The Coast-to-Coast Murders

by J. D. Barker

  Michael went quiet for a second. Then: “How long this time?”

  “Thirty minutes.”

  Michael exhaled.

  The sound of scissors opening and closing.

  When Michael spoke again, his voice carried the blind confidence held by every fifteen-year-old boy. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  A drawer opening and closing again.

  “You can remove the blindfold once you’re inside.”

  Michael sighed but didn’t push back.

  A crackle filled the tape. Somebody picking up the recorder, carrying it. I heard the sound of Dr. Bart inserting his various keys into the locks of the dark room’s door. The twist and click of a dead bolt. I always expected the door to squeak when he opened it, make some foreboding high-pitched whine, but it never came. When I closed my eyes, though, I could see it.

  The door slowly swinging open. Dr. Bart guiding Michael inside as he had with me on so many occasions.

  “Sit here,” Dr. Bart said. “I’ve placed a stool for you. That’s my boy.”

  The door closed then. The click of the latch. The twist of the dead bolt.

  Dr. Bart knocked twice on it, as was his practice. “Can you hear me okay?”

  “Yes,” Michael replied, his voice muffled from the other side.

  “You may remove your blindfold now.”

  I knew it wouldn’t matter. The room itself was pitch-black, always was. Not the slightest bit of light allowed in. The blindfold’s only purpose was to ensure you didn’t see anything while the door was open, while you were stepping into the room.

  “What’s that smell?”

  Dr. Bart said, “You’re not alone in there, Michael. Four hours ago, one of my other patients entered the room, and she’s still inside. Unlike you, she is not only blind but deaf. I won’t go into how I was able to block both senses, that’s a discussion for another time, but it’s important you understand she doesn’t know you’re in there with her. She has water, should you become thirsty. Although I don’t know how she’ll react if you try and take it. I suggest you keep those scissors handy in case she doesn’t react favorably to your presence.”

  His voice dropped off momentarily, then he continued. “I gave her something else, Michael. Something I went through a great deal of trouble to secure. Obtaining evidence from a homicide can be a costly endeavor. I had to call in numerous favors, but I felt it was necessary to ensure the success of this experiment. It’s the hacksaw Maxwell Pullen used to dismember your mother. When I gave it to this girl, the one in there with you, I told her it was her only means of defense and she shouldn’t be afraid to use it. You see, she was violated recently in ways not unlike Maxwell Pullen explored with you. She was unable to fight back. She is in the dark room in order to revisit that experience and hopefully achieve a more favorable outcome. She wishes to regain the strength and self-respect she feels she lost. You can help her, Michael. And I believe she will help you. I’ve determined three hours should be ample time for this test.”

  “You said thirty minutes.”

  “I’ve adjusted.”

  “I’m not gonna hurt her, Doctor,” Michael said, his voice muffled by the door.

  Dr. Bart replied, “Mitchell would.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Written Statement,

  Megan Fitzgerald

  The tape ended abruptly. Just a click, then nothing but the hiss of blank tape.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  Warren stirred, slurped, and drifted back off to sleep.

  I removed the tape from my player and found the last one in my purse.

  Dark room—M. Kepler—April 8, 2009

  Michael’s seventeenth birthday.

  This tape didn’t contain a preamble. Nothing from Dr. Bart. At first, I thought it might be blank, then I heard several clicks—the locks on the dark room’s door.

  Breathing then. Thin gasps.

  The recorder had been placed on the floor. I closed my eyes and pictured it. The spot to the left, just inside the door. I had seen Dr. Bart put the recorder there more times than I could count.

  “Would you like some water?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “Sir. Yes. Water, please, sir,” Michael said. He sounded weak, barely audible.

  “Who is on the mark?”

  Shuffling.

  “Who is on the mark?”

  “Me.”

  “Who is on the mark?” Dr. Bart repeated, the frustration in his voice mounting.

  “Michael.”

  The door closed.

  Locks clanked back into place.

  The tape clicked and clicked again a moment later—the recording had stopped and restarted. I couldn’t tell how much time had passed.

  “Who is on the mark?” Dr. Bart said again.

  “I need water,” Michael said, voice muffled by the door. “Please…”

  “Not until you stop lying to me.”

  “How long?” Michael said softly.

  “You’ve been in there thirty-three hours. About to become thirty-four.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “I can easily wait another hour, or two, or ten. I’m a patient man. You know better than to try me.”

  “Michael is on the mark.”

  “You little shit.”

  “Not very professional, Doctor,” Michael said.

  Dr. Bart cleared his throat. “Why didn’t you kill Maxwell Pullen? You could have ended all the abuse.”

  “I was a child.”

  “That didn’t stop you from putting your own mother out of her misery.”

  “So you say.”

  “We all know the truth. You somehow overpowered her—maybe it was the angle or your weight or maybe you caught her by surprise, but however it played out, you somehow managed to kill your own mother. You forced her under that water, held her there until she was dead.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “At any point, you could have taken Pullen’s heroin, got a nice needle full of it, and plunged it into that man’s arm. God knows you were alone enough with him passed out in some corner. Instead of ending the life of the tormentor, you kill your own mother. Was she awake? Did she look up at you through the water? Did she somehow find a way to plead with you to spare her life in those final moments? Maybe just with her eyes? My little boy—how could you?”

  “Stop,” Michael said.

  “Who is on the mark?”

  “Screw you.”

  “You know why I think you spared Max and killed your mother? I think you liked it. The things he did to you. I think you felt your mother was in the way. Maybe she was getting between the two of you. Couldn’t have that. Maybe you were jealous. Mom had to go so you could have Max all to yourself.”

  “You’re worse than Max ever was.”

  “Who is on the mark?”

  “Why don’t you open the door, and I’ll show you?”

  A loud click again, but this time, there was nothing else but white noise.

  My eyes still closed, I pressed my head back into the seat and listened to the soft static of that final tape as the plane touched down.

  Part 3

  Flagstaff, AZ

  People who accept defeat become stepping-stones for those of us who don’t.

  —Barton Fitzgerald, MD

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Dobbs

  The rain came at them from the east. At first, only a few drops against the thick curved glass of the Bell 407’s windshield, then multiple heavy thuds, followed by an onslaught—water smacked into the glass and rolled over the sides with such ferocity, visibility dropped to only about 20 percent.

  Dobbs glanced over at Sammy, buckled into the seat beside him. His face was green and his knuckles white; he was clutching his MacBook, attached by a USB cable to Erma Eads’s cell phone, as if it were a parachute. The man’s eyes were closed, and his lips moved soundlessly. He did not inspire confidence.

  Vela,
oblivious to the weather, sat in the seat opposite, his face buried in the book they’d found under Erma Eads.

  In the copilot seat at the front, Gimble leaned forward and peered through the haze at the faint outline of I-40. “I’d prefer to hold this altitude, but if you need to pull up and get back over the storm, do it; we have GPS coordinates on our target.”

  Her voice sounded thin, tinny over Dobbs’s headphones.

  The pilot, a Gulf War vet named Cory Harland, shrugged. “Night flight like this, I’m running mainly by instruments, so it doesn’t matter to me. Rain looks scary, but it doesn’t have much of an impact. Wind can be a bitch, but a little rain does nothing but give the bird a bath.”

  Lightning skittered across the sky up ahead, illuminating the churning dark clouds, as if to remind the chopper’s passengers of just how insignificant they were.

  Gimble nodded and flicked a switch on the board at her left. “Trooper Winkler, you still on him?”

  Winkler’s voice came back a moment later. “I-40 eastbound, just past mile marker seventy-two. Closed the distance slightly on account of the weather, didn’t want to lose visual. Hanging back about a quarter mile. Our boy is still all over the road—he’s bouncing off the lines like a pinball. Speed is anywhere from seventy to ninety.”

  Thirty minutes earlier, Winkler had considered pulling Kepler over. The Porsche had drifted far enough to the right to drop off the pavement and slide in the gravel. When the driver corrected with a hard pull left, the car fishtailed and nearly spun into the oncoming lane. While there wasn’t much traffic at this late hour, there was some traffic, and the Arizona Highway Patrol, not the FBI, ultimately had jurisdiction when it came to public safety on the highway. If Winkler determined a move on Kepler was justified, there was little Gimble could do other than cite the current situation—U.S. marshals had dispatched a team from Flagstaff and set up roadblocks on I-40 about thirty miles east, and Garrison’s team was about twenty minutes behind and closing. As long as Kepler continued east, they’d snare him. If Winkler gave chase, Kepler might panic, and someone could get hurt. Following him into the roadblock was the safest bet.

  “Oh, Christ,” Winkler muttered.

  Gimble pressed the button again. “What is it?”

  “He just blew past a tractor trailer. Must have broken a hundred. Missed a station wagon in the oncoming lane by a car length. Drove it off the road.”

  “But everyone’s okay, right?”

  “We’ve got nothing but desert out here. Nothing to run into. Vehicle hit the dirt, spun at least twice. It’s still now.”

  “Stay on him, Trooper.”

  “I should see if the passengers are okay.”

  “Trooper…”

  Dobbs knew she couldn’t order him; that would be overstepping. She sure as hell wanted to, though.

  Winkler said, “I radioed another car behind me. They’ll stop. Staying on him. I’m increasing my speed to one-ten to pass the truck. Closing the distance to an eighth of a mile.”

  Gimble’s fingers began twitching. “Not too close. If you can see him, he can see you.”

  “I’m well aware, I…oh, shit!”

  “What is it?”

  No response.

  “Winkler?”

  His voice crackled a moment later. “There was another tractor trailer in front of this one. Didn’t see that one. Had to pass them both. I’m okay now. I see Kepler again. Rain’s picking up, and he slowed down a little. Looks like he dropped to around seventy. I’m matching speed.”

  Harland tapped Gimble on the shoulder, then pointed out the windshield. “I think that’s them at your one o’clock.”

  Dobbs followed his gaze and spotted two tractor trailers nearly on top of each other, another car just in front, and several more up the road ahead of that one. Although Winkler didn’t have his strobes on, Dobbs could make out the faint outline of numbers on the top of the highway patrol car as the helicopter reduced altitude.

  Gimble said, “Winkler, we have visual. We’re coming up behind you.”

  “Copy.”

  “There’s your roadblock,” Harland said, pointing about ten miles up the road at a line of stopped vehicles.

  “He’s slowing down a little bit. Coming up on another car,” Winkler said. “Should I close distance or hang back?”

  Gimble was practically standing in her seat. “What are all those lights? Up over there?”

  Harland said, “Flagstaff coming up on the right, the Flying T Truck Stop on the left.”

  “What am I doing here, Agent?” Trooper Winkler again.

  Gimble flicked the switch at her side. “Garrison, what are your coordinates? How far are you from Flagstaff?”

  His voice came back a moment later. “I’m tracking your trooper. We’re about ten minutes behind him.”

  “Tell me you’ve got roadblocks set up at all the exits approaching the roadblock.”

  “I do,” Garrison said. “On your word, we’ll lock those down. Kepler will have no choice but to continue east into the net.”

  “Do it now.”

  “Copy.”

  She flicked the switch again. “Stay back, Winkler. We’ve got U.S. marshals on your six and the roadblock coming up ahead of you. All exits are going into lockdown.”

  “Understood.”

  “Who’s that?” Dobbs said, pointing at another car flying up fast behind the state trooper.

  “Get closer,” Gimble told Harland.

  The helicopter dipped, and Dobbs’s stomach churned. They closed their altitude to only a few thousand feet. Dobbs leaned over to get a better look. He caught sight of the taillights as the speeding vehicle careened past the highway patrol car.

  Winkler’s voice came back over their headphones. “Agents, I just got lapped by another black Porsche.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Dobbs

  Stay on the first one,” Gimble said.

  “This guy is driving nearly as bad as the other one,” Winkler replied.

  “Stay on the first one,” Gimble repeated.

  Dobbs peered down through the rain. From this distance, it was impossible to tell the two cars apart; they were nothing but two hazy black blurs.

  “This guy is gaining fast. He’s nearly on top of Kepler,” Winkler said. “Scratch that—he just passed him.”

  “What the hell?” Gimble muttered. “What’s he doing?”

  Dobbs watched as the second Porsche got out in front of Kepler and slammed on the brakes. Kepler avoided rear-ending him by swerving into the oncoming lane, then drove up parallel to the other car. He stayed there briefly, then gunned the engine, roared past, and swung back in front of it.

  The helicopter jerked up, its nose momentarily pointing toward the clouds. Dobbs fell back into his seat, his hands gripping the leather. Beside him, Sammy let out a single chirp.

  They rocked slightly, then leveled off.

  “Sorry about that,” Harland said. “That would be the wind I mentioned earlier. It’s kicking up. We’re okay.”

  Vela looked up from the book, glanced out the window, and went back to reading, unfazed.

  When Dobbs looked back down at the road, one of the cars was passing the other again.

  Winkler came back over the radio, frustration mounting in his voice. “They keep trading places. I don’t know which is which anymore. I need to get closer, maybe read the plate.”

  Gimble said, “Doesn’t matter, they’ve got nowhere to go. We’ll take down both, then sort it out.”

  Sammy’s MacBook beeped, a series of happy chimes.

  “What is that?” Dobbs said.

  Sammy opened the computer and studied the screen. His face was a pale shade of green in the light. “Erma’s phone—I’ve got her pass code.” He picked up her mobile and keyed in the six-digit code and began cycling through the screens. His eyes went wide.

  “What is it?” Dobbs said.

  Sammy looked to the front of the chopper. “Hey, Gimble, she’s
got a number for Kepler programmed in her contacts.”

  Gimble, without taking her eyes off the cars below, shot her hand back. Sammy placed the phone in her open palm.

  With one hand, Harland fished his own phone out from a compartment in the dash, unplugged a cable, and handed the free end to Gimble. “If you plug into this, audio will feed through your headphones.”

  Gimble attached the cable, clicked several buttons on the phone, and Dobbs heard the line ring twice over his own headphones. A voice answered, one he recognized. Had it really been less than two days since he’d met Michael Kepler?

  “I didn’t leave Erma in a position to phone a friend, so I’m going to have to guess this is either Special Agent Jessica Gimble or possibly Detective Dobbs throwing a Hail Mary my way. The real question is, are you in the car behind me, up ahead in that roadblock, or bouncing around in the storm above my head?”

  “Michael Kepler, this is Special Agent Jessica Gimble with the FBI. Pull over immediately, place the car in park, get out of the vehicle, and get down on your knees with your hands on your head!”

  “It’s raining, Agent, and I don’t have an umbrella. I think I’ll stay put for now.”

  “You’ve got no place to go.”

  “Is Detective Dobbs with you?”

  Gimble turned in her seat and met Dobbs’s eyes. She nodded.

  “I’m here,” Dobbs said.

  “Did you get off watching my video with Alyssa? I bet it’s hard to come by a piece of ass like that on a cop’s salary. I bet you watched it with all your buddies and had a jerk-fest in the locker room.”

  “Giving up on the whole ‘That wasn’t me’ defense, Kepler?”

  “She was so damn sweet. You know she climbed into that bathtub willingly? Such a team player, that one, always was. Of all of them, she was the hardest for me. I almost couldn’t bring myself to do it. I powered through, though. I got the job done. Had to, for the greater good. She wanted her feather. She deserved it, earned her feather. Didn’t even fight back. Not at first, anyway, and that really threw me. They always fight back. Makes sense, right? I know I would. I’ve learned to expect it, maybe even crave it a little bit, like some kind of Freudian power trip; that last bit of fight feeds me. But Alyssa only looked up at me from beneath the water and waited. At one point, she even smiled.” Kepler paused for a second. “Have you ever put a sick pet to sleep, Detective? For me, that’s what it was like with Alyssa. Like I was putting a sick pet out of its misery. It was like she welcomed the relief that was to come and knew I was doing it out of love.”