The Missing dm-1

by Chris Mooney

  Chapter 57

  At 1300 hours, the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team boarded a private business jet at the Quantico airstrip. They were coming from a debriefing on the Traveler case. This was what they knew:

  In late 1992, nine Hispanic and African American women disappeared in and around Denver, Colorado. The lead suspect in the case, John Smith, had packed up and moved by the time police located his address.

  Smith's home had been thoroughly cleaned, but forensics technicians for the Denver police recovered a partial boot print that matched a footwear impression found in the dirt next to the abandoned vehicle belonging to one of the missing women. An empty trash can sprayed with Luminol revealed a small area of blood. Analysis yielded two different DNA samples.

  The first sample matched the genetic profile of one of the missing Denver women. The DNA profile was entered into CODIS, the FBI's Combined DNA Indexing System.

  The second blood sample was also listed on CODIS, but the identity of the person was not made available to law enforcement agencies or forensic laboratories. The sample belonged to Earl Slavick, a member of the Hand of the Lord, a paramilitary white supremacist group whose ethnic cleansing agenda included the overthrow of the U.S. government. The group, it was believed, had played a role in the Oklahoma City bombing, although no firm link had ever been established.

  Slavick was also a high-level FBI informant.

  Slavick had been given early parole in the beating of a Hispanic woman in exchange for providing the FBI with detailed information of the group's activities at its secluded training headquarters in the Arkansas hills, not far from the Oklahoma border. As a member of the group, Slavick had been undergoing firearms training and bomb making when, in early 1990, he tried to abduct a Hispanic woman at gunpoint. Slavick dragged the woman, Eva Ortiz, into the woods. When Slavick tripped and fell, Ortiz ran away.

  The woman had failed to pick Slavick out of a lineup. He was let go by local police.

  When word of his botched abduction attempt finally reached the FBI, Slavick was already on his way to Colorado, under the alias John Smith, to start his own racial cleansing movement.

  Given the highly sensitive nature of the case, all of Slavick's files were classified. His fingerprints and DNA profile were left on the computer databases. If a match was ever found, the FBI would be alerted to Slavick's whereabouts, while the reporting law enforcement agency or forensic laboratory would only see the code name the FBI had given to the case: Traveler.

  Slavick's next stop after Denver was Las Vegas. Twelve women and three men vanished over a nine-month period. A footwear impression matched the one recovered in Denver.

  When Slavick moved on to Atlanta in 1998, Special Agent Evan Manning was asked to help assist in the investigation of three missing women. Slavick, posing as a gas station attendant, had attacked Manning, who managed to crawl away before passing out. Like his many victims, Slavick vanished into thin air.

  That changed this morning, at 0800, when CODIS matched the blood found at the home of an abducted Massachusetts teenager to the DNA profile of Earl Slavick.

  As the jet lifted off, nobody talked. HRT knew they were flying to Pease Air Force Base in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. From there, a Black Hawk attack helicopter would take them to the command post set up in Lewiston.

  Team commander Colin Cunney took off his headset. He took a few minutes to review his notes before standing up to address his crew.

  'Okay, boys, listen up. The computer-printed map found early this morning was identified by our lab as having come from an online website specifically geared to hikers. Here's where we got lucky. Two weeks ago, the map was accessed by a man living in twelve Cedar Road in Lewiston, New Hampshire. Crisis Management is already on the ground. They did a visual sweep of the house. It's our boy Slavick.'

  'Hopefully he'll stay put this time,' Sammy DiBattista said.

  Nervous laughter echoed inside the cabin.

  'A Black Hawk, courtesy of our friends at the Pease Air Force Base, made a run about an hour ago and got us a few aerial shots of the house,' Cunney said. 'The area's thickly settled with woods, so we can use that to our advantage. There are three buildings: the house, a good-sized garage where he keeps a number of vehicles – so far they've spotted two vans – and a bunker. The entire area is surrounded with fences covered with razor wire, security cameras, infrared trip alarms, you name it.'

  Cunney paused for a moment. He wanted his next point to sink in.

  'Slavick spent a lot of time at the Hand of the Lord's training camp in Arkansas,' he said. 'Not only does he know how to shoot, he's considered somewhat of an explosives expert. You all know he destroyed a hospital with a fertilizer bomb and a homemade plastic explosive stuffed inside a FedEx box took down to the Boston Crime lab. Our man also killed two of our agents with dynamite packed inside a van. Going in, we've got to assume he's rigged some of the buildings.

  'It will be nightfall by the time we arrive. Intel says there are other people on Slavick's property – probably some local weekend warrior assholes he's recruited for his movement. I want to hit him hard and fast. We're not going to have another goddamn firefight, not if I can help it.'

  The ghost of Waco passed through the faces.

  Cunney looked to his two best snipers, Sammy DiBattista and Jim Hagman.

  'Sam, Haggy, you're not to fire until you have the go-ahead from me, understood?'

  Both men nodded. Cunney wasn't worried. He had seen these two men in actual combat and knew their capabilities.

  'We don't know how many women Slavick's got trapped in there with him,' Cunney said. 'We're going in with the assumption they're alive. Rescuing those women is our primary objective. This is a tactical operation. There will be no negotiating.

  'One last thing. This is strictly a home team affair. We don't have to worry about any interference from ATF or the locals. Crisis Management has assembled all the technical and tactical help we need. That's all I have right now. Questions?'

  Sammy DiBattista asked the question on every one's mind: 'What do we do if Slavick decides to engage us?'

  'Simple,' Cunney said. 'We take the son of a bitch down.'

  Chapter 58

  The computers at the Massachusetts DMV were terribly slow. It took over two hours to assemble a twenty-page list of drivers who owned or had owned one of the twelve Aston Martin Lagondas imported into the United States.

  Darby hunted through the sheets of tiny print for recent owners while Banville talked on one of the secured phones inside the surveillance van. More than four hours had passed since the feds had taken over the investigation. During that time, he had assembled a small group of detectives he could trust to handle the investigation discreetly.

  Out of the twelve Lagondas, only eight were still active. The other four had been junked. Darby was in the process of compiling her notes when Banville hung up.

  'Rachel Swanson died of an air embolism,' he said. 'Someone pumped air through her IV line. The feds confiscated it along with the security tapes for ICU.'

  'Wonderful,' Darby said. The feds were certainly covering their tracks.

  'We interviewed the ICU nurses, but nobody remembers anything but the news of the bomb. That's why Traveler bombed the hospital, didn't he? Create all that confusion and fear and the son of a bitch slipped right in.'

  'It was just like 9/11. Everyone is running around, trying to find an exit. Nobody is paying attention to anyone.'

  'Pretty slick.' Banville rubbed his chin. 'I'm still trying to figure out why he just didn't pack up and leave.'

  'Ego, maybe. None of his victims had ever escaped. Or maybe he was afraid Rachel knew too much and he didn't want to take the risk of her talking to us. Let me show you what I have on the car.'

  Darby picked up the sheets where eight names were highlighted. 'The closest states with recent Lagonda owners are Connecticut, Pennsylvania and New York.'

  'Wasn't one of Traveler's victims from Connecticut?'

&
nbsp; Darby nodded. 'Take a look at this name.'

  'Thomas Preston, from New Caanan, Connecticut,' Banville said. 'Owned the vehicle for two years, then sold it a little over two months ago. That Lagonda hasn't been registered yet.'

  'Traveler could be the guy who bought the car. Let's look into Preston first, see how long he's lived in Connecticut, and if he owns a van.'

  Banville reached across the console and grabbed the wall phone.

  'Steve, it's Mat. Take a look at page fifteen. About halfway down the page, you'll see the name Thomas Preston from New Caanan, Connecticut. Find out everything you can about him. I need to know if he owns a van.'

  Twenty minutes later, the phone rang. Banville listened for a moment, then covered the receiver with his hand. 'Preston doesn't have a record. He's fifty-nine, a lawyer, divorced and has lived in his house for the past twenty years. He's never owned a van.'

  Scratch Preston.

  'We need to find out who Preston sold the car to,' Darby said. 'We need to find his name. Ask your man to get Preston's home number – get all of his numbers, business, cell phones, everything. And get the name of his insurance agency.'

  Banville relayed the information and hung up. 'If the buyer is Traveler, and he gave Preston a phony name, there's no way we can track him.'

  'Let's keep our fingers crossed. We're overdue for some luck.'

  'Why did you want the name of his insurance agency?'

  'The safest way to play it is to call and pretend to be someone from his insurance company. The guy's an attorney. You know how these guys act when you try to ask them questions about a criminal case. He'll bury us in legal bullshit and paperwork. It will be a week until he gives us an answer. But if we call and say we're from his insurance agency, he'll give us the info.'

  'I agree.'

  Banville's contact called back ten minutes later.

  'Do you mind if I make the phone call?' Darby didn't want Banville's rough manner to turn away Preston.

  Banville handed her the phone.

  Darby tried the office number first. The secretary said Mr Preston was on another line. Darby had to wait through several minutes of soft elevator music.

  'Tom Preston.'

  'Mr Preston, I'm calling from Sheer Insurance in regards to your Aston Martin Lagonda.'

  'I sold it about two months ago.'

  'Did you turn in the plates?'

  'Of course I did.'

  'According to our records, the DMV says you didn't.'

  Preston went on the defensive. 'I turned in the plates. If there's a problem, take it up with the DMV.'

  'Clearly some mistake has been made. Did you make a copy of the title?'

  'I sure as hell did. I made copies of everything. Goddamn registry, if I ran my practice like they did, I'd be disbarred.'

  'I understand your frustration. Tell you what: Give me the name and address of the person you transferred the title to, and I'll see if I can save you a trip to the registry.'

  'I don't remember his name. The copy of the title's at home. I'll call you first thing tomorrow morning. What's your name again?'

  'Mr Preston, I really need to take care of this matter now. Is there someone you can call at home?'

  'No, I live alone – wait, I mailed him the owner's manual.'

  'Excuse me?'

  'When he came to pick up the car, I didn't have the original owner's manual,' Preston said. 'I couldn't find it. He wanted it and any other documentation I might have, so I told him I'd take a look. He gave me his address and I said I'd mail it to him. I wrote it down in my date book… Here it is. Fifteen Carson Lane in Glen, New Hampshire.'

  'What's the man's name?'

  'Daniel Boyle.'

  Chapter 59

  Banville's detective at the Massachusetts Registry had already coordinated efforts with New Hampshire's Department of Motor Vehicles. According to their computer records, Daniel Boyle had sold his van two days ago but hadn't turned in the plates. There was no information in his registry file about an Aston Martin Lagonda.

  New Hampshire DMV was transmitting Boyle's license picture.

  Coming up on the monitor was the driver's license for Daniel Boyle, a white male, forty-eight years old. Boyle had thick blond hair and a pleasant-looking face with dead green eyes.

  Banville hung up and immediately started dialing another number. 'Boyle had his home number disconnected three days ago.'

  'Looks like he's getting ready to move,' Darby said.

  'He may already be gone. We're trying to see if he has a cell phone. If he does, and if he's carrying it with him and it's turned on, we may be able to track down his location through his cellular signal. I don't have that kind of equipment here. We'll have to use someone from the phone company.'

  Banville was now on the line with the Glen County sheriff's office. Darby watched the GPS monitor. They were heading up 95 North at a fast clip. At their current speed, they would make it to Boyle's address in a little over an hour.

  'The county sheriff, Dick Holloway, left for the day,' Banville said after he hung up. 'Dispatcher's paged him. The woman I talked to knows the area – six or so old homes surrounding a lake. It's pretty isolated, she said. She doesn't remember Daniel Boyle but knew his mother, Cassandra. She lived out there for years until she disappeared.'

  'The dispatcher remembered this?'

  'Glen's a small area, with a tight community. The woman I talked to grew up there. She was surprised to hear Boyle living back home again. She thought the house hadn't been occupied in years.

  'The dispatcher also told me another interesting tidbit,' Banville said. 'Back in the late seventies, Alicia Cross, a neighborhood girl, disappeared. They never found her body. She's going to have someone check the case to see if Boyle was ever a suspect.'

  Darby felt the pieces coming together. 'How long will it take Glen County to mobilize their SWAT unit?'

  'The SWAT members are from different counties,' Banville said. 'Once Holloway makes the call, we're talking an hour or two just to get them together.'

  'What about sending a patrol car out there to see if Boyle's home?'

  'I don't want to run the risk of spooking him. This van is designed to look like a telephone repair truck. We're less than an hour away. I say we head over to Boyle's house and see if he's home. If the Lagonda's parked in his garage, we'll call Holloway and ask for backup.'

  'I don't think we should go with an explosive entry. If Boyle sees a cop on his doorstep, he may decide to go and kill Carol and the other women.'

  'I agree. Washington – he's the man driving us – I'll have him dress up as a phone technician. We have a couple of uniforms in here. His face hasn't been on TV, so Boyle won't recognize him. If Boyle sees a telephone repairman, he'll be more inclined to open the door to us. Once he does, we'll take him down.'

  Chapter 60

  Daniel Boyle had lived most of his life out of suitcases. His army training had taught him to live only with the bare essentials. He didn't have much to pack.

  The original plan was to leave Sunday, after he finished his business in the basement. That changed early this afternoon when Richard sent him a text message: 'Remains found in woods. Leave now.'

  Boyle saw the breaking news report on NECN. Belham police had discovered a set of remains buried in the woods. The report didn't mention how the remains were found, or what had led police to the area. There was no video footage of the area, so he didn't know where, exactly, the remains had been found.

  The women who had disappeared during the summer of eighty-four were buried out in those woods, but the police had never found the bodies. They couldn't find the bodies. The map he had left inside Grady's house had burned away in the fire.

  The police had found a single set of remains. He wondered if they had found the remains of his mother/sister. If they had, if they managed to identify her, then the police would start asking questions, which would lead them here, to New Hampshire.

  Rachel must have told
the police something. But what could she have possibly said? She didn't know anything about the Belham woods or how many women he had buried there. Rachel didn't know his name or where he lived – she certainly didn't know about where he had buried his mother/sister. What could Rachel have told them? Had she found something in his office? In the filing cabinet? The questions kept turning over and over in his mind as he packed the envelopes and laptop.

  The first envelope contained two sets of false IDs – passports, driver's licenses, birth certificates and Social Security cards. The last two held ten grand in case, his seed money to help get him started in another city. After that, he could use his laptop to wire money from the private bank he used in the Caymans.

  Boyle zipped up the suitcase. He didn't know regret or sadness. The emotional concepts were as foreign to him as the terrain on the moon. Still, he would miss this house, his childhood home, with its big rooms and privacy, the magnificent view of the lake from the master bedroom. What he would miss most was the basement.

  Boyle clicked off the bedroom light. There was only one item left to pack.

  He walked into the finished room over the three-car garage. He didn't turn on the lights; he could see fine by the moonlight coming in through the windows and skylight.

  He walked past the walk-in closets still holding his mother's clothes and knelt on the floor next to the window overlooking the driveway. He peeled back the carpet, removed the loose floorboard and grabbed the well-oiled Mossberg shotgun and shells. He had used it only once, to kill his grandparents.

  Boyle glanced out the window, about to stand when he saw someone below him, looking inside his garage.

  It was Banville, the detective from Belham.

  Boyle froze.

  Banville was talking into his jacket. The detective was wearing an earpiece. A surveillance kit. Banville was talking into a vest mike.