Judged (2 page)

“There,” she said. “I wrote down everything.”

“Show me,” Tim said.

The woman tossed the notepad onto the bed.

Tim walked over, picked it up, and read what she had written. He held it out to her. “Sign your name at the bottom of the page.” He tossed it back at her and took a step back, keeping the gun aimed at her chest.

She signed her name.

“Thank you,” Tim said. “And the verdict just came in. Guilty. Your sentence is the same as the late Mrs. Scobee. Death.” He took a few steps toward the bed and squeezed the trigger three times. The flash of the muzzle lit the corners of the room, and the sound bounced from the bedroom walls. Rachael held her chest where the three bullets entered, and she slid down the wall, collapsing out of view to the side of the bed. Tim rounded the foot of the bed toward her. She lay in a fetal position, spilling blood through her nightgown onto the Berber carpet below her. Tim figured she’d bleed out within a minute.

Tim returned to the open bedroom door, closed it slightly, and flicked off the light. He walked back to the bed and took a seat on the edge. Then he faced the doorway, gun in his lap, and waited on Glen.

In the meeting room of our Manassas office, I reached across the conference table and handed Ball and Beth the files I’d put together.

“This is new since your last trip a couple months back?” Ball asked. He was referencing the five days I’d spent investigating in Miami in December.

“Correct,” I said.

Beth flipped open the file before her and flipped through the first two pages.

Ball took a seat in front of his file and opened the cover sheet.

I sat down. “The first few sheets there are photos and notes from the scene of the married couple, the Scobees, Glen and Rachael. Both shot three times each in the chest. The notepad found at the scene contained two handwritten confessions, one from each victim. The confessions were for the involvement in the murder of Leila Scobee, Glen Scobee’s first wife. Both confessions mentioned the husband’s brother Greg. He is our third victim, also shot three times, also found with a handwritten confession stating he was the triggerman in Leila Scobee’s death.”

“Has any kind of handwriting expert been over the confessions?” Beth asked.

“The notepads are with the Miami office. Someone is looking them over—haven’t heard back yet, though,” I said.

“So he’s getting the victims to leave written confessions,” Beth said. “That is assuming they were in fact written by the victims. Either way, why the change? Is this going to be his thing now?”

“These last three were the only ones like that. I think now that he’s starting to get a little press, he’s begun to play to his role a bit more.”

Ball motioned for me to continue.

“Just that it seems his methods have only evolved when the local media started to toss the word
vigilante
across the airwaves. He was killing criminals without recognition before. Some kind of personal vendetta, I guess. The coverage of this down there went from the number of homicides to maybe someone taking out criminals to a vigilante seeking his own personal justice. Now the guy is apparently making the people confess prior to killing them. Local citizens being interviewed almost seem like they are rooting for the guy. He’s cleaning up the streets, helping the sad state of the city—things of that nature being said by John Q. Public.”

Ball flipped a few pages in and looked up from the file. “Great, a hero murderer. Have you spoken to Bulger again?”

“No,” I said. “Not since his initial profile.”

“Well, I’m kind of under the impression that you don’t put a lot of stock into that, but this guy’s evolving may be something that you want to run past him.”

“For?” I asked.

“Just to get a little more insight. Not that there’s a chance this guy is going to evolve into something along the lines of ‘now it’s the government who has done wrong’ and go that route.”

“I see what you’re saying,” I said.

“We can take a walk over to Bulger’s office after this and see what he has to say on it. Worst-case scenario, he can draw us up something new.”

I shrugged, agreeing.

“His methods of killing?” Ball asked.

“Same as before. He’s killing the people in one way or another in the same fashion as their past crimes. These last three were done with the same gun. It was found at Greg Scobee’s house. The three shots in the chest go back to how Leila Scobee was murdered.”

“So he’s becoming more careless,” Beth said. “Leaving the murder weapon behind. From everything you’ve said, this guy doesn’t leave any evidence.”

“True. But the gun still doesn’t give us anything. We have the weapon, no prints on it, and no serial number,” I said.

“Any trace? Anything found in the homes?” Ball asked.

I shook my head. “The lock on the service door of the married Scobee couple’s house looked to have been tampered with. Locals suggested a bump key. I guess you hit it with a hammer or something, and it pushes all the tumblers up, allowing entry. Nothing found at Glen Scobee’s is looking like forced entry, though.”

“What’s our total number on who we can attribute to this guy?” Ball asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t know for certain. I’d say at least ten that I have records on that are similar enough to attribute to him. Maybe another ten or more fall into the ‘possibility’ category. I can’t attribute anything to him since my last visit, though, beside these latest ones.”

Ball scratched at the side of his gray hair. He pulled a sheet from the file and read it over.

I recognized it as the original profile, which was pretty broad.

“Anything from the locals on potential suspects?” Ball asked.

“Not really,” I said. “I have some ideas, but in reality, and going by the original profile, it could be every single person in every branch of law enforcement. Every judge, attorney, or person in the courts. Every scorned family member of anyone who’s ever been a victim.”

“Every person who thinks the city would be better off minus criminals,” Beth added.

“I get all of that,” Ball said, “but this guy has to have access to rap sheets somehow. Not all of these victims’ past crimes can be available for public consumption. Forget the profile for now. What’s your gut say?” Ball looked at me.

“Cop. Detective. Maybe retired or off active duty.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Well, I had that inkling from the get-go. But these last murders only further it. The guy put in footwork prior to killing these three. There’s a local homicide lieutenant in Miami that I’m familiar with from my time in Tampa. I actually met with him briefly on my last visit down there, and he’s been working on this case for Miami Dade PD. The guy’s name is Harrington. Anyway, he’s actually the one who filled me in on these latest murders. He said he spoke with some people at other precincts that had knowledge of the original home invasion and homicide that the Scobees wrote the confessions to. It all looks like it pans out. The wedding rings that were left with the confessions at the Scobee house were the same as photos of those that were supposedly stolen from the deceased Leila Scobee. I also heard that there were rumblings that Glen Scobee, who was out of town while the home invasion and murder of Leila happened, was thought to be a suspect. Seems that people who’d worked the case thought he may have hired someone.”

“The brother that was killed, Greg—did he have priors?” Beth asked. “His confession said that he was the triggerman, correct?”

“That’s correct,” I said. “No priors, but in his confession letter, he said he’d used the money that his brother paid him to pay off some illegal gambling debt.”

“Who are you in contact with at the Miami office down there?” Ball asked.

“Supervisory Agent Henry Couch. He has copies of everything I’ve put together, and he and his team are actively investigating. He’s the one that will get me the handwriting analysis as soon as it comes in.”

Ball let out a long breath and looked down. He appeared to be examining something on his blue tie. He scratched at whatever it was, maybe breakfast, and looked back up at me. “Have Jim get you set. Are you trying to leave tomorrow?”

“If possible,” I said. “I’d like to get there while these last ones are still somewhat fresh.”

“Okay.” Ball flipped the investigation file closed. “Have Jim get everything set and then meet me in my office. I’ll call Bulger and let him know that we’ll be over to his office shortly for a new profile.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

The three of us left the conference room. Ball walked toward his office, Beth took a seat at her desk, and I headed for Jim’s office at the back of our unit. I rapped my knuckles on his open door and poked my head inside. Jim was sitting in front of his computer. A pencil was tucked behind his ear and pressed tightly against his short white hair.

He looked away from his monitor at me. “Rawlings, what can I do you for?”

“I need travel, hotel, and cars,” I said.

He waved me in and motioned for me to sit across from him at his desk. “Give me one second,” he said. “I’m booking Bill’s return flight.”

“Any word on how it went?” I asked.

Jim didn’t take his eyes from his computer. “I spoke with him earlier. From what I gathered, it went well. One more second.”

Bill had been sent to the Los Angeles office to receive training on a software update to the DIVS system we used to search databases on investigations. The new update would allow us to cross-reference investigations and suspects, and if all worked out to plan, the update could rapidly speed up the time frame needed for our research. I waited for Jim to finish.

“Okay. Where are we headed?” he asked.

“Miami again,” I said.

Jim crossed his arms over his tweed sport coat. “You’re just trying to get out of this lovely dreary spring weather, aren’t you? Miami sounds nice right about now.”

“Nah, this isn’t that bad. Mid-forties I can live with. And I don’t really care for Miami.”

“Don’t care for Miami?” Jim asked.

“Not really. Too many people. Too much hustle and bustle. Too many people doing whatever they can to flaunt money. It’s just not my thing.”

“The beach has to be nice, though,” Jim said.

“Again, the exact reasons I just stated, except there’s sand underfoot. Florida is all beaches, and there’s a hell of a lot better ones than Miami. Not that I’m a beach buff or anything.”

“So you’re saying you’re not a fan?”

“Correct.”

Jim chuckled. “Departure?”

“Tomorrow morning. Beth and I.”

“Got it. Need exact times?”

I stood and scooted my chair back. “Nope, just whenever you can get us out.”

“Okay. I’ll send everything to your e-mail.”

“Appreciate it, Jim.”

He gave me a smile and a quick nod.

I left his office and headed to Ball’s.

As I passed our team’s desks, Scott wheeled himself around in his chair to face me. “You guys going out hot?” he asked.

“Tomorrow. Back to Miami,” I said.

“Your guy is changing his game, huh?”

“Looks like it. Ball and I are going to go talk to Bulger and get his take on it. How did you know we were heading out? Ball or Beth say something?” I asked.

Scott jerked his chin at the windows of the conference room. I glanced over to look. Beth was on her cell phone. She was waving her hands to emphasize words in whatever conversation she was having—it appeared heated.

“I caught a bit of that as she was walking from her desk,” he said.

“Who’s she talking to?”

“If I was a betting man, I’d say the other Scott—ex-husband. Weird. It’s like I’m having deja vu. She used to do the exact same thing when they were together. Now he moves back here, and well, I guess some things don’t change.”

“I’m sure I’ll get the details sometime over the next few days,” I said.

Jim poked his head from his office. “Do you want to fly into Fort Lauderdale instead of Miami?” he asked. “The airport is a few minutes closer to the gazillion-dollar new building.”

“It’s open?” I asked.

Jim was referencing the FBI’s brand-new almost-two-hundred-million-dollar facility in Miramar. I’d seen something in an e-mail a week or two back from them, dedicating it to two fallen agents. And I recalled Agent Couch, whom I’d been in contact with down there, mentioning a move.

“As far as I know, they are completely moved over to the new facility and up and running. I can get you a hotel right there as well. If that’s okay.”

“Perfect,” I said.

Jim slapped his door frame and disappeared from the doorway back to his desk.

The drone of cruising at thirty thousand feet filled my ears. I glanced at the passengers beside us in business class, spotting a couple of people wearing noise-canceling headphones—they immediately made my to-buy list with the amount of flying I’d been doing. Beth had been quiet for the most part of our trip to that point. Her lack of talking told me something was wrong with her—I imagined it was relationship orientated but didn’t ask. I preferred the two remaining hours of our flight be filled with the drone of the aircraft rather than relationship talk. I closed my eyes and reclined my seat the two inches it allowed. I took a few deep breaths, readying myself for a good hour nap.

“Guys can be such assholes,” Beth said.

I rubbed my temples. “I’m sorry. Completely my fault. I don’t know what I was thinking. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Whatever, smart ass, I’m not talking about you.”

“Sorry. Force of habit.” I cracked my eyelids and looked over at her sitting against the window in our two-seat row.

“Scott is so damn passive-aggressive at times.”

I tried to keep my groan inaudible. “Now what happened? I thought everything was good? He moved here, you guys were giving it another shot, taking things slow, and all that.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too. I called him to tell him that I was heading out on an investigation, and he got all weird—basically, tried making me feel guilty about doing my job. So I go to his condo last night, and he just acts all dismissive toward me, like he doesn’t even want me there. So I ask him if I should leave, and he tells me that
I’m good at that
, leaving when he needs me around.”