Red Mist Page 13

  “She’ll say it, and she has said it,” Jaime replies, grasping seaweed salad in the tips of her chopsticks. “She’s said it to her lawyers, and she’s said it in letters to Kathleen Lawler. Inmates can write to other inmates when they’re family. Dawn is clever enough to have begun addressing Kathleen as Mom. Dear Mom,she writes, signing them your loving daughter,” she says, as if she’s seen these letters, and maybe she has.

  “Has Kathleen written to her, as well?” I inquire.

  “She says she hasn’t, but she’s not telling the truth,” Jaime says. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear it, Kay, but Dawn Kincaid is playing quite the role. A brilliant scientist who has lost the use of a hand and is suffering mental and emotional problems due to trauma and a concussion, which is being described as a significant head injury with lasting ill effects.”

  “Malingering.”

  “Pretty, charming, and now suffering dissociative states. Delusions and impaired cognition, which is why she was transferred to Butler.”

  “Deliberate pretense.”

  “Her lawyers attribute all of it to you, and you might expect a civil suit filed next,” Jaime says. “And your contact with her mother today and any communications in the past, in my opinion, have been unwise. It only serves to make your behavior more questionable.”

  “Contact that you’ve orchestrated.” I remind her that I’m no fool. “I’m here because of you.” She wanted me in a weakened position.

  “No one twisted your arm to come here.”

  “No one needed to,” I reply. “You knew I would, so you set me up for it.”

  “Well, I certainly thought you might come, and I recommend you have no further contact with Kathleen. Not any type at all,” Jaime instructs me, as if she’s now my lawyer. “While I think a criminal case against you is a stretch, I worry about litigation,” she goes on painting inflammatory scenarios.

  “If a burglar injures himself while ransacking your house, he sues,” I reply. “Everybody sues. Litigation is the new national industry and has become the inevitable aftermath of virtually any criminal act. First someone tries to rob, rape, or kill you. Or maybe they succeed. Then they sue you or your estate for good measure.”

  “I’m not trying to aggravate or scare you or put you in a compromising situation.” She places her chopsticks and napkin on her empty plate.

  “Of course you are.”

  “You think I’m bluffing.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “When the FBI came by my apartment, Kay, they wanted to know if I’d ever observed instability, violence, any traits in you that might have given me concern. Are you truthful? Do you abuse alcohol or drugs? Isn’t it true you’ve been known to brag that you could get away with the perfect murder?”

  “Of course I’ve never bragged about such a thing. And what happened in my garage was far from perfect.”

  “Then you’re admitting you intended to murder Dawn Kincaid.”

  “I’m admitting that if I thought I was going to be attacked, I would have armed myself with more than a flashlight I found in a kitchen drawer. I’m admitting that the entire event wouldn’t have happened had I been paying attention, if I’d not been so distracted and sleep-deprived.”

  “The FBI wanted to know if I was aware of your relationship with Jack Fielding,” Jaime tells me. “Had the two of you ever been lovers, and might you have been possessive or unnaturally attached to him or felt spurned by him and given to jealous rages?”

  She takes another sip of Scotch, and I’m tempted to get up and help myself. But it wouldn’t be smart. I can’t afford to make myself more vulnerable to her than I already am or to be foggy tomorrow.

  “And they brought up this fanciful story about self-defense?” I ask.

  “No. They wouldn’t do anything as generous as that. The FBI is extremely skilled at getting information and not inclined to return the favor. They wouldn’t tell me why they were asking about you.”

  “This isn’t quid pro quo,” I again say.

  “I should think you’d want to help someone who is about to be executed for a crime she didn’t commit,” Jaime replies. “Maybe, in light of the situation you find yourself in, you can relate more than ever to being falsely accused of killing someone or attempting to,” she adds with emphasis.

  “I don’t need to be falsely accused of a crime in order to have a sense of right and wrong,” I answer.

  “Lola will die in a horrific way,” she says. “They won’t make it painless or merciful. Dr. Clarence Jordan was from old Savannah money, a good Christian, a moral man, generous to a fault. Known for giving free medical care to people in need or volunteering in the ER, the soup kitchen, the food bank on Thanksgiving, on Christmas Eve. A saint, according to some.”

  I suppose it’s possible a man of great faith, a saint, might not bother setting his burglar alarm. I wonder if he installed the alarm system himself, or did a previous owner of his historic home?

  “Do you know details of the alarm system in the Jordan house?” I ask.

  “It doesn’t appear to have been set the early morning of the murders.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “The question continues to interest me. Why wasn’t it set?”

  “Lola’s offered no explanation?”

  “She wasn’t the one who broke in,” Jaime reminds me. “I have no credible explanation.”

  “Has anybody tried to determine if it was habit of the Jordans not to set the alarm?”

  “There’s no one alive to state as fact what their habits might have been,” Jaime says. “But I’ve had Marino looking into it, among other things.”

  “If the alarm was active and connected by a telephone line to an alarm company, there should be records of whether it was routinely armed and disarmed,” I reply. “There should be a record of false alarms, trouble on the line, anything that might indicate the Jordan family was using it and paying a monthly bill.”

  “A very good point, and one that isn’t satisfactorily addressed in the records I’ve reviewed,” Jaime answers. “Or through interviews.”

  “Have you talked to the investigator?”

  “GBI Special Agent Billy Long retired five years ago and says his reports and records speak for themselves.”

  “You talked to him yourself?”

  “Marino did. According to Investigator Long, the alarm wasn’t set that night and the assumption was that the Jordans were trusting and not particularly security-conscious,” Jaime says. “And that they were tired of false alarms.”

  “So they stopped setting it entirely, even at night? That seems a bit extreme.”

  “Careless but maybe understandable,” she replies. “Two five-year-olds, and you can imagine what happens. They open doors and the alarm goes off. After the police show up a few times, you get tired of it and get complacent about setting it. You have a deadbolt that requires a key and are more worried about small children being locked in if there’s a fire. So you give in to the very bad habit of leaving the key in the deadbolt lock, making it possible for an intruder to break out the glass and reach in and open the door from the inside.”

  “And these explanations for the Jordans’ seeming carelessness are based on what?” I ask.

  “Based on Special Agent Long’s assumptions at the time,” Jaime says, as I dig myself deeper into a case that I shouldn’t want any part of.

  Because I’ve been tricked.

  Jaime Berger pulled a number of stunts to make sure I’m sitting in this very living room and having this very conversation.

  “Unfortunately, assumptions are easy to make when you believe a case is already solved,” I say.

  “Yes. They had the Jordans’ DNA on bloody clothing that Lola Daggette was washing in the bathroom of her halfway house,” Jaime agrees.

  “I can see why the GBI, why the prosecutor, wouldn’t have been unduly caught up in the details of the alarm system,” I remark.

  “I’m curious
about why you’re caught up in these details.” She reaches for her glass.

  “An intruder knowing or not knowing whether the alarm was set tells us something about this person.” I get in deeper, as Jaime knew I would. “Do you happen to know if the keypad was visible from outside the door? Could an intruder have looked through the glass and seen the alarm was or wasn’t set?”

  “It’s not easy to tell from the photographs. But I think it’s possible someone could have looked through the glass and seen the light on the keypad was either green or red, indicating the status of the alarm.”

  “These details are important,” I explain. “They tell us something about the mind-set of the killer. Was the Jordan house random? Was it luck of the draw? Did someone break out the glass of the kitchen door and unlock it, deciding, if an alarm went off, to run like hell? Or did this individual have reason to know there was a good chance the alarm wasn’t going to be set? Or could the person see it wasn’t set? I assume the Jordan house still exists?”

  “The kitchen has been remodeled. I’m not sure what else has been, but there’s an outbuilding in back that didn’t used to be there. The original kitchen door is gone, replaced by a solid one. The alarm company used by the current owner is Southern Alarm. There are signs posted on the property and stickers on the windows.”

  “I bet there are.”

  “We’ve found nothing that might indicate what the facts are about the Jordans’ alarm system except that the company was Southern Cross Security.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “A small local company that specialized in installations in historic buildings where the main priority was not to damage original woodwork, that sort of thing.” Jaime takes another sip of her drink. “It went bankrupt several years ago when the economy tanked and real estate values went into the toilet, especially for grand old homes from the past. A lot of these mansions are now condos or office spaces.”

  “This is what Marino found out.”

  “I’m wondering why it matters who found it out.”

  “I ask because he’s an experienced and thorough investigator. Information he gets as a rule is reliable.”

  She studies me as if what I just said isn’t true. She’s checking to see if I’m jealous. She expects I’m unhappy that Marino is here because of her and planning to resign from his full-time position at the CFC. Maybe she’s experiencing a secret satisfaction that she’s stolen Marino from me, but jealousy is not what I’m feeling. I’m unhappy about her influence on him, and not for any reason she might divine. I don’t trust her with his well-being or with the well-being of anyone.

  “Did you ask Colin Dengate if he knew anything about the alarm system?” I ask her. “Did you ask if he might have heard the investigators discussing why the alarm wasn’t set?”

  “Any matters relating to the police investigation he doesn’t share with me,” she says. “He directs me to the source, which is proper but not helpful. Not even cooperative, if we’re honest about it. He’s allowed to talk and voice his opinions but chooses not to with me.”

  “Does he talk to Marino?”

  “I wouldn’t have Marino approach him directly. That wouldn’t be appropriate. Colin should talk to me. Or you.”

  A mistake,I think. Marino is the very sort of rough-around-the-edges no-nonsense cop that Colin Dengate would feel quite comfortable with.

  “What kind of doctor was Clarence Jordan?” I ask, as if what happened to him has become my responsibility.

  “Had a very successful family practice on Washington Avenue. You don’t murder someone like Clarence Jordan, and you don’t kill his wife.” Jaime’s eyes are steady on me as she talks and drinks. “You certainly don’t kill his beautiful little children. People aren’t going to want to accept that Lola is innocent. Around here, she’s Jack the Ripper.”

  “Your method for inviting me to help you as an expert isn’t exactly what I’m accustomed to,” I finally say.

  “There’s more than one thing going on. By getting you down here, I’m helping both of us.”

  “Not sure I see that. What I do see is you know how to work Marino. Or, better put, you still know how to work him,” I remark.

  “You’re a person of interest in a federal investigation, Kay. I wouldn’t trivialize that fact.”

  “It’s also pro forma, and you know that better than most,” I say. “In light of who I am, and especially because of my affiliation with the Department of Defense, any allegation has to be looked into. If I’m accused of being the Easter Bunny, it has to be checked.”

  “You wouldn’t want it in the news that you’re being accused of anything at all. Certainly not accused of attacking someone and maiming that person. Wouldn’t be pleasant to wake up to that headline.”

  “I hope you’re not threatening me. Because that comment sounds like one a defense attorney might make,” I reply.

  “Good God, no. Why would I threaten you?”

  “I think it’s obvious why you might.”

  “Of course I’m not threatening you. In fact, I’m in a position to help you,” she says. “I might be the only person in a position to do so.”

  I don’t know what she’s talking about. I don’t see how Jaime Berger can help me, but I don’t ask.

  “A lot of people might be sympathetic to Dawn Kincaid,” she says. “In my opinion, you might be better off if your attempted murder case never sees a jury.”

  “So she can get away with it? I fail to see how that’s helpful.”

  “Does it matter which case she’s punished for, as long as she is?”

  “She’ll be tried on cases other than mine. For homicide. Four counts of it.” I assume this is what she’s alluding to.

  “A shame she has the scapegoat of Jack Fielding for those homicides, the Mensa Murders.” She stares thoughtfully at what’s left of her Scotch. “Blame those sadistic crimes on a dead man who was a bodybuilder, an unstable and aggressive forensic expert who was involved in a number of activities that will offend your average juror.”

  I am silent.

  “If the worst happens and the murder cases don’t go well, that rather much leaves you hanging out to dry. If Dawn manages to successfully blame the murders on Jack, you have no case, in my professional opinion,” Jaime says, and now she’s the prosecutor talking. “If jurors believe Jack was the killer, then it will appear you attacked an innocent woman who happened to show up on your property to retrieve her dog. If nothing else, you’re going to get sued and it’s going to be expensive and ugly.” She’s the defense attorney again.

  “It wouldn’t be good if the belief is that Jack was the killer,” I admit.

  “What would help your case is a silver bullet, don’t you agree?” She smiles at me as if ours is a pleasant conversation.

  “Yes. We always hope for silver bullets. I’m not sure they exist, except in folklore.”

  “It just so happens they can exist,” Jaime says. “And we happen to have one.”

  13

  She lets me know happily, confidently, that DNA results from recent retesting of evidence connects Dawn Kincaid to the Jordan murders.

  “Swabs and samples taken in the Jordan house, including blood from the handle of a knife, samples that came back as unknown at the time of the murders, are a match,” Jaime explains, as I check my iPhone for messages and deny her the reaction she expects from me.

  Gratitude. Relief. What can I do to thank you, Jaime? Anything you want. You just name it.

  “Dawn Kincaid was definitely there,” Jaime states, as if there can be no doubt. “She definitely was inside the Jordan house at the time of the murders. She left pubic hair and urine in the toilet. She left skin cells and blood under the fingernails of five-year-old Brenda, who apparently clawed the hell out of her.”

  She gives me a moment to feel the weight of what she’s just said, pausing for effect as I think about another matter entirely.

  You okay? Where are you?Benton has just text-me
ssaged me. Who or what the hell is Anna Copper LLC?

  “I guess I can understand your interest in Kathleen Lawler,” I say to Jaime, as I answer Benton with a question mark.

  I don’t know what he means. I’ve never heard of Anna Copper LLC.

  “I’m sure Kathleen hopes there’s a deal to be had if she cooperates with you,” I say to Jaime. “Maybe you can finagle a reduced sentence or influence a pardon board.”

  “She’s been very cooperative,” Jaime answers. “And yes, she wants her life back. She would do just about anything.”

  “Does she know about the DNA? That new test results point at her biological daughter?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be so sure? I get the feeling the GPFW is keenly interested in everything said and done in there.”

  “I’ve been careful.”

  “Did Lola Daggette have injuries when the police arrested her shortly after the murders?” I inquire. “Was she checked for injuries? For abrasions, for scratches or bruises? Was she given a forensic physical examination?”

  “Not that I know of. But there were no obvious injuries, and that should have been a clue,” Jaime says, and she’s right. “There was no question Brenda struggled with her assailant and scratched this person badly enough to draw blood. So it should have been problematic for the police that Lola had no scratches.”

  “If she had no injuries, then it should have been a clue,” I agree. “And if the DNA of this biological evidence recovered from underneath Brenda’s fingernails didn’t match Lola’s DNA, that should have been another clue. A very big clue, and a very big problem.”

  “Yes, it should have suggested that Lola didn’t do it.”

  “Or that she didn’t do it alone.”

  “It’s called people having their minds as closed as a steel vault,” Jaime says. “People around here wanted these murders solved. They needed them solved for their own peace and safety, and to feel order and sanity had been restored to their lovely little city.”

  “Unfortunately, that happens. Especially in extremely emotional, high-profile cases.”