When Shadows Fall - J.T. Ellison MIRA

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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. Come on back. We’ll talk in my office. You need to heat that up?”

      Sam took a sip, it wasn’t bad. “We’re fine, thanks.”

      Davidson’s accent was similar to Flo’s, Southern without being overwhelming, rounded vowels and soft consonants, and his manner unhurried. This was a man who knew slow and steady won the race, and after several months of Washington hustle and bustle, Sam felt immediately at home.

      He led them down an anonymous linoleum hallway to the end, took an immediate right into a bullpen full of detectives and uniformed officers, and eyes followed them.

      Davidson ushered them into his office, which had a large window overlooking the city, and the James River beyond.

      He raised his voice a bit so it carried across the bullpen. “We just had a briefing on the Benedict murder. Everyone knows why you’re here. Forgive me if I say it aloud, but there’s some concern. We do know how to do our jobs.” He kicked his door shut with a cowboy boot and grinned at them. His front teeth overlapped a bit, making him charming rather than handsome. His blue eyes crinkled when he smiled, and lines etched into his cheeks. Sam figured he spent a great deal of time with a grin on his face.

      He gestured toward the bullpen. “At least, most of those yahoos think so. Now me, I’m all about cooperation. So tell me, what can I do to help?”

      Chapter

      12

      Lynchburg Police Department

      Lynchburg, Virginia

      FLETCHER KICKED THINGS off. “Timothy Savage. What can you tell us about him?”

      “Other than the fool could have gotten my officers killed with his stupid stunt?”

      Davidson pulled a file folder from his drawer and put it on the desk in front of Fletcher, draped his jacket on the back of his chair. “Detergent suicide. It’s worse than running up on a meth lab without your gear. At least he had the presence of mind to warn us so we didn’t blunder into the scene and lose men.”

      “What do you mean, he warned you?” Sam asked.

      “Look at the pics. I have them arranged chronologically.” Fletcher opened the file and scooted his chair closer to Sam’s so she could see the crime scene photos.

      Savage had died in a small cabin surrounded by forest. There were a few shots of the cabin from afar, then close-ups of the windows and doors. Large white signs with hand-drawn biohazard symbols were taped in the two front windows, and the front door had a note on it with the words:

      HYDROGEN SULFIDE

      SUICIDE

      POISON GAS

      DO NOT OPEN

      DANGER!!!

      1 BREATH CAN KILL YOU

      Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’d have to have a pretty high concentration to die from a single breath, something like seven hundred seventy parts per liter, but this stuff is toxic. Even a small concentration will cause all sorts of respiratory problems. What did he use?”

      “Muriatic acid and lime sulfur. Bought it at the gardening center down the road from his place. More than enough to do the job. We had to get HAZMAT involved to come in and clear the place so my coroner could retrieve the body. Took a day to make it safe enough to get anyone near without a mask.”

      “Who found him?”

      Davidson’s brows pulled together. “Anonymous 911 call from a pay phone in front of a 7-Eleven on Rivermont. No working cameras there, so we couldn’t get a shot of the person who called. I can play you the tape, it’s quick. Male voice states the address, and requests police response to a dead body. That’s it.”

      “Have you dealt with many of these before?”

      “Not many, but it’s getting more and more common. Usually they do it in a car, in an out-of-the-way parking lot where they won’t be discovered and disturbed. You seeing this in D.C., too?”

      Fletcher shook his head. “I’ve heard of it but haven’t worked one. They still like the traditional means up north. Guns, pills, hangings.”

      “Well, some of these rural kids get pretty hopeless. This is a guaranteed death, without a lot of mess, and it’s cheap, and fast. The ingredients are readily available and mostly unregulated, too. They can do it with dandruff shampoo and toilet cleaner if they’re desperate enough. As long as there’s an acid and a sulfur, they’re in business.”

      “But Timothy Savage used industrial-strength elements for his concoction?”

      “That’s right. He wasn’t messing around. At least he warned us.”

      Fletcher flipped through a couple more pictures and stopped. “Is this his suicide note?”

      “It is. We found it right next to the body.”

      Fletcher pulled a plastic sheet protector from the file and handed it to Sam. Inside was a handwritten note. She read it aloud quickly.

      “‘I am sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused. This is best for everyone. Goodbye. T.S.’”

      She set the letter down on the desk. “Fletch, the handwriting matches.”

      “Handwriting matches what?” Davidson asked, suddenly wary.

      Fletcher removed a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket. “This is a photocopy of a letter Dr. Owens received yesterday. Before she was called upon by Mr. Benedict regarding Savage’s will.”

      Davidson read the letter, frowning the whole time. “May I keep this?”

      “By all means. I have the original in D.C.”

      “I don’t get it,” Davidson said. “Why would Savage kill himself but send a letter to Dr. Owens claiming to be murdered?”

      “There’s more,” Fletcher said, and filled him in about Benedict, the will and the lawyer’s subsequent murder. Sam noticed he left out mentioning the angle of the garrote.

      Davidson rubbed a meaty hand across his face. “Let me get this straight. Not only did he send you this letter, he made you executor of his estate, meager though it may be? And then Rolph Benedict is murdered after delivering the message? I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all. We better get in touch with Rolph’s partners, see what’s up.”

      Sam finished flipping through the crime scene photos and a two-dimensional crime scene drawing. From what she could see, the Lynchburg P.D. had been thorough and careful. “Just so you know, the will stipulated I perform a secondary autopsy on Mr. Savage. I know he wasn’t sent to Richmond for posting, so he must still be here in town. I’d like to arrange it as soon as possible.”

      Davidson stared at her for a heartbeat, then paled and grabbed the phone. He dialed a number from memory and breathed an audible sigh of relief when the call was answered.

      “Roy? It’s June. You haven’t put Savage’s body through the furnace yet, have you? Oh, thank the Lord. All stop, right now. Yes. We’ll be down shortly. Bye.”

      He turned to Sam. “Lady, you have the Devil’s own luck. Savage’s body was set to be cremated this morning. Roy came in late and hadn’t

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