Chapter Four
Mac pushed through the throngs of gawkers gathered on the sidewalk and held up his gold shield before ducking under the yellow crime scene tape.
The victims’ house was in North Cleveland Park a few miles northwest of the National Zoo. It was a beautiful older building, worth easily upward of a million bucks in today’s market. Someone might kill for that alone.
There was a uniform from the Capitol Police at the corner of the house, taking names and handing out gloves and booties. Mac signed the log book and covered his shoes.
“You seen Agent Ross?” he asked the guy.
The uniform gave a sharp shake of his head. He was solidly built with gray at the temples. His mouth compressed, eyes pained.
“You first on scene?”
“Yeah,” he acknowledged gruffly. “Knew the judge. He was a fine man. Didn’t deserve this.”
Mac didn’t ask more questions. It shouldn’t make a difference, but the mood shifted when someone had a relationship with the vic. Dark humor, used so often as a way for law enforcement and medical professionals to dissociate themselves from the daily grimness of their jobs, was shelved. The victims became more human. More deserving of respect. It was wrong, but it was natural.
“They’re around the back.” The uniform indicated with a jerk of his head. Mac headed that way. A black BMW sat gleaming in the garage. A tarp had been strung up over the entrance to shield the scene from prying eyes. Mac ducked behind the material and his stomach lurched.
Now he understood why the patrol officer looked like shit.
A man lay on the threshold. Gray suit, blood red tie falling in a wave over the stoop. No overcoat. No shoes. Mac moved closer and studied the body.
Two shots. One to the chest. One in the head. Point blank range.
An agent stepped into view. Late twenties. Average height. One seventy. Eager rather than weary, which was a promising sign. It was easy to let the job consume you.
“Agent Ross?” Mac asked.
“No, sir. Agent Atherton. You must be ASAC McKenzie?”
Mac nodded. At least they’d been informed he was coming. “Medical Examiner here yet?”
Atherton finished scribbling in his notebook and said distractedly, “On her way.”
“What do you have?”
“Two victims.” Atherton motioned for Mac to follow him inside.
Mac edged around the victim before stepping into a clean, well-kept home. The acrid scent of burnt coffee filled the air, along with the metallic taint of blood.
“Judge Raine Thomas and his wife of over thirty years, Kate,” Atherton said. “Murder-suicide looks unlikely because both victims were shot twice, and no sign of a weapon, unless someone removed it before we got here. ME should be able to tell us for certain.”
In Mac’s experience when men killed themselves they didn’t start with one to the chest and a second to the head. They stuck the gun in their mouth and blew out their brains.
Mac stepped into a high-ceilinged kitchen that belonged in a magazine except for the dark slick of blood pooled beside the body of a dead woman. She hadn’t died quickly or painlessly. Now he wished he’d skipped breakfast.
She lay on her side. The chest wound was indicative of the bullet being fired from farther away, presumably the doorway. Powder burns on the victim’s skin suggested the second shot had been taken at point-blank range. Part of her skull was obliterated. Blood streaks on the floor indicated at some point she’d tried to crawl toward her dead husband.
Gold and diamonds glittered on her ring finger.
“Signs of forced entry?” asked Mac.
“Nope.”
“Security?”
“A basic alarm that was turned off. Bullet trajectory on the judge suggests the shooter was standing outside firing into the doorway. No signs of a struggle. No nine-one-one call. Neighbors didn’t hear a thing.”
“They used a suppressor?”
Atherton shrugged. “Looks that way.”
Mac scanned the floor. No evidence markers for shell casings. “Shooter picked up their brass?”
“Yup.” Atherton blew out a long breath. “Whoever did this didn’t leave anything obvious behind except two bullets lodged in each victim. No signs of robbery, either. The UNSUB didn’t take jewelry, laptops, wallets, phones or cash all of which are lying in plain sight. No obvious signs of sexual assault.”
“Jesus.” Mac expelled a breath. A full pot of coffee sat on the counter, two pieces of toast in the toaster, two plates beside it. An open butter dish and jar of marmalade sat nearby. These people had been going through the motions of a normal workday morning when someone had walked in and shot them dead.
It looked like a hit.
“Any idea as to motive?” asked Mac.
“Not yet.”
“Could be personal? Or some sort of revenge attack? What do you know about the judge or his cases?”
Atherton seemed pained, as if Mac was slowing him down. He probably was.
“Federal Circuit Judge. Dealt mainly with patent cases and veterans’ affairs.”
Hardly the hotbed of passion or vengeance, although veterans knew guns and patents could be worth millions.
“Thomas ever receive death threats?”
“I’m in the process of checking it out.” The man sighed and the eagerness dimmed a little. “It’s early days.”
Mac glanced around. “Who stands to gain from the couple’s death?”
Atherton checked his notes. “There are two grown children. We have agents talking to them both. They heard the news on TV.”
Christ. Mac didn’t want to imagine how much that had sucked.
Atherton continued. “We haven’t found a will yet, but there’s a safe. We also need to find out the name of their lawyer.”
Mac asked the obvious question. “Could this be a hate crime?”
The judge and his wife were both black.
“It’s a little early to say.” This comment came from a new voice.
Mac glanced up. The guy who stood in the doorway had dark hair longer than generally considered acceptable in the FBI, and sharp eyes that were the norm. “You’re ASAC McKenzie? I’m Mark Ross. What can we do for you?”
Mac inclined his head as they shook hands. This guy did not like a superior being on his turf. “I started working in SIOC and wanted to see this crime scene for myself.”
“I haven’t seen you around. How long you been at HQ?” Ross questioned, watching him closely.
Mac checked his watch. “Two hours.”
The other agents laughed, but then they all glanced uncomfortably at the dead woman lying on her kitchen floor.
“That’s about as long as I’d last, too,” Ross told him.
Mac put his hands on his hips. It wasn’t that, but why blow a reason to bond? “I’m the new liaison for the Crisis Management Unit at SIOC. I wanted to offer any assistance we can provide.”
“Appreciate it, but I don’t think we need SIOC at this stage.” The tone was just south of condescending. “If that changes, we’ll let you know.”
Dismissed.
Mac held Ross’s gaze but their silent pissing contest was interrupted by voices outside.
“That’s the ME,” Atherton volunteered like a puppy trying to keep both owners happy. “Better watch where you step because she’s fussy about her blood spatter and scares the crap out of me. I’ll walk you out.”
The last time Mac had felt this unwanted he’d been having an animated discussion about jurisdiction with a member of the US Marshals Service. But how would he feel if some bigwig from headquarters tried to insert himself into his investigation?
Like a dog guarding his bone.
“Don’t worry. I’ll show myself out.”
Atherton and Ross nodded absently. They obviously didn’t give a crap as long as he left them alone to get on with their job. He walked through the beautiful home, with its warm colors and plush furniture, paused near the front door and studied a portrait of the judge in his robes. Another photo hung beside it, more informal with the judge kissing his wife.
They appeared beyond content—they looked in love. Not a condition Mac ever wanted to suffer from again.
He pressed his lips together. The murder of a black federal judge would be celebrated in certain circles. Bigotry and antigovernment sentiment was alive and well despite the fact they lived in the twenty-first century.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t a crime to hate people because of their job or the color of their skin. It was a crime to act on it. He pushed aside the old anger and disgust and let the agents do their job. There was more than enough crime to go around.