When Shadows Fall Read online

  “A big score for a small-town lawyer, right?”

  “It is. Interesting.”

  Sam couldn’t help wondering if it were something more. Bigger. It felt wrong, all wrong.

  * * *

  Lynchburg was composed of seven hills, a Southern city nestled on the banks of the James River with a stunning view of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It held the honor of being the only Southern city not captured by Union troops during the Civil War—known across many parts of the South as the Great Unpleasantness. It was a college town, with multiple universities ranging from Jerry Falwell’s Liberty University to Randolph College, formerly Randolph-Macon Woman’s College. When Sam was in high school and looking at colleges, a friend who attended Randy-Mac, as she called it, told her with great glee that Falwell supposedly called the students there “the intellectual whores on the hill.”

  “At least he recognized we’re smart,” she’d said.

  Lynchburg’s criminal element focused on burglaries and rapes, assaults and drugs, with the very occasional murder thrown in for good measure. It was a quiet town, full of students and bars and the gentility of the Old South. The sun was shining as they drove across the John Lynch Memorial Bridge into the city.

  “Police headquarters are on Court Street. Our contact there is June Davidson. He’s a lifer detective, born and raised here in Lynchburg. Seemed smart enough when we talked, but we’ll see,” Fletcher said.

  Five minutes later, they pulled in to the police station and Fletcher glanced at his watch. “Made it in two hours and forty-five minutes. Not bad.”

  “When’s Xander supposed to check in?”

  He tossed his sunglasses on the dash. “Noon. Let’s go talk to Detective Davidson.”

  The inside of Lynchburg’s cop shop was generic, with wanted posters lining the walls, a receptionist behind a wall of glass and a big sign with the letters LPD in blue under a red arch, with the words Leadership, Professionalism, Dedication below and an incongruous sign underneath it that read Find us on Facebook and Twitter.

  It was at once so strange yet so familiar it made Sam long for Nashville. How many years had she spent walking into the Criminal Justice Center in Nashville, coming to find Taylor or another homicide detective to relay findings on a case? This felt like home, even though it wasn’t, and she had to push the thought away— Why did you leave this behind? This is your passion, your love. You spent your life learning how to do this. What are you thinking?

  Maybe Fletcher and Xander were right. Maybe she simply needed to be here, for more than Timothy Savage’s sake.

  Fletcher walked up to the receptionist. “We’ve got an appointment with June Davidson. Detective Darren Fletcher and Dr. Samantha Owens.”

  The woman sported a small blond beehive and cat’s-eye glasses, a retro throwback to another era, though she couldn’t have been more than twenty. Sam caught the edge of a tattoo under her collar. Times, they do change.

  The girl, whose name tag read F. Gary, nodded. “June’s been waiting for you. I’m Flo. If you need anything, let me know.” She had a soft and gentle Southern accent, the g’s barely dropped. She pointed at a small table behind them, against the north wall. “The coffee’s probably gone cold, but there’s a microwave in the back. Pour yourself a cup and June’ll hook you up. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  Sam and Fletcher poured coffee into paper cups and doctored them. By the time Fletch had finished adding three sugars to his, the door opened to their right and a tall blond-haired man in his midforties blocked 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 se
eing 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 gotten to it yet. We caught him just in time—Savage is already in the retort, ready to go.”

  “Who is giving the instructions regarding the body? Who decided he should be cremated?” Sam asked.

  “Well, that’s where all this gets a little hinky. No one claimed the body— Savage is a loner, doesn’t have any family nearby to speak of. The orders came from Benedict’s law office. They’re footing the bill.”

  Fletcher spoke up. “Cremation directly countermands the deceased’s request for an autopsy by Dr. Owens. What the hell, Davidson? What sort of law offices are these?”

  “Well-respected ones. I honestly have no idea what’s going on here. No one mentioned the man had a will.”

  Sam asked, “Does he have any family? Someone must have placed the obituary.”

  “Honestly, Dr. Owens, that obituary is a bit of a mystery to me. Savage isn’t from around here. He showed up with his son a decade ago, kept to himself, homeschooled his boy, didn’t get into any sort of trouble. The boy’s name was Henry, if I remember correctly. I think he went to Randolph College, but we haven’t been able to locate him.”

  “Henry Matcliff?” Sam asked. “Benedict told me he’s the primary heir to the estate, but they hadn’t had any luck finding him.”

  “Matcliff? Never heard the name. Far as I knew, it was Henry Savage.”

  “It seems very odd that Henry wouldn’t claim his father’s body and have a burial, or a memorial service. Is there bad blood between them?” Fletcher asked.

  Davidson shook his head. “I don’t know. Like I said, this was so clearly a suicide we treated it as such.” He stood up. “We better get on over to the law firm, see what they have to say for themselves. Then we can get you together with Mr. Savage, face-to-face.”

  Sam shook her head. “I want to do the autopsy first. Without the facts, nothing else matters.”

  “What more do you need? The man killed himself and roped you into his scheme.”

  “You’d be amazed at the facts you miss without a proper autopsy,” she replied. “I must admit, I’m a bit surprised it wasn’t done in the first place.”

  The note of admonition was clear to Davidson, who bristled. “Hey, now, I can only do what I can do. Coroner ruled it a suicide, looked the body over and there was no indication of foul play.”

  Sam shrugged. “Thankfully, it’s not too late. Take me to Mr. Savage’s body, please, and let’s get things under way. Then we can talk to the lawyers.”

  Chapter

  13

  Lynchburg, Virginia

  SAM LOVED THE SOUTH.

  The Hoyle Funeral Home and Crematorium was housed in an antebellum mansion worthy of its own sound stage in Hollywood as a depiction of Tara. Huge Corinthian columns soared in front of three stories of pristine white clapboard, black shutters, a wraparound porch and a red double front door, its true purpose masked by the picture-perfect facade of a luxurious bed-and-breakfast. The main doors opened into a magnificent foyer with a small, awkwardly placed reception stand, currently empty. The counter had a small bell, like in a hotel, and Sam smacked it lightly with her palm. Moments later, a small man scurried into the foyer.

  Roy Hoyle of the eponymously named crematorium was a mouse of a man with a mop of unnaturally black hair that was slightly crooked on his scalp, and thin, pale hands that hardly seemed capable of the duties they were called upon to perform on a daily basis. He shook Sam’s hand and she could barely feel his fingers in hers. She saw Fletcher flinch when the action was repeated, and cautiously wipe his hand on his trousers.

  While the man himself might have been a mouse, his setup roared like a lion. When Davidson told him why they were there, he quickly gave them a tour of the facilities. His embalming suite was tidy and boasted the latest materials, all polished to a high shine, and the attached crematorium was immaculate. He even had a small but separate autopsy suite, designed specifically for independent pathologists who were called in to perform private and secondary autopsies for families.

  Sam felt bad for her earlier uncharitable assessment—a mouse he might be, but a professional, cautious and meticulous one. Exactly what she needed to get to the truth about Timothy Savage.

  After a bit of small talk, Hoyle led her to Savage’s body, which had been prepared for cremation. When Davidson had said all stop, Hoyle took him seriously—everything was as it had been a few minutes prior, but the heat to the retort had been turned off. Savage was ensconced in a cardboard box, waiting on the automated belt. It seemed he wasn’t the only customer of the day; there were a few other boxes lined up behind his.

  Hoyle showed her the environs shyly. He had a soft voice she strained to hear, and didn’t make much eye contact. “Dr. Owens, if you need an assistant, I can provide that service for you. My sister, R
egina, has been well trained, she worked for a time in Richmond at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner.”

  “Why not you, Mr. Hoyle?”

  He blushed. “It’s not my forte, ma’am. I’m in charge of the crematorium, and I do the final work for the funerals. Everyone wants their loved one to look pretty, and I’m a good hand with the makeup and hairstyling. My grandmother taught me. Regina does the embalming and autopsy work. Shall I call her? She can be here in a few minutes.”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Hoyle. And if we can move Mr. Savage to the autopsy suite, I can get started with the external exam.”

  Fletcher said, “I’ll help.”

  Hoyle shook his head. “Thank you, but I’ve got it. We have a pulley system that moves the bodies around. Let me just call Regina, and I’ll get the body moved for you.”

  Regina promised to come straightaway, and Hoyle got Sam situated.

  A few minutes later, an automated cart on wheels arrived in the autopsy suite with the cardboard coffin.

  “Handy contraption,” Sam said.

  He smiled shyly. “It is. We have the only crematory outside of the big cities that can handle bodies over three hundred pounds. My grandfather designed the pulleys. My father added the automation. They practically move the bodies themselves.”

  Davidson called to Fletcher, “Hey, you need to see this.” He gestured to an outer room.

  Fletcher looked at Sam. “You okay?”

  “Sure thing. Go ahead. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He left, and a pretty young woman with the same slight build as her brother appeared in the door to the suite. Roy’s face lit up. “Ah, here’s Regina.”

  “Hi, Roy.” His sister came and gave his arm a squeeze, then turned to Sam with a sense of awe. “You’re Dr. Owens. I’ve heard so much about you. I’ve read all your papers. It’s a real honor to have a chance to work with you, ma’am.”

  Goodness. She felt her face getting red; she wasn’t used to this kind of adulation.