The Face of Fear: A Powers and Johnson Novel

by Torbert, R. J. ;

  They walked back out to the hallway, where Cronin spoke almost in a whisper to Bud. “I can understand why they wanted Winters dead, but poisoning two officers at Rachelle’s door and she’s OK? This is not making sense, unless they just wanted the officers out of the way.”

  Cronin went back to the nurses’ station to view the video and found Special Agent Sherman already there. They both viewed the tapes and were impressed by the quickness of the masked intruder.

  “He could have killed the officers,” Sherman said, “but he only wanted Winters. I have a team at this moment tearing the house apart on Thompson Street.”

  A piece of paper was handed to Cronin as they were talking. He read it and said, “He has a brother next door on Thompson Street.”

  “Let me go,” Bud said.

  “You can go,” Cronin said, “but remember you only have your backup piece, and check with your attorney.”

  “Sure, sure,” Bud replied.

  He ran to his room to get his belongings and called his attorney, who flat-out said, “No, not under any circumstances. You’ll have to wait.”

  Bud was so disappointed that he insisted, and his attorney said he would no longer represent him if he went to the house. It simply was not in his best interest. Paul came into the room and told Bud to stay in the hospital that he would go to the house with Officers Lynagh and Healey.

  “Look after Rachelle and Madison,” Paul said.

  Bud shook his head in minor protest. He knew this was the way things happened when you fired your weapon and struck someone.

  Paul left the hospital but not before checking in on Rachelle and Madison. He kissed Rachelle’s forehead and the back of Madison’s head as she slept with her head on Rachelle’s leg.

  He left the hospital in the police cruiser with Lynagh and Healey as they drove to Thompson Street. When they got there, they saw that agents were walking through Kyle Winters’ house. Paul walked up the stoop next door and starting ringing the doorbell.

  John Winters answered the door with the greeting, “It’s 2:00 am in the fucking morning; what is this about?”

  Paul identified himself and requested to come in. John let them in, and as they stood by the door, Paul asked, “Do you mind if we search the house, sir?”

  “Yes, I do mind. Do you have a search warrant?”

  “No,” Paul said. “Do you have something to hide?”

  “No,” John said, “but I am a very private person with my things, and it’s 2:00 am. What is all this about?”

  Paul walked closer to John as the two officers scanned the room to be certain there would be no surprises coming out from any of the doors or hallways. Both Lynagh and Healey were the most serious and hard-nosed cops, which is why Paul preferred their company on inquiries such as this. Paul peppered John with many questions, such as the last time he had seen Kyle. Apparently they were close, since he lived at the next house.

  “We were always in close proximity,” John replied, “but not always emotionally. It’s the same with Mason, my younger brother, who lives here with me. He is sleeping upstairs.” Paul nodded to Lynagh to check it out.

  As Lynagh started to move toward the steps, John protested.

  “Listen,” Paul said, “I’m sorry to tell you this way, but your brother was involved in a cop killing yesterday afternoon. He was shot, captured, and was murdered over an hour ago in his hospital room after two officers were poisoned and one seriously injured. All this, and he lives next door to his brother. It may be debated in court, but I think I have probable cause to check this house to be sure there is no kidnap victim by the name of Deborah Lance here.”

  “I’m puzzled,” John said. “What does a kidnapping victim have to do with someone killing my brother?”

  Paul walked closer to John and said, “That is what I’m going to find out. Now, are you going to let this officer check upstairs voluntarily, or are you going to force me to make a decision for probable cause?”

  John sat down in his chair and looked up at Paul and smiled. “I think I like the latter,” he said. There was silence in the room.

  “Sir,” Lynagh said to Paul.

  “Shhh,” Paul said. “Hear that? Coming from upstairs.”

  “Sounds female to me, Detective,” Lynagh said.

  “Check it out,” Paul replied. “Officer Healey, check the rest of the house.”

  The smile on John Winters’ face disappeared as he stood up.

  “There it is again,” Paul said. “Officer, check that noise coming from upstairs. Let’s make sure there is nothing going on up there. I’ll stay here and keep Mr. Winters company.”

  Lynagh went up the stairs with his gun drawn and was up there for about four minutes. The entire time was a complete stare-down between Paul and John Winters. No words were spoken, but if eyes could talk, there would have been another person going to Mather Hospital. The officer came down to inform the detective one male was sleeping in a bed in one of the bedrooms. “Search the rest of the house,” Paul told the two officers as he stared John Winters down.

  Upstairs, Mason Winters rolled to his side and pulled out a shotgun from under the covers. The officer escaped with his life by not tearing off the covers to his bed while he was upstairs. John Winters stayed in his living room without saying a word as both Paul and he eyeballed each other while the two officers searched the house.

  “Nothing, Detective,” the two reported as they came back into the living room.

  “Sorry to have disturbed you, Mr. Winters,” Paul said. As they reached the door, Paul turned around again to say, “Sorry about the loss of your brother also.”

  “I’m sure you are,” John said, moving forward to shut the door behind them.

  “You’re right,” the detective replied, “I’m not sorry, and I won’t stop until I find out who was behind all of this, which includes the shooting of Rachelle Robinson and the killing of Officer Davis.”

  John Winters moved closer to Detective Powers, but Officer Lynagh stepped in between them as he stared him down with his head cocked in such a way as if he was challenging John Winters, until he backed away from the detective. Paul went next door and spoke with a couple of agents to see if anything was found in Kyle Winters’ home, and the answer was nothing of significant importance. Paul had the officers drop him off at his apartment above Z Pita. It was past 3:00 am, and there was more work to be done the next day.

  Sunday Morning, June 19

  Paul got up at 8:00 am, took a shower, and started thinking about so many things that he looked for a pen and paper while soaking wet. He wanted the tape from the hospital looked at to see if weight and size could be determined for the masked intruder who had killed Kyle Winters. He finally got dressed and called his father, who said he was coming up from Florida because he was getting too nervous watching all of this on the news. “No, Dad,” Paul begged. “There is too much going on here. Give me a week or so.”

  He hung up, dialed Allan, and told him to meet him downstairs at Z Pita for breakfast. He had thoughts and wanted to run them by him. It just seemed there were so few he could trust these days. He made calls to Bud and Rachelle at the hospital to check in. Bud was going home and was already told to report to desk duty Monday. Detective Lieutenant Cronin told him, based on everything that had happened, he felt Bud would be reinstated quickly. Internal Affairs had already warranted Cronin’s use of discharging his weapon at the now-deceased suspect during the gunfire at the ferry. Rachelle told him that the doctors were going to release her Monday morning, and she was already writing her article for the Now paper and Newsday, who had offered her a fee for a freelance story on everything that was going on. Paul was not happy about it but did not want to upset her while she was still in the hospital. He went downstairs at 8:45, and Allan was already sipping a cup of coffee, waiting for him.

  Paul arrived at the precinct at 10:00 am, and Roger Thompson and Patt
y Saunders were both waiting for him without attorneys. He sat with Roger Thompson for one hour asking questions, from why his car was parked on East Main Street during the shooting to how much he had to gain by the Ghost Face mask getting national attention again. Detective Lieutenant Cronin was behind the glass with the assistant district attorney to listen to Thompson’s alibi and reasons for not being a part of this. He lived only 10 minutes away, he was off Saturday, and he frequented Port Jefferson Village many times during the month. Cronin and the assistant district attorney, as well as Paul, ruled him out for now.

  When it was Patty Saunders’ turn, as soon as Paul started questioning her, the tears started to flow down her face. She believed it was her fault because she wanted Debbie to meet her in Bridgeport instead of going together.

  “If,” Paul replied, “you were meeting her in Bridgeport, what was your car doing in the Village?”

  “I went to Bridgeport earlier without the car,” she answered. “The Arena is close enough to where the boat docks in Bridgeport are, and I walked to the arena and planned to go back with Debbie. I went earlier to visit relatives in Connecticut.”

  Patty was let go with the department’s thanks for her cooperation. Paul came back to where Cronin and ADA Ashley were, and they all decided that both of them were not involved at this time. All three went to the back of the precinct, where the crime-scene unit had a copy of the video tape from the hospital. They reviewed it about 10 times in regular and slow motion to see if they could catch a glimpse of anything that would help indicate who the masked killer was. The agility and quickness was what struck them the most. The tape was already on the Internet and in papers, with headlines reading, GHOST FACE STRIKES MATHER HOSPITAL. The Post, famous for its headlines, had, THE FACE OF FEAR STRIKES TERROR IN QUIET TOWN.

  As they walked back to the Cronin’s office, Cronin stopped and said, “Don’t you find it odd that there has been no communication on Debbie Lance? They kill one of their own, and now the FBI has heard nothing.” He looked at Paul. “Get me the files on all the Winters brothers. Get a court order for their cell-phone records and all the credit-card charges they have made over the last 30 days. Special Agent Sherman will help while O’Connor is in the hospital. Have a couple of the guys look over them in detail and have them get back to us with anything that doesn’t look kosher.”

  Cronin walked over to the television set and looked at the “breaking news” bar. Port Jefferson Village was now on the map across America. He turned away, walked to his office, and closed the door.

  Paul gave instructions to officers to contact the Winters brothers to allow cell-phone records to be checked. He expected them to say no, so he left a message with the assistant district attorney to get court orders for their records. He drove over to the hospital to find out Bud was already home, and when he walked into Rachelle’s room, she was laughing with Madison, who had gone home and come back twice that day to be with her sister. Rachelle smiled at Paul and waved. Madison took her cue and left to get a cup of coffee.

  Paul went over to Rachelle, looked down at her, and said, “I thought I lost you.”

  “Never,” she said, “not a chance.”

  He kissed her forehead and began to tell her he was worried about her writing her newest story. “Do you think it’s needed, Rachelle? It’s all over the news.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m living this and telling it.”

  “OK, OK,” he replied. “I’m just worried about you.”

  “The shooter is dead,” she replied. “Plus I have you to protect me,” she said as she grabbed his hand. Paul moved in again, but Madison walked in, and he was uncomfortable kissing Rachelle in front of her.

  Paul looked at Madison and asked, “You are picking her up to bring her home tomorrow?” She nodded back.

  “Look,” Rachelle interrupted, “look at what I’ve written so far.” Paul picked up the papers and began to read. It was the previous week in detail, from the plans to the meetings to the theory of how this was done to Rachelle’s conversations with Paul before the shooting to the reenactment on the ferry. Although it gave Paul great pause, he was proud of Rachelle and how talented she was as a writer.

  Rachelle told Paul the article would be released within five days for the Now paper and would be released to Newsday on the sixth day. “Maybe all of this will be resolved by then, and you’ll have an even better story if you hold off,” he said.

  Paul truly thought it was the better way to go, but he also had Rachelle’s safety on his mind. She nodded her head with body language that expressed she would consider it as he kissed her forehead before leaving.

  “Call me when Maddie gets you home,” Paul said.

  She smiled as he left the room, and she gazed around her environment, talking to herself. “Time to get the hell out of here,” she said, even able to let out a giggle as she looked at something humorous on the television in the silent room.

  Monday, June 20

  Monday morning arrived, and as usual Bud knocked on Paul’s door and ran up the stairs, only to find Paul in the shower. “Always late,” Bud said to himself.

  Paul came out, only to be startled. He said, “One day, you son of a bitch, you are going to be shot.”

  “Yeah,” Bud replied. “Then you have to go through what I’m going through. Only a backup and Internal Affairs on my ass.” He raised his hands up with his forefinger and middle finger to make quotation marks in the air. “OIS, my ass. He’s lucky he didn’t go to his grave with no balls. Whoever did him in may have done me a favor.” OIS is short for Officer Involved Shooting, and Bud was not happy about only using his backup piece.

  “I think so,” Paul said, as he grabbed a shirt already lying on his bed. “Rachelle comes home today, and she wants to come back to work at the restaurant and paper right away. Thank God Joey Z told her to take a few more days.”

  “Don’t forget, dress blues for the funeral Wednesday,” Bud mentioned. “I still can’t believe she’s gone, just like that.” Paul nodded in agreement.

  “I know Deborah Lance is here somewhere. The fact that they were comfortable having her in the area is now a detriment to them. We need to get those phone records checked,” Paul said as they ran down the stairs.

  In the car, Paul called Agent O’Connor, who would be released Tuesday, and inquired if the FBI could push along the court order for cell-phone records. He would see what they could do. This was more than just a competition between the FBI and local law enforcement. It seemed they were now working together on the same team. They all knew the national media was watching almost to a fault, not because of the killing of a police officer or the complex case it was becoming but because it involved the famous Ghost Face mask. “What a crazy world we live in,” Bud said as they drove to the precinct.

  It was during the day Monday that Rachelle called Paul to tell him she thought about what he had said in regard to holding off on releasing the article until it was played out and that she agreed.

  With a sigh of relief, Paul said, “Good choice. Listen, Danford’s is having a banquet on the upstairs level on Wednesday; Victoria wanted this after her funeral. Please join Bud and I and a few of the guys and friends. We need this for a couple hours. Bring Maddie if you’d like.”

  “Sure. I’ll meet you there,” Rachelle replied.

  “8:30,” Paul said. “See you there, and I’m glad you are home.”

  Monday was a day filled with paperwork and phone calls. Paul could see the tension building on Cronin’s face, as the case was not progressing well. He expected the phone records to be a big help once the court order was received. Agent Sherman, as well as O’Connor from his hospital room, were making calls to contacts to get it done.

  Back at Prospect Street, Rachelle was working on what she was calling, “The Status Report.” It was an outline summary of what had happened and what was being investigated, with all the details left blank. She w
rote it with cryptic messages, creating a “puzzle” of the crimes and what she expected would happen next. You could say it was a big tease before the real story was released and finalized. She had fun with it, and even her boss, Steven Anderson, thought it was creative when he received it through email. He gave it to a couple of interns after he checked it for proper grammar and spelling and instructed them to get it ready for print for the Tuesday edition of Now.

  Rachelle left her house to walk down to Z Pita to see her colleagues and her partner Joey Z, who greeted her with open arms. They had a chance to talk for a bit and catch up, and she told him she would be back Thursday after the funeral of Victoria Davis on Wednesday. As she left Z Pita, instead of normally turning left to go home up Prospect Street, she took a right turn to go to the Starbucks on the corner of Main Street and Arden Place. They say that life and death depends on the choices we make. Sometimes those choices are made within seconds.

  Rachelle walked into Starbucks to get herself an iced coffee that she had a craving for and did not notice the man sitting in the corner chair contemplating his next move. He noticed who she was from the photo accompanying her articles in the newspaper in regard to the shooting. “My lucky day,” he said to himself as he watched her smiling face get her iced coffee and leave.

  Mason Winters was right behind her and followed behind her about 20 to 30 yards, all the way until he witnessed her walk in the front door of the house at the top of Prospect Street. “You’re mine now,” Mason said aloud as he walked to High Street and took a quick right up to Thompson Street.

  As he opened the door with a big smile on his face, John greeted him with, “What are you so happy about? We have to bury our brother tomorrow.”

  Without missing a beat, Mason replied, “That bitch that Kyle couldn’t kill, the reporter, she lives two minutes from us! You can walk there! What a great town this is!”