Now the future scared him to death. He had no way to tell her that it would be okay; that she would emerge on the other side of this as a better, stronger person. Because the very real possibility existed that she wouldn’t.
He could do his best to convince her otherwise, but Paul never once lied to his daughter about anything, and he wasn’t about to start now. All he could do was promise to be there for her; to help soften her fall the same way Julia did. He knew it wouldn’t be the same, but he was prepared to try nonetheless.
The instant he saw Camille emerge from the lobby elevator, he ran to her. She looked as if she wanted to run too, but her legs could barely carry her beyond the elevator door. When he reached her he took her in his arms and pulled her head into his chest. Camille sobbed, but otherwise didn’t move. When he released her and looked into her eyes, he saw nothing. Though they appeared to make eye contact, it felt like she was looking through him at something else that wasn’t actually there. Sixty-one years of life had done nothing to prepare him for the overwhelming sense of dread he felt at that moment. He did everything in his power not to let Camille see that dread. He had serious doubts that he succeeded.
“Come on sweetheart,” he said with a gentle smile as he kissed her on the forehead. “Let’s get you home.”
CHAPTER 15
Lieutenant Owen Hitchcock shook his head as he flipped through the medical examiner’s summary of evidence.
“This is very grim,” he said, not taking his eyes off the report.
Graham and Sullivan sat across from Hitchcock’s desk in silence, neither of them eager to offer a reply.
Hitchcock took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So where are we at?” he asked no one in particular.
Graham cleared his throat and began reading from his own copy of the summary. “An autopsy is being performed as we speak. According to the report from the medical examiner on scene, the victim was shot four times. Double tap entry just above the sternum, one in the abdomen, and one through the left hand – probably defensive. There were also two ligature marks on her body: one on the left side of her neck measuring approximately four inches, and one around her right wrist. The ME has no explanation for them as of yet.”
“Does that mean she was shot and strangled?” Hitchcock asked, his narrow eyes burrowing into Graham. Owen Hitchcock was a slight man, almost sickly in his appearance. But his presence was as powerful as a man three times his size. He was only fifty-two, but his thick mane of hair was already fully gray. He always seemed slightly thinner than he was the day before. Today his shirt collar fit too loosely around his neck. No surprise, given the fact that he had to deal with cases like this on a daily basis.
“We don’t know,” Graham responded.
“That level of violence certainly isn’t common in home invasion cases,” Sullivan offered.
“Nothing about this is common,” Hitchcock responded. “Shooting the victim four times at close range is bad enough. Strangling her on top of it is complete overkill.”
“Crime of passion,” Graham said as if it were statement of fact.
“But there’s no evidence of a sexual assault,” Sullivan countered.
“Which is the other baffling thing,” Hitchcock added. “Right now we’re operating on two theories. The first is that this was some random home invasion. The second is that the victim knew her assailant and the robbery became a secondary event.”
“Stephen Clemmons,” Graham said.
“Unfortunately his connection to the victim is purely circumstantial at this point,” Sullivan responded.
Graham shot her a look that would have likely killed the average person where they stood. “You’re talking to me about circumstantial? My God, Chloe. Are you a homicide detective or a prosecutor?”
“Mock me if you want to, Walter. But you know what I’m saying is true.”
“At any rate, those are the two theories we’re working with,” Hitchcock interjected. “From the pictures I’ve seen, Julia Leeds was a very attractive woman. She was alone. More times than not, particularly in a home invasion scenario where the perpetrators go so far as to kill the victim, there is some sort of sexual assault involved.”
“I agree,” Graham said. “But maybe the assailant didn’t have time. In terms of the crime of passion angle, I’ve seen plenty of instances where no sex assault took place. Those acts are usually based on rage, not power or sexual gratification.”
Sullivan immediately responded. “The only issue I have with that theory is the lack of physical evidence. If this were a crime of passion, if Julia did know her assailant, wouldn’t there have been some kind of confrontation? Some sign of a struggle? Where are the clumps of hair or traces of skin under her fingernails?”
Graham shook his head. “Who says she even had time to put up a fight?”
“And what about the dogs?” she added. “They were both shot downstairs. One in the kitchen near the sliding door where the assailant entered the house, and one in the living room near the staircase. You would think she would have been roused from her sleep either by their barking or the gunshots.”
“The dogs were Dalmatians, so they probably always barked,” Graham asserted. “And as far as the gunshots are concerned, it’s likely the perp used a suppressor.” He paused, looking at both Sullivan and Hitchcock with the same irritated expression. “I don’t really understand where you’re going with all of this.”
“That’s the point, Walter. None of us understand a goddamn thing about what happened here,” Hitchcock said. “Believe me, I want this Clemmons angle to pan out more than anyone, but right now I’m just not seeing a concrete connection.”
Graham’s brow furrowed. “Lieutenant, the victim’s car was found on the same block where Clemmons lives. His own car matches the description given by her neighbor to a tee. Clemmons and the victim worked in the same law firm. I don’t know how much more of a connection you need?”
“Has he ever been fingerprinted?” Hitchcock asked in a measured voice.
Sullivan flipped through her report. “Yes he has. He was arrested as a juvenile for breaking into a car. The charge against him was reduced to a misdemeanor and he never served any time, but he was fingerprinted nonetheless.”
“And do his prints match any found at the crime scene?”
“So far no fingerprints have been recovered from the scene except for those belonging to the victim. No skin, hair, or fibers either.”
Hitchcock sighed as he began reading from the evidence summary again. “It says here the victim was found in the bathroom, yet there were splatter patterns on the bed. Was she moved to the bathroom after she was shot? If so why? That would be an awful lot of trouble to go to for a simple home invasion. There’s also the matter of the dogs. The fact that they were shot in two different locations in the house lends credence to Walt’s theory that the assailant used a silencer. But how many common burglars, or jilted lovers for that matter, use a silencer? Has ballistics determined the caliber of the gun used?”
Sullivan flipped through a few more pages of the report. “Five bullet fragments were recovered, all belonging to a Remington .45 ACP hollow point.”
“You’re kidding me,” Hitchcock said, his mouth hanging open. “That’s military grade.”
“How many meth-heads or law firm mail clerks do you know who carry around an MK23?” Sullivan quipped.
Graham laughed. “So now were speculating that this was some sort of special-forces assassination? Is that how desperate we’re getting?”
Hitchcock shook his head. “Of course not. But this wasn’t some strung out junkie looking to pawn a television for a hit, either. This person was patient, they scouted well ahead, and they knew they had time. My guess, evidence notwithstanding, is that there was only one person. The more people involved in something like this, the messier the scene gets. This scene wasn’t messy. We know that there were at least eight shots fired, two in each dog and four in Julia Leeds. Yet there wasn’t a sing
le shell casing found anywhere. The perp knew how to clean up after himself.”
“But the house was completely ransacked,” Sullivan said. “Not only was her car stolen, but it was evident that several large items were taken out of the house. Burglary was an obvious motive.” She took a deep breath and rubbed her tired eyes. “I don’t know, Lieutenant. Something just isn’t adding up here.”
“What about the neighbor? The one who saw the Impala and discovered the victim?”
“His name is Dale Rooney,” Sullivan said. “He’s lived in the neighborhood for twenty-three years. Former bank manager, retired with a wife and no children. So far his statements are consistent and he otherwise checks out clean. He was understandably shaken up when we talked to him. We’ll give him a day or so before following up.”
Hitchcock nodded then turned to Graham. “What are you thinking?”
“I guess I just don’t understand why you’re so quick to rule out Clemmons? Everything you’re saying, one man, uncommon weapon, pre-planning of the crime, only supports my theory about him.”
“Because it’s just that Walt, a theory.”
“But according to the officers who talked to him this morning, he doesn’t have an alibi for his whereabouts last night.”
“Neither would I if I were in his position,” Hitchcock said with a tired smile. “Look, I’ve been at this a long time, and I’ve been in too many meetings like this where we were convinced of a suspect’s guilt regardless of what the evidence told us. Guess what the outcomes were when most of those cases went to grand juries? The system doesn’t give a damn about hunches.”
Graham buried his head in the palm of his hands. “So what are we supposed to do, Hitch? Give this cock-sucker a free pass? You and I both know there’s a lot more to this than coincidence.”
Hitchcock chewed nervously on the plastic tip of his glasses. “What have we managed to gather from the victim’s car?”
Sullivan answered. “There were two sets of prints in the Range Rover, one belonging to Julia Leeds, one belonging to her friend Camille Grisham. Julia gave her a ride home from the airport yesterday.”
“I’ve read your notes on her,” Hitchcock said to Sullivan. Then he blew out a loud sigh. “Do you know who she is?”
“She told me that she used to be an FBI agent. I also know that her father was in the department.”
“That’s right. But it’s the first bit of information that should have us the most concerned,” Hitchcock warned. “Not only was Camille Grisham an FBI agent, she was also a very high profile one. She was all over the news when that Circle Killer business broke.”
Sullivan gasped, the recognition instantly coming to her. “That was her?”
“Yes it was. And once the media gets wind that she not only knew the victim but was possibly the last person to talk to her before she was killed, the scrutiny involved in this case is going to go through the roof.”
“Let’s not get too crazy about this yet,” Graham cautioned. “She doesn’t seem to know much in regard to the victim. It’s not like the Circle Killer where she was in the goddamn house when he shot those girls. There isn’t a whole lot she can say about this case, aside from the fact that she knew the victim.”
“But that won’t stop the vultures from circling around her,” Hitchcock countered.
Graham smiled. “Fine, we’ll get a judge to sign off on some kind of fake gag order, force her to keep her mouth shut.”
Sullivan looked at him with disgust. “Don’t be an ass, Walter.”
“Maybe you should watch how you talk–”
“This is not the time,” Hitchcock interrupted. “We’ve got serious issues here. The department is a few minutes away from issuing a statement regarding Julia Leeds and the preliminary details of this case. Once that happens, a lot of people are going to freak the hell out. She was a prominent lawyer, with ties to some of the most powerful people in this state. Young, beautiful lawyers with powerful friends aren’t supposed to be killed in cold blood in their own homes. People will demand answers, and we damn well better have them. You think you’re feeling pressure now, just wait twelve hours.”
Sullivan felt a sudden surge of adrenaline race through her body. She gripped her knees to keep her hands from shaking.
“You two are my leads on this, and I wouldn’t trust anybody to guide us through it more than you,” Hitchcock continued. “But we can’t waste any time. We need to be thorough, but we also need to be fast. This can’t wind up as one of those unsolved mysteries that people are still speculating about five years from now. We need an arrest, plain and simple. So brass tax, how far away are we from getting one?”
“If we focus our attention on Clemmons, we may end up being a lot closer than you think,” Graham declared.
“Do you agree with that assessment, Chloe?”
Sullivan didn’t know what to think, but now was not the time to say so. She had learned from her short stint as Graham’s partner that it was best to take his lead most of the time, whether she agreed with him or not. He had eighteen years as a homicide detective. She had nine months. Still, she wasn’t sure if she was on board with this. From the moment Stephen Clemmons’ name was mentioned, Graham had already concluded that they had found their man. But there was nothing in Clemmons’ history that suggested violence, particularly violence of this magnitude. The only problem for him was that a vigilant neighbor saw a gray Chevy Impala that looked an awful lot like Clemmons’ on his street close to the time Julia was killed. And because the car was playing rap music, and Clemmons fit the profile of a typical rap music fan, the case was clearly open and shut.
But it wasn’t open and shut, not in Sullivan’s mind at least. The fact that he and Julia Leeds worked for the same law firm certainly raised questions, and the discovery of the Range Rover so close to his house was alarming. But if Clemmons was so careful about covering his tracks in Julia’s house, why would he make the bone-headed mistake of parking her stolen car less than a block away from his own house and leaving it there for the police to find? The simple answer is that he wouldn’t make that mistake. But Graham wasn’t interested in hearing that, and judging by the way Lieutenant Hitchcock was now talking, he wasn’t much interested in hearing it either. So Detective Sullivan did what rookies in this department were supposed to do. She played along.
“We don’t have a choice but to pursue our leads as thoroughly as we can,” she said through pursed lips.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Hitchcock said as he closed the evidence summary, put on his glasses, and straightened the tie around his skinny neck. “With that being the case, I’ll leave you guys to it. Know that you’ll have the full resources of the department behind you, including additional detectives. If you need anything else from me all you have to do is ask. Someone’s ass is bound to end up in a sling over this one, but it won’t be any of ours. Understood?”
“Absolutely,” Graham answered as he stood up, looked at Sullivan and nodded.
“Understood,” Sullivan repeated like the good soldier that she was.
“Good. Now go nail that bastard. I don’t care if it’s Stephen Clemmons, Leroy the crack-head or Satan himself. You just nail his ass.”
“You got it boss,” Graham said with the wide-eyed look of an athlete amped up by his coach’s halftime speech.
Sullivan walked out of Hitchcock’s office without saying another word. From behind her she heard Graham’s voice.
“Hey Chloe. You and I need to talk about a few things.”
Sullivan turned to him with a flat expression. “What things?”
“Later,” was all he said. Then he turned and walked in the other direction.
She assumed he was getting to work on the one and only lead that he planned to follow. She would be getting to work too. There were a million other possibilities out there besides the thirty-eight-year-old mail clerk with a solid employment record and no real criminal history. Someone had to pursue them.
&nbs
p; Sullivan may have been a good soldier, but she finally decided that it was time to stop playing along.
CHAPTER 16
Julia’s identity was officially revealed during the nine p.m. newscast, as were details about where she worked and the extensive connections she had in the legal and political community. But aside from the rampant speculation that foul play was involved, information regarding how she died was still being withheld, as were any possible motives behind her death.
The televised image of the crime scene that used to be Julia’s house had been a constant throughout the day, and Camille had not been able to pull herself away from it since arriving home from her meeting with Detectives Graham and Sullivan.
Her father sat beside her on the couch the entire time, leaving only for the occasional bathroom or kitchen break. They didn’t speak much. Mostly he just looked at her; sometimes with a reassuring smile, sometimes with a sad glance. But never once did he try to make sense of the situation or offer a comforting word. He was wise enough to know that there is no such thing as a comforting word on the day your daughter’s best friend is murdered.
When the newscast moved on to a story about the city’s latest budget crisis, he turned off the television. “I’m pretty sure you haven’t eaten today. Do you want me to whip something up?” he asked as he gently squeezed her hand.
“No thank you,” she answered stoically, her vacant eyes staring at nothing.
Paul got up from the couch and stood over Camille, his hand still holding hers. “I’m just going to grab a cup of coffee then. Let me know if you change your mind.”
Camille nodded, her expression unchanged.
Paul stood for a long time before finally letting go of her hand. By the time she summoned the will to look up he was already in the kitchen.
As she sat alone in the cold silence of her living room, the shock and overwhelming sadness of the day slowly gave way to a numb detachment that left her feeling as if she were floating above her own body, looking down at a person she no longer recognized. The result was a malaise that was becoming increasingly debilitating, and she worried that if she sat much longer it would eventually paralyze her.
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