The Kyra Daniels Cases: The Judge, Revealed

My head is still reeling from uncertainty. Jeffrey’s words ring in my head like a bell.

Jennifer is the Judge. How could I not see it before?

“Where is she?” Jeff asks again.

I think for a moment.

-

O’Halloran and I break down the door of Jennifer’s apartment. It’s modest for such a successful criminal lawyer, filled with law books on shelves, a thin layer of dust covering them. Cute photos of her at a ranch, and with what looks like grandparents at her graduation. Unfortunately, Jennifer is not here, and the only thing that’s here to greet us is a stack of file folders on the coffee table.

“Damn,” O’Halloran laments, “The most notorious serial killer in our precinct’s history, and we let her slip through our fingers.”

“Jennifer is just a copycat, Captain,” I remind her. “If she’s not a liar, then one of her parents was the Judge.”

“A killer is a killer, Kyra.”

I nod solemnly as I pick up the files. It only takes me a minute to realize that these folders were deliberately left here for us. Inside is all the information on the man I can only assume is Jennifer’s father and the original Judge, Claude Lawson.

The name sounds familiar. I remember hearing stories about Claude during the academy. Despite being very successful, he was usually assigned to criminals who were, more or less, guilty. There was no real reason why he resigned his position, but there were always theories, most of which died when he did.

Suddenly, something clicks to me.

“Disillusionment,” I say aloud.

“What?” O’Halloran asks.

“The file says that Jennifer’s father worked a ton of cases. Mostly at defending criminals, and he’s legendary for his success rate. How many cases do you think it would take for him to think that the system was broken?”

“Broken?” O’Halloran asks. “The system isn’t broken.”

I shrug.

“Irrelevant. The night of my accident, Jennifer told me that she found the system flawed, citing human error as the reason. It’s not a giant leap to assume that this was a learned ideology from her father.”

“We can ask her when we catch her.”

“I’ll continue scouring the file and see if anything pops up.”

O’Halloran nods.

-

I pace anxiously at Jennifer’s apartment. Long after everyone else has gone home. Despite any outside influences, I am certain that the key to finding Jennifer resides here, in what used to be her home.

Everyone’s home is always something of a self-portrait. Everything from the wallpaper to the furniture style to the amount of furniture can tell you something about the person living there. I just need to uncover what this apartment says about her.

Since she’s a lawyer, she’s not poor. As a criminal lawyer, she’s not wealthy, either. Nevertheless, most of this furniture looks second-hand or cheap. That tells me that she’s either sensible with her money, or this has some emotional value.

The fridge is stocked evenly with all four food groups. There’s not an ounce of junk in there or any of the cupboards. This leads me to believe that she’s either extremely health-conscious or was raised by a such a person.

Her bed is small, a twin at best and occupies the room that’s usually a guest room in places like this. That tells me she either didn’t like to have company or didn’t have company to keep. A loner attitude is hardly uncommon with serial killers, so this doesn’t surprise me.

Since her home office is the room usually devoted to being the master bedroom, I can conclude that she valued work above all. The walls in here are covered with awards and newspaper clippings honouring her. Surrounded by all the good that she’s done makes what’s on her desk even more heartbreaking.

Clippings of her failures, guilty criminals that were let go. Innocents killed because of those actions.

Because of her.

I’m starting to realize, even minimally, that this woman has not been a killer for very long. I may even venture that Carlisle’s death was truly the impetus for her to start, though I am at a loss to explain exactly why.

In the center of the wall, between her criminology bachelor’s and her accreditation, is a simple picture. Just a young girl in the loving arms of two grandparents at a simple country home. I take this picture from the wall to examine it closely.

Such an innocent picture. Such a young face, so full of joy and happiness. But there’s a hint of sadness behind her eyes. For someone who valued work above everything else, it’s almost cute that a picture of this innocence would be here.

In the grand scheme of things, it’s easy to generalize serial killers as monsters, forgetting that they were once children, too. Jennifer looks like she was more innocent than most. Did she suffer the same disillusionment as her father, or did he hammer that into her mind? Did she have compulsions to kill as a child, or did they manifest during adulthood? Did she follow in her fathers’ footsteps, only to be cast down the same path? And how much did she know previously?

I continue to stare at the picture, these questions swimming in my mind, when suddenly I remember that I’m supposed to be looking for her. If this picture is at the center of her office, then it must mean something to her.

-

“If she hadn’t tried to kill me, I bet we’d made a good couple,” Jeff laments as he stares at the photo.

“Did she mention anything about this ranch?” I ask, hoping for some indication.

Jeff shoots me a quizzical look.

“What?” I ask.

“Did you just come over to check on me?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Even to a newbie, which I am, this photograph is obviously of Jennifer and her grandparents. You tell me that she hasn’t been a killer long, then they may be her emergency contact.”

“Yes, that is obvious.”

“Hence, their address will be in some system. Check her employment records.”

“What makes you think that they would be her emergency contact?”

“She mentioned that she grew up with her grandparents because her parents died.”

“So, this ranch, if it belongs to the grandparents,” I conclude, turning to leave Jeff’s place, “was probably the only place she truly felt home.”

“Probably,” Jeff says. “Give me a moment, and we’ll go check it out.”

I whip back to him.

“You’ve just been through something traumatic,” I scold. “You’re staying put.”

“We started this together,” he says. “Let’s finish it together.”

I smile. He’s already come so far. But rules are rules.

“I cannot allow that,” I reiterate. “You’d be risking your job, not to mention your life.”

“I can’t let you go without backup.”

“I’ll have backup. I’ll get the captain.”

Jeff sighs, but he relents.

“Be careful,” he warns.

-

“I don’t like this,” O’Halloran scowls as we drive along the rural country road.

“If the employment record is accurate, and my hunch is correct,” I retort, “then it’s worth checking out.”

“What if they’re not there? What if that picture was planted there for us? She’s planted everything else that we were meant to see. And gave us all the clues that SHE wanted us to know.”

“I think that indicates that she will be there, then. She used her father’s M.O. and played gamemaster, but I don’t think that’s who she is, or ever intended to be.”

“I hope you’re right.”

-

The ranch is somewhat more dilapidated than the pictures indicated. Years of neglect and decay have left it a festering pile of rotten planks and rusted iron. Whoever lived here has long since abandoned it.

O’Halloran goes into the house, while I decide to go around back.

There’s an old pear tree standing tall in the backyard, a ladder beneath its branches. Fallen pears encircle the ground, some rotten and some fresh. But the fruit is not the only thing that’s here.

Three gravestones stand here as well: Esme Lawson-Briggs, Ester Briggs, and Lawrence Briggs. I kneel down beside them and note that the dirt has fresh footprints.

“They were my mother’s parents,” I hear from behind me.

I spin around and aim my gun. Jennifer is standing there, eating a pear.

No weapon.

No hostage.

Nothing.

Just a pear, staring at the tombstones beneath this tree.

“My grandmother told me that it was planted when my mother found out she was pregnant. Said it was the happiest day of her life.”

“You’re under arrest,” I shout. “You can reminisce in jail.”

Jennifer finishes her pear and extends her hands together. She doesn’t move.

“You’ll come quietly?” I ask.

“I am not my father.” Though I am the only one around, I don’t think that I’m the one that message was meant for.

I take out my cuffs and place them on her.

The Judge has finally been captured.

-

In retrospect, it didn’t take very long to sentence her. All the evidence was obvious: a disillusioned lawyer, daughter of someone who died right around the time of the last murder, Jeff’s testimony, and even Jennifer herself admitting to it. It went so smoothly.

Why?

“That’s why I’ve called this open visit,” I say to Jennifer, as I sit across the table from her.

“You think it was too easy?” she asks, almost condescendingly.

“I don’t believe that many people will care about your motivations, but I’m curious. Successful serial killers only surrender if they want the attention. Everything I know about you… everything I’ve researched about you… even your actions…” I trail off.

Jennifer takes a deep breath.

“Do you know what it was like? Being the daughter of the most notorious serial killer in the precinct?”

I shake my head.

“It definitely is an obstruction of justice.” She begins. “I’ve known since I was young. But you don’t know what it’s like to be unable to put that behind you. Can you imagine how my life would’ve turned out if people knew I was the daughter of the Judge?

“Dad got really bad towards the end, always talking about justice being a lie. Every night, he would go off, except when he killed someone. Eventually, mom found out and… she couldn’t take it. He wasn’t a bad person before, so we buried her beneath the pear tree at her parents’ farm.

“When he died, I thought I could finally put this life behind me. I was always worried that I’d turn out exactly like him, so I tried to become what he wasn’t. I was overcome with a desire to prove him wrong, so I became a lawyer. It was nice, at first.”

I nod.

“And then Allison killed Lois,” I say.

Jennifer nods.

“Mrs. Carlisle was pursuing the Judge, and that stressed dad out, making life worse. I always wanted revenge, but I didn’t do anything. When Allison killed her, I tried to resist, but I devolved very quickly. I took up my father’s name, and you know the rest.”

“You wanted me to stop you. The game master role was just a twisted cry for help.”

“Look,” she says, “I’m not a good person. I could’ve chosen not to kill Allison. I could’ve made better decisions. I will serve my time, and one day, when I’m old and gray, I’ll be ready to come back.”

“Why me, though?” I ask. “Why target Jeff and me?”

“You were her protégé,” Jennifer shrugs. “It seemed that you would be the best suited to catch me, since she pursued him so relentlessly.”

I sigh. It’s somewhat underwhelming. I withdraw the photo of young Jennifer from my pocket and hand it to her.

“You were good once,” I say. “You can be again.”

I can see the tears in her eyes as she stares at the photo.

The Judge is in prison.

Case closed.