When Shadows Fall. J.T. Ellison
“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.