Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission

drive. Allred parked his car and casually walked to the entrance of Dillard’s department store, carefully perusing the lot to see if the guy in the Taurus had brought a friend or was flying solo. He wasn’t sure.
    Burnham and Turner pulled alongside one another about a block from the mall. “Do you think he made us?” asked Turner.
    “Hard to say. He sure didn’t take the most direct route into the mall, that’s for sure. He may have been suspicious and was trying to check it out. Since you’re feeling like he might have burned you, I’ll establish a visual on his car and take the lead for a while. I’ll radio you as soon as he moves,” said Burnham.
    It took Allred a moment in the department store to calm down and to begin thinking rationally. For a moment on the street, he found himself having to choke down a sense of panic. He spent a few minutes in the men’s clothing section, then walked a short distance to the food court, ordered a salad, a slice of pizza, and a soft drink. He took his lunch tray and carried it to a location that provided a clear view of anyone entering or leaving the food court. Nobody looked suspicious or paid him the slightest bit of attention. Maybe he wasn’t being followed. Maybe it was just a figment of his imagination. Maybe.
    After he finished his lunch, Allred walked to a bank of public telephones by the food court restrooms. He dialed the number. The call was answered after the first ring.

Chapter Forty-two
    The search warrant was signed by a cranky district court judge named Homer Billings. Unable to find a judge in the Salt Lake County Court complex so late in the evening, Stoddard and Webb checked the on-call roster and found Judge Billings’ name. When they arrived at his home, they found him curled up in his bathrobe, slippers, and pajamas watching some mindless reality show in his home theater.
    We met in a strip mall parking lot several blocks from Stimson’s home. Kate had been sitting on the house since mid-afternoon and felt sure it was unoccupied. As a precaution, Kate and I covered the back of the house while Gill, Webb, and Vince Turner went to the front. They knocked on the front door but got no answer. Turner entered through a side door after breaking a glass panel and unlocking the door from the inside.
    Stimson lived in a quiet residential neighborhood where the homes looked twenty to twenty-five years old. The house was a small two-level affair, with the main floor at ground level and a below-ground finished basement of equal size. A detached two-car garage was connected to the house by a covered walkway that led to a side door.
    The interior was as neat as a pin. Everything in its place. The family room downstairs gave me the creeps. I had the eerie sense that I’d walked into a taxidermy shop. Stimson was obviously a hunter. The heads of four big-game animals were mounted on the walls. A locked gun cabinet containing several hunting rifles stood against one wall. Stimson’s leisure reading appeared to be hunting and outdoor magazines. Copies of publications like Field & Stream and Guns & Ammo were neatly stacked on a coffee table.
    Stimson appeared to be an outdoors type, into hunting and camping, comfortable with guns. Framed membership certificates to the John Birch Society and the National Rifle Association were mounted on a wall above a desk and home computer. As a card-carrying member of the John Birch Society, she probably embraced political views well to the right of center. The truth was, that could describe a lot of cops. What I found odd about the home was the complete absence of pictures of anybody—friends, family, pets. There wasn’t a single photograph of anyone or anything in the entire house. The place felt sterile and empty.
    The search went smoothly. We found her uniform pants and shirt in a black plastic trash bag in the garbage can next to the house. The uniform had been recently worn and appeared to be in good condition. We also seized two pair of department-issued shoes, her computer, and the tape from her telephone answering machine. We hoped that blood, hair, or other trace evidence from Sorensen’s body had transferred to Stimson’s uniform.
    Gill transported the evidence to the State Crime Laboratory. Both a hair-and-fiber expert and a blood/DNA specialist were standing by. They’d promised a quick response.
    Stimson had been a no-show the entire afternoon. Webb decided to establish round-the-clock surveillance of