BLUE BLOOD RUNS COLD (A Michael Ross Novel Book 1) (13 page)

              Michael looked into the side-view mirror, then looked left and right. He saw no cars anywhere. No one walked around, either nearby or far off in the distance. All was quiet. Michael pulled his hand off his service weapon and said, “Maybe a little. I don't know, I got a feeling.”

              “You want me to call it in, this feeling of yours? I think they got a new code for it. 9185, Michael Ross is seeing things. The code demands the immediate attention of all available officers in addition to any available medical personnel. Officers are directed to respond to a 9185 without delay. Failure to respond will result in–”

              Michael held his hands up in mock surrender. He said, “I get it, I get it. You don't have to stop just because I get a funny feeling, okay? The residence is straight ahead of us. Let's go serve our warrant.”

              Billy pulled the car back onto the smooth, unmarked road. He said, “Okie dokie. You're the boss.”

3

              Michael found the university president in better spirits than she'd been several hours before. Her eyes had become clear. The clothes she wore—no longer rumpled pajamas—fit the image that Michael had of a professional taking a day off. She had taken the coffee pot and the mug off the living room table. A scent reminiscent of flowers hung in the air. Whereas she had looked defeated and withdrawn, now she looked determined and ready. He regretted having met her through professional circumstances; she was exactly the kind of woman he would ask out for a beer.

              She let him in without a word, just a wave of the hand. He stepped inside and said, “Ms. Clifton, I've come to serve a warrant.”

              Even this declaration, which he thought would have been devastating earlier in the day, received only a passing acknowledgment. She stood in front of him, her back straight, her head held high, her arms crossed over her stomach. Confidence seemed to come out of her pores. She said, “Hello again, Detective. Back so soon? Would you mind if I saw the warrant, please?”

              Legally, Michael was required to let the woman see the warrant and everything it said. Many police officers, including his partner, often flashed the warrant up, then put it away again. Michael never saw the purpose in this: once a judge put his signature on the document, the designated party or parties had to comply with the instructions therein or face a legal penalty, the severity of which depended on the mood of the judge at the time of sentencing. Since he expected that she would be well acquainted with legal documents in consequence of her position, he handed it over.

              Her eyes scanned the page. Then her lips moved while she read the words under her breath. Michael stood in place, thinking that he would let his partner serve the next warrant at the hospital. The man had thus far spent so much time sitting in the car that he would by now be antsy to get involved himself. He was not, after all, a chauffeur to the county's famous detectives. He was a detective himself, qualified and capable, every bit as good as anyone else.

              She handed the warrant back to him. She said, “I can agree with letting you have the names and phone numbers and addresses of any students you may wish to question. You'll have to tell me who you want, though. I'm not disposed to give you everybody on the books. I know you won't question them all, and I don't want that information in police hands for future use.”

              Michael couldn't help smiling. He liked her spunk better than her misery. He pulled out his notepad and flipped back a few pages. He said, “All right, there's this group on campus called To Write Love on Her Arms. Have you heard of them?”

              “Sure, they do free hugs day, sometimes.”

              “I've already questioned Shannon Moore, who is the president. I would also like to question Carly Louis, Violet Rasmussen, Zachary Tyler, and anyone else who might be involved in the group. I don't have the full roster of registered members.”

              The president shrugged. She said, “Okay, I can give you those three. Finding every member who attended this year might be a little tricky. Membership changes from week to week. All student organizations keep a sign-in sheet if they receive funding through the student senate. You'd either have to wait until Monday to get the names of everyone involved in the group, or you'd have to ask one of the executive board members if a computerized record was kept of attendance. They're not required to do so, you understand. It's usually the case that they take their sign-in sheets and turn them in to the senate.”

              Michael remembered the time change the judge had made and cursed inwardly. Instead of waiting until Monday morning, he'd have to come back again Sunday night when all the students returned from their weekend excursions. He'd have to knock on doors and ask resident directors for privileged information. But then, he thought, that might be something Billy could do, as well.

              He said, “Okay, that will suffice for now.”

              “I have to start up my computer. Would you mind waiting in the living room while I print out the information you require?”

              “Sure, if you don't mind me calling my partner in.”

              “Of course.”

              Michael went back outside and waved Billy to come in. Billy's relief was plain. He got out of the car and pulled his coat up over his head. Michael made a mental note to find out whether the older man was deferential because Michael was the senior partner, or whether it was just easier to get along that way. When he had been partners with Julie Griggs for five years, she had let him do the talking, more often than not. She was a listener, rather than a talker. She said little, but what she did say often kept his attention. She had been invaluable to him, not just as an alternative perspective, but as someone who saw around corners, often five steps ahead.

              Billy was different. Billy always thundered straight ahead, plowing through a case until he got to the heart of the matter. He was neither subtle nor tactful. He spoke his mind at all times, even when doing so was inadvisable. His bluntness, more than anything else, had kept him in a uniform for the majority of his career while other officers got promoted either by keeping their mouths shut or sucking up whenever possible. Billy McGee was not meant for the hierarchical structure of a police department; he did not care who had what rank, or who would be offended by his words. He said what he meant, and nothing else.

              As he considered that, Michael began to understand why Billy sometimes saw police work as just a job, instead of a calling. He had gone into it with the utmost respect for the truth. He had always called it like he saw it. In return, he had received the irritation of his superiors, many of whom were stressed out enough without someone in their own department adding to their stress. If he worked in a department that didn't believe in the truth, or couldn't handle it when it was spoken, was it any wonder why he lost his passion for his work?

              Billy stomped his shoes before the threshold, shaking off the water he'd stepped in. He entered and said, “Golly gee, Mikey, ain't this a twist? You're inviting me in to help you with an interview. Who'da thunk it?”

              Michael gestured to the living room. He said, “I thought you might be getting lonely out there all by yourself. You know, like you might want some company of the female persuasion.”

              “Aw, stuff your sarcasm in a sack, mister. You know I got a wife at home who puts up with my shit. I don't want no more than that.”

              Michael sat down on the sofa next to Billy. He said, “Yeah, I know. Sorry if I tweaked your nose the wrong way.”

              Billy's eyebrows rose. “Hey, Mikey, something got into you? You're acting all polite all of the sudden. You drink some funny water, or what?”

              “Nope, no funny water. Just thought I'd like to hear your opinion a bit more often. A lot of these cases we do, I've been keeping you in the dark. I just got to thinking maybe that's not such a good thing. You know, with Julie, I was used to always being the lead every time. Maybe that's not how you and I should operate.”

              “You say this after six months of working with me? Well, it's not like the way we've been doing things is all that bad. We've got the highest solve rate in the county. Our cases have the third-highest conviction rate in the county. You know that's why you've never been promoted beyond detective, right? You're a victim of your own success. You get to be an all-star at your position, and before you know it, the manager thinks he'd better keep you there so you can do what you do.”

              Michael wanted to reply, but before he could, the president emerged from somewhere with papers in hand. The smell of flowers returned with her. She said, “Here you are, gentlemen, the addresses and phone numbers you've requested. Would you mind if I made a copy of the warrant you're carrying?”

              Neither detective knew whether anyone outside of the court and the officers who served the warrant could be in possession of one. Michael said, “You can request a copy of the warrant from the county courthouse at Carlisle when I deliver it there Monday morning. You just need the identifier at the top of the page here.”

              Lorraine went further back into the mansion, then returned with a piece of scrap paper and a pen. She wrote down the warrant's identifier number on the page in big round numbers. She held it up and said, “This is the one, right?”

              Michael said, “That's correct. But you'll want to keep that paper handy, because I've got another warrant that I want to serve you.”

              A look of genuine consternation crossed her face. She threw the paper onto the glass coffee table in front of her and said, “Something else? What could you possibly want?”

              Michael handed over the second warrant. He let her read it, watching her carefully while her lips moved. She had the same look of indignant frustration on her face when she handed back the warrant. She said, “It says here you want to inspect the personal belongings of Shannon Moore including, but not limited to, anything that may be found in her dorm room? Correct?”

              “That's correct.”

              She read over the order one more time, then said, “I don't know if this is legally enforceable. The language that's used here, it leaves room for interpretation. If you have no objection, I'd like to call an attorney to look this document over.”

              “You're within your rights to do so, but I'll tell you now what I'll tell him when he arrives: the judge's signature makes it legally enforceable.”

              She said, “All right, if you say so.” Then, she left the living room for the kitchen where she picked up the phone and dialed a number.

              Billy nudged Michael in the ribs and said, “Hey, you think she'll file an injunction?”

              “An injunction against a search and seizure order that doesn't involve any property belonging to her? Even if she did, the judge would throw it out. The Moore family would have to file one for it to be given consideration.”

              Billy crossed his legs as he leaned back against the couch. He said, “Yeah, I know that, too. But some lawyers, they don't know the first thing about the law. Or they pretend they don't, hoping that the judge will grant a new precedent he shouldn't.”

              Michael did not reply. He had been through that scenario too many times to count. He tried to relax while he waited for the lawyer to come.

4

              The lawyer that came to the president's residence turned out to be a woman, instead of a man. She strode through the door as if she owned the building and sat next to Lorraine without being invited to do so. She had blond shoulder-length hair, a white blouse with a black jacket and black trousers. She wore flats, a trend that Michael saw more and more as women rejected the painful heels they had to walk in and instead chose comfortable shoes without spikes protruding from the heels. She wore a gold Timex watch and a wedding band on a long slender finger. She pulled out a tissue from her pocket to wipe the rain off her glasses. When she put them on, she looked as though she owned a large corporation. She was young, in her late twenties, with no traces of the age lines so prominent on Lorraine's face. The lawyer carried with her a large leather business bag with pouches on all sides and zippers everywhere. Though the carry-all was full to bursting, she had not let it slow her down.

              She said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen, my name is Caitlin Phillips, attorney at law. I understand from my client that you have served her a warrant which instructs her to let you search a young girl's dorm room, for, as I understand it, a police flashlight that you presume has gone missing?”

              Michael said, “That's correct, ma'am. The coroner estimates the time of death of Officer Kevin Bailey to be between the hours of 2 and 3 a.m. Saturday morning. Presuming this is correct, it stands to reason that he would have been patrolling campus with a flashlight in his possession. Even if he could be assured that the lights around campus worked perfectly, he would likely have chosen to bring it with him out of habit.”

              The lawyer collected herself for a moment, which only made her look more businesslike. She said, “As it happens, Detective, I have a passing familiarity with the events that took place on campus yesterday. My understanding is that Officer Bailey was involved in an altercation with a student named Shannon Moore. The officer gave a statement to the effect that he had found it necessary to subdue the student with force. He thought he saw her reaching for a knife. Whether Officer Bailey imagined that part, or whether Miss Moore did have a knife on her person will likely remain undetermined. Now, this being the case, what reason would Mr. Bailey have to come to campus in the middle of the night after working here during the day?”