Unnatural Instinct jc-9 Read online

  “ What're you thinking, Jess?” J. T. asked, leaning in over her shoulder and staring at the firearm, studying it and the fact that only the handle showed any print evidence. Phil said even these prints were useless as they'd been smeared horribly with a greasy substance.

  “ If Judge DeCampe dropped this without firing a shot, then she may have known the guy or the woman.”

  “ How can you know that?”

  “ She let down her guard… relaxed her grip, possibly at gunpoint, and simply dropped it, which suggests that her assailant got the best of her. Meanwhile, the guy doesn't bother to pick up the weapon or clean up the mess left behind, so…”

  “ He wants us to know that he has her,” obliged J. T.

  “ He certainly hasn't gone out of his way to confuse the issue; doesn't want anyone thinking she's on an escape weekend.”

  “ He's telling us he wants us to know she's in his power,” agreed J. T., gritting his teeth. “This could get ugly, Jess.”

  “ If it's a power trip he's on, if this is some deep-seated need of his to make us clear on his having her at his will, yeah… you're right. Still, it may be something we might take advantage of.”

  “ How so?”

  'To turn his need for us to know to our advantage later… maybe twist things to our advantage using this need of his.”

  J. T. breathed deeply. Everyone in law enforcement in the city knew of Judge Maureen DeCampe, and all law enforcement held an unspoken but powerful bond. When someone in the community of law enforcement fell injured or killed, or in this case abducted and possibly dead, a ripple effect of emotion and a call to duty went out like a call to a fire. While neither J. T. nor Jessica called Judge DeCampe a friend, they both respected and admired her, even if they!! didn't always agree with her verdicts. She had thrown out more than one case on legal technicalities, swatting police authorities like flies, while some criminal smugly walked back out onto the street. Nothing made Jessica see red more than this kind of injustice, to watch the family members of the victims go numb and stunned at such a verdict.

  DeCampe had recently made the ruling to release a certain inmate of the Washington, D.C., penal system back into society-due in large part to his advanced age and failing health-and this resulted in a local retired detective on the WPD taking the law of blood into his own hands, first murdering the released man and then killing himself. It had been front-page fodder for the Post for days. DeCampe came under fire of public opinion and members of the press, not to mention police and law enforcement professionals. It had been break-room conversation back at Quantico headquarters as well. The Washington Police Department personnel were particularly pissed with Judge DeCampe afterward. However, DeCampe stood her ground like the Texan she was, never acknowledging any part in the series of events that led up to the murder and suicide. Her supporters pointed out that she tried every case on the merits of that case alone; every case handled as a unique animal. As a result, few could predict the outcome of a DeCampe ruling. Jessica had to agree that most other judges were so predictable that area lawyers-both defense and prosecuting attorneys-banked on certain outcomes.

  Overall, Judge Maureen DeCampe proved a tough, fair, and firm judge, the sort sorely missing in many current judicial arenas in D.C., and Jessica liked her no-nonsense manner, despite not always agreeing with her.

  Jessica now coldly stared down on the spot where the woman's keys lay alongside the stiletto-heeled pump, the items just shy of the judge's Mercedes. Judge Maureen DeCampe was known to have used those heels on people who got too close. Jessica momentarily wondered if she'd held onto the other one for any chance to strike back at her assailant at the secondary location.

  The rule of thumb among knowledgeable people in law enforcement is that under no circumstances do you allow an assailant to transport you to a second location, one of his choosing. Rule of thumb called this assisting the assailant in putting him into a comfort zone, one in which he might exercise any fantasy he has ever held, including but not limited to the power over life-the abductee's life. At the second location, the assailant held absolute sway over his victim without threat of discovery or interruption, and 90 percent of the time, this ended in the death of the victim. If Judge DeCampe were conscious, she'd have fought extremely hard before she would allow anyone to abduct her. In addition, Judge DeCampe had a reputation for taking care of herself-Tae Kwon Do, stiletto heels, and, 45s-and everyone in and around the courthouse knew her well enough to agree with Jessica on this score. She would never assist in her own abduction.

  Everyone from the governor of the state, the mayor, the DA's office, the PD's office, the entire police force, the press, the public-everyone would have a personal and/or powerful interest in the case; she was, in a sense, one of D.C.'s finest. There was no keeping this high-profile case out of the headlines. By the time Jessica got home in nearby Quantico, Virginia, and crawled into bed tonight, Jay Leno would be cracking wise about the case.

  Judge DeCampe as celebrity. Weird-assed world we live in with this perversion of what stood for celebrity-victims and celebrity killers, Jessica thought. Maureen DeCampe's disappearance already deeply disturbed Jessica, and it would insinuate itself on any sleep she might hope to get until they arrived at an outcome. Her case would be blazoned across every U.S. newspaper, and blazoned across Jessica's forehead. She imagined the effect of it all while trying to make love to Richard, or while simply trying to find any peace of mind until the judge was located and hopefully returned to her family unharmed. The chances of that appeared slim to none at the moment.

  Despite their run-ins and problems-and perhaps due to them-Judge DeCampe had helped Jessica out on more than one occasion. Regardless of where the judge's political and personal leanings were, she remained a stalwart ally to those she befriended. In fact, among the law enforcement community in D.C., few people commanded as much respect as she. Well liked, she had hundreds of admirers and friends. Some said she “owned” Washington-meaning it in a political sense and not always in a nice way. Others called her the city's finest and fairest appellate judge, some saying she earned every accolade, and that nothing was ever handed to her. Jessica respected her because she could easily have simply become another Washington debutante and social butterfly.

  “ Funny how she had the money and position to do nothing with her life, but she chose to do something with it instead,” said J. T. in Jessica's ear.

  “ Yeah, so I've heard.”

  “ Nothing would've been enough for her parents and immediate circle, but she took the far more difficult road, carving out a real life for herself in a profession for which she harbored great passion.”

  “ Are you writing her eulogy already, John? You're speaking of her in the past tense.”

  “ Jeeze, I didn't mean to… I mean, imply that…”

  “ Cool it. We're all thinking it, and besides, you're right about her. You gotta admire her gumption. I think that's what they call it in Texas.”

  DeCampe had been born and raised on a Texas ranch near Houston. She had risen in the legal system in Texas through several administrations, and she had taken a position in Washington only a few months before, ostensibly to be close to her adopted son, Michael, and her grandchildren as both her daughters worked in politics and had married politicians. “She is a woman of substance and conviction. Can't fault her for being without courage.”

  “ I admire you for the same qualities, Jess,” he confided.

  Her eyes had closed in thoughtful response; she knew that despite all their ups and downs, despite the squabbles and the tension that came whenever people worked or lived in close proximity, and despite the caustic humor that had taken on the nature of a hallmark between them, J. T. greatly respected her and her abilities-as she respected him. “Thank you, J. T., but never forget that people do not condemn us for our frailties and faults but ultimately for our qualities.”

  “ What's that supposed to mean?” J. T.'s gaze gave away his complete confusio
n.

  “ An old truth I once read tells me now that she was abducted because of her fine qualities, not despite them, and not because of her flaws. Whoever took her likely is punishing her for her finest traits, not her weakest.”

  “ That's… that's deep,” J. T. muttered.

  “ Well… we see it every time someone is murdered. The stalking male who can't function and who has to continue to harass his former lover or wife until someone is dead. He goes after her because he can't have her ideal-the best that she once was in his mind-which no longer exists. He kills her for her finest qualities, not for her worst. Someone who can't leave a celebrity alone does it for the same reason. And Judge DeCampe was, in her way, a celebrity.”

  Her eyes closed, nearing a comforting moment of pure instinct as her mind played over the chess board of the crime scene. Twenty-four hours an investigator, her subconscious scolded, but now is the time it really counts. She recalled how often her shrink had told her she must find ways to relax and get away from her work. But even when she did so, her work wouldn't get away from her, as evidenced this night.

  When the soft-spoken but firm judge had gone missing, reported by her daughters, it was taken seriously from the get-go. No one working in law enforcement at any level remained far removed from the threat of violence, especially not in a major American city; D.C.'s spiraling skyscrapers and gorgeous skyline might be seen by some as monuments to a civilized camp, but Jessica Coran knew better. She knew from hard-won experience that human beings, whatever the size of their monuments and accomplishments, remained as savage and bestial as the day they were deposited on Earth by whatever powers governed the void. Whether you subscribed to Cherokee creation myths or to Hindu or Christian creation tales, you had to know that the human creature was the most complex and dangerous animal on the planet, given as much to creating art and philosophy and religion as to creating fear and hatred and monsters of their offspring.

  Both as a woman and as a detective, Jessica had long understood, even appreciated, how the animal brain of the first men to walk upright operated-fight or flee was not far from that of the bear, the first man in Native American theology, or any other predator. Regardless of add-ons, the late improvements and refinements to the predatory man-brain, there was no denying that the original bear-brain remained intact and working. The refinements had come in layers, creating an onion of the cerebral cortex, layer upon layer masking the primitive brain: a core center for growing fur and fangs and claws, but also a center for spawning ignorance and fear, giving rise to bigoted hatred and irrational violence.

  And so, Jessica's fevered brain played tennis with the ideas that went back and forth across the net of her consciousness. Something disturbing in the clean crime scene; something speaking to her of how easy it had been for DeCampe's abductor. Too damned easy. No blood spilled. No scuff marks. No car door swinging open. No lock with a key left hanging in it. Jessica knew of cases in which killers had taken their prey with the help of a fake cast on what appeared a broken arm, with trained dogs who faked being hit by a hasty exit from a parking space, a pair of fake “blind man's” eyes and a tin cup, or even a helpful wife with a baby on her arm. This was the con game that asked the victim to become a willing participant, a perfect victim. But Judge Maureen DeCampe knew all this as well. She ought to have been in a unique position to see it coming, yet she had put up no struggle whatsoever. It could mean only one thing: She knew her assailant and she felt no fear of him whatsoever.

  TWO

  I didn't invent the world I write about-it's all true.

  — Graham Greene (1904–1991)

  The crime scene felt like a cave with an opening at front and back, and the cold Washington, D.C., wind whistled through it with a banshee wail, and still the scene had “abduction” written all over it-but abduction done by a novice, not a trained professional. Although Judge DeCampe had vanished, her car and some personal effects remained behind. Professionals would have seen to the car and any effects; professionals would have created false trails of such personal property. A messy, disorganized crime scene usually meant a first-time offender, a spur-of-the-moment thing, or simply an amateur at work. So what had happened to Judge DeCampe?

  The brittle air that bit into the people standing around the crime scene would not say. Still, the question hung in the air like a Pied Piper spirit, tugging at anyone caring to listen to the whisper inside the echoing wind. Authorities had immediately looked for and pulled all camera tapes within a reasonable radius of the scene, but the one most likely to have helped was not in service. They couldn't be so lucky. They wouldn't be handed a gift to uncover the person responsible. In other words, the person who had come for her remained a mystery. Had he admired her beauty, her wit, her abilities from afar? Had he sent her flowers? Offered her compliments? Wooed her and then surprised her with plane tickets to Borneo or the Australian Outback? Was she this moment off on a cruise with a six- foot-four hunk half her age? No… no way, not with the gun and the keys lying here.

  God, how Jessica wished it were otherwise, but whoever had the judge had taken her under duress.

  “ We've located her purse!” shouted a uniformed officer, coming in from a breezeway that led out into the Washington night where light sent shafts of silver through a delicate icy rain that wasn't enough in this dry season. “Was in a Dumpster just outside. Creep didn't bother taking it, but it's been rifled. Took the cards and cash, left the photos and ID.”

  “ We can put out an all points on the card numbers,” suggested Santiva.

  “ Get Lew Clemmens on that,” Jesssica insisted. “He's the best we have at tracking credit cards. Trust me.”

  “ OK, if you're sure of him.”

  “ I insist.”

  Santiva got on his cell phone to make arrangements, but again found the phone uncooperative until he walked toward one of the exits. He called for one of the uniformed cops to walk the elder daughter over to him. He would need access to Judge DeCampe's social security number or personal pin numbers.

  Kim Desinor lay now in the rear of a van, still reeling from her trance like state. Santiva passed the rifled purse to Kim, asking if she would psychometrically read it. Now with the purse, her keys, the recently fashioned. 45, and the single shoe, the picture of forced abduction came more and more into focus. Everything fit. Yet, some nagging something didn't feel right, didn't fit precisely. Jessica thought it felt like a missing but crucial element in a chemistry experiment or a missing ingredient in a recipe. Then Jessica filled in the blank with an instinctive suspicion that Judge DeCampe had had some dealings with her abductor before tonight.

  Judge DeCampe certainly hadn't left the parking garage with anything resembling free will, unless she had reason to stage her own disappearance. But her closest friends and relatives believed this was an absurd possibility. The two daughters almost went ballistic at the suggestion when a pair of D.C. cops had put it to them. The women had screamed that their mother would never do anything to distress them, and certainly nothing of this nature.

  One of the two strikingly tall, darkly tanned women rushed to Jessica and said, “Mother loved her life and the fact she'd become a grandmother. She loved every iota of her life here. She didn't for a moment miss Texas. We were all so… so happy with her here with us, finally in the area, you know?”

  “ We're going to do everything in our power to locate her,” replied Jessica, while the woman pulled and tugged at her. “I promise you that.”

  As to her disappearance, all the family members adamantly parroted the same phrases. “It's totally out of character for Maureen,” and “No one was more excited about her life than Maureen.”

  Finally, Santiva swept the family members out of the garage area and talked them into giving Jessica enough space to work. But there was so damned little to work with. She looked up and saw that the garage attendant's island and ticket booth were well within view of the spot where DeCampe's car remained silent and taunting. “Has anyone ta
lked to the attendant?”

  “ First on scene took a statement from him. Says he didn't see or hear a thing.”

  “ Where the fuck was he?”

  “ Claims he had a bad case of the runs-a stomach virus kept him running between here and the men's room just inside the building.”

  She stared at J. T. “And Santiva and the rest of you bought into his toilet excuse?”

  “ The guy's a slug, Jess. We're not going to get anything from him. I think he's doing roaches.”

  “ Roaches? Marijuana?”

  “ Maybe crack. Can't be sure. But he definitely has lost some gray matter over the years.”

  “ Where is he now?”

  “ Shift was over. Santiva set him on his useless way.”

  “ Christ,” she moaned.

  'Trust me, Jess, he's useless,” J. T. assured her. “He really seemed honestly wanting to help, but he had nothing whatever to contribute.”

  “ No one else on board at the time?”

  “ Lateness of the hour… one attendant… taxpayer's money, all that.”

  “ One of us better check on Kim. See how she's holding up,” Jessica said, lifting from her knees and going to the van to speak with a more lucid Kim Desinor. Jessica had known Kim now for a number of years, and they had worked a number of cases together, their first in New Orleans, where Kim had grown up Catholic in an orphanage, no one knowing of her gift of psychometry-reading objects for psychic impressions.

  As Jessica approached Kim in the van where she lay on a cot with a waiting attendant, Kim asked, “How're you doing, Jess?”

  Jess thought her friend looked pale and drained, weary and sleepy-eyed. Somehow Kim looked smaller. The word frail filled Jessica's mind.