by Ed Markham
SON OF A GUN
A David and Martin Yerxa Book
By Ed Markham
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Text Copyright © 2015 Ed Markham
All Rights Reserved
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For My Mom
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Table of Contents
Sunday, November 3
Monday, November 4
Tuesday, November 5
Wednesday, November 6
Thursday, November 7
Friday, November 8
Saturday, November 9
Sunday, November 10
Author’s Note to Readers
Sunday, November 3
Chapter 1
QUINCY BURIED HIS face in a bed of damp leaves and rummaged. After he’d satisfied himself and his nose, he took a step away from the pile, lifted a hind leg, and claimed it for himself. Quincy’s, he thought, and trotted farther down the trail.
“Stay close, Quince,” Barb called out as she made her way along the packed dirt of the forest path. As she spoke, puffs of steam escaped from her mouth into the hard November air. The sun had only just reached the tops of the surrounding red maple and elm trees, which were uniformly bare.
At the sound of Barb’s voice, Quincy turned his yellow head toward her, panted once, and then continued to make his way deeper into the woods. Barb let him go. He was a good dog, and she knew he wouldn’t go too far if she shouted reminders to him from time to time. She pulled a hand from her jacket pocket and pushed her curly, straw-colored hair away from her face. It wasn’t yet 7:30 in the morning, and she felt alone and at peace with her dog and the woods.
After following a small bend in the path, Barb stopped and squinted at a nearby tree trunk. It was a horse chestnut—or a conker tree, as her English grandmother would have called it—and she could see round holes stippling its crusty bark.
“Oh, shoot,” she said, stepping off the path to examine the tree more closely.
She made her way carefully among the fallen sticks and leaves of the forest floor, mindful of her age and the trouble she’d be in if she had a fall out here with no one around to help her up.
When she reached the tree, she leaned forward, peering at the edges of the round holes. When she saw that they were the rough gouges of birds and not the smooth bores of recently matured Asian long-horned beetles, she let out a sigh of relief.
The long-horned had made a sudden and quite-unwelcome appearance in northern and central New Jersey in the late 1990s, and although the state’s DNR had announced the insect’s successful eradication, Barb was still on the lookout for signs of a resurgence. A retired entomologist, she considered herself an able pair of eyes in the ongoing fight against invasive species.
Making her way slowly back to the walking path, Barb shouted for Quincy and scanned the surrounding forest. She missed him on the first sweep, but on the second she caught a glimpse of his blonde tail as it waved above a slight mound of earth forty yards away. She could tell by the frantic cadence of his wag that he’d found something, and she hurried her pace, calling his name and hoping to stop him before he could make a mess of himself. “Quincy! Whatever you found, leave it!”
As she drew alongside the mound, Barb expected to see discarded food, or a tattered squirrel carcass. When she saw the child’s shoes, she stopped and gasped. A big breath of stream escaped her mouth and disintegrated into the autumn air.
The boy was wearing green low-top skateboarding sneakers, and the toes of his shoes pointed straight up at the sky. As Barb walked slowly around the mound, which was covered with downed brown and red leaves, the rest of the boy came into view as though a curtain were being pulled away, revealing his body inch by inch. She saw that he was wearing blue jeans with grass-stained knees and a brown snowboarding jacket. A camo-green backpack lay beside him.
Barb told herself the boy was only taking a nap, though Quincy was bouncing nervously on his front paws, and there was something plainly wrong with the way the boy’s arms were laying extended at his sides. Then she saw the dark patch that had soaked the front of his coat.
The child’s face was very pale beneath his brown hair—too pale, she realized as she took a step closer. It wasn’t death that made him look like that.
When Barb realized the boy’s face was concealed behind a white mask, her hand came up to her mouth and she let out a horrified moan.
Chapter 2
“HOT DOGS! RIGHT here! Get your hot dogs!”
David Yerxa stood and held up two fingers toward the stadium vendor. He passed a handful of bills to the fan next to him. The money made its way down the row, and the hot dogs were almost back to him when he heard the swell of the crowd. Suddenly the fans around him were standing or leaning forward, many of them screaming “No!” or “Tackle that asshole!”
At David’s side, Lauren Carnicero was on her feet shouting, “Go, go, go!” She brought her hands up to the sides of her head in a moment of panic when the runner narrowly avoided a diving tackler, and then started waving them to the side, striking David over and over again on the shoulder as she gestured. “Stay in!” she cried out. “Stay in bounds!”
The wide receiver took a glancing blow from a defender and tiptoed along the sideline toward the end zone. He looked as though he would have to step out at the five-yard line, but then he launched himself forward and clipped the orange pylon with the nose of the outstretched football.
“TOUCHDOWN!” Lauren shouted, throwing both of her arms in the air.
All around her, Redskins fans were scowling or shouting at her to sit down and shut up. In her Baltimore Ravens cap and purple fleece, Lauren beamed, undeterred. She pumped a fist and looked around for fellow Ravens fans. Finding two—an overweight couple sitting two rows behind her—she stood on her seat bottom and leaned back for celebratory high-fives.
When she saw that David was unperturbed by these displays, she turned to him and shouted a purposely obnoxious “Whooo!” in his face.
He said, “Sit down, Butch, before you get my ass kicked.”
Like most of his colleagues at the FBI, he occasionally called Lauren by her nickname. Known for her blunt nature and quick temper, Lauren had become “Butch” the moment one of her colleagues pointed out that her last name, Carnicero, means “butcher” in Spanish.
Both in their late thirties, David and Lauren were the two youngest primary investigators within the FBI’s serial crimes unit. They’d been seeing each other for more than a year—since their investigation and apprehension of the “Colony Killer,” as the press had dubbed Edith Vereen, brought them not only accolades and notoriety, but also closer together.
They’d tried for a time to keep their relationship a secret for fear the Bureau would object. But eventually their boss, Section Chief Carl Wainbridge, had called them into his office to inform them in his calm, measured baritone that they might as well cut the shit. “You’re surrounded by behavioral analysts and professional profilers,” Carl had said. “No one’s fooled.”
He’d told them what they already knew: that the FBI’s directors frowned on agents engaging in romantic relationships. But the same directors considered David and Lauren too valuable to let go. “I also assured them they’d be losing their only black section chief if they decided to show you two the door,” Carl had said, nodding solemnly to show them this wasn’t a kindness but an act of principle. “So. That’s settled. However, there are rules. You won’t be allowed to work cases together—not now or in the future—for obvious reasons. I’ll also expect your continued discretion regarding your relationship.”
“No office PDA, got it,
” Lauren had said, smiling brightly.
Even with the FBI’s blessing, they’d taken things slowly for much of the first year. For David, their relationship was his first after fifteen years of self-imposed bachelorhood—a penance he had paid for a crime he could never undo.
“You haven’t dated someone seriously since college?” Lauren had asked him at one point, incredulous.
“I was waiting for you,” he’d said before deflecting any further questions about his long, solitary stint. She’d tried again on several occasions, but he would only shake his head and redirect her inquiries.
He had vague plans to explain everything to her eventually. One day, he told himself. But that day was still a ways off. The longer a secret was locked away, he’d discovered, the harder it was to open the vault doors. And telling the woman you love that her only predecessor had been drugged, raped, and killed—and that you’d avenged that murder by committing one yourself—was no simple thing to acknowledge or explain, not even to yourself.
Now in their second year together, David and Lauren had started spending most nights with each other. Though he was happy, the old vice-grip of dread would occasionally tighten around David’s chest when he realized how much he cared for her. He knew the awful consequences that kind of love could produce in him if something were to happen to her.
“Whew,” she said now, smiling and shaking her head at the scoreboard as she retook her seat next to him. “Twenty-four to seven? This is turning into a rout.”
He admired the way her green eyes sparkled at him below her Ravens cap. A Baltimore native, her fandom was no put-on.
“Plenty of time left,” he said, indifferent to the game’s outcome but content to play the part of the sour fan.
“Touchdowns make me hungry,” she said. “Where’s my hot dog?”
He turned just as the man to his right nudged him on the elbow and handed him the two franks. He passed one to Lauren before taking a bite of his own. The hot dog was salty and delicious. He leaned back in his seat and took a long sip of his beer. It was a fine fall afternoon, and he was content.
Then his cell phone rang.
He looked at the caller ID, and then at Lauren. She’d heard the ring and was watching him for a reaction. He mouthed “Wainbridge” to her as he answered, and she swore.
“David,” Carl said, his tone slow and deliberate as ever. “I’m very sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but I have something for you that can’t wait until tomorrow morning.”
David swallowed his bite of hot dog. “That’s all right. What is it?”
“The body of a thirteen-year-old boy was found early this morning in a wooded area near Winslow, New Jersey. The boy was shot once through the chest. I won’t go into details now, but it’s clear from the circumstances of his death that he’s the third in a series of related homicides. I’d like you to be in Winslow tomorrow morning to investigate. It’s about thirty minutes east of Philadelphia.”
David felt his stomach tighten. The warm hot dog in his hand suddenly felt soggy and unappetizing, and the crowd around him seemed to fade away. “Are you sending over the case files?”
“I’ve uploaded them to your secure folder, and someone will drop off hard copies at your house in the next half hour. I assume you’ll take one of our helicopters up?”
David thought for a moment. “No. I’ll drive myself. I can stay with Martin tonight and get an early start in the morning.”
His father, Martin Yerxa, was a semi-retired FBI investigator who had once held David’s position on the Bureau’s serial crimes unit. Although Martin was technically too old to be an agent, the FBI’s senior leadership—acknowledging his unique skill and unblemished record as an investigator—allowed him to work certain cases as a “special consultant.”
When he wasn’t working alongside his son, Martin lived alone in the modest South Philly row home he and David’s late mother, Angela, had bought shortly after his semi-retirement from the FBI.
“All right,” Carl said. “Say hello to your father for me, David. And if you decide you’d like to bring him in on this, of course that’s fine.”
He hung up and turned to Lauren.
“How bad?” she asked, her face grave. She’d received similar phone calls during her time with the FBI, and she knew hearing from Carl on the weekend could mean only one thing.
He shook his head. “I’ll tell you when we get out of here. We don’t have to leave now, but I need to be in Winslow, New Jersey first thing tomorrow morning. I thought I’d drive up to Philly and spend the night with Martin. Get an early start.”
“Ditching me on a Sunday night?” she said. “That’s pretty cruel.”
He tried to smile but failed. He was thinking about the three dead boys, and what might be in store for him the following morning.
She recognized the look on his face. “Let’s go,” she said. “I want a little alone time with you. I may not see you before I leave for my firearms training at FLET-C.”
FLET-C stood for Federal Law Enforcement Training Center. David knew of it, though he had never been. Located in Brunswick, Georgia, FLET-C was the weapons training center for all those federal employees who carried or used firearms—everyone except FBI agents, who typically trained at Quantico. A freak fall storm had blown up the East Coast and demolished the Quantico range in late October. While repairs were underway, the FBI was sending its agents to FLET-C for their regularly scheduled weapons exercises.
He frowned. “I’d forgotten about that. When do you leave?”
“Tuesday morning. I’ll be gone until Saturday.”
“I’ll try to get back tomorrow night.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’m sick of seeing you all the time anyway.” She nodded toward the center aisle. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 3
TWO HOURS AFTER leaving the football game, David was on Route 301 in his gray Lincoln, heading north from the District toward Philadelphia.
He’d chosen to avoid the bustle and backups of I-95 in favor of a slower path through the farm fields of rural Maryland and Delaware. It took a little longer, but he preferred the tranquility of county roads to interstate traffic.
His laptop and the fresh case files were sitting on the front seat beside him, but he hadn’t had much of a look at them yet. He’d read a few of the top-most pages while waiting at lights on his way out of Alexandria, and what he had seen had turned his stomach. Three boys were dead, each only thirteen or fourteen years old. In each case, the killer had shot the child once through the heart, the bullet entering from the boy’s back and exiting through his chest. After each killing, the murderer had left all of the boys out in the woods in plain sight, their faces concealed behind white, expressionless masks.
The case files contained photos of the victims, each looking more peaceful and doll-like than the last.
David thought about those photographs as he gazed out at the passing fields and the abbreviated stands of trees the farmsteaders had spared to break up the wind. He was still thinking about them ninety minutes later as he pulled up to the curb in front of his father’s modest South Philly row house.
Climbing out of his car, David could see the light of Martin’s front room burning yellow behind closed curtains. Twilight had chased most of the neighborhood indoors for dinner, but a few boys were throwing a baseball back and forth at the end of the street. They looked to be about the same age as the boys pictured in the case files on the front seat of David’s Lincoln. He collected those files along with his laptop and overnight bag, and used his key to let himself in.
“Pop,” he called out as he pushed open the front door. “I’m here.”
“Down here,” Martin’s voice boomed, loud and sharp, from somewhere deep inside the belly of the house.
He set down his things and started to make his way toward the kitchen at the back of the house. But something stopped him after a few steps: it was his mother’s ghost.
Nearly two ye
ars after her death, Angela Yerxa’s scent still haunted the air of the small house, though it grew weaker each time David visited. He closed his eyes and tried to hold onto her, but after a few breaths she was gone again—reabsorbed into the nooks and crannies of his memory.
He found his father standing in jeans and rolled sleeves alongside his sanding bench in the basement. On top of a nearby table were several flat boards of unstained wood, which Martin had assembled into a squat, precarious-looking tower. The elder Yerxa was working with a wood file to soften the edges of a board.
After studying engineering during his undergraduate days, David’s father had served in the Army Corps of Engineers during the Vietnam War. Although he’d gone on to earn a law degree before joining the FBI, Martin was a life-long tinkerer and wood worker, and spent much of his free time hammering and sanding in his small basement. His favorite projects were chairs. He’d fashioned nearly every seat in his house and several of those in his son’s.
David stood quietly, waiting for him to finish.
After another few seconds of filing Martin looked up from his work. “It’s a Jefferson bookstand,” he said, putting a name to his half-finished project. His big voice filled the small basement space. “It can hold five volumes at once, all at different heights and angles. The great man himself designed it and had one at Monticello. They say he sometimes had up to twenty different books open at once to help with his research.” He paused to shake his head in wonder, and then he huffed. “These days we all bury our noses in our little goddamn computers.”
David smiled. A zealous student of American history—especially the lives of the Founding Fathers—his father was also a vocal technology atheist.
Martin stepped away from his workbench and walked to his son. He put a large, sawdusty hand on David’s shoulder and examined his face for a few seconds before patting his cheek roughly.