Fragmented

by George Fong

  Outside the radial tires buzzed. Jack couldn’t say how many times he’d driven down this stretch of highway. As a kid, he remembered sitting in the back of the family station wagon, his father commuting back and forth every weekend from San Francisco. Jack’s grandfather, Hank, owned a butcher shop there. A blue-collar man through and through. Jack’s dad, Sean Paris, took a different route, going to college and becoming an engineer. He married Jack’s mother, landed a job in Sacramento, which took him away from his parents but never for long. Every weekend, Sean Paris made the drive back to the Bay Area to help out with the butcher shop. Young Jack went with his dad because it was his time with his father. Like Hank Paris, Jack’s father worked long hours and long days. But he was committed to his parents and to his family. Jack didn’t really appreciate why his dad did what he did until late in life after Jack’s mother died of cancer. Hard, honest work was Hank’s discipline, but he knew the real reason for living.

  The drive grew quiet giving Jack time to let his mind wander. He looked up and saw the exit for downtown, glanced at his watch and decided to make a quick pit stop, pulling off the freeway and heading toward Capitol Avenue. Moments later he was in front of The Waterboy, considered among the best restaurants in Sacramento, where his son, Michael worked. Jack found an open meter, squeezed his car between a Mercedes and a Volkswagen and jumped out.

  The place was busy so no one really noticed him walking around back. Still he pretended to be on his cell phone so he wouldn’t be bothered. He wanted to peek into the kitchen, to see his son. Jack leaned against the wall and peered through a swinging door, pushed open by a passing waiter. A group of chefs scurried, carrying large metal trays over their heads. Smells of broiling meat and spices rolled out in waves. In the middle of the crowd stood Michael, the sous chef, dressed in a white chef uniform, apron stained. Early on in life, Michael said he wanted to be a chef, not a cop, which was fine with Jack. After high school, he immediately enrolled in the Culinary Academy in San Francisco, earning his degree.

  Jack stood there and watched as Michael worked. Flames leapt over beautifully carved pieces of meat, sauces drizzling from silver pouring containers. They were Michael’s tools and he had mastered them. Jack saw how focused his son was, how in control of his surroundings. He realized his son had grown up. Michael had become a man. It made Jack proud.

  A waiter approached Jack and asked if he needed any help.

  Jack held up his cell phone. The waiter smiled and darted into the kitchen.

  He took one last look, then turned away.

  Marquez watched Sizemore shuffle a stack of papers, tap them straight on the table. An open folder to his right exposed a series of black and white crime scene photos from the Grace Holloway murder in Renton, Washington, over a decade earlier. Behind him, Homer Landley was scrolling through websites, searching for the kidnapper/killer they now knew as Faust.

  “Faust, eh?” Sizemore’s voice was filled with sarcasm. “I didn’t know Cooper was so well educated.”

  “You can get college credit in prison,” Marquez quipped.

  “The reports don’t seem to have much on his family prior to his arrest.”

  “Wasn’t much there. Mom died while Cooper was traveling through Europe. He comes back to an empty house, rents a room he finds in the classifieds, gets a job, moves on….”

  “Didn’t Jack say he befriended the landlord’s son and that they traveled together?”

  “Youngblood,” Marquez said. “Eric Youngblood.”

  “Was Youngblood in Seattle during the time our victim was found dead?”

  “I can’t be certain. You’re going to have to wait and ask Jack.”

  Homer groaned loudly and shoved his computer mouse off its pad. “Nothing! Guy’s all over the place, talking to anyone who’ll listen, but I can’t seem to find him anywhere!”

  Marquez leaned back in her chair and glanced in Homer’s direction. His eyes looked tired, his whole body a wet shirt on a wire hanger. She actually felt sorry for the guy. “Ease up, I have faith in you.”

  Homer sucked in a lungful of air and went back to clacking on the keyboard.

  Sizemore turned to Marquez. “What was Youngblood doing with Cooper fifteen years ago when they were hitchhiking up and down the coastline?”

  Marquez knew where Sizemore was going with his question. Placing Youngblood with Cooper at the scene of the Holloway murder meant more than identifying a murderer; it meant a possible conspirator, one who could be turned into a witness. Pit one against the other, someone to squeeze. A two-for-one deal. The question was, who was the weaker of the two?

  “You get any DNA other than Cooper’s?” Marquez asked.

  “No. Got some unidentified latent smudges. But only Cooper’s DNA.”

  “Then I guess we should look for Youngblood as a material witness.”

  “If Youngblood was present during the Grace Holloway kidnapping and murder, it’s possible he knows what’s going on with your current wave of killings, including the Baker abduction.”

  Marquez agreed. “There’s too much smoke to ignore. The question is, why now? Why does Cooper risk escape and kidnap a child less than a year before his release? Why not just wait until his time’s up? Draws less suspicion.”

  Sizemore shrugged. “You’re being too logical. Men like that are not guided by rational thought.”

  Sizemore was right. Child abductors and murderers rarely allowed logic to dictate their actions. In most cases, it’s an urge that drives them to act, no matter the circumstance.

  “Still, it just doesn’t feel quite right,” she said. “I can’t help but think Youngblood is involved in the Baker kidnapping.”

  “Anything’s possible,” Sizemore said. “You got evidence showing the two have been in contact since his incarceration?”

  She shook her head, recalling a report that Jack had received from Butte County jail. It was Cooper’s visitor’s log and employment records. State of California special agents also reached out to Cooper’s coworkers after he went missing and interviewed everyone. There was no evidence Cooper had been meeting with anyone fitting the description of Eric Youngblood.

  “To the contrary,” Sizemore continued, “there’s a good reason why I don’t think they’re together.”

  Marquez tilted her head and glanced at him sideways. “Let’s hear it.”

  “For starters, why do we only find one dead body every time Cooper changes his identity? Why not two? One for Cooper and one for Youngblood?” Sizemore shook his head and tossed the reports back on the table. “No, if they were together, I would think we would be finding pairs of dead bodies. At least a pair of dead bodies with common M.O.s. One new identity doesn’t help anyone.”

  “Make sense,” Marquez replied.

  “We haven’t spent that much time looking for him. For all we know, he’s left a trail as wide as Sherman’s March to Atlanta.”

  “Could you check to see if Eric Youngblood has ever drawn the attention of law enforcement in the state of Washington?”

  Sizemore nodded and pulled his cell phone from his pocket, holding the phone to his head, waiting for the switchboard operator in Seattle to answer.

  “Find me a parking ticket,” he said, griping out loud. “Anything.”

  While he waited on the line, Marquez asked, “Was there a lot of news coverage of the Grace Holloway abduction?”

  “Every damn day.”

  “I mean, film coverage? Did they film a command post filled with volunteers, the search and rescue teams, things like that?”

  “You bet. When a kid comes up missing, the whole world volunteers, and the news is there to capture it. We had people handing out flyers, walking door-to-door, all that.”

  “Do you think you can get your office to pull the tapes of the coverage?”

  “You think we’ll find Cooper as one of the volunteers?”

  “I’m hoping we’ll find one of them. Or if we’re lucky, both. Killers like to find themselves
in the middle of the commotion, liking the thrill of it all.”

  Sizemore turned back to his phone and started talking. “Get me to Squad 8.” He stood up and walked to a quiet corner, his words now reduced to a murmur.

  Marquez looked over at Homer, who was staring at the monitor, screen flipping from one webpage to another. Although Homer was doing everything he could to find Cooper, he wasn’t having much success. Marquez looked down at her hands and noticed they were gripped tightly on the edges of the table. She was feeling as anxious as Sizemore. All she could do right now was hurry up and wait. Cooper’s jail cell had been tossed for clues, and Search and Rescue was out in full force. Hoskins was handling forensics, and earlier that evening the whole world had been put on notice by every television and radio station, including the Spanish, Vietnamese and Russian broadcasts. If someone hadn’t heard of the Baker kidnapping by now, they were either dead or living under a rock.

  A door slammed shut, and Marquez’s head snapped up to see Jack enter the room carrying a cardboard box under his arm.

  She smiled. “Welcome back. I hope you got something good from your trip.”

  “What I got are the rambling thoughts of a madman.”

  29

  Wednesday – 10:04 p.m.

  Jack let the box slide out of his hands and land squarely on the table in front of Marquez. He shrugged off his jacket and glanced at Sizemore, still standing, on his cell phone.

  “Sizemore?” He motioned.

  Marquez nodded, then hooked a finger on the corner of the paper-filled box and sifted the sealed plastic evidence bags. “Any of this crap any good?”

  “I think so.” Jack extracted several notebooks and fanned them across the table, a series arranged chronologically.

  Marquez stared at them, each a different color with the dates covered in black marker. “What’s this?”

  “Cooper’s journals when he lived with his buddy, Eric Youngblood,” Jack said as he slipped on a pair of gloves and removed last notebook from its plastic sleeve. Carefully he flipped through the pages, stopping near the end of the notebook. He read a tabbed passage:

  We met this family. Nice folks, lovely daughter. She cried most of the time, there at the park. Dad did nothing to make it better. What a prick! Poor thing. She needed love. She needed a father.

  Jack flipped through several pages, then started to read again.

  I decided to follow them. They went to a home off the main road. Looks like a tri-level. They pulled into the garage and I couldn’t see them get out before the garage door closed. I waited outside for the father to leave.

  Jack lowered the notebook, the pages falling together. He tossed the book on top of the plastic sleeve and took a chair.

  “Stalking,” Marquez said. “Just like with Jessica Baker.”

  “Yeah,” Jack responded. “Just like Jessica Baker.”

  “So, who’d he grab?”

  Jack shook his head. “Doesn’t say. Like a story without an ending.”

  “Where did you find these?”

  “Cooper’s old bedroom. Youngblood’s uncle kept them.”

  “Lots of information to be spilling for your roommates to see.”

  “It’s obvious Youngblood knew what was going on.”

  “You think Youngblood’s involved in the Baker kidnapping with Cooper?”

  Jack shrugged.

  “Sizemore’s got the office running a check on Youngblood. If he got cited for spitting on the sidewalk, we’ll find him.”

  Jack looked down at his watch. Jessica Baker—now missing almost thirty hours without her meds. “Homer find anything?”

  “Homer,” Marquez called. “Anything?”

  Homer didn’t bother turning around. Just lowered his head, a sign of failure.

  Marquez turned back toward Jack. “Doesn’t look good.”

  “Anyone heard from Colfax?”

  “He called in about an hour ago. Search and rescue is still out searching the surrounding fields and abandoned buildings. The hotline’s receiving a crapload of calls. The PD is shagging them down as fast as they can.”

  “And?”

  Marquez shook her head. “A waste of time.”

  Sizemore returned to the table, clipping his phone back on his hip. He stuck out a hand at Jack.

  “Welcome to Sacramento, Ray,” Jack said.

  “Wish it could have been under better circumstances.”

  For the next thirty minutes, the three sat and reviewed the documents taken from the Russell house. Letters from Cooper’s mother, others from persons unknown with addresses in Colorado, Michigan, and Florida. Innocuous letters about travels and homesickness. The journals painted a different story, however, portraying Cooper’s haunting dark side. Although none of the entries actually stated Cooper committed the Holloway kidnapping, they danced close enough to indicate his involvement. Jack watched Marquez read, her face conveying depth and horror.

  “It’s like looking through his eyes,” she said.

  “Take a look at this entry.” Sizemore tapped at a page in one of the notebooks. “Eric still upset with me, can’t understand why. I tried hard to make things right, let him know that I understood how he felt but couldn’t let it get in the way of our friendship. Said he didn’t know if that was possible. I wonder if he has lost his mind, lost his nerve. I don’t know if he can even be trusted.”

  Sizemore flipped to the next page. He shook his head, then looked up at Jack and Marquez. “That’s it. Nothing explaining why he was upset or the reason for not trusting Eric.” He checked the date. Three months after Holloway was reported missing. “This entry looks like it happened after he returned to Orange County.”

  “Whatever happened, Eric started to have second thoughts,” Marquez said.

  Jack tented his fingers on his chin, lips gently touching fingertips. “Maybe Eric started to have remorse over the Holloway kidnapping and Cooper feared he would run to the police.”

  A voice blared from across the room. “Then why didn’t Cooper just kill him. He didn’t seem to have too much of a problem using that as a silencing technique.”

  “You have a point, Homer,” Marquez said.

  “Then there was an entry I found in one of his notebooks,” Jack said. “It talks about ‘starting over.’ What the hell did he mean by that?”

  “A new life? A family? Maybe it’s fantasy?” Marquez was reaching.

  Jack remained silent.

  Nearing midnight, Jack’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his hip. “Yeah.”

  The phone conversation went on for a few minutes, everyone watching in silence, waiting for Jack to finish. He ended the call, took a deep breath.

  “That was Colfax,” he said.

  “What’d he have to say?”

  “Staked out the address for Klaus Monroe. The one he got from the phone number. A small duplex in a shithole area of Chico. Said he sat on it for a couple of hours, looking for any activity. No lights, no movement, so he finally just knocked. A young man by the name of Graham Buckley answered. Says there’s no Monroe living there. Says he doesn’t even know a Monroe.”

  “How long has Buckley lived at the duplex?”

  “Not long, less than a week. He gave Colfax the name of the landlord. He’s contacting him as we speak. He’ll let us know what he finds out.”

  His phone vibrated again. Answering the call, he placed it on speaker so that everyone could hear. This time it was Hoskin.

  “Got something for you.” Hoskin’s voice sounded over-modulated. “We were able to identify a bank account for Monroe at Washington Mutual. Unfortunately, he used a private drop box for his address. Manager said it’s filled with junk mail, nothing that would help us locate him. However, we did learn that his ATM card was used yesterday.”

  “Where?” Jack asked.

  “Local. Cash machine at a 7-11 in Auburn. I know the spot. They may have surveillance cameras.”

  “We’ll head out there now. Maybe we’ll get
lucky and find latents. I’ll get someone to pull the camera.”

  Hoskin gave Jack the address and directions to the Mini Mart, estimating it was going to take them thirty minutes to get there, barring any traffic.

  “My money’s on Cooper using Monroe’s card.”

  “I ain’t takin’ that bet,” Sizemore said.

  Marquez glanced back at Homer, who stared sad-eyed at the three of them, like he was waiting for an invite to their club.

  “Homer,” Marquez said. “We’re done here. Go home and I’ll call you in the morning.”

  Homer looked like he might cry. “Why can’t I come?”

  “Not this time, it could be dangerous.”

  “To check out a video? Are you nuts?”

  “I appreciate your enthusiasm,” Marquez said. “Go home and continue scanning the Internet for Cooper. You call me if you hear anything and I promise, we’ll make sure you’re included on any raids.”

  A smile stretched across his skinny face. He grabbed his jacket, slapped Marquez a high five and headed out the door.

  Sizemore leaned close to Marquez and whispered, “You take your informants to raid sites?”

  “He can sit in the car far, far away. It makes him feel wanted.”

  Sizemore grinned.

  “We’ve got to get moving,” Jack said. “It’s been almost twenty hours since Monroe used the ATM. We want to get there before they recycle the tape.”

  30

  Wednesday – 10:57 p.m.

  Homer fidgeted with his keys in his pant’s pocket as he strolled toward the front door to his apartment. The pathway through the complex was partially lit by a lamppost, two of the three bulbs burnt out, the air still warm and heavy from the day’s heat wave. From a distance, Homer could hear the pool pump and smell chlorine. It was late and Homer felt tired and hungry. He just wanted to get inside and lay down.

  His steps clicked on the concrete walkway, echoing between the three-story buildings that boxed him in on both sides. As he passed a row of mailboxes, he thought he heard footsteps. He canted his head to the left, then right. Nothing. A second later, he picked up the sound of heels clicking a slow pace again. Because of the echo, it was difficult to determine where it was coming from.