by George Fong
“There, there. You need to rest,” the man said. “You’re as sick as a dog. Luckily, I have a microwave. I’ll heat you up some soup.”
Jessica cleared her throat. “Please, please untie me and let me go. I won’t tell anyone about you. I don’t even know what you look like.”
The man placed a hand over Jessica’s lips. “Shhh, it’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Jessica took several rapid breaths that made her cough. “Why? Why me?”
The man stood still, gave it a moment of thought. Then rolled his shoulders. “Why not?”
“What do you want from me?”
“In time, we will get to know each other better.”
The microwave beeped. The idea of soup on a hot day in a stuffy room made her feel even sicker.
“I’m not hungry,” she said. “Meds, I need my meds.”
“You’ll be fine. It’s just the flu.”
Jessica felt the tingle intensify, her head swimming into a deep fog. “My meds. Please, I need them now.”
The man leaned close to Jessica face, this time staring right into her eyes. There was no way she could avoid the details of his features. She slowly allowed the weight of her eyelids to fall shut, but she knew it was too late. She felt the man place an ear next to her mouth.
“What do you need?” he asked.
Her head rocked, her eyes remained closed. She licked her lips and said in a soft, hushed tone, “My insulin.”
19
Wednesday – 10:25 a.m.
This was Jack’s third try at calling Ray Sizemore on his cell phone. Jack knew Sizemore would be boarding a flight to Sacramento that morning but didn’t know exactly when. He wanted to fill him in on what they had learned over the past twenty-four hours. Jack tapped the tip of his pen on a note pad impatiently, waiting for the call to connect. After five rings, Sizemore finally picked up.
“This is Sizemore.
“It’s Paris. Got some information. You may want to reconsider coming.”
Sizemore let out a long groan. “Shit.”
Jack summarized the chronology of events about Cooper being on the lam. Then he told Sizemore about the Baker kidnapping, the murder and the stolen drugs from the Butte County infirmary.
“If I called you three days earlier, maybe none of this would have happened.”
“Not your fault,” Jack replied. “Had we known more about Cooper five years ago, we wouldn’t even be talking.”
Sizemore remained silent.
“I had sent two agents out to check out Cooper’s place of employment. No one had seen him for a couple of days, knew nothing about where he goes or whom he sees. Most didn’t even know he was on work furlough. They said he was a loner. We’ve got the prints from the crime scene, which matches Cooper’s. That makes Cooper our Mr. Hampton Carter, who is also your killer and my kidnapper. And I’m guessing he’s our Mr. Jure Petroski, as well.”
There was a long pause before Sizemore spoke. “What do you want me to do?”
Jack thought for a moment. There were a thousand things to do, but right now, the rescue of Jessica Baker took priority. Ray’s knowledge of Cooper may help him find her, and he could use an extra hand. But his response came out sounding more like a plea for help than a suggestion. “Why don’t you come on down.”
“Flight leaves in an hour.”
Jack drove back to the Chico Police Department, where a command post was set up, task force hastily being thrown together. Before the morning broke, agents from the California Department of Justice’s Sex Predators Task Force arrived to assist. Their access to the State lab was vital, allowing evidence to be analyzed immediately. Although the FBI lab in Quantico, Virginia, was more than willing to make this a top priority, it would have been time consuming for Jack to fly every piece of evidence across the country. In the packed command post, Jack caught sight of an officer pushing his way through the crowd. Cal DOJ Special Agent John Allison made his way to Jack and handed him an inch-thick file containing the results from the searches.
“Here’s the report. I also got the investigative notes from the Washington State laboratory on the Grace Holloway kidnap/murder investigation. I compared their latents to the ones taken from the Baker house, gave it a complete review.” Agent Allison’s head bobbed. “You got a match. Mr. Cooper is definitely your man. He doesn’t seem to care who knows he’s a killer.”
Jack perused the report, reading the things he had already knew, but he couldn’t understand why Cooper was so careless about leaving evidence of his guilt. “He kills a person and takes their identity. He kills a girl in Washington, kills his family, then kidnaps a young girl. I don’t get it. What the hell is setting him off?”
Allison responded. “Here’s the scientific answer about your guy: He’s fucked-up in the head.”
Jack could only agree. He thanked Agent Allison for the report and headed down the hall to Colfax’s office. He entered the detective’s room and took a seat. Colfax was hunched over the telephone, jotting onto a note pad, nodding continually in agreement with the caller on the other end of the line. He hung up the phone and looked at Jack.
“Anything new develop since last night?” Jack asked.
Colfax leaned back and placed a finger on his note pad. “Got the toxicology report. It’s confirmed the ketamine was stolen from the Butte County infirmary. Everything is pointing to Cooper.”
The evidence was piling up and the confirmation that the drugs came from Butte County made Jack cringe. The arrest of Cooper five years ago, the sweetheart deal he got, and the opportunity to walk into the bank and invade another person’s life was all too much to believe. Baker must have felt victimized for the third time when he was shown the photo of his daughter. Jack couldn’t help but feel he was to blame.
“I think it’s time to plaster Cooper’s face across everyone’s TV screen. The clock’s ticking and the longer she’s out there, the higher the chance we won’t find her alive.”
“There’s more,” Colfax said.
Jack kept silent.
“Baker tells me Jessica’s a diabetic. She’s on insulin.”
Jack’s sharpened his stare. “How critical?”
“Says she needs it daily.”
“Can it get any worse?”
Colfax shrugged. “Doctors say that if we don’t find her soon, they can’t guarantee she won’t fall into a coma.”
“Great.”
“We sent two officers out to the address listed on his loan application.” Colfax shook his head. “It’s a church.”
“Did they do a canvass?”
“No, they were waiting for us to give them the go-ahead. Didn’t want to spook anyone if Cooper was still in the area.”
“Let’s get out there.”
The two pushed themselves out of their chairs and grabbed their briefcases. Colfax reached in his top desk drawer and removed his pistol, snapping it into his holster. Jack had sent Marquez back to Sacramento to continue her hunt on the Internet in hopes of finding Cooper on-line. Cooper probably wouldn’t use the moniker of JPetroski in any chat room anymore, but maybe his personality would give him away no matter what he called himself. Hoskin had been working throughout the night with the forensics team and Harrington continued to dig through Cooper’s computer. Fragmented.
“You ready?” Colfax said, eyes puffy and voice rough.
He thought about Marquez’s response to the same question. “Like a race horse.”
Colfax nodded. “Let’s get him."
They stepped out of the station and the bright sun caused them both to squint. Jack slipped on his Ray-bans. It took only seconds for sweat to pool and start to drizzle down his back. The temperature was soaring and so was their frustration. They hopped into Jack’s vehicle and cranked the air conditioner. The heat made the pavement appear to squiggle. But Jack didn’t lose his focus. This morning, Jack knew finding Jessica Baker was his priority and Cooper the target of his investigation. Nothing woul
d change that.
20
Wednesday – 11:02 a.m.
“The address he listed is 5521 South Brandon,” Colfax said, “in an unincorporated area of Butte County. We’re about fifteen away. So tell me, what do you know about this guy, Cooper?”
Jack rattled off everything he knew about Cooper’s history. “Alvin Franklin Cooper, born to an unwed mother in Shafter, California. No other siblings. Mother died when he was in high school. Records showed cause of death to be natural; I have my doubts. He makes his way through high school alone, saves his money, travels outside the U.S., before returning to California. Where he goes and what he does at this point is still a mystery. Next time we see him, he’s married and has a child. The rest you know.”
“Seems strange a guy like Cooper doesn’t have a rap sheet a mile long.”
“For all we know, he could have left a trail of dead bodies from here to bum-fuck Egypt. Just haven’t been solved.”
“If you ask me, this guy broke a gear sometime during his youth. After he killed his wife and kid, they should have plugged him into a wall socket and lit him up like a Christmas tree.”
Jack couldn’t argue.
The traffic was light, and ten minutes later they exited the 99 Freeway and headed east, toward South Brandon. The neighborhoods started to thin, turning mostly into rural farmhouses and pocketed communities of older, L-shaped homes, streets filled with old trucks and tall, established trees. They turned onto South Brandon, and drove directly to a two-story building with a brick walkway. At first, Jack thought it was a converted home. Then he caught sight of the large cross that was part of the front wall façade. A place of worship. The lawn was neatly mowed and thick shrubbery filled the areas surrounding the building. Big umbrella trees offered shade, keeping the blistering summer heat down during services. The windows were all opened, as was the front door. Parking in the adjacent lot, they exited the car and approached the opened door. Jack peeked into the building, whose interior smelled of old wood and dust. A registry was opened on a brass stand for guests to sign. Jack was flipping through the pages when he heard a voice from outside.
“Can I help you?”
The two turned around to see a slender man wearing a straw hat, a clean white shirt and jeans. He was holding onto a water hose, the spray nozzle dripping from a faulty seal. Jack wasn’t sure if the shirt was wet from sweat or the leaky hose. He appeared to be in his seventies. A little old to be the gardener, Jack thought.
Jack introduced himself. “We’re looking for the pastor of this church.”
The old man’s head slightly bobbed but his eyes didn’t move. “That would be me,” he finally said. “I’m Pastor Joel.”
Colfax motioned at Pastor Joel with his notebook. “You caught us off guard, not being in uniform.”
“I could say the same about you,” Pastor Joel said with a smile. He dropped the hose and pulled off the glove on his right hand, which he extended, greeting Jack with a comforting shake.
“In this church, I double as the grounds’ crew too. What is it I can do for you both?”
“We’re investigating the kidnapping of a young girl that occurred yesterday.”
“And what does that have to do with my church?”
“We’re not sure. The person we believe responsible listed this address as his residence. Hampton Carter.”
The Reverend pondered the name, rubbing his chin before responding. “Doesn’t sound familiar. Of course, we get a lot of people, mostly migrant workers, passing through, looking for Sunday services, that kind of thing.”
“How about the name of Alvin Franklin Cooper,” Jack asked.
Pastor Joel shook his head no.
Jack pursed his lips and reached over to take the case file out of Colfax’s hands. He sifted through the reports and removed Cooper’s prisoner inmate photo. Jack never liked showing a single photo as opposed to a six-pack. Defense counselors like to exploit the opportunity, contending the investigator prompted the witness to pick their client as the suspect. Time was short and Jack didn’t have much choice. “Does this man look familiar?”
The pastor took the photo from Jack. Recognition immediately lit across his face.
“You’re putting me in a bad situation,” the pastor said. “I know this man but my conversations with him are protected by privilege.”
“Look,” Colfax interrupted. “Privilege or not, this guy may be responsible for the murder of at least four individuals, two of whom are children. He’s holding a child as we speak and she may not last much longer.”
Pastor Joel’s mouth fell slack and Jack could see the conflict in his face. He took off his straw hat and removed a handkerchief from his rear pocket. Moisture pooled around his thinning hairline. “This man,” the priest began, “he came to me a couple of weeks ago. Walked into my church, spoke with my assistant. Said he wanted to speak to the pastor, wanted to confess.”
Jack asked, “Confess what?”
“I can’t say. Privileged, you understand.”
“Reverend, if you don’t tell me what you know, God is going to have another guest very soon.”
Pastor Joel’s hands started to shake as he continued to wipe the sweat from his brow. “You said he’s kidnapped a young girl, is that right?”
Jack nodded, “She’s sixteen.”
The pastor pressed two fingers to his lips as his stare drifted toward the ground. “That’s what he was talking about.”
“What was he talking about?”
Pastor Joel fumbled with the weaving of his hat, then said, “This conversation never happened.”
“I forgot it already,” Jack replied.
“A girl. A young girl. He dreamt of a young girl becoming his daughter. A new daughter. He told me he lost his own daughter years ago and was feeling depressed. He feared his dream at first, then said he realized it was a sign. From God. I told him he was just going through the stages of grief. Depressed at his loss and that, in time, this too shall pass.” Pastor Joel swallowed hard. “I had no idea he was talking about taking a child.”
Jack placed a hand on the pastor’s shoulder. “Did he say where he was living?”
“No. He just comes and goes.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
He thought for a moment. “Yesterday. He came by to say he had done something bad. He said he made someone apologize for doing wrong. He said that person promised never to do wrong again.”
“Was he driving?”
“I don’t know. I never see him arrive. I would never see him leave.”
“Anything. A name, a friend, a telephone number. Something to help us find him.”
Pastor Joel grabbed his head, shaking it as if some tidbit of memory would fall out. “Nothing, nothing. He wouldn’t even tell me his name until yesterday.”
“What name did he use?”
“Klaus. I remember now. It was Klaus, a good German name.” He paused before his memory found the answer he was looking for. “Klaus Monroe.”
21
Wednesday – 12:10 p.m.
Dispatch operator Mike Escobar stared intensely at the monitor, ignoring the sound of the radio calls that filled the overhead speakers. The agents in the office nicknamed him Batman because he primarily worked at night. He was pulling a back-to-back shift at the FBI’s Sacramento office. Although he preferred the quietness of the midnight hours, the bustling action during the daylight was a nice change of pace.
The dispatch room was full of life. Along with the FBI channels, dispatch monitored the local Police Departments as well. The PD radio dispatch operator boomed over the loudspeaker. 211 Silent . . . Man reporting shots fired in the vicinity of Stockton and Fruitridge. One after another. It never stopped. After listening to the handful of dispatch centers calling in at the same time—an event nothing short of a calamity—Batman had attained a Zen level of tuned-out, unless an officer was in need of help.
After a few expletives, he continued to check a
nd then re-check each function on his computer. Agent Hoskin called only fifteen minutes ago, requesting a run through every database he could muster to locate Klaus Monroe. Should be an easy task, he thought. How many Klauses can there be? Giving an age span of thirty to forty years old, he focused his attention as the system began spewing DMV checks. After an electronic sputter, the California Law Enforcement Terminal System, also known as CLETS, returned with its results: 125 Matched Criteria on L/N F/N.
Batman slid his hand through his hair, shaking his head in disbelief.
He ran it a second time, just to make sure. Same information. 125 matched by last name and first name. Since CLETS only supplies the amount without giving up any details, the only option was to have all 125 pulled and forwarded to the office for review.
“Screw this,” he shouted from inside the closed room, which was separated from the rest of the dispatch center. He knew the request would take too long for a response. He decided to take matters into his own hands. Start limiting the field. New DOBs, middle initials, cities of origin. Anything that would get him a list. It would then be up to him to take those names and filter them himself. He ran through the alphabet, guessing at ages, three years up, three years down. Potential cities Agent Hoskin had provided. Streams of responses, “No Match for this Criteria” and “Invalid” popped up, making his anxiety soar higher than the outside temperature. A bead of sweat slowly trailed down his brow, meandering to the bridge of his wire-rimmed glasses. He continued to punch at the keys, now on a mission. He crammed the next series of commands and slammed the Enter key. The hourglass tumbled for a second before a license appeared. Batman’s eyes widened and his jaw jutted toward the screen. He raised a brow and said through a broad grin, “Yeah, baby, that’s what I’m talking ’bout!”
With a push of his foot, his chair sped backwards across the floor on squealing rollers toward the radio board. He made a fist and thumped the bottom of the telephone receiver, launching it into the air, catching it in mid flight. His fingers danced on the dial pad as he elevated his feet onto the consul. It took several rings before the person on the other end answered the call.