When Shadows Fall

Chapter

10

SAM’S FIRST REACTION was shock. The second was fury. “What the hell? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me right away. How did Benedict die?”

“We don’t know yet. Dr. Nocek will do the post this morning, see what’s up,” Fletcher said.

“I should stay. I should be there. I can help Amado—”

Xander touched her lightly on the arm. “No, you shouldn’t. Let Fletcher take you to Lynchburg. You’ve been drawn into this against your will, but now it’s time to take care of business. Do what Timothy Savage asked of you. Find out what’s happening.”

She crossed her arms, let the anger course through her. “And what exactly are you planning to do?”

“Keep an eye on things.”

She knew what he meant. He’d be covering her back, as he’d done before. Out of sight, and, hopefully, out of harm’s way.

As if he’d read her mind, he smiled at her. It took him from dangerous to innocent, and she couldn’t help smiling back. He nodded. “They won’t know I’m there. Promise.”

She searched his eyes, but saw only determination. She squared her shoulders. “You do anything stupid, and I’ll be very upset with you.”

“I can take care of myself, hon. It’s you I’m worried about. Savage warned you this was going to be dangerous, and two people involved in this case are already dead. Watch your step, okay?”

“You need to stop. There’s no reason to worry about me. I’m a big girl. I can handle this.” She turned to Fletcher. “Finish your breakfast, and let’s go.”

Fletcher stood, rolling his eyes. “Finally. Thought you’d never ask.” He turned to Xander. “I’ve got her back. You, keep in touch, all right? Regular check-ins, every four hours. Read me?”

Xander snapped a precise salute. “Loud and clear, sir.”

* * *

The drive to Lynchburg was a beautiful three hours through rolling green hills and black-fenced horse country, and Fletcher had been silent since they left Georgetown. That was fine with Sam. The morning’s subterfuge worried her. She should have been told about the murder immediately, and instead the men she loved wanted to coddle and protect her.

Maybe they don’t know you’ve changed, Sam. Maybe you haven’t given them a reason to think you’re strong enough to handle this.

She was the first to admit she’d been a basket case when she came to D.C. Crippled by grief and an obsessive compulsive need to wash her hands, she’d been a weak caricature of her true self. She’d lost two years giving in to the psychological horrors of losing her family.

But in the months since she moved, she’d gotten strong again. Determined, as Timothy Savage pointed out. She’d finally forgiven herself for the hardest realization of all—she was still the same person she was before they’d died.

Changed, certainly. But it was still her inside her skin, and that realization drove her away from forgiving herself and moving forward with her life. Until now.

Baldwin had recognized this, and reached out with an opportunity to let her get her world back on track. She wished Xander and Fletcher had realized it, too.

Fletcher turned on the stereo. “Will a little bit of tuneage bother you?”

“Of course not.”

He hit Play and a song started, one she recognized.

“Hey, that’s Jason and the Scorchers,” she said. “They’re a Nashville band. How’d you find them?”

“They played the 9:30 Club a while back. I bought a couple CDs off them. It’s good stuff.”

“I didn’t know this was your bag. I always pegged you for a hard rock guy. Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd.”

“I’m alternative all the way. And rockabilly cowpunk is hard rock. Listen to those guitars.”

Jason belted out a John Denver ballad, “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” Sam hummed along, but Fletcher sang the words, and she was shocked to realize he had a fabulous voice. When the song was over, she applauded. “I never knew you could sing.”

“We’ve never been on a road trip together where it seemed appropriate. I did my stint as front man during college. Chicks dug the guitar.”

“Aren’t you full of surprises today. You play guitar, too?”

“Used to. I gave it up when Felicia and I got married. She wasn’t thrilled with the cop hours to start with—to add the band’s touring on top, even if it was only weekends, was too much for her. I still noodle around when I get time.”

“You’re really good. Why’d you choose being a cop over taking the show on the road?”

“Tad. He was sick a lot when he was a baby, and I needed the steady paycheck.”

She heard a small, unuttered sigh in that sentence, and it made her sad for him. Fletcher sacrificed a lot for the people he loved; she’d seen it firsthand. Though maybe she was more sensitive to it. Coming from Nashville, a town where everyone had a dream, she knew how hard it was to accept reality, buckle down and work for the man instead of following your heart.

She’d lost herself in thoughts of home, was tapping her fingers on the laptop balanced on her knees in time to the music, when Fletcher startled her with “Nice ring.”

Sam glanced over at him. He had his sunglasses on, gold aviator frames, and his hand dangled over the top of the steering wheel. He looked so much like a cop she nearly laughed. But he wasn’t smiling.

She took a deep breath. “Xander gave it to me. Last night, actually.”

“It’s pretty.”

“Yes, it is.” She was quiet for a moment. “It doesn’t mean anything. Not really. It’s not like we’re engaged or anything.”

“You should be.”

Her head rocked back. He saw her surprise, and this time, he did smile.

“I have to admit I was a bit surprised when he texted, said to take you to Lynchburg or else this would drive you nuts,” he said.

“I don’t know why he thought that. I was perfectly fine letting things lie.”

Fletcher scoffed. “This is me you’re talking to, sunshine. You don’t have to lie. I don’t think you do with him, either. I’m just saying, he’s a good man. He loves you. He doesn’t want to change you, and trust me, that’s rare.”

She thought about his words. Having this conversation with Fletcher was utterly bizarre, but she sensed he wanted to have it. They’d been dancing around it for months. She knew Fletcher had feelings for her. She simply never acknowledged them. It was too much to deal with—she’d had two years of grief and numbness, and suddenly, three months ago, in the course of a single week, she’d lost another man she used to love and, while investigating his death, found Fletcher and Xander. Two wonderful men who were both good for her, in their own ways.

Two loves lost. And two found. But only one made her heart sing.

By his words, she realized something had subtly changed between her and Fletcher. Everything she’d hoped for—namely, his friendship—was matter-of-factly being offered on a plate. But there were things that couldn’t be left unspoken. Not anymore.

She said quietly, “Would you want to change me, Fletch?”

He glanced at her briefly, smiled. “Naw. I like you the way you are. Though you’d drive me mad with all your nagging. ‘Don’t you ever grocery shop, Fletch?’” He did a credible impression of her, and she punched him in the shoulder, laughing.

“Damn, woman. Don’t hit so hard, I might drive off the road and take out some cows.” He gestured toward the field to his left. “Friggin’ nature. Who’d want to live out here in the boonies like this? Not enough concrete for my taste.”

“You’re prevaricating.”

“Your big words, too. Annoys the crap out of me. You’re a walking thesaurus.” He shot her another smile. “I’m not gonna lie, Sam. You’re something special. When you came along, things started looking up. But I’d drive you nuts.”

“You already do.” She grinned at him.

“Ditto.” He went quiet for a moment. “You’d be crazy to let things go south with Xander, is all.”

He was absolutely right. “I know. I know he’s a good man, and I love him. I never thought it would happen again for me.”

“So marry him already.”

“Good grief, Fletch, I’ve only known him for three months.”

“You’re a grown-up. You know what you need. He seems to fit the bill. You’ve been happy lately. Happier than I’ve ever seen you.”

“You don’t know me that well, Fletch. But yes, he makes me happy.”

“So why not marry the dude?”

She blurted out the words. “To be honest, I’m afraid he wants kids. And that’s not something I’m ever willing to do.”

“Ah. That’s what this is all about.” He paused a moment. “Just the thought of it makes you panic, huh?”

“What?” she asked, then realized she was opening and closing the lid of her laptop unconsciously. She slammed it closed. “Yeah. You could say that.”

“Have you told him? That you don’t want to have kids?”

“No.”

“Do it, Sam. Have a conversation, like we’re doing. Tell the man, and get on with your life. He’ll accept you no matter what. I suspect he already knows the cost of loving you, and is more than willing to pay it.”

The cost. My God, is that how people see me? There’s a cost to being with me?

“Hey. Did I say something wrong?”

She shook her head, fiddled with the edge of the laptop. “No. Not at all. You’re fine. It’s me. So what’s with this new attitude? You’ve never been Xander’s biggest fan before.”

“I’m feeling like a change is in the air. Something good’s coming, for all of us.” He smiled again, and Sam realized she’d never seen him quite this content before.

“Darren Fletcher, what is up with you today? Are you in love?”

“What? Me? Hell, no. Definitely not. Lust, maybe. Andi’s fun, for an uptight bureaucrat. It’s a good setup—when she has time, she calls me. When I have time, I call her. It’s casual.”

“You’re practically friends with benefits.”

He grinned. “She ain’t asking for a drawer, so that’s good. Naw, I just like playing hooky. I haven’t in a while. Even with all the green in the fields and blue in the sky, it’s nice to get away from my desk.”

“I’m touched you’ve taken the time to come play with me.”

“Someone has to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

Sam touched his arm. “I’m glad. And thank you for the advice.”

He looked as though he wanted to say more, but settled for “Welcome.”

Her cell rang. Saved by the bell. “Oh, good, there’s Amado. Let’s see how Benedict died.”

Chapter

11

DR. AMADO NOCEK had the quiet intonation of a grave man, coupled with a slightly Italianate European accent. Some found him strange; he was serenely brilliant, very tall and much too thin, slightly stooped over, the physique of a praying mantis. The unkind called him Lurch, or the Fly, but Sam had liked him from the moment they met, recognizing a fellow scientific soul. He was a widower, too, and once, when he’d noticed she was having a panic attack during one of their meetings, he’d put his bony hand on her shoulder and said, “It doesn’t get better, but it will hurt less, in time.”

At that moment, she hadn’t believed him. Now she realized he was right.

She put him on the speaker.

“Good morning, my friend. How are things in the OCME?”

“Insanity. But Samantha, my dear, your voice always cheers me. Detective Fletcher told you about our guest, Mr. Benedict?”

“He did. Fletch is on the phone with us now. What are your findings?”

“Oh, they have not told you already? Manual strangulation. He was garroted. The implement was still wrapped around his throat. It took very little time to subdue him. He was not a large man, and terribly ill. His brain presented with clear alpha-synuclein lesions, idiopathic to advanced Parkinson’s.”

“That’s right. He had several physical characteristics of the disease, as well.”

“Whoever killed him was much taller. The angle on the garrote went upward at nearly forty-five degrees. It was a small wire attached to two wooden dowels, like a miniature jump rope. Nothing remarkable about the device outside of the reality of it. We do not see professional garroting very often here.”

“Professional?”

“Yes. There were no hesitation marks, no adjustments. This was an experienced killer.”

“Could Benedict have been sitting when he was attacked?”

“Based on the crime scene reconstruction, he was attacked while in the shower. Mr. Benedict measured only sixty-eight inches, so it is safe to assume the killer is at least over seventy-four inches tall, if not more.”

“Let me get a feel for this. How tall are you, Amado?”

“I believe I was seventy-seven inches at my last physical.”

“So you’re six-four, and Benedict is five-eight. Yes, it makes sense. It would have to be someone quite big to cause that up-angle. There was no indication the killer stood on something? The edge of the tub, perhaps?”

“Not from the current facts of the investigation, no. The man was in a handicap-friendly room, with a roll-in shower, no bathing tub. I suppose it was too difficult for him to step up over the ledge. The commode is too far away from the shower to make that scenario feasible.”

“All right. When you’re all finished, would you mind emailing me your final report?”

“Not at all, my dear. I know I do not have to remind you to be very careful.”

“I have Fletcher. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you when I get back. We’re overdue for dinner.”

“It would be my great pleasure. Until then.”

He hung up, and Sam turned to Fletcher. “Garroting? More you’re keeping from me?”

“I didn’t know. Pro hit, sounds like.”

“Agreed. This is trouble, Fletch. We need to be on alert.”

“Here’s what I don’t get. Why you? Why did Timothy Savage ask for you specifically?”

“I don’t know, and it freaks me out. I’m worried we’re walking into a trap, and without more information, I have no idea what it might be.”

“We’re only an hour from Lynchburg. We’re going to find out soon enough.”

Sam opened her laptop, started pulling every ounce of information she could find about Timothy Savage and Rolph Benedict. After twenty minutes of searching, Savage was still a mystery, a complete blank. But there was plenty of material about Benedict.

“Fletch, listen to this. Benedict’s story is bizarre. He won a big case a decade ago, defending the daughter of a family friend accused of murdering her boyfriend. Remember this one? Her name was Gillian Martin.”

“Gillian Martin? Oh, wait, yeah. All the evidence said she was guilty as hell, but her lawyer managed to convince the jury the girl was simply on the wrong end of a massive frame-up.”

“Her lawyer was Rolph Benedict. The real killer was never caught, and Benedict retired from criminal defense work and joined the firm he mentioned last night as a partner, doing estate and contract law.”

“Big change.”

“It is,” Sam said. “What would drive a successful criminal attorney to make such a drastic about-face right after winning the biggest case of his career? Granted, he’d been sick. Perhaps the rigors of trial law became too much. Parkinson’s isn’t an easy disease to manage. He could have decided a more sedate lifestyle was in order, and contract law fit the bill.”

“Could have. I remember the case, though. The boyfriend was stabbed, shot and his throat slit, but it was all circumstantial evidence—they didn’t have her prints on the weapons, DNA, nothing. During the trial, Gillian Martin did all sorts of strange things, laughing at inappropriate times, crying, claiming she didn’t remember anything. She was on the stand for days. If the prosecutors had gone for a simple second-degree murder charge, the jury would have bought it, but this was a death penalty case. They overreached, and she walked.”

“A big score for a small-town lawyer, right?”

“It is. Interesting.”

Sam couldn’t help wondering if it were something more. Bigger. It felt wrong, all wrong.

* * *

Lynchburg was composed of seven hills, a Southern city nestled on the banks of the James River with a stunning view of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It held the honor of being the only Southern city not captured by Union troops during the Civil War—known across many parts of the South as the Great Unpleasantness. It was a college town, with multiple universities ranging from Jerry Falwell’s Liberty University to Randolph College, formerly Randolph-Macon Woman’s College. When Sam was in high school and looking at colleges, a friend who attended Randy-Mac, as she called it, told her with great glee that Falwell supposedly called the students there “the intellectual whores on the hill.”

“At least he recognized we’re smart,” she’d said.

Lynchburg’s criminal element focused on burglaries and rapes, assaults and drugs, with the very occasional murder thrown in for good measure. It was a quiet town, full of students and bars and the gentility of the Old South. The sun was shining as they drove across the John Lynch Memorial Bridge into the city.

“Police headquarters are on Court Street. Our contact there is June Davidson. He’s a lifer detective, born and raised here in Lynchburg. Seemed smart enough when we talked, but we’ll see,” Fletcher said.

Five minutes later, they pulled in to the police station and Fletcher glanced at his watch. “Made it in two hours and forty-five minutes. Not bad.”

“When’s Xander supposed to check in?”

He tossed his sunglasses on the dash. “Noon. Let’s go talk to Detective Davidson.”

The inside of Lynchburg’s cop shop was generic, with wanted posters lining the walls, a receptionist behind a wall of glass and a big sign with the letters LPD in blue under a red arch, with the words Leadership, Professionalism, Dedication below and an incongruous sign underneath it that read Find us on Facebook and Twitter.

It was at once so strange yet so familiar it made Sam long for Nashville. How many years had she spent walking into the Criminal Justice Center in Nashville, coming to find Taylor or another homicide detective to relay findings on a case? This felt like home, even though it wasn’t, and she had to push the thought away— Why did you leave this behind? This is your passion, your love. You spent your life learning how to do this. What are you thinking?

Maybe Fletcher and Xander were right. Maybe she simply needed to be here, for more than Timothy Savage’s sake.

Fletcher walked up to the receptionist. “We’ve got an appointment with June Davidson. Detective Darren Fletcher and Dr. Samantha Owens.”

The woman sported a small blond beehive and cat’s-eye glasses, a retro throwback to another era, though she couldn’t have been more than twenty. Sam caught the edge of a tattoo under her collar. Times, they do change.

The girl, whose name tag read F. Gary, nodded. “June’s been waiting for you. I’m Flo. If you need anything, let me know.” She had a soft and gentle Southern accent, the g’s barely dropped. She pointed at a small table behind them, against the north wall. “The coffee’s probably gone cold, but there’s a microwave in the back. Pour yourself a cup and June’ll hook you up. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Sam and Fletcher poured coffee into paper cups and doctored them. By the time Fletch had finished adding three sugars to his, the door opened to their right and a tall blond-haired man in his midforties blocked the light. He wasn’t just tall, he was at least six foot four and built like a linebacker, though there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. His tan linen suit fit well, the white button-down shirt underneath open at the collar. Sam couldn’t help recalling the conversation she’d had with Amado earlier. They were looking for a man about this height as Benedict’s killer.

She saw Fletcher look the man up and down and slightly raise an eyebrow. He’d had the same thought.

The man looked at her strangely, as if he were trying to place her face, then shrugged slightly. “Detective Fletcher? Dr. Owens? I’m June Davidson. Come on back. We’ll talk in my office. You need to heat that up?”

Sam took a sip, it wasn’t bad. “We’re fine, thanks.”

Davidson’s accent was similar to Flo’s, Southern without being overwhelming, rounded vowels and soft consonants, and his manner unhurried. This was a man who knew slow and steady won the race, and after several months of Washington hustle and bustle, Sam felt immediately at home.

He led them down an anonymous linoleum hallway to the end, took an immediate right into a bullpen full of detectives and uniformed officers, and eyes followed them.

Davidson ushered them into his office, which had a large window overlooking the city, and the James River beyond.

He raised his voice a bit so it carried across the bullpen. “We just had a briefing on the Benedict murder. Everyone knows why you’re here. Forgive me if I say it aloud, but there’s some concern. We do know how to do our jobs.” He kicked his door shut with a cowboy boot and grinned at them. His front teeth overlapped a bit, making him charming rather than handsome. His blue eyes crinkled when he smiled, and lines etched into his cheeks. Sam figured he spent a great deal of time with a grin on his face.

He gestured toward the bullpen. “At least, most of those yahoos think so. Now me, I’m all about cooperation. So tell me, what can I do to help?”

Chapter

12

Lynchburg Police Department

Lynchburg, Virginia

FLETCHER KICKED THINGS off. “Timothy Savage. What can you tell us about him?”

“Other than the fool could have gotten my officers killed with his stupid stunt?”

Davidson pulled a file folder from his drawer and put it on the desk in front of Fletcher, draped his jacket on the back of his chair. “Detergent suicide. It’s worse than running up on a meth lab without your gear. At least he had the presence of mind to warn us so we didn’t blunder into the scene and lose men.”

“What do you mean, he warned you?” Sam asked.

“Look at the pics. I have them arranged chronologically.” Fletcher opened the file and scooted his chair closer to Sam’s so she could see the crime scene photos.

Savage had died in a small cabin surrounded by forest. There were a few shots of the cabin from afar, then close-ups of the windows and doors. Large white signs with hand-drawn biohazard symbols were taped in the two front windows, and the front door had a note on it with the words:

HYDROGEN SULFIDE

SUICIDE

POISON GAS

DO NOT OPEN

DANGER!!!

1 BREATH CAN KILL YOU

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’d have to have a pretty high concentration to die from a single breath, something like seven hundred seventy parts per liter, but this stuff is toxic. Even a small concentration will cause all sorts of respiratory problems. What did he use?”

“Muriatic acid and lime sulfur. Bought it at the gardening center down the road from his place. More than enough to do the job. We had to get HAZMAT involved to come in and clear the place so my coroner could retrieve the body. Took a day to make it safe enough to get anyone near without a mask.”

“Who found him?”

Davidson’s brows pulled together. “Anonymous 911 call from a pay phone in front of a 7-Eleven on Rivermont. No working cameras there, so we couldn’t get a shot of the person who called. I can play you the tape, it’s quick. Male voice states the address, and requests police response to a dead body. That’s it.”

“Have you dealt with many of these before?”

“Not many, but it’s getting more and more common. Usually they do it in a car, in an out-of-the-way parking lot where they won’t be discovered and disturbed. You seeing this in D.C., too?”