by George Fong
63
Thursday – 9:03 p.m.
Jack knocked twice. Two days ago, he’d stood in this same spot in Seal Beach about to meet Bernard Russell, Eric Youngblood’s uncle, for the first time. So much had changed since then. Footsteps shuffled past and Russell appeared at the cracked-open door, staring out at Jack. He remained motionless a moment, before letting his head fall.
“We need to talk,” Jack said.
Russell nodded and stepped aside, and the two walked down the hallway and into the kitchen, resuming the same spots at the table as last time. But Russell didn’t offer Jack any coffee this morning.
Jack pulled out the letter and dropped it under Russell’s nose. “We were able to rescue the girl.”
Russell solemnly nodded. Not the normal response from someone given good news.
“During our investigation, new evidence came to light, filling in the blanks about who was responsible and why.” Jack knew Russell wasn’t going to offer anything, so he put it all on the table. “You knew the truth all along.”
Russell bit down hard, fighting the tears filling his eyes.
“You warned him, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.” Tears began rolling down Russell’s face. “He’s my nephew.”
“That’s why he went looking to kill Alvin Cooper and Jessica Baker. Because he knew that if we caught him and rescued the girl, Cooper would tell us about Eric’s involvement in the Grace Holloway murder.”
Russell wiped his arm across his eyes. All it did was smear his tears. “It was Cooper that kidnapped that girl in Seattle. He let her die.”
Jack slid the letter closer to Russell, who let his eyes wander but he wouldn’t pick it up.
“You wrote that letter to Cooper right before he burned his family alive in their home. Do you remember that?”
Russell nodded.
“You should. You caused it.” Jack tapped a finger on the letter, making sure he had Russell’s full attention. “In here you talk about the Grace Holloway kidnapping. You threatened to tell his wife he was responsible, even though you knew Eric had done it.”
Russell shifted in his chair, wanting to run away but having no choice but to listen. “It was all Cooper,” he said, weakly.
“That’s a lie. Cooper wrote it all down, how Eric had a craving for young girls, an addiction you were well aware of. When Grace Holloway was kidnapped and the news hit the airwaves, you put two and two together. You knew Eric was up in Seattle, knew his history, and so you confronted your nephew on the telephone. But he denied his involvement, didn’t he? Put it all on Cooper. First, you believed him, or at least wanted to. When they returned, you kicked Cooper out of your house, said to stay away. That’s what Cooper wrote. But then you learned the truth. That it was Eric who grabbed Grace Holloway and stuffed her in that abandon building. Cooper only watched over her. Eric made the decision to abandon her. He let her die. And you knew it.”
Russell said nothing.
“Eight years go by without a word from Cooper. Then all of a sudden, Cooper’s back in Eric’s life. You catch Eric talking to Cooper on the Internet.”
Russell started rapping the table with a fist, uncomfortable to the point of shaking.
“When you found out they were talking, you became enraged. You confronted Eric and learned where Cooper was living, that he was married with a child. That’s when you sent the letter.” Jack got up out of his chair and stood next to Russell. “You threatened to tell Cooper’s wife about the kidnapping and were going to blame him for the murder of Grace Holloway unless he stayed away from Eric. What you didn’t know at the time was that Eric had reached out to Cooper, not the other way around. It was Eric that wanted to do it again. Kidnap another girl.”
Russell buried his face in his hands, sobbing. “When Eric found out I wrote the letter, he became angry. He said if Cooper’s wife knew what they did in Seattle, she would go to the police. I just wanted Cooper to go away and leave us alone.”
“But instead of fading away, Cooper showed you he wouldn’t be threatened. Cooper fixed the problem so that no one could ever turn him in. He killed his wife and his eight-year-old daughter to save himself. And your letter pushed him into that decision.”
“That wasn’t my fault!” Russell said. “How could I know he would go to that extreme?”
Jack’s voice went cold. “You forced his hand.”
Jack turned and walked over to the window. The thought of what Cooper did made his skin crawl. It was indefensible. So too Russell’s role. “Cooper should have just told the police about Eric’s involvement. Might have gotten a lesser sentence.”
Russell shook his head. “No, it would have been worse. The police would have found out about the other killings. Then they both would be in jail, facing the death penalty.”
Jack had read about the other victims in the notebooks. The details were vague, but it was obvious who’d been the instigator.
Russell spoke through a series of sobs. “When the police pieced the crime scene together and realized Cooper was responsible for the murder of his wife and child, Eric talked to him. He convinced Cooper to plead insanity. If Cooper went to jail on this one, when he got out, Eric would make things right. He told Cooper that the Grace Holloway murder would never come up again. That the past would be buried forever.”
“But Eric didn’t keep his promise, did he?” Jack said. “Before Cooper was scheduled for release, Eric contacted Cooper by e-mail. Eric had the urge again and wanted Cooper’s help. He threatened Cooper once more. Only this time, Cooper was ready.” Jack turned and placed both his hands flat on the kitchen table, forcing Russell to look him in the eyes. “In the notebooks, Cooper wrote about how Eric planned and executed the kidnapping of Jessica Baker.”
“But it was Alvie that found Jessica Baker,” Russell argued. “He wanted her.”
“No. His journals said he was sent to get Jessica Baker. He saw her picture on the bank manager’s desk, that was true. She was the one. But it was your nephew who first saw the picture of Jessica Baker when he was up in Chico, secretly meeting with Cooper before his release. It was Eric who had fallen for her originally. Eric told Cooper to go into the bank and pretend to file for a loan so he could get a look at the girl’s picture, then he convinced Cooper to kidnap Jessica Baker. Eric’s idea. Just like with Grace Holloway. Cooper was the one who always took care of the victims but this time, Cooper got smart. He decided to hide Jessica Baker from Eric. His insurance. Cooper got the girl he always wanted and Eric would have to keep quiet or Cooper would let her go to implicate both of them. She would have been the one living witness.”
“When you came looking for Eric,” Russell said, “I knew he was in trouble. I had to warn him.”
“And you did,” Jack said. “And then you came up with the plan to kill Cooper and Jessica Baker, convincing Eric it was the right thing to do. No victims, no witnesses, no more past.”
Jack made a fist and slammed it on the table. Russell nearly jumped out of his chair. He jabbed a finger in Russell’s face. “Because of you, three officers are dead and two others badly wounded.”
“I swear to you, I didn’t think it would go this far.”
“It went further than you know.”
Russell’s stare went hollow.
“Eric’s dead.” Jack said it with little emotion. After what had happened, he didn’t much feel the need to explain how or why. Russell had to know it was inevitable. He folded his arms on the table and buried his head in them, shuddering as he wept uncontrollably.
Jack picked up the phone and called the FBI office in Santa Ana. In thirty minutes, two agents came to the house and placed Russell under arrest. Today, it was only for obstruction, but it was a matter of time before Russell would be charged with aiding and abetting.
As officers led Bernard Russell out in handcuffs, his neighbors gawked on their front porches, wondering what was going on. By tomorrow, they’d learn all the details on the morning news.
64
Saturday – 8:15 a.m.
The office was empty. A few stragglers remained but most had gone home. Four days straight without a break, Hoskin was sorting through the evidence his team collected, getting his paperwork in order, Harrington still pulling data from Cooper’s computers, searching for anything that would help Jack locate the fugitive. Harrington tried to catch quick nap in the supervisor’s office but just couldn’t. He lived for computer work.
Jack turned the corner and saw Marquez sitting in his chair, doodling on a yellow legal pad. She’d heard Jack approach and swung the chair around to face him.
“Hey, Marquez. How’s the head?”
She balled a fist and rapped lightly on the left side. “Hard as rock.”
Jack could see Marquez had been going over the notebooks. There seemed to be more.
“We found these next to Detective Colfax’s body.” She pointed at two additional notebooks in another plastic envelope. “During the firefight, Cooper must’ve left them behind.”
“Anything interesting in them?”
“Other murders. I’ve made some phone calls. Everyone’s checking their files now. May be clearing some unsolveds. You got anything in the works for finding Cooper?”
“I may.”
“You going to let me know?”
Jack thought about sitting down and telling Marquez what he suspected. Seeing the fatigue in her eyes, he reconsidered. “Yeah, when I find out myself.”
Jack planted himself in front of his computer, banging out his reports, trying to get a head start before Monday morning. It was a slow process, trying to document every detail. After several hours, he was done. Feeling tired, he snuck into Frank Porter’s office for a quick nap. The downtime was needed but it was restless. Too much bouncing around in his head. Then he was out, hard. When he woke it was dark. He got up, walked out into the office and found it abandoned. He glanced down at his watch. Almost midnight. He grabbed his bag.
The temperature outside retained the day’s heat, air still humid. The office air conditioner thrummed like a freight train behind him. Jack took his time, making his way to his vehicle. He hadn’t thought about anything over the past four days besides Jessica Baker. Now the world was quiet, and quiet was a curse. Dark images entered Jack’s mind uninvited. Jessica Baker. The grainy photo posted on the Internet, the family portraits that hung in her house. Then her listless body in the back of the trunk, illuminated by the harsh glare of a high-powered flashlight. One after another. It was painful, almost debilitating. For Jack, it was that pain that drove him to do what he did. Feeding it, like an addiction. Jack and those like him became the witnesses. And although it was harsh and incapacitating at times, in the end it made them stronger.
He opened the door to his car and slid behind the wheel. For just a moment, Jack sat still thinking about what Russell had said, about the journals Cooper left behind. With everything going on, Jack hadn’t had the time to put it all together. Like the fragmented pictures in Cooper’s computer. Through combining everything in his summary reports, it had started to become clear. Those books, the notes, the interviews, those words—Jack had it all figured out.
“I know where Cooper is,” he said softly to no one.
65
Three Days Later
Szentendre was a peaceful little town situated at the bend of the Danube River just north of Budapest, Hungary. Half a world away—literally—it was made up of small homes right out of a Hansel and Gretel storybook, complete with winding cobblestone streets. If you were to guess its age, you’d start with a thousand years and a day. From Budapest, the largest city in Hungary, it’s a twenty minutes ride by car, or forty minutes by public transportation, which is actually clean and reliable.
Jack arrived at the Ferihegy Airport in Budapest. The Assistant Legal Attaché, or ALAT, in Budapest, Paul Cameron, met Jack when his plane landed. It was twenty-one hours from wheels up to touchdown, including a two-hour layover in Frankfurt. It was late morning and Jack was a bit tired and stiff but he told ALAT Cameron, who spoke Hungarian, that he wanted to get out to Szentendre immediately. They decided on skipping lunch, opting for a Hungarian version of a Power Bar that Cameron had in his briefcase. It tasted like chalk, only drier.
Cameron sat in the front passenger’s seat staring at a map. He’d brought a driver, Peter Goshi, a native Hungarian and an employee of the US Embassy, to guide them. Jack sat in the back of the Land Rover, staring out at the dark green hillsides and farmland, imagining what the place looked like under communist rule. There were remnants of the old Soviet government, but like all relics, they looked tired and dilapidated, left to disintegrate into the earth while the original Hungarian culture stirred back to life, vibrantly, through the faces and homes of its inhabitants.
They crossed into Szentendre around one in the afternoon, immediately running into a wall of tourists milling around in the streets, gawking at rows of perfectly lined trinkets displayed at kiosk stands.
Cameron peered over the top of the map. “Turn here,” he directed, pointing at a narrow road that led up a hillside.
The driver, Goshi, turned, barely clearing a gray Trabant, an old East German car that resembled an even worse version of an AMC Gremlin, maneuvering through a series of skinny streets that left Jack completely lost.
“That’s the place,” Goshi called out, motioning beyond a long, crooked picket fence, at a two-story brick and mortar structure that looked like it was built just after the turn of the century. The driver pulled over to the side and parked. All three exited, passing through the gate.
“Let me talk first,” Cameron said.
As anxious as Jack was for answers, he knew Cameron had the only shot to get them.
Cameron rapped on the wooden door, and a short, old man who looked well into his seventies answered. Barrel chested under a button down shirt that, at one time, used to be white, he sported cotton trousers, worn and dark gray. His hair was thin on top but wiry and thick on his arms, his skin red and leathery all over.
Cameron greeted the man in Hungarian, then introduced Jack. The man said his name was Jozeph Mink, and that he and his wife, Heine, had been living here for the past fifty years. Cameron explained the reason for their visit and asked if he’d look at photograph. Mink called his wife in from the kitchen.
Jack retrieved a photograph that Harrington had printed from Cooper’s computer. The picture showed Cooper and his friend Janos Mink, taken when they both lived here.
Jack placed the photo in Jozeph’s hand. “Do you know a Lazlo Mink? I understood him to be the landlord of this residence.”
Cameron translated. Jozeph listened intently, nodding the entire time. Then he spoke. Cameron waited until he was done before turning to Jack.
“He said Lazlo Mink was his brother. Lazlo and his family lived here with Jozeph and his wife.”
“Are they still here?”
Cameron shook his head. “No. Just before the Wall fell, the Hungarian Secret Police was cracking down hard on dissidents and black marketeers, especially those that didn’t give the police a share of the profits. The Minks were taken away late one night. Jozeph never saw them again. They were most likely killed.”
“What about Cooper? Does Jozeph remember him?”
Cameron again translated in Hungarian.
“Yes, he said. He remembers the American boy that came to live with them. He befriended his brother and wife, became close to their son, Janos.”
“Where is Janos now?”
Cameron paused for a moment, bowed his head and then cleared his throat. “Dead. He died in a fire.”
“Tell me what happened,” Jack said.
“After Jozeph’s brother and sister-in-law were taken away, Janos and the American took off, hoping they could bribe the police into letting them go. Later that evening, the police returned to the house and told him that his nephew was involved in a car accident. The car caught fire and burned Janos to death.”
>
“And what happened to Cooper, the American?”
“He doesn’t know. He never came back.”
That was all Jack needed to know. He pointed at the photograph that was still in Jozeph’s hand.
“Is that Janos in the picture?”
Cameron asked and Jozeph nodded. Egan, egan.
Jack understood that much. Yes, yes. Jack drew closer to Jozeph and again, pointed at the picture. “Which one? Which one is Janos?”
Jozeph slid a finger over the photo, stopping on one of the faces. Cooper.
“Janos? This is Janos?”
He nodded and repeated the familiar words, “Egan, egan.”
Jack stared at the photo. What Jozeph told him corroborated his suspicions. The person he knew as Alvin Franklin Cooper was, in fact, Janos Mink, the young teenager who supposedly died in that auto accident. That badly burnt body? Jack could only guess that it was the real Cooper. During that time, Hungary was in turmoil and Janos Mink wanted out. With his family arrested for black market trafficking, it would only be a matter of time before Janos would find himself in an interrogation cell. Whether his act was intentional or simply seizing an opportunity, Janos traded identities with his American friend. Jack knew this from the notebooks. He remembered noticing the handwriting from the books taken from the Russell residence, how it was different than the writing found with Jessica Baker. His penmanship had changed between the time Cooper was in Hungary and when he came to America. That’s because it wasn’t Cooper who came back.