The Coast-to-Coast Murders

by J. D. Barker

  Special Agent Vela came up from behind them and set a stack of audiobook boxes on the table along with several dog-eared paperbacks. He’d heard what Sammy said. “Most serials know they’ll eventually get caught. It’s like the feathers—Kepler wants us to catch him, just on his terms. Kepler knows he’s looking at the death penalty once he’s in custody. This is him securing his legacy. Making sure he gets credit for his kills.”

  Gimble came over. She leaned toward the laptop, lifted her right foot behind her back, and stretched. As she realized what she was looking at, she began to nod. “That’s our boy. Better than bread crumbs. He diverted from his route long enough for each kill, then got back to business as usual.”

  “Is that a smile?” Dobbs said.

  “I don’t smile.” She glanced at Vela. “I need an updated profile. I need it yesterday. Where are you on that?”

  “Rines denied our warrant for Kepler’s adoption and treatment records. He says he’ll reconsider if we can demonstrate it’s necessary to track him down. He thinks we can catch him with traditional methods and doesn’t feel we need to break confidentiality.”

  Without missing a beat, Gimble said, “Work with Sammy. Get Judge Rines copies of this data. Share the DNA. Press him. Press him hard. Kepler’s our guy. We need to get in this guy’s head.”

  Vela gave her a frustrated glance, then nodded. “I’m on it.”

  Gimble snapped her fingers. “What about that Windham Hall place? The orphanage. Shredded uniforms. Would they have records?”

  “I’ve got two calls in to the director”—he glanced down at his notes—“a Lawrence Patchen. I haven’t heard back yet.”

  “Only two? Make it ten. If you have to, send someone from the local field office in…”

  “Lansing, New York,” Vela said.

  Gimble’s eyes went to the ceiling and she thought about this for a second. “The Ithaca field office would be closest. Ask for Paul Grimsley. He runs that branch.”

  Vela nodded. “You got it.”

  Dobbs’s phone rang. He glanced down at the display, then answered on speaker. “Wilkins, you get an ID on the attorney?”

  Wilkins said, “Just came in. His real name is…was Roland Eads. I’ve got an address—Seventy-eight Dunes Road, Needles, California. He’s got several priors for B and E. Did six months for identity theft about a decade ago. Nothing recent. We also confirmed the gun found in the car is Sillman’s Glock, the one he took from the interrogation room. We can’t find the damn slug that killed him, though.”

  “Where is Needles?” Begley said.

  “Oh, hell.”

  This came from Sammy Goggans, who was frowning down at his MacBook. He had keyed in the address on Google. The top search result was from the local NBC affiliate, an article with the headline “Possible Homicide” followed by the address and a picture of a run-down mobile home. The time stamp was one hour ago.

  “Needles is about four hours from here,” Sammy said. “Just this side of the Nevada border.”

  Gimble took out her own phone and started dialing. “I’m getting the chopper. Dobbs, Begley, you’re with me. Vela and Sammy, alert Garrison with the U.S. marshals, let him know we have a possible location on Kepler. Contact the locals, bring them up to speed, then meet us there. Tell them we’re taking over. Don’t let them trample my crime scene. Text me the name of whoever is in charge as soon as you have it.”

  She was halfway to the SUV before she finished the last sentence.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Dr. Rose

  Dr. Rose Fitzgerald found the door to her office open.

  What she didn’t find was Megan.

  The girl’s phone was still in her hand, and she damn near crushed it as she glanced into the empty room.

  All three drawers of her file cabinet, normally locked, were open.

  She hurried inside and found her desk drawers open too. The appointment book on top of her desk was turned to the wrong date; the various envelopes and papers that had been in her in-box were scattered about. Her trash can had been dumped; the contents of her shredder littered the floor.

  “The little bitch,” she muttered. “The goddamned little bitch.”

  She went to the file cabinet, already knowing what she’d find. Her face burned anyway as she peered down inside at the various empty spaces.

  “Megan! Where are you?” she shouted.

  Of course there was no answer. The house felt empty. She knew the girl was gone. One glance out the window confirmed it—Megan had taken her Mercedes.

  I gave her the damn keys. To my office, to my car.

  The little bitch.

  Back at her desk, she picked up her phone and pressed number 3 on speed dial.

  He picked up on the fourth ring. “Yes?”

  Dr. Rose sighed. “We have a problem.”

  “What?”

  “Megan is gone.”

  Lawrence Patchen said nothing.

  “She’s got the Kepler files. The others too. She raided my office and took off in my car.”

  “Report it stolen.”

  “That will just draw more attention; we don’t need that.”

  “Better than her getting away.”

  Dr. Rose said, “And what if they find the files in the car? Then what?”

  “What does she know?”

  “Nothing.”

  “She knew enough to take the files. She clearly knows something,” Patchen said. “Is she going to him?”

  “Probably.”

  He remained quiet for a long while. Then: “This experiment is over.”

  “I’m not ready to give up yet.”

  “I’m not asking for your opinion; I’m stating a fact.”

  “Barton wanted—”

  “Barton is dead,” Patchen interrupted. “You find the girl, I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Don’t contact me again. I’ll see you at the funeral.”

  “I’m coming over there,” Rose said. “We need to talk. Not on the phone. In person.”

  “I don’t want you anywhere near here. Not right now.”

  “You can’t—”

  The line went dead.

  She was about to call him back when the phone in her other hand, Megan’s phone, began to ring. A Los Angeles area code.

  Michael?

  She answered. “Hello?”

  “Is this Megan Fitzgerald?”

  Something loud whirred in the background. Helicopter? “Who is this?”

  “I’m Special Agent Jessica Gimble with the FBI. Am I speaking to Megan?”

  Dr. Rose hung up.

  When the phone rang again, she clicked Decline. It took all her willpower to keep from dropping the phone to the ground and stomping it to dust under her shoe.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Patchen

  Nine miles away, in his office at Windham Hall, Lawrence Patchen hung up the phone and looked at the man sitting across his desk. “It’s worse than I thought. With Barton gone, this will unravel fast.”

  The man considered this without a word. His dark eyes gave away nothing.

  Patchen had always admired a man with a good poker face. Emotions, involuntary actions, everything from the way a person breathed, blinked, or positioned his arms or legs—any one of these things could give away more than an entire conversation. During his years dealing with the children, Patchen had learned never to listen to them. Not a single word. Their verbal responses to his questions were irrelevant. It was the unspoken that told him what he needed to know. Most learned to lie long before they arrived here—children could be incredibly skilled at spinning lies—but they rarely learned how to hide the signs of deceit. For most, a simple glance gave them away. Full of tells. All of them. Patchen believed he had a good poker face. This man put him to shame. “The offer you made, to clean up, I take it that still stands?”

  “If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be here,” the man said.

/>   Patchen handed him a folder containing several photographs of Kepler.

  The man glanced at the pictures and slid the folder back. “I don’t need these. He’s all over the news. I know who he is.” This man was tall and lanky with dirty-blond hair, slightly tousled, probably a month or so from its last cut. He wore a pea-green jacket even though it was warm enough to go without. There was a slight bulge under his left shoulder—no doubt a gun of some sort. He had an old, ragged scar on his left hand, nearly an inch and a half long. Patchen tried not to look at it.

  “Does that complicate matters? Kepler’s current profile?”

  “Nope.”

  Lawrence Patchen nodded and took out his wallet. He fumbled through the various pictures in the back, removed one, and slid it across the desk. “This one too. She’ll be with him. She’s my goddaughter.”

  He stared at the photo for several seconds, then slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. “Anyone else?”

  “There may be one more. A woman. Barton’s wife. I’m not sure yet.”

  “If you’re not sure, don’t tell me about her.”

  Patchen nodded, considered asking for the picture of Megan back but didn’t. Instead, he retrieved a leather bag from under his desk and placed it in front of the man. “This is all I have.”

  Without opening the bag, the man replied, “There’s two now, which means this is only half of what I plan to collect, what you’ll owe me if I walk out that door. When this is done, I’ll be back for the rest. I don’t give a shit where you get it, but I suggest you do. Understood?”

  Again, Patchen nodded. He’d figure it out. He had no choice. He scribbled two addresses on a piece of paper. “Kepler’s heading to one of these.”

  “Which is most likely?”

  Patchen pointed to the first address. “This one. He’ll save the girl for last.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Michael

  I woke in a bed.

  A dark room.

  My head throbbing.

  The thin veil of light creeping in from around the heavy curtains on the single window felt damn near blinding.

  I squeezed my eyes shut again.

  During the headaches, and even after, light was the worst. Like thousands of rusty nails digging around my eyeballs, scraping behind, going deep into the sockets, relentlessly scratching at my brain, my thoughts. This was joined by an immense pressure, a band around my head slowly tightening until there was nothing but the pain.

  Lying there, I knew the worst was behind me. The headache of earlier was ebbing, fading, but it was not willing to release me altogether, not yet.

  So I lay there for at least another thirty minutes, maybe more, before forcing my eyes to open again and finally sitting up.

  My eyes adjusted.

  A motel room.

  Not a very nice one.

  The pain receded to a dull, cold ache.

  The blinding light faded to what it truly was, only the minute glow of a distant street lamp somewhere, brought to life by the occasional headlights racing past, barely enough to set shadows stirring.

  I pulled back the musty quilt and sheet.

  I wore nothing but my underwear.

  From the corner of my eye, I spotted my clothes in a pile near the bathroom at the back of the room.

  I didn’t remember removing them.

  I didn’t remember coming here.

  I remembered nothing after tearing apart Roland Eads’s bedroom.

  My watch, which I knew I had moved to my left wrist, was back on my right again, the band cinched tight enough to dig into my skin and turn the flesh pink.

  I moved the watch back to my left, checked the time: 8:40 p.m.

  Three hours missing.

  Lost.

  This was not the first time I had blacked out from one of my headaches. It wasn’t the first time I’d woken in a strange place.

  But knowing it had happened before, telling myself that it would most likely happen again, did nothing to soothe the anxiety inching along my bones.

  I forced myself to my feet and stood there feeling light-headed, slightly off balance. A wave of nausea washed over me, but I choked it back, made myself move.

  On a small table near the front door, I found my leather duffel. Beside that were my car keys and a new disposable phone, still in the plastic packaging. I tore it open, powered on the phone, and ran through the automated activation prompts.

  A minute later, my thoughts still muddled, I strained to recall the number Megan had given me.

  I dialed, ready to hang up if I’d gotten it wrong.

  “Hello?” Megan’s voice was barely a whisper.

  I glanced at the time on the phone and realized it was nearly midnight where she was.

  “Did I wake you? I got a new phone.” My throat was dry, full of gravel.

  Somehow, she managed to drop her voice even lower. She rushed the words out at me: “Did you kill that woman?”

  “What? No, I told you I didn’t. I just found her in my—”

  “Not Alyssa Tepper,” Megan interrupted. “Erma Eads. It’s all over the news. They’re saying you killed her.”

  I closed my eyes for a moment and rubbed at my temples. “She’s dead?” Everything was still soft, out of focus. I tried to remember. “She recognized me somehow…”

  “So you killed her?”

  “No…no, I didn’t. I wouldn’t…”

  “Recognized you from where? From television?”

  “Before.”

  “Before?” Megan repeated. “Before what?”

  I felt the headache seizing the moment and attempting to creep back in. “I…I don’t know. When I got there, to Roland’s address, she acted like she’d expected me to show up, but with Roland, not alone.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “She was alive when I left, Meg. I tied her up. Scared her. That’s all. Why would I kill her?” I squeezed my eyes shut. “You know me. I wouldn’t hurt anyone. Someone is—” From somewhere behind Megan, a recorded message played over a loudspeaker, first in English, then in Spanish. I opened my eyes. “Was that TSA?”

  Megan said, “I’m at the airport.”

  “The airport?”

  She told me what she’d done. What she’d taken.

  I ran my hand through my hair. “Christ, Meg, what if she calls the cops?”

  “She won’t. She’ll try and find me herself before she calls the police. Hold on a second.” She must have placed her hand over the phone; I heard her talking to someone, both voices muffled. She came back a moment later. “Where are you right now? You sound funny.”

  “A motel. I got one of my headaches so I stopped to sleep it off,” I said. “I’m all right now. Just a little groggy.”

  “Are you…” Megan’s voice trailed off.

  “Am I what?”

  She hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Are you…taking your meds?”

  She had never asked me about the medication before. She never asked me about my sessions with Dr. Bart, his prescribed “treatments.” But I wouldn’t be some medicated zombie. The pills made me feel like I was an observer of life rather than someone living; they numbed me to everything, good and bad. They made me half a person. “I don’t need the meds.”

  “Maybe you do, Michael. Maybe not all of them, maybe not the doses Dr. Bart prescribed, but just enough to…to stop the headaches. Did you black out?”

  Megan knew about the blackouts. Aside from Dr. Bart, she was the only person I had ever told about these periods of lost time. She was the only person I trusted. Had ever trusted. But at moments like these, I wished I had never mentioned any of it. I could imagine her looking at me, her expression meant to be caring but her eyes holding something else—fear, worry, even pity. That last one hurt the most.

  “I slept it off,” I finally said. “I’m fine.”

  “Michael…”

  “Really, Megan. I’m fine. Please, let’s not go there right no
w.”

  I pulled back the curtain and took a look outside. The motel was one story, L-shaped, with the manager’s office on the opposite end. There were only a few cars in the parking lot. My Porsche was in a space near my door. The building was set back about a hundred feet from a two-lane highway, the offending street lamp on the opposite side of the road. A filthy neon sign glowed with green letters near the entrance. “I’m at a place called the Lutz Motel.”

  “Still in Needles?”

  I fumbled with a pad of motel stationery on the table, read the address. “Yeah, Needles.”

  “Can you stay there? I’ll come to you.”

  “It’s too dangerous. I don’t want you mixed up in this.”

  “Little late for that, don’t you think?” Megan shot back. “What did you find at Roland Eads’s house?”

  I had no idea what I’d found at Roland Eads’s house. I rubbed my temples. “He lived with his sister, Erma. She…”

  It was all so cloudy.

  Then I remembered his closet. The image of the uniforms popped into my head along with a stab of pain. “I think he worked for Windham Hall.”

  “The orphanage?”

  “Yeah. I found uniforms in his closet.”

  I saw something in my leather bag under one of my shirts. A sheaf of paper. I took it out. A stack of log sheets from Windham Hall.

  Did I take these from the Eadses’ house?

  Megan said, “But that’s here in New York. That doesn’t make sense. Maybe it’s a different Windham Hall?”

  I flipped through the pages. Dozens of entries were highlighted, dating back years. Dr. Bart’s name. My name.

  The headache clawed.

  I shoved the logs back into my bag.

  Windham Hall. Roland. Alyssa Tepper. Dr. Bart’s patients. All connected. Somehow.

  I rubbed my temples again, dug my knuckles in. “Did you find addresses for those two…what were their names?”

  “Are you sure you’re okay? You really don’t sound okay.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “It’s going away, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. But it wasn’t.