Читать книгу What Lies Behind - J.T. Ellison - Страница 11

Chapter 4

Georgetown

DARREN FLETCHER PULLED up to the crime scene with the remnants of a hurried to-go cup of coffee in his hand. He parked, drained the cup, grimacing—the coffee had gone cold, and bitter with it—and waited for the caffeine to hit his system so he wouldn’t yawn in front of his team. It didn’t work; he felt a jaw-cracking one coming on. Ducked his head down, let it overtake him. He’d been asleep when the call came.

The yawn made him feel better. More alert. He dropped the coffee cup into the drink holder and got out of the car.

Every crime scene was the same. There were the usual crowds of neighbors clustered together along the sidewalk. Yellow crime scene tape was wound around the stop sign at the corner of O and Wisconsin, effectively blocking traffic from driving down the street. He expected the same was true at the other end of the block. Nodded to himself. They were handling things well.

A patrol officer held the clipboard, standing relaxed against a tree. He straightened when he saw Fletcher.

“Evening, sir. Got us a mess.”

“So I hear. Who’s on it?”

“Detective Hart’s talking to the witnesses right now.” He gestured down the sidewalk, where Fletcher’s old partner and now lead detective stood by a pair of girls, both tearstained and rumpled. “Dude’s girlfriend found them. They’re pretty shook up.”

“I bet. Thanks, Hernandez.”

Fletcher signed in, went down the stairs. He could smell the blood before he saw it. When he stepped through the hall into the main room, with all the crime scene lights burning brightly, the blood seemed chaotic in its motion, streams and spatters of red going everywhere.

He sighed. A long night ahead for his team.

They all knew Fletcher liked to look at things by himself. Two crime scene techs saw him come in and melted away, allowing their boss a clean scene to walk through.

One said in passing, “Watch the blood in the hall. It’s pretty thick as you go into the bedroom.”

Fletcher nodded his thanks and walked through by himself once, placing things. The tech was right. The blood was thick and smeary, almost as if the body had been dragged into the bedroom from the living room.

As he entered the master, he saw a woman’s body leaning against the bed, arms by her sides, a crumpled marionette. Her skin was blue; milky, slitted eyes stared at nothing. Skids of blood stained the carpet, the bed, the walls. Life’s blood, clearly. A six-inch blade lay quietly on the comforter, next to a small, dirty-white plastic tent with a green light inside to designate a significant piece of evidence, and the number seven written on it.

Crime scene markers.

There was another green-lit one on the dresser, perched next to a piece of paper.

He’d been told this was a murder-suicide. Here was the murder.

The suicide was not present for his own party. He’d been transported to George Washington University Hospital, in extreme distress.

The crime scene was messy, unwieldy, complicated. Not the worst he’d ever seen, but bad enough. It would take a week to sort through all the blood. And with two victims, it would cost him a mint. He couldn’t help but see the dollar signs—he had a budget now, new responsibilities. He needed to keep control of things. And DNA testing was expensive. A necessary evil, of course, but pricey all the same.

The note was on the dresser, a page ripped from a notebook, written in a slanting hand, the letters blocked, like an architect’s script, but leaning heavily to the right, as if the building plans attached to it were sliding down a hill.

You made me do this.

He left it there, made his way out of the apartment, up the stairs, breathing deeply of the city air, happy to let its gassy stink clear his sinuses of the reek of death. Spared a quick glance at the tall back windows of the house one street over. Samantha Owens lived there, and he was surprised she wasn’t over here already, marching around, giving orders. Of course, she wasn’t a part of his world, not really, just an interesting bystander who brought him the strangest cases.

He liked the idea of her working for the FBI. She needed the challenge.

The lights in her bedroom were dark. He shook off thoughts of his friend. He needed to attend to his witnesses before they were useless.

Emma and Cameron were their names. Both undergrad students at Georgetown. Both highly intoxicated still, though scared into some semblance of sobriety. Underage, too, of course, which meant trouble for whoever was serving them tonight, but he didn’t spare more than a moment’s thought to that issue. Not his problem.

The taller of the two was standing by the squad car, her arms wrapped around her body as if she could hold herself together. He imagined she’d never seen anything like this. It would scar her for life. And the other one—prettier, softer, but...less, somehow, than her friend—was well on her way to being medicated by the EMTs. The horror of violent death took people differently. Some freaked out, some got quiet. Some enjoyed the ruckus, found ways to make it all about them. Others shook, and were never right again.

Hart nodded to him as he approached. He looked as tired as Fletcher felt.

“Hey, boss. This is Emma Johnson. She found the victims. Cameron Saint, her friend. They came to visit Mr. Cattafi this evening and found them.” He gestured back toward the house.

The girl Hart had identified as Emma kept glancing at the house. Her voice was soft, hurting. “Is Tommy going to make it?”

Fletcher could smell the liquor on her breath. She’d been crying; her eyes were red and puffy. “I don’t know, ma’am. Can you run me through your night? Tell me what happened?”

“I just wanted to stop by and see him,” she said.

“They’d broken up,” Cameron added. Emma came to life, anger on her face as she gave her friend a nasty look.

Her friend shrugged. “What? You did. He was there with another woman, anyway. And he tried to kill her. You dodged a bullet, you ask me.”

Emma sighed in disgust, turned to Fletcher with old eyes. “We’re on a break. I still have my key. He’s been really busy lately. School’s been really hard on him.”

“Where does Mr. Cattafi go to school?”

“He’s an M.D./Ph.D. candidate at Georgetown. He’s going to cure cancer. Already has.”

“Mmm-hmm. And you broke up when?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Did you know he was seeing someone new?”

The words were small. “No. No, I didn’t.”

“Where were you tonight?”

“Just...all over the place. Barhopping.”

“And people can confirm this?”

“Oh. My. Gawd. You think I had something to do with this? Are you mental?”

“Careful, Miss Johnson,” Hart said.

“My father will be very interested to hear your accusations. Do you have any idea who I am?”

Fletcher stopped himself from laughing. “No, Miss Johnson. I have no idea who you are, nor do I care. Now you can settle down, or we can have this chat in my office. Do you want that?”

“Calm down, Emma. He’s not kidding,” Cameron said.

Emma huffed a bit, then raised her chin. “No. I don’t care to continue this line of questioning without a lawyer present.”

Hart glanced at Fletcher, who nodded. Hart whipped out his cuffs, turned Emma Johnson around and calmly placed them on her wrists, all the while ignoring her squeaks of shock at his rough treatment. “When my father hears this, he’s going to get you fired!”

Cameron groaned and leaned back against the police cruiser. She met Fletcher’s eyes as if to say, Hey, I can’t do anything with her when she’s fired up like this.

“Miss Saint? Would you like to continue this conversation, or would you, too, like a lawyer present?”

“Yes, sir, I would. I mean, no, sir, I’m all good.” Flustered, she continued. “Emma didn’t do this, sir. She’s been with me all night.”

“Shut up, Cameron. We need to get my dad’s lawyers here.”

Cameron drew herself up and gave her friend a baleful glare. “You shut up, Emma. You’re making a fool out of yourself.” And to Fletcher, “We have fake IDs—we were in Mr. Smith’s most of the night. You can check. They booted us and we walked up here. She wanted a booty call. She’s just drunk. She gets stupid when she drinks. Let her go, please. We stumbled into this, and we don’t know anything.”

Her words rang true, and Fletcher nodded. “Did you see anyone in the neighborhood as you were walking here? Anything that stood out? Cars that seemed suspicious, people who were out of place?”

Cameron looked at the ground, then back to him. “Sir, I apologize, but I had a lot to drink tonight. I wasn’t noticing much of anything besides where to put my foot next to make it up the hill, and then tossing my cookies when I saw all that blood. Besides, it’s Georgetown. There’s always a bunch of people around. I didn’t notice anyone who looked wrong, but I wasn’t paying a lot of attention, either.”

Emma had had a change of heart. “There was a jogger. That’s the only person I saw. But it was a woman. She was coming down the hill.”

“Young, old? Hair color?”

“She had a baseball cap on, and those reflective sneakers. That’s all I remember.”

Fletcher believed her. “All right. Unhook her, Hart.”

Emma looked like she was about to say something, but Cameron shook her head and she stopped. Hart released the cuffs, and Emma rubbed her wrists and muttered, “Thanks.”

Cameron grabbed her friend’s hand. “Can we go now?”

Fletcher did his best disappointed-dad routine. “You two behaved incredibly irresponsibly tonight. You could have been killed. I hope you realize that. Now, give me the fake IDs.”

“Yes, sir,” they chimed in unison.

They dug in their bags and came up with the bits of plastic. He pocketed them. “Detective Hart will make sure you get home all right. I’ll most likely want to talk to you again, when you’ve had a chance to sober up, and clean up. Give him all your information. And, girls? I hear about you doing anything out of step again, I won’t be Mr. Nice Guy. You hear me?”

They nodded, and Fletcher jerked his head toward the car. “Get them home,” he said to Hart, then walked back to his own car.

What a mess. What a huge mess.

His phone was sitting on the console. There was a text from Sam—sure enough, she had noticed the hubbub. He was tempted to go knock on her door, let her make him a decent cup of coffee. Her boyfriend, Xander, was addicted. They always had some sort of delicious brew on hand. But the text was over an hour old. She may have gone to bed when she didn’t hear back from him.

He sent her a quick note back, then got started with the paperwork.

There’d be no sleep for him tonight.