Absolute Liability

by Jennifer Becton

  Tripp snorted. “Shows what he knows.”

  “Yeah, he’s an idiot. But that’s not the important thing.”

  Tripp nodded. “You just confirmed that the suspect owns a weapon consistent with the one used in the murder.”

  What about motive? I stood up and paced around the office. “McKade torched the warehouse, knew the DOI was investigating, and stood to lose everything if I turned up fraud. That’s a felony with up to ten years in jail and a hefty fine. He could be trying to avoid a jail term.”

  “Or he could have believed that dispatching you would end the investigation or at least pressure Southeastern to settle. Maybe it was a threat.”

  “I’ve heard of more grisly murders that occurred for much less logical reasons.”

  “Damn.” Tripp ran his fingers through his hair. “I was hoping to catch a nap and a shower. Not necessarily in that order. But it looks like we need to triple check that alibi, and your friend McKade’s home is definitely going to get a visit from the local constabulary, complete with a search warrant.”

  Tripp went off to give the warrant procedures a boost in speed, and I sat back to think.

  Could Roger McKade commit murder?

  Putting aside the fact that I considered him to have an IQ only slightly higher than that of your average, everyday carrot, I still couldn’t see it. It seemed unlikely that he would be able to plot out a somewhat complicated abduction and shooting. He seemed more like a crime of passion kind of guy. Or maybe the accidental gun discharge kind of guy.

  I had no problem imagining the little weasel burning down his warehouse, but I wasn’t convinced that he was capable of purposely shooting anyone, especially an innocent young girl like Amber. He seemed like the type who would flirt with a girl so much she might die of pure disgust.

  I was mulling over the likelihood of McKade as the murderer when my cell phone chirped. I checked the screen, but the number was blocked. I debated for a moment. Probably it was not worth answering, and I always thought it was rude to answer a cell call in a public place. But Tripp was still out working on the warrant, Vincent was apparently still being interviewed, and my head was starting to hurt from thinking about McKade, so I went ahead and answered it.

  “Julia, I hope you’re sitting down.”

  The voice was hushed, yet chipper, and at first I had no idea who it was.

  I replied that I was, in fact, sitting down, and when the voice picked up again, I was able to place it.

  Lia Trent.

  Lia and I went way back. We had been friends since the sixth grade, and after my sister’s rape, I had told her that one day I was going to find Tricia’s attacker. Other than Tripp, she was the only one I ever told about my quest to bring him to justice and restore what was left of my family. But unlike Tripp, Lia knew about the bits of evidence I’d taken when I left the MPD for the last time.

  Lia lived in Atlanta now and we didn’t spend much time together at this point in our lives, but it turned out to be providential that I had revealed so much to her because she was one of the few people who could help me.

  Lia worked at Safeway Systems, a fingerprinting software manufacturer and distributor. She had access to loads of fingerprint technology and the AFIS—Automated Fingerprint Identification Systems—database that was used by all major law enforcement agencies.

  After I left the police force and lost easy access to AFIS, I sent a copy of the partial fingerprint I purloined from my sister’s file, and Lia still ran the print occasionally even though I was now able to run it through the DOI system. I think she even used it in some of her software demos.

  Occasionally, she’d call with new possibilities—some I’d found myself, some I hadn’t.

  AFIS isn’t exactly what you see on TV. It doesn’t produce one perfect match and flash the perp’s name, social security number, and exact location on a computer screen. AFIS finds potential matches, and it is up to each investigator to rule out the impossibilities and investigate the possibilities.

  So far, Lia had sent me fewer than a dozen potential matches, but after comparing prints and doing a little research, none of them had turned out to be Tricia’s rapist.

  Yet.

  I tuned back in to what she was saying.

  “Did you hear me, Jules? I said I got a new hit, and it looks promising. Extremely promising. I didn’t compare it by hand or anything. I mean, I can’t do everything,” she said cheerfully.

  I sat in total silence. Even my brain stopped working.

  I opened my mouth and shut it. I stood up and sat down again.

  I was pretty sure I looked like as big of an idiot as I felt.

  “You there?” Lia asked.

  I tried to sound calm when I spoke. “How close is the match?”

  “Jeez, Jules. Weren’t you listening to a word I said?”

  “Sorry, it took me a minute to focus.” She was in Atlanta and hadn’t heard about my abduction. She wouldn’t know how scattered my thoughts had been lately. “Tell me again.”

  “Uh, I’ve got to hurry.”

  I heard some voices in the background. Lia wasn’t exactly supposed to be running stolen prints on company equipment for ex-cop buddies. I didn’t want her to get into trouble on my behalf.

  “Can you email the information?”

  “Will do.” She cleared her throat. “Yeah, the girls are doing great. Next time you’re in Hotlanta, you should come by.”

  I understood. Better to be caught making idle chitchat on company time than to be caught using their machines for outside purposes.

  “Thanks for everything, Lia. I owe you.”

  “Well, like I said, the girls and I are dying to see you.”

  “I’ll give you a call later,” I said.

  “Good. I’ll talk to you then.”

  We hung up, and I slipped my phone back into my purse. I wondered if this could be the break I’d been hoping and praying for all these years. Could I be on the verge of finding my sister’s rapist?

  The fact that this potential discovery had occurred at the most inopportune time was precisely what made me think the fingerprint would be a real hit. It was the way things seemed to go. Only when a storm was already raging would the tornado show up and rip my life apart by its foundation.

  White hot rage shot through his body, and he barely even realized what he was doing as he grasped the revolver in his hand and, despite the hindrance of the plastic bag, jammed his finger through the trigger guard.

  With one swift motion, he lifted the gun to his partner’s head and fired.

  He only had to fire once.

  The blast was so powerful that the pistol almost leapt from his hand. He stared down at it as the car filled with the smell of copper and his ears began to ring.

  He continued to stare at his own hand and the gun gripped in it. The bag and his hand were covered in a fine mist of blood. Then he noticed that the driver’s side window was coated in blood and brains.

  For the barest moment, he had no idea how the blood had gotten there, had gotten on him. Then reality rushed upon him.

  He had killed his partner.

  Shit, that wasn’t supposed to happen.

  He had to think.

  Time slowed down as he began to act, first carefully removing the bag from the revolver and using it to hold the still-warm weapon without getting his fingerprints on it.

  Then he used the bag to grab his partner’s hand and wrap his limp fingers around the grip of the revolver. He shoved the dead man’s index finger into the trigger guard and positioned the hand beside the body as if it had fallen naturally.

  There, that looked like suicide, right?

  He’d been shot in the right temple with his right hand. That made sense.

  Well, it was as good as it was going to get on a spur of the moment.

  He looked at his surroundings. Should he try to move the car? Conceal it better to buy himself some time?

  No, that would be impossible, and beside
s, he’d chosen their spot well. The building was used infrequently, and the car wasn’t visible from the main drive. No events were scheduled until later in the week.

  It would have to do.

  He used the newspaper to pick up the hunting revolver and wadded the paper around it, careful not to allow the bloody plastic bag to touch the gun. Then he turned the engine off and gave his partner one last look.

  He should have been repulsed by what he’d done, but he didn’t have time to think of it. He was more worried about leaving fingerprints. He hadn’t expected to touch any evidence, so he hadn’t worn gloves, and now he was paying for that bad choice.

  What had he touched?

  He couldn’t remember, and he didn’t have time to mull it over now.

  He used the tail of his shirt to open the car door and then wipe down the handle. He leapt from the car, locking and closing the door behind him before wiping down that handle as well.

  Another thought hit him suddenly.

  Had anyone heard the shot?

  He paused a moment and tried to listen for voices, but his hearing was gone, replaced by an infernal ringing. That damn gun had deafened him.

  So he looked to his left.

  Then his right.

  No one seemed to be coming to discover the source of the noise. Maybe they hadn’t heard it. Or maybe they had and the distance had muted it enough to make it innocuous.

  He looked toward the main section of the park. He could see the distant figures of players on the diamonds. Softball games were in progress on every field, so the parking lot was empty of people. They were all busy watching Junior up at bat.

  But that wouldn’t last long. He had to get the hell out of there fast.

  He sprinted across the parking lot, clutching the wad of newspaper, plastic, and gun, and jumped into his car.

  He managed to keep his speed down as he drove out of the lot, but his mind was screaming at him to get home as quickly as possible.

  He had glimpsed his image in the rearview mirror and knew he was covered in blood droplets. He had to clean himself up before his wife got home. He’d have to burn his clothes too.

  There was no way he was going to be able to dispose of the gun in time.

  He wiped at the blood on his face with frantic fingers and tried desperately to find a silver lining to what had just happened.

  Sure, his plan had failed. The frame-up would not work out as he’d hoped, but that was okay. Once the authorities found the body at the park, they’d run ballistics and realize that the same gun had been used in Amber’s murder.

  His partner would be pegged as the abductor and the killer and, perhaps, take the fall for the fraud too. That would be mighty convenient.

  Maybe, if he handled everything just right, this would turn out to be a blessing in disguise.

  I sat in Tripp’s empty office for a long time thinking about Tricia. I don’t know how long he’d been there, but eventually I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and looked up to find Vincent leaning against the doorframe. If I didn’t already know him personally, I might feel a little intimidated by his size. But I did know him. And besides, I wasn’t one to let intimidation stop me. Most of the time, I just sort of plowed on, regardless of the consequences.

  And that was exactly what I intended to do now. Just plow on.

  With Vincent.

  With Amber’s murderer.

  With my sister’s rapist.

  I’d just plow on.

  “I spoke to Detective Carver,” Vincent said. “The MPD is going to search McKade’s place now and invited us to tag along. See what they find. You up for it?”

  “Sure.” Surprised by the invitation, I stood, slung my purse over my shoulder, and headed toward the door. Vincent hardly moved to let me pass, and it was a bit of a squeeze. I ended up whacking him in the gut with my purse. It probably didn’t hurt much. I’d seen his abs that morning. But maybe it would teach him to get out of my way when I’m in the mood to plow.

  I gave him a smug look, and he only laughed. “On a mission?”

  I looked at him over my shoulder. “You have no idea.”

  He followed me to the truck, unlocked my door, and opened it for me like a gentleman. See, a good gut shot now and then makes a man more attentive. At least in my experience.

  I slid onto the sizzling bench seat and put on my seatbelt, clicking it into place with unnecessary firmness.

  “Something happen in there?”

  “No,” I lied.

  What could I say? Why, yes. As a matter of fact, a piece of evidence I stole in a rape case involving my own sister might have resulted in finding the perpetrator.

  My lifelong quest was that much closer to being solved, and I was torn. I had an obligation to Amber and, of course, a personal stake in that I didn’t want to end up murdered too. I might be on my way to help catch a killer, but I could still check my email and see if Lia had come through. I whipped out my phone.

  I didn’t worry about how rude it was to be fooling around on the web in a social setting, although my mother would certainly disapprove. I had bigger things to worry about than explaining myself to Mark Vincent, who was here today and gone tomorrow. This was about justice for my sister.

  I managed to access my email, and while I waited for it to log on to my account, my nerves went into hyperdrive. Maybe I was getting all worked up over nothing. Maybe Lia hadn’t had time to send the files. Maybe the match wouldn’t be promising.

  My inbox flashed on the screen, and there it was. An email from Lia. I opened it with shaky fingers and scrolled down. The files were attached as a PDF. I glanced at Vincent.

  He was staring hard ahead, focused on the road, so I opened the file. First, I found the two fingerprints: the one I’d sent her and the one from AFIS. Next, I saw the page I’d been looking for. The information on the suspect that Lia said was a close match.

  I panned down.

  There wasn’t much there. No address, phone number, or name. Definitely no GPS tracking coordinates. Most of the lines were blank. There was only one thing.

  The record showed that the unknown subject’s prints had been discovered in conjunction with an aggravated assault case several counties over.

  He could also be the man who raped my sister and ruined my family.

  Or he could be perfectly innocent. The prints might not match. I would have to do a comparison by hand. That was a time-consuming practice, and I dreaded it.

  First, though, I had to make it through the day alive, catch Amber’s killer, and get back in my own house and out of Vincent’s protective custody.

  I closed the PDF, logged off my email account, and closed the web browser.

  “Everything okay?” I found Vincent observing me in much the same way I’d been looking at him this morning when he was watching his son with such pain.

  I knew he suspected something bigger was happening, but I wasn’t going to share.

  “Yeah,” I said as I put my phone in my purse and looked at my surroundings. I was surprised to find that we were surrounded by brick ranch-style houses. We were already in McKade’s neighborhood.

  Vincent was occasionally glancing at me as he drove. “You sure everything’s okay?”

  His expression told me he wasn’t going to drop his line of questioning, and since we were in the search for a murderer together, he deserved to know that his partner, who was supposed to have his back, had her head in the game. I figured it was best not to lie to him. But I wasn’t exactly going to tell him the whole truth either.

  “I just got some disturbing news.”

  “More disturbing than the fact that someone has likely marked you for death?”

  I gave him what I hoped was a long-suffering look. “Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten about that.”

  “You’re sure you’re fine?”

  I cleared my throat. “Yes. Just trying to focus on what’s important.”

  “And that is…”

  �
��Making sure I don’t get myself killed.”

  “Good.”

  We were almost to McKade’s house when he said, “We’re just here to watch. Not participate.” I glared at him. “Carver wanted me to tell you.”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  “Best to keep a low profile.”

  “I’m sick of hearing that.”

  “Detective Carver wants us to stay in the truck.” He glanced at me, assessing. “McKade could be armed, and if he’s after you, it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  I threw up my hands. “Why are we even here then?” It was pointless to hang out in the truck.

  “You never know what you can observe from the outside looking in.” That sounded like a load of crap to me, but then he added, “Besides, I have no intention of sitting here once McKade is secured. As soon as we know where he is and that he is unarmed, we’re going in whether or not Detective Carver agrees.”

  I smiled.

  Police cars already lined the curb in front of McKade’s brick ranch when Vincent and I arrived. We had to park almost all the way at the beginning of the street, just twenty-five feet from the stop sign.

  “What are we going to be able to see from here?”

  “Hell if I know.” Vincent gave me a sardonic look. “Isn’t it enough that something is being done to get you out of danger?”

  I rolled my eyes and cranked the window down. “Well, if I knew we were going to have to wait out here in Timbuktu, I would have stayed in the air conditioning and waited for a phone call.”

  He didn’t respond.

  We sat. And sat and sat.

  Finally, my phone rang. I checked the screen. It was Tripp.

  I shot Vincent a look. “See, we could have stayed home.”

  I spoke into the phone. “Find anything?”

  “We found a shitload of guns. We got the Tracker case and owner’s manual, but not the revolver.”

  “Is McKade there?”

  “No show, but we need to bring him in.”

  Those words had just left Tripp’s mouth and made their way through the air waves, or however they travel, to my ear when I saw McKade sauntering up the cross street with a brown paper bag in his hand. No doubt there was a bottle in that bag. I was guessing something classy. Malt liquor sounded about right.