The Coast-to-Coast Murders

by J. D. Barker

  “I don’t plan to do it alone. We’ll kill her together. That’s what Dr. Bart would have wanted. He’d be so proud if he could see us right now, you and me working together. Don’t you think?” His smile grew wider. “Oh God, it just feels so good to be out. To be with you.”

  His hand went to my knee again, then slipped a little up my thigh.

  I pulled away, got closer to my door.

  The smile left his face. “What’s wrong, Meg?”

  “Why did you kiss me back there?”

  “I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t I kiss you?”

  “You’re going to make me say it?” I frowned. “You’re my brother!”

  The car slowed. He stared straight ahead.

  “Not my real brother,” I went on. “But still. It’s weird.”

  He looked over at me, the corner of his lip rising. “You still think I’m him, don’t you?”

  “You’re sick, Michael. You’re not taking your meds, and you’re not thinking straight. You’re allowing your illness to—”

  “Ask me,” he broke in. “Go ahead and ask me. I know you want to.”

  I looked at him. “Who’s on the mark?”

  “Mitchell,” he stated flatly.

  This was hopeless. “That’s what I mean. You think you’re Mitchell. You need your meds.”

  His hand left my leg again. “Michael is my brother. We left him at Longtin’s little wooden shit shack back in St. Louis. I’m Dr. Bart’s dirty little secret. The one he kept in a cage for twenty-six years.”

  Chapter One Hundred Twelve

  Dobbs

  The first time Dobbs pressed the ID card to the reader, nothing happened. Nothing happened the second time either.

  “Hold on,” Begley told him. Using the tail of his shirt, he wiped the screen of the reader. “Okay, try again.”

  This time when Dobbs pressed the card against the reader, the LED switched from red to green, and there was an audible click. He rested his free hand on the butt of the Glock on his hip and eased the door open. The bottom scraped against the marble floor, the wood swollen. Morning light spilled in from outside, illuminating a dark-paneled foyer with wood benches built into either side and empty coatracks filling the space above. The floor was covered in a dusting of dirt; several fall leaves fluttered against the baseboards, caught in spiderwebs.

  “Federal agents!” Begley called out. “Is there anyone here?” His words echoed off the wall. The air smelled stale. “Is this place abandoned?” Begley asked, stepping inside.

  Dobbs found a switch on the wall and flipped it. Fluorescent bulbs ticked to life from above, illuminating the foyer, a central hallway, and at least half a dozen other corridors leading away from the main room. “I don’t think the power would be on.”

  A sign on the wall read DORMITORIES TO THE LEFT, ADMINISTRATION TO THE RIGHT. There were two staircases, one set leading up, the other down.

  “Come on,” Dobbs said, heading down the hallway to the right, toward administration. Begley followed, his hand resting on his gun too. Their footsteps were much louder than either man would have liked.

  Chapter One Hundred Thirteen

  Written Statement,

  Megan Fitzgerald

  “That’s not possible,” I shot back.

  Mitchell had slowed to the speed limit. “I don’t understand. You know this. You know me.”

  I just shook my head.

  “Did Dr. Bart mess with you too? Make you forget somehow?”

  Before I could answer, he continued. “You read all his files, right? You read them?”

  “The ones you burned back there? Our evidence? Those files?”

  He said the next words slowly, driving them home. “There was one for Michael Kepler, and one for—”

  I knew where he was going with this. “M. Kepler.”

  He nodded. “I’ve seen them too. Dr. Bart would let me read them—yours, mine, Michael’s, Nicole’s, all of them. All the others. Years’ worth of data. I’ve seen it all. It started with Longtin. Patient zero, I guess you could call him. You read his file, right?”

  I thought about what Michael and I had considered earlier in the car, but it seemed so crazy. “He studied Longtin’s condition and wanted to produce dissociative identity disorder. He wanted to create multiple personalities.”

  Mitchell nodded again. “He just needed fertile ground. He got that with Michael and me. The way our mother died. The trauma of that. It left us wide open. You heard the tapes…”

  The car was still slowing down. I don’t think he had his foot on the gas pedal anymore.

  “Michael doesn’t have a brother,” I said. “You are Michael.”

  He shook his head. “They found Michael in the closet at that motel, and child services called Windham Hall. Patchen came out to pick him up. I saw him load Michael into his car, and when he started to drive off, I ran out. I’d been hiding behind the Dumpsters, watching the police. But I saw him taking away my brother, and I ran. I couldn’t let him take away my brother. When he stopped, I got in the car too. I didn’t think twice about it. I yanked open the door and scrambled in beside him. At first, I thought he was going to tell me to get out, the way he looked at me. But he didn’t; instead, he just drove off. He took us both back to Windham Hall. We were only four years old. I never considered the fact that nobody else saw me. I just couldn’t bear to be separated from Michael. We only had each other. I was probably in shock too. After seeing what Max did.”

  He reached into his back pocket and took out the paper he’d retrieved from Nicole Milligan’s jewelry box. He tossed it into my lap.

  “Michael and I were born in a crack house on a filthy mattress in Brooklyn. That piece of paper is the only proof I even exist.”

  I unfolded the document. It was a birth certificate, issued by Windham Hall four years after the stated date of birth. The name read Mitchell Aaron Kepler.

  Chapter One Hundred Fourteen

  Dobbs

  There were boxes everywhere.

  Stacked against the walls, on top of the furniture.

  Every room they passed was in some form of disarray. Chairs were stacked on tables. Sheets covered cabinets. Large rugs had been rolled up and were standing against the walls or balanced precariously in corners. Paintings stood in piles, the walls above them darker in the spots where they’d once hung. At the windows, heavy draperies were pulled tight, sealing out the light.

  They found the door to the administration office open. Several wooden chairs sat outside of it, their surfaces marred with the scribbling and scratches of the children who’d occupied them over the years.

  Dobbs caught movement inside the room. Begley saw it too. A shadow against the back wall, there for only a moment, then gone.

  Dobbs motioned for Begley to move to the left of the door. He neared the wall on the right and eased closer to the opening, releasing the leather strap on his Glock with the thumb of his right hand. In position, he nodded at Begley.

  “Federal agents,” Begley called out. “Step out where we can see you!”

  There was a loud thump, followed by a crash. Someone swore in a gruff voice.

  A thin, wiry man in his mid-sixties came out of an office in the far back corner, a confused look on his face. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

  He held a revolver in his hand.

  A big one.

  Chapter One Hundred Fifteen

  Written Statement,

  Megan Fitzgerald

  “Is this real?”

  I held the birth certificate awkwardly in my bound hands, my fingers running over the intricate trim pattern in gold foil along the outer edges, my eyes glued to the name.

  Mitchell Aaron Kepler.

  Nicole Milligan began thumping on the trunk again. One fist, over and over. Thump, thump, thump…

  His foot found the gas pedal, and we began to pick up speed. We passed another sign for Ithaca—next exit, two miles.

  “When we got to Windham Hall, P
atchen rushed us inside to his office. He told Michael and me to sit in chairs outside his door. He closed it, but I could still make out the words, some of them, anyway—‘How fast can you get here? We don’t have much time. Double, it will cost double.’”

  He fell silent for a moment. “That’s the part I remember most, ‘it will cost double.’ I think it stuck out because Max’s dealer had told Max the same thing the night before when he’d tried to buy some smack or weed or meth or whatever he needed to satisfy his latest jones. Michael was completely silent beside me, probably in shock. I remember somebody had carved a name into the arm of the chair. He kept running his fingers over the letters, following them like a little track. Over and over; he wouldn’t stop. I’d pull his hand away, and he’d just do it again. Fitzgerald showed up about an hour later—Dr. Bart, we were told to call him. When he came in, he knelt down in front of us, took our hands in his, and told us everything would be okay.”

  He clucked his tongue and glanced out the side window. “For a second there, I think I even believed him. I know I wanted to believe him. I’m sure Michael did too. At that age, you want to trust adults, but every adult in our lives had let us down, had lied to us, and I guess we built up a wall because of it. I should have known they were both lying when they separated us, but even then, we wanted to believe.”

  He eased the car to the right, following the Ithaca exit.

  After several more turns, I knew where he was going.

  We spotted the smoke a minute or two after that. My house, a smoldering ruin off in the distance.

  Chapter One Hundred Sixteen

  Dobbs

  Put the gun down!” Begley shouted, his own weapon out and pointing at the man in an instant.

  “How did you get in here?” the man replied, the barrel of his revolver leveled at Begley. “This is private property. You’re trespassing.”

  Dobbs raised both his hands, palms out. “We’re with the FBI. We have reason to believe Michael Kepler might be coming here. Are you familiar with Michael Kepler?”

  “Of course. I watch the news.”

  “Lower your weapon,” Dobbs said in the most soothing voice he could. “Are you Lawrence Patchen?”

  He nodded. “Show me your identification. Slowly.”

  Dobbs reached into his back pocket, withdrew his badge, and held it up.

  The man squinted at the badge and ID card. “You’re LAPD. You don’t have any jurisdiction here. I want you both to leave immediately.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t do that,” Begley said, circling slowly to his right.

  “Don’t!” the man shouted. “Neither of you move!”

  The gun, a Colt Python, was too big for him. His hand was shaking from its weight or from nerves or both. His finger grazed the trigger.

  Begley continued to move around him. The man followed him with the barrel, his narrow eyes darting from Begley to Dobbs and back again.

  “I’m a federal agent,” Begley said. “This man is a homicide detective. Like he said, we’re both in pursuit of Michael Kepler, and we have reason to believe he’s coming here.”

  If this meant anything to the man, his face didn’t give it away.

  “Put your gun down,” he said to Begley.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

  The Python went off with the blast of a cannon; the bullet struck Begley in his upper chest. He fell back, knocking over several boxes behind him as he crashed to the floor. When the gun came around toward Dobbs, he dived to the side, landed hard on the marble. A second shot exploded; the bullet buried itself in the wall above him. He rolled and had his own gun out and pointing up before he stopped moving.

  Patchen was gone.

  Dobbs scrambled to his feet and went to Begley. A large red stain was spreading over his sky-blue shirt. A puddle grew underneath him. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. His lips were flecked with blood. He was choking, choking on his own blood. Dobbs pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911 with one hand while pressing on the wound with his other.

  When the operator picked up, he didn’t give them a chance to speak. “This is LAPD Detective Garrett Dobbs. I’ve got a federal agent down at the Windham Hall orphanage in Lansing. Gunshot wound to the chest, possible punctured lung. Send help immediately. Suspect armed and on the premises.”

  There was no response.

  He looked down at the display—

  CALL ENDED.

  He had only one bar.

  He dialed again, but this time he just got dead air.

  The first call had dropped while he was talking. He had no idea if the operator had heard any of what he said.

  Begley’s arm came up slowly. He pointed at the door, toward the hallway. “Go.” The word was thin, barely a whisper. Blood pooled in his mouth, staining his teeth, and dripped down his cheek.

  Dobbs shook his head. “No way.”

  Begley’s hand went to his chest; he pushed away Dobbs’s hand and covered the wound himself. Blood oozed out between his fingers. “They’ll find me. Go.”

  “I’m not leaving an officer down.”

  Begley stared up at him. His lips parted again, but the life left his eyes, and he didn’t utter another word.

  Chapter One Hundred Seventeen

  Written Statement,

  Megan Fitzgerald

  Mitchell pulled to the side of the road when my house came into view. He hadn’t turned down our street but instead had taken Hickory and followed it up to the top of the hill. The property was visible in the valley beneath us; the driveway was still filled with ambulances, fire trucks, and other vehicles most likely belonging to law enforcement.

  The car jerked as he shifted into park before we had come to a complete stop. I heard Nicole Milligan roll in the trunk, thud against the back seat. She let out a muffled sound of complaint.

  Mitchell was out the door and standing next to the car, his face turning red.

  He stared down below.

  My stomach sank at the sight of it. It didn’t seem real; it was like watching a scene from a movie. The roof was a skeleton of sticks. Half the walls were missing. All the windows were destroyed. Black smoke poured out from every opening, staining the sky and what little still stood of the outer shell.

  When he got back in the car, I asked, “Do you think she was in there? Dr. Rose?”

  He ignored me and pulled back onto Hickory, followed the quiet street down to Danby Road, and made his way back to NY-13 toward Lansing.

  “Do you think she was in the house?” I repeated, craning my head back toward the smoke. “She must have gotten out, right?”

  He kept ignoring me. I watched as he reached over and flicked on the radio. He pressed the scan button, and kept punching it with his fingertip until he came to a news station.

  “…Cornell University security has been asked to prevent the student body from approaching the bridge while local and federal authorities attempt to piece together the events unfolding this morning. Why the Cornell instructor would jump from the beloved suspension bridge to her death in Fall Creek Gorge is still unknown. Dr. Rose Fitzgerald, a practicing psychologist, recently lost her husband, Dr. Barton Fitzgerald, a renowned psychiatrist and author. Perhaps his death was too much for her. We have learned a substantial police presence has gathered at her home in South Hill. A fire has been reported at the residence as well. We will continue to keep you apprised as events unfold. Dr. Rose Fitzgerald is survived by two adopted children, her daughter, Megan, and son—”

  Mitchell shut off the radio, beat his fist on the steering wheel, and screamed so loud your buddies at Quantico probably heard him.

  Chapter One Hundred Eighteen

  Gimble

  The wheels of the Gulfstream G550 hit the tarmac at Ithaca Tompkins Regional Airport with a chirp. Gimble felt the jet engines reverse, heard the brake flaps deploy, sensed the pressure of deceleration. Rather than look out the window, she continued to stare at the back of Michael Ke
pler’s head.

  He was chained to a seat two rows in front of her in the small jet, his fingers gripping the armrest. He’d barely moved during the flight. He may have even slept. She couldn’t bring herself to talk to him, not once. All the facts of this case rattling around in her head and running into each other had given her a terrible headache.

  Vela sat across from her, his eyes closed.

  As the plane slowed and maneuvered toward a small terminal, her mobile phone beeped with an incoming text message, then immediately rang with a call. She glanced down at the display, saw that it was Sammy, and answered. “Gimble.”

  “Okay, this is weird so I’m not exactly sure what I’ve got, but you need to know about it. What do you know about tractor trailers?”

  Gimble said, “They drive ridiculously slow and love to cut me off in traffic, and at least half of them seem to be owned by Walmart.”

  “Have you ever driven one?”

  “Sammy, I’m really not in the mood for twenty questions. What are you getting at?”

  “When we were at Longtin’s cabin, I noticed something very strange in the GPS data we pulled from Kepler’s truck. The data recorder captures a lot of different things—full GPS, speeds, engine data, starts, stops; I’ve been focusing on RPMs. Tractor trailers like the one Kepler drove max out at around nineteen hundred, much lower than cars. You’ll never see one break two thousand. It’s not possible without redlining, burning out the engine. When I isolate the data for each of the murder victims we traced back to his routes, there is a stop somewhere near the highway. When the vehicle starts moving again, the RPMs are anywhere from one thousand to four thousand. They stay in that range to and from each of our murder scenes, then drop down to below two thousand back at the highway. Every time.”