by George Fong
He reached over and grabbed the brown sack. It crunched onto his lap. He retrieved a bag of Doritos and a bottle of Jack Daniels. He stared at the whiskey’s black and white label, tracing the scrolling calligraphy with his thumb, then unscrewed the top and took a swig. A sharp twinge rushed to his head as the snap of liquor hit his throat and swooshed down his gullet. He held his breath until the burn subsided. He let his body melt, closing his eyes and resting his head.
The house was recently rented but Cooper didn’t know for how long. The renter was a new friend he had made on the Internet, Klaus Monroe. Trading porn can be interesting, but meeting people was far more intriguing.
Yesterday, Klaus Monroe had invited Cooper over for a meet-and-greet. Share a little drink, a little food, maybe more. It was all fine with Cooper until Monroe made the fatal mistake of misreading Cooper’s intentions. Monroe, a former ward of the state, confessed to Cooper his arrest for child molestation. After endlessly bragging about his escapades, his conquests, Cooper grew tired and wanted him to shut up.
Throughout that night, Monroe laughed incessantly at events that led to his incarceration. After draining a cheap bottle of bourbon, Monroe’s words became an endless string of incoherent sentences, nonsensical bullshit. Finally, Cooper had enough. A lull in the conversation and Cooper took the opportunity to slip away from the room. Standing outside smoking a cigarette, Cooper found a metal pipe lying in the dirt near the front of the house. Scraping off the dirt, he measured the weight and heft of the steel. He returned to find Monroe slumped low in an overstuffed chair, the empty bottle of bourbon cradled by his side. With a gentle hand, Cooper tilted Monroe’s head to one side, then swung the pipe, striking Monroe across the left temporal lobe. A heavy thud resonated a low-sounding thump, like a watermelon rolling off a kitchen counter onto the floor. He struck again, this time the distinct sound of crushing bone. Monroe never opened his eyes. He slumped to the right as his head fell over the armrest. Droplets of blood dripped from Monroe’s tongue onto the hardwood floor. If not for the blood, one might have thought Monroe had simply fallen asleep.
Cooper’s eyes popped open. He was no longer recalling the past, back living in the present. His haze evaporated, returning him to reality, to the spot where he had killed someone twelve hours earlier. Although killed was hardly the correct word. More like liberated. Yes, the world was liberated from the likes of Klaus Monroe.
He stood from the chair and brushed off his pants as though trying to rid his clothes of the stench of Mr. Monroe. He was feeling agitated, especially after a very disturbing conversation earlier in the afternoon. A cop had been trolling the Internet, trying to bait him. Which is what forced Cooper to leave and move into Monroe’s home.
He placed the bottle of Jack on the wooden floor and pushed himself out of the chair. He yawned, the alcohol taking hold of his senses. He blinked his eyelids hard, shaking off the fatigue before heading out the front door. He made his way to the back of the truck. The rear window of the camper shell was smoked, prohibiting anyone from looking in. He took out his keys and tried a number of them before finding the one that unlocked the back lift-gate. He pulled it opened and dug around in the dark for his suitcase. The back end was full of junk. It took a few minutes of randomly swishing his arm through the piles of loose bags and boxes before he found the handle. He yanked hard. As the suitcase fell from the heap, so did an arm protruding out of a burlap sack. Cooper took a hard look at Monroe’s limp appendage lying across the lift-gate, the rest of him still stuffed under the burlap fruit sack. Cooper pushed the cold limb inside the truck as if stuffing an overhead compartment aboard a crowded airplane. By early tomorrow, the summer heat would certainly engulf the truck in blowflies. Cooper needed to dispose of the body tonight, even with cops swarming around. The truck would be useless if it stank like a corpse.
Cooper carried the suitcase into the house and placed it on the living room floor. He unzipped the bag and pulled opened the flap, exposing neatly folded clothes, several pieces of electronic equipment and a number of CDs and floppy disks. He stacked them by the side of the chair and then dragged the suitcase to the back bedroom, placing it on top of an unmade bed.
He headed out the front door, turning on the porch light as he passed through the entryway. With the light on, no one would be suspicious that anything was wrong, that Klaus Monroe was no longer living here. That Klaus Monroe was no longer living. Cooper hopped behind the wheel of the Chevy and fired up the engine, grinding the gears into reverse. Already the smell of decomposing flesh began to seep into the cabin. A blowfly landed on the truck’s steering wheel. Cooper flicked a finger at the lone parasite. It smacked against the windshield before flying off. He backed the truck out, made a two-point turn and headed up the dirt trail toward the highway. Cooper intended to find a commercial dumpster to deposit the remains of Klaus Monroe. By the time someone found his body, he would be a John Doe, just another transient who succumbed to an illness or drugs. That gave Cooper more time to find an answer to his predicament.
The truck crawled forward under the shade of oak trees. Before coming to the end of the dirt road, Cooper felt his cell phone vibrate in his pants’ pocket. He pulled it out, flipped opened the cover and scanned the caller ID. Cooper smiled and pushed the green answer button. “Well, hello.”
“Where are you?” the caller said through a cloud of background street noise.
“At Monroe’s. Where the hell are you?”
“Close.” The caller hesitated for a beat. “Where is he?”
“In the back.” Cooper chuckled, then added, “Asleep.”
“You mean he’s dead.”
It saddened him his friend wasn’t in the mood to play games. “Yes, dead.” Cooper paused, took in a deep breath, catching a whiff of the decaying Monroe in the warm, moist air. “You coming?”
The caller again hesitated before answering. “Yeah. I’ll meet you and give you a hand.”
“I’ll call you when I find a spot for my friend.” Cooper didn’t wait for a response. He closed the phone and shoved it back into his pocket. He glanced at his watch before gazing back toward the camper. “Sorry, Klaus, don’t have much time to dawdle.” He turned his attention back to the road as he reached the end of the driveway. The truck lumbered up and onto the main stretch. Cooper cruised at the legal speed limit as he drove in search of a repository for Mr. Klaus Monroe.
13
Tuesday – 9:15 p.m.
Jack ended his phone call with Tom Cannon, and slouched in his office chair, staring at a copy of the photo taken from the computer of Petroski, or whatever his name really was. It had been less than twelve hours, according to Harrington, that the photo was taken and they were no closer to locating the girl. Marquez had taken a break from assisting Harrington. She grabbed an empty chair from another pod and rolled it next to Jack, where she plopped down and elevated her feet on his desk.
“Looks like our Petroski is nothing more than a borrowed name,” Jack said.
Marquez raised an eyebrow. “Borrowed?”
“Tom went to the Redburn address and searched the residence. They found Mr. Petroski in the bathtub and—let me give you a hint—he wasn’t taking a bath.”
“So your suspect needed an identity and Mr. Petroski was the unfortunate volunteer.”
“I’ll bet our suspect met Petroski on the Internet trading smut. They meet face-to-face at some point in time, even become friends. Then, opportunity came a-knocking and Petroski finds himself the recipient of a chalk outline.”
“You think our UNSUB knows we’re on to him?”
“From what the detectives could tell, Petroski had been dead about a week. If we didn’t find him, the locals most certainly would have. With this heat, I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t already call the police about the smell.” Jack sighed before continuing. “Our guy had enough time to rent the Chico residence, set up shop and kidnap a young girl. It’s only a matter of time before he realizes we know the real
Mr. Petroski is face down in a pool of sludge. He’ll need another identity.”
“That means—”
“That means,” Jack interrupted, “he’ll kill again.”
“If he hasn’t already.”
His desk phone rang. The front switchboard operator.
“Agent Paris, I just got a call from the Chico PD. They’re responding to a homicide and possibly a missing sixteen-year-old.”
“We were just with Chico. They didn’t mention any reported kidnappings. How long ago did this happen?”
“Don’t know. I just got the call.” The switchboard operator gave Jack the name and number of the detective who called.
Jack immediately started dialing. While it rang, Jack looked over at Marquez and said in a low voice, “Looks like we may have just found out who our kidnapped child is.”
The phone call connected to the Chico Police Department dispatch center and was routed to Detective Mark Colfax. Jack made a quick introduction and jumped into the pertinent questions.
“We got the call around 6:30 p.m.,” Colfax said, “from the 911 operator advising that a Mr. Paul Baker had called in screaming that his wife had been murdered. We dispatched two units to the location but they couldn’t get Mr. Baker to come to the door. The officers were concerned he was armed. It took another hour and a half just to convince him to come out of the house with his hands raised. By the time we got the whole story out of him, it was nearly nine. Said his daughter was missing. We posted a TRAK flyer to all western states, put out a BOLO on NLETS. Name’s Jessica Baker. No car or suspect, so no Amber Alert.”
“What does she look like?” Jack asked.
“Five feet, ninety pounds, slender, athletic, dark hair, shoulder length.”
Jack stared at the photo while Colfax described his kidnapped victim. Without confirmation Jack was only guessing, but his inclination told him it was the same girl. Jessica Baker. Jack informed Colfax on their investigations, their search and the photo. Even without seeing the photo, Colfax believed they were the same girl.
“What happened to the mother?”
Colfax’s voice lowered as he cleared his throat. “Pretty ugly. Husband came home and found her in the bathtub. Head bashed in, throat slit ear to ear. It’s amazing her head wasn’t detached. The husband told me when he returned from work, wife’s car was in the drive. He went to the refrigerator, grabbed a beer, went through the mail. Daughter had stayed home sick with the flu. Thought she was still asleep and didn’t want to disturb her. When the wife didn’t appear, he started searching the house. That’s when he came across her body.”
“Forensic sweep the place?”
“We’re just getting started. I had a difficult time locating all our crime scene examiners this late at night.”
“What about blood and DNA?”
“No shortage there. There’s blood everywhere. CSI should be able to find something in that mess.”
“I can send our ERT crew if you’re short-handed,” Jack offered.
“Could use the help.”
“I’ll contact our team leader to give you a call and get you whatever help you may need at the scene. Detective, I think it would be beneficial to both our agencies if we meet to coordinate the investigation. Better chances of locating our killer and finding Jessica Baker if we work together.”
“That’s fine with me,” Colfax replied. “When?”
Jack paused for only a beat. “How about now?”
14
Tuesday – 10:21 p.m.
Jack retrieved the TRAK flyer of Jessica Baker that came across the Bureau’s fax machine. TRAK, which stood for Technology to Recover Abducted Kids, had sent this flyer to every law enforcement agency on the West Coast. The picture showed Jessica’s high school portrait. Based on the hair and Colfax’s description of her build, Jack had little doubt that this was the kidnapped girl from the photo. An uneasy feeling ran through him as he thought about Jessica Baker, the trail of murders, the killer’s need for new identities. There was certainly more to this case than what they knew. Their suspect had taken a child but had not asked for a ransom, and in Jack’s mind that was as bad as it could get. Marquez looked over, watched Jack rubbing his forehead between two fingers, tension surfacing through his temples.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.
Jack glanced over at Marquez. “Four parts to a kidnapping, Lucy.”
Marquez nodded, and held up a single finger. “The abduction, being grabbed. Big mistake. Go without a fight, won’t live through the night.”
Jack nodded.
“The transport to another location.” Marquez held up two fingers.
“A very bad one,” Jack replied. “And….”
“Three, the ritual. Rape, molest, hurt.” Three fingers straight up.
“And four?” Jack’s voice grew edgy.
Marquez’s lips thinned as she looked at the TRAK flyer photo of Jessica. “Without a ransom—the disposal.” Her hand fell flat on Jack’s desk, and she rubbed a small spot in a slow circular motion.
Jack tapped a nervous finger on the face of his watch and stood from his chair. “Four hours, that’s the average length of time a kidnapped victim is kept alive. Based on the time and date of the photo image, if she is alive, Jessica Baker’s on borrowed time.”
No ransom, no demands. Nothing in exchange for her safe return. That only meant whoever had her was not intending on letting her go.
“Let’s see what Jim has put together from the computer.” Jack slipped on a sport coat and reached in his desk drawer for his pistol. Marquez stood and slipped on her jacket. Marquez’s pistol was already on her side.
The two hurried down a long green hallway to the CART examination room, where James Harrington’s back was still to the door. Hunched over an opened computer tower like he was conducting surgery, Harrington straightened up and let out a guttural sigh. Pain was radiating up his back after being bent over for an hour. As he twisted his stocky frame to relieve the tension, he caught sight of Jack and Marquez watching his exercise routine.
“Got something for you,” Harrington said.
They walked over and peered at the monitor on the examination table. Numbers, icons and squiggly lines spanned the length of the monitor. Harrington maneuvered through a maze of computer words and commands until small segments of images appeared. He pasted them together, overlaying parts onto the screen, refreshing and doing it all over again. Finally, Harrington clicked on an icon, a second rolled by before a full screen image materialized. Grainy at first, then the process started to bring the image into focus. A photo of a house, single story, tree-lined street. A large, light-colored sedan parked in the driveway. Jack recognized it as a late model Chrysler. The photo was taken from inside a car parked on the other side of the street, a reflection in the side view mirror. Jack stared sharply.
“You can see an image of the person taking the picture in the side-view,” he said, pointing at the fuzzy mirror.
“Not enough detail for an identification,” replied Harrington, who continued punching at the keyboard, drawing up additional images. “Look at the next set. I think this may answer some questions.”
The second and third images began to appear. Another picture of the house, this time a man making his way to the car. A blurry shot of the vehicle driving past. Another of a woman walking from the front door, garage opened. The next, a woman backing an SUV down the driveway.
“Looks like surveillance photos,” Jack said,
“More like stalking photos,” Marquez replied.
“Here comes the creepy ones,” Harrington said.
The screen scrolled down revealing a blurry, off-centered photo of a house window, as if the photographer was jogging toward it as he shot the digital frame. The next picture was through the window into a bedroom. The next showed the backyard slider.
“We’re watching a break-in,” Marquez said.
Jack turned to Harrington. “How much more were you
able to retrieve?”
“There are several missing between this one and the next, but it’s one that will help identify your victim. It’s still a bit fragmented, but I think it serves its purpose.”
A partial photo appeared of a bed with a young girl lying asleep and facing away from the camera. She was unaware that she was being photographed. Her hair partially covered her face, her pajamas bunched at the waist and calves.
“It’s not the best,” Harrington said, “but it’s something to go by.”
Jack hit the print button and a photo-quality copy of the image spat out the printer. Jack picked it up, careful not to damage or smudge the glossy photo. He’d bring the picture to the Chico Police Department and show it to Paul Baker, depending on his state of mind. If Jack was right, whoever took the photo was the same person Marquez conversed with last night over the Internet. The man who had kidnapped a young girl, murdered the mother, and taken the identity of Jure Petroski before hacking him into a slurry mess inside a bathtub. Whoever this man was, he was on a mission.
15
Tuesday 11:45 p.m.
Jack stood behind a one-way mirror, observing Paul Baker sitting in the interview room at the Chico Police Department, staring at a blank table. Jack had been here before, five years ago, watching a victim turn suspect. Baker’s eyes moved back and forth, left to right. He was reliving the events of the past five and a half hours in his head like a movie projected on the Formica surface. It was all too familiar but this one felt different.
Detective Mark Colfax walked up behind Jack with a mug bearing the Chico PD logo on its side. He didn’t say a word, just handed the mug of coffee to Jack. He tapped his mug against the side of Jack’s.