Page 8 of The Guilty Trial

“It’s fine. Obviously, he’s finding his voice, but it’s not bad, although he seemed to have an unnatural obsession with adverbs and semicolons. Too bad he never had a chance to finish it.”

“Yeah, I talked to Sterling’s wife yesterday, and she said he felt like he was finally close to being done.”

“How’d she seem?”

“Devastated.” Jason shook his head. “She said Thomas had been working long hours, stressed about a couple of cases. But she insisted they had a good marriage. No fights, no secrets. She seemed genuine.”

“You believe her?”

Jason nodded. “I do. I came back here and checked his financials. I also talked to a few colleagues on the phone. They didn’t note any red flags. No secret second life, no spurned lover, no severe personal debt, as far as I can tell. Sterling was clean. Boring, even. He went to work, came home, spent weekends with his wife. The most exciting thing in his life was that book.” He gestured at the binder.

“What about the cabin?”

“She said he’d been working on that novel for years and decided to take a few days away and make some real progress on it. He rented the place online, packed up his typewriter, and headed out Wednesday afternoon. She started getting worried when he didn’t call Friday night. Figured he was just deep into the work and lost track of time, but when he still hadn’t called Saturday morning, she knew something was wrong.”

Allie glanced down at the unfinished book on her desk. Sterling had gone to that cabin to create something, to build a story, but instead, someone had ended his.

She pulled the forensic report toward her and flipped to the section on the branding. “Looks like the mark was made by an industrial electric branding iron.”

“Like for cattle?”

“Not exactly. These are used to permanently mark heavy wooden crates, shipping pallets, leather items. Mainly industrial applications. They run on electricity, heat up fast, and can hold a consistent temperature.” She shuddered. “When you apply something like that to a body, the iron vaporizes the upper layers of skin and sears the muscle underneath. It’s quick and leaves a permanent mark.”

“Can we trace it?”

Allie shook her head. “Not likely. You can buy them online through industrial suppliers and hardware stores. Most places don’t even require an account, so there’s no registration or serial numbers.”

“Yeah, that would be too easy,” Jason scoffed.

“Can’t have that, can we?”

Jason frowned. His gaze dropped to the photos clipped to the report. He focused on the image of Sterling’s chest, the bold number 14 burned deep into the flesh, surrounded by that perfectly circular border. “Fourteen. Any guesses as to what it means?”

“I don’t know.” Allie stared at the photo, willing it to make sense. “Maybe it’s a code or a reference to something in his life.”

“Personal to Sterling?”

“Maybe. Or personal to the killer.” Allie tapped her pen against the desk, thinking. “Could be a date, like an anniversary or something significant. Or it could be completely arbitrary. A number the killer chose for reasons we can’t see yet.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the question settling between them. Finally, Jason spoke. “A high-ranking federal prosecutor is dead. There’s a good chance his murder is tied to a present or past case. If the motive wasn’t personal, it could be professional.”

Allie nodded slowly. “You think someone he prosecuted came after him?”

“Or someone connected to a case, like a defendant, a witness, or a family member seeking revenge.” Jason stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Sterling put people away for a living. White-collar criminals, organized crime, corruption cases. Some of those people have long memories and deep grudges.”

“And the resources to act on them.”

“Exactly. And forty years of prosecutions is a lot of enemies to sort through.” Jason reached up and adjusted his tie. “It might be good to start by speaking to his co-workers. See if anyone remembers threats, grudges, anything that stands out. Maybe someone at the U.S. Attorney’s office knows something they don’t realize is important.”

Allie closed the binder and pushed back from her desk. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Five

Union Station Federal Courthouse

Tacoma, Washington

Union Station rose against the skyline like something out of another era, a Beaux-Arts masterpiece with a massive copper dome oxidized to a soft green patina. The building’s reflection rippled brightly across the Thea Foss Waterway just beyond as downtown Tacoma hummed around them.