CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE

Washington, D.C.
Detective Darren Fletcher

“Thank you, Deputy. I’ll wait for that fax.”

Fletcher closed his cell phone and leaned back in his chair. The homicide offices were quiet now, in between shifts. He had space to think.

The folks from New Castle, supplemented by some crime scene techs from Roanoke, had turned out to be a rather quick and talented group; they’d finished the post and gotten the report done in the time it took Fletcher and Hart to get back to D.C. It helped that they had a pathologist on staff who was an expert in entomology. Through the insect activity on both bodies, the doctor had been able to pinpoint the time of death for William Everett to the previous Tuesday, a full three days before Donovan’s murder. That made it official; Billy Shakes was not their man.

The cause of death was listed as exsanguination. Method of death was probable suicide. They could not rule out intimidation or coercion, but there was no solid evidence to prove that scenario.

Except for one little detail. One little detail that could be used to suggest that all was not as it seemed.

The crime scene techs had retrieved a goodly amount of trace evidence, including a long dark hair from the wound in Mrs. Everett’s head, a hair that didn’t match either William, who was blond, or Mrs. Everett, who was steel gray. A hair with intact follicle, which would be used to find DNA. That hair, coupled with the time of the murder, gave Fletcher enough pause that he was unwilling to categorize the murder of Mrs. Everett the sole responsibility of William Everett, and instead added a possible third person to the mix. It was entirely possible that someone had killed Mrs. Everett, and when William arrived home to find his mother dead, he offed himself.

Or, which might be more logical, someone was waiting for him when he got back. Someone who didn’t want a witness to their conversation. Someone who was more than willing to take out an old woman so she wouldn’t get out of bed and overhear a personal tête-à-tête.

It did appear that Everett had slit his own wrists. There were hesitation cuts beginning an inch below his left palm, deep enough to bleed but not deep enough to hit the artery that would eventually let his life’s blood escape into the tub. It was possible that he was forced to use the razor on himself. His BAL was nearly three times the legal limit, which meant he’d gotten very drunk before he killed himself. Drunk, but probably not passed out: his liver showed a solid dive into cirrhosis. Billy Shakes was an alcoholic, and most likely a functioning one. His employer had been found; he worked the timber forests in North Carolina. The man was genuinely sorry to hear of Billy’s death, he was a good worker, one that kept everyone in stitches or tears as he acted out the great soliloquies from his favorite master, Shakespeare. Billy had been caught drinking on the job a few times, but a stiff reprimand had cured his foolishness.

No fresh granulomas had been found in his lungs, furthering the suicide theory. But there was no note. And more than that—there was no calendar, no mail with his name on it. Only a duffel bag full of clothes, enough for a week’s worth of changes. It seemed Everett had come home for a visit and stayed for a few days, which jived with his boss’s recollection that Billy had taken a week’s vacation to visit his sick mother.

But Mrs. Everett wasn’t sick.

Maybe he’d run home as an escape, thinking he could get clear of whatever trouble was hunting him down by hiding out in the holler with his mama’s shotgun to protect him. Not the most manly thing for an ex-Ranger to do, but people did crazy things when they were scared.

So what, or who, had managed to scare someone who’d spent the past decade tromping through the deep sand and unforgiving forests hunting terrorists? And had he killed himself, or been forced into that good night?

Fletcher was doing his best not to get frustrated. The case was turning into a sprawling, convoluted mess, spreading across multiple jurisdictions, diving in and out of logic. He had no way of knowing if he was dealing with a single killer or more. Whether the military angle was even relevant. Where the last piece of the puzzle was. All he knew for sure was things just weren’t adding up.

Hart had gone home for the day. He had a wife to go home to, a wife who wanted him there. Fletcher didn’t mind. Hart and Ginger were good people. He’d never begrudged his partner the family time Fletcher had so blatantly wasted when he had his own young family.

But that absence was felt keenly, because his partner wasn’t there to bounce things off of. The case was moving in fits and starts. He was missing something. He knew it was all there in front of him, he just needed to think about things the right way, and it would all fall into place. So he did what all good detectives do when they’re stuck. He went back to the beginning. Back to the original crime, the Donovan carjacking.

Donovan’s wife had told Fletcher he received a phone call, and skedaddled from the family outing. The number had been traced back to a disposable cell, which meant it could have come from anywhere. Susan Donovan said her husband had left her to go to work. Fletcher had been to Donovan’s office, and everyone he’d talked to there had denied calling the man in. He was off for the day. He’d made it clear he wasn’t to be disturbed.

That call was where it all started. So that’s where he needed to go.

Fletcher grabbed the phone and rang Susan Donovan.