Close Your Eyes

by Thomas Fincham

  Rhodes looked around and then pulled out a five-dollar bill. “There’s a convenience store over there. While I get my haircut, why don’t you grab something for yourself?”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” she asked.

  “I’m trying to keep you busy while I get my haircut. I mean, unless you want to stay in the car.”

  She snatched the bill from his fingers and said, “I’ll see you back in the car.”

  He watched her get out and head to the convenience store.

  He could not believe he was playing babysitter.

  He got out and headed for the barbershop.

  When he entered, he found all eyes on him. There were maybe four people in the shop. One was on the cutting chair with another doing the cutting. Two were lounging in the chairs in the waiting area.

  None of them was Alfonso Guzman.

  A man came up to him. He was black. “Can I help you?” he said.

  “I need a haircut.”

  “Sure,” the guy said. “Have a seat.”

  Rhodes sat down.

  “How do you want it?” the guy asked.

  “Trim the sides, please.”

  The guy got down to it and asked, “I haven’t seen you around this area.”

  “I just moved here.”

  “Where’re you staying?”

  On his drive over, Rhodes had spotted a cluster of buildings. “I got an apartment two blocks from here.”

  “Right,” he said, understanding.

  A few minutes later, a car pulled up to the shop. It was a white Escalade. Through the mirror, Rhodes caught Guzman coming out. He was accompanied by a bigger man.

  He entered, gave his buddies in the shop fist bumps and high fives, nodded at the guy cutting Rhodes’s hair, and, without even glancing at Rhodes, he and the bigger guy disappeared in the back.

  “All done,” the guy said.

  Rhodes looked at himself and nodded.

  He paid the guy and left.

  At the Malibu, he found Tess waiting for him. She was drinking a smoothie with a straw. “You find what you were looking for in the barbershop?”

  “Who said I was looking for anything. I wanted a haircut.”

  “Sure, whatever.” She got in the car.

  Tess may still be a teenager, but she is a good observer, Rhodes thought.

  And she was right. He did find—not what—but who he was looking for.

  Alfonso Guzman.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Every lead they looked into had so far been a dead end. Jo knew there would be another dead body, and it was only a matter of when.

  They were running out of options, so she had decided to go see the family of Joshua Havelen, the patient who had disappeared in Mexico.

  She found his mother and sister in a town about an hour’s drive from Bridgeton.

  Jo was now seated in their living room with a cup of tea before her.

  “When was the last time you spoke or met Joshua?” Jo asked.

  The sister, whom Jo had found out was three years older than Joshua, said, “Joshua had dropped by to visit my mom right after he got out of the institute. We had wanted to go pick him up, but he insisted he would come see us instead. I think that was almost ten years ago, but the last time we heard from him was a few years after that.”

  The mother spoke. “I think something horrible has happened to my son.”

  “Why would you say that?” Jo asked.

  “Josh would never miss my birthday. Never. Even when he was at the institute, he asked them to let him come and visit me on my birthday. I think he is dead.”

  Jo did not know what to say.

  The sister said, “After he got out, we tried contacting him, but we couldn’t. We even went to the police to report him missing, but they said they couldn’t help us because he was old enough to go wherever he wanted. Plus, there were rumors that he had gone to Mexico.”

  Jo opened her mouth to ask them about that.

  The mother said, “He didn’t go to Mexico.”

  “Why do you think that?” Jo asked. “His car was found across the border.”

  “He didn’t know anyone there. We were a close-knit family. When he disappeared, it affected my husband terribly. He had a fatal heart attack. He died a broken man.”

  “I know this a personal question, but why was Joshua admitted to the Bridgeton Mental Care Institute?”

  The sister said, “My dad was a big baseball fan, and so he wanted Josh to take up the sport. Josh joined the pee wee league, and he worked his way up the ranks, but we could tell he wasn’t interested in any sports. He only did it for my father. He played hard and practiced hard, but when he couldn’t even get into the minor leagues, he felt like he had disappointed my dad. That’s when things started to fall apart. He started doing drugs, drinking heavily, and he started hallucinating.”

  “He was only sixteen when he was admitted, right?” Jo said.

  “Yes, my parents knew something was wrong, but they thought it was only a phase he was going through. They thought he was acting out like most teenagers did at that age. They thought he would grow out of it. But it only got worse. One day we got a call from the police that Josh had apparently stripped down to his underwear and had run across the field at a Major League baseball game. We didn’t believe it until we saw it on the news. We had no choice but to put him in the institute or else he would’ve been charged with mischief or maybe something worse. We didn’t realize that, at the institute, his mental health was only going to deteriorate. If we had known, we would have found some alternative form of health care service.”

  “Why do you think his health deteriorated?” Jo asked.

  “It was that other boy,” the mother said. “He ruined Josh.”

  “Who?”

  “He was at the institute with Josh.”

  Jo thought a moment. “Do you mean Mathias Lotta?”

  “That’s him.” The mother’s eyes filled with rage. “It felt like he was controlling my son.”

  “How so?”

  “When Josh came by to visit us after he got out, the other boy was with him. We thought that was odd, but Josh insisted the boy was his friend. The boy never left us alone, not even once. He watched Josh as if Josh was under his spell. There were times I asked Josh a question, and the boy would answer for him. I should have thrown that boy out of the house, but I was glad to see my son. I wanted him to get better. I wanted my family to be complete again.”

  The mother choked up. Her daughter put her arms around her.

  Jo said, “Unfortunately, Mathias Lotta is dead, so we can’t question him.”

  Silence fell over the room.

  Jo realized it was time to go, but she had one more question to ask, and she did not want to sugarcoat it. “Do you have any reason to believe your son may have come back to Bridgeton to take revenge for what happened to him at the Mental Care Institute?”

  The mother shook her head. “If Josh was in Bridgeton, he would have come to visit me. I know my son. But he hasn’t. And that tells me that he is dead.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  Ellen left the studio and took the elevator down to the basement. The parking garage was full at this time of day. Normally, she would be able to find a spot near the doors, but this morning she was late, and she had to park her Prius at the other end of the row.

  Her eyes were glued to her cell phone. She was catching up on stories from her competitors.

  So far, no one had had a breakthrough in the Train Killings case. Why should they? She thought. I’m the only one who has had direct contact with the killer.

  She had still not heard from him. He was supposed to let her know the time and day of their meeting.

  Patience was not one of Ellen’s strong suits. She wanted everything right away. Money. Fame. Power. She wished she had it all right then.

  What if the killer decided not to follow through? What if he decided to bail on me? After all, he owed her nothing. His actions had
already gotten him enough attention. She needed him more than he needed her.

  She had a feeling he knew this too well. Maybe it was why he was letting her sweat it out.

  Regardless, whenever he would call, she would be ready for him.

  She pulled out her keys and unlocked the doors.

  She got in and put her purse on the passenger seat.

  When she pushed the key into the ignition, she felt something cold touch the back of her neck.

  “Don’t turn,” a voice said from behind.

  Startled, Ellen swallowed hard. She glanced at the rearview mirror, but it was smashed. Even the side-view mirrors were not useful anymore.

  “Put your hands on the steering wheel,” the voice said.

  Ellen did as instructed. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said, trying to regain her composure. “It’ll cost me good money to fix.”

  “You wanted to meet, so you have to pay the price.” The voice did not sound mechanical, like on the phone, but it was still heavy and low.

  She could feel the barrel of the gun dig deep into her skin.

  “I’m here now,” the killer said. “Ask me your questions.”

  “Why are you killing those people?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “You have to give me more than that.”

  “I’m doing it to send a message.”

  “To who?”

  “To someone.”

  “And what message is that?”

  “That I’m going to right the wrong.”

  Ellen wanted to face him, but the gun prevented her from doing so. “Who wronged you?” she asked.

  There was silence.

  “Many people,” he replied.

  “Your victims, did they wrong you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were there others?”

  “Yes.”

  “So there will be another body on the train?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  There was silence.

  Ellen’s mouth was dry but she wanted an answer. “When will there be another body?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  She heard the sound of the gun being cocked.

  Her heart began to beat faster. Sweat rolled down her back. Her knees began to vibrate uncontrollably. “What are you going to do to me?” Her voice quivered.

  “I want you to close your eyes and slowly count to ten. If you decide to look back, you will be dead before you do so. Do you understand?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  She closed her eyes and began counting when she heard the back door open and close.

  She was not about to deviate from his instructions. She did not dare look behind her.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  The house was stylish and modern. It was made of glass and steel. It was unlike any building Rhodes had ever seen, but the design made sense because the house belonged to architect Tim Yates.

  Rhodes walked up the narrow path, all the while admiring the structure.

  He rang the doorbell and waited. A few seconds later, through the glass panel next to the door, Rhodes saw a woman appear.

  She opened the door and said, “Can I help you?”

  She was tall, blonde, and attractive. She had no wrinkles on her face, but her neck was a different story. The woman was much older than she made herself up to be.

  She was likely Tim Yates’s wife—Reed’s mother.

  “My name is Martin Rhodes,” he said. “Mr. Yates asked me to drop by.”

  “Oh, yes, Tim told me,” she said. “You’re helping us find who…” She paused to compose herself. “…took Reed away from us.”

  He nodded.

  “Tim is in the back. He’s been waiting for you.”

  She took him through the house, which was even more eye-catching than the outside, and into the backyard.

  Yates was sitting on a patio chair next to the pool. He wore a light sweater, white khaki pants, and loafers.

  He held a drink in his hand.

  He stood up and shook Rhodes’s hand. “Would you care for a drink?”

  “No thanks, I’m fine,” Rhodes replied, taking a seat opposite him.

  Yates got straight to the point. “As you can imagine, I’ve been waiting anxiously for some news.”

  Rhodes did not have a cell phone. If he did, he could have avoided the trip over here by making one call instead.

  When Rhodes had taken the case, he had assured Yates that he would give him regular updates. He had paid Rhodes five thousand in advance, after all.

  Yates continued. “I didn’t know how to contact you, so I was seriously thinking of returning to the bar where we last met.”

  There was a reason Rhodes was hesitant in getting a cell phone. Now he knew why. He did not want people calling him every minute of the day for updates. People did not realize that crime was not solved in one hour like on most television shows. It was a lot of grunt work and most of it never panned out. It could be days, months, even years before there was a break in an investigation. In fact, back in the Newport PD, there was an entire room filled with boxes of unsolved cases, and some belonged to Rhodes. Such was the nature of the business.

  Rhodes said, “I will not run away with your money, Mr. Yates.”

  “I’m not concerned about the money,” Yates said. “I’m concerned about finding who killed my son.”

  “I’ve made progress in the investigation,” Rhodes said.

  “Do you have a suspect?” Yates asked.

  Rhodes hesitated, but then said, “Yes.”

  Yates sat up straight. “Have you gone to the police?”

  “Not yet. I need more evidence before I hand over all the information to the authorities.”

  “Just give me a name,” Yates said eagerly.

  “And what will you do with this name?”

  “I… I don’t know, but I would like to know who took my boy’s life.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  Yate’s eyes widened with surprise before they flashed with anger. “Am I not paying you for a name?”

  “You are.”

  “Then why won’t you tell me?” Yates was fuming. “Is this about money? Do you want more?”

  “No. I’m sufficiently compensated.”

  “Then what is it? Why won’t you tell me the bastard’s name that killed my only son?” Yates was now on his feet.

  “Do you own a gun?” Rhodes said calmly.

  Yates blinked. “Yes. But why is that important?”

  “If your son’s killer was standing before you right now, would you shoot him?”

  Yates paused. He blinked some more and then sat down. “The right answer would be no, but who knows how any parent would react at such a moment.”

  “I have already paid a steep price for my actions, and I wouldn’t want you to make the same mistake. I need to confirm a few things, and when I do, you will have your son’s killer.”

  Yates thought about it and then nodded. “When will you have a name for me?”

  “Soon,” Rhodes replied. “Very soon.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  The moment it was safe, Ellen called the FBI. They had instructed her to drive straight to their office. Ellen was now seated in Charlotte Walters’s office. It was medium-sized with windows on one side and a wall with certificates and medals on the other. In the middle was a desk. Behind it was the FBI seal with the words Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Investigation encircling it. In the middle of the seal was the FBI motto: Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity.

  Ellen was familiar with it, having read about it when she was young. The choice of colors, the selection of images, and the overall design of the seal represented what the bureau stood for. No matter how many times she had seen the seal, she always found it imposing and awe-inspiring.

  Walters sat across from her but did not say anything.

  Ellen tried to keep her attention on the objects in the office when the door swung openand Joh
anna Pullinger entered. Ellen had met her before, and she found her to be no-nonsense and straight-to-the-point.

  “We reviewed the footage from the parking lot. Unfortunately, we didn’t find anything that might help us,” Pullinger said.

  “Are you saying no camera caught him?” Ellen said.

  “Your car was parked on the other end of the lot,” Pullinger replied. “The way the camera was pointed resulted in a small blind spot. The killer must have known this, or why else would he choose to meet you today and not any other day?”

  “What about when he left?” Ellen asked.

  “There is footage of a man walking out of the parking garage. But he was wearing a hoodie and baseball cap. Never once did he look up. He does fit the description of the killer. This tells us you were telling the truth.”

  Ellen’s face twisted in shock. “Why would I lie?”

  Walters said, “The question we have is, why you would tell us the truth?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You have hid information from the authorities before. Who’s to say you are not working with the killer.”

  Ellen’s mouth dropped. “He put a gun to my neck. I thought I was going to be one of his victims.”

  Walters did not say anything.

  Ellen continued. “Plus, if I wanted to, I would have kept this information to myself.”

  Walters stared at her and said, “And he told you there will be another body on the train tomorrow?”

  Ellen nodded. “Yes.”

  “Did he tell you when?”

  Ellen shook her head. “No. Before I could ask another question, he left. He threatened to shoot me if I looked back. I was not going to do anything stupid.”

  Pullinger turned to Walters. “Both bodies were found in the morning. We can assume the next one would be at that time as well.”

  Ellen said, “So do we have an agreement?”

  When Ellen had contacted the FBI, she told them she had information on the Train Killings and she would share it with them on the condition that the bureau gave her exclusive access to the scene.

  Walters said, “If you turn out to be correct, only then do we have an agreement.”