Fragmented

by George Fong

  “Salud.”

  Jack forced a smile.

  “We got the initial information, but I’d like to get some details,” Colfax said. “Care to join me?”

  Jack pulled the grainy photo of the unidentified girl and stared at it for a moment. “How do I show him this?”

  Colfax shook his head. “Don’t have a choice. We’ve got to know.”

  The two entered the interview room. Baker quickly looked up. His eyes said it all. The cup of coffee that he was given earlier remained full at his side. Jack sat in front of Baker, Colfax taking a chair to his right.

  “Mr. Baker, my name is Jack Paris.” He reached out and gave Baker’s arm a gentle touch to get his attention. “I’m with the FBI. I want to help you.”

  Baker looked directly into Jack’s eyes. “Help me? My wife was murdered and my daughter’s gone. How can you help me?”

  Jack chose his words carefully. “By bringing your daughter back to you. Help me find her.”

  Baker shook his head, flashing both palms forward. “Just tell me how.”

  Jack pulled the photo out from a file folder and gave it a moment before sliding it forward on the table. As much as he needed to get confirmation, showing a photo like this to a father was going to hurt.

  Baker appeared puzzled at first, then his eyes focused, horrified. Without a word, his face gave away the answer. Baker broke down and sobbed.

  “Do you have any idea who may have done this?”

  “No!” Baker slammed a fist hard on the table. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “Let’s talk about the past several days. Was there was anything you may have noticed that was out of the ordinary?”

  He again shook his head, threading his fingers though his hair. “No, I can’t think of anything.”

  “How about your daughter, Jessica? Any problem at school, with a boyfriend?”

  Baker never stopped shaking his head. “No, nothing.”

  Jack worked his way through all the possible scenarios, with the same answer coming from a distraught man.

  “You’re a loan officer at the Diamond County Bank in Chico. Can you think of any customers that may be upset with you or the bank?”

  “I just became the new senior loan officer.”

  “Anything out of the ordinary? Something unusual?”

  Baker was silent, his eyes closed in concentration. Suddenly, his eyes thrust wide and his mouth fell open. “Carter, Hampton Carter!”

  The room grew uncomfortably quiet, and for the next few seconds, Jack studied Paul Baker. His moves, his words. There was no question this was a man filled with grief, desperate for answers. Jack knew right away, Paul Baker was a victim. He wasn’t anything like the person Jack interrogated five years earlier. That man was a killer.

  16

  Wednesday 1:02 a.m.

  After a dozen phone calls, Jack was able to locate the Diamond County bank manager, convincing him to meet in the branch lobby. A check on Paul Baker’s loan files could not wait until morning. Jack pulled into the parking lot to find the manager waiting at the front door, keys in hand. He looked as if he was wearing pajamas under a lightweight jacket. Jack pulled up next to the front entry and exited his car.

  “Mr. Nelson?” Jack removed his credentials from his jacket pocket and held them up. “Sorry to get you up this late at night.”

  “Technically, it’s morning.” The branch manager shrugged his shoulders. “You said this had to do with Mr. Baker? I hope everything is all right.” His voice had the tone of someone annoyed, like maybe Paul Baker had done something wrong and the FBI was there to prove it. He unlocked the bank doors and entered a code on the security keypad.

  “Actually, it’s not. Mr. Baker’s wife was murdered last night and his daughter has been kidnapped.”

  Nelson froze, then muttered what sounded like a sloppy apology.

  “We’re trying to determine who might be involved.”

  While Jack talked, Nelson switched on the lights. Florescent bulbs high above flickered before illuminating the dark wood tables and marble counters inside of the branch in a commercial gray tone.

  “I spoke to Mr. Baker and he mentioned he had a customer yesterday morning. Hampton Carter. Said he was applying for an auto loan. Can we check to see if there’s anything in his file?”

  “Paul is extremely organized. If Mr. Carter came to him, there’s documentation of that.” The two walked toward Baker’s desk, which looked like a shrine to anal retentiveness.

  “We keep information cards on every customer, contact information.” Nelson bent low, staring at the rows of neatly arranged folders, alphabetized, slotted between chrome metal bands. He reached for the first file. Jack grabbed Nelson’s wrist and waved a scornful finger.

  “Let’s not add more prints to the papers if we don’t have to.”

  Nelson nodded. Jack removed a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and offered them to Nelson, who strained to get them over his sweaty hands. Jack slid on a pair of his own.

  It took only ten minutes for the two to review the files on Baker’s desk, flipping open the covers, checking the names, scanning the applicant’s background. No Hampton Carter.

  “Maybe Paul got the name wrong,” Nelson said. “I can’t believe he would forget to create a file.”

  Jack took one last look around Baker’s desk, then peered under the large, dark redwood table, where he found a separate, free-standing set of stacked bins, papers neatly arranged and stapled. A slim folder lay on the top of the stack with a routing slip paper-clipped to the outside. Jack picked it up and found what he was looking for: Mr. Hampton Carter. Will return with completed application and, 1.) VOE, 2.) W-2s, 3.) Tax Returns.

  Flipping open the folder, Jack found a half-completed information card with an address written in the margins. He figured the address was bogus, but made note of it, saying a silent prayer he’d get lucky on this one. It was the best lead he had on Carter.

  He placed the folder into a plastic sleeve. Maybe they’d pull latent prints. Out the corner of his eye, Jack caught sight of the gold-framed portrait of Baker’s family on the edge of the desk. During the interview, Baker said Carter had seen the portrait and was asking questions about his daughter. Jack bent over and studied the photograph closely. Several smudges on the covered glass and frame, something he knew would have driven neatnick Paul Baker into a coma. Filthy fingerprints from someone’s curious hands.

  Jack said, “We got a winner.”

  Thirty minutes later, Jack was back at the office with Special Agent Chris Hoskin, team leader for the Evidence Response Team. He had given Hoskin the picture frame to lift the prints for review. On his way in, Jack called in the address information. Colfax immediately sent two detectives to check it out. If it was legit, they would have an answer within the hour.

  Hoskin placed four plastic, pyramid-shaped cones inside a cardboard box. As if on table legs, the glass from the picture frame was balanced at each corner. In the center, Hoskin placed a can of Sterno, heating a small tin of cyanoacrylate ester—a fancy name for superglue.

  Hoskin nodded and straightened his glasses. “Cyanoacrylate-developed latent prints really should be allowed to sit overnight before I apply dye stain.”

  “We don’t have time,” Jack said.

  Hoskin lit the Sterno and seconds later the superglue bubbled into a fizz.

  Harrington walked over and watched Hoskin working on the plate glass. He smacked a wad of chewing gum and shook his head waiting for Hoskin to take notice. “How technologically advanced, Chris. Cardboard box, sterno, superglue….”

  Hoskin kept his focus. “What works, works.”

  Harrington harrumphed. “Not like inventing the Internet.”

  “No. This one actually has value.”

  Harrington chuckled sarcastically before turning around and walking out the door.

  Several minutes passed and the box filled with a toxic fog. It would take about an hour before Hoskin would be a
ble to remove the piece of glass from the cardboard box. Glue takes time to adhere and dry. By then, those invisible prints left behind would turn purple, permanently affixed to the glass, giving Hoskin something to study.

  “Call me when you’ve got something,” Jack said.

  Hoskin gave a thumbs up and returned to his work.

  17

  Wednesday – 2:41 a.m.

  Jack held a photo of the latent print inches from his face, as his eyes followed the twists and turns of the loops and whirls, the tented arches. A thumb and three fingers is what Hoskin had been able to successfully lift. Jack carefully placed the card on his desk, his fingers rounding its edges. “Are they being checked in IAFIS?” The Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System comprised the database for all prints on file.

  Hoskin nodded. “Already submitted. We put a rush on the card. Hope to have an answer back within a couple of hours.”

  “That’s too long.”

  “I’ll go push.”

  “You do that. Tell them the SAC has ordered you to be pushy.”

  “You know he’s out of town.”

  Jack lifted one eyebrow.

  “Works for me.” Hoskin walked out of the bullpen.

  Jack picked up his briefcase and looked over at Marquez who was tapping a pen on a notepad.

  “Let’s go, Lucy.”

  “Where to?”

  “ERT’s still at Baker’s house. Let’s see what they turned up.”

  There was little else they could do and waiting was something Marquez despised. She grabbed up her jacket, and the two headed out the door. Jack yelled at Hoskin as they passed him down the hallway. “Call me the moment you get a hit on those prints.”

  Hoskin gave two quick pumps with his right hand, turned and disappeared into the radio room.

  They arrived an hour later. Two SUVs blocked the entrance to Baker’s driveway, and yellow evidence tape circled the perimeter. Several neighbors stood in bathrobes outside, wondering what horrible thing had happened inside the Baker home. Jack maneuvered his vehicle between an ERT Suburban and a patrol car. The lights in the house were all on and Jack could see agents milling around inside, a photographer’s camera flashing every few seconds and large brown paper sacks being carried out to the evidence van. Jack looked down at his watch. 3:44 a.m. He rubbed his tired eyes. “You ready?” he asked.

  “Like a race horse,” Marquez answered.

  As they made their way toward the front door, a uniformed officer gave them a hard stare before throwing a casual salute and stepping aside. A dozen agents roamed the hallways in latex gloves and Tyvek containment suits. Green light beams from the RUVIS illuminated a small monitor screen as the agent panned the equipment over the glassy surface of the back slider looking for fingerprints. Jack turned the corner and found his way into the living room. A half-empty beer bottle sat on the coffee table in a small pool of water, moisture from the sweating glass. Jack imagined Paul Baker sitting on the couch, scanning the mail while his wife lay dead in the bathtub down the hall. The thought of coming home to find his own wife, Emily, murdered gave him a chill. He paused to regain his focus. He needed to get back on track, back to finding Jessica Baker.

  He turned to see three agents conferring down the hall next to a doorway, and headed in their direction. Marquez followed. An agent, Sheldon Stewart, exited the room right where the three stood, holding plastic evidence bags, which he handed over to Brad Houston, who placed them in a large box already filled with other pieces of evidence. Hoskin had designated Houston team leader for this search.

  Houston reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, slipping them on and carefully jotting down notes in a log.

  “What do you have, Brad?” Jack asked.

  Houston looked over. “I see the cavalry has arrived.” He shook Jack’s hand before waving the crew to follow down the hallway and into the master bedroom, where more evidence bags were neatly stacked on the corner of a crimson-stained mattress. A bedroom chair lay on its side and a glass lamp was smashed against the wall. Droplets of blood dribbled across the carpet, followed by larger, smeared bloodstains, denoting something heavy dragged into the master bathroom. Jack maneuvered around the evidence and into the room.

  “The place has been gone over already. Samples taken, items photographed, hairs and fibers vacuumed. Nothing else of value for you to look at.”

  Jack pointed at the blood smeared across the carpet. “Looks like there was a struggle.”

  Houston nodded. “A pretty bad one. Mrs. Baker must’ve put up a helluva fight. There’s handprints in blood over the broken lamp and streaked across the bed sheets. My guess is the assailant killed her here.” Houston pointed to a spot next to the bed where a dry, dark stain crusted on the carpet. “This is where she bled out before being dragged into the bathtub.”

  “How was she killed?” Marquez asked.

  Houston pointed toward the ceiling and a long splatter of blood trailing across it, dripping down the walls. “Hit her with something hard, over and over.” Houston swung his arm up and down, mimicking the motion. “Her head took a good beating.” Houston dragged a thumb across his neck. “To add insult to injury, he sliced her throat open for good measure.”

  Jack shook his head in disgust. “What about the daughter?”

  “No sign of a second struggle, and we found nothing to lead us to believe she was killed.”

  Jack already knew she was alive based on the photo. Still, it was reassuring to hear Houston affirm it.

  “I guess that could be good news,” Marquez said.

  Houston shook his head. “I’m not so sure. If this guy wanted money, he wouldn’t have killed the wife.” He pointed at the blood soaked floor. “This asks for cops to be involved.”

  “No ransom note found, I take it?”

  Houston shook his head. “Her bed sheet is missing. I’m guessing her kidnapper wrapped her in it to conceal her as he carried her out. I think the daughter was drugged.”

  “How did you reach that conclusion?” Marquez asked.

  Stewart held up a plastic evidence bag with a spent syringe. A tag dangled from the bag. Jack reached down and took the bag, reading the tag. “Ketamine?”

  Houston tipped his reading glasses below eye level. “Not just for horses. It’s used to quiet cranky patients. Like inmates.”

  Jack paused and Marquez chimed in. “Inmates?”

  “Yeah, wouldn’t have figured it out without some good old-fashion luck.” Houston pointed further in the bag. “We found it under the bed sheets. Probably fell out when he was struggling with the wife.” Inside, a smaller clear plastic bag, torn open at one end, with white typed lettering: 150 mg dose of Ketamine from Butte County. “That’s Butte County Jail Infirmary,” Houston continued. “My sister worked as a nurse at a lock-up in Minnesota. Said they used Ketamine to calm inmates when they get all spooled up. We could be looking for someone with access to the drug vault in Butte. Possibly an employee.”

  Jack paused for a moment, the pieces coming together in his head. There were too many coincidences. Drugs from Butte County Jail, where a child killer recently escaped. And now, suddenly a child is missing.

  Alvin Franklin Cooper. He had come back into Jack’s life, and he was picking up where he left off.

  Marquez glanced over, curiously. “What?”

  “You know that case I needed your help with after this one was over?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Forget about it. We’re already on it.”

  18

  Wednesday – 10:21 a.m.

  The man sounded out of breath when he walked through the creaky door that separated Jessica from the outside world. Thick tape was still over her eyes and a rag tightly knotted around her mouth. She didn’t know how long she had been struggling to breathe as the quietness voided all sense of time. Between the summer heat and fever, Jessica felt nauseated, fighting off the urge to throw up.

  A sharp st
ing raced across her face as the tape over her eyes was ripped away; she cried out a muffled shriek. A second later, bright lights and blurry images swirled in front of her. She blinked hard, trying to get everything in focus. Suddenly, she could see. See him. Jessica dropped her stare, forcing herself not to look directly at her captor.

  From the corner of her eye, she watched the man walk over to an old wooden table and shove sacks of groceries to the center. Dusty and cramped, the room looked exactly liked it smelled. The man reached into the bags, pulling out a two-liter plastic bottle of Pepsi, white bread, salami, and something that looked like cheese. He removed toilet paper and coloring books from the other bag.

  “Hello.” The man spoke in a low soft voice. “Thought you might be hungry.”

  Jessica twitched her head from side to side, still refraining from looking into his eyes. She winced, the tape that bound her hands cutting deep into her wrists every time she moved. She fought against the bindings but it didn’t matter. Even if she was able to break free, she was too weak to escape.

  “I’ll make you a sandwich. Do you like cheese?” He spoke like she was a guest in his home. “I like cheese,” he added. “Grilled cheese, but I don’t have a stove. Still, it’ll be good.” The calmness in his voice rattled Jessica’s nerves. She bit down hard on the rag, trying to force herself steady.

  As the man prepared the sandwich, Jessica’s body started to tingle, her mouth dry and scratchy. Her head began to pound and she started to cough through the gag. Sweat beaded across her forehead, her pajamas soaked in perspiration. The man stopped what he was doing and walked over to her, placing a hand on her forehead. She jerked back from his touch.

  “You still have a fever,” he said. “You’re sick.”

  Jessica’s coughing advanced into spasms. The man pulled the gag from her mouth, and immediately she sucked in a mouthful of air, the ability to breathe freely relieving some of her stress.