“Rob, it’s Scott Hendler.”
“My favorite fed,” Cain said.
Hendler heard outdoor sounds in the background. “Where are you?”
“I was just getting ready to call you. There’s something you need to see, since we’re working together.”
“Where?”
“Southeast High School on Shields Boulevard. Meet me in half an hour, in the parking lot as it faces Shields. I’ll be next to a dark green Jeep Cherokee.”
Hendler had a mental image of the morning he’d met Sean Kelly. He and Faith had been out for a run together, and they’d rounded the corner onto her block and seen a dark green Jeep Cherokee sitting in front of her house. At first, until she saw the driver, Faith had been nervous to the point of reaching for her weapon. Then she’d recognized her brother.
“I’m on my way,” Hendler said.
Southeast High School had once been one of Oklahoma City’s thriving schools. Then as populations shifted, enrollment dropped off rapidly, to the point that it was actually closed, only to reopen within a few years as a technology-oriented specialty school.
It sat on Shields Boulevard, a few blocks south of the notorious strip of motels. Its sign was blue and white, an S and an E under the stylized logo of a Spartan, the school’s mascot. School was out for the summer, but a few cars were scattered in the parking lot. Hendler pulled into the main gate and immediately saw the Jeep, under a tree at the far south end. He nosed the Toyota over and saw Cain, along with two patrol officers.
Hendler got out of the car and shook hands with Cain. “What’s up?”
“Tough day,” Cain said, not answering him.
Hendler nodded. “What’s this?”
They walked around the back of the Jeep. “School’s out, but there’s some maintenance going on, so there have been contractors in and out. One of the guys spotted the Jeep sitting over here, but thought it must belong to someone else on the crew and they just wanted to park it over here out of the sun. Couple of days go by, the Jeep hasn’t moved. The guy comes over, thinks it might be abandoned or might be a gang car or something.”
They’d arrived at the passenger side door, which was standing open. Hendler smelled it before he saw it. Then he saw the dark stain that covered the beige upholstery.
“He said since it had that really strong metallic smell, that he figured the blood was fairly fresh. He called 911.”
Hendler looked up and down. “So she was killed in the car and then taken to the tree.”
“That’s an assumption. I’m still waiting on the autopsy report. There’s been a little holdup. I’ve been trying to light a fire under the ME’s office, but all I get is that they want to be certain of something.”
Hendler had squatted down at the edge of the open car door, and he turned to look up at Cain. “So they have some doubts?”
“I don’t know. We’ll see, I guess.”
“Anything else here?”
“Oh, we’re just getting started. After the lab people got through, we searched the vehicle.” They walked to the front of the Jeep. Several plastic bags, all bearing evidence tags, were lined up on the pavement. “Number one: a forty-caliber semiautomatic Glock 23. It was in the glove box.”
Hendler looked at the gun, felt it through the plastic. “Nice weapon.”
Cain nodded. “And a favorite of some law enforcement agencies and officers.” He pointed to the next bag. “Number two: registration and insurance verification card, showing that the vehicle belongs to Sean Michael Kelly of Tucson, Arizona.”
Hendler kept his poker face.
“Number three,” Cain said. “Arizona license plates, found under the rear seat. As you can see, it has Oklahoma plates on it now. I ran them as soon as we got here, before we found the others. The Oklahoma plates were stolen a couple of weeks ago, from a Mr. Martin Guerrero, who doesn’t live far from here. The Arizona plates show registration to Sean Michael Kelly of Tucson, Arizona.”
“You’ll send the gun for ballistics tests,” Hendler said, struggling to keep it together. First Senator McDermott, now this. Not Faith’s brother, he thought. Please, let this be a mistake.
“Yep,” Cain said. “I’ve taken the liberty of doing some checking, first on your friend Faith, and then on Sean, who is her brother, as it turns out. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“I knew her brother was named Sean,” Hendler said carefully.
“Uh-huh. They grew up in Evanston, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago. Father, Joseph Kelly, captain of detectives, Evanston PD. Mother, Maire Kelly, homemaker. Sean is eighteen months older. He graduated from Illinois with a degree in criminal justice, applied for Federal Law Enforcement Academy in Georgia, got accepted, graduated middle of his class. Joined Customs, assigned to Tucson seven years ago. Several citations for outstanding investigative work. But he’s currently on administrative leave pending dismissal, due to excessive consumption of alcohol, leading to reckless endangerment of the lives of officers and civilians. I’ve ordered his federal personnel records, including fingerprints and DNA sample.”
Hendler nodded. He knew it had to be done, but that didn’t make it any easier.
“Faith Kelly graduated from Illinois with both bachelor’s and master’s degrees in criminal justice, top of her class. Second in her own class at the Academy, joined the Marshals Service. But let’s back up a second. Even though she’s obviously very bright, she graduated high school a year later than she should have. School records for ages thirteen to fourteen are missing. It’s as if she was just gone for that year. You know anything about that?”
Hendler shook his head in genuine surprise. He’d never heard Faith mention such a thing, not even once.
“Hmm,” Cain said. “Well, anyway, she made up for lost time. The Marshals assigned her to Oklahoma City and she was on a fast track here. Then two years ago, she disappears from the Marshals Service’s payroll but is still listed as being employed by the Justice Department.” He looked at Hendler. “I guess we know now what all that means, don’t we? That must be when she joined DOJ’s little Department Twenty.”
“Thirty. What’s your point?”
“My point, Scott, is that none of this looks very good for your ‘special projects’ girlfriend and her brother. I’m fairly willing to bet that’s Daryn McDermott’s blood in there. And what do you say are the odds that gun fired the shot that killed her? We’ve got Faith Kelly working for some secret little department that kind of twists around the whole concept of witness protection to where it looks more like terrorist protection-”
“Now wait just a damn minute, Rob-”
“And we’ve got her alcoholic brother with the victim’s blood in his truck.”
“You don’t know that’s Daryn McDermott’s blood.”
“Not yet I don’t. But I will pretty soon. What kind of little game are we playing here, Scott? I know you’re honest and a good cop, for a fed, but all bets are off about your girlfriend and her brother.”
Hendler waited a moment. “How do you want me to respond to all that? Do I know who killed Daryn? No, I don’t, but I want to find out. Did Faith kill her? No, she didn’t. Did her brother?” He raised both arms, then dropped them to his sides. “I don’t know. God, I hope not.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
“Does she?”
“No.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Yes, I am. She told me that he took her car and disappeared, and she hasn’t heard from him since the night Daryn was murdered.”
“What did he do, take her car to use as a getaway after using this one to kill Daryn?”
“Now you’re speculating,” Hendler said. “There’s no evidence of that.”
“You’re right,” Cain admitted. “But speculation often leads to the trail that takes you to evidence, doesn’t it?”