Crazytown (The Darren Lockhart Mysteries)

by Grilz, Jon

  Lockhart moved next to Lisa and let his back slide down the wall beside her. “No, no, it sure doesn’t.”

  “I need a drink,” said Lisa.

  “I don’t blame you,” Lockhart responded. Lisa looked tired. Her eyes were dark and swollen. She probably hadn’t been able to sleep, and there was no doubt she had been crying. A tissue was balled up in her palm, though it looked like she was trying to hide it. She wore the same UMD shirt that Lockhart had seen her in when they’d first met. This time, she was wearing loose blue jeans that had several tears in the legs. She had tried her best to feel comfortable on the outside, even though on the inside she was being torn apart. Lockhart felt sorry for her.

  The two sat there in silence a long time until Lisa spoke. “Do you really think my mom and dad had something to do with Mikey’s death?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “First Mikey, then my dad and Professor Hubert; I even heard that Dr. Heath is gone.”

  Lockhart didn’t say a thing. He just sat there, his posture mirroring Lisa’s as he chewed on his lip.

  “Why them?” she asked.

  “The only real connection was Mikey, from what we can tell,” Lockhart confided in her, assuming no harm in sharing an obvious detail.

  Lisa turned to look at Lockhart for the first time. Her chin rested slightly on her shoulder as she spoke. “Mikey was a fifteen-year old kid. How could he be the reason for all this?”

  “I think it had something to do with what he was working on. I think he figured something out he wasn’t supposed to.” It all might have been more than he should share, but at that moment, Lisa was the only person Lockhart absolutely believed to have no connection with the crimes, and he needed someone to speak to, even if just to hear his own voice.

  “What could he possibly have been working on that would cause all this? Smart or not, he’s just a kid.”

  Lockhart sighed and looked down at the floor between his legs. “I wish I knew.”

  Lisa turned her head again and tilted it down to the side to rest it on Lockhart’s shoulder. “Really?” she asked.

  Lockhart turned and looked down at Lisa. Her eyes were so dark and so far away. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Lisa gave a sort of half-shrug that made her entire body shift a little from her spot on the floor. “It seems like whatever it was that Mikey knew, whoever else that might have known it has been killed, too.”

  Lockhart scoffed. He had clearly already realized that. “Of course, but…” He stopped and suddenly stood up.

  Lisa stayed seated and just looked up at him. “What?”

  Lockhart didn’t look at her. Instead, he was gazing down the hall at the returning police officer, who was carrying a cup of coffee. “Anyone that had the information…”

  Chapter 36

  “You want to do what?” Rather than bothering to stand, the computer tech simply swiveled his chair around to speak with Lockhart. He had a look of judgment and skepticism on his face; it was a look Lockhart had seen from members of IT departments across the country, as if the request he’d made was stupid. In this case, maybe it was.

  Lockhart was at the computer technology division within the Duluth FBI offices. He needed access to Professor Hubert’s e-mail, and they had been working on getting access to his accounts as well as the encrypted e-mail that he had sent to Dr. Heath.

  Lockhart had his elbow propped up on the wall of the tech’s cube as he leaned forward. He was trying to look as casual and inconspicuous as possible, not to mention the fact that he was mildly concerned about the outcome of his theory. “I want you to send me a message from Professor Hubert’s e-mail.”

  “Why?” the lab tech asked as he slurped loudly from a can of Mountain Dew. He slowly twisted back and forth in his chair, with his knee bouncing up and down. He looked like he had reached his caffeine limit for the week.

  “Because,” Lockhart said as he hardened his look and made a show of resting his hand on his belt near his gun.

  The tech seemed unimpressed, but eventually he sighed. “Whatever. What do you want to send?”

  “I want the last e-mail sent from his computer to be forwarded to my e-mail account.”

  The tech looked back up at him. “We already tried to open the attached file, but it is encrypted with a twelve-character alphanumeric password that has yet to be determined.”

  “I don’t need to open the file. Just make sure when you access the e-mail you use my login to do so. In the subject put the word ‘Important’ with an exclamation point. And in the body…” Lockhart mused on that for a moment, trying to decide what would get the most attention. Finally, he jotted a note down on a Post-It and handed it to the tech.

  The tech read then note and rolled his eyes. “Okay…”

  “Hey, look at me.” Lockhart waited for the tech to return his gaze. He was dead serious, and the small man seemed to get a little smaller as he held the look. “Do it exactly that way. It needs to look like I sent it to myself. My access, that message. Exactly.”

  “I will, geez. When do you want it sent?”

  “Tomorrow. Promptly at nine p.m.”

  Chapter 37

  The sun shone down on the town of Crayton. Lockhart hadn’t seen the large glowing orb much during his time there and it seemed to be inappropriate at a time in which the entire town was watching the chief of police’s body being lowered into the ground.

  Lockhart stood a good distance away. The cemetery just next to the town’s Lutheran church wasn’t particularly large, and people had crowded all around it to pay their respects. Lockhart didn’t think it would be in good taste to take up a spot of a man, woman, or child who had known the chief for far longer than a week.

  Officially, the coroner had pronounced Chief of Police John Donaldson’s death a direct result of a massive heart attack. Besides diabetes and gout, the man had a family history of coronary artery disease. In the coroner’s own words, “It was only a matter of time. He could have gone in his sleep or eating a meal.” Of course, that served as no solace to Lockhart since the man hadn’t died in his sleep, or while enjoying a bite. He had died in pursuit of a murderer—a murderer Lockhart had allowed to get away.

  There had been moments when he’d suspected Donaldson had played some kind of a role in the murder of Mikey Weber. His general mistrust of anyone during a murder investigation had kept him from getting to know a man in the final days of his life. In the end, it was just one more death that could be attributed to the man Lockhart only knew as Jack. In some small way, it actually made him feel better to know it was all more than a theory, but that still didn’t eliminate the sting of another life lost.

  The events that had taken place two days earlier had only cemented in his mind that something was going on. There was something different about this killer. He had barely left a clue in over thirty murders. He had eluded authorities for over two years. And when cornered, he literally disappeared. There was some explanation to it all, but for the life of him—and apparently for the lives of others—Lockhart just couldn’t figure it out.

  He was so lost in the thought over it all that he barely noticed the six pallbearers carrying the chief’s casket past. Among them was Deputy Lind, whom Lockhart assumed would be taking over as chief of police, accompanied by two volunteer police officers. All three men gave Lockhart passing glances, and he couldn’t help but feel judged.

  The chief’s body was slowly lowered into the ground amongst countless other graves, far more than Lockhart would have expected in such a small town. Many didn’t even have names—just cold gray slabs that marked someone’s final resting place.

  There were receptions held all over the town. Several of the townspeople hosted private memorial events at their houses. There was also a large reception at the police station, school, and even Dan’s Café. Lockhart didn’t go to any of them. He had paid his respects at the funeral and didn’t feel right going anywhere else. Either he would end up standing there, quietly playing
the wallflower, or he would be faced with several questions he might not be able to answer.

  Instead he went back to the bed-and-breakfast. In his room, he laid out a towel; on the towel he laid all three of his guns. He removed all of his ammo and then reloaded all the clips. He checked them over and over again. It was a way to pass the time, and it also served to ease his mind about the conflict that he was sure was going to eventually happen. He was, after all, setting a trap for a killer to find him, and he needed to be ready. If anything went wrong, he might be the next victim, though, it was infinitely more concerning to him that someone else might fall at the killer’s hands.

  There was something about the data on the flash drives worth a high price: namely, the lives of Mikey, his father, and Professor Mendez. Dr. Heath had disappeared and may have been kidnapped, though Lockhart’s assessment was that Dr. Heath was dead. After all, he was linked to the information that had been sent to him from Professor Mendez just before Mendez was murdered. Someone was trying to cut ties, and they were doing so with anyone who would have actually accessed the information. Had the roster of victims included everyone who had handled the drives, he and the deputy would also be dead. Instead, the laptop and drives were all stolen, from a locked safe.

  To lure the killer, Lockhart decided to add himself to the chain. He did so by having the information e-mailed to him, in the hopes that the man he presumed to be Jack the Shooter would come out of the shadows and into his gun’s line of sight.

  Lockhart had instructed that the two volunteer police officers watch over care of Joy and Jill from eight p.m. until he called. He informed them that they would all be safe as long as they stayed away from the B&B, since there was a chance the killer knew where he was staying.

  As the sun set over the tree line, Lockhart sat down in a corner of the living room with his back to the wall. From his position, he was able to see the two main entrances of the house, front and back. He sat there, staring at seconds ticking by on his watch. His stomach grumbled, but he didn’t move. He wanted to make sure that anyone in the vicinity would think the house was empty. If it was someone in town, he needed them to feel safe enough to break in and steal the information. If it were more extreme—say, another fertilizer bomb—he could only hope he was close enough to the door and window to make a quick exit and get out before he was blown apart.

  At 8:50, his heart pounded in his chest. He took deep breaths to calm himself for a plan that he wasn’t sure would prove successful. The buzz of his phone made him flinch. It was his mother. She never called so late in the day; she was what was known as a “sun-downer.” Once the sun set, her Alzheimer’s was in full affect.

  “Mom?” Lockhart whispered. “Is everything okay?”

  “No, Darren, it isn’t.”

  Lockhart let out a small sigh. He typically had no problem humoring her, but this was not the time. “Mom, it’s okay. I’m sure Dad is just at the bar or somewhere watching the game. You know how much he loves his Redskins.”

  “Darren,” his mother said with a tremble in his voice, “what are you talking about? I’m calling about you. Something’s wrong.”

  Lockhart didn’t know what to say. His mother sounded lucid, which was a rare thing in itself. In her moments of lucidity, things weren’t always at their best, as she usually tended to be disoriented and confused. This was different. “I’m fine, Mom. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “I don’t know, Darren. Something’s wrong. None of this is right.”

  Tears welled in Lockhart’s eyes. She sounded terrified and confused. He wanted to be there with her and for her, not crouched on the ground in the vague hopes that he would be able to catch a killer. “I know, Mom, but I’m trying as hard as I can to make it right. I’m really sorry, but I have to go. I’ll call you in the morning, I promise. Try to get some sleep.” Lockhart started to pull the phone away from his ear.

  “Darren?”

  “Yeah, Mom?”

  “I love you. Be safe.”

  “I will, Mom. I love you too.”

  At 8:55, Lockhart cursed himself for what he realized was a stupid, desperate plan.

  At exactly 9:00 p.m., his cellphone buzzed to alert him of an incoming e-mail, the “IMPORTANT!” file from Professor Mendez’s email account.

  At 9:01 p.m., to the second, the back door creaked open.

  Lockhart remained motionless. His eyes had adjusted as well as they could to the darkness, but he still couldn’t make out the identity of whoever it was that walked through the back door. Time seemed to slow as each foot step lowered with the slow, fluid motion of a person wading through a swimming pool. Then, just a few steps in the backdoor, the figure frozen. Nothing moved and even time slowed to a stop. In the distance, the muffled tick-tock of a hanging wall clock could be heard, but there was no other sound whatsoever.

  The figure didn’t move, so Lockhart waited. His hand started to sweat from this tight grip on his gun. A pain slowly grew in his knees from sitting in the same position for so long. The figure remained motionless as Lockhart’s knees began to throb. Since he had no other choice, he slowly, almost imperceptibly adjusted his weight to the side, just enough to take some tension off his knee. As stealthy as he tried to be, the adjustment was enough to make the hardwood floor beneath him creak, causing the figure spin around and dart back out the door. Lockhart stood from his crouch and took off in pursuit, going as fast as he could on his still-throbbing knees.

  The crescent moon above gave off a ghostly light to the trees as Lockhart pursued the suspect. Twigs snapped under-foot, and the constant rustle of footsteps seemed to come from all around. Every time Lockhart thought he was closing the gap between the suspect and him, he suddenly realized that he was a little further away. He knew if the suspect put enough distance between them, he would be gone forever, and Lockhart couldn’t allow that to happen. With Glock still in his hand, he considered firing a shot, but he knew in the low light that his aim would be mediocre at best, and he didn’t want to risk killing an unarmed, unidentified, fleeing suspect.

  Then it started to happen again. Lockhart began to feel warm, but it wasn’t from the sprint. It was as though the autumn air was suddenly charged with blazing summer heat. Something was happening, and Lockhart didn’t like it. It was the exact same warmth that he’d felt before the suspect disappeared the last time, and he wasn’t about to let him get away again.

  Lockhart stopped quickly and raised his gun, but before he could fire, a loud thud erupted, followed by an even louder crash, followed by the sounds of fighting. Lockhart couldn’t make out what had happened in all the confusion, but within the span of a few seconds, he saw Deputy Lind on the ground, wrestling with the suspect.

  Lockhart approached the two slowly to allow the deputy time to subdue the struggling man. The deputy had kept watch on the house from an old woodshed two doors down and had impressively been able to catch up to the man whom Lockhart had failed to get near.

  The suspect’s struggles looked awkward and feeble like it was a veiled attempt to look desperate, as if he were putting on a show. Deputy Lind didn’t seem to care as he pulled his sidearm and held it to the man’s head. In a little less than the blink of an eye, Lockhart’s own sidearm was pressed against the deputy’s head.

  Slow, calm words came out of Lockhart’s mouth, to make the deputy understand the situation. “The suspect has been subdued, Deputy. He’s no longer struggling or resisting in any way, so there is no longer a need for your sidearm to be drawn, is there?” Lockhart’s heart slowed as his words spilled out.

  The deputy stared at Lockhart from the corner of his eye, with the barrel of the gun flush against his temple. He had the look of a man with something to say, but he remained silent, nothing audible but the sound of his breathing. Lockhart knew Lind wanted to bargain or protest. He wanted revenge, but revenge isn’t justice, and it wouldn’t bring any answers.

  The suspect wasn’t moving, but Lockhart could see the steam coming
out of his mouth in little puffs. Lind returned his sidearm to his holster and grabbed his handcuffs.

  As he pulled the man to his feet, the moonlight caught the suspect’s face. For just a second, Lockhart thought he knew the man, but he soon thought better of it.

  For just a moment, the man looked remarkably like Dr. Heath.

  Chapter 38

  The three men walked in silence. Deputy Lind led the way, occasionally blotting the blood under his nose with a handkerchief. Special Agent Lockhart walked behind the suspect with his gun drawn, but pointed at the ground. The three men were surrounded by ink-black forest, and the moon had disappeared from the sky. Their path was only lit by the beam from the deputy’s flashlight.

  Lockhart stared at the man in front of him. He was just a man after all. Some part of Lockhart had expected more. He couldn’t put into words what he had hoped to see, but now that it was realized and he saw a flesh-and-blood man, a part of him felt empty. Maybe a monster would have lived up to his expectations—or then again, maybe not.

  “I don’t suppose I could get you to let me go?” the man asked. He sounded casual, peaceful, as if he was merely out for a stroll, without a care in the world.

  The deputy’s head snapped to the side, aghast at the suggestion. “Let you go, you son of a bitch? Are you kidding me?”

  Lockhart remained calm. “Keep your eyes forward, Deputy.”

  “I was just wondering,” the man continued, “if there was any chance you might be the kind of man willing to let me go in exchange for something.”

  The idea that the man was trying to have a conversation with him made Lockhart too upset. Instead, he stuck with what he knew. “You have the right to remain silent.”

  “Yes, I know. The deputy already read me my Miranda Rights. I was just wondering if there was anything I could say that would make you let me go.” The man’s voice was rough and deep, but completely composed.