CHAPTER 17
Sean pulled into the Delphi Center parking lot and scanned the cars. No sign of Brooke’s white Prius. He wondered what she was doing today and whether he’d get a chance to see her. Given the morning he’d had, he figured his odds weren’t good.
Callie swung into the lot and slid into an empty space beside him.
“Thanks for meeting me,” he said as she got out.
“No problem. I was just out here a few hours ago. The guy manning the gate is getting sick of seeing me.”
Sean looked at her as they trudged up the steps to the main entrance. “So, that mean you heard back about that knife?”
“Jeez, Sean.”
“What?”
“Don’t you listen to your voice mail? Yes, I heard back about the knife. I left you a message.”
Sean opened the door for her. “Sorry. Been preoccupied. So, is it our murder weapon?”
“It is.”
He approached the reception desk and showed his ID. “We’re here to see Kelsey Quinn.”
The receptionist smiled. “I’m afraid Dr. Quinn is out this afternoon.”
“All afternoon?”
“That’s correct. She’s at a training seminar.”
This wasn’t good news. Sean knew Kelsey, and he’d been counting on that connection to help speed things along. “Who’s handling Kelsey’s autopsies?”
“That would be her new assistant, Sara Lockhart.”
“I’d like to see her, then.”
“And do you have an appointment?”
Sean just looked at the receptionist.
“Sorry.” She blushed. “Let me make a call and see . . .”
As she jumped on the phone, Sean turned to talk to Callie, who was grinning at him.
“What?”
“You flustered her,” she whispered.
Sean sighed. “So, you were saying? About the murder weapon?”
“They lifted traces of the victim’s blood and another profile, presumably the killer.”
“How can we know that?”
“Because—get this—the second DNA profile on that knife matches the DNA found under the victim’s fingernails.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Callie beamed at him.
“Damn, that’s big.”
“I know.”
“Now we need to match that profile with a suspect.”
“Easier said than done. Did you talk to Ric?”
Sean frowned. “No. What?”
“He just called me. The water bottle we submitted isn’t a match with the DNA from the victim’s nail clippings.”
“Shit.”
“I know. So, we can cross off Bradley Mahoney, which means we have to go hit our list again. And we aren’t even sure which of these guys are actually blood relatives, and which of them just share a name. We’ve got some legwork to do.”
“Jasper’s working on it.”
“Excuse me, Detective?” He turned around, and the receptionist was gazing up at him. “Dr. Lockhart is booked solid this afternoon. Would you like to leave a message for her?”
“No. I need to see her.”
“But—”
“Tell her I only need ten minutes.”
The receptionist bit her lip and picked up the phone.
Sean turned around, and Callie was grinning again. “Pushy, pushy.”
“I don’t have time to wait around all week for a bunch of official reports. We need this now.”
“Yeah, but you’re going to piss off Kelsey’s new assistant. Not good strategy. You’re going to be working with her.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Excuse me, Detective? Dr. Lockhart will see you now.” The receptionist smiled and placed a pair of visitor’s badges on the counter. “You can go on back.”
“Thank you.”
They clipped on the badges and headed down a long sloping hallway. He opened the door to the forensic anthropology wing and was hit by a blast of cold air.
“You seem edgy today.”
He looked at Callie, but didn’t answer. Not that it was a question, really.
“Something up with Brooke?”
He glared at her.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
They turned the corner and spotted a woman in a white lab coat striding down the hallway.
“You must be the detectives.” She stopped in front of them and folded her arms over her chest. As opposed to Kelsey, who was a tall redhead, this woman was short and blond. She was no less intimidating, though, as she looked him over.
“Sean Byrne.” He extended a hand, but she ignored it. “And this is Detective Callie McLean.”
“Delighted to meet you,” Dr. Lockhart said, clearly not delighted at all.
She opened the door to her right and led them into Kelsey’s office. At least, Sean had always thought of it as Kelsey’s. Several desks shared the space, and Dr. Lockhart sank into a chair behind the nearest one, which was blanketed in paperwork.
“Have a seat,” she ordered.
They did, and Callie shot Sean a look of annoyance. She’d been right, and now both of them had gotten off on the wrong foot with this contact.
“Sorry for the interruption. I’ll try to make this quick.” He smiled, but the doctor looked unmoved. “We’re here about the autopsy from Lake Wiley.”
“The one I completed five minutes ago. I haven’t finished my report yet.”
“I understand. We just need your preliminary findings.”
“I haven’t finished my preliminary report yet. I was literally washing my hands when you showed up here without an appointment.”
Sean gave her what he hoped was a charming smile. “Yeah, we don’t usually do that. We’ve got a situation today.”
She lifted an eyebrow.
“We’ve got two death investigations going right now, and I believe they’re connected.”
“How can you possibly know that? This victim hasn’t even been ID’d yet.”
“Victim?” Callie leaned closer. “So, it’s definitely a homicide?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.”
“What about cause of death?” Sean asked. “I saw her at the scene, but it was hard to tell what happened. The body was in rough shape.”
“As are most of our cases. Forensic anthropologists don’t typically get involved unless the remains are in poor condition. Which leads me to the question—again—how can you know who she is when we don’t have a formal ID yet?”
“Jasmine Jones.”
Callie glanced at Sean. Even she looked surprised that he’d tossed out a name.
“I saw her Saturday morning at the other victim’s funeral.”
“How do you know it was her? This woman was badly beaten and she’d spent at least a day underwater.”
“Her jewelry. She had silver rings on both hands. Lots of them. They were distinctive.”
“Listen, Detective—”
“It’s Sean.”
“Sean.” Dr. Lockhart leaned her elbows on the desk. “Jewelry can hardly be considered conclusive for identification purposes. We have to run her fingerprints. We submitted them, but they may not even be in the system.”
“They are. Jasmine Jones has been arrested on possession charges, as well as prostitution. I know who she is. Now, could you please tell me what happened to her?”
Sean waited, watching her, but Dr. Lockhart still didn’t seem inclined to open up. This was his pet peeve about scientists. They had to be 100 percent proof-positive certain before they’d go ahead with anything.
Except for Brooke. She went with her gut, same as Sean did—one of the many reasons he’d always liked working with her.
“So. Cause of death,” he said, trying to dig up some patience. “Was she drowned? Strangled? Stabbed?”
“Manual strangulation.”
Sean sat back in his chair, relieved to have an answer at least.
“There’s evidence of bruising in the tissue around her neck, and she was not breathing when she went into that water.” The doctor looked at Callie, then back to Sean again. “There’s also evidence she struggled with her attacker. Hence, the facial injuries. She had multiple contusions, and her right zygomatic bone was fractured.”
“Her cheekbone?” Sean asked.
“That’s correct.”
“Time of death?”
“Hard to say. At least twenty-four hours in the water. I’d say the death occurred shortly beforehand, within an hour.”
“Any evidence of a fall?”
She paused. “Why do you ask?”
“The dam.”
Callie looked at him. “You’re thinking he strangled her and dumped her off the dam?”
“That’s the only upstream bridge. It’s about fifty feet high, so it seems like the body would show signs of impact.”
“It would,” the doctor said. “And I can tell you she also suffered several cracked ribs that would be consistent with a drop like that, particularly if the drop occurred postmortem.”
Sean looked at Callie. “I hate being right about this shit.”
The doctor gave him a disapproving look as she pulled a phone from the pocket of her lab coat. “The prints are in.” She read a message. “Jasmine Michelle Jones, twenty-two, of San Marcos.” She glanced up. “Right again, Detective.”
• • •
Their next stop was the Burr County Administrative Center, which housed an array of offices, including Child Protective Services. Once again, Callie pulled her car into a space beside Sean’s truck, and they trudged across the parking lot together.
She cast a sideways glance at him. His eyes were bloodshot, he needed a shave, and his shoulders looked tense under his black leather jacket.
“So, this thing with Brooke,” she said, earning another glare. “I’m guessing it didn’t go well?”
“No comment.”
“Well, can I make a comment?”
“What happens if I say no?”
She pursed her lips, trying to think of a response that would get her what she wanted, which was information.
“What the hell, make your comment.”
“She’s probably gun-shy.”
He just looked at her.
“I mean, isn’t she getting out of a long-term thing? And it didn’t end well, obviously, so can you blame her for not wanting to dive right into something new? It probably has nothing to do with you.”
He made a grunting noise.
“That’s it? Your response is a grunt?”
He sent her a cranky look. “My response is that this is an interesting insight coming from you. What happened to ‘ask her out’ and ‘the weekend is young’?”
“Well, did you?”
“Yes.”
“And did it go okay?”
“She’s dodging me.”
What did that mean, exactly? Men were so hard to read. Was she dodging his calls? His visits? Or was it more of a conversational dodge, like she didn’t want to define the relationship? Callie wasn’t usually this meddlesome, but she liked Sean and she wanted to help him with his love life, because he was so obviously botching it up.
“So, what’s your plan now?” she asked as they reached the building.
“To keep trying.”
The determination in his voice made her smile. “You really like her, don’t you?”
He pulled open the door and held it for some people exiting, ignoring Callie’s question and essentially ending the conversation.
They stepped into the lobby. The place was dated and dingy and smelled like industrial cleaner. Callie looked around for a directory.
“There she is.” Sean strode ahead. “Farrah,” he called.
The woman turned around. She was tall and rail thin, with curly blond hair that she wore loose around her shoulders. She looked surprised to see Sean. Then the surprise gave way to impatience as she glanced at her watch.
“This is Detective Callie McLean,” Sean said to her. “Callie, this is Farrah Saunders.”
The woman gave Callie a wary look before turning her attention back to Sean. “I’ve been in court all morning. I haven’t had time to go through that file yet.”
“We’re here about Jasmine Jones,” Sean said.
“Jasmine Jones.”
“That’s right. I saw you talking to her at Samantha Bonner’s funeral. You know her?”
“Yes. Why?”
“In what capacity?”
Farrah’s brow furrowed with confusion. “I thought you were here about Sam?”
“And Jasmine,” Sean said. “She was found dead this morning.”
Farrah blanched. “You mean—”
“She was murdered. We believe her death might be related to Samantha Bonner’s.”
The woman’s jaw dropped and for a moment she simply stood there. Then she seemed to get her bearings. She glanced around the lobby. “Come back to my office.”
Farrah led them through a glass door and then through a corridor lined with gray cubicles. It was midafternoon, and most people were at their desks, either tapping on keyboards or talking on the phone. She stopped at a door and ushered them into a small private office.
The two guest chairs were stacked with binders and files, but Farrah seemed oblivious as she walked behind her desk and sank into a chair.
“I don’t know what . . .” She looked at Sean. “Are you sure it’s Jasmine? I just saw her on Saturday.”
Sean and Callie moved the binders and files to the floor and took seats.
“I’m sure,” Sean said. “They made a positive ID with fingerprints at autopsy.”
Farrah blanched again at the word autopsy.
Callie watched her, picking up everything she could about the reaction. Somehow Farrah Saunders was a link between two young women who had been murdered over the last five days. They weren’t sure what the link was, but Sean intended to lead the questioning, while Callie was here to observe and form impressions.
First impression? This woman was shocked by the news. Callie had interviewed plenty of witnesses, and Farrah’s reaction seemed genuine.
“Was Jasmine one of your cases?” Sean asked the social worker.
She shook her head distractedly. “Clients, not cases. And, yes, she was.”
“When?”
“When she was a minor.” Farrah stared off into space. “That would have been . . . three years now?”
“She was twenty-two.”
“Four years ago, then.” Tears filled Farrah’s eyes and she looked down at her desk. “Excuse me, I’m just . . .”
“It’s okay.” Callie gave her a sympathetic look. “Take your time.”
Farrah plucked a tissue from the box on the file cabinet behind her. She dabbed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Sorry. Go ahead.”
“When was the last time you saw Jasmine before Samantha’s funeral?” Sean asked.
“It’s been years. Four, I guess. Around when she turned eighteen.”
Callie took out a notepad and jotted that down so Sean could focus on the questions.
“And how did she know Amy Doppler?” he asked.
“Who?”
“Amy Doppler. The woman she was sitting next to at the funeral.”
“I have no idea. I don’t know Amy.”
“She’s one of Samantha’s AA friends.”
“Oh. Well, that could explain it. Jasmine had a serious drinking problem.”
“At seventeen?” Callie asked.
“At fourteen. It got worse over the years.” Farrah sighed. “That was one reason she bounced around between foster families. She had a lot of issues, and no one could seem to handle her.”
Callie tried to imagine a fourteen-year-old with a serious drinking problem. She couldn’t. When she’d been fourteen, she’d been an honor student and a starter on the volleyball team.
“So, did Samantha know Jasmine through AA, too? Or foster care?”
“I don’t know.”
Sean paused, and Callie knew he was struggling for patience.
“Could you think back to her case? Were they ever placed in the same foster home at the same time?”
“I’d have to check.”
“Please do that. And the drinking problem she had, what was that a reaction to? Had she been abused, molested, anything like that?”
Farrah darted a look at Callie’s notepad. “Jasmine suffered sexual abuse when she lived with her biological mom. I suspect there was probably more abuse along the way, although I don’t remember anything documented.”
“I need a list of those families,” Sean said. “I need everyone in those households, and same for Samantha.”
Farrah nodded.
“What other kind of problems did she have? Drugs? School?”
“Well, she was in juvenile detention at least once. I remember that. She assaulted a teacher, and he pressed charges.”
“He?” Callie looked up from her notepad.
“A coach, I believe. She broke his nose with a lacrosse stick.”
“I want his name,” Sean said. “What was the deal with that? Why’d she assault him?”
“Supposedly, the assault was unprovoked, although I’m not sure I believe that. I always thought maybe he tried something with her, but that’s not what she reported. Anyway, she spent about six months in JD. I’d have to look at her file to be sure. And that was just the start of it. She had other incidents throughout high school.”
“Such as?”
Farrah sighed. “Booze in her locker. Vandalism. Shoplifting. I’d have to look up the rest of it, but she was constantly in trouble. Really, it’s a wonder she graduated. She would have spent all four years in juvenile detention, but Judge Mahoney kept giving her second chances.”
Callie’s gaze jerked up.
“Who?” Sean asked.
“Eric Mahoney. The juvenile-court judge. He’s a bleeding heart for troubled kids.”
Sean stood up.
“What’s wrong?” Farrah looked startled.
“We have to get back.” He looked at Callie. “Detective McLean and I have a staff meeting.” He turned to the social worker again. “I’m going to need the names of those foster families, as well as that coach. Can you email that over as soon as possible?”
“Sure.” Farrah looked flustered. “Whatever I can do.”
• • •
The tension was palpable as Brooke stepped into the conference room. She took an empty seat next to Jasper and glanced around the table. She’d expected to see Sean at this meeting, and she told herself she was relieved, not disappointed, that he wasn’t here.
“That’s not my point,” Ric was saying.
“I know it’s not,” the district attorney shot back. Rachel was smart and opinionated and a formidable opponent in the courtroom. She’d put Brooke on the witness stand on numerous occasions. “But it’s exactly the point a defense attorney is going to make at trial. I guarantee it.”
“She’s right,” Lieutenant Reynolds said from his end of the table. “It’ll get tossed.”
Rachel turned her attention to Brooke. “Thanks for joining us. I’ve got some questions for you about the forensic evidence in the Samantha Bonner case. I understand you processed the prints?”
“That’s correct.” Brooke looked at Ric, hoping he’d told the prosecutor about all the latest developments.
“The DNA lead from the victim’s fingernails didn’t pan out,” Ric said. By the edge in his voice, Brooke guessed that had been the subject of the argument she’d just interrupted. “Now we’re looking for something else we can use to focus in on a suspect.”
“Those child fingerprints,” Rachel said. “Will they hold up in court? I’m not familiar with the technology.”
“IR microspectroscopy,” Brooke said. “Basically, you use infrared light to visualize the print. The technology is fine. That’s not the problem.”
The prosecutor leaned back. “What is the problem?”
“Well . . . everything.” Brooke looked at Ric, hoping for support. His expression was unreadable, so she turned back to Rachel. “Based on the location of the prints, and the time frame they were left there, it’s probable the child was at the crime scene at the time of the murder. He’s potentially an eyewitness, and as such, he’s in grave danger.” She looked at Ric. “Did you tell her about the shooting last night?”
“Attempted shooting,” the lieutenant said. “The boy wasn’t hurt, and we haven’t established who the target was.”
“But—”
“The fingerprints,” Rachel said, cutting Brooke off. “Are they solid enough for court? I understand these prints don’t exist anymore, so I need to make sure our documentation is impeccable if we intend to use them.”
“Everything’s solid. I’ve got plenty of photographs and they’re all time-stamped. But, again, that isn’t the issue here. Cameron Spence is eleven years old. This whole ordeal has been traumatic for him, and we’re not even certain he knows anything—”
“He knows plenty.” Rachel looked at Reynolds. “Isn’t that what the child psychologist said? The boy seems scared, but underneath all that, he’s hiding something?”
“That’s a theory,” Brooke said. “It’s not an established fact. Maybe he didn’t see anything, but regardless, a close friend of his family is dead, and this child is going through a trauma right now, and the last thing he needs is to get pulled into this case.”
“I understand your concern,” Rachel said, “but I at least want to talk to him. We need to base this investigation on usable evidence, which means something that isn’t going to get tossed out by a judge. We need to sit him down with a sketch artist and see what he’s got.”
Brooke’s chest tightened. “I don’t recommend that at all.”
The prosecutor quirked an eyebrow. “Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
Rachel smiled. “Well, we appreciate your input on the forensic evidence.” In other words, she didn’t give a shit what Brooke thought about the rest of it. “Thank you for taking the time to come by,” she added pointedly.
Seething with frustration, Brooke stood up. She shot a look at Ric before exiting the conference room and pulling the door shut behind her.
The bull pen was bright and crowded, and Brooke stood still for a moment to compose herself. She thought of Cameron being hauled in here for an interview and felt sick to her stomach.
Callie strode into the bull pen, followed closely by Sean. Brooke’s heart did a flip-flop in her chest as his gaze homed in on her. He crossed the sea of cubicles, and the intense look in his eyes told her something big had happened.
“What are you doing here?”
“I . . .” She cleared her throat. “Rachel asked me to come in and go over the fingerprint evidence.” Brooke studied his face. “What happened?”
“A lot.”
Callie stopped beside them. “We’re in the conference room, Sean.”
He didn’t even acknowledge the comment as Callie walked off. He was too busy staring down at Brooke.
“Come here.” Sean took her hand and pulled her into a break room. It was empty, luckily. Brooke tugged her hand free.
“We’ve had some new developments.” Sean rested his hands on his hips.
“Is this about the body at the lake?”
“You heard about it?”
“Just what was on the news.”
He gazed down at her, and she realized he wasn’t going to tell her more because she wasn’t officially involved in that case.
She huffed out a breath. “You need to talk to Rachel. You need to convince her to leave Cameron alone. She wants to sit him down with a sketch artist.”
“I know.”
“Sean. Think what could happen. He could end up dragged into a trial.”
“He might not have to testify. We may just need the sketch to help get an ID.”
Brooke’s stomach clenched. “Are you hearing yourself?”
“What?”
“You were there last night! You saw him in the hospital, for God’s sake.”
“And?”
“And I can’t believe I’m the only one concerned about this boy’s safety.”
“That’s not true, and you know it.”
The muscle in his jaw bunched, and she could tell she’d struck a nerve. Good. She wanted him as pissed off about this as she was. Maybe he’d stand up to the damn prosecutor.
“A sketch is a tool for investigators,” he said. “It doesn’t mean he’s going to trial or that he’s going to be dragged into anything.”
“You sound like Rachel.”
“Rachel’s right. I’m right.” He raked his hand through his hair. “Look, I hear what you’re saying, but you’re not used to seeing cases from this angle. This is a homicide investigation, and we need to use every lead available to close in on a suspect and get that person into custody.”
Brooke crossed her arms. “So . . . that’s it? She’s right. You’re right. I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, even though I was there when this child and his mom got gunned down in their front yard, but who cares? My opinion means nothing?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. I’ve seen this before. My way or the highway, right?”
Anger sparked in his eyes. “Don’t do that. Don’t compare me to him.”
“Sean?” Callie poked her head into the break room. “Sorry to interrupt, but we’re meeting now.”
“You’re not interrupting,” Brooke snapped. “I’m on my way out.”
• • •
Sean watched her leave, pissed at himself for letting the conversation go off the rails. She didn’t need this right now. He didn’t need this right now. He had a fresh homicide on his hands, and a prosecutor to deal with who wasn’t going to like anything he was about to tell her.
Callie waited outside the conference room, practically tapping her foot, and Sean followed her into the meeting.
“Hey,” Ric said, looking them over as they grabbed chairs. Sean knew from Ric’s expression that he could tell something was up. “We’re updating Rachel on the leads we’re pursuing.”
“And the ones you’re not pursuing,” Rachel added.
“New development,” Sean said, glancing at his lieutenant. “We’ve established a link between Samantha Bonner and Jasmine Jones.”
“Who’s Jasmine Jones?” Rachel asked.
“The DOA from Lake Wiley,” Callie said. “Her body was recovered this morning.”
Rachel looked at Reynolds. “Why am I just now hearing about this?”
“They just completed the autopsy,” Sean said.
“What’s the cause of death?” Ric asked.
“Manual strangulation,” Callie told him. “She’d been beaten beforehand and then dumped off the dam, it looks like. The time of death estimate is twenty-four to thirty-six hours from when the body was recovered, so sometime Saturday night or early Sunday morning.”
Rachel arched her eyebrows. “And there’s a connection between her and Samantha Bonner?”
“Jasmine was at Samantha’s funeral Saturday,” Sean said. “Turns out, both victims were friends from AA, and they had the same social worker, who also happened to be at the funeral that day.”
“A social worker?” Rachel leaned forward on her elbows. “Man or woman?”
“Woman,” Callie said. “Her name is Farrah Saunders. She’s been in the job twelve years, and we checked her out. Spotless record.”
“So what’s the extent of this connection?”
“It goes way back,” Sean said. “Both victims were removed from their biological parents as children and placed in foster care. Farrah Saunders was their social worker when they were teens, and the judge overseeing their cases was Eric Mahoney.”
Silence settled over the room.
“Mahoney,” Ric stated. “As in . . . a relative of James Mahoney, whose DNA is a partial match with what was found under the vic’s nails?”
“Whoa. Wait.” Rachel held a hand up like a stop sign and turned to Sean. “You’re telling me you think Eric Mahoney, the judge, had something to do with these murders?”
Sean didn’t respond. He simply watched her, waiting for her to process everything. The logic of it all was undeniable.
She turned to Reynolds. “Are you hearing this?”
The lieutenant darted a look at Sean, clearly startled by everything he’d said. “What kind of evidence do you have to back that up?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Like hell you are.” Rachel slapped her file shut. “Don’t think for one minute that you’re going to go after a sitting judge with some half-baked theory based on questionable DNA evidence.”
“Nothing wrong with the evidence,” Ric said, obviously not liking the jab at his wife’s laboratory. “The DNA on Samantha Bonner is a partial match with a profile that’s sitting right there in the database.”
“A partial match! As in, the man in the database is not our suspect.” Rachel turned to Reynolds. “You think you can just go around arresting people named Mahoney on a hunch? I need facts, not hunches.”
“It’s not just a hunch,” Sean said. “The DNA under Samantha’s nails and the DNA on the knife used to kill her share key genetic markers with a convicted felon named Mahoney. And Judge Eric Mahoney knew both the victims because he presided over their cases when they were teenagers.”
Rachel’s eyes widened as she leaned toward him. “What are you suggesting, Sean? That the judge had some kind of . . . of relationship with these girls, and now they’ve somehow ended up dead?”
“Your words, not mine.”
“Is that seriously your case theory?” Rachel glanced around the table, visibly shaken for the first time since Sean had known her. “To even suggest such a thing would be career suicide.” She looked at Reynolds. “For both of us.”
Sean shook his head. “But the DNA—”
“Don’t talk to me about that DNA! It’s a partial hit, and I can’t use it as probable cause for a warrant. And you can be damn sure I’m not going to demand a DNA sample from a sitting judge.”
“We could get a sample without him knowing,” Ric said. “A drinking straw or a cigarette butt, something like that.”
Rachel shook her head. “We went through all this earlier. Even if you got a hit, you would have targeted this man as a suspect merely because he shares a last name with someone who’s in the system. The whole thing is fruit of the poisoned tree. It would get tossed out of court in a minute, especially given Mahoney’s connections on the bench.”
An uneasy silence settled over the room.
Sean leaned back in his chair. “It’s not a hunch, Rachel. Think of all the coincidences we’re talking about here. The same social worker, the same judge, the murders within a few days of each other. So, this DNA lead isn’t one hundred percent? Don’t use it at trial, then. But it is a lead, and we can’t ignore it.”
Rachel took a deep breath and blew it out. She looked around the table, and her gaze settled on Sean.
“You think Judge Mahoney had something to do with these murders? Fine. Show me. Show me something in the victims’ phone records or emails. Show me a neighbor who saw his car out in front of Samantha’s house. Show me a suspect sketch from the kid who was there that night. You believe in this theory? Then get me something usable, God damn it, or don’t bother asking me to put my head on a chopping block!”
• • •
Callie watched the prosecutor stalk out the door. Then she turned to Sean. “Well, at least she didn’t freak out.”
He shot Callie a look, obviously not appreciating her sarcasm.
“God damn it, Byrne.” Everyone’s attention turned to Reynolds. “Don’t come in and drop this shit in my lap with the DA here.”
Sean lifted an eyebrow. “You planned to keep her out of the loop? Aren’t we going to need her when it’s time for a warrant?”
Reynolds leaned forward, getting red in the face. “Don’t give me your smart-ass crap, Byrne. She’s right. There’s no way we’re using a partial DNA hit for any kind of warrant against a judge. Not on my watch. So you better be ready to roll up your sleeves and do some real detective work.”
“I thought I was.”
Reynolds turned and jabbed a finger at Callie. “Get on the Bonner girl’s computer. We need it turned inside out.”
“Yes, sir.”
The lieutenant turned to Ric. “Get working on those cell phones. I want a dump on both victims’ numbers going back twelve months. Calls, texts, everything.”
“I’m on it.”
“And get that boy in here for an interview.” Reynolds stood up and glared at Sean. “I want a suspect sketch on my desk by tomorrow.”