The Sixth Wicked Child

by J. D. Barker

  “So Bishop’s mother is still out there somewhere,” Porter said more to himself than to the group.

  “If she was ever real.” The DA smirked.

  Porter’s head shot up. “They took her photo at New Orleans prison, when they made our visitor’s passes. You need to get that photo.”

  Poole was already shaking his head. He took a photograph from his briefcase and handed it to Porter. The image was of a middle-aged black woman. “What is this?” Porter frowned.

  “That’s the photo saved in the prison’s central server.”

  Porter tossed the picture aside. “Klozowski. Had to be.”

  Dalton, who had remained quiet through most of this, said, “Tom Langlin was responsible for putting the Simpsonville house into your name. Sheriff Banister was able to confirm he had access to change the physical paperwork on file with the county. We think Klozowski might have hacked the electronic property records on the farmhouse. He scrubbed all these databases. They probably killed Langlin as some kind of—”

  “Loose end,” Porter interrupted in a quiet voice. Father taught me the importance of picking up after myself.

  “Probably.” Dalton nodded. “Looks like he created a wire trail between you and Upchurch, too. We’re still piecing that together.”

  The district attorney took out a yellow postcard, tapped it on the edge of the table several times, then flicked it across the table.

  The card was addressed to Porter. “What’s that?”

  “We found it in your mailbox.”

  “You went through my mail?”

  “You’re a suspect in numerous open investigations. Not only have we been going through your mail, we’ve cataloged it as part of an open warrant.”

  Porter read the card and frowned. It was an overdue library book notice. “I don’t use the library.”

  Poole had placed four pieces of drywall on the table, each sealed in clear plastic. Porter knew about these, knew Nash had found them inside the chair at his apartment. “Are those the poems cut from the wall at 41st? Where your partner was killed?”

  Poole nodded and pointed at the overdue notice. “The book referenced there is called The Beauty of Death, The Death of Beauty. A book of poems assembled by a man named Francisco Penafiel. The last person to check that book out was Barbara McInley.” He reached across the table and placed his palm over one of the drywall pieces. “We’ve matched the handwriting here to samples of hers we had on file.”

  Porter didn’t understand. “Barbara McInley, Libby’s sister, Bishop’s fifth victim, wrote those poems?”

  Poole nodded.

  “On the wall in the house where Diener was killed?”

  Again, Poole nodded.

  “When?”

  For that, Poole didn’t have an answer.

  “Are you saying she’s still alive?”

  The room went quiet again as everyone considered this.

  From his briefcase, Poole retrieved the library book. A thin volume, no more than a hundred pages. He slid it across the table to Porter. “We found it in your apartment on the shelf with a few other hardcovers.”

  Porter pulled the book closer. “Those were Heather’s. She loved to read. This, though, I’ve never seen this one before.” He nodded at the pieces of drywall. “Are those poems in here?”

  Poole nodded. “All of them. I folded over the pages. Open it.”

  Porter did. Again, he didn’t understand. He turned to the first page with a folded corner, the Emily Dickinson poem entitled “The Chariot.” Someone had drawn a large figure eight on the page with a black marker. As Porter flipped through the book, he realized the same symbol had been drawn on every page. “The infinity symbol,” Porter said flatly. “The tattoo.” He looked up at Poole. “What does it mean?”

  Poole shrugged. “We don’t know.”

  Bishop had tattooed the symbol on Emory Connor’s left wrist. They found it on Jacob Kittner, the woman Porter knew as Sarah Werner. Others too.

  Nobody spoke for a long time.

  “There’s more,” Poole finally said. He reached back down into his briefcase and took out the cell phone with Porter’s old business card still fastened to the back. The one Bishop left for Porter in the old roll-top desk at the farmhouse. Both were in a plastic evidence bag. “This is my phone. Bishop took it from me when he knocked me out.” Poole hesitated for a moment, then said, “When I powered it up this morning, there was a text message. A new one. For you.”

  Porter leaned forward. “Can I see it?”

  Poole glanced at the district attorney, who nodded.

  Removing the phone from the bag, he handed the device to Porter. Porter’s breath caught in his throat.

  The message said, I miss your calls, Sam.

  Porter found it hard to speak. “That’s…that’s Heather’s old cell phone number.”

  “Your wife?” Dalton asked.

  Porter nodded. “After she died, I used to call and listen to her voice mail, listen to her voice. I…I closed the account months ago. I needed to…” Before anyone could stop him, he touched the number on the screen and dialed on speakerphone. The line didn’t ring. Instead, the call when straight to voicemail. It wasn’t Heather’s familiar voice on the other end, though. This time it was Bishop’s.

  “Hello, Sam. I never did get a chance to say good-bye, and I wanted to apologize for that. It was rude, impolite, and my parents raised me to be anything but rude or impolite. You asked me a question in the Guyon parking lot, something I do feel we need to address now that time permits—I was a bit rushed that morning, but now with all that behind us, the unpleasantness of the trial too, now we’re free to talk, and I do so wish to talk to you. You asked who you are to me. I imagine after all we’ve been through recently you expect a complex answer to that rather basic question, but the truth is, the answer is very simple. Who are you to me? You’re nothing, Sam. You’re a nobody. You are a filthy, faded business card Tegan found on the floor of your partner’s van. You’re someone who could have helped but didn’t. You’re someone who looked the other way when you should have had eyes front. You were nothing but a means to an end. Your punishment is to spend the rest of your life knowing what your lack of action brought upon others. Every time you visit Heather’s tombstone, I want you to remember one simple thing. You put her there.”

  Porter felt himself sink a little deeper into his chair, a lump growing in his throat that he was unable to swallow. All eyes in the room were on the phone as Bishop continued.

  “It’s important you understand loss, Sam. It’s important you know loss as I know loss. My parents are gone. Libby McInley, the only person I ever truly cared for, is gone. Weasel, Vincent, Paul, Tegan, Kristina…all gone. The Kid, Klozowski, he gave his own life in their memory—there could be no greater sacrifice. Gone too. You may not believe I feel pain, Sam, but I do. Every time I close my eyes, I still hear Libby crying. I can still taste the salt of her tears on my fingertips. I wake in the middle of the night and feel her hand in mine for that brief moment between slumber and wakefulness. Then she’s gone again, and I’m alone. You have been blessed with the ability to forget, but I have no such ability. Your lost time is my darkest memory, and in that, I don’t wish to suffer alone. I want you to remember, need you to remember. You will do that for me, Sam. You will remember for the sake of all those we have lost. Then we can suffer together.

  “I left something for you, Sam. A missing puzzle piece. Your very own white box tied with a black string. I’m honestly surprised it hasn’t been found. I suppose it’s better to joke about the stink than be the person who has to clean it up. Better to ignore the foul things in life than to face them. Not the first time you’ve turned your back, and probably not the last. Perhaps next time you’ll pause before you walk away.”

  When Bishop finished speaking, there was a beep. For a moment, they had all forgotten they were listening to a voice mail message.

  Porter reached to the phone and clicked the END bu
tton. “Take me to Metro, now.”

  131

  Porter

  Day 199 • 11:39 AM

  The district attorney refused to remove Porter’s restraints, and while Porter didn’t much care, shuffling through the halls of Chicago Metro drew a number of stares. Most looked away the moment he met their gaze, but others lingered, their eyes filled with contempt. They all looked at him like he was broken.

  The press had crucified him—not only had he been blamed for Bishop’s initial escape, they doubled down the moment Bishop came out with that undercover op nonsense. When the information Klozowski left behind went public, opinions shifted even further, and Bishop was seen as some kind of hero. These blinders went up around the city, and people landed in one of two camps—those who sided with Bishop and felt Porter was out to frame him, and the lingering few who believed Porter was innocent. The few who had sided with Porter most likely jumped ship with Bishop’s not-guilty verdict. Porter was certain the blame would land squarely on his shoulders, and that was where most of his coworkers appeared to be. He blew the case. He lost sight and let Bishop best him. What the press said wasn’t relevant, but he dropped the ball as a cop.

  Porter clambered inside the elevator with Poole, the district attorney, Dalton, and Hessling.

  When the door opened on the basement level, Nash was standing in the hallway.

  Porter hadn’t seen him since the trial and they hadn’t spoken in more than a month. “Brian.”

  “Hey.”

  Nash’s eyes drifted over Porter—the orange jumpsuit, the handcuffs, and leg restraints. “You’d think someone would spring for one of those Hannibal Lecter masks and a hand truck to complete the look.”

  The group stepped out of the elevator into the hallway, and the door closed behind them.

  Nash looked down at his shoes, shuffled his feet, then back at Porter. “Poole called me last night and filled me in on everything he’d found. I want you to know that Clair and I have always known you were innocent. We wanted to talk to you, but—”

  Dalton cleared his throat. “I ordered them not to. Not just them, the entire department. Not until we had all the facts. You’ve only got three days left on your sentence for the prison break in New Orleans.” He glanced at the DA. “In light of this new evidence, I can’t imagine there will be additional charges, from anyone. We’ll coordinate a joint statement, I’ll square away the press…”

  Porter ignored him and smiled at Nash. “You and Clair, huh?”

  “Yeah, me and Clair.”

  Something had died in Nash the day Klozowski killed himself. Something died in all of them. Porter was glad the two of them had found some kind of happiness together. In the end, that’s what would carry them all through to the other side.

  “Is she here?”

  Nash nodded down the hall. “She was in the War Room packing up. No more task force, no reason to be down in the basement anymore. We’re back at our desks in the bull pen. She went upstairs to meet with a walk-in; someone asking for you. We’ve gotten a lot of those lately, mainly cranks.”

  “You’ll want to see this,” Porter said, starting down the hallway.

  “See what?”

  Poole had to unlock the door. The feds had changed the lock on their temporary office across the hall from the War Room shortly after Porter stole the McInley file. Although most of the case-related material had been moved to the Bureau’s Chicago field office, they hadn’t completely vacated the space.

  The moment Poole opened the door, the smell hit them. Faint, but there. Hessling wrinkled his nose. Poole stepped into the room and switched on the lights.

  Porter shuffled toward the back left corner, his shackles jangling. He nodded at Nash. “Help me move this desk.”

  “The mystery stain?”

  Porter nodded.

  Together, they each lifted a corner of the old metal desk and carried it several paces to the right before setting it down again.

  The stain in the tan Berber carpet was about a foot in diameter and had been there for years. Certainly not the only stain on the floors of Chicago Metro. Renovation was not high on the city’s budget list. The smell had come and gone, at its worst during the summer months. There really wasn’t a way to describe it—some kind of cross between skunk, wet wool, and sour milk. Porter had personally sprung for a carpet cleaner at one point, and that seemed to help for a few days, but the smell soon returned. They moved the desk over it, added a few boxes, and went on to other things. When the FBI moved in, they certainly had no reason to deal with it.

  On his hands and knees, Porter studied the stain. “The carpet’s been pulled up and replaced.”

  Nash appeared puzzled. “Who would do that?”

  “Does anyone have a knife?”

  Poole produced a Ranger Buck knife, not unlike the one Bishop used to carry.

  Porter opened the blade and used the tip to snag the corner of the carpet and tug it out from under the baseboard. A square had been cut out of the padding. creating a small compartment. Within that space was a white box tied with black string, no bigger than a pen case.

  132

  Porter

  Day 199 • 11:42 AM

  Someone muttered something about evidence, but on some level, they all knew they were beyond that. Porter took out the box, removed the string, and opened the cover. Inside were two glass vials, both labeled MONTEHUGH LABS – CORONA VIRUS – SEVERE ACUTE RESPIRATORY SYNDROME.

  “Holy shit,” Nash said.

  “Don’t touch it,” Poole said. “I’ll get someone down here. That’s our missing two vials.”

  Porter stared at the small glass tubes. “Klozowski must have left them here. He was the only one with access. But this means he hid them before he got locked in Stroger. They used one vial to fill that needle Clair found in the hospital locker, left the empty in my New Orleans hotel room, and hid the other two here. They never intended to release the virus.”

  Poole was on the phone, half listening to Porter.

  Nash said, “Could he have used the tunnels to get here from the hospital?”

  “No way,” Dalton replied. “This building is too new to be part of that network. Besides, someone would have recognized him and said something. All of Metro knew he was stuck in the hospital with the others.”

  Nobody had heard Clair come into the room. She was standing by the door, her eyes filled with tears. She cleared her throat. “I just met with Robin Hillburn.” She looked first to Nash, then to Dalton and Poole, then stepped across the room and knelt down beside Porter, an envelope in her hand. “She…she gave me this, for you. She said Derrick left it under her pillow the day he…died. Left it along with a note for her. She wouldn’t share that one, said it was too personal. But she wanted me to give this to you. She said she was sorry she waited so long. She put it away, hid it all these years. Wasn’t sure she wanted to share it. She was worried about what it would do to her husband’s memory. When Poole visited, with everything in the news, she realized this information wasn’t hers to keep, not anymore.”

  Someone had opened the envelope long ago, the glue no longer tacky. There was a letter inside, several pages, handwritten. Porter scanned the text. “Oh my God.”

  Clair placed a hand on Porter’s shoulder. “I read it, Sam. I know I shouldn’t have, but…I’m so sorry.” She paused for a second. “Robin thinks Welderman or Stocks forged the note they found with Derrick’s body. That scared her, too. She didn’t know what they would do to her if this information got out.”

  By the time Porter finished reading, his hand was shaking. The pages of the letter fluttered to the ground and he found himself sitting, his back against the side of the desk. He looked up at Poole, at Nash, and the others.

  Clair put her arms around his neck. “None of this is on you, Sam. You hear me? You need to let it all go. We’ll help you, I promise. Forget Bishop, forget what he did, forget all of it.”

  Sam told her he would. As memories began to fl
ood back, as the holes in his past began to knit together, he swore that he would. He swore this to all of them. Funny, how the littlest of lies begin.

  133

  Bishop

  Day 203 • 9:48 AM

  Anson Bishop’s attorney notified the press he would be released from custody at noon on Wednesday, September 2, and a press conference would be held in the lobby of the Cook County Courthouse, where Bishop and his attorney would make a joint statement and follow with a question-and-answer period. He was, in fact, released on August 31 at eleven in the evening. He left the courthouse through a loading bay in the back with no one in attendance other than a janitor smoking a cigarette, his foot holding the back door open just enough to prevent the smoke detector six feet away from going off. Bishop climbed into an idling town car, where he found a black leather bag waiting for him on the seat. Within that bag were several forms of identification under various names, credit cards, clothing, toiletries, car keys, and ten thousand dollars in cash. The town car took him directly to the Radisson at Midway Airport, where he darkened his hair, took a three-hour nap, then boarded a red-eye to Boston under the name Daron Metzler.

  Without the buzz of paparazzi surrounding him, he went unrecognized both on the plane and as he made his way through Logan International Airport to long-term parking. The keys found in his bag unlocked a silver two-year-old Mercedes C-300 left in space K302 with a full tank of gas.

  The drive to New Castle, New Hampshire, should have only taken about an hour, but Bishop stopped for breakfast in Newburyport at a little seaside diner called Mike’s. On one of the cable news channels, they played one of the videos Klozowski had left behind on his work computer—in this one he confessed to all the initial 4MK murders. From Calli Tremell right up through the abduction of Emory Connors. When the video finished, several reporters debated whether or not the jury in Bishop’s trial had somehow seen the confession, even though it wasn’t released until they were in deliberation. Bishop left before hearing whatever they concluded. Here, too, nobody recognized him.