Fatal Judgment (27 page)

The ghost of a smile flickered at his lips. “I was at church. My pastor and dozens of people will vouch for that. First Congregational. Pastor Adam Burnett.”

Shooting Jake a look, Nick closed his portfolio and stood. “If you think of anything that could help prevent a second murder, we’d appreciate a call.”

“Of course.”

As they exited the man’s offices and headed down the hall to the elevator, Nick turned to Jake. “What do you think?”

“Either he truly believes no one in his group is responsible, or he’s a very good liar.”

“Yeah.” Nick pressed the elevator button. “We’ll check out the church, but I think that’s going to be a dead end.”

“I agree. We could get a search warrant for his home and office to see if we can find a Patriot Constitutionalists roster, but even if we did uncover one—and I doubt it exists in any sort of easily recognizable form—we’d have to run intel on every single person. That would take time we don’t have.”

The door opened, and they moved inside.

“It might still be worth doing. Let’s regroup at the operations center. See if the profilers have weighed in yet.” Nick selected the lobby button.

As the elevator descended, Jake’s spirits plummeted as well. The visit with Jarrod had yielded nothing. The profilers were unlikely to tell them much more than they’d already surmised. The odds of the abductor’s fingerprints or DNA being on the letter or envelope were miniscule, based on past experience.

They needed a break. Badly.

And they needed it fast.

Please, Lord!

The desperate, silent entreaty came unbidden, from deep within his soul, surprising him.

But he let it stand. Because while he and God might not be on the best of terms, they needed all the help they could get to find Liz before it was too late.

______

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you need a new furnace.”

As Bill Lewis, the repairman from Premier Heating and Cooling, pronounced his verdict, Patricia let out a disgusted sigh. “Can you do anything to make it run for just a couple more days? My brother gets back tomorrow night, and I’d rather leave this decision to him.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s a twenty-year-old unit that’s been patched and repaired too often already. I could try to shore her up for a few days, but it would be like throwing money into a black hole. The valves are corroded, and the heat exchanger has several cracks. There’s also a lot of rust in the manifold tube going into the gas valve from the main line. To be honest, I think there’s a serious risk of a carbon monoxide leak.”

Patricia had no idea what half of that meant, but none of it sounded good.

“If you have an electric space heater, that could keep the chill off the bedroom at night and the kitchen during the day, until your brother gets back,” the man suggested.

“I’ll have to look around.” She hadn’t seen one, but it was possible Marty had one in the basement. If not, she could always buy a cheap unit to tide her over. Or maybe his hunting buddy’s wife could reach them and she could convince him to come home early. She should have thought of that sooner. “Do you have a card you could leave?”

“Sure thing.” He withdrew one from his pocket as Josie wove around his ankles.

“Sorry about that.” Patricia shooed her away from him. “She’s been sticking close to me too. I think she’s trying to stay warm.”

“No problem.” He handed over the card. “We can give you prices and install a new unit within twenty-four hours once you make a decision.”

“Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

He quoted the amount, and she moved to the desk, where she’d left Marty’s checkbook and the check stubs. After Helen died, he’d added her name to all his accounts. Good thing. That meant she could write a check on his account for the service call.

As she signed it, Patricia hesitated. Was she supposed to include that UCC 1-308 code he always used?

Hesitating, she turned to the repairman. “Do you have any idea what this means? It’s on all of my brother’s checks for the past year or so.” She pointed out the notation on one of the stubs.

He squinted at it, his expression puzzled. “I haven’t a clue. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Me neither.” Deciding to skip it, she signed the check and handed it over, then walked him to the door. “I’m sure my brother will be in touch in a day or two.”

“No hurry from our end. But get yourself an electric heater for tonight. It won’t be cold enough to freeze your pipes, but the house will get mighty chilly.”

“I will. Thanks.”

After closing the door behind him, Patricia returned to the kitchen and pulled out the phone book. Scanning the listings under Abernathy, she found two Josephs. One of them had to be Marty’s hunting pal.

The first call was a bust. The man who answered had never heard of Marty.

A woman picked up at the second number.

“Mrs. Abernathy?”

“Yes.”

“This is Patricia Reynolds. I’m trying to reach the Joe Abernathy who’s on a hunting trip with my brother, Martin Reynolds. Is this his number?”

The silence on the other end of the line stretched so long that Patricia wondered if they’d been disconnected. “Hello? Are you still there?”

“What did you say your name was?” There was a note of caution in the woman’s voice.

“Patricia Reynolds. Martin’s sister. I’m staying at his house while I’m in town, and the furnace went out. I tried to call him, but his cell phone isn’t working. I was hoping your husband might have a phone with him. If he’s the Joe Abernathy who’s with my brother.”

“Ms. Reynolds, I’m confused. I recognize your brother’s name, but my husband died three years ago.”

Speechless, Patricia stared out the kitchen window at the shriveled, decaying maple leaves being tossed about by the frosty autumn wind, their fall beauty long faded.

“Ms. Reynolds?”

“Yes.” She pulled herself back to the conversation. “Perhaps I misunderstood my brother. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“No problem. Good luck tracking him down.”

As the phone went dead, an ominous chill settled over Patricia. Slowly she lowered the phone into its cradle. Ever since she’d arrived in St. Louis, she’d picked up strange vibes from Marty. He’d been distant, distracted, and uncommunicative. While he’d never been the most social person, they’d always been close. And they’d always managed to share some laughs.

There’d been little laughter on this trip. And only when he’d talked about gun control had he seemed focused.

Then there was all that material in the desk drawer. Some of it had looked kind of radical.

Lowering herself into a kitchen chair, she propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand, unable to shake her sense of unease.

What in the world was her brother up to?

Although his eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep, Jake fought off his fatigue as he settled into a chair in the command post at the FBI office. Quantico was ready with a report from both the forensic team examining the letter and from the profilers, and a full contingent of FBI agents and marshals had assembled, including the SOG guys who had been filtering in over the past few hours. Jake surveyed the crowded conference room. Luke Garavaglia was at the head of the table. His own boss, Matt Warren, sat beside him. Spence was across the table.

BlackBerry still in hand, Todd slipped back into the seat beside him. “Thanks for saving my spot.” As he tucked the phone into its holder on his belt, he inspected Jake. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“Saturday night.”

“You must be running on fumes.”

Jake lifted one shoulder. “I’ll crash tonight for a while if there’s nothing new.”

Not that he expected to sleep. How could he, when the image of Liz’s terrified eyes as her abductor had guided her out of the lobby kept strobing across his mind?

The phone squawked to life as Luke pressed the speaker button and dropped the handset back in its cradle. “Christy, are you on the line?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. We have a full house on hand to listen to your report. For those of you here who haven’t dealt with Christy, she’s a profiler in our Behavioral Analysis Unit. Christy, you’re on.”

“Several of us have reviewed the letter, and we all reached the same conclusion. As you suspected, we believe you’re dealing with a radical member of a sovereign citizen group. These people have often been victims of the system—on multiple occasions in some cases. That fuels their feeling of persecution. Many ascribe to conspiracy theories of one sort or another. The most radical ones get desperate and feel violence is their only option.”

“Any thoughts on our man’s age?” Luke asked.

“No. This movement crosses generations and all walks of life. But I’d say you’re looking for someone who’s angry, socially isolated, and obsessed with revenge. You should assume he has access to weapons and may be well-armed. As most of you know, these sovereign citizen types have no trust in government and operate from what they believe is very high moral ground. They’re absolutely convinced their position is correct and are often willing to die for it. Timothy McVeigh is a good example of that. We saw the same phenomenon with Waco, Ruby Ridge, and the Montana Freemen. These types of people consider themselves martyrs for a greater cause.”

“Do you think the fact the guy is playing the press angle buys us some time?” Jake threw out the question.

“I wouldn’t count on it. These people can be very methodical and logical. Unless he wants to be discovered—which doesn’t appear to be the case, given the care he’s exercised to conceal his identity—I doubt he’ll risk holding on to the judge more than a couple of days.”

While Christy’s answer didn’t surprise him, hearing an expert profiler confirm his own opinion did nothing to quell Jake’s growing anxiety.

“Any other questions?” Luke glanced around the silent room. “Okay. We appreciate the input, Christy. Thanks.”

“I hope it helps. Good luck.”

Pushing a different button on the phone, Luke spoke again. “Sam, you with us?”

“I’m here.”

“Sam’s been overseeing the lab work,” Luke told the assembled group. “All right, Sam, what do you have?”

“Not enough, I’m afraid. There’s nothing unusual about the paper the letter was written on or the envelope, and the few prints either matched the elimination prints that were sent or didn’t show up in NCIC. There’s no DNA on the adhesive, so your guy didn’t lick it.”

No trace evidence. No prints in the National Crime Information Center database. A muscle in Jake’s jaw twitched.

“Paul Sheehan, our handwriting expert, did confirm that the message and signature written at the bottom of the letter are the judge’s,” Sam added.

“What about that gold hair the ERT found in the condo?” Luke tapped a finger on the table.

“Definitely feline. And it matches the one from the previous crime scene three weeks ago.”

“Anything else?”

“No. We tried to clean up the surveillance tapes from the judge’s condo to see if we could sharpen the guy’s face, but with the glasses and hat and muffler, we still can’t pick up any distinguishing features.”

“Okay. Questions?” When no one spoke, Luke leaned toward the phone to disconnect the call. “Thanks, Sam.”

A heavy silence hung in the room as Luke sat back. Leading Jake to conclude that everyone was as stymied as he was by the rapidly cooling case.

“From our end, Jarrod Williams, the leader of the Patriot Constitutionalists, had a valid alibi for Sunday,” Luke told the assembled group. “Matt, you want to jump in here?”

Matt rested his elbows on the table and knitted his fingers together. “All we have is a profiler’s assessment, a cat hair, and an essentially worthless video.” He shook his head. “We need a break. I’m open to ideas.”

“Mark, when’s the next meeting of the Patriot Constitutionalists?” Jake asked.

“Not until a week from Wednesday.”

No good.

“While you and Nick were paying a visit to Jarrod Williams today, I did go through some databases of sovereign citizen groups,” Mark offered. “I found Mr. Williams’s photo, but I didn’t recognize anyone else from the meetings I’ve attended. If our guy is part of that group, he’s not on any official radar screens.”

“Okay. We can’t just sit around hoping for something to turn up.” Luke jabbed his fingers through his hair and blew out a breath. “Let’s do another canvas of the area around the judge’s condo, broadening the scope by a few blocks. And let’s do the same on the judge’s street. I know none of the immediate neighbors saw anything on Sunday, but let’s expand our perimeter there too. Matt, why don’t we divvy up the assignments between your people and mine?”

“That works.”

“All right. Everyone hang close while we sort this out.”

As the meeting broke up, Matt exchanged a few words with Luke, then detoured to Jake and Todd. After sizing Jake up, he planted his fists on his hips.

“Go home. Take a shower. Get some sleep. We have plenty of people working this. If there’s a break, I need you fresh.”

Jake wanted to protest, but his boss was right. Any agent or marshal could question possible witnesses as effectively as he could. And the lack of sleep was beginning to dull his reaction time. He needed to be at the top of his game if they got a solid lead on Liz’s abductor.

“I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” Matt countered.

Jake thought about arguing. Decided not to. “Okay. I’ll see you then.”

As their boss walked away, Jake angled toward Todd. “Are you working tonight?”

“Looks that way.”

“Page me if anything turns up. Anything.”

“You heard the boss. Go home and sleep.”

“If you won’t, I’ll find someone who will.”

Giving him the steady, piercing stare that made him such a good sniper, Todd crossed his arms and shook his head. “Fine. I’ll page you. But to be honest, I’m not expecting much to develop tonight.”