Fatal Judgment

by Irene Hannon

  At this stage, that was her only option.

  But she prayed Reynolds had left a clue somewhere that would put Jake and his law-enforcement counterparts on his trail. That was her best hope of survival.

  The door swung open. Reynolds spared her no more than a quick glance as he stepped inside, a white deli-type bag in his hands, a newspaper tucked under his arm. As he set the bag on the table, the paper slipped and fell to the floor—landing close enough for her to read the headline of the Monday morning edition.

  FEDERAL JUDGE ABDUCTED

  SISTER SLAIN IN JUDGE’S HOME IN OCTOBER

  What captured her attention, however, were the photos. Her official court portrait was prominently displayed—but she focused on the shot of her neighbors. Harold’s arm was around Delores’s shoulders, and underneath was a bold quote: “He said if we didn’t cooperate, he’d kill us.”

  Harold was safe.

  She could now attempt her escape without worrying that it would put him in danger. Relief coursed through her.

  Tugging off his leather gloves, Reynolds picked up the paper and waved it in her face. “We made the front page, Judge.”

  She recoiled, lifting her hands in an automatic gesture of defense.

  The next thing she knew, her arm was taken in a crushing grip. His eyes narrowed as he examined her abraded wrist. Then he checked the other one. She tried not to shake as he stared at her with cold eyes that contained not a flicker of empathy.

  “You aren’t going to escape your due this time, Judge.”

  Turning his back, he sat at the table and proceeded to eat a poor boy sandwich.

  Despite her lack of appetite, Liz’s stomach growled. And when he took a drink of water, the dryness in her mouth intensified. If he continued to withhold food and water, she’d begin to weaken. That would make it far more difficult to muster the strength to deliver a blow hard enough to disable him.

  Time was running out.

  On the next trip to the privy, she was going to have to give her escape plan her best shot.

  “How much longer do you want to give this guy?”

  At Jake’s irritated question, Special Agent Nick Bradley crossed an ankle over a knee and leaned back in the leather chair in Jarrod Williams’s plush office. “Five minutes?”

  That was four minutes too long, as far as Jake was concerned. He narrowed his eyes at the thirtysomething, sandy-haired agent with the all-American-boy look. “Max.”

  They’d already been cooling their heels for almost fifteen minutes. Jake suspected Jarrod had hightailed it out the side door when his secretary had called to tell him he had visitors. She’d stalled for a couple of minutes, then shown them to the man’s office with the promise he’d be back shortly.

  Right.

  No doubt the guy’s delay was a statement. He was doing his best to disrupt their investigation. Practicing what he preached.

  But Jake didn’t have the patience for his games. Not with Liz’s life hanging in the balance.

  Just as he was about to suggest they start putting some pressure on the secretary to round up Jarrod, the side door opened and a tall, spare man with a full head of white hair joined them. Dressed in a well-tailored suit, crisp white dress shirt, and silk tie, he exuded confidence—and the charisma Mark had mentioned. The man’s attire was in marked contrast to Jake’s wrinkled khakis, open-neck cotton shirt, and scuffed leather jacket. Too bad he hadn’t had a chance to go home long enough to shave and put on a suit. Another reason to let Nick, in his dark gray power suit, take the lead with Jarrod, as they’d agreed on the way over.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How can I be of help?”

  After they shook hands, introduced themselves, and handed over business cards, Nick wasted no time on preliminaries.

  “We have a few questions about your Patriot Constitutionalists organization, Mr. Williams. We have reason to believe the person who killed Judge Elizabeth Michaels’s sister and abducted the judge herself on Sunday may be a member of your group.”

  Jarrod raised an eyebrow as he took his seat behind his desk. “I don’t advocate violence, gentlemen. If you’ve investigated me enough to know about my organization, I suspect you know that as well.”

  “We’re not suggesting you aided or abetted this person.” Nick fixed him with a steady look. “But there are zealots in any group. People who take extreme measures. Perhaps misinterpret directives. What we’d like to know is whether you think anyone who belongs to your group might be capable of the kind of violence that’s been perpetrated against the judge and her sister.”

  Resting his elbows on his desk, Jarrod steepled his fingers. “It’s not a group in the sense you’re suggesting. It’s simply a loose collection of individuals who happen to believe, as I do, that our government needs reforming. I keep no membership roster. People may come and go as they choose without making any sort of commitment.”

  “But I’m sure you’re familiar with the regulars,” Nick pressed, maintaining an even tone. “And I would think you’d know whether any of them have a propensity toward violence.”

  “I’m sorry, Agent”—he referred to the card on his desk—“Bradley. When people come to my meetings, I promise them their presence will be known only to me and them. I can’t violate their trust.”

  Jake stepped in, fixing the man with an intent look as he leaned forward. “Mr. Williams, let me put it this way. We have one murder on our hands already. We don’t want another one. But that’s what we’ll have if we don’t get some helpful information quickly.”

  For several moments Jarrod regarded him, his expression cool and unflinching. “Perhaps you could tell me why you think someone in my organization is involved.”

  They’d anticipated that question. Drawing a copy of the kidnapper’s letter out of the portfolio on his lap, Nick handed it over in silence.

  A frown appeared on Jarrod’s brow as he read it.

  “I’m sure you recognize the sovereign citizenship language,” Jake said when he finished.

  Passing the letter back to Nick, Jarrod once more steepled his fingers. “Many of those thoughts do represent principles of current-day patriots. But as I noted before, I don’t advocate violence. There are peaceful means to achieving our ends. I would never condone murder or kidnapping.”

  “A misguided follower who’s checked out other sovereign citizen groups on the Net might believe that’s the next step in the professed battle to save America,” Nick countered.

  Jarrod lifted his hands palms up and shrugged. “What can I say? It’s possible. But I can’t take responsibility for someone who’s chosen to resort to extreme measures.”

  They were getting nowhere.

  “Where were you on Sunday between the hours of 11:00 and 1:00, Mr. Williams?” Nick asked.

  The question seemed to surprise the older man. “Am I a suspect?”

  Nick countered with a question of his own. “Do you have an objection to telling us your whereabouts?”

  The ghost of a smile flickered at his lips. “I was at church. My pastor and dozens of people will vouch for that. First Congregational. Pastor Adam Burnett.”

  Shooting Jake a look, Nick closed his portfolio and stood. “If you think of anything that could help prevent a second murder, we’d appreciate a call.”

  “Of course.”

  As they exited the man’s offices and headed down the hall to the elevator, Nick turned to Jake. “What do you think?”

  “Either he truly believes no one in his group is responsible, or he’s a very good liar.”

  “Yeah.” Nick pressed the elevator button. “We’ll check out the church, but I think that’s going to be a dead end.”

  “I agree. We could get a search warrant for his home and office to see if we can find a Patriot Constitutionalists roster, but even if we did uncover one—and I doubt it exists in any sort of easily recognizable form—we’d have to run intel on every single person. That would take time we don’t have.”

&
nbsp; The door opened, and they moved inside.

  “It might still be worth doing. Let’s regroup at the operations center. See if the profilers have weighed in yet.” Nick selected the lobby button.

  As the elevator descended, Jake’s spirits plummeted as well. The visit with Jarrod had yielded nothing. The profilers were unlikely to tell them much more than they’d already surmised. The odds of the abductor’s fingerprints or DNA being on the letter or envelope were miniscule, based on past experience.

  They needed a break. Badly.

  And they needed it fast.

  Please, Lord!

  The desperate, silent entreaty came unbidden, from deep within his soul, surprising him.

  But he let it stand. Because while he and God might not be on the best of terms, they needed all the help they could get to find Liz before it was too late.

  19

  ______

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you need a new furnace.”

  As Bill Lewis, the repairman from Premier Heating and Cooling, pronounced his verdict, Patricia let out a disgusted sigh. “Can you do anything to make it run for just a couple more days? My brother gets back tomorrow night, and I’d rather leave this decision to him.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s a twenty-year-old unit that’s been patched and repaired too often already. I could try to shore her up for a few days, but it would be like throwing money into a black hole. The valves are corroded, and the heat exchanger has several cracks. There’s also a lot of rust in the manifold tube going into the gas valve from the main line. To be honest, I think there’s a serious risk of a carbon monoxide leak.”

  Patricia had no idea what half of that meant, but none of it sounded good.

  “If you have an electric space heater, that could keep the chill off the bedroom at night and the kitchen during the day, until your brother gets back,” the man suggested.

  “I’ll have to look around.” She hadn’t seen one, but it was possible Marty had one in the basement. If not, she could always buy a cheap unit to tide her over. Or maybe his hunting buddy’s wife could reach them and she could convince him to come home early. She should have thought of that sooner. “Do you have a card you could leave?”

  “Sure thing.” He withdrew one from his pocket as Josie wove around his ankles.

  “Sorry about that.” Patricia shooed her away from him. “She’s been sticking close to me too. I think she’s trying to stay warm.”

  “No problem.” He handed over the card. “We can give you prices and install a new unit within twenty-four hours once you make a decision.”

  “Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

  He quoted the amount, and she moved to the desk, where she’d left Marty’s checkbook and the check stubs. After Helen died, he’d added her name to all his accounts. Good thing. That meant she could write a check on his account for the service call.

  As she signed it, Patricia hesitated. Was she supposed to include that UCC 1-308 code he always used?

  Hesitating, she turned to the repairman. “Do you have any idea what this means? It’s on all of my brother’s checks for the past year or so.” She pointed out the notation on one of the stubs.

  He squinted at it, his expression puzzled. “I haven’t a clue. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “Me neither.” Deciding to skip it, she signed the check and handed it over, then walked him to the door. “I’m sure my brother will be in touch in a day or two.”

  “No hurry from our end. But get yourself an electric heater for tonight. It won’t be cold enough to freeze your pipes, but the house will get mighty chilly.”

  “I will. Thanks.”

  After closing the door behind him, Patricia returned to the kitchen and pulled out the phone book. Scanning the listings under Abernathy, she found two Josephs. One of them had to be Marty’s hunting pal.

  The first call was a bust. The man who answered had never heard of Marty.

  A woman picked up at the second number.

  “Mrs. Abernathy?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Patricia Reynolds. I’m trying to reach the Joe Abernathy who’s on a hunting trip with my brother, Martin Reynolds. Is this his number?”

  The silence on the other end of the line stretched so long that Patricia wondered if they’d been disconnected. “Hello? Are you still there?”

  “What did you say your name was?” There was a note of caution in the woman’s voice.

  “Patricia Reynolds. Martin’s sister. I’m staying at his house while I’m in town, and the furnace went out. I tried to call him, but his cell phone isn’t working. I was hoping your husband might have a phone with him. If he’s the Joe Abernathy who’s with my brother.”

  “Ms. Reynolds, I’m confused. I recognize your brother’s name, but my husband died three years ago.”

  Speechless, Patricia stared out the kitchen window at the shriveled, decaying maple leaves being tossed about by the frosty autumn wind, their fall beauty long faded.

  “Ms. Reynolds?”

  “Yes.” She pulled herself back to the conversation. “Perhaps I misunderstood my brother. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  “No problem. Good luck tracking him down.”

  As the phone went dead, an ominous chill settled over Patricia. Slowly she lowered the phone into its cradle. Ever since she’d arrived in St. Louis, she’d picked up strange vibes from Marty. He’d been distant, distracted, and uncommunicative. While he’d never been the most social person, they’d always been close. And they’d always managed to share some laughs.

  There’d been little laughter on this trip. And only when he’d talked about gun control had he seemed focused.

  Then there was all that material in the desk drawer. Some of it had looked kind of radical.

  Lowering herself into a kitchen chair, she propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand, unable to shake her sense of unease.

  What in the world was her brother up to?

  Although his eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep, Jake fought off his fatigue as he settled into a chair in the command post at the FBI office. Quantico was ready with a report from both the forensic team examining the letter and from the profilers, and a full contingent of FBI agents and marshals had assembled, including the SOG guys who had been filtering in over the past few hours. Jake surveyed the crowded conference room. Luke Garavaglia was at the head of the table. His own boss, Matt Warren, sat beside him. Spence was across the table.

  BlackBerry still in hand, Todd slipped back into the seat beside him. “Thanks for saving my spot.” As he tucked the phone into its holder on his belt, he inspected Jake. “When’s the last time you slept?”

  “Saturday night.”

  “You must be running on fumes.”

  Jake lifted one shoulder. “I’ll crash tonight for a while if there’s nothing new.”

  Not that he expected to sleep. How could he, when the image of Liz’s terrified eyes as her abductor had guided her out of the lobby kept strobing across his mind?

  The phone squawked to life as Luke pressed the speaker button and dropped the handset back in its cradle. “Christy, are you on the line?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. We have a full house on hand to listen to your report. For those of you here who haven’t dealt with Christy, she’s a profiler in our Behavioral Analysis Unit. Christy, you’re on.”

  “Several of us have reviewed the letter, and we all reached the same conclusion. As you suspected, we believe you’re dealing with a radical member of a sovereign citizen group. These people have often been victims of the system—on multiple occasions in some cases. That fuels their feeling of persecution. Many ascribe to conspiracy theories of one sort or another. The most radical ones get desperate and feel violence is their only option.”

  “Any thoughts on our man’s age?” Luke asked.

  “No. This movement crosses generations and all walks of life. But
I’d say you’re looking for someone who’s angry, socially isolated, and obsessed with revenge. You should assume he has access to weapons and may be well-armed. As most of you know, these sovereign citizen types have no trust in government and operate from what they believe is very high moral ground. They’re absolutely convinced their position is correct and are often willing to die for it. Timothy McVeigh is a good example of that. We saw the same phenomenon with Waco, Ruby Ridge, and the Montana Freemen. These types of people consider themselves martyrs for a greater cause.”

  “Do you think the fact the guy is playing the press angle buys us some time?” Jake threw out the question.

  “I wouldn’t count on it. These people can be very methodical and logical. Unless he wants to be discovered—which doesn’t appear to be the case, given the care he’s exercised to conceal his identity—I doubt he’ll risk holding on to the judge more than a couple of days.”

  While Christy’s answer didn’t surprise him, hearing an expert profiler confirm his own opinion did nothing to quell Jake’s growing anxiety.

  “Any other questions?” Luke glanced around the silent room. “Okay. We appreciate the input, Christy. Thanks.”

  “I hope it helps. Good luck.”

  Pushing a different button on the phone, Luke spoke again. “Sam, you with us?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Sam’s been overseeing the lab work,” Luke told the assembled group. “All right, Sam, what do you have?”

  “Not enough, I’m afraid. There’s nothing unusual about the paper the letter was written on or the envelope, and the few prints either matched the elimination prints that were sent or didn’t show up in NCIC. There’s no DNA on the adhesive, so your guy didn’t lick it.”

  No trace evidence. No prints in the National Crime Information Center database. A muscle in Jake’s jaw twitched.

  “Paul Sheehan, our handwriting expert, did confirm that the message and signature written at the bottom of the letter are the judge’s,” Sam added.