The Foundling
Chapter Seven
Hotchner turned as they entered the elevator, jaw even firmer than was his custom, a hint of scowl that he kept from spreading too far. "Where is our warrant?" He asked as the doors closed.
"There was some kind of procedural error," Constable Martin said. "The judge has asked our Captain to attend to the matter in the courthouse today."
"At what time?"
"3 pm."
"Do you think he would mind if I joined?"
"I'm sure that he would be delighted to have your support."
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO
Reid used a thumb to fan out the mail that Quinn publishing had provided them. He had read each of the pieces several times, but nothing had caught his attention. So, he and Morgan had asked Garcia to dig further, to scour official and unofficial fan sites in order to cast a wider net.
"As requested, I have used my amazing deductive skills to reduce a rather arduous list of potential baddies," Garcia said. "And based on your suggestions, I have excluded anyone who did not live in Washington State or near enough to drive here. That has left me with twenty-seven possible suspects."
"That many?"
"Miss Davies has a large following and psychological drama tends to draw out the less balanced amongst us," Garcia explained. "If you gave me additional criteria, I could reduce further."
Morgan drummed her fingers against the desk. "Typically, copycat unsubs are male and younger, less experienced."
"But this man was meticulous and well planned," Reid said. "He knew exactly what hotel within the geographic region was less secure, what area of The Bush School he could enter without triggering alarms, and how to take proper forensic countermeasures."
"I say thirty to fifty-five," Morgan said. "Anyone older and they'd have difficulty moving the bodies, even if they were physically fit."
"Did you get that Garcia?" Reid asked.
"Male and middle-aged," Garcia said. "That reduces our numbers to fourteen."
"I'm going to assume that he was white," Morgan said. "In this area of Seattle, any other racial group would have stood out."
"Five potentials."
"Pull them up."
The screen behind sprung to life with a list of names: Robert Summers, Andrew Johnston, Montgomery O'Leary, Nicholas Strong, and Matthew Sutherland. The photographs followed, allowing them to quickly exclude Nicholas on the basis of his prominent neck tattoo.
"Did any of the suspects attend the Bush School?" Reid asked.
"Negative," Garcia said.
"Do any of them have a previous criminal record?" Morgan suggested. "I find it hard to believe that our suspect could emerge this criminally sophisticated without any previous criminal activity."
"Nothing sir. Not even a parking violation between them," Garcia said, but then her brow furrowed.
"Garcia?"
"One of them might have another reason for being criminally sophisticated," Garcia said. "Mongtomery O'Leary is a police officer."
"With what precinct?"
"This one."
"That would place him within the geographic zone," Reid said.
"I will call Hotchner," Morgan said.
"What else do we know about him?"
"Constable O'Leary, thirty-three years old, he's been a police officer since the age of twenty-two. He is married, with a three-year-old daughter and newborn infant son."
"Has he ever been reprimanded?"
"No, nothing of the sort. According to his evaluation reports, O'Leary is a model police officer."
"And what division does he work in?"
"Homicide."
That raised everyone's eyebrows
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Once the rest of the team arrived, Reid and Morgan updated them on O'Leary. From there they debated the likelihood of O'Leary being their unsub, but Reid had moved on to another topic. He had asked Garcia to print whatever they could on Samantha Davis' medical files. He had hoped for some psychiatric notes, but her psychiatrist was obviously old school and had not digitized his record keeping. He was limited to her insurance claims and records from her treatment stays.
The list of drugs of abuse was substantial, at least in the initial screenings. Everything from cocaine, to ketamine, heroine and MDMA. There was a definite preference for hallucinogenic or party drugs, and heroin was the only opioid she had taken with any regularity. There was a lot of regular use of heroin though. It was the drug she had begun with, but it was also the drug she quit first. The drug screenings were an interesting testament to her recovery, the list shortening with every subsequent readmission. GHB was the only drug mentioned in the last three admissions and based on her records, the most difficult one for her to cease using.
The recreational drugs had been replaced by pharmacological interventions. The insurance claims listing her diagnoses within the justification for expense. There were no cursory light diagnoses like anxiety or depression. The initial psychiatrist had jumped right to Borderline Personality Disorder, a claim that was clawed back three years later, scrubbed from her file in favour of Complex PTSD. The medications changed alongside from anti-depressants to mood stabilizers. She was currently taking a combination of risperidone and fluoxetine, the first giving him a moment's pause. It was an anti-psychotic often used in the treatment of schizophrenia. When given to patients with C-PTSD it could be an indicator of brief psychotic breaks.
"I would like to try speaking with Samantha Davis again," Reid said aloud, disturbing the rest of the conversation.
"What, now?" Emily blurted in astonishment. "You don't typically lead in questioning suspects."
"But I have a commonality that no one else can boast of," Reid said. "I am a genuine fan of her writing and that gives us a ready topic for discussion."
"I think it's a great idea," Rossi said.
"I'd like to go alone. And not to her apartment. I think that anyone being there makes her uncomfortable. A neutral location would be a best choice. Do we know where she goes to ride her bike?"
"Officer Wong, the man assigned to surveillance, has been forwarding us photographs since yesterday," Hotchner said. "Samantha Davis has yet to meet anyone. She just rides her bike along the waterfront, sits in the benches there for a time to write, and then goes home."
"Can I see the photographs?" Reid asked.
Garcia was called, the computer sprang to life and several photographs lined the screen, enough that she could pinpoint the location on a map of the waterfront.
"Garcia," Hotchner called from behind her. "Can you enlarge the photograph on the left."
As she did, Reid realized what Hotch had noticed.
"That's not the phone she used in the apartment yesterday," Reid said.
"No, that was an iphone," Hotch confirmed. "Can you enlarge it further?"
The pixels expanded with each swipe of the screen, but even in the grey of a distorted imagine, it was clear that Samantha was holding a flip phone. The communication tool of choice for nefarious dealings.
"Please check her phone records. Is there is a record of a call at that time?"
"Nada!" Garcia confirmed.
"Any other phones listed under her name?"
"Nada!"
"How about the ex-boyfriend, David Adams?"
"No phone listed under his name."
"And now we have a burner phone at play," Hotch said. "I want to believe she's innocent. I have gotten that impression each time I've talked to her, despite how little she is willing to share with us, but then something else pops up to make her a suspect again." The team could have debated this further, but the arrival of Officer O'Leary was announced. Hotch asked Rossi and Emily to take the lead with the police officer as his phone chimed, reminding him that 3pm was drawing nearer. They scattered to their various assignments.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
Most police officers tended to the larger side, but Constable O'Leary was taller than this average, easily surpassing 6 feet with several more inches to spare. He was polite as well. Where other potential suspects might be prickly and accusatory, O'Leary took his seat with grace and listened to them carefully.
"Your name has come up during a database search related to our case," Emily said.
The officer seemed genuinely surprised, but this did not trigger a defensiveness. He sat back and asked in what context he had appeared.
"Your name was passed from the publishing company as a fan of Sam Thompson."
"I am a fan of his writing. That is no great secret."
"You are an intelligent man and you are familiar with how questioning typically proceeds. I will not insult your intelligence by dancing about the truth. I will give you it to you straight," Rossi explained.
"I would appreciate that."
"You speak of being a fan," Rossi said. "I am a fan of a great many things, cigars, a good bottle of wine, a fine movie. I don't write seventeen letters in a span of six months to their authors."
"It was that many? Yes, I suppose it must have been. And I suppose it seems a bit excessive, but I had started writing a bit on my own and hoped that I might glean some knowledge from the man."
He did not flinch over the proclamation of man.
"I suppose it was a bit silly. The man is a recluse, after all, but I confess that I can get quite obsessed with new interests. My wife is always teasing me about it. I may have written twice as many letters to the writers of The Sorpranos."
"You must see how it looks. Not only do you work in the geographic area where the crimes took place, but you have a fanatical interest in the novels on which they are based and, as a police officer, would know exactly what actions to take to impede the investigation."
"You think I am the murderer?" O'Leary asked. "That is absurd."
"Where were you this last weekend?"
"This last weekend?" the man said, eyes clouding over in thought.
"Come on man, it was three days ago," Emily said. "Are you telling me you honesty can't remember?"
"My brain is a bit scrambled at the moment, infant and all," O'Leary claimed. "I was on duty in the evening on Saturday."
"And can anyone collaborate this?"
"Yes, my partner, Constable Ito."
"And the morning?" Rossi asked.
"In the morning I did my daily run and then hung around home."
"With your wife?"
"No, she had taken the kids to visit her parents for the day. I was going to go too, but it would have been too tight for me to get back in time for my shift. Her parents live in Portland."
"I see. And on Sunday?"
"I was at work the entire day. I went to Yakima to interview a witness in one of our recent drug trafficking murders. Except he wasn't there. No one was. So I ended up coming back into Seattle. Ito was able to interview him yesterday."
"Was Ito with you on Sunday?"
"No, he called in sick."
"I'm guessing that no one saw you in Yakima?"
"Like I said, the house was empty."
"And you didn't fill up with gas?"
"No," the officer replied, dragging a hand through his hair. "You cannot seriously believe that I committed all those murders. I've been a police officer for over ten years!"
"You'd be surprised how many police officers are involved in violent crime."
"Not this one."
Rossi still kept the man at the station for another thirty minutes, even though he'd decided that the man was likely innocent within the first ten. It wasn't his constant assertations of innocence, he'd seen many a guilty man protest with as much passion. He did not have the affluence they had profiled. He was well-spoken but also firmly middle class.