by Tim Green
Unger's career had somehow drifted into a stagnant pool along the normal stream of advancement in the bureau. By his age, an agent expected at the very least to be in a nominal supervisory role. But Unger had never had that chance. He fancied a good part of his career's stagnation was due to his not kissing anyone's ass. But while that may have been true in part, the main reason he'd been passed over was that he had really never done anything to distinguish himself. And he knew he'd been labeled early on as a guy who really couldn't get the job done if it was a hot case. So it was only natural for him to presume that Bolinger's supposed serial killer case was shabby at best.
"I just thought I'd try to get this thing off on the right foot," Bolinger explained. "Dean Wentworth told me the bureau has an extra car for you at the office, so I knew someone had to come get you, that or take a cab. I really appreciate your coming out and opening this case."
"Doesn't sound like there's much of a case to open," he said sullenly. Bolinger looked at the agent with concern. Despite his appearance and his morose attitude, Bolinger tried to take comfort from the fact that Unger's cobalt eyes were alive with intelligence.
After the agent's big leather valise and his golf clubs were tucked snugly in the trunk of Bolinger's cruiser, they set off toward the city.
Unger turned the air-conditioning vents his way. "I've got an old college roommate who lives here," he said complacently. "He owns a Dodge dealership. He's getting us on at the West Lake Hills Country Club. You ever played there?"
"No," Bolinger said. "Can't say I have. Hey, Jim, you mind if I smoke? I'll open the window."
Unger glared at him indignantly and said, "Listen, Bob, I might as well get this out right up front. I can't stand smoke. It makes me sick, so I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't do it."
"Okay, no problem," Bolinger said, trying not to sound defensive. He stuffed the pack back into his coat pocket. "That's why I asked."
"And I might as well tell you right now that I don't like the name Jim," Unger continued. "My name is James. That's the name my mom gave me and she didn't like people calling me Jim or Jimmy, so I can't stand it myself."
Bolinger felt his face burning with an unusual blend of embarrassment and annoyance. He was about ready to turn the car around and ship this guy right back to Atlanta. But he needed an FBI agent to work with. Alone, he had no jurisdiction whatsoever to go poking around the country chasing down possible leads on a possible serial killer.
Which was what Bolinger thought Lipton was. The more he had thought about the Marcia Sales case, the more he was convinced that she was killed by someone who'd done that kind of thing before. No one, not even a guy as smart as Lipton, could go out and knock someone off that neatly, disemboweling the girl while at the same time not leaving any kind of clues on the scene. You couldn't do that the first time out. A crime scene like that was the result of years of practice. It also made sense that Lipton had never killed someone so close to home before.
The murder in Atlanta, for example, was something relatively safe. Lipton had had very limited contact with that girl, then two months later had returned to commit the crime. Looking back now, it made sense, but for the cops investigating her death, there would have been no logical connection to Lipton. Bolinger felt confident that as he worked his way backward through Lipton's travel schedule, he would find more bodies. But to do that he needed James Unger.
In an attempt to light some kind of fire under the agent, Bolinger spent the rest of his afternoon in the federal building going through the entire case with Unger. There were moments when he thought there was something in the agent's eyes that indicated at least a minimal level of interest. But that was only until he realized that Unger was spending more time looking longingly at the pre-crime photos of Marcia Sales than he was paying attention to what Bolinger was saying.
"Wasn't the lawyer in this case that woman I've seen on CNN? Wasn't it Casey Jordan?" Unger asked with a yawn along about four o'clock.
"Yeah, she represented Lipton," Bolinger told him.
"I remember seeing her on CNN a while ago during that state senator's trial. Remember? The guy who they said killed his mistress? Does she look as good in person as she does on TV?" Unger asked with a leering grin. "I wouldn't mind running into her while I'm in on this case. Is there any reason we might have to run into her?"
Bolinger looked away from the agent in an attempt to hide his disgust. "Maybe you'll run into her out on the golf course," he said. "She lives out at West Lake Hills."
Unger fingered the picture of Marcia Sales once more before saying, "Yeah, that makes sense. I guess that's where a bigshot attorney would live. She's kind of big time, huh?"
Unger spoke with the transparent bitterness that the disappointed typically show when referring to someone rich or famous.
"I guess as far as lawyers go, she is. Well," Bolinger said, gathering up his papers, "I've given you enough stuff for one day. I'm sure you're going to want to get to your hotel and get ready for tonight."
"What's tonight?"
"You said the car dealer was taking you to Sixth Street, right?"
"Yeah. Oh yeah. Yeah, that's a good idea," Unger said, standing and seeing Bolinger to the door. "I've got to check in with Dean, too. Um… so tomorrow I kind of want to get a feel for this West Lake Hills course. How about we get things going around two in the afternoon?"
"So soon?" Bolinger said with a straight face. "Why not take the day to settle in and we can meet on Wednesday morning?"
"Oh, you sure you don't mind?" Unger actually smiled, glad to see that this guy got it.
"No. I'll get to work on this stuff," Bolinger said, patting his files. "What I would like you to do, though, is give my captain a call and tell him you'd like to have my help for the next week or so."
"Why?" Unger asked dubiously.
"You're the FBI," Bolinger said. "You'd be helping me out if you just call him and say you're working on a case that involves the Lipton, I mean, the Marcia Sales murder. If he gets a call from you, he'll let me work on this with you for a few days. That way I can get going on this and take some of the workload off your hands."
"I appreciate that, Bob," the agent said, unable to help feeling slightly suspicious. "I really do. That sounds great. I'll give him a call right now."
By the time Bolinger got back to the station, John Clark, the captain, was asking to see him. The detectives' squad room was in turmoil, but Bolinger was so tuned into getting clearance to work with the FBI that he paid no attention to all the hubbub. He marched straight through it all and into his boss's office. The captain was on the phone but held up one finger and got off after a few curt words to someone whose name Bolinger recognized as a local TV anchor.
"You want to help this guy from the FBI, Bob?" the captain asked skeptically. His face was hard and his bullet-shaped head was bald except for a few steely strands that traversed his flushed dome from ear to ear.
"Yeah," Bolinger said, then lied. "I told Dean Wentworth I'd help him out. He's got this one by himself. Dean's busy as all hell with that string of bank robberies."
The captain nodded grimly. "Well, you can give them some help, but not right away. I want you to get up to the campus and take a look at that kid who was killed. I want you to handle it."
"What kid?" Bolinger said, the energy in the squad room suddenly making sense.
"You didn't hear the call?" the captain asked. "It was the kid who testified in the Lipton case, the dead girl's old boyfriend. I'm surprised you didn't hear about it."
"I've been out all afternoon," Bolinger said hesitantly.
"Well, I'm on my way there," the captain said, rising from his chair and removing his hat from the coat rack behind his desk. "You might as well go over with me. You know the father, right? The father of the girl."
"Yeah," Bolinger said.
"I guess this kid made him look pretty bad at the trial?"
"He did."
"Well, you'll want to have a talk wit
h him, I'm sure."
"Yes," Bolinger said. He was having a hard time believing what he'd just heard. If it was what it appeared to be, then it certainly shot his theory all to hell.
"Yes, I'll want to talk to him right away," he murmured.
CHAPTER 17
Bolinger rode with his captain through the area dominated by student housing. They passed within two blocks of where Marcia Sales was killed and as they did, the captain bitched about the pressure he was going to be under now that another student was dead. The body had been found by a guy walking his dog in Pease Park, a green area near the university that encompassed a portion of Shoal Creek. It was a favorite spot for runners. A dozen police cars, an ambulance, and a fire emergency vehicle lined a portion of the parkway that ran through the park. Bolinger hopped out and followed his boss over the guardrail. As they tromped down a slope into the afternoon shade of the woods, Bolinger paused to light a Winston.
Castle lay in a tangle of brush just to the other side of a hedge that bordered a blacktop path. His clouded eyes stared up at them and his mouth was agog; a nasty rope burn had scoured his neck. Bolinger removed his sunglasses and crouched down next to the student. Like Marcia Sales's, his torso had been split open like a pea pod. The incision was neat and clean and his innards had been removed. The lab techs were carefully stepping around in the brush, and he heard someone say something about a coyote. Bolinger absently wondered how much of the evisceration was due to the killer and how much was due to any dogs or coyotes that might have gotten into it.
"Lipton," he murmered.
"What's that, Bob?" the captain said, leaning over him.
Bolinger looked up with the cigarette hanging from his lips. "I said 'Lipton.' He did this."
The captain's face clouded over. Bolinger was his best homicide man, maybe the best he'd ever seen. But he was also a hardheaded mule, a man who had a difficult time admitting when he was wrong.
"I want you to look into the father, Bob," he said firmly. "I know how you feel about your instincts. I respect that as much as anyone… but I want you to check him out. Keep an open mind. Can you do that?"
Bolinger looked past his boss at a young woman who was sliding what looked like a kidney into a cellophane bag.
"Yeah," he said as he rose to his feet. "I can do that."
Back at the station, Bolinger let the captain out at the curb.
"You going out there now?" he asked.
"Yeah," Bolinger answered.
"You'll take someone with you, Bob?" the captain said, leaning into the car through the window. It was more than a suggestion.
"Okay," Bolinger said.
"Good." The captain rapped twice on the roof of the cruiser with his knuckles. "Let me know what you turn up. I'll be here all night."
Bolinger paged up Farnhorst, who had been questioning a barmaid down on Sixth Street about a knifing on Saturday night.
"But I'm having a sandwich right now," he admitted.
"I'll swing by and get you," Bolinger said.
On the ride out to Sales's place, Bolinger filled in Farnhorst on what had happened.
"My gut tells me it's Lipton," he concluded.
Farnhorst nodded but was noncommittal, and that made Bolinger wonder. He knew better than the captain about his own propensity to be pigheaded. Was he being that way now? They pulled into Sales's dirt drive just as the sun was dipping below the rim of the western hills. It was a perfect crimson orb. With it went the warmth of the day, and Bolinger rolled up his window before he got out.
Together they mounted Sales's porch. The creak of old wood called out amid the din of ten thousand night insects. The tranquil setting was strangely familiar.
"Bob," Farnhorst said in an alarmed tone, "look."
As Farnhorst drew his gun, Bolinger looked down on the porch. There was a spattered line of blood he hadn't noticed that started at the bottom step and ended at the front door. Bolinger knelt down and touched it with the tips of his first two fingers. It was still greasy and moist.
"It's not too old," he said quietly. He looked at Farnhorst's gun but didn't draw his own. Instead he stood and hammered on the door. There were no lights on, and the new dusk made it quite dark inside the cabin. Through the front window, he could see a large form passing quickly through the gloom. The porch light went on suddenly, and Farnhorst stepped back into the shadows with his gun raised. Bolinger stepped aside as well. The door swung slowly open, spilling light into the cabin through the screen. There was no one in sight.
"Don," Bolinger cried out, "it's Bob Bolinger. We need to talk to you."
There was some shuffling inside the cabin, and suddenly Sales appeared in the doorway.
"What do you want?" Sales demanded in a tone that was sullen and much harsher than Bolinger had grown used to over the past year. His expression was hard to read through the screen, but Bolinger could hear the tension in his voice.
"Put the gun down," Farnhorst commanded in a loud booming voice that seemed almost obscene on such a peaceful night. Sales had a pistol in his hand, and although his arm hung straight down with the gun pointed at the floor, it made Bolinger swallow hard.
"You put yours down then." Sales glowered. "I don't need someone pointing a gun at me in the doorway of my own house."
"Put it down," Bolinger gently told his partner. "We need to talk to you, Don."
"Talk," Sales said. Some of the tension left his voice at the sight of Farnhorst's weapon by his side.
"We want you to come downtown with us," Bolinger said. "Will you do that?"
"Why?" Sales asked. "What's the problem? I didn't do anything."
"I know, Don," Bolinger said. "But Frank Castle was killed last night. Someone cut him open."
Sales stared blankly at the detective. He sighed resignedly and said, "Let me get my coat."
Without waiting for a reply, Sales turned back into the house, then emerged a minute later emptyhanded, wearing a black suede jacket and a matching cowboy hat. Farnhorst kept his gun ready, and when Bolinger asked about the blood on the porch, he tightened his grip. But Sales only laughed at them and held up his left hand. There was a blood-soaked bandage wrapped tightly around his index finger.
"Cut it to the bone," he explained. His mouth was twisted somewhere between a grimace and a smile. Then, pointing to the small shop on the side of the cabin, he continued, "Band saw."
The two detectives nodded silently and followed Sales across the dusty front yard. They piled into their car just as the headlights from his pickup cut into the coming night. Sales waited until they got turned around, then followed the police cruiser as it snaked its way to the main road.
"I didn't like that gun," Farnhorst complained.
"Man has a right to protect his own house," Bolinger pointed out. The lighter popped out on the dash, and after removing it he touched off the Winston that dangled from his mouth.
They hadn't been driving for more than three minutes before Bolinger, who had been keeping a casual eye on Sales in the rearview mirror, saw the dome light illuminate the truck's cab. Bolinger's instincts told him it meant something. When the light went off, however, he relaxed. But two minutes later, Farnhorst heard him utter the words "Oh, shit."
"What's the problem?" Farnhorst asked, but before Bolinger even answered, Farnhorst was thrown into his door when the sergeant slammed on the brakes and flipped the wheel, skidding around until they were facing in the opposite direction.
"There he goes," Bolinger muttered as he hit the gas. He slammed the wheel with the palm of his hand. "Shit!"
The two grim-faced cops wove in and out of the thin traffic. Sales was driving like a maniac, passing cars on double yellow lines and narrowly avoiding the oncoming traffic. Bolinger flicked on his lights and the siren, which helped clear the traffic.
"Hang on!" he shouted as the cruiser mounted a hilltop and took to the air momentarily before crashing back to the pavement. Sales was already at the bottom of the hill and had shot around a w
ooded bend out of sight. When Bolinger rounded the corner, he cursed out loud.
"Son of a bitch!"
There was Sales's truck, driven right off the road and stopped just this side of the trees in some knee-deep grass. Sales shot out of the truck with a bundle under one arm and a rifle he'd wrenched from the rack behind the seat. Farnhorst rolled down his window on the approach and brandished his gun; he screamed for Sales to freeze. Sales never broke stride. Just before he hit the trees, Farnhorst began to fire. Bolinger jammed on the brakes, throwing his partner into the dash.
"Goddamn!" Bolinger cried. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Son of a bitch is gonna get away, Bob!" Farnhorst shouted. He jumped from the car, gun in hand, but pulled up beside the pickup and turned to face his sergeant. The truck's engine was still running. Country music spilled from the cab into the dusk. Bolinger got out of the car and met Farnhorst's eyes with a cold, hard stare.
"You know better than that," he told Farnhorst in reference to the gunfire. Bolinger waded through the grass, already wet with dew. Farnhorst pursed his lips. He did know better.
"Should we try to follow him?" Farnhorst asked, his gaze following the beam of the headlights where they pierced the darkness of the woods.
Bolinger wore a grim frown. "You or I could follow him for a year and we wouldn't get any closer than we are right now."
He met Farnhorst's puzzled look and explained, "The man lives in these hills. He lives in them. He hunts in them. He fishes in them. I've heard him talk about getting back in these hills hunting by himself and not coming home for a week at a time. No, we won't find him."
Bolinger leaned into the truck and flicked on the dome light. On the seat were smears of dried blood. He wondered if they were from Sales's cut finger.
"We better get the lab out here and check this truck out," he said. "There's some blood here on the seat."