by J. D. Barker
Father turned to her. “Does that mean something to you? Do you know him?”
Mother hesitated for the briefest of seconds, then shook her head. “No.” She stood and started clearing the dishes.
Father and I looked at each other. He saw too.
She wasn’t telling the truth.
54
Porter
Day 2 • 9:23 a.m.
Porter and Watson followed the uniform through the halls of the Fifty-First and paused outside a second-floor door. “The investigating officer’s name is Ronald Baumhardt. He’s waiting for you inside.” He looked down at his shoes for a second, then back at Porter. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about what happened.”
Porter gave him a nod and entered the small room.
Baumhardt was a stocky man in his mid-forties with graying hair and a goatee. He was sitting on the edge of a table, reviewing a file. Porter offered him a hand. “Detective, thanks for allowing me access today.”
Baumhardt shook his hand. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through—it’s the least we can do.” He eyed Watson. “You are?”
“Paul Watson. I’m with the crime lab downtown. I’m assisting Detective Porter on another case.”
“The Four Monkey Killer?” Baumhardt whistled. “Ain’t that the shit. You’ve been chasing him for what? Five or six years? And he steps in front of a city bus. Saved the taxpayers all kinds of money. I hope the driver threw it in reverse and went back over that piece of shit.”
“He was thrown clear, but quite dead,” Watson said. “Not much more the driver could have done.”
“Ah, right,” Baumhardt replied, giving him a funny glance.
Porter nodded at the file in his hand. “So, where do we stand?”
Baumhardt motioned them back toward the table and spread the file across the top. “His name is Harnell Campbell. He walks into a 7-Eleven about a block from here last night at quarter past ten and shoves a .38 into the cashier’s face, demands the contents of the register and the safe. Same old bullshit, only his selection of venue is piss-poor. Half the force hits that store before and after their shift. It’s practically kitty-corner with the carpool lot. An off-duty officer was back at the beer cooler, he pulls a can of Coors Light from the six-pack he was about to purchase, shakes it up real good, then beams it across the store at the door. Our would-be robber turns toward the mess and gets caught up watching the exploding can just long enough for the officer to sneak up behind him and press his piece into the guy’s head. First takedown by beer I’ve ever heard of.”
“Don’t know if Coors Light is really considered beer.”
“Yeah, my wife calls it training beer,” said Baumhardt. “But it’s clearly got use as a tactical weapon. Anyway, we ran a slug from the .38, standard protocol, and got a match to—”
“The bullet that killed my wife,” Porter said.
Baumhardt nodded. “I went to the academy with your captain, so I called Dalton straightaway and told him what was going on.”
“I appreciate the chance to sit in. Thank you for that.”
A phone on the wall rang. Baumhardt picked up the handset and pressed it to his ear. “Baumhardt. Okay, send him in.”
A moment later the door to the observation room opened and Tareq was led inside. His face tightened when he saw Porter. Then he thrust out his hand. “I’m so sorry, Sammy. If I had thought the kid was going to really shoot, I would . . . I don’t know, have done something differently. They never shoot, though. They’re usually in and out. Christ, I . . . I’m so sorry . . .”
Plenty of guilt to go around, it seemed.
Porter shook his hand and squeezed his shoulder. “I don’t blame you, Tareq. They told me what you did, how you tried to help her. Thank you for being there for her. I take solace in the fact that the last face she saw was a friendly one. She didn’t die alone.”
Tareq nodded and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve.
Baumhardt came over and introduced himself, then explained what was about to happen. “We’re going to bring out six guys, they’re going to line up right out there, and each will be holding a number.” He glanced down at the paperwork on the table. “According to your statement, the guy who robbed you told you, ‘All the cash in a bag, now.’ I’m going to ask each of them to step forward and repeat that phrase. I need you to check out each person very carefully. Keep in mind the man who robbed you may not even be here, so don’t feel like you have to pick one. I want you to be one hundred percent sure we’ve got the right guy. If you have any doubts, if none of them look right, that’s okay, just tell me. Got it?”
Tareq nodded.
“They can’t see us, so don’t worry about that either. Don’t worry about anything but looking out for your guy,” Baumhardt instructed.
“Okay,” said Tareq.
Baumhardt pressed the intercom button on the wall. “Go ahead and bring them in.”
Porter stood at the back of the room. His hands were cold and clammy. He rubbed them on his pants. He could feel his heart throbbing at the side of his neck, hear the pulse behind his ears. Beside him, Watson stared into the white lineup room as a door swung open and six men were ushered inside by two uniforms.
“Number four,” Tareq said. “That’s him, I’m sure of it.”
Baumhardt glanced at Porter, then back to Tareq. “Do you need them to run the line? You’ve got to be certain for this to stand up.”
Tareq nodded. “I’ll never forget that kid’s face. That’s him.”
Porter stepped forward to get a better look.
A little shy of six feet tall, according to the height markers on the wall, he was a white kid barely out of his teens with a shaved head and multiple piercings lining both ears. His right arm was covered in a sleeve of tattoos ranging from a dragon at his shoulder to Tweety Bird on his forearm. His left arm was oddly bare. He stared back at them with a firm jaw and fixed eyes.
Baumhardt was sifting through the folder again. “You didn’t mention anything about tattoos in your statement.”
“He was wearing a jacket—I couldn’t see his arms,” Tareq replied. “He had a tattoo on his right ear, though. I remember that. I know I told the investigating officer.”
“You said he was shaking so bad he could barely hold the gun straight. He doesn’t seem very nervous now,” Baumhardt pointed out. “Looks stone cold right now.”
“That’s him. Check the ear.”
Baumhardt pressed the intercom button again. “Number four, please step forward and turn to your left.”
Porter swore he saw the kid smirk before doing what he was told, as if he was somehow enjoying this. As he turned, Porter spotted the dark text on his inner lobe. “There, I see it.”
“Where? I just see a shit-ton of piercings,” Baumhardt said.
“No, on the inside. Under the piercings, black ink.”
Baumhardt stepped closer to the glass and squinted. “Shit, you can see that? I can barely make it out.” He retrieved a booking sheet from the table. “According to this, the ink says Filter.”
Tareq turned to them. “That’s it! I told you that was him.”
Baumhardt let out a sigh.
Porter put a hand on Tareq’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
Tareq turned to him, his eyes sharp. “I wish there was something more I could have done.”
“You can’t blame yourself.”
Any more than I blame myself.
Baumhardt motioned to one of the uniformed officers. “Put number four in an interview room. We’re about to have a very long talk.” Turning back to Tareq: “We’ll get you out of here as quickly as possible. We just need you to fill out some paperwork.”
Porter nudged Watson. “Let’s go see your uncle about that watch.”
Watson frowned. “You don’t want to witness the questioning?”
Porter shook his head. “My blood’s boiling right now. I can’t stay here. I thought I needed to see this, but I don’t. It�
��s better I go.”
Baumhardt, standing only a few feet away, began packing up his papers. “Do you want me to call you? Let you know what happens?”
“I’d like that.”
“He’s putting up a tough front, but he’ll cave. Even if he doesn’t, we’ve got the ballistic evidence and Tareq’s testimony. I’ve seen juries convict on much less.”
Porter reached out and shook his hand. “Thanks again.”
Watson was frowning at him.
“What?”
“You’re a little pale, that’s all.”
“I’ll be all right. I just need to get some air,” Porter replied. “Let’s go.”
Pushing through the doorway, he stepped out into the busy hallway and slammed into a bulky detective carrying a four-pack of Starbucks coffee. The hot liquid exploded over both of them and rained on the floor. Watson jumped out of the way.
“What the fuck!” the detective growled. “You don’t watch where you’re going?”
“I’m so sorry, I—”
“I don’t give a shit. You trying to send someone to the burn ward?” He frantically dabbed at the stain on his shirt with a single napkin.
Porter hadn’t fared much better. Coffee dripped from his sleeve and jacket, and there was a large stain on his pants leg. It felt as if his shoe had captured half the spill and his sock was soaking it up. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a damp business card. “I work Homicide downtown. Send me the cleaning bill, and I’ll take care of it.”
“Damn right, you will,” the man said, snapping up the card. “You’re lucky I don’t make you hit an ATM right now and send you off to Starbucks for replacements.” He stomped down the hallway, muttering something about the state of cafeteria coffee.
“Let’s go,” Porter told Watson. “My place is on the way to your uncle’s shop. We’ll swing by and I’ll change.”
55
Clair
Day 2 • 10:59 a.m.
“We should call Porter,” Nash said.
They had arrived at Kittner’s apartment building, a nondescript squat three-story brick structure with fifteen units, to find Espinosa and his team already in position, preparing to enter. Donning their own vests, they followed SWAT through the main entrance and up two flights of stairs. Kittner’s apartment was the last door on the right.
Clair checked the magazine in her Glock and positioned herself beside him against the hallway wall. “I don’t think we should bother him right now.”
“He’d want to know what’s going on,” Nash said.
“We gotta give him a little space.”
“Prepare to breach in five,” Espinosa’s voice barked in Clair’s earpiece.
“Go time,” she said.
Nash peered down the hallway and watched Brogan and Thomas slam Kittner’s door with the ram. It flew open with a splintered howl and crashed against the wall on the other side.
“Go! Go! Go!” Espinosa shouted before darting through the opening.
“Let’s go,” Clair told him before running down the hallway with her weapon held out before her, pointing toward the ground. As she reached the door, voices crackled in her ear.
“Brogan, clear.”
“Thomas, clear.”
“Tibideaux, bedroom is clear.”
“Espinosa, all clear. Sort of.”
Nash stepped inside the apartment with Clair on his heels. “Holy hell.”
If the living room held any furniture, you couldn’t tell. Newspapers stacked floor to ceiling cluttered the space, dozens of piles. Some were yellowed and faded with age; others were crisp and new. The newspapers were offset by stacks of books in both hardcover and softcover. “They’re organized by genre. This pile is westerns, then we’ve got romance and science fiction. These look like horror. How the hell does someone live like this?”
“It’s like that show, Hoarders,” Clair said. “People start collecting little things here and there, and they escalate over time. I picture your porn stash to look something like this.” She cocked her head. “Do you hear a cat?”
“I smell a cat,” Brogan said.
“It’s coming from back here,” Tibideaux said. “The litter box hasn’t been emptied in a few days.”
“How does it even find the litter box?” Nash asked.
Espinosa came out from the bathroom. “The clutter seems to be contained to the living room. The rest of the apartment is fairly clean.”
Tibideaux walked out of the bedroom holding a rather large Russian blue. The cat meowed in his arms and licked at the black plastic of his Kevlar vest. “Poor thing must be starving.”
Nash stepped back from him. “Keep that thing away from me—I’m allergic.”
Clair was digging through a stack of newspapers. She held up a copy of the Tribune. “This one is six years old.”
“Judging by these piles, he may have a decade’s worth in here,” Espinosa replied. “What are we looking for?”
“Anything that might tell us where we can find Emory,” Nash instructed.
Clair’s phone rang. “It’s Kloz.” She put the call on speaker.
“So, this is strange,” Kloz said, without a hello.
“What’s strange?”
“I pulled Kittner’s bank records—Porter, before you get on my ass, I got a warrant.”
“Porter’s not here right now.”
“Where is he?”
Clair rolled her eyes. “Busy. What did you find?”
“I found a wire in the amount of two hundred fifty thousand dollars that came into his checking account five days ago. That’s not the weird part, though—another quarter million hit up yesterday afternoon after he died,” said Kloz.
“Can you tell where the funds originated?”
“A numbered account in the Cayman Islands. I’m trying to pull a name, but they’re not very cooperative down there. I’ve got a buddy at the Bureau who may be able to put a little fear into them. I’ll call him as soon as we hang up.”
Nash nudged Clair. “Think the money is from Talbot?”
“For what purpose?”
“I don’t know, some kind of payoff maybe?”
Clair turned back to the phone. “Kloz, does Talbot hold any accounts in the islands?”
“He has accounts everywhere. The money came from RCB Royal, and I was able to find wires both incoming and outgoing from several of Talbot’s businesses to that particular branch, but the account numbers don’t match up. That doesn’t mean we should rule it out, though.” He fell silent for a second; only the sound of a keyboard clicking came from his end of the phone. “Huh.”
“What?”
“I found another wire. Fifty thousand came into Kittner’s account exactly one month before the first two hundred fifty thousand was deposited five days ago. If this is some kind of payoff, it started at least a month ago.”
“What can you tell us about Kittner?” Clair asked.
“Fifty-six years old. He worked for UPS up until a month ago, then took an extended leave of absence. I requested his employment file, but I imagine it’s related to the cancer diagnosis.”
“Did he own a cell phone? Can you retrace his steps?”
“Nada. I can’t find one registered in his name, and UPS didn’t provide him with one. If he had a cell at all, it was a prepaid. There’s a landline in the apartment there. I’m running the logs now.”
“What about relatives? Anybody?”
More typing. “He has a younger sister, but she was killed in a car accident five years ago. Amelia Kittner. Married name Mathers.”
Nash perked up. “Mathers?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Emory has a boyfriend named Tyler Mathers. He goes to Whatney Vale High School.”
“Hold on a second. I’m trying to pull up her file,” Kloz said.
Clair’s eyes were wide. “Emory is dating 4MK’s nephew?”
Kloz returned. “Bingo. That’s him. Sixteen years old. He lives with his fath
er downtown.”
“Detectives?”
Clair and Nash turned to find Espinosa holding up a cell phone at the bedroom door. “It’s Emory’s.”
“Kloz? I’ll call you right back,” Clair said, disconnecting the call. “Let me see it.”
Espinosa handed her the phone; she took it in gloved hands and tapped the screen. Nothing happened. “How can you tell?”
“He pulled the battery. I ran the serial number, and it came up under Talbot Enterprises with her listed as the designated user. The phone went offline night before last at forty-three past six,” Espinosa explained.
Clair dropped the cell into an evidence bag and turned back to Nash. “We need to pick up the nephew. He may know where she is.”
56
Diary
The next morning was a truly beautiful summer day, and so I decided to take a walk rather than spend it cooped up within the confines of the house. I hadn’t been gone long, an hour at most—just long enough to check on my cat, skip a few rocks, confirm Mr. Carter’s burial at sea was of a permanent nature, and return.
The green Plymouth was back.
Parked in the road in front of the Carters’ home, it sat empty. I drew close. The engine was still warm enough to tick, and exhaust lingered on the air. There was no sign of the man from yesterday.
Careful to remain concealed behind the thick shrubs and trees of the woods, I made my way closer.
The keys twinkled in the sunlight, dangling from the ignition.
He was a trusting man.
If the keys were in the ignition, it would stand to reason the car was unlocked.
I poked my head up high for the briefest of seconds and glanced back at the Carter house.
The front door was closed, but something didn’t seem right. The house didn’t feel empty.
He must be in there; where else would he be?
The car’s driver-side door faced the Carter house, while the passenger door sided with the street.
With nothing more than a deep breath and a dare, I darted out from my hiding spot and slid to a stop in the gravel at the passenger door. I had a clear view through the car to the Carter house—this meant someone exiting the Carter house would be able to spot me too. I had little choice, though; I would have to move fast.