reynolds. “You think you can just go around arresting people named Mahoney on a hunch? I need facts, not hunches.”

  “It’s not just a hunch,” Sean said. “The DNA under Samantha’s nails and the DNA on the knife used to kill her share key genetic markers with a convicted felon named Mahoney. And Judge Eric Mahoney knew both the victims because he presided over their cases when they were teenagers.”

  Rachel’s eyes widened as she leaned toward him. “What are you suggesting, Sean? That the judge had some kind of . . . of relationship with these girls, and now they’ve somehow ended up dead?”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  “Is that seriously your case theory?” Rachel glanced around the table, visibly shaken for the first time since Sean had known her. “To even suggest such a thing would be career suicide.” She looked at Reynolds. “For both of us.”

  Sean shook his head. “But the DNA—”

  “Don’t talk to me about that DNA! It’s a partial hit, and I can’t use it as probable cause for a warrant. And you can be damn sure I’m not going to demand a DNA sample from a sitting judge.”

  “We could get a sample without him knowing,” Ric said. “A drinking straw or a cigarette butt, something like that.”

  Rachel shook her head. “We went through all this earlier. Even if you got a hit, you would have targeted this man as a suspect merely because he shares a last name with someone who’s in the system. The whole thing is fruit of the poisoned tree. It would get tossed out of court in a minute, especially given Mahoney’s connections on the bench.”

  An uneasy silence settled over the room.

  Sean leaned back in his chair. “It’s not a hunch, Rachel. Think of all the coincidences we’re talking about here. The same social worker, the same judge, the murders within a few days of each other. So, this DNA lead isn’t one hundred percent? Don’t use it at trial, then. But it is a lead, and we can’t ignore it.”

  Rachel took a deep breath and blew it out. She looked around the table, and her gaze settled on Sean.

  “You think Judge Mahoney had something to do with these murders? Fine. Show me. Show me something in the victims’ phone records or emails. Show me a neighbor who saw his car out in front of Samantha’s house. Show me a suspect sketch from the kid who was there that night. You believe in this theory? Then get me something usable, God damn it, or don’t bother asking me to put my head on a chopping block!”

  • • •

  Callie watched the prosecutor stalk out the door. Then she turned to Sean. “Well, at least she didn’t freak out.”

  He shot Callie a look, obviously not appreciating her sarcasm.

  “God damn it, Byrne.” Everyone’s attention turned to Reynolds. “Don’t come in and drop this shit in my lap with the DA here.”

  Sean lifted an eyebrow. “You planned to keep her out of the loop? Aren’t we going to need her when it’s time for a warrant?”

  Reynolds leaned forward, getting red in the face. “Don’t give me your smart-ass crap, Byrne. She’s right. There’s no way we’re using a partial DNA hit for any kind of warrant against a judge. Not on my watch. So you better be ready to roll up your sleeves and do some real detective work.”

  “I thought I was.”

  Reynolds turned and jabbed a finger at Callie. “Get on the Bonner girl’s computer. We need it turned inside out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The lieutenant turned to Ric. “Get working on those cell phones. I want a dump on both victims’ numbers going back twelve months. Calls, texts, everything.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “And get that boy in here for an interview.” Reynolds stood up and glared at Sean. “I want a suspect sketch on my desk by tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Brooke returned to the lab, but she felt too agitated to be there. She worked her way through two evidence envelopes, all the while replaying the exchange with the prosecutor. Of course, in hindsight it was easy to think of all the perfect retorts that had eluded her in the heat of the moment.

  Roland plopped a drinking glass on the worktable beside her. “You missed a print.”

  She glanced up at him. “I did not.”

  He switched off the spotlight above her head. Then he took out a flashlight and aimed it through the glass at an oblique angle, illuminating a partial fingerprint that had somehow escaped her black powder.

  “Oh.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “That’s it? ‘Oh’?”

  “What do you want me to say? I made a mistake.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. What the fuck’s with you today?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Bullshit.” He went back to his table.

  Brooke stared at the glass. Roland was right. Her concentration was crap this afternoon and so was her work product. And she had no right to be sitting here handling evidence.

  She stopped what she was doing and put it away for tomorrow. Then she packaged up the drinking glass to reexamine later. She grabbed her purse and left the lab without a word. It was almost five, which was ahead of her typical departure time, but she was better off leaving early than staying here and screwing things up.

  On the way to her car she scrolled through her phone until she found Kaitlyn Spence’s number. By the third ring, Brooke’s heart was racing. When Kaitlyn finally picked up, Brooke felt a wave of relief.

  “Hi, it’s Brooke Porter.”

  “Hi.” Kaitlyn sounded surprised but not hostile. For some crazy reason, she didn’t seem to blame Brooke for what had happened last night.

  “I just wanted to check on you and Cameron.” From the background noise, it sounded like Kaitlyn was in her car. “How’s everything going today?”

  “You really want to know? Terrible.”

  Brooke slid behind the wheel, but didn’t start the engine. She heard shuffling noises and then Cameron’s voice in the background asking for McDonald’s.

  “I told you, Cam, no more fast food. . . . Brooke? Sorry, you’re on speakerphone. We’re in the car.” Kaitlyn sighed. “It’s been a bad day.”

  “What happened?”

  “They want us to spend the night at the shelte
r again. And I’m missing another dinner shift, but my boss won’t reschedule me. But who cares, right? It’s only money.” Brooke heard the stress in Kaitlyn’s voice. “And to top it off, I just left the police station, where they totally grilled me like they think I’m some drug dealer or something. Or maybe they think Sam was. Those guys need to get a clue. Sam didn’t touch drugs or even alcohol. She ate freaking veggie shakes for breakfast.”

  “I’m sorry you’re dealing with all this. Is there anything you two need? I can swing by the shelter.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” Kaitlyn sounded taken off guard by the offer. “I think we’re good.”

  “How’s your arm?”

  “Fine,” she said, but Brooke caught something in her voice and wondered what the answer would have been if Cameron weren’t listening. It had to be painful for her to do her job with fresh stitches in her arm.

  “Well . . . let me know if I can do anything. Do you guys need me to check on Fenway?”

  “Yes!” Cameron yelled. “Can you bring him over?”

  “No, she cannot bring him over, Cam. I told you, they don’t allow dogs.”

  “Please, Mom?”

  “No. . . . Sorry, Brooke? Don’t worry about Fenway. Our neighbor is taking care of him.”

  “Okay, well . . . if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call me.”

  “Thanks. That’s nice of you to offer.”

  “You guys take care.”

  Brooke ended the call and analyzed the conversation as she drove home. She hated that they’d had such a miserable day. But Kaitlyn had mentioned nothing about a forensic artist, so maybe that wasn’t happening, which eased Brooke’s worry, as did their plans to spend another night at the shelter. The place had an armed guard and plenty of security. They couldn’t stay there forever, but at least Brooke knew they’d be safe tonight.

  The tightness in Brooke’s shoulders started to loosen. She didn’t feel relaxed—not by a long shot—but she felt better as she swung by the grocery store and picked up some ingredients for dinner. By the time she made it home, she was looking forward to a restful evening.

  Until she stepped through her door and confronted the mountain range of laundry in her living room. It had been weeks since she’d done any chores. Her entire house was in disarray, just like her personal life, and she couldn’t stand it another minute.