The Scarlett Bell FBI Series

by Dan Padavona

  Bell didn’t remember her head touching the pillow. The Sandman took her before she pulled the covers up.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  Intravenous fluids pumped through little tubes into Marianne Garza’s arm as she lay in the hospital bed. She was a pretty woman, Bell thought, but one who’d made unfortunate choices in her life and shouldered the weight of her misdeeds. A tray lay on a stand beside her bed, the chicken dinner half-eaten and the fruit cup untouched.

  One of Lowe’s crony deputies had been out to interview Garza earlier. He’d barely gotten a description of her abductor. Bell, holding onto the thin hope she’d figure out the connection between Wolf and The Skinner, sat down to question Garza.

  “Mrs Garza…”

  “Please, call me Marianne.”

  “Okay, Marianne. Let’s start with the kidnapping.”

  Garza’s eyes deviated to her lap. She swallowed.

  “Sure.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “My sister called. Melissa. She wanted to wish me luck in Florida. I guess I won’t need that luck anymore.”

  “You’ll be out of here soon, Marianne.”

  Garza’s eyes were glassy. She nodded once without responding.

  “Is that when the man who abducted you came to your house?”

  No response.

  “Marianne?”

  She snapped into focus.

  “Yes, after…after the phone call.”

  “Where were you in the house?”

  “Um, by the stairs, I think. Yes, I was going upstairs and saw the car parked alongside my property.”

  The woman recounted how the man lied about his car, then broke the dining-room window. She didn’t recall much after he drugged her. It was a big vehicle, Garza said. Something old, but she only described its color and shape.

  “Did you get a good look at his face?”

  “No. Only glimpses now-and-then, like at the gas station.”

  Bell noticed Gardy perk up. If the camera caught the abductor, they’d have an additional evidence trail on Logan Wolf.

  “What gas station was it, do you know?”

  “Carter’s, I think.”

  “You sure?”

  “No, but it’s the only station between Pronti and Triphammer Road.”

  “What was the approximate time?”

  Garza’s lips moved in silent thought.

  “It was dark. Before midnight, I guess.”

  “Do you recall what time your sister called?”

  “Yes. Around dusk.”

  “That would be a little after six,” Gardy said.

  He rose from his chair and left the room with his phone. The odds strongly favored Wolf stopped at the gas station after kidnapping Garza.

  Gardy’s voice carried back to them as he told Tyner to send an agent out to Carter’s.

  “How good a look did you get of the kidnapper at the gas station, Marianne?”

  “Not very good.”

  “Do you think you would recognize him from a picture?”

  “Maybe. I’ll try.”

  Bell slid several photographs out of a folder and passed them to Marianne one-at-a-time. The first two photographs were of convicted serial killers unrelated to the case. Garza shook her head at both.

  Bell’s stomach clenched. The next photo was of Logan Wolf.

  When Bell handed Garza the picture of Wolf, Garza studied it for several seconds.

  “It’s not him.”

  Bell leaned forward, eye-to-eye with Garza.

  “Please, look again.”

  Garza dutifully scanned the picture and shook her head.

  “No. That’s not the man who abducted me.”

  “Did you see that man last night?”

  Confused, Garza glanced between the photograph and Bell.

  “No, I’ve never seen him before. Should I have?”

  The energy drained out of Bell. She wanted to drip through the chair and puddle on the floor. Garza studied two more photographs before she stopped on the picture of Hunt. Her fingers trembled.

  “That’s him. That’s the man who kidnapped me.”

  Bell angled the photo toward the light as if doing so would change Hunt into Wolf.

  Gardy was back, the phone pocketed.

  “Tyner sent one of his KC agents to Carter’s. We should have confirmation soon.”

  “Perfect. We’ll have a good picture of Lucas Hunt.”

  “Huh?”

  Bell shook her head and gathered the photographs.

  The ride back to the search site was somber. It had been The Skinner, Lucas Hunt, and not Logan Wolf, who abducted Marianne Garza. As far as either knew, Wolf had nothing to do with the case except he happened to be in town and butchered Hunt. Why? Bell smacked the passenger window with the side of her fist.

  “Hey, now,” Gardy said. “Easy on the rental.”

  “This is a Skinner case, one hundred percent. So what the hell was Wolf doing at his house?”

  Whatever answer Gardy intended, it died on his tongue. They crisscrossed from one farm-to-market road to the next, the land plots looking the same, until they reconvened at Hunt’s residence. Tyner was waiting for them when they arrived, and a K-9 search team fanned out through the countryside. The confidence that had been on Tyner’s face at dawn was long gone. A thumping noise came from the far end of the prairie as a helicopter flew over.

  “You’ll hear it again soon,” Tyner said, walking them toward the back of the property where the old barn stood. “We’ve got a chopper in the air. Thing is, if Wolf was here at all, he’s long gone by now.”

  “Come on, Jerome,” Gardy said, lifting a tree limb so the others could duck under. “Wolf was here. We have the video evidence from the convenience store, plus a man with his throat slashed and a bag over his head.”

  “No murder weapon, no evidence Wolf killed Hunt.”

  “That’s his signature. Don’t pretend it’s not.”

  “It’s his signature, but a grainy photograph and an unsolved murder won’t convince our bosses to throw more bodies at this case. Face it, Gardy. Wolf is gone, and we’ll never know why he came here.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yep.”

  “By the way, where the hell are we going?”

  Tyner glanced over his broad shoulder at Bell.

  “The K-9’s found something while you were interviewing the Garza woman. Brace yourself. You aren’t gonna like it.”

  Gardy looked back at Bell. She plunged her hands into her pockets and trudged through the overgrown grass.

  The day’s last light burned through the missing slats and drew sharp lines across the hay. A hole eight-feet-long by two-feet-deep lay along the ground. A diseased cow roamed the barn’s perimeter.

  But no one was looking at the cow. They all stared at the mountain of blanched human bones.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  A plane buzzed over Hunt’s land and left a trail of smoke. The search crew blossomed as the FBI, sheriff’s department, and police out of Wichita combed the countryside for Logan Wolf. Another helicopter dipped toward the horizon, and Bell realized it wasn’t one of theirs.

  “Looks like the media found out.”

  Bell removed the binoculars from her eyes and entered the barn. A clear sheet of plastic was affixed over the door to keep the wind at bay, but the elements found their way inside through holes in the barn walls.

  She stepped aside for Dr Bartholomew, a heavyset, bearded man who wheezed when he spoke. Acquiring Bartholomew had been a stroke of luck. The Texas State forensic archaeologist was giving a speech in Lawrence when the FBI unearthed the shallow graves.

  He mumbled under his breath about the FBI’s sloppy excavation techniques as he knelt on creaking knees. He held a brush and tweezers. A shovel lay beside him. The doctor chewed the inside of his cheek as he watched a female crime tech named Neander dig around another bone.

  Bending over the hole, Bartholomew used measured stro
kes to sweep a layer of sediment away. Another bone, a femur, glared under the spotlight.

  Five minutes later, he picked the femur out of the soil and placed it on a tarp. Bartholomew clutched his lower back and groaned when he rose. A necropolis of bones covered the tarp, which curled at the corners when the wind blew. A complete skull lay among the human remains.

  “Are they all female?”

  Bartholomew glanced at Bell. He removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses on his shirt collar.

  “No way to be certain without more tests, but the skull is clearly female.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  It took effort for the doctor to kneel again. Bell cringed when his knees popped. Bartholomew used the brush to paint an invisible line across the skull’s forehead.

  “Notice the rounded appearance. A male forehead is less round, and the ridge along the brow is sharper.”

  The doctor moved a finger along his brow as way of demonstration.

  “Also, note the circular shapes to the victim’s eye sockets and how they conclude at sharp points near the top. Again, distinctly female.”

  Bell nodded as he shifted his attention to the femur bone.

  “We can discern the difference with the femur, as well. This particular femur is angled more than one would expect to find in a male, hence my belief it belongs to a female.”

  So much death. Bell’s heart ached as she considered the number of families ripped apart by this maniac. It was clear The Skinner had murdered far more victims than the FBI believed.

  The plastic crinkled as Gardy entered the barn. The defeat was clear from his slumped shoulders and long face.

  Bell glanced up at Gardy, who ran his gaze over the growing pile of bones.

  “Anything?”

  “Nothing. Wolf’s gone.”

  Gardy held a ham-and-cheese sandwich. He offered her half, and she shook her head.

  “No thanks. I can’t eat after looking at all of this.”

  He cocked his head as if to say, more for me, then.

  “There are sandwiches in the truck if you change your mind.” He nodded at the bones. “How many bodies do you estimate we found?”

  Bartholomew struggled back to his feet with labored breath.

  “As far as I can tell, the majority of these bones belonged to different people. I won’t know for sure until I get them back to the lab, but if I had to guess, I’d estimate twenty to twenty-five.”

  A pained sound came from Gardy’s chest. Bell walked toward the back of the barn. A stocky woman was leading the cow to a trailer as Gardy got Bell beyond earshot of the others.

  “I don’t get it, Gardy. Wolf followed me to California, and for all I know he led us here. Obviously, he wants my attention.”

  “And now that he has it, he disappears.”

  “Right.”

  “You think he had anything to do with these bodies?”

  Bell peeked through the stalls. She couldn’t look at the bone pile for more than a few seconds.

  “No. This is The Skinner’s work. No evidence exists that Wolf dismembered and buried his victims.”

  “Doesn’t mean he didn’t.”

  She considered the possibility. Gardy had taken the lead on tracking Logan Wolf to this point, and as much as she respected her partner’s experience and opinion, they were no closer to finding the serial killer.

  “With your permission, I’d like to get more involved with the Wolf case.”

  Gardy picked at a loose chunk of wood on the stall.

  “You’re my partner, and I don’t want you getting too close to Wolf. He’s made it personal.”

  “But Gardy—”

  He straightened his jacket and glanced through the doorway. The day grew late, and the shadows stretched long across The Skinner’s property.

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  A handful of couples sat in booths at Reggie’s Diner as an overworked waitress with curly, red hair hustled from one table to the next. The diner smelled of fried hamburgers and onions, and a country song thumped from the jukebox.

  “Y’all sit where you like,” the waitress said.

  Bell settled into a booth in the back of the diner and peeled off her jacket. The weather had broken, the evening not as cold as last, yet the two-block walk from the hotel had left her chilled. She pulled a menu from behind the napkin dispenser and paged through the choices. The strawberry pancakes looked good, as did the milkshakes. She couldn’t stomach greasy food after the macabre excavation.

  The waitress set a glass of water on the table.

  “I’ll be right back for your order, hon.”

  “Thank you. Take your time.”

  She tore the paper off the straw when Jerome Tyner slid into the seat across the table.

  “This seat taken?”

  “No. It’s all yours.”

  He grinned and picked up a menu.

  “So what looks good tonight?”

  “I’m leaning toward breakfast for dinner.”

  “Hmm. Can’t go wrong with second breakfast.”

  Noticing Bell had company, the waitress dropped another water on the table. Tyner smiled and winked at the waitress, who stopped when she saw the FBI emblem on his windbreaker.

  “FBI? We’ve been watching the news all day. Terrible business, all those bodies.”

  Bell glanced at the television in the corner. She’d purposely avoided the news to this point. Footage of the barn from the helicopter segued to a photograph of Lucas Hunt. The text at the bottom of the screen read, Horror in Kansas: Dozens of bodies discovered.

  The waitress’s lips went tight.

  “I can’t believe one of our own was The Skinner.”

  Tyner rubbed the weariness from his eyes.

  “We never truly know our neighbors.”

  The waitress pushed through a pair of double doors that led into the kitchen. A man at the counter wearing a CAT hat looked in their direction, then lowered his eyes to his food.

  Tyner sipped his water.

  “Just you? I expected to see your rock star partner.”

  “You mean Bon Jovi?”

  Tyner’s laugh was deep and straight from the chest. It attracted a few curious stares.

  “Glad to see the nickname will stick. He’s in your hands now.” When she didn’t share his laugh, Tyner looked at Bell over the top of the glass. “You look like someone kicked you in the gut, Agent Bell.”

  “Long day. Long couple of months, actually.”

  “I followed your work on the Hodge case.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t read it in The Informer.”

  “No, but I confess to grabbing a copy off the newsstand now-and-then.”

  “Intellectual curiosity?”

  “Bathroom reading.”

  “Fitting.”

  He took a second to get her joke, and he laughed again.

  “Seriously, you do good work. Also on the Longo and Meeks cases. Most dangerous LDSK I can remember since the DC snipers, and from what I hear, you took him down single-handedly.”

  “I hardly think that’s accurate. Sounds like something Gavin Hayward would write.”

  “Three cases of national significance closed in a matter of months. You’re going places, Agent Bell. Don’t give me the aw-shucks routine. But something is on your mind. What’s bothering you?”

  She realized she’d been shredding her napkin while Tyner talked. She swept the pieces into her hand before he noticed.

  “It’s our rock star friend.”

  “Gardy?”

  “He’s been in a funk since California. Sullen, negative. When I first joined the BAU and learned I’d be paired with Neil Gardy, I almost quit.” Tyner raised his eyebrows. “It was his reputation. The former golden boy, now senior agent, on the fast track to Deputy Director. After that, the sky would be the limit.”

  Tyner nodded.

  “You were intimidated.”

&nb
sp; “In a sense, yes. How do you live up to the expectations of Neil Gardy? I imagined what working with Gardy would be like. Stuffy, by the book, eyes always on my back.”

  “And none of that turned out to be true.”

  Bell grinned and bit her hand, remembering the laughs they shared.

  “No one is more personable. And he always has this smirk behind his eyes like he’s in on a joke you haven’t gotten yet.”

  “I know that look. And believe me, I was usually the butt of the joke. So what’s the problem?”

  Bell leaned back against the cushioned seat back and let out a breath of air. Her shoulders sagged.

  “The shooting changed him. He doesn’t laugh anymore, or when he does, it seems forced. Like he’s the proverbial third wheel at the party and trying to fit in.”

  Tyner folded his arms, and the gleam in his eyes told Bell he’d been through this before.

  “Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. It’s to be expected. Several inches in either direction and the bullet doesn’t graze his shoulder. It goes straight between the eyes or catches him in the heart or stomach. He got off lucky.”

  “He doesn’t act like he did.”

  Tyner itched at his chin.

  “You know, he probably feels like he isn’t doing his job when a rookie agent saves his life.” Tyner saw Bell’s posture switch to defensive. He held up his hands in placation. “It’s not a man-woman thing. Hell, it’s not even that he views you as a rookie. You’re way too advanced to be labeled as such. This comes down to Gardy second-guessing himself, wondering if the rock star superhero still has it.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “To you and me, it is. But not to Gardy. I hope you never walk in those shoes. I grew up in Brooklyn and used to play hoops with a kid named Irvin Robinson. We all knew we’d watch him on TV someday. NBA finals, running the court with LeBron. Irvin got a full-ride to Seton Hall. First season, he scores twenty per game and gets named to the all-conference rookie team. Then that summer, he’s driving on the GW and a school bus hydroplanes in front of him. Now, Irvin did the right thing. He stayed calm and evaded the wreck. The lady in the next lane slammed her brakes, a big no-no in heavy rain. She went headfirst into the bus. Wasn’t wearing her seatbelt and died on impact.”