it, Sam. Have a conversation, like we’re doing. Tell the man, and get on with your life. He’ll accept you no matter what. I suspect he already knows the cost of loving you, and is more than willing to pay it.”
The cost. My God, is that how people see me? There’s a cost to being with me?
“Hey. Did I say something wrong?”
She shook her head, fiddled with the edge of the laptop. “No. Not at all. You’re fine. It’s me. So what’s with this new attitude? You’ve never been Xander’s biggest fan before.”
“I’m feeling like a change is in the air. Something good’s coming, for all of us.” He smiled again, and Sam realized she’d never seen him quite this content before.
“Darren Fletcher, what is up with you today? Are you in love?”
“What? Me? Hell, no. Definitely not. Lust, maybe. Andi’s fun, for an uptight bureaucrat. It’s a good setup—when she has time, she calls me. When I have time, I call her. It’s casual.”
“You’re practically friends with benefits.”
He grinned. “She ain’t asking for a drawer, so that’s good. Naw, I just like playing hooky. I haven’t in a while. Even with all the green in the fields and blue in the sky, it’s nice to get away from my desk.”
“I’m touched you’ve taken the time to come play with me.”
“Someone has to keep you on the straight and narrow.”
Sam touched his arm. “I’m glad. And thank you for the advice.”
He looked as though he wanted to say more, but settled for “Welcome.”
Her cell rang. Saved by the bell. “Oh, good, there’s Amado. Let’s see how Benedict died.”
Chapter
11
DR. AMADO NOCEK had the quiet intonation of a grave man, coupled with a slightly Italianate European accent. Some found him strange; he was serenely brilliant, very tall and much too thin, slightly stooped over, the physique of a praying mantis. The unkind called him Lurch, or the Fly, but Sam had liked him from the moment they met, recognizing a fellow scientific soul. He was a widower, too, and once, when he’d noticed she was having a panic attack during one of their meetings, he’d put his bony hand on her shoulder and said, “It doesn’t get better, but it will hurt less, in time.”
At that moment, she hadn’t believed him. Now she realized he was right.
She put him on the speaker.
“Good morning, my friend. How are things in the OCME?”
“Insanity. But Samantha, my dear, your voice always cheers me. Detective Fletcher told you about our guest, Mr. Benedict?”
“He did. Fletch is on the phone with us now. What are your findings?”
“Oh, they have not told you already? Manual strangulation. He was garroted. The implement was still wrapped around his throat. It took very little time to subdue him. He was not a large man, and terribly ill. His brain presented with clear alpha-synuclein lesions, idiopathic to advanced Parkinson’s.”
“That’s right. He had several physical characteristics of the disease, as well.”
“Whoever killed him was much taller. The angle on the garrote went upward at nearly forty-five degrees. It was a small wire attached to two wooden dowels, like a miniature jump rope. Nothing remarkable about the device outside of the reality of it. We do not see professional garroting very often here.”
“Professional?”
“Yes. There were no hesitation marks, no adjustments. This was an experienced killer.”
“Could Benedict have been sitting when he was attacked?”
“Based on the crime scene reconstruction, he was attacked while in the shower. Mr. Benedict measured only sixty-eight inches, so it is safe to assume the killer is at least over seventy-four inches tall, if not more.”
“Let me get a feel for this. How tall are you, Amado?”
“I believe I was seventy-seven inches at my last physical.”
“So you’re six-four, and Benedict is five-eight. Yes, it makes sense. It would have to be someone quite big to cause that up-angle. There was no indication the killer stood on something? The edge of the tub, perhaps?”
“Not from the current facts of the investigation, no. The man was in a handicap-friendly room, with a roll-in shower, no bathing tub. I suppose it was too difficult for him to step up over the ledge. The commode is too far away from the shower to make that scenario feasible.”
“All right. When you’re all finished, would you mind emailing me your final report?”
“Not at all, my dear. I know I do not have to remind you to be very careful.”
“I have Fletcher. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you when I get back. We’re overdue for dinner.”
“It would be my great pleasure. Until then.”
He hung up, and Sam turned to Fletcher. “Garroting? More you’re keeping from me?”
“I didn’t know. Pro hit, sounds like.”
“Agreed. This is trouble, Fletch. We need to be on alert.”
“Here’s what I don’t get. Why you? Why did Timothy Savage ask for you specifically?”
“I don’t know, and it freaks me out. I’m worried we’re walking into a trap, and without more information, I have no idea what it might be.”
“We’re only an hour from Lynchburg. We’re going to find out soon enough.”
Sam opened her laptop, started pulling every ounce of information she could find about Timothy Savage and Rolph Benedict. After twenty minutes of searching, Savage was still a mystery, a complete blank. But there was plenty of material about Benedict.
“Fletch, listen to this. Benedict’s story is bizarre. He won a big case a decade ago, defending the daughter of a family friend accused of murdering her boyfriend. Remember this one? Her name was Gillian Martin.”
“Gillian Martin? Oh, wait, yeah. All the evidence said she was guilty as hell, but her lawyer managed to convince the jury the girl was simply on the wrong end of a massive frame-up.”
“Her lawyer was Rolph Benedict. The real killer was never caught, and Benedict retired from criminal defense work and joined the firm he mentioned last night as a partner, doing estate and contract law.”
“Big change.”
“It is,” Sam said. “What would drive a successful criminal attorney to make such a drastic about-face right after winning the biggest case of his career? Granted, he’d been sick.
