by Robin Mahle
“We’ve got to get some rest. There’s not much more we can do tonight.” Marshall removed his coat and tossed it over the back of the couch.
“So much for a quiet dinner out,” Katie started. She knew what they were facing, but didn’t want to think about it any longer. She had been a target yet again and, by some miracle, someone made sure Shalot took the fall for Lindsay Brown, but neither knew for sure if Katie was truly safe. There could be others.
The two climbed into their bed and Marshall turned on his side to face her. “I’m so sorry.”
Katie placed her hand over his cheek. “For what?”
“For letting this happen again. I thought we were through with this sort of thing. I thought you were out of danger. And now here we are again, wondering who might want to harm you.”
“Marshall, you can’t control the actions of others. My story was out there for all to see.” She paused for a moment because, of course, this had gotten to her as well. Just when she believed they could live a normal life, away from the morbid interests that had fallen on her, this discovery was frightening and brought back memories she would have preferred to keep buried. “Shalot’s in custody. Shaun Hudson is some scared kid who may be involved in this cult, but I don’t believe for one minute he is anything more threatening than a pawn in someone’s game. And you’re here. I always feel safe with you beside me.” She leaned in to kiss his lips.
“What do you think about Montana?” Marshall started. “Seems like a nice, quiet place.”
Katie parted her lips into a smile. “Sounds good to me.”
18
DETECTIVE GIBBONS APPEARED stunned by the news as he listened to Marshall and Katie fill him in on what they had discovered after he left late last night. “Scarborough’s gonna be here in ten minutes. It should take us about an hour to get to Branson’s place of employment. Have you heard anything from his team as it relates to Shalot?”
Katie pushed back a few loose strands of hair from her face, tucking them behind her ear. It was her own tell that Marshall knew all too well. A nervous habit that meant she was about to put on the front, disguising her true fears. She knew better than to let anyone else see what it was really doing to her. “They know he never attended U-Conn, confirmed it with the university already. In fact, he never finished a four-year college at all. Shalot moved to Colorado five years ago. He had to have hooked up with Branson around that time. Probably met through one of the community websites, which essentially served as recruiting grounds for Branson.”
“But these murders committed by the Highway Hunter, do they think Branson did it?” Gibbons asked.
“No idea,” Marshall replied. “My guess is your little visit with him later this morning should shed some light on that question.”
“Right. I heard that Jameson had stayed in Phoenix a while longer because they thought they’d had a DNA match in their database. I think they’re still waiting on it, but if that’s true, this could all start coming together very quickly.” Gibbons swallowed the last of his coffee and tossed the paper cup into the trash can.
“Agent Scarborough is letting us borrow Jameson today actually, while you and Myers go with him to Oceanside,” Katie said.
“Morning.” Scarborough appeared in the doorway of Marshall’s office. “I see we’re all getting an early start today.”
Katie looked to Agent Scarborough and couldn’t help but smile. It seemed that no matter the situation, there was a common thread among the people in this room. They weren’t cops on patrol who were perhaps faced with more imminent threats every time they pulled someone over for a simple traffic violation. But they still dealt with murderers, abusers, and people who were the embodiment of evil itself. And yet, they came in to work every day as if they were tasked only with crunching numbers or making sales. How they separated their lives from the nefarious minds of those with whom they came in contact remained a mystery. “No rest for the wicked,” Katie replied.
“You ready to go, detective?” Scarborough rested a hand on Gibbons’ shoulder. “Agent Myers is waiting. We’d better get a move on.” He looked to Katie. “Jameson is heading your way now. He knows the drill. Get what you can on Hudson and let’s bring him in. I’ll touch base with you after we’ve had a talk with Branson.”
***
The I-5 was still seeing the effects of the morning rush hour traffic. Nick continued northbound at a much slower pace than he would have preferred. Gibbons, who had obviously become accustomed to the snail’s pace of California commutes, seemed unaffected.
“I don’t know how you people put up with this.” Nick cast a disapproving glance to Gibbons through the rear view mirror. “I thought traffic in Virginia was bad.”
“You work at Quantico?” Gibbons asked.
“Mostly. There and D.C. I live in Woodbridge, which is pretty much in the middle, although it doesn’t seem like I’m home often enough.”
“So you married? Got kids?” Gibbons continued, clearly making an effort to pass the time.
“Nope. Neither,” Scarborough replied, shifting a quick glance to Myers, who was in the passenger seat.
Gibbons seemed to pick up on the exchange and didn’t inquire further. “Me? I got a wife and two boys. Ten and Twelve. They’re a handful.”
“I’ll bet,” Myers replied.
Nick wasn’t particularly good at the small talk. Not that he didn’t like Detective Gibbons. He seemed all right. It was just that he preferred not to get too close to people. The more he knew about them and vice versa, the more potential danger there could be. He wasn’t a paranoid kind of guy; it was just reality. “I think that’s it up ahead.” Nick pointed to a large commercial complex.
“You think this guy is going to talk to us?” Gibbons asked.
“I’m sure he already knows we’ve got Shalot in custody and when he finds out about Hudson, I think he’ll be concerned about his two lemmings, or rather what they might say.” Nick pulled into the parking lot in his silver rental sedan and killed the engine. He turned back to Gibbons, who had one foot out the door. “I think our best approach is to make him aware that we are only interested in Shalot and Hudson. That he’s not the one we’re after. My guess is that he’ll be reluctant to say much in front of his employer. If he’s willing, let’s try to get him outside.” Nick opened the driver’s side door and stepped into the chilly morning air.
Myers stepped out, placing her conservative black-heeled shoe onto the asphalt. As she emerged from the car, she smoothed back her red hair, which she wore in her typical bun, appearing a little apprehensive.
Nick knew this was outside her wheelhouse. She didn’t often interview suspects or persons of interest, as Lewis Branson had been designated at this point in time. Analysis, psychoanalysis, social analysis; these were her specialties. But Jameson, who was well versed in this sort of thing, was needed back at the precinct. So he would have to rely on Gibbons, a homicide cop who was a little rough around the edges, but who could clearly handle himself.
There was a growing concern Nick had for Katie after learning that Shalot worked very hard to get close to her. Up until this point, he hadn’t realized just to what lengths the man had gone to be near her. As far as he was concerned, Shalot wasn’t a threat anymore and, he hadn’t put much thought into anything other than finding the killers who they were sure would take another life and soon.
Marshall, however, had seen it differently. His concern was that there could be someone else, maybe even Branson himself who was looking to get at her. Nick had no basis to argue against him, even if he believed Marshall was just being himself where Katie was concerned.
Nick had witnessed that sort of behavior before, the type displayed so prominently in Shalot. Others who had grown obsessed with a victim, particularly one whose case had reached the level of attention Katie’s had. The media was so good at creating back stories, true or false. They could make one seem like a saint or a sinner with just a few well-placed words, photos, and
video footage. He watched as they all had put Katie on a pedestal last year, admiring her for her strength and resolve to capture the man who had killed young children and tried to end her life as well. She deserved the praise. He knew that better than most, but the attention risked exposing her to people like Shalot.
The three arrived at the front desk of the office and it could not have been more obvious that they were cops.
“Can you tell me if Mr. Lewis Branson is working today?” Nick asked.
The burly-looking man flipped through a binder that lay open on his desk. “Looks like he just came in.” He looked up at Nick. “And you are?”
Nick retrieved his badge. “I just need to ask Mr. Branson a few questions.” He turned and extended his hand towards Gibbons and Myers. “They’re with me as well. We won’t be long.”
The man’s eyes narrowed. Nick thought he might have had reason to be concerned that the federal authorities were at his door, but he only turned away, heading into a back office. It was presumably the office of the gentleman who operated the place.
“Can I help you?”
This was the guy in charge. White-collared shirt, blue tie, navy dress pants. “I’m here to speak with Mr. Branson in connection with an ongoing investigation in San Diego. I, along with Special Agent Myers and Detective Gibbons with San Diego Police, would like to have a quick word with him. Is he available?”
The boss grabbed a radio from the front desk. “Can you send Lewis up here, please? There’re some people that want to talk to him.”
The radio cracked a moment later. “He’s on his way.”
“Please, have a seat. He’ll be right up.” The boss turned back towards his office, but not before casting a curious look at the federal agents.
Lewis Branson emerged from the back of the building, wiping his hands with a paper towel.
Nick thought he looked different from the picture. Less confident. Thinner. Not even remotely like a leader, but maybe that was the point. According to Myers’ research, they didn’t believe in leaders.
“Mr. Lewis Branson?” Nick asked.
Myers and Gibbons rose from their seats.
“I’m FBI Special Agent Scarborough. This is Special Agent Myers and this is Detective Gibbons with San Diego Police.”
“You’ll forgive me for not greeting you properly. I’ve been working on a forklift this morning and, as you can see, grease isn’t easily removed.” Branson turned up his blackened palms. “What’s this about?”
“Mr. Branson.” Nick looked around at the growing number of workers who happened to be in the area. “Would you mind stepping outside with us for a moment? This is a somewhat delicate matter that I’m sure you’d prefer to keep to yourself.”
Branson’s mouth thinned until his lips turned white. “Of course.”
Nick led the way through the front door. A small concrete-formed table with adjoining benches was just a few feet away. As the group sat down, Nick wasted no more time.
“Mr. Branson, are you acquainted with an Edward Shalot or Shaun Hudson? Both live in San Diego.”
Nick watched the man carefully, reading his shifting expression. He was convinced that Branson knew the men, simply by the way his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. It was the look of recognition.
“I think I’ve heard the names, but I can’t recall from where.” Branson’s brow furrowed as though in deep thought on the matter. “Why? Did something happen to them?”
“No. They’re fine,” Nick replied. He didn’t like that Branson made no mention of the fact that Shalot’s name had been in the news. “What do you know about Discordianism, Mr. Branson?”
“I’m sorry?” He paused. “Discordianism?” All color had drained from Branson’s face. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that term.”
“It’s a religion, of sorts. One that seems to have attracted the men I asked you about.” Nick was about to go against his own advice, retrieving the file that contained a picture of Branson at the rally. “You sure you’re not familiar with it?” He slid the photo in front of Branson.
Myers tossed a glance to Gibbons, and then shifted it to Scarborough. But Nick pressed on, ignoring her obvious attempt to get him to reel it in.
“Mr. Branson,” Myers quickly interrupted, “you’re not in any trouble here. We simply want to know if you are acquainted with these gentlemen. One of them is currently in custody in relation to a murder investigation. Perhaps you’ve heard it on the news? A young woman by the name of Lindsay Brown was attacked and killed in her home last week. It appears as though Mr. Shalot was the last one to see her alive.” Myers caught sight of Nick’s disapproving stare. “We would like to know if you are also a part of this group in which he often participated, we thought you could give us some insight that might help our investigation.”
Detective Gibbons wasn’t about to step on the toes of these apparently dueling federal agents and so he decided on another approach. “Mr. Branson, do you come down to San Diego often? Would you be able to provide information as to your whereabouts last Thursday night?”
“I’m sorry; am I being charged with something?”
“Not at all, sir. We’re just ruling people out at this point. There are a lot of people involved in this investigation, Mr. Branson. It really is in your best interest to cooperate fully. If you don’t answer our questions, we’ll have no choice but to request that you come down to my station and make a statement. Now, I’d prefer it if we could avoid that and just get to the heart of the matter right now.” Gibbons eyed the windows lining the front of the building. Several people had positioned themselves in a manner as to get a better look at the happenings outside.
It seemed Branson noticed this as well. He quickly turned back. “Okay. Look. I know them.” He held his hands up preemptively. “I’m sorry I was hesitant before, but I’m sure you can understand how intimidating this is. “Edward Shalot was a part of our small group, yes. But he was always standoffish, never really assimilating to the lifestyle.”
“Lifestyle?” Scarborough asked.
“Yes. It’s a long and complicated story, but Discordianism follows a theory of chaos and with that comes a lifestyle that most people wouldn’t understand. But as I said, Shalot wasn’t like the rest of us.”
“Do you believe he was predisposed to violence?” Myers asked.
“Maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t get to know him very well. Some of the women in our group, well, they didn’t care for him much. Got a little too rough. That’s not really our thing.”
“Mr. Branson, I’m not going to lie to you; we believe there may be people in your organization that might have something to do with the Highway Hunter. I trust you’ve heard the name?” Nick didn’t wait for a reply. “We are confident one of them is Edward Shalot. What we want to know from you is that if you believe anyone else in your group might lean towards the same tendencies as Shalot. Do you understand my question?”
“Yes.” Branson appeared to harden his stance. “You think I’m involved with people who are killers. Does that sum it up?” At this, he was becoming defensive. “We’re not freaks and murderers, you know. We just choose to live differently than the rest of you do.”
“I’m not suggesting…” Nick started.
“Yes, you are. Look, I don’t believe any of my members are capable of murder. Edward Shalot is different and I’ve been working to put distance between us because, frankly, the man is obviously insane. Hell, maybe Shaun Hudson is involved. I don’t know. It’s clear you’ve got reason to suspect that he is. But Agent Scarborough, I can assure you, we do not condone violence and certainly not murder. I can’t explain how Shalot could possibly interpret our faith in such a manner. It’s not what I preach and not what any of my followers believe.”
Nick continued to study Branson’s features, searching for meaning behind his words. “Okay. Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Branson. That’s all we’ve got for now. But if we have any further questions, can we count on y
our help?” Nick asked.
“Of course. Anything you need. I have to get back to work now.” Branson pushed up from the table and headed back inside the building.
Once Branson had disappeared, they returned to the car.
“He’s trying to throw Shalot under the bus. He was nervous, I’ll tell you that much.” Nick turned on the ignition.
“I thought you weren’t going to go on the attack?” Myers asked.
“Didn’t you see the look in his eyes? He was lying. I had to make him aware that I knew he was lying.” Nick’s voice elevated just slightly to make his point. “Dammit. I feel like we’re going in circles here. What do we need to bring this guy in? He’s behind this. Has to be. I’m sure he and Shalot met in Colorado long before any of this started.”
“Even if we can prove that, we’re no closer to finding out who the others involved are. Jameson is still waiting on a positive match from the sample in Phoenix. If that comes back and we’ve got a name, we’ll be able to determine if that person is a part of Branson’s group too. In my opinion, that would be enough to bring Branson in, voluntarily or not,” Myers said.
“Don’t go working yourselves up too much just yet. This isn’t over. I say we drive to the guy’s house and check it out.” Gibbons slouched down in the back seat.
“We can’t do that. We don’t have a warrant,” Nick replied.
“Who said anything about a warrant? I’m just saying we ought to check out his neighborhood. The kind of place he lives in. You know, just have a look around. And if it so happens that the place is unlocked, then so much the better.”
Nick eyed Gibbons through the rear view again. Only this time, a half-cocked smile crossed his face.