by Giles Milton
‘What number?’ It’s one hell of a long street.’
Tammy checked the twitter feed.
‘Just says Rio Vista Drive. Doesn’t give a number.’
Tom squeezed his foot gently on the accelerator. The car snapped up the empty street.
‘Look, up there. They’ve thrown up a cordon. Across the driveway.’
As their Buick approached, two cops, one male, one female, emerged from the front yard. Jack looked them up and down, checking their badges and guns.
Officer Aaron Don. Twenty-six years or thereabouts, eager face, intelligent eyes. Faint smear of acne on his forehead, shoulders that sloped into his chest. Too young to handle a homicide.
Officer Shannon Cass, even younger, wavelet hair like it was still the nineteen eighties and a thick wedge of gum in her mouth. Strangely small feet. They were the small town American cops he’d seen in too many movies.
Jon Perez slid down the passenger window and greeted them with his FBI pass. Officer Don took it, scrutinized it then looked back at Perez.
‘Weren’t expecting you guys. No one told us nothin’. We’ve had Rayno here, that’s all.’
Perez pulled a puzzled face.
‘Lem Rayno, Churchill County sheriff. The serious guys are on their way from Vegas. We’re just here to keep watch. Make sure no one comes pokin.’
Perez nodded like it all made sense then explained how they’d seen it on Twitter. ‘Thought I should swing by. Take a look.’ He forced a laugh. ‘Telling you, you’re never on vacation in the FBI.’
Officer Don smiled (it was a line he could re-cycle) then peered inside the car.
‘Who’s your friends?’
‘This is Tom Lawyer. Tammy Fox.’
‘Doctor Jack Raven,’ said Jack, extending his hand through the open window. ‘From London, England.’
He produced an out-of-date Metropolitan Police pass, wondering if it would wash. Officer Don took it, examined it and then showed it to his colleague.
‘Hey Cass. Check this out. Haven’t seen one of these.’
Officer Cass studied the royal crest and gave a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. Then she chewed hard on her gum and handed the pass back to Officer Don.
‘Dunno,’ she said. ‘Rayno said no one crosses the cordon. And no one means no one. That was his words.’
There was a moment of indecision. Officer Don scratched at his head, like it might help him find an answer. FB-fucking-I. It just got better and better.
And no one means no one.
He couldn’t say no to the FBI. He could already picture them back at the station, a shedload of laughter. Hey everyone! Officer Aaron Don refused the FBI into a murder scene.
Officer Cass was nodding her head, like she’d made up her mind.
‘You - and you -’ Officer Don pointed a finger at Perez and Jack.
‘But you guys -’ He gestured towards Tom and Tammy. ‘Fraid you’ll have to wait here. Otherwise Rayno’ll eat us alive. And he’s one hungry son-of-a-bitch.’
Tom nodded. ‘We’ll wait. We’ll wait here.’
Perez and Jack got out of the car and shook hands with the two officers, establishing a bond of trust. From the way they were shifting on their feet Jack could tell it was their first murder.
‘London, you said?’
Jack nodded.
‘What brings you here?’
‘This.’ He pointed towards the house.
Officer Don laughed. ‘Welcome to the centre of the universe. I can tell you one thing, we don’t get this crap every day.’
Jack glanced back down the empty street. The bungalows were widely spaced out, front yards scrawny and littered with junk. Trailers and tarpaulins. A few dusty cars parked along the sidewalk, hot from the day’s sunshine. He swung his gaze around to the murder house. It was very different from all the other homes - clapperboard, white paintwork, wooden porch and two sets of six steps that met as a triangle outside the front door.
There were two sash windows on the ground floor, black as slate in the shadow of early evening. Three more on the first floor. And there were two smaller windows that protruded a touch from the tiled roof. They were catching the evening sunshine and making it glint like shots of gold. It could have been a dolls house, with the façade hanging on hinges that swung open to reveal the rooms inside.
Officer Don watched Jack carefully as he eyed the house, keen to note what professionals did.
‘Neat, eh? No change from half a million. Not so many like this left in Hanford.’
He waved his arm down the street.
‘See. Bungalows. All modern. But this one -’
Jack agreed it was old.
‘Not so old for you I guess. Buckingham Palace and all that. But this is President Lincoln for us. When this was built -’ he jerked his finger back towards the house - ‘Hanford was ten shacks and a county sheriff.’
He paused for a moment. ‘Wanna step inside? You oughta go inside.’
Officer Cass turned to Perez. ‘Guess you see this all the time.’
He nodded. ‘Business.’
They picked their way across the front garden, its grass scorched to baking parchment by the heat. A pink climbing rose was making a half-hearted attempt to mount the white balustrade that provided a handrail to the front door. Its leaves were gleaming in the sunshine.
‘What d’you know so far?’ asked Perez.
Officer Don stood on the third step and turned to face him and Jack.
‘Chilling. Worst thing I’ve ever seen. Car crashes, petty theft, break-ins, that’s our daily fare. But this -’
He let out a low whistle.
‘Single cut to here -’
He pointed at his neck.
‘Prepare yourselves. Been raining blood in there.’
Jack caught Perez’s expression.
‘Not suicide?’ he asked, disingenuous.
Officer Cass looked toward him, twisted smile, gum caught in her front teeth.
‘First suicide in history where the person doing themselves in cuts a skull into their chest. Like I said, not pretty. Skull gouged with a knife. And neck sliced open. You’ll see -’
He continued up the steps then opened the front door.
‘Any idea of his identity?’ asked Perez. ‘The victim, I mean?’
‘Yup. Name’s Ashton Brookner. But that’s not public yet. Family not been informed.’
Officer Don ushered them into the hallway, pausing for a moment to give them the chance to look around.
‘He’s in the back room. Guess in the old days it’d have been some sort of parlour.’
Jack paused for a moment in the hall, eyes focusing through the gloom. There was a long woven runner that lined the floor, leading from the front door to the staircase. A pair of stout rubber boots on the mat, covered in a thin film of dust, a galvanized wall-clock stuck at 3.32. And there were three hand-coloured engravings of New York that looked like they dated from the turn of the century. A man’s house. Middle aged, prosperous. Liked his comforts. The stairs were painted white, like the walls. There was a scent of baked cinnamon.
Officer Don stopped again, hovering in the doorway to the back room. ‘Hardly need tell you guys not to touch. We’ve checked him out, of course, poor bastard. Works for - sorry, worked - for Vortec Aerospace. D’you know the place? Out beyond the airport.’
Perez looked up. ‘Green Valley Way?’
‘That’s the one. Spoke to the manager. Rayno got me and Officer Cass here to do the calls. Friendly guy, the manager. Shocked out of his mind. Known Ashton Brookner for six years three months and wouldn’t hurt a cockroach. Exact words. Wouldn’t hurt a cockroach. Funny what folk say.’
Perez raised his hand a fraction, signalling a question.
‘Did he have issues with anyone? Business deal gone wrong? Relationship problems? Family? What you found out?’
Officer Don shook his head. ‘Nothin’ like that.’
‘You see -’ Perez continued -
‘of the last twenty, thirty homicides I’ve dealt with, I reckon two thirds have been family.’
Officer Don stood silent and let Officer Cass pitch in the stuff she’d found out.
‘Not this one. Not married. No lady in his life. But not gay, neither. And from what the manager-guy said, it was all happy families. Rayno’s checking it all out. Going through his contacts. Should know more later.’
They filed into the back room one by one.
‘Jesus fucking Christ -’
Perez was used to violent death but he was still caught unprepared. He hadn’t seen Kingston’s body, only been told about it. And now this.
A gently rising arc of blood in russet brown, splattered all over the walls and ceiling as if someone had lifted a can of spray paint and ran their arm through the air.
‘Holy shit – ’
For Jack it was like Kingston in duplicate. His eyes shifted straight to the corpse. It lay in an ungainly position, fully clothed, unlike Kingston, and with the neck twisted backward a fraction. The head was lying heavily on the right ear.
He moved closer, looked at the contorted face. Leaden white, drained, the blood sucked away. The chest was exposed. As Officer Don had said, it was carved with a crude skull. A professional hit. And he’d had time to leave his signature.
‘Said it weren’t pretty and it’s not. And now there’s flies comin’.’
‘Time of death?’ asked Perez, gulping. ‘Any steer?’.
Officer Don told them that Rayno thought he’d been killed in the early hours. Two o’clock. Perhaps three.
Jack looked at the body again and then counted back the hours. He agreed. Dead for at least sixteen hours, maybe longer.
‘Who found him?’
‘Cleaner. Opened up. Came in. Screamed. And made the call.’
Jon Perez looked back down at the corpse and shook his head. ‘The work of one violent psycho.’
Officer Cass agreed. ‘Psycho and sicko. Why’d anyone do this? And why him?’ She pointed at the body. ‘Worked hard. Didn’t harm no one. A regular guy who keeps himself to himself. And then he’s jumped.’
‘Anyone see anything?’ asked Perez. ‘Hear anything? Neighbours?’
‘Away on both sides,’ said Officer Cass. ‘Spoken with pretty much everyone in the street. Most of them away on vacation. August. But those who are around heard nothing. No scream. Not even a car.’
‘Any sign of a struggle?’ asked Jack, though he already knew the answer.
Officer Don shook his head.
‘Nope. Like he was caught completely unawares. Rayno reckons he might not even have heard the murderer. That’s what freaks me, honestly. Been tryin to get my head round the idea of gettin yerself killed without even seein your killer. Slash, stab and the show’s over. Lights out.’
Perez asked if they’d found the weapon. Officer Don shook his head.
‘Nope. Nothin. But Rayno says it was a hunting knife. Or razor. Scalpel. That sort of thing. And real sharp.’
Jack examined the wound more carefully. It was exactly the cut that had killed Kingston.
‘Carotid artery,’ he said, addressing them all. ‘One cut and it’s done. Dead in two minutes. If you have to be murdered, it’s painless at least.’
He asked if anything had been stolen. Officer Cass shook her head.
‘Hard to see. We’ve had a poke. Rayno too. Maybe some cash. Valuables. And the upstairs wardrobe was open. Clothes scattered all across the floor. But that could be nothin’.’
Jack’s eyes caught Perez’s for a second time.
Perez forced a laugh. ‘Not many people kill for a new wardrobe.’
Officer Don turned to face Jack and Perez, concern suddenly written across his face. Jack could see he was regretting letting them in.
‘You’ll keep this quiet? No one crosses the cordon. We gave our word to Rayno.’
Cass nodded. ‘Our jobs on the line.’
Perez clapped his hands together.
‘We’ll clear off your patch. Leave you to it.’ He put a finger to his lips, a signal that their secret was safe with him. ‘Had to see it, though. Saw it on Twitter and thought to myself, well how’s that? You go off on vacation and five minutes later there’s a murder on your doorstep.’
He paused, changed tack. ‘You said the Vegas folk are on their way?’
Officer Don nodded. ‘Yeah. Sendin’ two detectives. Guess they’ll take it all off our hands. But sure hope they hurry up. Can’t leave him much longer in this heat. Smells already. Goin’ to stink by morning.’
Perez nodded. ‘If they’ve got any sense they’ll keep you guys on board. You know the ground. Know the local people. That kind of stuff. Local knowledge counts.’
Officer Cass shook her head.
‘I know local and this ain’t local. An outsider did this, that’s for sure. One mother-of-a-screwed-up-outsider.’
Jon Perez handed them his business card; they responded by giving him theirs.
‘Mind if we keep in touch?’ he said.
‘Sure. When we catch him, you’ll be the first to know who’s danglin’ on our line.’
*
‘So? It was him?’
Tom wanted every detail.
‘Him alright,’ said Jack. ‘Couldn’t have left a clearer signature.’
‘Skull?’
He nodded. ‘A skull. Clear as day. And same cut to the neck.’
Tom winced. ‘Fuck. So ice man’s got a brain alright. And the shit’s just got deeper.’
Perez turned to Tammy.
‘The victim, can you Google him. Name’s Ashton Brookner. Works for Vortec Aerospace. See what there is. Maybe the company website has something.’
Tammy typed his name into her phone then looked at the results.
‘Three mentions. And yeah, he’s on the Vortec website.’
She scrolled down. ‘Been there six years or so. Technical advisor, whatever that means. Not much else.’
She returned to the search page.
‘He’s on Linked-in. Ashton Brookner, Ashton Brookner. Here we go - “Ashton Brookner works at Vortec Aerospace.” Previous employers, all engineering stuff. One job in Virginia, one in Florida. Likes the novels of John Steinbeck and Ernest Hemingway. Likes Bach, Wagner. Sixty-three connections. And that’s it.’
A moment’s silence as they thought it through. Wagner.
‘And he’s mentioned in some local news story. Something about an aircraft museum.’
Tom banged hard on the steering wheel.
‘Why kill Ashton Brookner, of all people? Why him for fuck’s sake?’
He started the engine, put the car into drive, moved off slowly down the length of Rio Vista Drive. Then he swung back into Sapphire Way and continued until they reached downtown. He pulled the car up outside the Slanted Pine Bar and Resto.
‘Let’s get a beer. We need thinking time. We’re heading top speed to the deepest possible shit. Need to outsmart him.’
They made their way through the swing door, Tom first, then Perez and Tammy. Jack paused outside for a moment, thinking it through. Hans Dietrich. It would soon be his second night in hiding. Two nights. Two murders. Not a bad ratio, even for a seasoned killer.
He made his way inside and joined the others at their table by the window.
‘Four Millers,’ said Tom to the bar-girl. ‘Cold as you can.’
‘Three,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll have a Coke.’
She brought them right away. Tom wiped the frost off the bottle then slugged it, like he needed to hydrate fast. Perez drank more cautiously, twisting the bottle round and round.
Jack asked for a glass.
‘You don’t like beer?’ said Perez.
‘Coke’s fine.’
‘Went to Britain once. Two-thousand-and-one. London. Nice place. But you don’t know how to drink beer.’ He turned to Tom. ‘They drink it warm and flat.’
Tom was thinking hard, clicking his finger joints as he did so. ‘He’s killing c
os he likes killing.’ He turned to face Jack. ‘He likes killing. Simple as that. You told us about France and Russia and all that. You told us about the massacres. He gets his kicks from death. Period.’
Tammy was nodding as he spoke. ‘Yeah, exactly my thoughts. Remember what you said? He goes to Russia, pulls some guy out of a crowd, shoots him in the head. It’s all about power over someone else. He gets his kicks from killing. He’s an addict, like he’s doing coke. He’s woken up, wants to kill. And he doesn’t care who.’
Perez looked up from the table. ‘Kingston was different. He was nailed for his clothes. But this one, it was sport. And a scalpel, too. Violent son-of-a-bitch. Tells you something.’
Jack slowly turned his glass in a circle and watched the bubbles rising through the dark liquid.
‘No.’
They all looked at him.
‘The killings in France, in Russia, they weren’t random. The very last thing they were is random. There was always a reason for them, even if it was a chilling one. Yes, they picked on individuals, just like you said. And yes they singled them out from the crowd. But never random. They shot the ones who didn’t obey orders and then killed the rest. It was preordained, premeditated and planned.’
Tom looked at Jack. ‘What you trying to say?’
‘Only that it’s not random. I don’t believe that Hans Dietrich broke into the house of a complete stranger and murdered him for kicks. He’s chosen his victim with care. Selected him. For some weird reason, and I don’t know what, he wanted Ashton Brookner dead.’
Perez tutted, shook his head.
‘Nah. How can he have chosen to kill Ashton Brookner?’
He took another sip of beer.
‘Nothing adds up,’ he said, putting the bottle back down. ‘Number one, what makes him want to kill some guy at Vortec Aerospace? And number two, why?’
He drained his beer in a decisive fashion. ‘No. He killed cos he likes killing.’
Still Jack disagreed. He reminded them that the SS Totenkopf were soldiers. Elite. Highly trained. Professionals.
‘Agreed, they liked killing. Their business was death. Murder. Extermination. Call it what you will. But however evil their work it always had some sort of weird logic.’