by George Fong
He and Marquez looked over at Burke, who sat quietly, trying to figure out what Jack meant. Then, the light bulb flashed in his head. “You want to see if he’s on now?”
“Yeah. And we want to go on as you.”
“You can go on as me?”
“Is that a question or consent?” Jack asked.
“Whatever, man.”
The examiners disconnected their forensic equipment from Burke’s computer and signed on to the chat room, searching for Jure Petroski.
“Go get ’em, Marquez,” Jack said. “See if Mr. Petroski is out hunting for more pictures.”
“He’s not a picture kind of guy,” Burke interjected.
Everyone looked at Burke.
Spittle started to build around the corners of his mouth. “Look, this guy, he was into talking about family and children. We all thought he was going somewhere with the conversation. You know, getting into child discipline.” Burke’s face turned white. “It’s talk. Fantasy. Anyway, everyone in the chat room starts joking about it, but Jure, he gets angry. You can see it in his messaging. He starts scolding everyone for not taking him seriously and all of the sudden, everyone starts signing out.”
“How did you leave it with him?”
Burke shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Didn’t really get too deep into his tirade. Just kind of listened.”
“Listened to what?” Marquez asked.
“To him talk about starting over.”
“Starting what over?” Marquez’s voice sounded irritated.
“I don’t know, with a new family, new kids, almost like he got rid of the old one and started a new one.” Burke snapped his fingers, still handcuffed. “I tell you what. This guy either lives in or has lived in California. He talked about the summer heat and the winter cold of the Central Valley. I remember him saying that his previous family hated the heat.”
“Previous?”
“His words not mine. I just took it in. It wasn’t something I thought I needed to psychoanalyze.” Burke said the word psychoanalyze like he knew what it meant.
Marquez’s cell phone rang. The agent on the other end had just gotten the information from the ISP search. Marquez put her phone on speaker so everyone could hear.
“Your sender’s name is listed as Jure Petroski,” the agent informed. “Occupation, electrical engineer. Get this, home address is Budapest, Hungary. Nothing in California. Looks like you’ve got a long drive ahead of you.”
“That’s not good,” Marquez said.
“They’re still trying to determine the origination point of the user. It got a little complicated. Looks like he may have routed his communication through a number of servers that includes an overseas connection. We’re also checking for DMV records and criminal history. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.”
Marquez ended the call. She returned her attention to the monitor. Her fingers clattered on the keyboard, linking her to a maze of websites known to attract sexual deviants. The first five sites yielded nothing other than the standard perverts and curious newcomers to child smut. Marquez deflected their requests in her hunt for bigger fish. They’ll be around tomorrow, she contended. The next four sites were empty and the last two were already shut down, discovered by the server to be illegal porn sites.
Marquez crossed her arms and glared at the monitor. “Where oh where can he be,” she sang. She cocked her head toward Burke. “Got any suggestions?”
Burke stood up and walked over to his computer. Even though his hands were cuffed, he was still able to maneuver the mouse and tap the keyboard. Through a series of links and secret websites, Burke landed on an occupied chat room. Burke stopped for a moment and looked over at Marquez. “You want me to see if he’s here?”
Marquez waved her hand, giving Burke the green light to go fishing.
Burke placed the keyboard on his lap and started to type.
looking for jure. any 1 hear from him?
Silence.
Burke typed more: i got pictures for him.
More silence.
family pictures
Marquez looked over at Burke. “Let’s not be too obvious.”
“Can’t lure a rat without cheese,” Burke replied.
A message flashed up: he was here earlier. talking crazy shit again
Jack moved closer to the table where everyone stood watching the exchange.
“Let’s see if we can make this more interesting,” Jack said. He took the keyboard from Burke and started typing a message to everyone in the chat room. Jure sent some strange pics today. i want more. anyone got any new?
As quickly as Jack hit the send button, a message returned: do i know you?
“It’s him.” Burke yelled, “That’s Jure.”
The name Jpetroski blipped at the top of website where the chat room names posted.
Jack responded. chatted this morning. u sent me pics. nice. got more?
Y?
just interested. who is she?
There was a pause. she is mine.
r they real?
yes.
Jack’s heart started to pound. “We may have stumbled onto a legit kidnapping.” He handed the keyboard to Marquez and dialed the office. The call was routed to Special Agent Chris Hoskin, Sacramento’s team leader for the Evidence Response Team. “Chris, need your help.”
“Go ahead.”
“Check NLETS for any suspicious situations where a kid has come up missing.” NLETS was the National Law Enforcement Telecommunication System, the hub for all criminal justice information in the world. “Also, check with the local agencies. Include the RA territories. I’m looking for any unreporteds.”
“What do you got?”
“Photos over the Internet of a guy with a bound and gagged child. Pics are eerie enough to be real.”
Hoskin went quiet, pondering. “He could be anywhere in the world.”
“Marquez’s chatting with the perp online. There’s some past conversations about the Central Valley, like he knows the area. If he’s around here, I want to know.”
“We’ll give it a run. I’ll ring you if I come up with anything.” They ended the call and Jack returned to where Marquez was sitting, trying to lure Petroski into a face-to-face meeting.
lets meet for an exchange, Marquez typed.
what do you have for me?
children. Marquez looked up at Jack with a raised lip. “Sick fucks need sick responses.”
Before getting a response, Marquez fired off another message.
Im in sacramento, california. know the place? where r u?
north.
“We’re getting warmer,” Marquez said.
She continued typing. how far north?
A message broke in from another listener in the chat room. what r u? a cop?
“Great, just what I need.” Marquez slapped the keyboard and said, “I should have moved to a private chat room so we could have conversed without others nosing in.” She sat for a moment, contemplating whether to send out a response message or wait for a response from Jure Petroski. Then, just as the opportunity had come, it vanished. On the corner of the screen, Jpetroski disappeared. He left the chat room, gone from Marquez’s reach.
“Dammit!” Marquez screamed and slammed her fist on the table.
A CART examiner called out. “I think I got ’em. I’m online with the server. We were tracing back while you were chatting. He’s close by all right. Couple towns away. Chico.” He provided the address and the crew started tossing gear into bags. They could be out of Modesto in five minutes.
Jack looked over at Marquez. “Pack it up, Lucy. On the drive up, call and educate Chris as to what we’ve got here and have him pound out a warrant for Petroski’s house in Chico. By the time we get there, he should have it signed by a judge.” Jack glanced back at Marquez and confessed, “Warrant or not, we’re going in.”
Marquez nodded. She was busy lifting Burke up by his armpit and handing him off to another agent for transport.
“Your lucky day, Burke. You get an all-expense paid vacation in Sacramento County lock-up. Tomorrow, if everything goes well tonight, I’ll make sure your bail is low enough for you to post,” she said.
Burke’s jaw fell. “What do you mean low enough? Can’t I just stay here for the night?”
Jack and Marquez responded in unison. “Shut up, Burke!”
9
Tuesday – 4:30 p.m.
The highway reader board flashed between the afternoon sun and Jack’s eyes for a microsecond, like a single frame from a running motion picture. He gunned the gas and cranked the wheel right, speeding toward the Woodbridge exit, a small street that he had marked in his Thomas Guide, where Jure Petroski had sat and chatted with Marquez less than two hours prior. The area northeast of Chico was extremely rural, older bungalow style homes scattered between large clumps of trees, dirt roads the only connection between neighbors. Orange plastic mailboxes sprouted from bushes along the main streets.
Sergeant Doug Blackwell from the Chico Police Department met Jack at the start of a long dirt path. He leaned on Jack’s driver’s side window and pointed toward a three-bedroom house with a detached garage one hundred yards away.
“I’ve sent two officers around to an adjacent lot to get a better look at the property. They reported back there’s a light on inside but can’t see if anyone’s home. No dogs or other people in the area. Your call if you want us to go ahead and enter.”
Jack shook his head. “Let’s give it a minute.” He worried if Petroski was not in there, entering would show their hand, giving Petroski the opportunity to run. Jack had sent three agents of his own around the back and over a graveled levy, where a creek ran behind the residence, keeping an eye out for any movement.
Thirty minutes passed, everyone getting antsy. Dusk had settled, making it increasingly difficult to see very far. The sergeant was fidgeting and checking his watch, wondering why they needed to wait. Marquez drove up and came to an abrupt stop next to Jack’s car.
“Got the warrant.” She stuck her head out the car window and pointed her chin toward the house. “You think he’s in there?”
Jack shook his head. “Don’t know, haven’t seen any movement since we’ve been here. There’s a small light on inside but no telling if anyone’s home. I don’t think we can wait much longer, Marquez. If there’s a kid in there, we got to move.”
“Let’s kick in the door and see how many cockroaches fall out.”
Jack waved the sergeant over. Within a minute, they rallied the team together and Jack led four FBI agents and six Chico officers to the front of the house. The two officers bringing up the rear peeled away to the right, raising their rifles toward the side windows. A third continued around the edge, knelt down and covered the back porch.
The rest of the team slid across the front porch, cloaked under the shade of dusk. The agent behind Jack placed a heavy metal crowbar known as the pick between the frame of the house and the flimsy door, and the second agent wedged a battering ram—the key. Jack signaled with a pump of his arm and then speared forward. No knocking this time. Marquez had requested a no-knock warrant because of the possible victim held inside. Judges hate to see children hurt. Authority granted.
The agent swung the large black cylinder back like a pendulum before ramming it forward, slamming it squarely on the head of the pick. A huge clang echoed as the doorframe splintered into kindling. The handle shattered and the door flew wide open, allowing the stream of agents and officers to pour into a dark living room.
They flared side to side inside the cramped quarters, flashlight beams searching the area. The forward team quickly advanced through the front room, pushing down a narrow hallway. Doors kicked open, the entry repeated. Penetrate, clear, move on. Penetrate, clear, move on.
Five minutes later, the house was thoroughly swept and declared secure. Jack flipped on the light switches as he walked from room to room, studying the layout and scouring for any indication of a kidnap victim. Trash cluttered everywhere but nothing overt to indicate there was a hostage held here.
The officers holstered their weapons. Photographs were taken to document the condition of the rooms. The house, a single story bungalow, included three bedrooms, one bath, with a detached single car garage. Whoever lived here must have liked beige because that was the color of the entire house. Cheap, seventies-style carpeting covered the floors and hallways. The swamp cooler on the roof strained against the stifling heat from outside. The entire house was stuffy and smelled heavily of mildew.
“No one inside, Jack,” the sergeant called out.
Jack nodded, unable to hide his disappointment. He pointed down the hall with his Maglite. “Let’s start searching the back. That one looks like our guy’s room.”
Two agents and a Chico detective proceeded down the hall carrying large evidence bags and latent print kits.
Jack headed into the kitchen. White walls, yellowing from age and bordered in a black and white porcelain tile countertop. The Formica dinette table was small with a gray and white marble swirl pattern. Leftover Chinese food containers sat opened on the counter next to the sink. He walked over to the table and studied a paper plate with a slop of mixed vegetables and rice. There was no steam rising but the plate was still warm. A Styrofoam cup sweated droplets into a puddle beside it. Jack peered into the cup. Half-filled with fizzless soda, a small chunk of ice bobbing in the center like a drifting iceberg. It was well above eighty degrees inside the house. In this heat, the ice should have been history.
“Marquez, keep an eye out. Petroski’s been here recently.”
Marquez looked around the room then pushed back one of the thin sheers on the front window, scanning the wooded area outside.
In the living room, Jack spotted a laptop computer propped open on a dark green sofa, whose cover was well worn and stank of body odor, the couch most likely doubling for his suspect’s bed. Summer heat and sweat. Jack opted against sitting and instead slid on a pair of latex gloves. He picked up the laptop and carried it to the kitchen table, craning and looking for any detectable fingerprints on the keyboard or screen. He peered over the monitor and hooked a thumb to one of the evidence technicians.
“Scan this for prints.”
A technician dressed in a blue one-piece coverall placed a large black plastic case next to the kitchen table. He popped the locks and removed a small periscope with an attached pistol grip. This was the Reflected Ultraviolet Imaging System, or RUVIS, designed to detect latent prints on surfaces without the use of powder or ninhydrate. Peering through the periscope while shining a florescent light bar onto the keyboard, the technician scanned the area for any possible prints.
The technician groaned like a doctor peering down a patient’s throat. He stood straight, pursed his lips and shook his head. “Got nothing.”
Jack scoffed. “A million dollars in high-tech equipment and I can’t get shit.”
The technician shrugged.
Marquez followed Jack down the hallway toward the bedroom door. A heavy wooden bed sat directly under a large picture window covered by a dark green, heavy curtain. The agents who entered first had drawn open the curtains to let in the evening light, and a stream of moonlit dust floated aimlessly about. A cheap wood paneled highboy and chest of drawers boxed the room, the smell of musty clothes wafting from the half opened closet. The place was a shit-hole, Jack thought, even by Modesto standards.
Jack walked over to the bed, careful not to touch anything. He knelt low to the front posts and studied the straps securely tied around the legs. The ends were bunched and frayed, obviously used. Jack stood slowly, keeping his hands pressed against his thighs. By the time his eyes fell level with the bed sheets, Jack could smell the odor of urine. Small dark stains of dried blood spotted the linen.
Marquez stared at the bed from over Jack’s right side. “Looks like he may have had a guest.”
Jack grunted an acknowledgement.
The sound of the front door slammi
ng against the outside wall yanked Jack out of his concentration. A police officer shouted “halt” outside and Jack’s instinct took over as he bolted for the front door.
Before Jack could make it there, Marquez had already drawn her weapon and rounded the front entryway. An agent screamed, “He’s into the trees! He’s getting away!” Then the agent called out the word that sent everyone’s pulse racing.
“Gun!”
Jack drew his pistol, bounding out the front door. His focus narrowed on agents and uniformed officers darting toward an opening through a row of tall trees twenty feet from the side of the garage. An FBI agent standing in the driveway stabbed a finger toward a thicket of trees and tall bushes. “He cut right. That way.”
Jack pushed off to the right, bolting down a dirt path that cut through a thick overgrowth of hedges. Dust swirled wildly in the air. He didn’t know the direction or the exact description of the person he was chasing. Right now, it didn’t matter. The first person he came across running away would be the target of a hard tackle and a hit to the head.
Deeper into the woods, Jack slowed, straining to hear crunching leaves or breaking branches. Footsteps sounded to his right. Jack crouched, raised his pistol and pointed it in the direction of the noise. The sound grew near. Jack watched the thick branches along the row of hedges start to rustle. The hot summer evening provided no breeze, no noise. The movement was from something other than wind. Someone was fast approaching, cutting from inside. Jack took a bead with his front sights, aimed at the heart of the shuddering branches. He focused on the spot where he calculated the exit point for his approaching suspect to be. The limbs shook and the sound of stomping feet grew louder. Jack placed his finger on the trigger and began to apply pressure. From the edge of the forest, his target leaped in his direction. A frightened deer, escaping the commotion of a police manhunt. Jack blew out a tense breath and lowered his weapon. He stood up and tried to shake out the tension. Then came the concussion of a gunshot. Then another.
Quickly, he moved in the direction of the firefight. Two deputies appeared to his left rushing forward. Jack followed. The sharp crack of more rounds exploded in the air but he couldn’t determine the direction of the gunfire. He cut again hard to the right, caught sight of a dirt path. He took off up the trail, dust kicking up from every stride. Suddenly, he heard the staccato thud of running boots. Not his agents. Not another deer. He quickened his pace. It was dark, too dark to get a clear view of anything other than the slashing branches that banged against his face while he raced in full sprint. As Jack climbed a high ridge, the moonlight illuminated a levy road ahead. Thirty yards downwind, Jack spotted a pickup canted at an angle along the road, rumbling a low idle from the other side of the embankment. A footbridge forged the narrow waterway to the other side. Early model Chevy, light color, short bed with a camper shell. Jack squinted, trying to make out the license plate.