Cold Hearted (Cold Justice Book 6) (19 page)

T
he team meeting
started at three PM sharp, but Darsh was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Ully. Erin stood at the front of the large table in the conference room and tried not to speculate on what that meant. She had enough things to worry about.

“So where are we on the door-to-door canvassing?” she began, despite Chief Strassen frowning at her.

“We spoke to someone in every house in a two block radius,” said Bill Youder, another senior patrol officer. “No one recalls seeing a strange car parked or a stranger lurking in the area on the night of January 5. But it was the first day back after the winter break, and students had been arriving on and off all day.”

“You spoke to the neighbors on either side and opposite?”

“Yep. No one heard any screams from that address on the night in question. Apparently there was often loud music playing in the house, but the guy in number seventy-three said the girls were never noisy after about nine so it didn’t bother him.”

“You think that was why the attacker turned the music off after he’d recorded the message from Cassie?” Cathy Bickham asked. “He didn’t want to disturb the neighbors?”

“Possibly, or to make sure no one caught him by surprise when he was raping Cassie.” Erin nodded. Was this someone close to one of the girls? Did he know their routine? “What’s the neighbor’s name?”

“Raymond Butcher.”

“Any priors?”

“A parking ticket about three years ago.”

She stretched the tense muscles in her shoulders. “This morning I dug into the rope used. It is good quality climbing rope, but not uncommon. The FBI is looking to see if anyone local ordered it online.”

“Where is the fed?” Harry asked with a disdainful expression on his face.

“Not sure.” Erin gave him a wry look. No matter how much she was attracted to Darsh, these were the people she had to work with on a daily basis.

“Any word on the evidence we sent to Quantico?” the chief asked.

She shook her head. “They’ve only had it twenty-four hours.” Not even.

Strassen rubbed the back of his neck as if that were her fault, too. “So we’re still no further forward?”

His disapproval sank into the pit of her stomach like an anchor. “Not really, sir. I did time a run this morning between Cassie Bressinger’s house and the frat house where Jason Brady lives.”

The chief’s eyes bugged. “You think
Brady
did it this time?”

Crap. “I only know that I saw him on the street as I drove to the call. I timed the run this morning, and it took me seven minutes. Theoretically he could still have committed the murders, therefore I am not ready to rule him out as a suspect.”

Youder leaned forward to look at the chief. “Me and Bickham interviewed the partygoers, including Tanya Whitehouse—Cassie and Mandy’s roomie. Turns out no one remembers seeing Brady between eight and ten. No one knows where he was, and he’s not talking.” He leaned back in his chair and held her gaze. “You think he might be trying to make his BFF look innocent?”

Erin nodded. “It’s an idea, but I’d rather have a suspect from the evidence or a witness.”

“The witnesses are all dead,” said Cathy Bickham.

Erin’s stomach knotted.

“Except the neighbor’s dog,” Harry said glibly.

“Pity the mutt doesn’t speak English. He might put us all out of a job,” Youder joked.

Erin got that black humor was a way of dealing with terrible situations cops often found themselves in, but for once she couldn’t join in. She was too emotionally invested.

“I finally got the subpoena for the cell records,” Harry said after the moment of levity. “I’m going through phone numbers and names looking for connections. I can’t get anything on the @Darkmatter handle who was flirting with Mandy. Account was set up anonymously and is only sporadically active and nothing posted recently. I did notice some pretty vocal complaints about the police investigation in general. There’re talking about asking the governor to bring in the National Guard to keep the women safe in their beds at night.”

Erin grimaced. The egg on her car had been an apt expression of what the people of this town thought of her ability to crack the case.

“So what’s the plan for solving this thing?” Strassen asked impatiently.

“Harry’s still working social media and cell phone angles. I’m going to go talk to campus security and see if they have surveillance footage from Monday night,” Erin told him. “Then I’m going to the offices and stores in the Fairfax Road area and see if they have any footage I can look at.”

The chief nodded. “Bickham, give Detective Donovan a hand.”

Erin pushed away her natural resentment at the implication she needed help.

“Yes, sir.” The rookie piped up.

The chief dismissed them, rubbing his stomach like he’d developed an ulcer overnight.

Erin packed up her notes and headed to her desk. Where the hell had Darsh disappeared to? Part of her wanted to go see if he’d fallen asleep in his office, but the desire felt like a weakness, and she wasn’t giving in to it.

She glanced over to the chief’s office and saw the Dean of Students staring at her through the glass. She gave him a smile, but the guy ignored it and turned away with a sour expression on his face as the chief arrived. They shut the door.

There was no doubt the dean wanted the killer found and her off the case, not necessarily in that order. She was pretty sure the chief felt the same way.

Damn.

As she was grabbing her coat to head off to find video surveillance, a furor erupted next to the booking desk.

A homeless guy they all knew as Stinky Pete stood there in handcuffs. Usually he was a law-abiding citizen who kept to himself. Today he was shouting and carrying on.

Ully stood nearby grinning like a fool.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

He was holding a large plastic bag, which he held open for her to look inside. It was full of material. Material that looked suspiciously like that of the bedding from Cassie Bressinger’s bed.

Her gaze shot to his. “Where’d you find it?”

“Under the bridge down by the river, wrapped around Stinky Pete.”

“Hey, that’s mine!” The guy, who was only in his forties but looked more like seventy, lunged toward it. The patrol officer held him back.

She dragged Ully farther away so they could talk out of earshot. “You call the evidence team down there?” Erin’s heart was banging about a hundred beats per minute.

“Yup. They pulled up before we left.” He grinned and put his hand on her shoulder. “We got him, Donovan. Now get your ass in the interview room and nail the sonofabitch.”

*     *     *

The interview room
had gray linoleum, beige walls, a faux-wood table screwed into the floor, and two uncomfortable looking plastic chairs either side of it. There was a window covered with a metal grill with a view of a small courtyard and a cement wall opposite. The sky was overcast, depressing and bleak.

Darsh figured looking at that view everyday would be a fine line between incarceration and torture, but prison wasn’t supposed to be a picnic.

He heard the clang of a door and then footsteps. He hadn’t told Erin he was coming here, and he wasn’t sure why. A guard appeared in the doorway. The man was huge—six-six and heavily built with the sort of face that made you remember your manners. The prisoner behind him was prettier, about Darsh’s height. Wider across the shoulders, lean through the torso and hips—classic quarterback physique clad in bright prison orange. Drew Hawke. He had his hands cuffed in front of him.

“Take a seat,” Darsh offered.

Hawke eyed him warily but slid his ass into the chair.

“Keeping in shape I see.”

Hawke’s lip curled. “I don’t have a lot else to do. May as well workout.”

“Just in case?”

“Just in case, what? I get out and get drafted?” Hawke snorted. “I gave up all hope of my old life a long time ago. I’m stuck in this shithole for good.”

He was a good-looking kid, but there was a hardness around his eyes now that went beyond being tough on the field. Doing time in the big house was a little different than living it up in a fraternity.

The kid held Darsh’s gaze. “What do you want?”

The young man didn’t know about Cassie yet, Darsh had made sure of it. The governor, at the request of the DOJ, had called the warden and asked to have Hawke placed in solitary yesterday. The prison officers had used a cell search to justify their actions and had found a homemade shiv. It could have belonged to either of the guys in the cell so they’d punished them both.

“Have you found more delusional girls who swear under oath I tied them up so I could nail their asses? Or maybe I crossed state lines to do it this time?” His eyes held dark amusement and a hint of fear. He shook his head. “I don’t know where you find these women. I mean, I have an amazing girlfriend and groupies lining up to suck my dick, but it wasn’t enough for me, apparently.” He rolled his eyes, went to cross his arms over his chest but was stopped by the handcuffs. “Fuck,” he muttered quietly and some of the steam seemed to go out of him.

“You and Cassie still dating?” Darsh asked.

“Sure, we’re ‘
dating
.’” Hawke’s expression said it all as he glanced around the holding room. One shoulder rose. “I’m going to break up with her when she comes to visit with my dad in a couple of weeks though. I don’t want her wasting her life waiting for me.”

“Thirty years is a long time. You think she’d wait?”

“I know she’d wait.” Hawke swallowed repeatedly, and even then his voice came out hoarse. “Cassie’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and I didn’t even know it until I was arrested. Breaking up with her is gonna hurt, but it’s better for her in the long run. She’ll find someone else eventually.”

Darsh was trying hard not to like the guy. Genuine psychopaths could be a lot of fun to be around when they thought you had something they wanted. But genuine psychopaths didn’t worry about other people wasting their lives on them—they actually expected nothing less. He eyed the guard. “Can you release the restraints?”

The man nodded and came forward with the keys. He removed the cuffs and waited over by the door again.

“I have some bad news for you,” Darsh said quietly. He rarely had to do death notices, and they sucked.

Hawke leaned forward over the table. “Something happen to my dad or mom? My sister?” His face was pinched with worry. Mouth tight.

Darsh shook his head. “Your family is fine as far as I’m aware.”

Hawke frowned, then his expression dropped. “Cassie?”

Darsh nodded.

“Where is she? What happened?” Hawke got louder, and the guard moved into the room as if to subdue him, but Darsh waved him away. He’d given up his weapon and credentials before they let him through the door. The kid might get a punch in, but being a Marine, not to mention a federal agent, meant he could hold his own.

“I’m sorry to tell you, Drew, that Cassandra Bressinger was murdered along with her friend, Mandy Wochikowski.” Darsh braced himself for anger, but the guy in front of him dissolved into tears.

“What?” Hawke sobbed. “Murdered? Who would want to murder Cassie?”

“Someone broke into their home.”

Hawke looked aghast. “A robbery?”

“It wasn’t a robbery.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh, God. Oh, Christ. This is because of me, isn’t it?” Tears dripped onto the orange cotton of his coveralls. “I told her to stop fighting for me.” His voice hitched. “I told her over and over to drop it and move on with her life, but she wouldn’t listen.” He used his big hands to wipe his wet cheeks. “It wasn’t worth it. I’m not worth it. Did you catch the fucker who did it?”

Those weren’t the words of a psychopath, although the fact he’d assumed it was all about him was slightly narcissistic. Then again, under the circumstances, he was probably right.

“Not yet,” admitted Darsh.

“Did they hurt the girls? Cassie and Mandy?”

Whatever was on Darsh’s face must have given the facts away.

“No. No. Noooo.” Hawke shook his head in denial. “They were not raped.”

“I’m sorry.” Darsh pressed his lips together. “Cassie was raped during the attack.”

Hawke looked dumbstruck. “Was this some revenge thing? Did someone rape and kill her because she was my girlfriend, and they thought I’d raped those other girls?”

It was a possible theory, but more telling was Hawke hadn’t slipped from his stance of innocence even once. Maybe he’d convinced himself he was innocent. Or maybe the kid was doing someone else’s time.

“I don’t know who did it or why. I’m looking into it. That’s why I’m here.”

An angry snort replaced the tears. “You think I had something to do with this, too?”

Darsh didn’t miss the way the young man’s fists clenched. “Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt Cassie?”

The fists relaxed. He shook his head. “Just everyone who thinks I’m guilty. Those girls who were attacked maybe—or someone who loves them?”

“Anyone care about you enough to have done this to try and get you out of prison?”

Hawke’s eyes widened, and his expression turned incredulous. “You mean do I have any friends who are twisted enough to murder the woman I love—someone who has stood by me through this entire nightmare at great cost to herself—just to try to throw my conviction into question? Well, shit, yeah, actually my dad is pretty shaken up by the whole deal. Maybe he did it. Or Coach Raymond—because he fucking loves to win no matter the cost.” Hawke’s face was turning red with rage, but he made no move toward Darsh.

Darsh had watched video of the guy playing football, and he was incredibly disciplined even under extreme pressure. But what happened when he lost his cool? How did he channel his rage, or was it bottled up like a volcano ready to blow?

Darsh pushed. He wasn’t here to make friends. “What about your teammates?”

Hawke held his hands wide. “You want me to throw another player under the bus? You have some insane hatred of the Blackcombe Ravens?” The young man took in a calming breath and fixed his gaze on the ceiling. “Look, I read the stats on student athletes. I know on average they commit nearly twenty percent of reported college sexual assaults and I know people think we’re entitled assholes. I
was
an entitled asshole,” he paused, his chest pumping heavily, “but my teammates are solid.”