bill.”
“Could have. I remember the case, though. The boyfriend was stabbed, shot and his throat slit, but it was all circumstantial evidence—they didn’t have her prints on the weapons, DNA, nothing. During the trial, Gillian Martin did all sorts of strange things, laughing at inappropriate times, crying, claiming she didn’t remember anything. She was on the stand for days. If the prosecutors had gone for a simple second-degree murder charge, the jury would have bought it, but this was a death penalty case. They overreached, and she walked.”
“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
