Blood of Others

by Rick Mofina

  “But, Lieutenant, this data I have will help us --”

  “Lieutenant, the FBI --”

  “Yes. One second. Ben. Everyone’s going flat-out. We’re all on edge. But we’re close to him. We’re beyond the on-line aspects of the case now. Far beyond it. We’ve got our act together and we’ll go public ASAP before the bad guy goes to work again. So, Ben, please, just do as I ask. Go. I’ll call you.”

  Wyatt had to pass Sydowski’s desk on his way out. He stopped, stuck his face within an inch of Sydowski’s. “I did not leak to Reed. And there was a kid taken hostage when Reggie got shot.”

  “Just keep walking, Wyatt.”

  Thirty seconds later, Gonzales stepped from his office.

  “Everyone, FBI’s just linked Vryke to four, possibly five more homicides.”

  No one said a word.

  “The reason they asked us to delay the news conference is the upside. They’ve locked on to a good address for Vryke. Near Hyattsville, Maryland. They have visual confirmation on him. FBI SWAT and locals will be operational on it within forty-five minutes.”

  Muted cheers and a few high fives rippled through the detail.

  Sydowski looked at Iris Wood’s face smiling at him.

  Almost over.

  SIXTY-TWO

  The widow of the late Professor Milford, who had taught philosophy at the University of Maryland, lived in a sixteen-room brick and frame home on four acres tucked in a wooded section of the Hyattsville area, northeast of Washington, D.C.

  Invisible from public view was the Milford’s stone guest house, hidden deep in the southwest corner of the property, protected by dense stands of maples, azaleas, and oaks. Mrs. Milford rented it to quiet academic types.

  “Like Eugene, who always keeps to himself, never is a bother, travels quite often to computer conferences.”

  That was the information Mike Sergersen, commander of the FBI’s D.C. SWAT team, was digesting, along with blueprints, property plans and other notes, as his unit marshaled with locals at a vacant county warehouse.

  Vryke’s data was still classified. Nothing had been made public yet. Much of the newest information Sergersen was reading had been culled hastily from fresh NCIC, SFPD, Interpol, and RCMP hot sheets being used to prepare Vryke’s fugitive file. He was about to top the ten-most-wanted list becoming the target of the nation’s largest manhunt.

  “…suspect is sought in five homicides in the U.S.A., one in Canada, one in the United Kingdom, one in France, one in Japan. Should be considered extremely dangerous and approached with extreme caution…”

  NCIC I.O., 5346-6-12-02. Vryke had some forty-one aliases, used nine Social Security Numbers. So far they had locked onto twenty-three different addresses, in the Washington, D.C., Baltimore, Virginia area, the majority of which were mail drops, nonexistent or just plain wrong. All of the names were checked against criminal and civil fingerprint databanks. But they had the current United Coast security rental picture and the picture used in the Maryland driver’s license. It ultimately led to the true recent address on the Milford property.

  Just two hours earlier, two FBI Agents in a landscaper’s van arrived at Mrs. Milford’s door, showing their FBI credentials, explaining that they needed Mr. Vryke’s confidential help on an urgent security matter. Could she identify him and confirm if he is on the property? They showed her the rental security camera picture from United Coast.

  “Yes, that’s Eugene. He’s home. His car’s there and I saw him only a short time ago. Doing some yard work.”

  They surprised her by requesting she come with them right away, allowing her to bring her pills.

  The FBI had used a Prince George’s County maintenance crew truck to search for a water power line problem in the lane leading to the guest house, keeping it under surveillance. The tag and vehicle owner registration was valid for Eugene Vryke.

  “Movement in the house. Male fitting the suspect’s description,” surveillance had radioed to Sergersen’s command post.

  As night fell, the cottage spilled light into the thick forested edge of the property. Occasionally, the windows were darkened by the shadow of someone walking inside. The Hyattsville ten-member HEAT team set up an outer perimeter. No registered weapons. No complaint history on the address, Hyattsville police informed Sergersen, as his heavily armed team members moved swiftly and silently, forming the inner perimeter. Birds chirped night-song from treetops while FBI snipers whispered reports through their headsets.

  Sergersen was preparing to “make the call” when an explosion of sound blew from the cottage. Every member on the operation flinched. Loud rock music shattered the serenity. Led Zepplin. Sergersen caught his breath and checked with everyone, as the strains of “Rock and Roll” ripped into the night.

  “When the song ends, I’ll make the call,” he alerted his team.

  From the outer perimeter, the HEAT team wondered if the FBI was deploying the old loud-music strategy. The FBI’s snipers lay in the darkness, the suspect flitting in and out of their crosshairs.

  The song ended. Sergersen placed the call. It was picked up on ring two.

  “Hello.”

  “Sir, this is Mike Sergersen, special agent with the FBI. We’d like to talk to you about an important matter. For your own safety would you exit through the front door with your hands outstretched and palms open please.”

  A long moment of silence passed.

  “Are you drunk, mister?”

  “We’ll sound a siren now.”

  A police siren yelped.

  “Man, I think you got the wrong place.”

  “Sir, please exit the building.”

  “No.”

  “Would you please step outside and we’ll clear everything up.”

  “Screw you. I know my rights.”

  Sergersen whispered a command into his radio. Four tear gas canisters crashed through the windows.

  “What the hell. Hey.” The suspect was coughing. “All right. Man, don’t shoot me.”

  The instant he emerged on the doorstep Sergersen used a bullhorn.

  “Hands high above your head, palms open please.”

  An intense spotlight illuminated the doorway and a squinting white male, about five-nine, 170 pounds, early forties, white T-shirt, jeans. Clean-cut.

  Three agents materialized, handcuffing him.

  A lead agent on Vryke’s file from Baltimore approached him, looking at clear photographs of Vryke on a clipboard, then at the suspect. “May I see your shoe size, please? The agent checked, shaking his head. Size nine. His build is different. No way is this the suspect. The FBI’s SWAT team completed a quick sweep of the cottage. No other occupants. No weapons. A lot of computers.

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Paul Francis. What’s going on?”

  Agents were checking his identification from his wallet, radioing requests of NCIC checks.

  “Eugene Vryke rents this place.”

  “Yes. Where is Mr. Vryke?”

  “What’s this about? He in trouble?”

  “Please answer the question, sir.”

  “Out of town on business.”

  “Where?”

  “I dunno. I think I might want my lawyer.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m getting a divorce and I’m already paying the bastard too much.”

  “What are you doing on this property, Mr. Francis?”

  “I’m a guest. Eugene gave me his keys. He’s letting me use his place and his car because my old lady kicked me out. I met him at a computer science show in Alexandria.”

  Inside the cottage, an agent studied mail spread over the kitchen table. Mostly statements from credit card companies. He unfolded the list of aliases. Nearly all were on the list. Except one new one. The name X’d out in pen, return to sender scrawled on it.

  “Hey,” he said to the Baltimore agent, “Better run this one: Neil Chattersly, CiceroComputrex.”

  Within fifteen minutes a call came ba
ck.

  “Chartered a flight to Seattle. Checked into a hotel in San Francisco. Still there.”

  The Baltimore agent hit the speed-dial button on his cell phone for his office to alert San Francisco.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Olivia heard the hydraulic groan of the flaps adjusting the Chicago jet’s final approach for San Francisco.

  The short visit with her relatives in Oak Park had been wonderful. Her cousin, Heather, had visited from St. Louis with her adorable little boys. Seeing them ignited Olivia’s maternal desires. She could not resist constantly cuddling her “sweet angel nephews.” The family get-together had lifted her aunt’s spirits, inspiring plans for a Thanksgiving reunion at Olivia’s house.

  Her eyes glistened.

  Not long ago, she had been lost. Iris Wood’s tragedy had forced her to examine her own life, to meet others on-line; good people who had encouraged her, like Mr. Caselli had, to jump into life. To risk her heart. She was indebted to them, for now she had Ben. She was so lucky. It all goes to show you that you never know what fate has in store for you.

  The pilot dimmed the cabin lights, and the metropolitan Bay Area glittered below. Olivia hoped Ben had received her message that she was returning on an earlier flight. The airline had tracked her down, alerting her to it. Had she left a Chicago contact number? She wasn’t sure. She shrugged it off as the landing gear doors grumbled open.

  In San Francisco, Wyatt tried to reign in his rage over Sydowski’s accusation and the way he shoved his information aside, refusing to even listen.

  Wyatt’s key stuck in his lock before it worked. He kicked the door closed behind him. The red message light on his answering machine was flashing. One new message.

  “Hi Ben, it’s Liv. I’m rushing to get on my plane at O’Hare. The airline has me returning on an earlier flight. Something about a computer thing with my fare, an early departure. I know you’re busy at work so please don’t worry about picking me up. I’ll take a taxi. So, see ya when I get home.”

  Just as well, Wyatt thought, I don’t want to meet Olivia in this mood. He grabbed a beer, flopped on his sofa to study his copy of the Las Vegas material Reed had given him.

  Maybe he should use it to try tracking this guy? It was genuine data, judging from Sydowski’s reaction. Reed’s computer friend had only got so far, but he didn’t have the arsenal Wyatt had. Nobody did. He glanced at the CDs and disks Gricks had given him. Wyatt knew that if he conducted an unauthorized probe, it would be his job. He tried to make sense of what he knew. The suspect was Eugene Vryke from Maryland, but they had no real résumé on him. So far, the FBI’s Internet people, who had taken over Iris Wood’s system, hadn’t produced any cyber-stuff on anybody. If they had, no one had told Wyatt.

  They had focused on airport rentals from Maryland. Fort Meade was in Maryland, along with several high-level military installations, the area where Gricks said secret research was done on INFERNO.

  Wyatt glanced at the Las Vegas pictures, Carla Purcell’s cryptic e-mail, possibly a direct road into the suspect’s domain. Wyatt had no authority to take it. It would be his job. So what? You’re already serving the time, might as well commit the crime. He fired up his computer, inserted the last of the CD’s Gricks had given him. There were five strategies remaining. The password prompt appeared and Wyatt typed Sleepy, Grumpy, Doc, Dopey.

  His fingers trembled slightly as he began working on the person who had written to Carla Purcell:

  Dear CP:

  I just have to know, if you found the right man, could you forgive him the sins of his past life?

  iamu

  At that moment, in the San Francisco homicide detail, the call to California from the FBI’s Baltimore field office on Eugene Vryke’s alias, Neil Chattersly of CiceroComputrex, set off a turf war between the SFPD and the FBI. It burned with the same intensity as a Fourth of July sparkler before an agreement was reached.

  Vryke was a federal suspect, the information was FBI information. The FBI would take the lead on taking him down.

  Using the name Neil Chattersly, Vryke was registered as a guest at the new SlumberLand, one of the scores of large hotels located along El Camino Real in San Bruno, just south of San Francisco International. Security camera video footage from the midafternoon was compared with the United Coast rental picture to confirm it was Vryke. He had not checked out. Housekeeping quickly confirmed he was absent from the sixth-floor room but his belongings appeared in use. Toothbrush on the bathroom countertop. Computers on the desk. The maid recovered a bathroom glass that the Bureau printed in a mobile evidence van parked in a nearby hangar, which was being used as the San Francisco FBI SWAT team’s command post.

  They moved swiftly, establishing perimeters. The rooms next to Vryke’s, above and below, were seized by the FBI. Agents dressed in SlumberLand staff clothes, or appearing as tourists, worked on the floor, stairways, elevators. Snipers took points in rooms and rooftops of hotels adjacent to the SlumberLand. Jetliners roared overhead, strobe lights and turbines lighting up the night.

  Less than a quarter mile from the SlumberLand, Sydowski and Turgeon joined the small law enforcement army listening and waiting at the FBI command post. The constant thunder of aircraft left the investigators alone with their thoughts. For Sydowski, one of the most chilling aspects emerging from Vryke’s case was the rising number of victims they could now link to him. Since he and Toronto police had submitted their cases to the VICAP and ViCLAS systems, offering the most comprehensive evidentiary details on Vryke’s crimes, program specialists were calling with more matches. The FBI was trying to arrange a multiagency emergency meeting in Quantico.

  The black coffee in Turgeon’s takeout cup rippled with little circles as she read the latest sheet. “Jesus, Walt.”

  The number of women now feared to have been murdered by Eugene Vryke in the U.S. and around the world now stood at twelve.

  In his apartment at his keyboard, Wyatt lost track of time as he attempted to tiptoe his way into the suspect’s system. Bleary-eyed and exhausted he had only three untried strategies remaining of the twenty Gricks had supplied. Nothing was working. Wyatt rubbed his face when his monitor clicked, the screen’s contents vanished into a single pinpoint of light. His system went down.

  “What the hell.”

  In a futile gesture Wyatt unplugged everything, replugged it, restarted, waiting for it all to come up. Instead, a galaxy of alien data blurred across his monitor in a blizzard of static.

  Wyatt looked into his monitor and froze.

  Olivia appeared on his screen, smiling, as if talking to the viewer.

  “May I help you?”

  “I understand you offer forgiveness here?”

  A man’s voice. Was he behind a camera? A hidden camera?

  “Excuse me, I don’t quite --”

  “Cards. Forgiveness cards--”

  The image vanished.

  Olivia.

  Wyatt swallowed, struggling to comprehend. But the store’s closed now. What the hell? He knew Olivia’s e-mail. Her username was livinsf. It can’t be Olivia. With no time to consider ethics, Wyatt got into Olivia’s Internet e-mail system easily. Her last exchange was with iamu. Who was that?

  Is there anyone out there who can truly forgive the sins of a past life? iamu asked.

  I am the one, she had responded.

  Now I have the courage. I’ll never be alone again. Thank you livinsf.

  All the blood drained from Wyatt’s face.

  Oh, Jesus. He’s here. He’s stalking Olivia.

  Wyatt dialed Olivia’s home number. It rang unanswered. She wasn’t yet back from Chicago. Her message. He replayed it. What airline? What time? He played the message.

  “…something about a computer thing with my fare, an early departure…” Again. “…a computer thing...”

  Computer.

  What airline? Did he have time to search? Who would know her flight number? Her family in Chicago. Their names? He didn’t know. Her
aunt. Think. He had no clue. Call the airline. Damn. Start with the big ones. He’d be on hold forever. Wait. Her mother had died, just a few years ago. Wyatt called the San Francisco airport paging service to have Olivia Grant paged, then switched on his high-speed police laptop, logged onto the Star archives. Obits. Entered his credit card. Searched. Grant and Olivia and daughter, and what was her aunt’s first name? Maureen. He submitted his search. Come on. One match. There it is….daughter Olivia and sister Maureen Latzer, husband Randall Latzer, of Oak Park, Illinois. Wyatt called directory, then placed the call on his cell phone, rushing to his car.

  ‘Hello, you’ve reached…”

  Damn. Taking a breath, he left a message and his cell phone number, then drove to Olivia’s house, praying she was home.

  He rang her doorbell. No answer.

  Wyatt walked to the rear, startled by a cat chasing a squirrel near a rear basement window. A motion-detector light switched on, he saw a hairline fracture of glass. Crouching down, he used his penlight to inspect the window. He saw a shoe impression. Wyatt swallowed. He saw the carefully cut glass, saw the loosened bars, tapped at it and it fell in, smashing inside. He studied the impression. It matched Vryke’s Colossal Sports Strider on the case board.

  Jesus! He’s here.

  Wyatt called 911. Went to the rear door, broke the glass and entered with his gun drawn, searching every room and closet of the house, then waited at the front gate for the patrol unit, flashing his star, explaining. They searched again. He called Turgeon’s cell phone.

  “Linda, he’s here. Vryke’s in San Francisco.”

  “We know.”

  “You know?”

  “Listen, Ben. It’s okay. But I can’t really talk now.”

  There was so much background noise. Jets?

  “Just tell me if she’s with you, Linda.”

  “Who?”

  “Olivia. My -- Olivia Grant.”