Walking Shadows

by Faye Kellerman

  “Thanks, Rina,” McAdams said. “Can I print these pages off your laptop? I don’t want to transfer them to my home computer.”

  “Sure, send them to me and I’ll print everything for you,” Rina said. “Does anyone want breakfast? I can get some fresh bagels.”

  “Don’t put yourself out,” McAdams said.

  “I want to get out anyway,” Rina said. “I need to clear my head.”

  “Why?” Decker asked. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Nothing, really,” Rina said. “Just a lot of buzzing and static. Nothing that a good walk won’t take care of.”

  Decker looked up. “If you’re going out, take the car. After the break-in at Lennie’s apartment, I don’t want you alone and vulnerable.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

  “Says the woman who was nearly attacked a year ago. After what happened at Lennie’s apartment, it’s possible that we’re all being watched. If you need to walk, go to the gym and hop on a treadmill. If you’re going to get bagels, please take the car.”

  “Fine.” Rina picked up her purse and a recycled paper bag.

  “Check your mirrors.” As she left, Decker shouted, “And keep your phone handy.”

  Without answering, she closed the front door and tried not to get too annoyed. That was Peter: worried about everyone’s safety.

  Except, of course, his own.

  Gregg Levine’s statement to the police was complete and unredacted. Decker read it several times, poring over the jumbled words, hearing a young, disoriented man of twenty trying to make sense of the horror he had just witnessed. Haltingly, Levine portrayed a story. The shock of seeing his parents shot—blood and brains spattered across the walls—must have etched a gruesome image in his brain for life. Who knew what kind of nightmares Gregg Levine had suffered throughout the years. There had been rumors that his father had been angry at the young man’s party lifestyle and had threatened to cut him off. But since Decker couldn’t find anything in the files to substantiate the rumor, he put it down to empty chatter.

  No other witnesses were found. The shops in the surrounding area were all closed as everything took place in the wee hours of the morning. No one was found wandering the neighborhood, and no one heard shots fired. The files did contain statements about the Levines from friends, neighbors, and people who knew them from business or their local synagogue. No one had a bad word to say about the couple. Several people did mention Mitch and Margot Flint as people to look into. But by the time the murders had occurred, the Flints were long gone—deep underground.

  Brandon Gratz and Kyle Masterson were arrested about a month after the crime. Neither one had been interviewed before, and how the police got that information was up for grabs. There was a reward of ten thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest. If it was claimed, there was no mention of it in the files.

  The confession statements came seventeen hours after the arrests. Decker rarely got confessions from professional robbers. Almost everybody—from the most sophisticated criminals to the lowliest punks—knew to lawyer up as soon as the police brought them into the interview room. After finding purloined jewelry in their possession, the men admitted the robbery, but they never copped to the murders.

  It was generally a bad strategy to admit to anything. Decker had to wonder if there was some kind of off-the-record deal, because the perps got twenty years to life with a chance of parole for a double murder instead of life without parole, which would have been more appropriate. If there was more to the story, the two convicted killers weren’t talking.

  Rina had returned from her bagel foray. “Safe and sound.” She kissed her husband’s head. “All that worrying for nothing.”

  “It must serve a purpose for me. Otherwise I wouldn’t bother.”

  “Yes, the purpose being to drive me crazy,” Rina said.

  “Harsh.”

  “What have you learned about the Levine murders?”

  “Nothing that I didn’t already know.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “As long as you bought fresh bagels, I might as well be a gentleman and eat. Toasted everything bagel with cream cheese, please.”

  “Just because you said please.” She looked at McAdams. “Tyler?”

  “Same, thanks.”

  Decker went back to reading. Victor Baccus was the lead investigator. Other detectives involved were George Tor, Jack Newsome, Harvey Jacques, and Ben Pearson. He turned to McAdams and scratched his head. “Newsome seems to work directly under Baccus. The other detectives more or less float in and out.”

  “Yeah, I’ll go along with that.”

  Entering Jack Newsome on the Hamilton PD website, Decker learned that the man had retired over a decade ago. “Tyler, find out all you can about Newsome, including where he is now.”

  “Is he still alive?”

  “No idea, but that should be easy enough to find out. If he is still with us, I’d like to talk to him.” Decker’s cell rang. It was Radar. After listening, Decker hung up and said, “The captain wants us down at the station house. They found some things on the tape. Nothing definitive, but enough to warrant a second pair of eyes. Also, the lab got a kinship DNA match between Jennifer Neil and one of the blood samples taken at the Boch house. It looks like Brady Neil was killed at the Boch house, although most of the blood wasn’t his. The vast majority belonged to a kinship match with Jaylene Boch.”

  McAdams clucked his tongue. “Boch being the intended target and Brady was collateral damage.”

  “Maybe, but he’s just as dead.”

  “But it shifts the focus of the investigation onto Boch rather than Brady Neil. And Joseph Boch is not our murder case.”

  “But we need to find answers for Joseph Boch’s murder to solve Brady Neil’s homicide. The cases are still linked even if Neil was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Decker started stacking the file papers. “Help me clean up. I’ll store everything in my gun safe.”

  Rina brought them wrapped bagel sandwiches. “I’ll look up Jack Newsome if you want. Spell it for me.”

  Decker complied. “Thanks, that will help.”

  “Did Radar say what he spotted on the CCTV?” Rina wanted to know.

  “No, he was cagey. Oh. Important. I got permission to visit Brandon Gratz in prison tomorrow.”

  “And you still think that’s necessary even if Brady was an innocent victim?” McAdams said.

  Rina said, “Why do you think he’s an innocent victim?”

  Decker said, “I’ll explain later. Yes, I still want to talk to Brandon Gratz. I’ve got a lot of questions.” He looked at Rina. “Want to keep me company? It’s a three-hour ride one-way.”

  “Of course I’ll come. I just got Friends Divided on audiobooks. It’s about Adams and Jefferson, and the reviews I’ve read make it sound a lot more political than dense, dull history.”

  “Do I really want to hear something political?”

  “Yes, you do. There’s comfort in knowing that human nature never changes.”

  Chapter 21

  “They enter the lobby . . . you can see them walking up the steps, heads down wearing hoodies,” Radar said. “They step out of the range of the camera, but we see the door to the building opening and a set of shoes walking inside.”

  “How’d they get the door open?” McAdams said.

  “No idea. It’s out of the camera’s range.”

  “Can you go back a few frames?” When Radar complied, McAdams said, “What’s this guy carrying up the steps? It looks larger than a briefcase.”

  Decker said, “Some kind of man purse. Big enough for a laptop.”

  The two figures disappeared out of range. Radar ejected the security disc. “Now this one is from the camera inside the lobby.” He put on another disc. “As soon as they walk through the door, one of them heads toward the back where the elevator is. He’s the bigger of the two guys.”

  “He’s also the one with the man
purse,” McAdams said.

  “He is,” Radar said. “The thinner guy puts his hand over the lobby camera lens for around twenty minutes. The film goes dark. I’ll fast-forward through that.” A pause. “Okay. Here we go. They’re now leaving, walking with their backs to the camera.”

  “And fatter guy is carrying the man purse, where the Levine files were stashed.”

  “Probably.” Radar paused the machine. “Baccus said she hasn’t seen anyone stalking her house before.”

  “I wasn’t looking,” she said. “I should have been more vigilant, but I think I would have noticed two guys loitering around.”

  “Any strange cars?” Decker asked.

  Lennie shrugged then shook her head. “There are always cars parked outside the building. I honestly didn’t notice. Stupid.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Decker said. “I’m sure you’ll see things now that you’ve never seen before.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  Decker turned to Radar. “Could you play the second disc again, but on slo-mo?”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “I’ll let you know if I see it.”

  The group once again witnessed the disc frame by frame. Decker said, “Stop. Right there. Okay. The guys obviously didn’t want to be recognized: hoods over their heads, long sleeves, long pants. But look here at the heavier-set dude. When he raises his hand to adjust carrying the man purse, his sleeve rides up. Could you advance it a frame?”

  Radar complied.

  “Another one. Another. Another. Okay. Stop.” Decker pointed to the monitor. “His wrist and a third of his forearm is showing. That blotch on his skin. I think it’s a tattoo.”

  “You’re right,” Lennie said.

  “Every single criminal between the ages of three and three hundred has a tattoo,” McAdams said.

  “And each one is a little different,” Decker said. “You work with what you have. We should get it enhanced to get some detail out of it.”

  “I’ll get it to a lab,” Radar said.

  Lennie was squinting at the screen. McAdams said, “What are you staring at?”

  “You can see the back of the thin guy’s hand in this frame . . . before he raises his hand and covers the lens . . .”

  “And?”

  “For some reason, to me it doesn’t look like the hand of a young person.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Decker concurred. “It looks mottled.”

  “Liver spots,” she said. “Hamilton has an aging population. Anyone with a brain leaves.” She sighed. “My dad always assigns me cases dealing with the elderly—aging people who are confused and angry. Someone calls the police to get them to calm down. I think this guy is older. Not old, but in his sixties, maybe?”

  “Good observation,” Decker said. “So it looks like we’re working with two older men who stole a twenty-year-old police file.”

  McAdams said, “Maybe they were cops on the case who want to find out if the files have something incriminating in them.”

  “But it’s been redacted.”

  “Maybe they don’t know that.”

  “Then following the logic, we should be looking for old detectives who were involved with the Levine murder cases.”

  “And one of them might have an arm tattoo,” McAdams said.

  Decker said. “That should narrow down our list of suspects.”

  “It could have been a patrolman,” Radar pointed out. “Doesn’t have to be a detective.”

  “Absolutely,” Decker said.

  McAdams said, “It could be that these two guys aren’t cops, you know. Maybe a crooked cop hired someone to steal the files.”

  “No, I disagree,” Decker said. “You don’t hire a criminal to get something for you if it contains potentially damaging information about you. He’ll read it and then he has something over you. I’ll bet you that these guys were involved in the Levine case.”

  Radar nodded. “Look through the files, as thin as they are, and make a list of everyone who worked the case.”

  “We can do that. But if the guy’s name is redacted, I’m not going to find it. But”—Decker smiled—“I can interview the cops we do have names for and ask them about it.” A pause. “If I go that route, it’s going to get back to Victor Baccus. How do you want to handle it?”

  “I’ve got to think about that,” Radar said. “Let’s enhance the image first and make sure it is a tattoo.”

  Decker nodded, then turned to Lennie. “And you positively don’t remember seeing strange men hanging around your house?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” She looked up from the screen. “But I’ll certainly remember them now.”

  Radar said, “Let’s get some names from the file, and we’ll start checking off people tomorrow.”

  Decker said, “I won’t be at work tomorrow morning. I’ve got a date with Bergenshaw.”

  “Who’s Bergenshaw?” Lennie asked.

  “It’s not a who, it’s a what,” Radar said. “It’s a maximum-security prison.”

  “Brandon Gratz?”

  “Brandon Gratz,” Decker echoed.

  It was a perfect day for a trip to the penitentiary. They started early Monday morning, when the air was still cool, but within an hour, the day had turned warm and the bugs and birds were fully awake in a silky blue sky. As the sun rose, its light and heat were filtered through the leafy boughs of the forest trees. Since the highways were jammed with weekday traffic, Decker elected to drive the back roads even though it added time to the trip. They passed miles of untamed foliage and rode over several one-lane bridges that spanned creeks and rias. Eventually he merged onto the tollway where the idyllic surroundings turned into a blurred background of industrial gray.

  Rina wore a purple sundress that fell below her knees and a light white shirt to cover her arms. Decker was dressed in a suit and tie befitting his role as a law enforcement agent. All the while, they listened to the audio CD of their chosen book while drinking coffee and eating breakfast sandwiches that Rina had prepared from scratch. The time passed quickly, and they made it to the gate around ten in the morning. The prison was newer and medium-sized, with two guard towers and thick, high cement walls covered with barbed wire.

  Decker had added Rina’s name to the roster. A while back, at his behest, the department had given her a civilian badge that gave her some kind of police standing. Still, the guard was unsure about letting her through the gate. But Decker remained calm, and eventually they were both cleared and he inched the old Volvo into the parking lot.

  Rina said, “I suppose I should have worn something dull and official.”

  “He was just being a jerk.” Decker pulled into a visitor’s parking space. “Petty bureaucrat.”

  “In all fairness to him, I could be hiding something under my petticoat.”

  “Petticoat? How quaint.” Decker turned off the ignition. “That’s why there are metal detectors. Do you want to come in, or would you rather wait in the car?”

  “How grubby is it?”

  “Never been inside here, but it’s a prison. You can’t come in the interview room, but there is a waiting room.”

  She took out her phone. “Take your time. I wanted to look up some stuff anyway. And I have a book. As long as I have something to read and coffee to drink, I’m fine.”

  “They’re giving me a half hour with Gratz. Before we meet, I’m going to check the visitors’ log to see who he’s been talking to. I’ll probably be an hour or so, unless he shuts me down.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Criminals are not cooperative people.” He gave her the keys to the car. Then he leaned over and kissed her. “Lock the doors.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” Decker walked toward the entrance to the cement fortress, which held not one but two sally ports. Then he was checked by guards. Since he wasn’t carrying his service gun, he proceeded to a metal detector. On the other side was the front desk to
the prison. After presenting the paperwork, he was given the current month’s visitor log to look over. There were a lot of inmates who had entertained company over the past thirty days. Decker started by checking the names one by one.

  Three weeks before the murder, Brady Neil had signed in to visit his father. It had been on a Tuesday. Decker looked at the previous Tuesday, but he didn’t find Brady’s name. He went back and began to reread the names in the log, making sure he didn’t miss anything. As far as Decker could tell, Brady had visited his father just one time in the previous month.

  The next step was to check last month’s log. But since time was growing short, it seemed more economical to just ask Brandon about it. If he was uncooperative, Decker could always come back and scour through the previous logs, looking for Brady’s name.

  He handed the book back to the desk clerk. She was tall and rangy with short gray hair. Maybe in her early sixties and probably once in law enforcement. She looked at Decker’s signature and checked it against his driver’s license. “It’ll take a few minutes.”

  “That’s fine,” he said. “I’m ready whenever they are.”

  “Just finalizing your paperwork. Take a seat.”

  Decker sat.

  A few minutes turned into a quarter hour. Eventually, a tan-uniformed guard picked him up and led him through a labyrinth of hallway and into an interview room. It had a steel table and four chairs, all the furniture bolted to a cement floor. It took another ten minutes before the prisoner was led in. He was handcuffed in back but wasn’t wearing leg irons.

  In his fifties, Brandon Gratz had a broad chest and big, long arms. His hair, silver in color, was clipped short. His salt-and-pepper beard was thick over his chin but well trimmed on his cheeks, exposing a faint scar running down the left side of his face. His eyes were a skeptical, milky blue; his nose was crooked; and his lips were thin. He was wearing orange prison scrubs and step-in orange shoes. He nodded to Decker, and Decker nodded back.

  Gratz said, “Can I take the cuffs off?”

  “Fine with me, but I don’t make the rules,” Decker said.