Too Far Gone

by Allison Brennan

  “We identified and interviewed all eight people who left prior to the door being locked. We showed their photos to April. None of them are the man she saw. It could be that McMahon was talking to him and he left without making a purchase because he was irritated. But no one has come forward and in my experience, if someone is that close to a threat, they’ll come forward afterward. Unless he was really clueless—possibly a tourist or passing through and didn’t make the connection. Our best guess based on timing and witness statements is that the man left the coffeehouse as soon as the manager approached McMahon.” She nodded to Ash, who switched the program to an image from a security camera on the street.

  “This image is of the man we believe April Forsyth saw. He’s wearing slacks and a button-down shirt. We showed her this image. She thinks it’s the same guy, but couldn’t swear to it. The timing, however, fits.”

  Young spoke up. “Any way to enhance the photo? It’s crap.”

  Tia shook her head. “You can’t add pixels that aren’t there. This was a camera at the ATM machine two doors down. If he was closer, we’d get a great image, but the farther away the worse the quality—we cleaned up the distortion as much as possible, but there’s no way to get an ID on him from this. However, it’s clear that he has light hair, he’s Caucasian, and Ash went out to measure landmarks so we can safely say he is six feet tall, but not more than six foot one. He’s thin. April said ‘old like my dad’—her father is forty-six. I’m going to peg this guy at between thirty and forty. We showed this image to the employees and no one recognized him—but we’re going to show them again today, plus those off duty. They don’t need to know his name, but if he’s a regular customer, one of the employees should recognize him.”

  “But,” Jason said, “we don’t have any confirmation that he was actually in the coffeehouse, or that he spoke to McMahon. Only one witness made that statement.”

  “True,” Tia said, “but April was emphatic, and didn’t change her statement even when her friend chastised her.”

  “Eyewitness testimonies are notoriously unreliable,” Young said.

  “I agree,” Tia said, “but both Jason and I talked to her. She may be in summer school for flunking geometry, but she’s not a dumb kid. She’s very observant. For example, several witnesses thought McMahon was homeless because he wore a bulky jacket, was unshaven, and talking to himself. April, as well as the manager, both said his clothes were clean and he didn’t smell like he’d been living on the street.

  “The manager spent last night at the hospital. We got his statement, but then he collapsed. Stress, fear, whatever—the guy had a gun on him for two hours, I don’t blame him for falling apart. Jason and I are going to talk to him again today. He was the closest to McMahon, and perhaps McMahon said something else that might help us figure out what was going on with him, and if he killed Paul Grey.”

  “On that note,” Young said, “Leo? What happened at the McMahon house?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question,” Leo said. “First, no neighbor has seen McMahon in the last month. The earliest was a few days before June fifteenth, but we can’t confirm an exact day or time. No one saw Paul Grey enter the house, and Grey’s car wasn’t found on the property or in the neighborhood. It’s clear that McMahon wasn’t living there full-time. There was a lot of dust, rotten food, and a Chinese take-out receipt dated June twelfth. We believe that was the last time he was at the house—or close to it. The leftovers were in the refrigerator.”

  “And the wife didn’t come over?”

  “She said the last time she was there was in May. He had stopped paying the bills, so she took over, and she also went to collect things for her kids. The separation was stressful and she didn’t want to confront him. I believe her.”

  “And Grey?”

  “He wasn’t killed at the house. We’ll know more after the autopsy, which is scheduled right after McMahon’s. But Jackson has a report on that.”

  ERT leader Mike Jackson spoke up. “The coroner would have my hide for this, but based on the temperature of the house, air-conditioning off, and the last known time Grey was seen alive, my guess is that he was killed a minimum of three hours before his body was left at the house. This is primarily because there was very little blood found under his head—which had a gaping hole on the left side. The blood was dry or mostly dry by the time he was moved there. And my guess? There was a slight bend in his knees even though he was lying on his back on the floor. I think he was killed while sitting down, and left in that position for several hours before his body was moved to McMahon’s.”

  “So,” Detective Keith Hastings spoke for the first time, “McMahon kills him somewhere, doesn’t know what to do with the body, takes the body home with him—in the middle of the night and the neighbors don’t see—and leaves it. Then because he’s looney-tunes or on drugs, he doesn’t remember killing him and goes to the coffeehouse thinking he’s meeting Grey.”

  “Sure,” Jackson said, “that’s one theory. And maybe that’s what happened. But there could have been a second person. The problem is that I can’t prove it—I’ve collected all the evidence I can, and I believe the body was carried by two people, but there were some drag marks, and one point where the victim’s head hit the wall around the turn from the laundry room into the kitchen. But I can’t prove definitively whether there was one or two people. There are no prints that shouldn’t be there, but we’re still processing a lot of evidence and it’s going to take a while. But I concur with Leo—the guy wasn’t living in the house.”

  “So where?” Young asked.

  “We don’t know yet,” Leo said. “Lucy and I are meeting with the widow again today. She’s bringing in all their banking and credit card statements. McMahon hadn’t touched their joint bank account, but was living off their credit card. She didn’t want to cut him off, so she paid the bill every month—averaging between a thousand and twelve hundred dollars.”

  “She can afford that every month?” one of the cops said.

  “It was coming out of McMahon’s severance when he was fired,” Leo said.

  “He could have had a weekly motel or an apartment,” Hastings commented. “You can find some dives for five bills a month.”

  Jackson said, “One more thing that’s important. Grey was dumped in the McMahon house within a few hours of his death. He went through full rigor right there in the den, wasn’t moved for at least twenty-four hours. The coroner will be more accurate, but the guy was dead between thirty-six and forty-eight hours. I’m leaning closer to thirty-six, but the ME would rip me a new one if I wrote that as fact.”

  “He was killed midnight on Monday, take or leave a few hours,” Lucy said.

  “That’s my educated guess, based on the evidence,” Jackson said.

  “We’re processing McMahon’s truck,” Young said. He asked Ash, “Anything? Was he living out of it? Trace evidence?”

  “We have it in impound and I’ll be heading over there after this meeting. I told the team hands off until I get there. We have good people, but in something like this we want to make sure there’s a clear chain of custody, especially since McMahon is a suspect in Grey’s murder. All I can say is that it doesn’t appear that he was living out of his truck. But there were a lot of newspapers and notebooks and I want to make sure each item is cataloged properly and look for any blood or biological matter. I should be able to prove or disprove if McMahon’s truck was used to transport Grey’s body. The coroner is drying McMahon’s clothes and shoes and will be sending them to my lab for processing—if he killed Grey, there is likely evidence on his clothes or in his truck.”

  Young was taking notes. “Good—let me know as soon as you have a preliminary report. We have a full task force through the weekend, but brass is giving a preliminary press report today, and wants a full report Monday morning. I know that’s asking a lot, but when we have a hostage situation like this—even though the only fatality was McMahon—we need to get answers
sooner rather than later. Telling people that McMahon cracked isn’t an answer. I want to know why. But truth is, the time and resources that we’re putting into this aren’t going to last forever. The shooter is dead. We need to confirm that he did in fact kill Paul Grey before we make that statement publicly.”

  Lucy spoke up. She’d been taking a lot of notes, but now she said, “I don’t think that McMahon killed Paul Grey.”

  “Why not?”

  “I think he suspected he was dead, but he didn’t kill him. First, McMahon’s state of mind yesterday tells me he was a loner—at least he has been since he started his decline around the end of March, and certainly since he lost his job in May. He was paranoid, and could have had an undiagnosed mental illness. But just because someone has a mental illness doesn’t mean that they are violent or a threat.”

  “He took fifteen people hostage,” Jason said.

  “Yes, and I think that we need to put our weight on April Forsyth’s statement. If we talk to anyone who looks like the man she saw, we bring her a picture. She was one of the few people who didn’t believe that he was homeless, and he wasn’t. His clothes were clean, his shoes clean, his hair clean. We know this based on the surveillance tapes and his body. I’ll confirm with Julie Peters after the autopsy. And the POI leaves less than a minute before McMahon pulls a gun. Why? Why not stay in the area when he sees others fleeing the coffee shop? Or when it pops on the news? Something is off about his behavior. He could have a logical explanation—maybe he was late for a meeting. But I want to hear that from him.”

  “Needle in a haystack,” Hastings muttered.

  Young said, “As of this point, Mancini, Hastings, and Lopez will continue processing witness statements and cleaning up this time line of events for the brass. Everything needs to be signed and sealed. They are on point to find the POI. Proctor, Kincaid—you’re on Paul Grey’s death. If you need someone else, Officer Jones is at your disposal, and you can tap Lopez—after today I don’t think we’ll need him. Ash, you’re lead on processing the coffee shop and truck. Jackson, you and your team still have the Paul Grey murder, but if you need our lab for anything, it’s yours.”

  Lucy slid a note to Leo. He read it, nodded. “Kincaid and I are also following up with McMahon’s employer—who was also Grey’s employer. We’ll find out what they were both working on—McMahon when he was fired, and Grey recently. And according to the missing persons report Grey’s wife filed on Tuesday, the last person to see Grey alive was his secretary, who claimed he left the office at four-thirty p.m.—even though his wife said he’d called at four to tell her he would be working late.”

  Young flipped through some papers. “Clarke-Harrison? Pharmaceuticals and research. You got it. Reports from everyone at the end of each day. Overtime is only cleared through Saturday, so use your time wisely, because Sunday you’re on the clock.”

  They disbanded. The meeting took less than an hour, and they’d shared extensive information. If only all meetings were so efficient.

  Lucy approached Ash Dominguez. She’d met him a couple of times when one of her cases collided with an SAPD investigation, but she didn’t know him well. He was young and smart and obviously loved his job. “Ash, can you send me a copy of that PowerPoint?”

  “Sure—I need to clean it up first. I’m making an animation from this, and Yancey is helping me overlay a few things. It’ll be much more helpful. Yancey is more a tech guy than me. You’ll have it by the end of the day.”

  “Thanks, Ash. I appreciate it.”

  Lucy tracked Leo down in the bullpen, where he was talking to Tia Mancini. Tia was saying, “I see your point, Leo, and we need evidence either way. The way I see it, he killed Grey somewhere else, panicked, brought him to his house. Maybe didn’t know what to do with the body. Like you said, he was mentally ill—paranoid. Maybe he didn’t know what he was doing.”

  “I don’t want the word to get out that we think he’s guilty. The press already jumped the gun and got half the story wrong.”

  “Because we gave them a no comment.”

  “Because we don’t have answers!”

  Lucy had rarely seen Leo frustrated, and she reflected that Nate had been concerned about him after the negotiations went south. Nate, as part of the FBI SWAT team that Leo headed, knew the man better than she did.

  “We’re going to get answers,” Lucy said with confidence. “It’s been less than twenty-four hours since this went down. A couple days and we’ll know what happened.”

  “I’ve known Jordan for years. He is a great cop, but he runs a tight ship,” Tia said. “He meant it when he said no more overtime after Saturday.”

  “We don’t have overtime in the FBI,” Leo said. “We have a murder to solve, and neither of us believes that McMahon killed Grey. We need evidence either way.”

  “And if we don’t find it, it becomes a cold case,” Tia said.

  “What are you doing about the POI?” Lucy asked.

  “Nothing I can do at this point. We put out a statement that’s running on the news, social media, and the papers. Specifically asking for anyone who was at Java Antonio yesterday morning prior to the incident to contact police to give a statement. Hopefully he’ll see that and call. But short of that, I don’t know what else we can do.”

  “Can April work with a sketch artist?”

  “My gut says no. She saw him but didn’t get a good enough look. My guess is that she might recognize him if she sees him, but she doesn’t have anything more than a vague description. Jason and I are going to her house later to talk to her again, see if she remembers anything else. She more than anyone seemed to want to help, and everything she’s said has been confirmed—except for that guy. I’m going to show her this picture again now that it’s as enhanced as we can get it. The image might trigger something.”

  “Good idea,” Leo said. “Thanks, Tia, for letting me vent.”

  Tia squeezed his arm. “Call me anytime, Leo. You know that.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lucy and Leo met with Charlie McMahon’s widow at FBI headquarters. Again her brother, Deputy Olsen, came with her. It was clear Lisa McMahon hadn’t slept much, if at all, and she kept apologizing for Charlie and herself.

  “I should have seen it coming.”

  Lucy spent thirty minutes talking to her while Leo and Olsen went through the McMahon financial statements for clues about Charlie. At first Lucy just listened, then she tried to convince Lisa that unless she had put the gun in his hand, or had foreknowledge that he intended to take hostages, she was not responsible. Guilt was powerful, and any survivor went through myriad emotions.

  “Lisa,” Lucy finally said when McMahon’s widow started circling back to her regrets, “we’re just starting our investigation, and neither Agent Proctor nor I are jumping to any conclusions as to what happened. It’s clear to me, however, that Charlie had something going on with him that he shared with no one, except maybe his friend Paul Grey. And in my opinion—based on the witness statements and the evidence we do have—I don’t think Charlie went into that coffeehouse planning on hurting anyone.”

  “But he brought two guns with him. Two guns! A reporter showed up at Trevor’s house this morning, as we were leaving to come here, and asked if I knew that he’d killed Paul.”

  “We don’t know who killed Paul. We’ve just started our investigation.”

  “But Paul was shot. In m-m-my house.” Her hand went to her mouth and her eyes filled with tears.

  Lucy reached over and took her free hand. “Lisa, I can’t tell you everything that happened because we don’t know. The crime scene investigators believe that Paul was killed somewhere else and brought to your house.”

  “Why would Charlie do that?”

  “We don’t know that Charlie did do anything yet. Don’t talk to the reporters. They can ask anything they want, but you have every right not to answer them. If they harass you at all, call the police.”

  “Trevor said he’d arrest
them for trespassing. But—I don’t know what to do. When can I go to the house? I can’t bring the kids there, ever, but I want to get rid of it. Put in on the market, or just walk away. I don’t know. But I have to go through it. We spent nearly twenty years there…”

  “Don’t make any major decisions right now, like walking away from the house,” Lucy said. “Why don’t you sleep on it for a few days and talk to your brother. You can hire someone to clean the house, pack it up, whatever you want. You don’t have to do it yourself. It’ll be another day or two before you’ll be allowed back in at any rate. Someone will contact you when it’s been cleared.”

  She nodded.

  “A couple more questions if you are up to it?”

  “Okay.”

  “There was no computer in the den, which seemed odd. Did Charlie have a computer?”

  “A laptop. He had a computer, but when he was fired I assumed his work took it back. It was one of those state-of-the-art computers. But he had a personal laptop.”

  Lucy made note. There had been no laptop found in the house or Charlie’s truck.

  “Had Paul and Charlie kept in touch after Charlie was fired?”

  “No—not really. Like I said, I reached out to Paul when Charlie wasn’t paying the bills and Paul said he’d talk to him.” She took a deep breath. “I let it go too long. I should have done something more to get him help.”

  “If someone who needs help refuses to get it, you can’t blame yourself. He had a lot of time to get help—but until we know exactly what was wrong, we don’t know that he didn’t get help, do we? We’ll figure it out, Lisa. The laptop,” Lucy said, getting back to information she needed, “did it have theft protection on it?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know the model?”

  “Not really—it’s a good one, but that information would be in his office, or wait—it would be in my insurance papers. We had to document all electronics.”

  “Good. If you can get me that information at your earliest convenience. Did you collect his email information?”