Long Shadows

Chapter 7

Decker had experienced crime scenes galore during his time in law enforcement. And he remembered every detail of each one. This one looked both routine and also unique in certain respects.

This was the judge’s study or home office. Bookshelves, a desk, a small leather couch, a wooden file cabinet, a sleek desktop computer, and a tabletop copier. One window looked out onto the rear grounds. Paintings on the wall, nice knickknacks, a colorful Oriental rug over wooden floorboards. Nothing looked disturbed, no evidence of a frantic search for something, or a robbery or struggle having taken place. Everything neat, tidy, in its place.

Then, on the floor, a body. But not the judge. A man. Obviously, the security guard. Private, not a U.S. marshal as was usually the case with a federal judge. He was in his thirties, lean, six feet, close-cut brown hair that rode like a soft cap on his skull. He was not wearing a security guard’s uniform, but rather a dark tailored suit and a white shirt with a red blotch in the center and two holes as the cause of the blood, and his death. Someone was taking no chances.

The edge of his holstered gun poked out from his jacket. Decker knelt down and checked the suit label: Armani. He looked at the watch on his wrist: Cartier. The shoes: Ferragamo.

Interesting.

The dead man was spread-eagled on the floor, sightless eyes looking up at the small chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He had a couple days’ worth of beard stubble. Even in death, his features were handsome, if now very pale. His expression was one of surprise, if a dead person could hold such an emotion. And some could, Decker knew.

He eyed the forensics team doing their thing. He approached one, a woman in her forties dressed in blue scrubs and masked as she entered some information on an iPad. White followed.

“You the ME? Got a preliminary cause and time of death?”

She glanced at him in surprise and then looked around until she saw Andrews standing in the doorway. He grudgingly nodded at her as he walked up to stand next to Decker.

“I am the ME, Helen Jacobs. We’re looking at a pair of GSWs to the chest, looks like they pierced the heart. Death instantaneous. TOD is between midnight and two a.m. last night.”

White said, “Any signs of forced entry?”

“None,” replied Andrews. “And who called you guys down here, Agent White?”

“SAC John Talbott out of the WFO. Give me your number and I’ll text you his contact info. I thought you had been informed.”

Andrews did so and White sent him the info.

“Anything taken?” asked White.

“Still checking. Nothing readily apparent.”

“Name of the deceased?” asked White.

“Alan Draymont,” replied Jacobs.

“We understand he was private security,” said Decker. “Who with?”

“Gamma Protection Services,” answered Andrews. “We contacted them and will set up an interview.”

“Wearing a suit and not a uniform?”

“Gamma has a number of levels of protection. They do mall, warehouse, and office security, assignments like that. For protection at this level, they have higher-skilled operatives.”

“Higher skilled? Like the dead guy?” said Decker, eyeing him closely.

“Like the dead guy,” Andrews shot back. “Nobody’s perfect.”

White said, “Why a bodyguard? Was she getting threats?”

“Checking on that with Gamma,” said Andrews a bit petulantly.

“And if so, why not a U.S. marshal?” said White. “That’s the way it usually works with federal judges, right?”

“Again, checking on that,” said Andrews, now huffily. “But the judge could hire private security if she wanted to. She could afford it.”

Decker looked at him. “You knew her?”

“Acquaintances. I live in Ocean View. It’s sort of a small-town vibe here.”

“Did Draymont fire his weapon?” asked White.

“It’s still in its holster,” replied Andrews.

“And the killer or killers could have put it back there after he fired it,” noted Decker.

Andrews stiffened and said, “We’ll check.”

“Any trace of the killer?” White asked.

Jacobs answered, “Most of the prints we’ve found so far belong to the judge, and a few to Draymont. There are some others, though, that we haven’t identified yet. No footprints that we could find. There’s a low-pile carpet runner on the stairs that didn’t show any trace. And hardwood floors here in the study, upstairs hall, and the deceased’s bedroom. Tough to get anything from that. It hadn’t rained or anything, either, so no shoe impressions that we could find.”

“And the judge’s body?” asked Decker. “How did she manage to do the stairs after she was wounded?”

Jacobs looked at him curiously, then said, “You saw the blood trail on the stair runner when you came in, and on the hardwood floor leading out of here.”

“Hard to miss with your little cones set out. But it was really the bloody palm print on the wall next to the stairs. I assume that must be the judge’s, since two shots to the chest means Draymont wouldn’t have made it out of this room under his own power.”

Jacobs said, “I think she was stabbed once down here and the killing took place upstairs in her bedroom.”

“Let’s go,” said Decker, not liking the two words I think.

They avoided the evidentiary trail on the carpeted steps and reached the second-floor landing, where Andrews led them into the bedroom.

“Killer didn’t step in the blood from downstairs?” asked White.

“No, he was careful about that,” said Jacobs.

Judge Julia Cummins was lying on her bed wearing a short white terrycloth robe. The robe was open, revealing the woman’s black underpants and a white camisole. Someone had put a blindfold over her eyes, but then cut out holes in the cloth where the eyes were. There was blood all over her clothing, and on the bedspread and also on her hands, the bottoms of her feet, and her knees.

“She’s been stabbed repeatedly,” said Jacobs. “Ten times by my unofficial count, not counting defensive wounds. COD was blood loss due to the stabbings.”

“So she was downstairs where she was attacked, ran up here, and the intruder came up and finished her off,” said White.

“Appears to be that way,” said Jacobs cautiously.

“Stabbing someone that many times is personal,” noted Decker.

Andrews interjected, “But we have a ways to go. It’s a complicated crime scene.”

Decker eyed the twisted covers and took in the fact that the mattress was out of alignment with the box springs.

White must have been reading his mind. “Looks like a struggle took place there.”

“You mentioned defensive wounds?” asked Decker, noting the cuts on the woman’s forearms.

Jacobs said, “Yes. It’s natural for a person getting attacked with a knife or blunt instrument to use their arms to block the blows. Multiple slashes. However, the wound to her lower sternum was probably the fatal one. From the location and depth, it likely cut right through her aorta. I’ll know for certain when I do the post.”

“Any trace under her fingernails?” asked White.

“None that I could find on a preliminary exam. I’ll look closer when I do the post.”

“Blood on her hands, knees, the bottoms of her feet?” noted Decker.

Andrews said, “Explained by the fact that she was attacked downstairs, stepped in her own blood, maybe fell, and got blood on her knees. Ran up here. Mark on the wall by the stairs where she no doubt put her hand to steady herself, and spatter on the stair runner.”

“Any signs of sexual assault?” asked Decker, who did not look convinced by this theory as the blood spatter images from the stairs and the study marched across his mind’s eye.

Jacobs replied, “I did a prelim. No signs of that. I’ll know more once I get her on the slab. But I don’t think she’s been sexually assaulted.”

Decker looked at the blindfold. “Nice of the killers to leave us this little symbol.”

Andrews stepped forward. “Why blindfold her but then cut the holes so her eyes are showing?”

“The blindfold was most likely put on postmortem,” noted Jacobs.

“Of course it was,” said Decker abruptly.

“You said symbolic?” said White, looking at the blindfold.

Decker said, “The lady was a judge. Justice is supposed to be blind. Only with her, I guess it wasn’t, or at least in the opinion of her killer, since they made sure she was seeing clearly, or as clearly as the dead can.”

Andrews sucked in a sharp breath. “Shit, that could be true.”

“Where did the blindfold come from?” asked Decker.

“From the judge’s closet,” answered Jacobs. “It was taken from a set of handkerchiefs she had.”

“Any trace of the killer left in the closet or here? Footprints, residue of blood spatter from stabbing the judge?” asked White.

“We’ve found nothing so far. We’re still dusting for prints, and we’ll take the prints of family and friends for elimination purposes, of course.”

Decker said, “So this might have been heat of the moment. The killing certainly seemed to be. And the killer used the judge’s handkerchief instead of bringing one already fashioned as a mask. What’d the killer use to cut the holes?”

“We’ve found nothing that had blood on it that would have been used.”

“The killer might have used the knife to do it and then took it with him or her,” said White, who then noted the card in an evidence bag next to the dead woman. “The card was found here?” she asked.

Jacobs nodded. “It was actually placed on her body.”

White looked at the card in the clear plastic bag. “‘Res ipsa loquitor.’”

She glanced over at Decker, who was watching her.

“Any paper or pen here match the card and the ink?” asked Decker.

“The pen is generic, but we’ve found no match here on the card so far,” said Andrews. “The killer might have brought it.”

“Any prints on the card?” asked White.

“No.”

“If the killer brought the card, that does smack of premeditation,” noted White.

“Yes, it does,” said Decker. “But that coupled with the mask and the frenetic stabbing makes this a very contrarian crime scene.”

Decker looked around the space and noted a photo on the nightstand.

In the picture was the deceased, and on either side of her a man and a teenage boy.

Andrews picked up the photo with his gloved hand and said, “That’s Judge Cummins, of course. And that’s her ex-husband, Barry Davidson, and their son, Tyler. Looks like this was taken at the club, judging by the background.”

“The club?” asked White.

“Harbor Club. It’s right down the coast, about five minutes. They were members. Well, the judge was.”

“And her ex and her son? Where are they?”

“We contacted Barry Davidson. He lives nearby.”

“Alibi?”

“He was with his son. It was the week he had him.”

“So his son is his alibi?” said Decker.

“Yes. I understand the boy is devastated.”

“How old is he?”

“Seventeen.”

“Do you know the ex and the son?” asked Decker.

“I’ve met Barry Davidson.”

“And you know this club, obviously, since you recognized it in the photo.”

“Yes. I belong to the Harbor Club, too.”

Decker eyed the man’s costly suit and shoes. “Is that your Lexus outside?”

“Yes, it is. What about it?”

“Nothing. Is the Mazda Draymont’s ride?”

“Yes,” answered Jacobs, looking anxiously between the two men.

Decker said, “So, what’s your theory on what happened here last night, Agent Andrews?”

Andrews glanced at White and then took a moment to compose his thoughts. “I think it seems reasonably clear. Since there was no forced entry, either one of the doors was unlocked or the person or persons was let in. The fact that the judge was in her underwear leads me to believe that Draymont was shot first. The judge, on hearing something from her bedroom, put on a robe, came downstairs, and was attacked. She ran back to her room, probably to lock herself in, but wasn’t able to. They killed her here. Then they left the card and put the blindfold on her.”

“If Draymont let the person in he must have known them. Either on his own, or because they knew the judge,” said White.

“But if the murders occurred between midnight and two, that would be pretty late for a visitor,” observed Decker.

“Could Draymont have been in on it, let the person in, and then had a change of heart, or the killer intended on leaving no witnesses behind?” said White.

Andrews said, “That’s certainly possible.”

“Who called the police about the bodies?” asked Decker.

“They got a call from the neighbor next door, Doris Kline. She went out on her rear deck this morning to drink her coffee and read her iPad, and saw the back door of Cummins’s house open. She went over to make sure everything was okay. It was after nine at that point. And the judge was normally on her way to court before then. Kline walked in the rear door, went into the kitchen and then through to the study, where she saw Draymont’s body. She ran back to her house and called the cops. They found the judge’s body, too, and called us in because of her federal status. I’ve already contacted the U.S. Marshals Service to loop them in. I’ve been busy here, but I plan to interview Kline next.”

Decker nodded absently and surveyed the room once more, imprinting every detail onto his memory cloud, as he liked to refer to it now. When he’d first learned he had perfect recall he’d named it his “hard drive,” but times changed and he had to change with them.

His hyperthymesia was an amazing tool for a detective, but it was also overwhelming at times. He had been told that there were fewer than a hundred people in the world who had been diagnosed with the condition, and Decker would have preferred not to have been one of them.

Most people with hyperthymesia concentrated their recall on personal events, memories from the past, mostly autobiographical in nature. Because of that, Decker had learned that they often tended to live in the past as well because the stream of recollections was unrelenting. While Decker certainly had some of that, too, his memory recall was different. Pretty much everything he heard or saw or read in the present was permanently encoded in his mind and could be pulled out at will.

He turned to Jacobs. “TOD on the judge?”

“Approximately the same range as Draymont. Midnight to two a.m. I might be able to get a little tighter on the parameters, but that time box is looking pretty solid.”

He handed her his business card. “Let me know about Draymont’s gun and the possible sexual assault.”

“All right.”

He looked at Andrews. “We told the guard at the entrance gate to get us the list of people who came through over the last twenty-four hours. He was going to bring it here.”

“I had planned to do that,” said Andrews.

“Good, we’re operating on the same wavelength. While we’re waiting for him, let’s go talk to Mrs. Kline.”

He walked out of the room.

Andrews whirled on White. “How long have you and Decker been partners?”

White checked her watch. “Oh, about six hours.”