Nina looked at Breck’s flashing cursor. A surge of adrenaline kicked in. She glanced over her shoulder at Wade, who hovered directly behind her. “His birthday”—she pointed at the computer—“is February twenty-ninth.”
“Bingo,” Wade said.
They were making real progress. “What’s Creed’s name now?” Nina asked.
Breck scrolled down the screen, then froze, sucking in a breath.
“What?” Nina and Wade said at the same time.
Breck’s eyes drifted up to focus on Nina. “Clay Forge,” she breathed.
Chapter 40
Clay Forge hung up the phone on his desk. Time to execute his emergency plan. He opened his desk drawer and pawed through its contents in a rushed search for his standby fake ID. A letter opener jabbed his finger.
Cursing, he withdrew his hand and watched a fat red droplet blossom. He sucked his fingertip, the scent and taste of blood bringing back a long-buried memory. It was his sixteenth birthday, and the little shithead squirming beneath him on the wet tile floor needed a lesson.
In his mind’s eye, he could see the boy pinned under him as he pulled back his fist to deliver another bare-knuckled blow. The little wuss’s screams brought Mr. Cahill to the boys’ bathroom, the door banging against the wall as he burst inside.
“What the hell are you doing?” Mr. Cahill’s face was as pink as a pig’s butt.
The stupid kid was bawling his fool head off.
“I was defending myself,” he said, delivering the story he’d prepared in advance. “He attacked me.”
Mr. Cahill looked at the other kid. “Is that true?”
The boy stopped his crying but refused to answer.
He swiveled his head away from Mr. Cahill to stare directly into the boy’s terrified eyes, barely moving his lips as he silently mouthed the word yes.
“Well?” Mr. Cahill said.
“Uh . . . yes,” the little shithead finally said.
Mr. Cahill separated them and sent the other kid to the medical unit. Then those weird pale eyes of his narrowed. “Come with me.”
He knew Mr. Cahill wasn’t inviting him to a surprise birthday party. No one ever remembered his birthday around here anyway. Fine with him. Had Mr. Cahill bought his claim of self-defense? What would happen if he didn’t? Probably no television privileges for a week. If he’d broken the little weasel’s nose, maybe a month.
Mr. Cahill escorted him into the office and closed the door.
When he turned, he saw Dr. Novak, the facility’s resident shrink, already seated in the corner. If nutty Novak was there, that meant Cahill must have been looking for him when he heard the ruckus in the bathroom. Something was up.
He slouched into a chair, crossed his arms, and gave both men his best “fuck you” glare.
Cahill sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “I should put you in segregation again, but under the circumstances, I’m going to overlook what just happened.”
He straightened. “What circumstances?”
Novak took over. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m going to give it to you straight.”
“Well?” He hated the hesitation. Any hesitation was a sign of indecision. Of weakness.
“Your mother and father both died this morning,” Novak said quietly.
The statement took a moment to penetrate. “Was there a car crash or something?”
“Word is going to get out,” Novak said. “I’m sure you’ll hear about it.”
More waffling. He clenched his teeth. “Hear what?”
Novak finally met his gaze. “I’m afraid your mother killed your father before taking her own life.”
He sat, momentarily stunned, processing the information. Novak moved toward him, extending a hand as if to grasp his shoulder.
“Don’t fucking touch me.”
Novak’s hand shot back as if he had been burned.
He focused on the shrink, who had obviously been chosen to give him whatever information he was going to get. “How did the bitch do it?”
“Your mother,” Novak corrected.
“The. Bitch.” He enunciated each word, making his point clear.
Novak continued as if he hadn’t heard. “Your mother used a revolver your father had apparently purchased a long time ago.”
He remembered the gun. His father had kept it in the nightstand.
He reached for an explanation. “Did she shoot him by accident and then off herself out of guilt?”
“Uh, no.” Novak looked away again. “She left a note explaining why she did it.”
And then he knew why. “I can guess what the note said.”
Novak seemed surprised. “Can you?”
“Today is February twenty-ninth,” he said. “That’s what finally pushed the bitch over the edge.”
“I don’t understand,” Novak said.
“Then you’re either a piss-poor headshrinker or you don’t bother to read anyone’s files,” he said. “February twenty-ninth is the day my sister died exactly four years ago.”
The two men exchanged meaningful looks.
Novak cleared his throat. “I can see how that would upset your mother, she—”
“The bitch’s note would have blamed me for all of this. Blamed me for what she did.”
“Well, you do bear some responsibility,” Novak said, adopting a soothing tone. “You need to accept responsibility for your actions. It’s part of the process of—”
“My actions?” He shot to his feet. “My actions were an accident.”
“That’s not what the court ruled,” Novak said, standing to face him.
“Which is why I’m here. No one believes me.”
Cahill interrupted, his face going from pink to red as he got to his feet. “You held the pillow down on an innocent baby for more than ten minutes. That’s no accident.”
He wouldn’t put up with their judgmental bullshit. “I was twelve years old!”
“Old enough to know what you were doing,” Cahill shot back. “Like just now when you were in the bathroom, beating the crap out of that boy. You were making an example out of him.”
He almost smiled. At least someone had gotten the message.
“This is the whole problem,” Novak said. “You have never taken responsibility for what you did. If you would simply own up to it, then—”
“Then what? You all would let me walk out of here?” He threw up his hands. “You want a confession? Fine. I killed my baby sister the day after she was born.”
The words—so long held in check—spilled from him in a heated rush. “The first chance I had ten minutes alone with her, I held that little pillow down until she stopped squirming. Then I waited a few more minutes just to be sure she was good and fucking dead.” He got close enough to smell the stale coffee on Novak’s breath. “There. That make you happy?”
“No.” The blood drained from Novak’s face. “No, it does not.”
Stinging from his fingertip brought Forge back to the present. He wiped the letter opener clean before dropping it back into the desk drawer. That had been the first and only time he had ever copped to anything. A mistake he would never make again.
His words to Novak and Cahill that day had served a purpose, however. From then on, they steered clear of him. All the other kids at the center were afraid of him too. They were a herd of sheep, huddling in a flock, seeking protection against the wolf among them.
Thanks to the bitch’s suicide note, even his so-called extended family feared him. All his relatives had made it clear he’d better not come around when he was released two years later.
The rest of the staff hadn’t heard what he’d told Cahill and Novak, and he used his new status as an orphan to his advantage, playing on their sympathies. Sometimes he would even squeeze out a tear when he wanted extra privileges. That facility had been his training ground, and he had learned everything he needed to know.
That was the day he had begun to make plans for after his rel
ease. Plans that he now understood had veered off course by a twist of fate.
His free hand closed on the wallet with the fake ID. He pulled it out of the drawer and got to his feet, stuffing it into his back pocket. The bloodhounds had caught his scent. They were scratching at his door, but he was still one step ahead of them.
He picked up the desk phone and punched the button connecting him to the brainless receptionist in the lobby. “Emma,” he said to her after she finally picked up, “hold my calls. I’ll be going out of town for the next week or two.”
“Will Ms. Garner be handling your—”
“Yes, refer everyone to her in my absence.”
He grabbed a tissue to stanch the still-flowing trickle of blood, then got out the bottle and rag from his kit and carefully wiped down every surface. Satisfied, he grabbed his briefcase and headed out the office door, probably for the last time.
He had no idea how the Feds had zeroed in on him, but he was glad he’d moved into the hotel under another name several days ago. He’d have to add more layers to his disguise. He still had advantages they had no idea about, and he would use them all.
Phase two: throw the FBI off their game.
Chapter 41
Dread stole over Nina. “Did you say Daniel Creed changed his name to Clay Forge?”
Breck, apparently stunned into silence, simply nodded.
Nina glanced at the others in the room as the enormity of her blunder sank in. What had she just done?
Buxton spoke up before she could muster an apology. “You made the call, Agent Guerrera, but it was my decision. Any blame rests with me.”
“I’m the one who pushed it, sir.”
“We all wanted to advance the investigation,” Kent said. “Look, if the military has taught me anything, it’s not to waste time figuring out how the war started when you’re in the middle of a battle. You fight your way out and analyze later.”
“He’s right,” Wade said. “The reality is that Forge knows somebody called his place of business asking for Daniel Creed, his original name. At this point, it’s safe to assume he murdered Thomas Kirk, which means he knows we figured out the connection between them.”
“Based on the phone call, he probably believes we still haven’t uncovered his current identity,” Kent said. “But he has to suspect we’ll figure out his name change soon.”
“Then he knows he’s on borrowed time,” Nina said. “What’s his reaction going to be?”
“Someone with his personality would want to be in control, and he’s sensing the net closing around him,” Wade said. “Killing Kirk shows he’s capable of breaking his pattern when he feels threatened. This will increase that feeling exponentially.”
“And we just showed our hand,” Kent said. “He’s probably in the wind. I would be.”
“Should I ask for a patrol unit to swing by his office?” Perez asked Buxton. “I could have a uniform there in less than five minutes.”
“No.” Buxton responded without hesitation. “We don’t have enough legal probable cause to detain him at this point. We don’t have a warrant yet either. A premature arrest—or even police contact—will compromise the entire investigation.”
“I’ve hauled suspects in for questioning on a lot less,” Perez said.
Buxton’s tone was firm. “Mr. Forge may be responsible for murders in Phoenix, but many other deaths have occurred in cities all over the country. We need to take every precaution to make an airtight case that will withstand scrutiny in any jurisdiction.”
Perez looked like he might argue the point, then thought better of it. “Let me know if you change your mind. The window of opportunity to nab this guy is closing fast—if it’s not already shut.”
“I found his home address in Mesa,” Breck called out from her seat in front of the computer. “It’s in the suburbs outside of Phoenix. I’m pulling up his driver’s license photo now.”
“I vote we drive to Mesa and pay him a visit right now,” Nina said. “If he’s on the move, I don’t want to give him more time to run while we write affidavits and hunt down a federal judge.”
“I’m with Guerrera,” Kent said. “If he’s home, we can ask for a chat. If he’s not home or he won’t talk, we may find out something from his neighbors.”
“I’d hate to think he’s left town before we even have a chance to make contact,” Wade said. “This guy has managed to slip between every crack in the system for almost three decades.”
Buxton held up a hand. “This will take planning and preparation,” he said. “We can’t just go barreling out the door after this guy.”
“We need to get eyes on him ASAP,” Nina said. “Why not ask the Phoenix field office HRT to watch his house until we get the warrants?”
Centrally headquartered at the FBI Academy in Quantico, the Hostage Rescue Team had units at every field office in the country. Despite their name, they could be deployed for a variety of reasons, including surveillance.
“I like it,” Kent said. “Forge is probably on his way home now, ready to pack up and run. Even if the HRT doesn’t approach him, they could at least track his movements.”
“I’ll put a rush on it,” Buxton said, pulling out his cell phone.
While Buxton murmured over the phone in the background, Breck shared her screen with the wall monitor. Nina looked up to see an enlarged Arizona driver’s license. She studied the photograph. A part of her expected to see something demonic. Instead, she saw a good-looking man. The only hint of the depravity within was the eyes. She recalled Cahill’s words and had to agree—they were flat and soulless. Devoid of any warmth. Snake’s eyes.
“He’s a leapling,” Wade said to no one in particular.
Nina looked at him. “Come again?”
“It’s a term for babies born on leap day,” he said. “They’re also sometimes called leapers.”
She recalled that Breck had mentioned Forge’s DOB when she located the petition for a name change. It had been another connection to the murders, but the team had not had a chance to explore the meaning behind it.
“So why does Forge commit his crimes every time his birthday rolls around?” she asked. In the silence that followed, a flash of insight hit her. “Cahill told us his parents died when he was sixteen, but he apparently didn’t remember the homicide-suicide occurred on his actual birthday. Since leap days occur every four years, that means—”
“His mother killed his father on a leap day,” Kent cut in. “Sixteen is a multiple of four.”
Wade turned to Breck. “You said Forge killed his baby sister when he was twelve, right?”
Breck nodded. “On February twenty-ninth.”
“Forge’s twelfth birthday,” Wade said. “There must have been some precipitating stressor that triggered him to act out and kill his sister on that specific day.”
While Wade considered the psychology behind the events, Nina focused on the timeline. “On Forge’s very next leap day birthday, his mother kills his father.” She paced across the room, the repetitive movement helping her think out loud. “That sets the pattern, because on his next leap day birthday at twenty years old, he kills the Vega family.”
“And he’s been repeating the behavior ever since,” Kent said.
“We should be grateful he’s a leapling,” Breck said. “Otherwise, he would have killed a family every year, and we’d have a lot more victims.”
Buxton ended the call, spared a quick glance at the screen, then addressed the group. “HRT will head out to Forge’s house within minutes. They’ll be in plainclothes. I instructed them to keep him under surveillance but not to approach.”
Nina wanted the solid evidence they needed to slap cuffs on Forge. “I’d like to get a warrant for a buccal swab to compare his DNA to the unknown sample found at the Vega-family crime scene.” She thought for a moment. “I’d also like to search his house to see if he owns a pair of Nike running shoes that match the ones from the two most recent cases.”
&nb
sp; “We’ll handle this strictly by the book.” Buxton reiterated his earlier sentiment. “We dig until we gather enough evidence to support a search warrant. The search warrant will yield the evidence we need for an arrest warrant.” He looked around the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a suspect.” He began firing off orders, beginning with Breck. “I want everything there is to know about Clay Forge, from diapers to divorces.”
He turned to Kent. “Reach out to all the field agents around the country who have reopened the earlier cases and fill them in. Have them check to see if Forge’s name showed up in any of the police reports, if they interviewed him for any reason. Also, see if you can find any evidence that he was in each city around the time of the murders. Hotel stays, rental cars, airline flights, traffic tickets, arrests for minor violations.” He waved a hand in the air. “Anything at all. Some of this information will be quite old and may not be possible to nail down, but do the best you can.”
“We should check in the months prior as well,” Kent said. “He might have traveled to the locations he targeted in advance to do some recon. His crimes required research and planning. He would have had to familiarize himself with the neighborhoods where they were committed as well as local police procedures, which vary from city to city.”
“Agreed,” Buxton said.
Breck frowned. “I wonder if the location history from his cell phone would put him anywhere near the Doyles’ house on February twenty-ninth. Or in the weeks before that, if he was watching them.”
Nina had been down that road before. The legal barriers were tough to overcome. “We can track his recent movements using data from his vehicle and his cell, but we’ll need to write a separate affidavit to get that information from the carriers.”
The FBI could track his whereabouts using his vehicle or his cell phone GPS, monitor his banking activity to see where and when he accessed funds or used credit cards, and issue an all-points bulletin so police all over the country would be on the lookout for him. Forge would suddenly find himself without the ability to communicate, buy goods, or move around.
A Different Dawn (Nina Guerrera) Page 21