Judged (4 page)

I took the file in hand and gave it a quick read. Copies of the confession letters, images of previous handwriting from the victims, and an analysis breakdown from whoever had conducted the report filled the folder. I handed it off to Beth. “Okay, so we know they wrote them. Truthful or not, I guess we can’t say,” I said.

“It looks like we can probably say that as well.” He grabbed another folder from his desk and handed it over. “Ballistics report. The weapon that killed the three matches up with the bullets removed from Leila Scobee.”

“Who was the firearm registered to?” Beth asked.

“Don’t know who it was once registered to—the serial number was filed off. It looks like it was a throwaway that made a reappearance. I’m not sure if our vigilante killer knew this information and left the gun at the home of Greg Scobee for that reason or not, though. But it is one hundred percent the original murder weapon. Caliber, striations, everything matches.”

“Interesting,” I said. “That information, that Scobee had a hand in the killing of his first wife, is that going to be made public?”

“Not at the moment. The higher-ups are a little concerned with what impact the information could have with the public’s perception of our suspect. We’ll be contacting the family with it, though.”

“Okay.” I let out a breath. “Apparently our vigilante is one hell of a sleuth.”

“Which furthers what we were kicking around about him being law enforcement,” Couch said.

“It does,” I said.

“I had some of my guys start compiling a list of could-bes a few weeks back.”

“Based on?” Beth asked.

“The profile that Hank here sent over. Our list keeps growing, unfortunately. The last one of my agents told me, we were up in the hundreds of people.”

“Our profiler in our office back in Manassas created a new profile yesterday after we got the information regarding the confessions and latest murders. I glanced over it a bit, but this latest news about the gun being the original murder weapon may in fact solidify this new profile a bit more.” I lifted the flap on my bag at my ankle, reached inside, and pulled out the investigation file that contained a couple of copies of the newest profile. I handed Couch one and put out another in front of me. “Our profiler seems to agree with us that this guy is or was in some form of law enforcement. He seemed to want to rule out an everyday citizen or anyone from the court system.”

Agent Couch adjusted his glasses, looked down briefly to brush his hand over his striped blue tie resting on his white dress shirt, and read over the sheet. I looked it over again while Couch read in silence. The profile pegged our guy as thirty to fifty and of average build—I assumed that part was from his being able to physically do what he was doing, but Bulger had never said that for certain. The suspect was assumed to be single and living alone, due to the acts committed being in the late night and early morning hours—frequent absences would have raised a red flag with a significant other or family members present in the household. The amount of research and planning suggested someone familiar with the field of investigative work. The profile went on to suggest someone with a bone to pick in any branch of law enforcement, including private investigators. Bulger advised us to look into those who were demoted, forced out of their positions, or had filed grievances. Bulger also added a notation at the bottom that able family members of such people—or family members of someone killed in the line of duty—still shouldn’t be overlooked.

“I sat in with him while he was drawing this up,” I said. “The only real changes are that he seems to think we should focus our attention on law enforcement, like we’d already discussed.”

Couch set the sheet down on his desk. “Yeah, I can’t say I’ve ever put a ton of stock into these things. It’s usually just common sense or basic investigative work that could tell you what most of these contain. To me, they’re kind of like getting a psychic reading. If you hit on one thing during a bunch of vague theories, you’re a genius. Apparently, someone thinks that they are needed, though.”

“Wow, you’re reading my mind,” I said.

Couch chuckled. “So we’ll get my guys focusing on this a bit more. Maybe we can weed that list down a touch and start shaking some trees. You’d said you wanted to go and have a look at the scenes.”

“Correct,” I said.

“Have you visited either?” Beth asked.

“My agents have. Me personally, no,” Couch said. “But I’m going to join you in the field while you’re here. It will do me some good to stretch my legs a bit. Let me make a call to the local PDs and see if we can have the first responding officers meet us at these locations.”

“How far are they from here?” Beth asked.

“The late Rachael and Glen Scobee’s house is in Homestead, about an hour drive south. The brother, Greg Scobee—his place is a couple miles northeast from there in Cutler Bay.”

“Sure,” I said. “I actually wanted to make a call to the lieutenant at Miami Dade that I’ve been in contact with and see if he has anything new.”

Couch drove us toward Homestead in his black Chevy Tahoe. Our plan was to visit the couple’s house first and then stop by the brother’s as we made the loop back. I’d seen a sign pass us a minute or two prior, telling us we were just a few miles out from our exit off of the Ronald Reagan Turnpike. My talk with Lieutenant Harrington had been brief—he said he would be in court most of the day but would call and get something set up as soon as he was back at his station.

Couch clicked on his turn signal and veered to the right lane to exit. We took a few surface streets and found ourselves in the Scobees’ neighborhood. All the homes were fairly large, but all looked the better part of thirty years old. Each home appeared to be sitting on at least an acre or more of land.

“This is us up here.” Couch pointed out the windshield at a patrol car along the side of the road, parked in front of a driveway that disappeared into some trees.

We pulled up at the rear of the cruiser, parked with two tires in the grass, and stepped out. The patrol car’s driver and passenger doors opened, and two officers in brown-and-taupe uniforms stepped out. The three of us ran through a quick round of introductions with the two officers, named Stark—bald, round and short—and Mayweather—thin, dark haired, and taller than his partner. The two would be easy to differentiate. We headed up the driveway and soon approached a big white two story with a huge red brick chimney running up its leftmost edge at the front. A seafoam-colored overhang covered part of the driveway, which turned right and ran along the front of the home toward the garages on the far side. We walked beneath the overhang and up a single step to the rounded-top alcove the front door was set into. Officer Mayweather pulled the police tape sealing the door, opened the small lockbox hanging from the knob, and allowed us entry.

Our group entered the foyer. A living room and stairway leading up stood to our immediate left, and a hallway stretched before us, leading back to a dining room. At my right, in the hallway’s wall stood a door, which I assumed led out to the garage.

“A forensics team has gone through the place—nothing found anywhere other than upstairs, where the killing occurred,” Stark said.

“If memory serves, the file said that an adult son is who reported it?” I asked.

“Rachael Scobee’s son from a previous marriage. Tom Boyle, twenty-three, no priors. His alibi checked out—third-shift worker. He was coming to see his mother. I guess he was pretty regular around here. He had a key, saw his mother’s and stepfather’s vehicles were present, and started looking around. He found the scene in the master bedroom and called 9-1-1. We responded within about ten minutes of the call,” Stark said.

I nodded and pointed up the staircase.

Stark and Mayweather led us up the flight of stairs to a landing and then down the hall to the doorway of the master bedroom.

“There’s a blood pool right as you enter. Glen Scobee’s body was there,” Mayweather said.

I looked at the couple-foot-wide bloodstained area of carpet just inside the room and then brought my line of sight up to the unmade bed, covered with red colored sheets and blankets. There was enough room to walk around the bloodied carpet, so our group entered.

“Were either of you two here when forensics went through the place?” Couch asked.

“We both were,” Stark said.

“How did they think it played out?” Couch asked.

Stark cleared his throat, holding his fist over his mouth. “They put the woman as the first to be shot. Her state of dress said that she was sleeping prior to the killer entering the home—the husband was found in a suit and tie and shot near the doorway, so they don’t believe he ever ventured too far into the room. The gunshots were also in opposite directions. Basically, he killed the woman and then sat in wait until the man arrived and then killed him.”

“After he made him write a confession,” Couch said.

“Correct,” Stark said. “Two notepads, one found on the bed in the female’s handwriting, and another on the dresser here near the door in the man’s.” Stark jerked his chin at the dresser sitting to our right with a television on it.

I glanced over at the dresser and then down to where the blood pool from Glen Scobee had stained the carpet.

“Nobody heard the shots?” Beth asked.

Stark shook his head. “These are pretty big lots, tree lines between the properties, large houses, early morning hours.”

“And nothing taken from the property?” I asked.

“We went over the place, as well as forensics,” Mayweather said. “They printed the house from top to bottom. Nothing appeared disturbed, no prints on anything, and the son said it looked like everything was accounted for.”

“Yeah, the only thing this guy left behind was a pair of bodies and a pair of tire tracks in the grass from where he parked along the side of the house,” Mayweather said.

“Forensics wasn’t able to get anything from the tracks?” Beth asked.

“Not that I know of. They took some measurements but weren’t able to get any kind of tread patterns or anything,” Mayweather said.

I looked at Agent Couch. “Did you guys try getting any kind of traffic-cam footage from around these scenes?”

“We came up empty,” he said. “We went with the estimated TODs and pulled whatever we could from the area, which wasn’t much. No luck.”

I nodded and rounded the bed toward the far wall, which had a brown blood smear down it and some holes in the drywall that appeared to have been dug out—probably from forensics retrieving the bullets. In the carpet, in the area separating the bed and the wall, was another bloodstain a couple feet wide.

“The wife was there,” Stark said. “The blood on the wall, as well as bullet holes from the through-and-throughs, says she had her back to the wall when she was shot and then fell to the floor. She was facing the bed when we arrived.”

“What was the estimated TOD, again?” I asked.

“Middle of the night. The son found them around four in the afternoon the following day. We checked the woman’s cell phone. She’d sent a text message off to her husband, asking when he’d be home. The husband responded, ‘Around the same time as always.’ The message was sent around one thirty in the morning. The coroner said the body temps put the killings around twelve to fifteen hours prior to him arriving on scene, which was about five in the evening.”

“What about the brother?” I asked.

“Five in the morning or so. The scene looked as if our killer was inside waiting. Greg was shot near a doorway similar to that.” Couch motioned to the blood where Glen Scobee had dropped.

“What did the brother do for a living?” Beth asked.

“He drove truck, a local route with overnight deliveries. All signs point to him being shot when he returned home from work,” Couch said.

“And the husband?” Beth asked.

“General manager for a car dealership, right?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Couch said.

“What is any good husband doing out past one thirty in the morning on a weekday? Dealerships close at, what, around nine o’clock?” Beth asked. “Out in the bars maybe?”

“Whatever he was out doing seemed to be commonplace, from him telling his wife he’d be home the same time as always,” I said. “Did anyone talk to any coworkers of his?” I asked.

“I don’t believe we have yet,” Couch said. “My guys have been interviewing neighbors, friends, and family first. Are coworkers something you want to dig into?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” I said. “Maybe another employee there knew his routine—knew where he went or what he was doing. We can try to get some kind of video of Mr. Scobee somehow if he was in fact out in public. It kind of seems like our killer knew all of these people’s schedules and routines. He could have been following them.”

“What makes you think he knew everyone’s schedule?” Stark asked.

“The guy had been in the house before,” I said. “I’m guessing either this couple here had that firearm or the brother did. Either way, our killer knew where it was.”

“The gun belonged to one of the three victims?” Stark interrupted. “From what I heard, it was left at the brother’s and had the serial numbers scratched off.”

“We ran ballistics on it against what we had on the bullets that killed Scobee’s first wife. It was the same weapon,” Couch said.

Neither officer responded.

I continued. “The car in the grass at the side of the house says something as well. First, you wouldn’t drive your vehicle up the driveway of a home and directly past the front windows unless you already knew you wouldn’t be spotted—meaning he probably had a good idea the wife was asleep. Second, who was he hiding the vehicle from on the side of the house? I mean, you can’t see the driveway out front from the street. What’s the point of hiding his vehicle unless he knew that the husband had yet to arrive?”

“Valid points,” Couch said.

“Okay, let’s get a look at where the car was parked and the point of entry,” I said. “After that, we can head over to the other scene for a look around.” I looked at Mayweather and Stark. “That’s a different district from you guys, correct?”