Chapter 2 Confession #1
Elena
Elliot moved out of the way.
Beyond him, the courtroom looked untouched by the years that had battered the rest of the courthouse. For a moment, I just stood there, taking it in.
Most of the old furniture had been cleared out long ago, I remembered, the removal announced in auction postings I'd seen years before. The benches, the railings, even the judge’s chair, sold off, dismantled, or put away.
But someone had brought it all back.
Polished benches now ran the length of the gallery. The witness stand stood ready beside the judge’s bench. The jury box was arranged with twelve perfectly aligned, straight-backed chairs. Even the faded state flag had returned to its usual spot by the wall.
Dust rimmed the edges of the room, but not the furniture. Every restored piece was spotless. The floor gleamed under the lights. Dark velvet curtains had been hung behind the bench once more.
It was as if someone had painstakingly recreated the courtroom from memory or photographs. Not almost. Exactly.
This wasn’t reopening. It was staging.
Daniel Reyes stood near the jury box, notebook open, tie loosened, rain soaking the shoulders of his charcoal coat. He was murmuring to another technician, but as soon as I entered, his attention shifted to me.
A flash of relief crossed his face before he masked it.
Daniel had partnered with me for three years. Where I was relentless, he was steady. Where I pushed, he negotiated. His calmness unsettled suspects and reassured victims.
Almost nothing rattled him. Tonight, though, a muscle twitched steadily in his jaw.
“You made it,” he said.
“So I’m told.”
His gaze cut toward the judge’s bench. “Don’t let the spectacle distract you.”
“From what?”
“How much control it took to pull this off.”
Detective Owen Vance answered before Daniel could.
“Or how much madness.”
Owen stood by the counsel tables, arms crossed, raincoat tossed over a chair as if he already owned the place.
He was forty, solidly built, with carefully cut blond hair and a trustworthy face—until he spoke. Confidence fit him like a uniform; so did resentment.
His eyes swept over me. “Cross.”
“Vance.”
“Pike call you personally?”
He made it sound casual.
It wasn’t.
“Dispatch did.”
“Interesting. They called me first.”
“You were closer.”
“I was available.”
“So was I.”
His mouth tightened.
Daniel handed me a set of scene photos taken before the techs had started. “Owen’s been arguing that being nearest to the courthouse is the same as having jurisdiction.”
Owen ignored the comment. “I was first homicide on scene,” he said. “Preliminary assessment’s already underway.”
“And I appreciate that.”
He squinted... unsure if I was mocking him.
I wasn’t. Not entirely.
“Walk me through it,” I said.
He nodded toward the bench. “Victim is Judge Everett Kline, sixty-two. Wallet ID and visual confirmation from officers who knew him. Security guard found the body at twelve-eleven. No sign of forced entry. No weapon. No evidence of robbery.”
“What points to murder?”
Owen’s face went blank. “You’ll see.”
I moved farther into the room.
The judge sat behind the bench. Everett Kline wore a black robe, buttoned over a white shirt and dark tie. His silver hair was combed back. Chin tilted slightly forward, he looked as if he’d dozed off while reading.
But sleeping men don’t hold that still. And their hands aren’t stained dark red.
Kline’s palms rested flat on the bench, beside a wooden gavel. The stains covered every crease, stopping sharply at his wrists. Under the lights, the color looked nearly black.
Blood, I thought. But the application was too even. Too purposeful.
His eyes were open. They stared past the gallery, unfocused.
I stopped just short of the bench, careful not to cross into the evidence zone marked by Elliot.
No blood pooled around him. No visible gunshot wound. No obvious trauma to his head or neck.
His robe lay smooth, except for a minor crease at one shoulder. His chair was perfectly centered.
A typed document sat on the bench before him.
At its top, in bold black print, was a single word: CONFESSION
Several paragraphs followed.
I leaned in, careful not to touch the page.
I accepted gifts for favorable rulings.
The next line was darker, pressed harder on the keys.
I dismissed charges when evidence was inconvenient.
Another.
I allowed violent men to return to women who pleaded for protection.
At the bottom, where a signature would go, someone had pressed Kline’s thumb into blood, leaving a single red print.
My stomach knotted.
“He didn’t write that,” Owen said behind me.
I didn’t turn. “It’s typed.”
“You know what I mean. The killer wrote it, forced his print onto the paper.”
“Maybe.”
“There’s no maybe.”
“There’s always a maybe until the evidence rules it out.”
Owen blew out a sharp breath.
Daniel moved to my left.
“What’s bothering you?” I asked him.
“Besides the corpse?”
“Start there.”
He looked over the scene. “The robe.”
I had noticed it too. “It fits.”
“Kline wasn’t wearing it when he left the courthouse yesterday,” Daniel said. “Security footage from the new building shows him leaving in a suit around six twenty.”
“So the killer dressed him.”
“Or made him dress himself.”
I studied Kline’s hands again. “No defensive wounds visible.”
“Could’ve been drugged,” Owen said. “Could’ve been restrained elsewhere.”
“Any fibers on the wrists?”
“None I could see.”
Elliot spoke from behind us. “Which is why you allow the people with lights and magnification to look before announcing there are none.”
Owen’s jaw hardened. Elliot did not notice or did not care.
I focused on the bench. The gavel had been positioned parallel to Kline’s right hand. It looked newer than the surrounding wood, its handle smooth and glossy.
“Was that his?” I asked.
Daniel checked his notes. “The security guard thinks so. Said Kline used the same gavel when he presided here.”
“Why would a private security guard know that?”
“He’s retired court staff. Worked maintenance in this building for twenty-seven years.”
“Convenient,” Owen muttered.
I looked toward him. “Everything is convenient until we investigate it.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“It means we interview him before deciding whether he’s our killer.”
Owen stepped closer. “I’ve already requested his background.”
“Good.”
The word clearly irritated him more than an argument would have.
I turned back to Daniel. “How did Kline get here?”
“His car is in the rear lot. Driver’s door locked. Keys in his right robe pocket.”
“Phone?”
“Missing.”
“Wallet untouched?”
“In the left pocket. Cash, cards, identification.”
“Any traffic cameras nearby?”
“Patrol is pulling them.”
“Family notified?”
“Not yet. We wanted Pike here first.”
I glanced around the courtroom. “Why?”
Daniel’s gaze flicked briefly toward Owen.
Owen answered. “Because the dead man is a sitting judge, Cross. We don’t notify his wife at one in the morning without command knowing how it’s being handled.”
