forward. “There seems to be no escape path except for the one Brett left. The killer would have had to have James Case all over him, just as Brett did. But we’ve got no trail of blood but hers—nothing else, and no one else. And who else are you going to offer me? Some bum, looking to lift the wallet of a college kid? That’s not credible.” Jackson’s voice rose. “This was personal, Caroline. The killer butchered this kid like an animal, with a very sharp knife. Name a case you know where someone did that to a stranger.” Caroline looked at him steadily. “Charles Manson, for one. And you’ve got no reason at all for Brett to kill him. Let alone like that.” Jackson paused, a tacit concession, then parried: “And you’ve got no one else.”
“You’re forgetting James’s supplier.” Jackson raised an eyebrow. “I may not be up on my THC, but I do know there’s nothing in this for a petty dealer.” He appeared to debate whether to say more. “We searched James’s apartment, Caroline. There was no sign of a breakin, let alone torn-up sheets. What Brett told us about someone tearing up his room never happened.” Caroline felt shaken again. “Maybe he lied to her. About the dealer …” Jackson’s half smile was melancholy. “So who does that leave us? Just a girl who may have been sufficiently drug-addled when she killed him for you to argue this down to murder two.”
Caroline studied him. Softly, she asked, “You haven’t tied her to the knife, have you?” A moment’s silence. No.”
“What kind of knife is it?”
“A fishing knife—a Cahill. Quite a fine one.” Pausing, Jackson examined her for a time. “As you say, Caroline, you’ve no rights here. But perhaps you’d like to see it.”
“I would, yes.” Reaching into a second drawer, Jackson withdrew a knife in a glassine bag and placed it on the desk. The knife was finely crafted. Bone handle, long blade, serrated edge. A knife for a fisherman who cared about such things. The blade was encrusted with blood. Caroline’s stomach felt empty. It was a time before she felt Jackson’s scrutiny, wondered how long she had gazed at the knife. Turning over the bag, she saw the serial numbers on the blade, just as she expected. The blood obscured them. Caroline had to squint; her reading glasses were in the briefcase. But she did not wish Jackson to know what she was doing. Since childhood, it had been her gift to memorize numbers. Slowly, she passed the bag to Jackson. “A fine one. Just as you said.” He placed the knife on the desk between them, looking into her face. “Is that all?” he asked. “Or is there something else you want to cover?”
“Not now.” She hesitated. “Thank you.” Caroline stood. Somehow she felt distant, a bit light-headed. Jackson rose from behind the desk, hands on hips. “Did I understand that you may not handle this?” It brought her back a little. She looked at him directly. “If there’s no prosecution, it shouldn’t really matter.” He did not answer but simply gazed at her, his eyes intent and curious. “I hear you’re going to be a federal judge.”
“So it seems.”
For another moment, he seemed to appraise her. “Well,” he said at length, “I’m sorry about this. For Brett, and for everyone involved.” He held out his hand. Caroline took it, clasped it quickly. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll let myself out.” She turned and left him there. She hardly remembered her walk to the car, did not look up at the capitol, or anywhere except in front of her. Getting to the car, she sat there awhile. Her briefcase was on the seat beside her. She reached inside, found a pen and a piece of paper, and wrote down the serial numbers from the blade of the Cahill knife.
CHAPTER SIX
When Caroline returned, she saw no one. It was as she wished. But when she climbed the stairs to the room where her things were, hoping to be alone, there was a message taped to her door. She stared at
“You’re forgetting James’s supplier.” Jackson raised an eyebrow. “I may not be up on my THC, but I do know there’s nothing in this for a petty dealer.” He appeared to debate whether to say more. “We searched James’s apartment, Caroline. There was no sign of a breakin, let alone torn-up sheets. What Brett told us about someone tearing up his room never happened.” Caroline felt shaken again. “Maybe he lied to her. About the dealer …” Jackson’s half smile was melancholy. “So who does that leave us? Just a girl who may have been sufficiently drug-addled when she killed him for you to argue this down to murder two.”
Caroline studied him. Softly, she asked, “You haven’t tied her to the knife, have you?” A moment’s silence. No.”
“What kind of knife is it?”
“A fishing knife—a Cahill. Quite a fine one.” Pausing, Jackson examined her for a time. “As you say, Caroline, you’ve no rights here. But perhaps you’d like to see it.”
“I would, yes.” Reaching into a second drawer, Jackson withdrew a knife in a glassine bag and placed it on the desk. The knife was finely crafted. Bone handle, long blade, serrated edge. A knife for a fisherman who cared about such things. The blade was encrusted with blood. Caroline’s stomach felt empty. It was a time before she felt Jackson’s scrutiny, wondered how long she had gazed at the knife. Turning over the bag, she saw the serial numbers on the blade, just as she expected. The blood obscured them. Caroline had to squint; her reading glasses were in the briefcase. But she did not wish Jackson to know what she was doing. Since childhood, it had been her gift to memorize numbers. Slowly, she passed the bag to Jackson. “A fine one. Just as you said.” He placed the knife on the desk between them, looking into her face. “Is that all?” he asked. “Or is there something else you want to cover?”
“Not now.” She hesitated. “Thank you.” Caroline stood. Somehow she felt distant, a bit light-headed. Jackson rose from behind the desk, hands on hips. “Did I understand that you may not handle this?” It brought her back a little. She looked at him directly. “If there’s no prosecution, it shouldn’t really matter.” He did not answer but simply gazed at her, his eyes intent and curious. “I hear you’re going to be a federal judge.”
“So it seems.”
For another moment, he seemed to appraise her. “Well,” he said at length, “I’m sorry about this. For Brett, and for everyone involved.” He held out his hand. Caroline took it, clasped it quickly. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll let myself out.” She turned and left him there. She hardly remembered her walk to the car, did not look up at the capitol, or anywhere except in front of her. Getting to the car, she sat there awhile. Her briefcase was on the seat beside her. She reached inside, found a pen and a piece of paper, and wrote down the serial numbers from the blade of the Cahill knife.
CHAPTER SIX
When Caroline returned, she saw no one. It was as she wished. But when she climbed the stairs to the room where her things were, hoping to be alone, there was a message taped to her door. She stared at
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