The Coast-to-Coast Murders

by J. D. Barker

  “Let me see the list.”

  Vela pulled up a second document on his phone but held the device out of her reach. “We’re on dangerous ground here. If I show you this, and a judge deems the means I used to obtain the information unlawful, he or she could consider everything it leads to inadmissible. Everything from here on out. Kepler could walk.”

  Gimble considered this, then turned to Sammy. “Do you have anything from the security cameras? Something else we can go on right now?”

  Sammy looked up from his MacBook, frustration all over his face. “Time stamps are all off. I’ve got Kepler in multiple places; nothing matches up. It doesn’t look like any of the cameras in the parking lot are active. I lose him before he gets to a car. At first, I thought Kepler or the sister disabled them, but the head of security shot me a text saying they intentionally shut them down a few years ago—apparently, recording the happenings of a truck-stop parking lot leads to liabilities they didn’t wish to be party to.”

  “So you can’t tell where they went?”

  “They’re gone,” Sammy said.

  Gimble’s fingers twitched again as she processed this. “By telling me you made the connection, we’re already compromised. I can’t unknow that. None of us can. We’ve got Kepler on the murders. He can’t beat the evidence. If his attorney manages to get this thrown out, it won’t matter. Let me see your phone.”

  Vela handed it to her.

  As Gimble scrolled through the list, she began nodding. “They’re all on here—Darcey Haas, Issac Dorrough, Cassandra Shatley, Selena Hennis, Molly Fellman…”

  “What about Alyssa Tepper?” Dobbs asked.

  Gimble nodded. “Others too. Names we don’t know.” She turned to Vela. “If you’re right—”

  “Kepler has been systematically killing off Fitzgerald’s patients, and anyone still alive on that list is a potential target.” Vela raised the book. “With Longtin most likely next. I think he got Longtin’s address from Erma Eads.”

  “Why leave the book?”

  “A taunt,” Vela said. “Same reason he talked to you on the phone.”

  “Where is Longtin?” Dobbs asked.

  “Just outside St. Louis. I matched current DMV to the insurance records with his DOB and Social.”

  Gimble snapped her fingers several times. “Take all of this back to Judge Rines. Don’t skirt the issue—explain exactly how you got the client list so he doesn’t have wiggle room later. Press him for all of Fitzgerald’s patient records—you can tell him they’re all in danger. Every person on this list. We need their files and current addresses in order to protect them. We need a search warrant for Fitzgerald’s offices and residence too. If he denies any of it and someone else dies, it will be on him. Tell him I said that. Tell him I said I’ll make sure everyone knows he dropped the ball if there is another death. I’ll go on CNN and shout about it. He won’t hang himself. When he’s fuming over that, push him for Kepler’s adoption and treatment records.”

  “He won’t give us those,” Vela countered. “Adult records, maybe, but nothing sealed as a minor.”

  “I know he won’t. But if you push for those too, he’ll give us everything else as a compromise. He’ll see that as his out.” She glanced over at Kepler’s car, at the evidence piled around it. “Call Begley too—when he’s done in Needles, I want him on a plane to New York ready to pounce on the Fitzgeralds the moment that warrant comes in.”

  Vela nodded.

  Gimble looked up at Dobbs. “How’s your head?”

  Dobbs rubbed at the growing bump on his forehead. “I took much harder hits in college. I’ll live.”

  “Are you okay to travel?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I want you to meet Begley out there,” she said. “He’s a solid investigator, but I want someone with interview experience to talk to the mother.”

  “Aren’t local agents already on-site?”

  “They don’t know what to look for and we don’t have time to explain. I need someone who knows this case, someone I can trust. Someone who’s sat across the table from Kepler and will know if the woman is lying.”

  Dobbs said, “You’ll need to clear it with my lieutenant.”

  “Done.” She turned back to Vela. “Jeffery Longtin. Are you sure?”

  “I’m certain.”

  Her fingers twitched. “Okay.”

  A moment later she was on the phone with U.S. Marshal Garrison—they’d need a plane.

  They’d get to Longtin first.

  Part 4

  St. Louis, Missouri

  How many times must you repeat a phrase before it’s fully committed to memory? How many times before fiction becomes fact?

  —Barton Fitzgerald, MD

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  The man with the scar on his left hand gathered his bags and stood in the aisle as the train lumbered into Gateway Station in downtown St. Louis. There were only a handful of people in his car—an older woman knitting in the back corner, a mother and infant daughter one row up and across from him, a man reading the paper, his eyes drifting shut as sleep slowly claimed him. None appeared to be getting off at this stop. The mother was breastfeeding; a thin shawl was draped over her shoulder and the child. The baby’s little legs kicked beneath it, kept pulling it down, and the mother would replace it, covering herself, then patiently repeat the motion a few moments later.

  The baby cooed, thrilled with milk. All she probably knew at such a tender age.

  So innocent.

  Uncorrupted.

  Unaware.

  He traveled with only two items.

  He needed nothing else.

  There was the Roosevelt travel duffel that had been with him for nearly twenty years. The worn brown buffalo hide was stretched, creased, and smelled comfortingly of rich leather. A bag that had seen more of this country than most of its citizens.

  “Do you play?”

  This came from the woman in the back. She had paused in her knitting, her eyes on the guitar case in his other hand. The other item.

  “Since I was a child,” he told her. “Few things in life bring such comfort as music.”

  “When I was younger, my parents bought a piano and paid a neighborhood woman to teach me to play. Two lessons per week for nearly a year, and I could barely pound out ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’”

  “It’s not for everyone.” He nodded at her hands. “You’ve found other ways to occupy your time.”

  “Idle hands, right?” She held up half a sweater. “I sell them on Etsy.”

  Possibly the ugliest sweater he’d ever seen. “Lovely.”

  The train lurched and came to a stop.

  He adjusted his grip on the handle of the guitar case; the weight of the item inside was nearly twice that of an actual guitar.

  The doors opened and as he stepped past the infant, he smiled down at her. He could only hope the baby would never know the weight of such a bag or the feel of such a thing in her hands.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Michael

  I woke in a bed.

  A dark room.

  A motel room.

  Not a very nice one.

  Thin light reached around heavy drapes at the window.

  The scent of the musty sheets and quilt drifted to my nose.

  Faded green paint on the walls. Several paintings depicting old schooners at sea amid crashing waves.

  The familiar ache in my head now cold, dull.

  I sat up and pulled back the sheets.

  I wore nothing but my underwear.

  I looked to the back of the room, already knowing what I’d find, although my heart still leaped in my chest when I saw it—my clothes, wet and dark. in a pile against the wall.

  I sat there, willing this to be a dream, hoping this room would fade away and be replaced with something else, anything else, but nothing changed. My senses grew keenly aware of the layer of dust covering damn near everything, of the mold my mind pictur
ed feasting inside the walls, and of the faint sound of water dripping. A single drop, followed by another half a minute later.

  The bathroom light was on.

  An exhaust fan whirred.

  The door closed all but a crack.

  I told my body to move, but it didn’t, wouldn’t, not at first. When my legs finally went over the side of the bed, they felt as if they each weighed a hundred pounds. My toes curled into the worn carpet. I forced myself to stand.

  Another drop of water.

  I forced myself to move.

  The room seemed to stretch out in front of me, growing longer with each step I took toward the bathroom. I passed my clothes, but I didn’t look down. I couldn’t. I refused to take a breath, knowing it would bring with it the familiar scent of copper, the scent of blood.

  When I reached the bathroom, my hand rose all on its own and touched the door; my fingertips quivered on the wood.

  The door opened all too easily.

  Water filled the tub to the rim. There were several puddles on the scuffed white tile.

  Another drop fell from the tub’s faucet and struck the water with a plop, sending ripples across it.

  She was several inches below the surface.

  Eyes closed.

  Brown hair floating slightly, nearly still.

  Her toned legs were folded awkwardly, her knees protruding from the water and resting against the wall. Her arms were at her sides, one hand gently pressed against her thigh.

  A single air bubble rose from her pale lips.

  Oh God, what have I done?

  Chapter Seventy

  Written Statement,

  Megan Fitzgerald

  I opened my eyes to find Michael standing over me, wearing nothing but boxers and a blank stare. He looked down at me with his mouth open and eyes I didn’t recognize. A stranger in a brother mask.

  Just the sight of him sent a shiver over me, brought on this instinctive need to run. The bath had been steaming when I got in, but now it felt like ice.

  Fragile, Dr. Bart had said in his notes.

  I don’t know why the thought popped into my head at that very moment, but it did, and I couldn’t help thinking of Michael that way. But the way he looked at me…

  I sat up in the bathtub and pulled my knees to my chin. “Jeez, Michael, knock much? Kinda naked here.”

  He remained still. Didn’t move.

  He was fucking creeping me out, if I’m being honest.

  I thought of the scissors on the counter just outside the door.

  I hated myself for thinking of that.

  Crazy.

  This was Michael.

  “Michael, say something. Are you okay?” You’re frightening me, I nearly said.

  “I thought…” he began, the words trailing off.

  Then I understood.

  I’m such an idiot. “Oh! No! You were still sleeping and I really just wanted a bath! I didn’t mean—”

  I stood, forgetting to keep myself covered, splashing water all over the small bathroom in my hurry to get out. Water pooled at my feet, disappeared in the gray and fractured tile grout.

  Michael’s eyes drifted over me.

  I met his gaze, held it as long as I could, then looked away.

  “Your hair,” he finally said flatly. “You cut it.”

  I took a step toward him. “Can you pass me a towel?”

  He took one down from the rack just outside the door and handed it to me. I quickly dried off and wrapped it around my body. I ran my hand through what was left of my hair; I had gotten a cute pixie cut. “The real question is, why haven’t you? You’ve got half the world looking for you, and you haven’t changed anything. I can’t believe you were driving your own car.”

  “Nobody knew to look for it.”

  I pushed past him to the counter. “You’re the worst fugitive ever.” I grabbed the pharmacy bag from the corner near the sink and dumped out the box of Ms. Clairol’s finest. “Your turn.”

  He stared at me blankly.

  I snapped my fingers in front of his face. “How’s your head feeling?”

  Michael seemed to ponder this.

  “You look like a drunk trying to play Jeopardy!”

  His hand went to his head, rubbed his temple. “Better, I think. Still foggy, though. Like a hangover.”

  I moved over the box of hair dye and picked up the bottle of Excedrin Migraine I had wrestled from his hand in the SUV. “Where exactly did you get this?”

  He reached for the bottle, and I pulled it back.

  His eyes narrowed. “It will help with the headache.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” I popped the cap and dumped a couple pills on the counter. “I don’t know what those are, but they’re not Excedrin Migraine. If they were, they’d be white with a big E stamped on the side. We take them on campus when we need a pick-me-up before class. They’re like drinking five cups of coffee at once.”

  I rolled one of the pills over with my finger. “These aren’t even marked. They look like someone made them in a basement.”

  Michael’s brain still appeared to be moving in low gear. He processed what I said, but I couldn’t tell if he understood the words. I cupped my hand around the bottle and dropped the pills back in. “Wheeeere…did…youuuuu…get…them?” I dragged out each word and waved my hands in slow motion in front of his face.

  “Roland Eads’s house,” he finally said. “They were in the medicine cabinet.”

  “Wonderful. What else did he have in there?”

  Michael’s eyes glazed over; he seemed to be losing focus.

  I clapped my hands. “Michael!”

  That seemed to do it. His body stiffened. A light flickered behind his eyes. “He had Ambien and mirtazapine on his nightstand. I think I remember asenapine and lurasidone in the medicine cabinet. Clozapine too.”

  “Jesus,” I muttered. “Those are all antipsychotics. If he had them out in the open, what exactly do you think he’d hide in a bottle of over-the-counter pain pills?”

  “I…I don’t know,” he stammered.

  “It’s been nearly a day, and you’re still, like, brain-damaged.” I crossed the room to my purse, rummaged around inside, and returned with a small pill bottle. “This is what you’re supposed to be taking. Dr. Bart had his issues, but he had your medication right.”

  “I don’t know, Meg. Maybe I should just flush it all out. Not take anything for a while.”

  “Look at you, stringing full sentences together like an actual human. I’m so proud. Here.” I pulled a single pill from the bottle, held it out. “Dr. Bart prescribed one every four hours. How about we do one every eight instead?”

  He stared at my hand. “What is it?”

  “Dorozapine,” I said. “It’ll level you off. I need you thinking clearly if we’re doing this.”

  “I haven’t taken anything in years.”

  And you haven’t been you. “Please, Michael. For me?” I pleaded. “I’ll let you sneak another peek at my boobs.”

  “I wasn’t looking at your—”

  “Save it. You totally checked my ladies. Frankly, you really need to see my ass. It’s fantastic.” My fingers teased the bottom of my towel.

  Michael’s face went red.

  He took the pill from my palm and swallowed it dry, then opened his mouth so I could see it was gone. “Happy, Doctor?”

  I nodded and gestured toward the scissors and hair dye. “Are you ready for your makeover, sir?”

  An hour later, Michael stood in front of the mirror, running his hand through his hair. “It’s so…blond.”

  “I like it,” I told him. “Your natural color is dark. We had to go with something different.”

  “Feels so short too.”

  “You’ve got a lot of beauty opinions for someone on the run. I don’t think anyone cares about your coiffure in the clink. Put these on.” I handed him a pair of black wire-rimmed glasses. “They’re meant for reading. It’s the lowest magnificati
on I could find, everything else made my eyes all swimmy.”

  I had pulled a light blue Gitman button-down from his bag along with a pair of dark slacks. With the glasses, he looked like a new man. I nodded at the television droning behind us. Aside from commercial breaks, Michael’s picture hadn’t left the screen. Two of the news channels were now running my photo too. I guess you finally figured out we were together, Jessica—gold star for you!

  “We look nothing like those two,” I told him.

  He pushed the glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. “Jeffery Longtin or Nicole Milligan?”

  “I made good time while you were sleeping. We’re closest to Jeffery,” I said.

  He reached for his watch and slipped it on.

  I frowned.

  “What is it?”

  “I guess I’ve never seen you wear a watch on that arm before.”

  Michael shrugged and moved the Breitling to his other wrist.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  The man with the scar on his hand had selected a car from the extended-stay parking garage attached to Gateway Station. A white Toyota Camry, about ten years old. Nothing special, nothing that would stand out. Judging by the speckling of bird droppings on the weather-beaten paint, not a car that would be missed anytime soon. The owner was most likely on an extended trip.

  Both his bags fit in the trunk with room to spare.

  He tuned the radio to 90.7. Mozart’s Symphony no. 20.

  Nice.

  From Gateway Station, he took I-55 South for about an hour, passing several small towns with unremarkable names. In Leadington, he left the interstate for a series of smaller roads. Those smaller roads gave way to blacktop afterthoughts riddled with potholes. He turned left off the third such road onto a path paved with gravel, then pulled off the edge into the grass and weeds, put the Camry in park, and killed the motor.