by J. D. Barker
“What about the woman? Nicole Milligan.”
“We cleared the house when my backup arrived. There’s no sign of her.”
Gimble frowned. “What kind of timeline are we looking at? Can you tell?”
“The complaint call came in at about ten to six this morning. That’s around twenty minutes before I arrived. The blood hasn’t dried, CSI isn’t here yet, but I’d be willing to bet it’s under an hour old.”
Gimble glanced at Vela. “Where is Milligan’s house?”
“Ashtabula, Ohio. Just off Lake Erie.”
“How far is that? What kind of distance?”
“Almost six hundred miles,” Vela replied. “There’s no way—”
Gimble wasn’t listening. “That’s less than nine hours’ drive time. With limited stops, exceed the speed limit by just a little, it can be done.”
“You can’t possibly believe this guy,” Vela said, nodding at the FBI van behind them. “He’s just buying time. Maybe trying to set up some convoluted defense.”
Gimble leaned back over Vela’s phone. “Officer, the neighbor who phoned in the complaint—did she see anyone?”
“No, ma’am. She was in bed. Her bedroom backs up to Milligan’s house but she was afraid to look out the window. She didn’t want anyone to see her. She said she heard a loud bang—I’m guessing that was the front door. That was followed by shouting, a man and woman, the gunshot, glass shattering, then nothing. Those things, in that order. By the time she got up the nerve to look outside, nobody was there. She didn’t see their vehicle.”
Gimble eyed Vela. “A man and a woman? Two voices. She’s sure of that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Gimble’s eyes had drifted back to the FBI van containing Kepler.
The officer continued. “Oh, and the mirror—I need to tell you about the mirror.”
“The mirror?” Vela repeated.
“In the bathroom. Someone wrote, ‘Some things stick. It’s time to go home, Meg,’ with a piece of soap on the glass.”
Gimble and Vela exchanged a glance, then she leaned back toward the phone. “We’ll need fingerprints, blood samples, copies of whatever you pull out of that place, understand? Agent Vela here will put you in touch with our crime lab to coordinate. If we can get a team out there fast enough, we will, but we’re in a time crunch here. Your people may need to handle the collection. Are you comfortable with that?”
The officer was quiet.
“Officer?”
“Our lead detective just arrived on scene. I’ll have him call you back in a minute.”
The line went dead.
Vela put the phone in his pocket. “There has to be another explanation.”
“And what if there’s not? What if Kepler is telling the truth?” Gimble asked. “If there is a twin, and I agree, that’s a big if, how could we tell them apart?”
Vela looked down at his shoes. “If they’re dizygotic, fraternal, they would have developed from two different eggs. There would be obvious physical differences. They are no different than any other siblings, really, except they are born at the same time. Monozygotic, however—identical twins—share the same DNA. The same physical characteristics. We’d have to rely on external differences such as behavior, personality, scars.” He paused for a second, then looked back at her. “Fingerprints aren’t a genetic characteristic. The patterns and swirls are influenced by the developmental environment of the womb. Fingerprints would be different in identical twins.”
Gimble thought about this for a second. “We’ve got Kepler’s DNA at every crime scene, but not a single matching print. This is possible.”
“A man can’t hide for twenty-six years,” Vela replied. “No way.”
“Okay, the sister, then,” Gimble countered. “She left here, drove straight to Milligan’s house, and abducted her.”
“You said she was hysterical, had a gunshot wound, so she was in no condition—”
“Give me another theory, then, anything,” Gimble interrupted. “Give me something that makes sense. Either way, this isn’t over. We’ve got another missing woman, possibly another victim at this point. Maybe two if Kepler is telling the truth.”
Vela smoothed his hair back. He had nothing. He looked as tired as the rest of them.
Gimble climbed back into the van and pulled the door shut behind her.
Kepler was wearing an orange jumpsuit now, one specifically designed to be put on without removing restraints. Rows of snaps ran up the arms and legs. “Do you believe me now?” he said, rubbing at the cuffs on his wrists.
Gimble ignored the question. “How did you know about Nicole Milligan?”
“You weren’t fast enough, were you?” Michael said, lowering his head. “He’s already been there.”
“How did you know about her?”
“Is she dead? Did you find Megan? Please tell me Megan is okay.”
Gimble told him what they’d found. She knew she shouldn’t. She had no reason to humor this man, but she told him anyway. Whether he was delusional or not, she needed to know what he knew.
When she finished, Kepler said, “You know about the feathers, right?”
“Longtin said Fitzgerald gave them to his patients.”
“Not all his patients, only certain ones. When Alyssa Tepper was found in my apartment, I asked Megan to go through Dr. Bart’s records. The patients who received feathers after sessions all had blue dots on their files. We found Alyssa Tepper’s file and several others marked with the same dot. From what we pieced together, Mitchell has been systematically killing off those specific patients. Jeffery Longtin and Nicole Milligan were the only two still alive—that’s why we came here.”
“You want me to believe you came here to help Longtin, not kill him? You want me to ignore all the evidence against you and believe that?”
Kepler said, “You know I didn’t shoot at you. I didn’t stab anyone. If it wasn’t me, who was it? You don’t have to believe me, I won’t ask you to do that. Just look at the facts, at the evidence. I turned myself in. You’ve had me locked up for hours and nothing has changed. It’s still going on. Mitchell plans to finish this and at this point, I don’t think he cares if you think it’s me anymore.” He looked up. “Did you find Nicole Milligan?”
Gimble saw no reason to lie to him. “Ashtabula, Ohio. Near Lake Erie.”
“He’s heading back to New York. He’s going home.”
It’s time to go home, Meg.
Gimble said, “Who’s left?”
Kepler looked down at his hands. “Maybe Dr. Rose? I don’t know how far he’s willing to take this.”
Gimble looked at him then and realized he didn’t know. There was no way he could, really. She had probably killed herself within minutes of Kepler turning himself in. Nobody would have told him, so she did. She waited for a reaction, any reaction, but there was none. Kepler clearly displayed two of the telltale signs of a sociopath—lack of emotion and lack of empathy. He took her death as a fact, another piece to an incomplete puzzle. He finally said, “If the house is gone, so is the room.”
“What room?”
“The dark room. Where he’d lock me for…for treatment. Some of his other patients too.” His face fell. He was shaking his head. “We had all the doctor’s records, proof of what he was doing, but they were in the SUV that exploded. All that’s gone now too.”
The chopper flew over again, the loud whoop of the blades drowning out all else for nearly a minute before drifting off.
Kepler looked up toward the sound. “You’re wasting time. They’re obviously gone. Somebody else is going to die.”
Gimble studied him; the two of them stayed quiet for some time. She wasn’t sure if she believed any of this, but it was clear Kepler believed it. He wasn’t exhibiting any outward signs of deception. Of course, that could be faked, but he seemed so tired and run down, she wasn’t sure he was capable of such a thing right now.
She reached into her pocket and to
ok out his bottle of pills. “Do you need one of these?”
His blank gaze fell on the bottle, then he looked back at her. “I will if you want me to, but I don’t feel like I need them. I’d rather keep my head clear so we can find Megan.”
“You’re not finding anyone,” Gimble told him. “You’re going to prison.”
Kepler looked her dead in the eye. “He doesn’t know I turned myself in. You can’t let the press know—he thinks I’m still on the run. If he finds out, he might change whatever he has planned. He might just kill Megan and Nicole and run. Disappear.”
“You’re wanted for multiple murders.”
Kepler raised his hands and rattled the chains. “You’ve got me. I’m in federal custody. I’m not going anywhere. You’ve chased him for what? Two years? I’ll help you. You can’t risk him escaping again.”
“You don’t know his endgame, not really.”
“If he’s my brother, I understand him better than anyone else. I told you he’d go after Nicole Milligan and I was right.”
“But you don’t know where he’s going next.”
Kepler tilted his head slightly to the side. “What day is it, Agent?”
Gimble had to think about it for a second; she hadn’t stopped moving in nearly a week. “Tuesday.”
“Tuesday,” Kepler repeated. “Dr. Barton’s funeral is today. If anyone else connected to this is still alive, they’ll be there. We need to get to New York. Get me eyes on that crowd and I can help you identify the people there. That’s how you get ahead of him. If you lock me up instead, the press gets wind I’m in custody, tomorrow you’ll be cleaning up more bodies and he’ll be gone.”
Gimble kept her glare trained on his face.
“You know I’m right,” Kepler said. “You’ll never catch him without me.”
When Gimble got out of the van, she found Vela standing in the same spot as earlier. He glanced down at her twitching fingers as she closed the door.
He held up both palms deferentially. “This is obviously your call, but for what it’s worth, I think he’s working you.”
“Call the airfield. I want the jet fueled and ready to go in twenty minutes,” Gimble replied.
“Are we going to Los Angeles or New York?”
“New York,” she said. “I don’t know how Kepler is involved and I need to. Until then, we keep the fact that he’s in custody under wraps. He stays in play. We see this through.”
She took out her own phone and dialed first the assistant director, then the local Bureau branch in Erie. Gimble gave them Milligan’s address and instructed them to take over the local investigation, treat it as a kidnapping, and send copies of all findings directly to her. Then she whistled for Vela, climbed into an FBI SUV, and said, “Come on.”
Part 6
Home
Sometimes, the only thing separating false from true is perception.
—Barton Fitzgerald, MD
Chapter One Hundred Ten
Dobbs
I don’t like this; we should run it by Gimble first,” Begley said.
They were parked on Browning Street, the tall peaks of Windham Hall visible through the branches of the old oaks a block down the road.
Dobbs had waited for a patrol officer to arrive at the bridge and secure the scene before heading back. He found Begley pacing the drive at the Fitzgerald gate, and he was in the passenger seat before the Nissan even stopped moving. He smelled of smoke. Now it appeared the agent was having second thoughts about coming here.
“You told her about the pass I found in the car, right?”
Begley shook his head. “She cut me off before I got the chance.”
“Call her back, then,” Dobbs replied. The visitor’s pass was in his right hand; he found himself absently turning the plastic card in his fingers.
“She’s not answering. They’re still in the air.” He glared at the pass. “That should be in evidence.”
“I’ll log it when we get back,” Dobbs replied. “Want me to return you to the house? If you’d rather stand around that place and watch everyone pick through the ashes, you’re welcome to do that.” Dobbs nodded toward the large brick structure. “I told you what Dr. Fitzgerald said before she jumped.”
“That’s hardly conclusive.”
“There’s the uniforms too.” He held up the pass. “Her husband was here recently.”
“You don’t know that—maybe he left the pass on his seat months ago.”
Dobbs shook his head. “The interior of that car was immaculate. There was nothing inside. Not even a pen or coins lying around. People like that don’t leave things on the seat unless they recently used them or planned to use them soon.”
“She was so cryptic on the phone,” Begley said. “Guarded. Like she didn’t want to talk on an open line.”
“Gimble?”
“Yeah.”
“But she did tell you she thought Kepler and his sister were heading back to New York, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you updated the BOLO? Locals, feds, everyone has eyes on this area?”
Begley nodded.
“Then I think you’ve done everything by the book. She’d want you to be right here, following a lead. She wouldn’t want you sitting around waiting for the press to find him.”
Begley looked out the window at Windham Hall and considered this.
“If she has a problem with it, you can always blame me. I work for LAPD; I don’t answer to her. You can tell her you tried to talk me out of it and I’m some crazy rogue cop unwilling to listen to reason. Say you came along to keep me in check.”
“That sounds about right.”
Dobbs looked at him. “In or out? Last chance.”
Begley gestured toward the building. “Just go.”
Dobbs pulled out onto the quiet street and turned into the Windham Hall driveway. The large wrought-iron gate was closed. He stopped beside the call box, lowered his window, and pressed the button.
No response came.
“Looks abandoned,” Begley said, peering through the gate.
He was right. The grass hadn’t been mowed in some time. Several wooden benches lined the driveway on the other side; one of them had collapsed and was overgrown with weeds.
Dobbs pressed the button again. When he still didn’t receive an answer, he took the visitor’s pass and pressed it against the electronic card reader. A beep came from the speaker, a small blinking LED changed from red to green, and the large gate swung open. He waited for Begley to object again, but he didn’t.
Dobbs eased the car forward.
Windham Hall was larger than he’d expected. Only the façade was visible from the street, but as they neared the building, it was clear it extended deep into the property from the back. Three stories tall with windows at the basement level, the building had once been a mansion and had been substantially added to over the years. Ivy covered the deep-red brick and climbed the outer walls, even some of the windows. It hadn’t been cut back in a while. Thick vines hung from the trees like heavy green teardrops.
Dobbs followed the cracked driveway around, carefully avoiding several potholes, and parked near the front door. A small lot stood off to the side, thirty feet away. A silver Volvo was parked in the space nearest the building; there were no other vehicles.
“Somebody’s here,” Begley said.
“Patchen?”
“Maybe.”
They got out of the car.
The front door was locked. When Dobbs knocked, nobody answered.
Next to the door, mounted in the brick and worn after years of exposure to the elements, was another card reader. A little red LED blinked patiently up at them.
Chapter One Hundred Eleven
Written Statement,
Megan Fitzgerald
“Talk to me, Meg.”
I glanced over at Michael, Mitchell, whoever, in the driver’s seat and raised my bound hands. “Cut away the duct tape, and we can chat.”
“It’s not on your mouth.”
My hands dropped back into my lap. “What do you want me to say?”
“Tell me how much you missed me. How happy you are to see me. How you’ve longed for this moment your entire life, and you finally feel free,” he said.
“Fuck you.”
Mitchell beamed. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”
“Ew.”
He reached over and squeezed my knee. “I’m just trying to lighten the mood.”
We were driving fast. Blowing the limit by twenty, easy. I expected a police car to come screaming out from behind some trees or fly up behind us, but none did.
Nicole had stopped beating on the trunk lid about twenty minutes ago. She’d gone quiet again.
We’d flown past the first sign for Ithaca about five minutes earlier.
“You can’t kill her,” I said.
His hand left my knee and went back to the wheel. He signaled and passed a slow-moving minivan.
It must have been the adrenaline or the hysteria or just the general loss of my marbles, because I laughed at that. He’s speeding with one girl tied up in the passenger seat, another in the trunk, half the country’s law enforcement officers looking for him, and he signals before passing a soccer mom. To me, this seemed the equivalent of a bank robber holding the door for the SWAT team.
He smiled again. “It’s good to see you happy. I’ve missed you, Meg.”
“Promise me you won’t kill her.”
The smile grew.
“Mitchell,” I forced myself to say. “Promise me.”