Proof of Innocence Page 5

  Q. Did the defendant’s training include how to fire a Smith & Wesson M&P 9-millimeter?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Did the defendant earn awards for marksmanship?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Was excellent marksmanship a prerequisite for the special training you mentioned earlier?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Was knowing the inner workings of a gun a prerequisite for the special training you mentioned earlier?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Knowing the inner workings of a gun would include being familiar with how to load a gun?

  A. Yes.

  Q. In fact, his training included being able to load a gun blindfolded, relying only on his sense of touch, did it not?

  A. Yes.

  Q. In the special training the defendant received, did he learn how to disable someone without leaving a mark?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Did he receive instruction in how to move into and out of an area without leaving any trace, including by obscuring sign of his movements?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Thank you, Colonel Pratt. One last thing. If you would refer again to the recommendation you wrote for the defendant, will you please read the highlighted sentence just above your signature?

  A. It says — the one sentence?

  Q. Yes, please. If you will read the one highlighted sentence.

  A. In summary, Carson is an exemplary graduate of this program with a grasp of all the skills required for special operations — in fact, one of the best I have ever seen.

  CHAPTER NINE

  3:33 p.m.

  Maggie watched Sheriff Roger Gardner cross a border of bare floor to reach the rectangle of industrial carpet protecting the high school’s basketball court.

  Cafeteria tables rimmed the rectangle with gaps for passage to the middle, where three tables formed an H. Rivers of cords flowed across the floor to computers, phones, lamps. Attached to portable whiteboards were a county map and several photographs.

  “Sheriff got this set up fast,” she said to Dallas Monroe.

  He had been standing with J.D. Carson when she came in. Carson stayed put when Monroe advanced to greet her, expressing delight at her staying in his guesthouse.

  “He’s had us all runnin’ drills to set up for disasters, but this isn’t the kind of disaster we were preparin’ for.” His blue eyes, faded almost to the color of skim milk, were sorrowful.

  Gardner stopped, facing the pockets of conversation. Everyone quieted.

  He met Maggie’s eyes. She nodded once. She was staying.

  “Crime scene folks are processing, won’t join us.” Racing the weather, everyone knew. It had rained yesterday before Laurel’s body was found and looked ready to start again. “Those of you not here this morning, this is how it breaks down…”

  The sheriff and a state trooper headed the investigation. They would coordinate with those processing the scene, witness the autopsy. Four officers from neighboring counties, each paired with an auxiliary deputy, would canvass the community. A local deputy and a state investigator would organize preliminary witness interviews and create a timeline. Another local deputy would be reachable here at all times to coordinate.

  Scanning the men and women gathered, Maggie identified jurisdictions by uniform. One man was harder to place. Mid-thirties. Smooth brown hair cut with precision. A white shirt that almost seemed familiar, though how any one white shirt could be familiar, she didn’t know.

  “Everything comes to me,” Gardner said, “with copies to Abner and keep a copy yourself. Abner will keep a log. If you think I’ve missed something, speak up. But nobody acts on his or her own.”

  Monroe shifted his weight.

  “Nobody, and I mean nobody—” The sheriff looked at Monroe. “—is a freelancer. Nobody talks to the media except me. Anybody does, you’re out and I’ll look real close at obstruction of justice.”

  The rest wasn’t any more than the newspaper and Vic had told her — with one notable addition.

  Laurel Blankenship Tagner had been garroted.

  Pan Wade had been shot with her own gun, which had been left at the scene — wiped clean.

  Whatever had been used on Laurel had not been left at the scene, although from the injuries, the experts said a stick or rod had been used to tighten whatever had been around her throat. Nothing of Laurel’s was missing. Working theory was the murderer brought the materials and took them away.

  But did the different methods matter? The Army trained J.D. Carson to expertise in those and other methods.

  Both women’s bodies had been left face down, neatly posed, no clothing missing or disturbed.

  “Once the garrote was around her neck, anybody could strangle her by twisting the stick or whatever the hell it was.” Gardner’s gaze swept the gathering. “We’re going to the crime scene when we finish here. If you think you have a reason to see it, check with me. You go with me now or not at all.”

  “What about them?” The demand came from a tall man. People between them kept Maggie from seeing more than the tan t-shirt of the auxiliary deputies. She thought he looked toward Carson.

  The rest of the gathering looked at her.

  “Dallas Monroe, Maggie Frye, and J.D. Carson are going to help out. Sort of an adjunct to the main investigation. Some of you might not know Maggie. She’s an Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney from Fairlington County. She was up here as special prosecutor on Pan Wade’s murder. That’s all.”

  “Do you have instructions for our special unit?” asked Monroe in the split second before the listeners broke ranks.

  She had to admire the old lawyer. With one question, he’d announced they were “special” — a different matter entirely from Gardner’s “sort of an adjunct” — and they reported directly to Gardner.

  The sheriff’s expression said he might like to disband the “special unit” on the spot. “I’ll be back to you in a minute.”

  The well-dressed man she’d noticed started after the sheriff.

  “Scott, stay here, boy,” Monroe said.

  “They need my expertise.” The younger man followed the sheriff’s back with his eyes. “To keep the record of the investigation. Interviews and—”

  “They got deputies for that. We’ll need your help.”

  “I’m working only for you? Not the investigation?” It was an accusation.

  “We’re part of the investigation,” Monroe said mildly.

  “That’s a waste of my skill. The sheriff—”

  “Has made his decision.”

  The younger man opened his mouth, closed it, and walked away.

  Beside her Monroe sighed. “You have family, Ms. Frye?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Young Scott Tomlinson’s my cousin’s boy.”

  She didn’t talk family with anybody, much less Monroe. Besides, young Scott had to be her age, no boy at all.

  “Padding the payroll with your relatives at the government’s expense?”

  “You are a viper, woman,” he said approvingly. “Scott’ll earn his keep, don’t you worry. Besides, he’s providin’ transcripts from J.D.’s trial.”

  Ah. That’s why Scott Tomlinson and his shirt looked familiar. The always-a-white-shirt, turning-his-cuffs-back-precisely court reporter.

  “That boy was a godsend to his mother when his father was gone,” Monroe said, apparently continuing a conversational thread she would have cut off at the start if she’d caught it. “Had a fallin’ out. Thank heavens they healed the breach not long before she died, the little insurance she had helped him get by. It hit him hard.” Monroe sighed again. “Family.”

  With a murmur about the map, Maggie escaped to the whiteboard.

  Carson was there, studying I.D. photos of the victims and general shots of the crime scene.

  She spotted on the map where Laurel Tagner’s body had been found yesterday and Pan Wade’s nearly five years ago. She also located Judge Blankenship’s Rambler Farm, where Laurel had been living since leaving her husband th
ree months earlier, according to Carson’s preliminary report she’d read before the briefing.

  The cabin where Carson had been staying at the time of Pan Wade’s murder was impossible to pinpoint within the irregular green-shaded area surrounding Bedhurst Falls. He’d inherited it, not from family — reports on his background said the best his relatives did was hand-to-mouth — but from an elderly woman.

  If Maggie hadn’t been keeping Carson in her peripheral vision she would have missed his assessing look at the photo of Laurel, then the one of Pan. As he started that go-round a fourth time, she’d had enough.

  “What?”

  One dark eyebrow flickered. He didn’t pretend not to understand. “There’s a resemblance.”

  She studied the photos. Differences jumped out first. It required mentally stripping Laurel’s flashiness, but then, yes, there was a resemblance. Long, light brown hair with red glints, distinct eyebrows against fair skin, full mouth. The eyes were different. Pan’s had a softness. Not Laurel’s.

  “You’re saying they’re a type? You’re saying this could be a serial killer, and this is his type? Nearly five years between murders could be long for a serial killer. Unless he was off somewhere. Perhaps, spending most of his time in another city, training. But now he’s back full-time, a possible trigger.”

  He gave no sign her parallels to his circumstances got under his skin.

  “Are you testing if I know that up-to-date research says many serial killers don’t stick to the rigid timelines and MOs popular media portrays? I do. What I’m saying is, in a general way, they look like each other — and you.”

  “Me?”

  “You’d have to grow your hair, but there’s a similarity. Of course, you’re older.”

  She snorted her skepticism and disdain.

  “And there’s the fact you’re all from complicated families.”

  “I beg your pardon? What do you think you know about my—?”

  “Google’s a wonderful thing.” He walked away.

  J.D. Carson had researched her on the Internet. And not just her, her family. What the hell?

  “Ah,” came Monroe’s drawl from beside her. “J.D.’s right. There is a resemblance amongst the three of you.”

  She sent him a look, but he was studying the photos. Or pretending to.

  “Eavesdropping, Monroe?”

  “An eminently useful means of acquirin’ information,” he confirmed. He stood with his hands behind his back, pushing out his paunch. He’d used that pose in the courtroom. It contributed to a kindly uncle persona.

  She moved to the other end of the whiteboard.

  A new voice came at her.

  “You’re a fool.” It was the What about them? guy. “You’ll get sucked in by Carson like all the rest.”

  Before she responded, he strode away as Monroe called her name. The sheriff, Carson, and Scott Tomlinson were with him.

  Carson was saying to the sheriff, “Looks like you got it all covered. What can we give you?”

  “History.”

  “You mean the first murder,” Scott said.

  Gardner’s gaze flicked to Maggie, “First murder or unrelated murder? That’s what I need from you folks — context, background to start toward answers. I’ve read a report that could pass as a text and a few incomplete newspaper clippings. That’s all I know about the Wade murder. That’s not enough — not nearly enough — to say if these murders are connected. I want you to organize the details on that case so I can determine if there are parallels.”

  “We’ll need free rein to interview people from the first case,” Monroe said. “Witnesses—”

  “Law enforcement — besides the former sheriff,” Maggie said.

  “Wasn’t anybody beyond him and his deputy who died. Unless you mean Rick Wade.” Gardner jerked his head toward the man who’d asked What about them? and accused her of being a fool.

  The memory clicked. “Pan Wade’s husband.”

  “Yeah. He’s an auxiliary deputy. Was then, too, though he didn’t work on her case. At least they did that right. Look, it’s up to you how you start. If you give me what I need I’ll leave you be. If not, I’ll step in.”

  Maggie followed Gardner.

  “Sheriff.” He slowed, didn’t stop. “The defendant and the husband of a murder victim? How can you—?”

  “Because I have to. This whole county’s Wades and Addingtons and Tagners and Blankenships. Unless they’re Monroes. I’m doing damn well not to have any of Laurel’s immediate family involved. If I eliminate anyone related to Pan, too, it’ll be me and one state guy left. Besides—” He shot her a look. “—if Wade wasn’t involved we might not have found Laurel when we did. He suggested the spot be checked and was the first there.”

  She cursed.

  His wan smile acknowledged her sentiment. “Says he wasn’t there more than two minutes alone. No sign he went into the scene. But I agree. It sucks. You coming to the scene? Dallas and J.D. are, along with some added techs.”

  “Yes, I’m coming. Sheriff, I know you’re up against it. But I want to add someone to this cozy little group you want me in.” To even the numbers, if not the odds. “Ed Smith. He was my second chair. He’s in Lynchburg. That’s close enough—”

  He was shaking his head. “Smith married Judge Blankenship’s older girl, Charlotte. This victim was his sister-in-law. I told you, they’re all related.”

  He started off, then added, “You know, with Rick Wade around you’ll only be the second-most certain Carson’s a murderer.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  4:19 p.m.

  Nancy answered on the first ring. “Where are you?”

  “Driving to the scene,” Maggie said. At the speed of a funeral cortege, stuck behind official vehicles.

  “You’re staying?”

  “Is that approval I hear?”

  “I don’t express opinions about legal matters.”

  Maggie suppressed a snort.

  Nancy Quinn had been a single mother with two kids and three years on the police force when a suspect shot her, shattering her right femur.

  She’d told Maggie she would have returned to the street if it hadn’t been for her kids. A desk job in the police department would have rubbed salt into the wound, but she hadn’t strayed far, first trying court reporting, then becoming indispensable in the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s office.

  When Vic assigned Nancy to assist on the Carson case four and a half years ago, Maggie had been half terrified, half grateful. She’d had the same mix of emotions when Nancy opted to become her assistant on their return to Fairlington. That hadn’t changed.

  “I’ll request your complete file out of storage and a fresh transcript,” Nancy said.

  “No need on the fresh transcript. The trial court reporter’s providing copies.”

  “For free?”

  “I don’t know. But, apparently, it’s not totally out of the goodness of his heart. Monroe’s hired him. Plus, he seems interested.”

  “One of those.”

  Nancy didn’t think much of legal system employees who viewed investigations and trials as fascinating pastimes. Court reporter needs to concentrate on getting each word down accurately, not try to put pieces together and reach a conclusion. And that, Maggie suspected, was why Nancy left court reporting. She hated sitting back and letting other people run the show.

  “Nancy, what do you know about becoming a lawyer in Virginia by reading the law?”

  No hesitation. “Reading the law was how lawyers studied for hundreds of years, serving an apprenticeship with an established lawyer. For example, Thomas Jefferson read the law with George Wythe in Williamsburg. The Virginia Bar Association spells out regulations and requirements now.”

  “I never heard of this,” Maggie grumbled.

  Nancy reeled off names. Maggie recognized a respected judge in the Tidewater area, a real estate law specialist around Richmond, and the author of several journal articles she’d admired. “All re
ad for law,” Nancy concluded. “Have to be able to work alone and be a self-motivator, but for those who can’t afford tuition or can’t go to law school for some reason it’s a great alternative.”

  “Some reason like having been tried for murder. Carson, the guy we prosecuted up here, is now a lawyer, thanks to this throwback system.”

  There was something in the quality of Nancy’s silence.

  “You knew?” Maggie demanded.

  “I heard.”

  “Why didn’t you—? How?”

  “Roger Gardner’s brother’s married to my cousin. I saw Roger over the holidays, after he was elected.”

  Maggie rubbed her forehead. She’d thought Nancy’s web of connections covered the D.C. metro area. She’d been thinking too small.

  “Roger mentioned Carson becoming a lawyer,” Nancy said. “Flew through the bar exam.”

  “I don’t care if he got the best scores ever. Just because a jury was blinded by sentiment doesn’t make the evidence go away and it doesn’t make this guy innocent.”

  “Innocent isn’t up to a jury — only guilty or not guilty.”

  Maggie drew in air to keep her lungs too occupied to talk. “I want all the background on Chester Bondelle from Roanoke.”

  * * * *

  Maggie finger-combed her hair straight back to stop it from dripping in her face.

  Rain had started as the convoy parked along the edge of a paved county road. The new arrivals trudged past police barricades and up a rough path beside a dirt road that ran perpendicular to the county road. The forest’s underbrush crowded them on the right, Across the dirt road to their left, the ground rose sharply toward a tree-studded ridgeline.

  After a distance Maggie equated to three blocks, the dirt road ended in a clearing. As it had four and a half years ago, yellow crime-scene tape encircled most of this clearing. At one o’clock of the rough circle, the path slid into the forest and out of view.

  Inside the yellow tape and under tarps, crime scene specialists worked with methodical efficiency.

  With the rain, some people left for other duties. But Carson stayed, so she did. Not that she expected him to pocket evidence with an audience. But he’d stayed for some reason.