Punish the Deed (A Lucinda Pierce Mystery)

by Fanning, Diane

Agnew started the engine and said, “You know, man, it isn’t a critical situation yet. How about if we talk about your options and figure out what you really need to get your life on track? I’ll be glad to help. I mean, I work for a non-profit – that’s what I do, help people.”

  “Shut your damn pie hole. I don’t need any of your psychologist-social-worker-love chatter. Drive.”

  Agnew shifted the car into gear and eased forward. A flash of inspiration went through the mind of the man in the back seat. “Stop!” he shouted.

  Agnew eased on the brake and shifted out of gear as he brought the SUV to a stop. Encouraged, Agnew said, “See, there is a better solution for your problems.”

  “I want a notepad and a pen.”

  “Sure, sure you can make a list of your demands, your needs, and then we can go from there,” Agnew said.

  A surge of anger welled up in the back seat. The man jerked the tip of the knife into Agnew’s neck, nicking the skin and making the driver cry out. “Shut the hell up. I am pulling the knife away but you will not move. You will not speak. Or I’ll stab you so fast you’ll be burning in the eternal fires before you even know you’re dead.”

  He eased the knife from Agnew’s throat, grabbed the portfolio from the front seat, rummaged around in it and pulled out a pen and a steno pad. The man brandished the blade beneath Agnew’s eyes to make sure he wasn’t getting confident enough to make a move. The man flipped to a blank page in the pad and printed out in block letters: I WAS LEFT BEHIND.

  He jerked the knife back to Agnew’s throat. Agnew flinched, causing another small cut in the underside of his chin.

  “Unroll the window.”

  Agnew reached a finger to the button and pushed the electronic control. The man in the back seat tossed out the notepad into the parking lot. “Roll up the window,” he ordered. “And head for the highway.”

  Agnew complied.

  The man remained tense until he saw that Agnew was following the signs to the beltway. Once on that thoroughfare, the man knew he’d be able to find an exit that would take him into the countryside. He smiled. What fun! A new way to play the game and it all came together like it was meant to be. All they have now is just a note. And now, we play hide and seek with the body. He laughed out loud.

  Agnew shuddered in revulsion, ignoring the small drips of blood that fell from his neck to the wheel as he steered the SUV on to the highway. After a few miles, he took the exit when the man instructed.

  Twenty-Three

  Lucinda and Ted brainstormed and searched the database for hours. Their hunt for any other cases with a note reading “I was left behind” yielded nothing. Before today, though, they hadn’t known it was a part of the crime scene and Trivolli in Maine didn’t either. Someone else might have that note but not realize its relevance. They left the note as a descriptor on their case hoping it might jar something loose eventually.

  They also did a thorough search through every region for post-mortem broken fingers. It led them to a lot of dismemberment cases and beating deaths with overkill but nothing that seemed to fit their case here and the one in Maine. After a number of fruitless hours at the computer, Lucinda said, “What if we’re narrowing details down too much?”

  “But, Lucinda,” Ted objected, “if we hadn’t narrowed things down, we would have never found the case in Maine.”

  “Yeah, I know, but it can work both ways. Look we had an error in our victimology at first, listing Fleming as a school district employee. Then we narrowed it down specifically to Communities in Schools. What if it is bigger than that one organization? What if it is related to non-profits?”

  “Do you realize how many different non-profits there are?”

  “Yeah, that may be too broad. But what if we tie the non-profit angle into something that narrows down the nature of the organizations? What if the note connects it all? What if it has something to do with that education slogan, ‘No Child Left Behind?’”

  “So you think it’s school related?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it’s just kid related.”

  “So how do we narrow that down?” Ted asked.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

  “What does that mean, Lucinda?”

  “I’m thinking out loud here, Ted. Bear with me. Let’s say we just entered a group that we know works in the schools or a group that we know works with kids and see if anything pops up.”

  “Okay. How about Reading is Fundamental?” Ted suggested.

  “Try it,” Lucinda said.

  He tapped away, entering the information, running the searches but finding nothing.

  “Try the Make a Wish Foundation,” Lucinda suggested.

  That input provided two matches. One in Jacksonville, Florida, just a week before Shari Fleming’s murder and another nine months earlier in Philadelphia. Both looked like good leads.

  “So what now?” Ted asked. “Do we just start putting in one organization after another?”

  “No. Do a global search looking for victims connected to any non-profit. We’re less likely to miss something and we can start weeding out from there.”

  That search created an avalanche. Some were easy to eliminate, others went on the list. When they were done with scratching off the cases that were obviously not connected, they still had more than thirty cases to review. Not one of those remaining mentioned the broken fingers or the note but still they were possible connections.

  Outside the windows, the sun set without their noticing. The whole day dissolved in pursuit of their perpetrator and although they still did not know who it was, they had a wealth of leads to follow. “It’ll be easier to find the other detectives we need to contact on Monday,” Ted said.

  “Besides that, Ted, my brain is totally fried. I’ll think a lot more clearly in the morning.”

  Lucinda dawdled, straightening up her desk, waiting for Ted to leave. When he moved in her direction, she escaped to the ladies’ room. She stayed inside long enough to allow Ted time to leave the building but when she opened the door, there he was, leaning against the wall.

  “Lucinda . . .”

  “No, Ted,” she said, turning away and heading to her desk to pick up her things. She kept talking as she moved. “I gave you my terms, Ted. I told you a year ago, if you want to pursue anything beyond a working relationship with me, you need to tend to your marriage first. You need to get Ellen back on track. Then, when she’s dealt with her grief over your lost child, if the two of you decide the marriage is not worth saving, you get a mutually agreed upon divorce. Then, and only then, will I even entertain spending time with you outside of the job.”

  Ted followed her around, trying but failing to interrupt her monologue.

  She jerked to a stop. Ted stumbled as he tried not to run into her. “Ted, is that clear? Do you understand?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “No buts, Ted. That is the way it is. I am leaving now. I’d appreciate it if you’d just wait inside for a few minutes and give me a chance to pull out of the parking lot. Okay?” Without waiting for an answer she headed down the stairs and out of the building.

  The last thing she wanted to see was another note on her car. But there it was. “WHY WON’T YOU QUIT? WHY DO YOU IGNORE ME? STOP NOW. OR ELSE.”

  “Damn it!” she shouted. She spun around, looking for a silver Honda, looking for anything suspicious. “Who are you? What do you want from me? I can’t stop if I don’t know.”

  She sighed when she got no response. Then she tossed that note in the back seat with the others and drove away.

  Twenty-Four

  At 6’4”. Jake Lovett cast a long shadow down the alleyway as he walked to the back of the non-profit agency’s offices. For the most part, he was attired in the typical uniform of any FBI agent – a dark suit, striped tie and a button-down shirt – but one thing set him apart. Poking out from under the hemline of his pants was the distinctive white rubber toe of a pair of black Chucks.

  His hair was anoth
er focal point of bureau criticism. It ran a bit long by FBI standards, brushing the collar of his shirt at the back and flopping forward into his eyes at the front. Despite the obstruction, his color-shifting eyes did not miss a thing. He noted every cigarette butt, lost button and scrap of paper blown against the buildings on each side of the alleyway.

  He stepped into the parking lot that Monday morning without any illusions. He knew the D.C. cops called the bureau for two reasons and two reasons only – the political heat was high, the odds for a happy ending were low. He had to admit he was impressed that they’d thought to preserve the scene here. Not every investigator would have observed this evidence and suspected abduction.

  He disagreed, though, with their assumption that the notepad and donation checks were accidentally dropped by the victim when he was snatched. Jake thought both looked more like intentional messages. The victim had no reason to write “I WAS LEFT BEHIND” because he wasn’t; he was taken. He sensed the note was from the perpetrator. The perpetrator, on the other hand, had no reason to leave behind the checks because their presence here suggested foul play. He thought that they were a deliberate discard – a silent cry for help from the victim. And it worked – abandoned contributions from yesterday’s fundraising event were the only reason this parking lot was now considered a crime scene.

  But who did it and why? And where were they now? Was Agnew still alive? The lab would run tests on the notepad and checks but that would take time. Time Jake did not have if there was any prayer of finding Agnew alive. He needed actively to seek leads and the best way he knew to do that was to find a match in the database.

  He headed back to his Field Office on NW Fourth Street. He hung his highest hopes on the note and focused on that first. The match in Maine popped up on the screen. He called Trivolli.

  “Listen, Special Agent Lovett, I don’t think I can be much help to you. I’ve been sitting on this case and watching it turn colder every day for nearly two years. Heck, I didn’t even know that note was part of the crime scene for sure until Pierce pointed it out to me.”

  “Then can I speak to Pierce?”

  “Nah. Pierce isn’t one of ours. She works homicide down in Greensboro, Virginia.”

  “What was that name again?”

  “Pierce. Lieutenant Lucinda Pierce.”

  Jake searched the database for crimes in Greensboro and found the one he wanted. He called the Greensboro Police Department, identified himself and asked for Lieutenant Pierce. He was put on hold and then was told she wasn’t at her desk. He left a message.

  Lucinda and Ted were plotting out the day when the front desk called. “Hey, Lieutenant, I got a call here for you from a Special Agent Lovett, FBI.”

  “Special Agent, my ass. Tell the Feeb to peddle his specialness elsewhere; we’re not buying any today.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Lieutenant, you know I can’t tell him that.”

  “I know. I know. Tell him I’m not here. And you don’t know where I am. I never check in. I’m totally unreliable.”

  “Okay, Lieutenant, I’ll take a message.”

  “Don’t bother; I won’t return the call,” Lucinda said.

  The only response she got was a sigh before the call disconnected.

  She laughed. “Damn Feebs.”

  Lucinda and Ted and started making phone calls to the detectives in charge of the possible matching cases. A couple of hours later, they had significantly whittled down the list to a more manageable number of potential related homicides. A case in Atlanta last month looked very good and administrative staffs in Atlanta and Greensboro were busy scanning in reports and exchanging information. But most of the other remaining prospects were temporary dead ends. Detectives at other locales promised to call back after looking through evidence boxes and autopsy reports. While they were occupied with this endeavor, Special Agent Lovett called two more times but Lucinda continued to refuse to talk to him. She did accept the call from Lieutenant Trivolli in Maine.

  “I’ve got one for you, Pierce.”

  “Trivolli?” Lucinda asked.

  “Yep. I compared the lists and found one person who was working here at the time of the Carney murder and is now working at your school district – Steve Broderick. You know him?”

  “That figures. He’s the one person we can’t seem to find.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “Tell me about it. Did you question him about your homicide before he moved down here?”

  “More than once,” Trivolli admitted. “His wife backed his alibi for the time that Carney was killed but I never knew if I should believe her or not. To the best of our knowledge, he was the last person to see our victim alive. But aside from that, there was nothing suspicious about him. He was kind of dull and ordinary. It was hard to imagine him getting worked up enough about anything to slit someone’s throat like that.”

  “Don’t want to second guess you since I haven’t even met the guy, Trivolli, but sometimes it’s the cold, emotionless ones who are capable of the worst.”

  “I hear you. You could be right. But somehow I just couldn’t see him breaking the fingers of a victim. Boring ’em to death, maybe. Course, now that he’s shown up on your turf with a related homicide, I’m beginning to think I read him all wrong.”

  “Listen, Trivolli, it still might add up to nothing. But you’ve given me what I needed to get a search warrant to go into his place. We’ll let you know what we find.”

  “Oh by the way, Pierce, you’ll probably be getting a call from an FBI agent. He called asking about the note at the scene.”

  “He’s called. Waste of time, Trivolli. The Feebs always are,” Lucinda said.

  The other detective laughed. “Don’t need to convince me, Pierce. As you southerners would say, ‘you’re preaching to the choir.’”

  With a forcible-entry team and a handful of crime scene techs, Lucinda entered the home of Steve Broderick. There was no sign of the home’s resident, alive or dead. And no sign of a dog except for the two dishes on the floor near the back door. The techs went through each room in the house with a spray bottle of luminal and a portable long-wave UV light, squirting the chemical on spots and anything that looked recently cleaned as they sought out any signs of human blood.

  In both the bathroom and the kitchen, they found what they were seeking but the tiny droplets and little smears appeared to be caused by small cuts or nicks; none were indicative of foul play.

  Since the search warrant specified any computers in the home, Lucinda made sure her team included her favorite computer forensic geek, Alex Farina. It was his search that led to a Eureka moment.

  “Lieutenant, could you come in here?” Alex hollered down the hall. “I think I know where you’ll find Broderick.”

  Lucinda walked into the home office. “What’ve you got, Alex?”

  “Two likely locations. Broderick visited Map Quest and pulled down directions from here to a street in Jacksonville, Florida; directions from here to Baton Rouge, Louisiana; and directions from the Jacksonville address to Baton Rouge. I’d say he wasn’t certain where he’d head first but wanted to go to both places. You want me to print them out?”

  “Yeah. But no street address in Baton Rouge?” Lucinda asked.

  “No, Ma’am. Not sure what that means,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe he knows that city well enough that he doesn’t need directions once he gets there.”

  “I’ll look into that,” Lucinda said. But her mind was already elsewhere. His car is in the driveway. He wouldn’t need driving directions unless he had a car. “Did he log on to any car-rental sites?”

  “I didn’t see any and didn’t see any confirmations in his emails. But there’s always a possibility that he deleted information. I’ll have to get the PC down to the lab and clone the hard drive before I can dig for that.”

  “Thanks, Alex,” she said and picked up her cell to call Ted. She asked him to contact the two police departments in the suspect cities to get them l
ooking out for Steve Broderick and to get someone busy calling all the car-rental outlets looking for him as a customer in the days before or after the murder.

  While she was talking, a tech pushed a cell-phone bill into her hand. “And Ted, I’ve got a cell phone number. Get the D.A.’s office to set up a pen register so we ping his location if he uses the phone.”

  “Will do. When do you think you’ll be back in?”

  “I’m not sure how much longer we’ll be here. Why, Ted?”

  “You really need to call back that Lovett guy from the FBI.”

  “And why do I need to do that, Sergeant Branson?” Lucinda bristled.

  “Don’t get all bitchy on me, Lucinda. He’s been calling here every fifteen or twenty minutes, driving the front desk crazy.”

  “Tough,” Lucinda said as an incoming call beeped its signal in her ear. “Gotta run, Ted.” She pushed the button, waited for the phone to click over, and then said, “Pierce.”

  “Do you ever return phone calls, Pierce?”

  “Captain? I didn’t know you called.”

  “I haven’t, Pierce. An FBI agent has been trying to reach you for hours. He must have left a dozen messages.”

  “I’ve been busy, Captain. I’m in the middle of an active homicide investigation.”

  “Yes, I know, Pierce. So is the FBI. I need you back here, in my office, now.” Captain Holland disconnected the call before she had a chance to object.

  Twenty-Five

  Lucinda jerked away from the curb, nearly sideswiping the police vehicle parked in front of her. She stopped the car. Already angry, Lucinda’s outrage soared when she was forced to acknowledge that her monocular vision was even less reliable when she was ticked off. She knew, though, that she could not let her emotions overtake the lessons she’d learned in her visual therapy sessions. She suppressed the ire she felt at the FBI, her captain and her limitations for the time being.

  She ignored the screaming voice in the back of her mind as she navigated the streets back to the station. But it was persistent. Echoes of creative scatological commentary made her grin as she imagined saying them out loud. At last, she was safely parked and able to give rein to her angry thoughts. When she was on foot, she could trust her subconscious mind to make the necessary depth adjustments to the flat aspect she perceived through her one eye.