Apocalypse Journeys (Book 2): Finding AJ

by Melrose, Russ

  Coleman and Chief Gunderson had joined Stohl in the observation room.

  Beckerman looked to Chief Gunderson. "No record?"

  "We've run him through AFIS. Didn't get a hit. So far, he's clean as a whistle."

  "Coleman. Call up Gideon and find out what you can about him from their police department."

  "You can talk to Sheriff Conway there or his deputy Dallin Petersen." Gunderson said. "I'll give you their number."

  "Good. Thanks, Chief."

  Beckerman turned to Stohl. "Henry, I want you to contact Albrecht's employer and see if you can find out if he was in Tempe and Vegas when the first two killings occurred. If they balk, tell them we can get a court order if necessary.

  "Oh, and one other thing, Henry. Check the surveillance videos from the first two bars and see if Albrecht shows up in either of them."

  "Will do," Stohl said. But it was clear he wasn't happy with his assignment.

  "Vandevelde and I will head over to the motel and interview the clerk. We'll find out if Albrecht's alibi has any legs." He looked at Coleman and Stohl. "Give me a call the moment you find out anything. Chief Gunderson, maybe you could leave Albrecht in the interview room. Let him stew a while longer."

  Chapter 16

  St. George Investigation

  "Yeah. I seen him that night around quarter to eleven, walking through the parking lot toward his room."

  They'd tracked down Timothy Lambert to his apartment, a white-brick fourplex on Center Street.

  He was a lanky, acneed youth in his mid-twenties. He wore baggy cargo shorts, a frayed-at-the-collar Dead Head t-shirt and scuffed up sandals. He sat lazily across from them in an armchair with his legs stretched out. His legs were milky white and spindly with no muscle definition. A fluffy, unruly clump of hair dipped down onto his forehead and covered part of his acne. Lambert had had to remove a pile of smelly clothes from the couch so Jules and Beckerman could have a place to sit.

  "Are you sure about that?" Beckerman asked.

  Lambert hesitated. "Why? What did he say?"

  "It doesn't matter what he said. What matters is that you had better be telling us the truth."

  Lambert looked confused and apprehensive.

  Jules cut in. "You lie to us, Timothy, and you could be charged as an accessory after the fact. Did you want to go to prison?"

  Lambert straightened up in the chair like a grade schooler being scolded. His confusion seemed to deepen. "Look, I-I-I was only trying to help Brandi out," he muttered. "If management finds out," he pleaded, "I could lose my job. Brandi too."

  "Brandi? Who the hell is Brandi?" Beckerman asked. "You'd better tell us everything, Timothy. Start from the beginning and don't leave anything out."

  "Mr. Albrecht stays with us when he comes to St. George. I helped him out once before. You have to understand, Brandi's got two kids. She needs the money. They don't pay us shit. It was a hundred bucks. A hundred bucks is a lot of money for someone like Brandi. Mr. Albrecht came in at a quarter to eleven, like I said. But he didn't go to his room. He came into the office and asked if I could help him out. You know. Brandi's a maid at the motel. I called her at home, and she came by about a half hour later. Then she went to his room."

  "And how do you know she was in there an hour?"

  "Uh. She came by the office afterwards. Gave me twenty."

  "Let me see if I have this straight," Beckerman said. "She arrived at around eleven-fifteen and stayed in his room for an hour."

  "Yeah. Hey, look man, I was only trying to help her out. You know. Brandi needs the money."

  "Was Mr. Albrecht's car in the parking lot the whole time?"

  "Uh huh. I had a view of his Elantra from the office. It was there the whole night. I swear."

  "And you've arranged this service for him before?"

  "Just the one other time. That's all."

  "How long have you worked at the motel, Timothy?" Jules asked.

  "Um. Two years. You're not going to tell management, are you? Brandi and I could lose our jobs. We've only done it a couple times."

  "We'll see about that. We're going to need you to cooperate with us, Timothy. That means you're going to tell us where Brandi lives, and you're not going to call her and warn her we're on our way. You're also not going to tell anyone, and I mean anyone, about our conversation here. Do you understand?"

  "Yeah. Sure. I won't tell nobody. I promise. But Brandi ain't at her place. She's at work. She'll be there another hour before she's off."

  "All right, Timothy. Remember, not a word to anybody."

  "Yes, sir. I will. I promise."

  *****

  Before they arrived at the motel, Coleman had called them. According to the deputy sheriff in Gideon, twenty years ago George Albrecht had been charged with sexual assault while a student at Southern Utah State University in Cedar City. The deputy couldn't recall the details of the case other than the alleged victim was also a student at the university. The charge was dropped due to a lack of evidence. Albrecht hadn't been in any trouble since.

  "I don't have a clue what he's talking about," Brandi Kendricks said with a shrug.

  "Miss Kendricks," Beckerman began. "You should be aware our questioning you is part of a criminal investigation, and by withholding any information, you could be charged with obstruction of justice and accessory after the fact."

  Brandi Kendricks was a stout, self-assured woman in her late twenties. She had a curvy, robust body and moved it suggestively as she made the bed. She had striking bright blue eyes, the glinty blue of a sunlit mountain lake. The color of her hair was an off-blond bamboo color that swooped upwards at the shoulders.

  She tucked the top sheet into the bottom of the mattress. "I don't have to talk to you without a lawyer," she told them, deftly running the palm of her hand up and down the length of the sheet, smoothing it expertly. "I wouldn't be surprised if Tim's smoking pot again. Sure sounds like it. Timothy's totally unreliable."

  Brandi Kendricks stopped her bed-making, tilted her head, and smiled at Beckerman. It was a sexually mischievous smile with a well-honed hint of seduction in it.

  Beckerman coughed into his hand.

  "Are we done here?" she asked him pleasantly. "They'll get mad if I don't get back to work."

  Jules had distanced herself in the background, but now she stepped forward, getting right in Brandi Kendrick's face.

  Brandi shrunk back.

  "No, we're not done," Jules told her. "You'll be answering our questions Miss Kendricks with or without a lawyer. If you like, we can make this official. We can take you in and you can contact a lawyer. But you will be answering our questions."

  Brandi Kendricks blinked.

  "I want you to listen closely, Brandi. This isn't about you, but it can be. Refuse to answer our questions and it'll become all about you in a heartbeat. We're not the least bit interested in what happened or didn't happen in George Albrecht's room that night. We simply want to know if you were there and at what time."

  A moment later, Jules added, "Answer us truthfully, right now, and there won't be any problems. Bullshit us or obstruct our investigation, and we will get into your life and turn it upside down."

  A subtle smile crossed Jules face. "Or if you'd prefer, we can have a chat with motel management."

  Brandi frowned and sat down on the bed. "How do I know I can trust you," she said.

  "Answer our questions, Brandi, and this will be over in a few minutes."

  Beckerman asked her again, "Were you with George Albrecht in his room on the night in question, Brandi? Yes or no?"

  Brandi bit her lip. "Yes," she said, huffing quietly.

  "And when did you arrive at his room and when did you leave?"

  She stared at the ceiling, fishing for the memory. "Okay," she said after a moment, lowering her eyes. "Timmy called me sometime before eleven. I got to the motel sometime after eleven. I stayed about an hour. I left sometime after twelve."

  She looked past Jules to Be
ckerman. "Is that it?" she asked him in a flat voice.

  "What was his demeanor during the time you were with him?" Jules asked.

  "Demeanor? I don't know. He was … well, you know, excited. Like a puppy."

  "I see," Jules responded. "During the time you were with George, did he ask you to do anything out of the ordinary?"

  Brandi looked at Jules as if she had a screw loose. "George?" she laughed. "No. George has no imagination. He likes me to wear my maid uniform. That's it."

  "So, nothing out of the ordinary?"

  "No. Not really."

  After they left, Beckerman shifted in his seat as they drove away from the motel. He ignored Jules and was lost in thought, his face contorted.

  "What do you think?" she asked him.

  He turned and gave her a disgruntled look. "If he's the guy, none of it makes any sense. The timing's all wrong. But I swear, there's something hinky about him."

  Jules hadn't heard the word hinky since her early teen years in Wisconsin. It was a word her stepfather liked to use.

  "Yes," she agreed. "Albrecht's an oddball." Jules paused. "I suspect you know he's not our guy. He was nervous during the interview, agitated. And he was scared. The Calligrapher's calm and collected. Confident. He takes his time at the crime scenes. He's not nervous at all. He's patient and he enjoys his work. I don't believe Albrecht is that good an actor.

  "You're right about the timing too," she continued. "It doesn't work. None of it. He left the bar three to four minutes after Natalie Jensen left. Unless she stood outside waiting for him, she would have been gone. And why would she wait for him? It was obvious she didn't like him. He propositioned her and she turned him down. Someone grabbed her outside before Albrecht left the bar. Had to be the Calligrapher."

  "Okay, Vandevelde," Beckerman said. "Just how long have you been thinking Albrecht's not the guy?"

  Jules paused to collect herself. "Since the interview," she told him. "He didn't take his tie off. Ninety-five degrees in there and Albrecht didn't take his tie off. He was afraid to take it off. Taking the tie off would have violated one of his inner rules, and Albrecht's a rule follower, a toe-the-line type. Paying for sex is something he's been able to justify because it fills a core need, but murder's another story. Murder's not in his makeup."

  Beckerman had turned to watch her. "You might have mentioned this earlier."

  Jules kept her eyes pinned to the road. "I wanted to be sure before I said anything."

  "Being cautious can be a good thing," Beckerman said, smiling good-naturedly. "But from now on, I want you to tell me what you're thinking. I don't want you holding anything back. Trust your gut, Vandevelde. You don't have to tell Henry if you don't want to, but I want to know everything you're thinking. Everything. That understood?"

  "Yes, sir," Jules answered.

  They rode in silence a few minutes.

  "Still," Beckerman said, thinking aloud, "Something fishy is going on here. The sexual assault charge. Working in the same cities where the killings occurred. I don't believe in coincidence. Something's off. I can feel it in my bones." He gave Jules a secretive, screwy smile. "My bones know things," he told her.

  Chapter 17

  Stohl's Gambit

  Stohl set his glasses on the table and played with the edges of the frames. "There's no sign of Albrecht in the surveillance videos from the first two crime scenes, but there are blind spots in both bars."

  "Okay. Thanks, Henry," Beckerman said.

  They were in the conference room assessing the status of the case.

  "Could he have an accomplice?" Coleman asked. "Maybe paying for sex at the motel with the maid was all about setting up an alibi. What if there was a second vehicle to transport the victim."

  "His having an accomplice doesn't fit the profile," Jules said. "The Calligrapher wouldn't want anyone else sharing the glory or the credit. He's too arrogant and prideful for that. These murders are about him. They're his own personal domain, and he's not about to let anyone else in. These murders are his masterpieces. His alone.

  "It is possible he might use someone," Jules suggested. "But they'd have no idea they were being used. This is strictly a solo act."

  Beckerman eyed Stohl. "What about Columbia Textbook? Was Albrecht in those cities at the time of the killings?"

  Stohl deferred to Agent Chandler with a glance.

  "Listen, Noah," she started. "Columbia Textbook wasn't forthcoming with Albrecht's schedule. To get it we would need a warrant. Unfortunately, as of now, there's not enough evidence to establish probable cause. And there's another complication. This morning I heard from Albrecht's lawyer. He mentioned a possible harassment lawsuit if we didn't leave his client alone. If you want a search warrant, Noah, get me more evidence. Talking to the victim in the bar for two minutes isn't enough. His alibi is solid and the sexual assault charge is twenty years old and was dismissed. Coroner puts the time of death around one a.m. It barely gives him time to get out to the crime scene, and the motel clerk swears his car was there the whole night."

  Chandler gave Beckerman a librarian-like glance over the top of her glasses. "Do you really believe he's the Calligrapher, Noah?"

  "I don't know," he answered, throwing his hands in the air in mock frustration. Jules knew it was an act, and she was sure Chandler knew it too. "Vandevelde doesn't think he's the unsub and maybe she's right. All I know for sure is that we have to follow through here. Do our due diligence. Maybe he's not the unsub, but something doesn't smell right, and we need to make absolutely sure he's not connected to these crimes in any way."

  "All right, Noah. Stay away from Albrecht for the time being. I don't want to hear from his lawyer again. If there's something there, I have no doubt you'll find it. But don't ask me about a search warrant till you've got something more substantive. Understood?"

  "Yes. We'll find something," Beckerman assured her.

  "In the meantime, I've given more thought to the idea of a press conference, and I've made the decision to go ahead with it.

  "Noah, as lead investigator, I think you should be in charge of the presser, and I think Agent Vandevelde should participate. We should release selected aspects of the profile, letting Agent Vandevelde fill in the details, with special emphasis on his sexual impotence."

  "Amanda, I don't believe that's a good idea. He's too smart to fall for an obvious trap like that. Besides, a press conference could make Vandevelde a target."

  "That's the idea," Agent Stohl interjected. "We want him to reach out to Vandevelde, maybe start up a conversation. We'll set up a hotline number. It'll be a general number for anyone who has information to call. I think there's a good chance he'll call and ask to talk to Agent Vandevelde."

  "We'll take every precaution, Noah," Amanda Chandler added. "And we'll only go ahead if Agent Vandevelde agrees. I've spoken to Agent Vandevelde's supervisor at the Behavioral Analysis Unit this morning, and he's agreed to allow us to keep her here for as long as we need her."

  Chandler gave Jules a painfully stilted smile before turning her attention back to Beckerman. "Look, Noah, I understand your concern. And you're right, a press conference could put Agent Vandevelde in harm's way. That's why we'll relocate her from the motel to Agent Coleman's home. He and his wife have agreed to host her. We'll keep the house under twenty-four hour surveillance. She'll be watched every moment of the day. She'll be perfectly safe.

  "Look, Noah. I apologize for springing this on you and Vandevelde, but I knew you wouldn't approve and I needed to get permission from Agent Vandevelde's supervisor before I could say anything. Now, before you object again, why don't we leave this up to Agent Vandevelde. Let's see how she feels."

  Chandler turned to Jules. "Agent Vandevelde, if you don't feel comfortable with this assignment, you're under no obligation to participate. Henry can handle things if you decide you don't want to participate in the press conference. Henry believes, and I agree with him, that it would be more effective if a woman were the one to labe
l the Calligrapher as sexually impotent. Agent Vandevelde?"

  Jules didn't have a choice. If she declined, she'd be seen as weak and unwilling to do her part to help the team trap a serial killer. She'd end up being labeled, and she couldn't afford that. "Of course," Jules said without hesitation. "Not a problem."

  It hadn't escaped Jules just how clever a gambit Henry Stohl had played. If the plan succeeded with Jules as bait, Henry would get the credit since it was his idea. If she declined to participate, he would take on the role himself, and again, receive credit.

  "Terrific," Beckerman grumbled sarcastically.

  Amanda Chandler brightened into a self-satisfied smile. "Good. We're all agreed then," she announced. "We've got Agent Vandevelde's cell GPS, and we'll put a GPS tracker in her car. We'll leave nothing to chance."

  "One thing," Beckerman said. "I think Henry should handle the press conference. It's more up his alley than mine, and I'd like to head down to Gideon and have a talk with the sheriff down there, see if I can shake something loose." He paused and smiled. "Not to worry, Amanda," Beckerman told her. "I won't go anywhere near Albrecht. I promise."

  Chandler eyed Beckerman. "All right, Noah," she said hesitantly. "Do your best to stay out of trouble."

  Chapter 18

  The Press Conference

  He sat on the edge of the coffee table, leaning forward, hands on his knees. He was rewatching the news conference for the third time, studying each FBI agent closely. He studied their stance, their movements, the inflection of their voices, even the way they were dressed. He'd been studying them from the very beginning. He'd known who they were all along, but this was his first time seeing them in action.

  It all seemed so bizarre that they'd be talking about him. At least they thought they were. But they weren't. Not really. They were talking about the imaginary serial killer he'd created for them. And they'd fallen for it hook, line, and sinker, just like he knew they would. He'd designed a path for them to follow, and they'd followed it diligently every step of the way. They had no clue he was their guide.