Fragmented

by George Fong

  Colfax stood up and thumbed toward the door. “I’ll call Hoskin with the number and get started on tracing it. You finish up here.”

  “He told me he took another girl,” Youngblood continued. “I couldn’t believe it.”

  “Why is he doing this?”

  “He’s looking for a family,” Youngblood said. “And he’s starting with a daughter.”

  “He killed his last daughter.”

  “I can’t tell you why that happened. I can just tell you that he’s looking for a replacement. It isn’t sexual. He told me. He wants a family again and to settle down.” Youngblood laughed. “Like he could settle down after everything he’s done.”

  “You knew he kidnapped a girl and never came to law enforcement with that information?”

  “He was threatening me with Grace Holloway!”

  Jack made a tight fist and jammed it in front of Youngblood’s face. Youngblood pulled back as far as he could. “You better hope she’s still alive, for your sake.”

  “That’s why I came here. To find her and put an end to this mess.”

  “And how were you going to do that?”

  “I came here to get him to tell me where the girl was.”

  “Then what?”

  Youngblood paused. “I was going to get her back. Alive.”

  “What makes you think Cooper would let that happen?”

  “I wasn’t going to give him any options.” Youngblood spoke in a voice filled with no doubts. “I was going to make him tell me. Then, I was going to kill him.”

  38

  Thursday – 5:56 a.m.

  Marquez sat at her office desk, scribbled in her notebook after reading the last pages in one of Cooper’s journals. She had jotted down a few items of interest, hoping they would help her learn more about him. She turned her neck to stretch out the stiffness, glancing toward where Sizemore was sitting. He too was mulling over Cooper’s paperwork, concentrating on the letters.

  “You find anything?” she asked him, yawning.

  Sizemore frowned and shook his head. “Nothing Jack hadn’t already mentioned, but I’m not even close to finishing.” He flicked the stack of letters with a gloved hand, the papers sliding down into a pile.

  Marquez pitched open the next journal and began to read.

  Five pages in, Marquez’s eyes began to burn. Between the small print and ranting diatribes, she needed a break. Or at least some coffee. At the pot, she poured herself a cup and pulled her cell to check messages. Nothing. Marquez was surprised not to hear from Homer. He called more than her mother. She rang him again but got only his voicemail.

  “Lets go for a ride,” she called to Sizemore.

  “Where to?”

  “Check up on my informant.”

  Marquez pulled up to the Bureau security gate in the Chevy Tahoe and waited for the slider to roll open and let her out.

  “Do you give all your informants this much attention?” Sizemore asked.

  Marquez shook her head. “Homer’s different. He wants to be a cop. He’s very loyal. Given a task, he’ll go after it like a dog gnawing a bone.”

  The Tahoe lurched forward, squeezing between the steel fence and the moving gate, onto the main road. Marquez placed a call to Jack. Voicemail. She left a message she was heading over to Homer’s and to call, then closed the phone, took in a deep breath and tried to calm her nerves.

  Ten minutes later, Marquez was pointing out the driver’s side window toward a large apartment complex in a nearly abandoned section just off the freeway.

  Sizemore nodded. “Looks pretty quiet.

  “Out here, no one calls the police unless there’s a dead body.”

  Marquez pulled out her cell, speed-dialed Homer and got his voicemail again. “Hey, I’m here. See you in a second.”

  She found a spot near Homer’s building. Moving toward his apartment, Marquez sensed something wasn’t right. She hoped she was wrong.

  39

  Thursday – 5:59 a.m.

  O’Rourke’s lot was empty except for Blunt’s 1996 Chrysler LeBaron. Colfax walked him to his car, all the while talking and poking a finger. Blunt never looked up as he jammed a key into the door. Colfax reached into his jacket, pulled out his business card and passed it along, Blunt taking it like he didn’t know what to do with it.

  Jack intended to keep Youngblood close by. As soon as they got a pen register and a trap and trace on Cooper’s phone, the plan was to put in a call to Cooper, lure him out. Jack needed his boss’s help so he rang Frank Porter, who got the cell phone trackers online, tech agents with boxes of computers and antennas that allowed them to chase cell phone signals to within fifty feet of their location, out and running. Jack hoped Cooper would be in custody before long.

  Youngblood slouched in the rear of the car, head tilted all the way back, rumbling an arrhythmic snore. Before they left Monroe’s house, Jack tried to convince Youngblood that killing Cooper wouldn’t help clear his name of the Grace Holloway murder; in fact, it would make matters worse. Youngblood reluctantly admitted he wasn’t sure he had it in him to kill Cooper anyway; he was frustrated and at his wit’s end. But that didn’t change his opinion that Cooper needed to die.

  Waiting for Colfax, Jack listened to his voicemail and caught Marquez’s message. He called her back but she didn’t pick up. “Tag. You’re it.” He hung up just when Colfax made it back to the car.

  “Just got a call from Marquez,” Jack said to him, then peered over at Youngblood to make sure he was still asleep. He dropped his voice. “She’s over at her informant’s.”

  “Everything all right?”

  Jack felt uneasy. “I hope so.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “We better get out to Homer’s,” Jack said.

  Jack hit Interstate 5 South, calling Marquez again to let her know they’d be there soon. When she didn’t pick up, he immediately dialed Hoskin.

  “How’re we doing on the trap and trace?”

  “The company phone is Meridian Cellular. We’re having a problem getting a hold of the night duty rep. I’m hoping we can get the phone up in an hour.”

  Jack ground his teeth. “We’ve got a missing girl, Chris. An hour is too long.”

  Hoskin’s voice was apologetic. “We’ll do the best we can.”

  “Call me as soon as the pen register is live.” Jack hung up.

  He looked down at his watch: 6:03 a.m. The sun was rising, temperature already starting to climb. According to Jack’s calculations, Jessica Baker had been missing for almost forty-eight hours, long past when a non-ransom kidnapping victim usually survives. Usually. The word punctuated his thoughts, as if statistics, numbers, and opinions made a difference. The only thing that mattered was getting Cooper to bite on a pretext phone call. One call. One chance. Jack worried he may not get a second if Cooper suspected Youngblood of cooperating. If that happened, Cooper would disappear and the chances of finding Jessica Baker would fade with him.

  The freeway reader board read: Truxel 4 1/2 Mile. Jack swung the car three lanes over, setting himself up for a quick exit. The vehicle decelerated from 90 mph, before entering the steep off-ramp, bending north, Youngblood waking from his slumber. He rubbed the stubble on his face, then glanced out both sides of the car.

  “Where are we?” Youngblood asked, groggily.

  “We’re heading to a friend’s house. When we get there, you stay in the car.”

  Youngblood didn’t respond.

  They were still fifteen minutes away from Homer Landley’s apartment complex. The car went quiet, everyone waiting for something to happen. The silence broke when Jack’s cell phone buzzed. Hoskin.

  “You’re pen is up and running. We should have triangulation on the cell as soon as you put in your call.”

  “Who’s the subscriber on the cell phone?”

  “A bogus address and name. Monthly prepaid. The phone’s off right now. I’ll let you know if Cooper turns it on or if he places any calls.” />
  After he hung up, Jack turned to Colfax and relayed the news.

  Colfax reached down and pulled up his black nylon tactical bag. “If what you are telling me about Cooper is true, he’s one dangerous asshole.” He rummaged inside for a moment and removed two .45 caliber magazines. He slid the two side-by-side and tapped the top edges against his palm, making sure the rounds were properly seated.

  “If he doesn’t cooperate,” Colfax said, “Cooper isn’t leaving unless it’s in a body bag.”

  40

  Thursday – 6:01 a.m.

  Marquez stepped into a shallow puddle of water. The sprinklers were running early in the morning to keep the heat from sucking it all up before the ground could soak it in. She pointed down the walkway toward Homer’s unit.

  Sizemore reached behind his lower back, making sure he had his handcuffs, then checked his double magazine pouch and knocked on his undercover ballistic vest.

  Marquez crept along the pathway, Sizemore following five feet back, watching for suspicious activity through the tall hedges. Approaching the fork, Marquez peered in the opposite direction, away from Homer’s unit. Moths and insects fluttered and buzzed in chaotic patterns, illuminated by lamppost light, and patches of leafy green melted into a black backdrop that daylight was unable to penetrate. Marquez concentrated on these areas, searching for movement. Seeing nothing, she headed toward Homer’s. Fifteen yards from his apartment door, she stopped. His lights were off, curtains hung askew, blinds bent and hanging at an unnatural 45-degree angle. Sizemore came up from behind.

  “Where’s your boy?”

  She didn’t have an answer. Marquez pulled her phone from her hip and dialed Homer once again. Still nothing.

  Sizemore pointed at the front porch light. “Let’s go check it out.” He stepped in front of Marquez but she held him back.

  Her brow wrinkled and her mouth fell opened. “Something’s wrong.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. I just got a weird feeling.”

  “He’s probably cowering in the corner with a steak knife after what he just went through.”

  Marquez paused a moment. “Maybe you’re right.” She stood straight and moved closer.

  The door was ajar, giving her a partial view of the interior. She angled up and pushed it open, exposing the kitchen and a wooden dining table, where Homer sat, hands stacked atop one another. Homer faced Marquez but his eyes were rolled skyward, transfixed and dull.

  “Are you all right?” Marquez asked as she crossed the entryway.

  Homer didn’t respond. Marquez slowed.

  His body remained still for another second before it fell forward, his head slamming hard on the table; blood leaked from the back of his neck. A thin rod capped by a wooden handle protruded from the base of his skull, the shape of a screwdriver or an ice pick. Marquez jumped back, bumping hard into Sizemore, who had already drawn his weapon. She tried to adjust her eyes to the dark room but it was too late. She was shoved off balance. A gunshot rang out and Sizemore grunted in pain. She turned but could only capture blurry movements, a struggle behind her, heavy bodies slamming against the front door, then onto the floor. Two more shots rang out, the air lighting up white.

  Marquez screamed, “Ray!”

  Sizemore howled filled with agony.

  “Ray!”

  Marquez could make out the tussling of bodies, uncertain who was who. She had no choice but to turn and dive into the fray and find out. Dropping to her knees, she slid out her ASP baton, slinging it to full length. She squinted and strained to see, then leapt and threw the baton over the assailant’s neck and yanked hard, raking the bar_ across his Adam’s apple, then eased up on her stranglehold just a hair—if this was Cooper, she needed him alive to find Jessica Baker. She applied just enough pressure to peel him away from Sizemore. But the man was strong, and she felt his weight shift to her left, driving her almost directly underneath him. This was bad. Marquez kicked out her legs, tried to gain leverage, then hooked her arm under the handle and squeezed the steel bar like a vice against his throat. The man grunted, resisting. A surge of energy from her attacker and he had broken free. He struck the side of her head, neck snapping to the left, head rung. Another strike and Marquez lost the baton. She reached for her weapon, pushing it forward and squeezing the trigger. A loud pop and another grunt. She cried again, this time in a weaker voice. “Ray.”

  She heard moans, more struggling.

  Her vision started to fade. She was losing consciousness.

  Then there was a final bright flash as another gunshot rang out.

  41

  Thursday – 6:27 a.m.

  Jack closed his cell phone as he pulled into Homer’s apartment complex. He had left three messages for Marquez and gotten no response. Youngblood was reaching for the handle of the car when Jack turned.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Jack said, then turned to Colfax. “Cuff him.”

  Colfax took out a pair of cuffs and secured it to Youngblood’s right wrist, the other side to a steel bar bolted to the back seat that’s used for prisoner transport.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  Jack shot Youngblood a quick glance. “I’ll let you know when I get back.”

  With Youngblood restrained, the pair exited the car and moved forward together, side by side, scanning for any signs of Marquez or Sizemore. In front of Homer’s apartment, a man stood by the front door. Dangling from his right hand was a gun.

  Both Jack and Colfax crouched down and drew their weapons.

  “Freeze!” Jack yelled. Colfax sidestepped to his right, trying to get another angle in case it turned into a firefight. Jack continued to advance slowly. He didn’t want the man diving into the apartment and gaining the advantage of cover. The man’s eyes bulged out, glaring at Jack and Colfax.

  “FBI! Drop your weapon now!”

  The man’s hands started to rise. Jack slid his finger into the trigger housing and leveled his sights squarely on the man’s chest.

  The man’s hand started up but the gun, a shiny chrome revolver, fell to the ground. It bounced before settling into the shrubs by entryway path. He raised his hands high over his head. “Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.”

  Jack shuffled forward, covered by Colfax. He spun the man around, grabbed him by the back of his T-shirt and pushed him against the wall. He holstered his weapon and pulled out his handcuffs, securing the man from behind.

  “I got him,” Jack said to Colfax, as he dragged his prisoner backward and away from the front door, forcing the man to his haunches before he drew his weapon again, pointing toward the entrance. Colfax dropped low, skidding up to the frame. He clicked on his flashlight and shined it into the apartment.

  “I got movement inside.” Colfax’s voice was low and authoritative. Jack dragged his prisoner backward to a metal bench situated near the path, and with another set of cuffs latched him to the sturdy steel frame.

  “Stay here,” Jack commanded.

  Colfax aimed his weapon into the dark. “Show me your hands.”

  A moment of silence, then rustling.

  “Hold your fire. It’s me, Marquez. I’m coming out.”

  Jack lowered the muzzle of his gun and Colfax did the same.

  Marquez stumbled to the doorway, bleeding from the left side of her head, her hair tossed and the sleeve of her blouse torn loose. Jack holstered his weapon and ran to her side. She fell against the door jamb, her whole body shaking. Jack tapped Colfax on the back as he ran past to let him know he was clearing his right side, and Colfax followed to provide cover.

  “What the hell happened? Are you all right?” Jack tried to be calm but his voice was tense. He slid Marquez’s right arm around his neck and guided her out toward the bench where the suspect was handcuffed. Marquez sat beside him and sighed.

  “Shit! He almost killed us, Jack.” She rubbed the sides of her temples with both hands, keeping her stare toward the pavement.

  “Can you c
ut me loose now?”

  Marquez looked over at the man on the ground. “Oh God, cut him loose.”

  Jack looked at Marquez, then down at his prisoner.

  Marquez waved a hand. “He’s the neighbor.”

  “I’m Carl,” the man said. “I heard screaming so I ran over to see what was going on. It was over by the time I got here.”

  Jack bent down and peered into Marquez’s eyes. “Are you okay?”

  Marquez grabbed his arm and she squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t say anything.

  “Where’s Ray?” Jack asked.

  Marquez pointed at the apartment. “I think he’s hurt.”

  Jack uncuffed Carl and dusted him off with a quick apology, then ran back to the apartment. By this time, Colfax had turned the lights on and cleared the living room. The place had been ransacked. Furniture busted, pieces scattered throughout the room. Crimson ran up and down the hallway wall in bold streaks, blood from someone being jacked up and violently tossed around. Colfax stood over Sizemore, who was lying on his back in the living room, his right arm over his chest, covering a hole oozing bright red, his white shirt soaked in blood. Sizemore had taken a round through his shoulder, and was trying to stay focused through the pain.

  “I called for an ambulance and back up,” Colfax said. “He’s lost a lot of blood but I think he’ll be all right.” Then he pointed up toward the table. “I can’t say the same for your informant.”

  Homer lay face down on the table, blood dripping from the edge of the chair, a large circle pooled around his feet.

  Colfax studied the blade protruding from the back of Homer’s neck, and shook his head. “Looks like a leather punch stuck right through.”

  “This guy likes to make his killings up close and personal,” Jack said.

  Colfax knelt down, studied Homer’s body, his placement. He peered under the table. “I got something.”