DEAD GONE a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by T. J. Brearton

  Suddenly Tom bent over and clutched the edge of the berm, gagging. He remembered Sasha touching him, pressed against him, her hair dusting over his face.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m alright.” He wiped his mouth. He saw concern on their faces, or disgust. Except for Ward, who wasn’t looking.

  Haylock put his hands on his hips. “Alright,” he said to Blythe, “so, how are we handling this?”

  “Ward and the district medical office — it’s his crime scene. Your CSB on the documentation, processing and evidence recovery. We’ll work alongside you to see what it turns up in relation to the Rookery Bay homicide and take it from there.”

  Haylock nodded, seeming pleased. Tom heard another vehicle pull up in the parking lot, an Everglades County Sheriff’s Office van. The doors opened and the evidence techs got out, gathered up their gear and trotted over.

  “See what it turns up?” Tom muttered.

  He kept seeing her face, her eyes. You smell like him, she’d said. Then she’d invited him to come back to her home.

  Blythe cut Tom a sharp look. “Excuse me, Agent Lange?”

  He was getting his strength back and he felt a swelling wave of anger. “See what it turns up in relation to the Rookery Bay case?” He pointed at Sasha. “This has everything to do with our case, and you know it does.”

  The tech crew climbing down the rocks were giving the cops nervous glances.

  Tom was on a roll, knowing where it was heading, no longer caring. “And we tiptoed around, God forbid we encroach on Coburn’s precious drug op—”

  “That’s enough, Agent Lange,” Blythe said, her face flushed. Her eyes jerked to Haylock, who looked baffled.

  Tom knew how it probably appeared — the new guy was mouthing off, couldn’t handle his shit.

  “A sketch artist. A fucking sketch artist, and there’s red tape . . .”

  “Lange, get out of here,” Blythe said.

  Ward spoke from the edge of the water. “I’d say time of death no more than twelve hours ago.”

  Tom’s head whipped around. He was seeing red now. He started toward Ward, his footing unsteady on the rocks. “And you. What’s with you, huh? This get you off, does it? You like this?”

  Ward just looked at Tom as if he were watching some animal at the zoo. Curious, but detached. Safe.

  Blythe shouted, “Lange. Stand down. Get out of here now.”

  Tom growled at Ward, “What do you think happened to her? Huh? How did she die?”

  Ward’s eyes were dark knots behind his glasses. He looked down and touched a gloved hand to the back of Sasha Clay’s head. When he pulled his hand away, his fingertips were spotted with blood. “You know how I feel about premature determinations, Agent Lange . . .”

  “Yeah. Oh yeah, I do.”

  “. . . but it looks like she sustained damage to the back of the head, and it killed her.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Tom said. He climbed back to the underpass, stumbling along the way. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, and knew Blythe was following behind.

  * * *

  “You’re done, Tom.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, waving his arms. He dimly realized it was the first time Blythe had called him by his first name. They stood a few feet apart in the parking lot by Blythe’s Crown Vic. The heat was stifling.

  “I gave you every chance. I don’t know what you think this is . . .”

  “Drive me back home, please.”

  “I’m not leaving this scene, are you nuts? Seriously, Lange, do you have some . . . oh forget it. You’re just done. You need a fucking shrink.” Blythe turned and walked back to the underpass, her shoes making flat claps on the blacktop. Tom watched her disappear into the shadows beneath the bridge. He could see the shapes of people moving around. He tried not to think about Sasha Clay, but he could practically smell her perfume.

  He turned and steamed across the parking lot to one of the Tin City entrances, enflamed, trembling with emotion. He found the doors locked and pulled on them, rattled them, cursing. He kicked the doors, then kicked them again.

  “Tommy?”

  Tom shielded his eyes to see in the bright morning sun — Blythe had picked him up so quickly he’d left his sunglasses back at the condo. Nick was walking across the lot, coming down from 41.

  “Tommy? What’s going on? I had to park next door at the marina . . . Hey, you alright, bro?”

  “It’s Saturday — you’re working?”

  “Yeah, just on my way in. No rest for the wicked. What’s happening here?”

  Nick looked pretty normal, Tom thought. He wore slacks and a short-sleeve collared shirt that revealed one of his arm tattoos. He had a briefcase and his hair was combed. Tom got up close to his brother. He didn’t smell like alcohol. Tom pulled Nick’s sunglasses off and stared. His eyes were clear.

  “Jesus, Tom,” Nick said, taking his sunglasses back. “What the fuck is it?”

  Nick followed Tom’s gaze beneath the bridge. It was hard to make out, but it looked like half the cops and techs down there were staring back this way, probably talking about Tom’s outburst. “Who’s down there?” Nick asked. “Who is it?”

  “Let’s go into your office.”

  Since Nick had arrived, Tom felt some of the emotion subside. But he was in a fishbowl out here. Even some of the uniformed Naples cops holding the street were watching.

  “Alright,” Nick said. “Alright.”

  Nick got out his keys and opened the wooden doors. Tom followed him in.

  * * *

  It was cool in the mini-mall, the shops dark. Tom followed Nick, trying to calm down, worried he was going to have a full-on nervous breakdown. It wasn’t about the job, or losing it. It was about seeing Sasha dead under the bridge — that was a big part of it. It was Ward, too, it was everything. Tom needed to unload.

  Nick stopped in front of his office and Tom watched pictures of houses scroll by on the monitor as Nick opened the front door. For a moment, one looked familiar, then it was gone.

  Nick’s office was a single room with a bathroom in back.

  “Tommy.” Nick took a seat at his desk. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Tom left out the names, but he filled Nick in from the beginning — a kayak tour guide and her two guests finding the body — up to the trip to Kronos and the lap dance, before Nick interrupted.

  “So who’s under the bridge? Another stripper?”

  “I can’t say, buddy. Sorry.” He realized he was parched. “You got anything to drink in here?”

  Nick gave him a look. “Bit early for that.”

  “No, dumbass. Water.”

  Nick smirked and took a couple bottles of spring water out of his mini-fridge. Tom felt better now that he was with Nick. He became sidetracked for a moment, sipping his water. “Where did you go? I tried you a few times yesterday.”

  Nick looked thoughtful. “I’m sorry, man, I just needed a couple days to get my shit straight. And I had to rent a car.”

  Tom had to admit, Nick did look better. Tom knew about addiction, though. There were ups and downs. Promises went unfulfilled. But he felt — he hoped — that things could be different this time.

  Nick frowned, thinking. “So you think it’s this bouncer guy who did it? To the first one? The main victim?”

  “That’s the obvious choice,” Tom said. “And there’s evidence to build a case against him. He’s tied to both victims — they worked with him at Hush. He’s also tied to this drug network I can’t say too much about.”

  “Does this guy have a record?”

  “Yeah, but they didn’t let me see much because it’s a sensitive op.”

  Nick grimaced. “That’s bullshit. You’re trying to solve a murder.”

  Tom shrugged and guzzled the rest of the water.

  “So it sounds like your partner there, or supervisor, she’s going to be able to wrap this up, pin it on this bouncer guy. I mean, from what you�
�re telling me, it sounds like he’s the bad guy, doesn’t it?”

  Tom played with the empty water bottle for a moment.

  Nick cocked his head. “What?”

  Tom told him about the video footage and the mystery man seen talking to Carrie outside of Hush.

  “I don’t think the guy was the bouncer. For one thing, I’m pretty sure the bouncer stuck his head out of the club seconds before the stranger showed up. This stranger talks to her for almost a full minute, then follows her on her way home. Driving a White Lexus Sport Coupe.”

  “The Lexus is definitely not the bouncer’s?”

  Tom shook his head. “The one thing I could get from Coburn was the make and model of the vehicle registered to the bouncer. It’s a Camaro. I also checked to see if the club owner has a Lexus, and he doesn’t.”

  “Can’t you just find out who owns this Lexus if you can do all that?”

  “You have to do a Boolean search. It takes a little time. Tampa hemmed and hawed about doing it. I should’ve just done it myself. Now . . . shit. I don’t know, maybe they’ll come through.”

  “So then you’ll know.” Nick raised his eyebrows. He looked so youthful in that moment, Tom’s heart stung with nostalgia. Sitting across from him was the kid with big dreams, the natural athlete and born leader Nick had started out as.

  “Maybe I’ll know. Identifying the car and its owner from the warehouse video won’t necessarily prove anything. It could give us opportunity, but we’d still need motive. And it could be stolen, registered to someone else, who knows.”

  Nick shook his head, woeful. The youthful look drained away and he appeared older again, his more seasoned self.

  Tom lowered his voice a little. “So, you’re off the hook with those guys from the track? Free and clear?”

  Nick soberly nodded his head. “Yeah, we’re square. And I’m all done with that.”

  Tom must’ve been smirking because Nick said, “What? Come on, Tommy . . .”

  “Hey, I hope so, Nick. But, you know. It’s a hard road. You might need some help.”

  “Oh spare me the AA bullshit, please. I tried it and it didn’t take. I’m not using, Tommy.”

  Tom believed him. He was happy for his brother, but he felt empty now that the storm of emotion had passed.

  He stood up. “Hey, I know you just got to the office, but would you give me a ride home?”

  Nick didn’t rise, he only looked up at Tom. “Really?”

  Tom felt a flash of the recent anger resurging. “What — I can drive you to Bonita Springs but you can’t—?”

  “Tom, no. Jesus. I’ll fucking drive you home. But you’re just giving up? Just like that?”

  Tom pointed at the door, thinking of Blythe chewing him out in the parking lot. “Nick, my supervisor just told me I was over. I was already on thin ice with her. Now I just puked at a crime scene, yelled at her and the chief medical examiner. They’re right — I’m off my fucking rocker.”

  Nick looked mournful, but he finally got up. “Well, you sound better to me than you’ve sounded in days. But, what do I know? Fine, let’s get you home.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Tom stepped out of the shower and his cell phone was ringing. He winced when he saw the incoming number — it was Turnbull, from the main office.

  “Lange . . .” Turnbull’s voice was thick with disappointment.

  “I know, sir. I’m sorry.”

  Turnbull breathed heavily into the phone, then launched into his spiel about how an agent should conduct themselves, both in the field and in life. He talked about the complexities the FDLE faced when handling investigations that were multi-jurisdictional. But he didn’t fire Tom.

  “The Internal Affairs Bureau will be in touch. I’ve recommended three weeks suspension, with pay.”

  “Thank you, sir. May I ask, who issued the complaint? Ward or Blythe?”

  “I issued it, Tom. Wrap up what you’re working on, contact your rep. I’ll speak to you later.”

  Tom hung up and finished getting dressed, feeling like shit. Part of him thought it would’ve been better to be fired. He had no feel for this, apparently. Here he’d considered himself a stickler for procedure and it turned out he was all emotion. Maybe it was finally time to call Dr. Camden.

  But the phone rang again. Tom didn’t recognize the number.

  “Is this Agent Lange?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Agent Lange, it’s David Albrecht. You left a message — you wanted to talk about Alan Ward?” Albrecht sounded apprehensive. “I almost didn’t call back . . .”

  Tom searched for his notepad. “No, thank you, sir. So glad you called back.” He hurried downstairs and sat at the kitchen table. “You trained Ward as a forensic pathologist after his residency?”

  “That’s right. Is he involved in something?”

  Tom found the question telling. “Well, as you may know, he’s the chief medical examiner here in Everglades County. He’s doing the pathology work on a victim in a murder case investigated by my department. I’m just doing a little background check. There have been some things that . . . well, to be honest, I’m just looking to confirm his credibility.”

  “Oh boy,” Albrecht said.

  “Is there something I should know, Dr. Albrecht?”

  The man hesitated. “Maybe we should meet. Where are you located?”

  “I’m in Naples, sir, just outside the city in Lely.”

  “Okay. I’m in Bonita Springs. Do you have time today?”

  “I do, absolutely. How about right now?”

  “Alright. That’s fine. I’ll give you my address.”

  * * *

  David Albrecht’s lavish home was a few blocks from the beach. There was a widow’s walk which probably had a view of the ocean. Albrecht was a man of about seventy, with silvery hair. He greeted Tom at the front door and took him through the house, which was bright and cheery. Two shaggy Golden Retrievers plodded alongside the men. Albrecht’s wife was in the backyard, sitting by the pool. She smiled as Albrecht introduced her — Winnie — and offered Tom something to eat or drink.

  “I’m fine, thank you, ma’am.”

  She took the dogs inside while Tom and Albrecht sat down at a shaded table tucked up against a rambling wall of bougainvillea. Albrecht had a half-smoked cigar sitting in an ashtray and lit it. He squinted against the smoke and looked at Tom. “Would you like one? They’re Nicaraguan. I don’t bother with the expensive stuff.”

  “Thanks, I’m alright. Mind if I smoke one of these?” He pulled out his cigarettes and Albrecht nodded it was fine.

  “You know about the lawsuit?” Albrecht asked.

  “I read about it. Ward worked for the forensic toxicology lab in Tampa. He didn’t like some of the new tech, is that right? A novel form of DNA test.”

  Albrecht nodded, then got a distant look. “Ward was very meticulous. Very meticulous. That’s the trait of a good pathologist. And Ward is definitely a good pathologist.”

  “What was he like? On a personal level.”

  Albrecht blew out a boll of smoke, his gaze wandering. “He was different, for sure. People expect pathologists to be eccentric, but mainly, they’re not. They’re normal people, just able to stomach things most others can’t, or won’t. But Ward, he really tucked into the work.”

  “Did he have any sort of social life?”

  Albrecht paused a moment, as if reflecting. He eyes seemed to darken. “No. That much I can say for sure. He spent every hour in the lab. I think we talked about women once, just in an offhand way, and he got down in the mouth.”

  “Can you tell me a little more about that? What did you talk about?”

  Albrecht gave Tom a long look. “What did you say this is in regards to? Checking on Ward’s credibility?”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Albrecht, I really can’t say any more than that. I know this is unfair to ask . . . I just need to know your honest opinion of him. You said you talked about women. Please.”<
br />
  Albrecht searched Tom’s eyes, then studied the tip of his cigar. “Well, let me put it this way. When you spend significant time with a person, as I spent with Alan Ward, you get to know them a bit. But Alan was very private. Practically a monk. He hardly ever socialized, almost never drank. But, yes, there was one time, I think it was around the holidays, we were at a party together. He’d had a few drinks and said something. It was hard to tell if he was joking or not. But he alluded to all the cadavers . . . that working with the dead had ruined him.”

  “Ruined him . . . ?”

  Albrecht said nothing, and dragged on the cigar.

  “Do you think he meant spiritually, or something else? Maybe physically? Sexually?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  Tom switched topics. “Can you tell me a little more about this lawsuit?”

  Albrecht’s eyes cleared and he blew out another plume. “Have you heard of ‘low copy number DNA’?”

  “I only know the basics.”

  “It was developed in the UK,” Albrecht said. “What it means is, a profile can be obtained from only a few cells. We’re talking one millionth the size of a grain of sand. Just a few cells of skin or sweat, maybe a tiny drop of blood.”

  Tom thought of the blood found on Carrie’s clothing, then refocused on what Albrecht was saying.

  “The controversy is over whether it’s reliable. There are methodologies to increase sensitivity of detection to enable LCN typing, modifications during the polymerase chain reaction. But when processing a small number of starting templates, exaggerated stochastic sampling effects will occur.”

  Tom opened his mouth to ask for clarification of the medical jargon but Albrecht went on a moment longer. “And you also have to consider the possibility of contamination from a laboratory source. It’s called ‘low copy number’ but actually you’re copying the DNA sample more times, so that’s more room for error. Normal STR typing requires seventy to a hundred and fifty diploid — those are human — cells. LCN typing can be as few as fifteen.”

  Tom tried to make sense of it all. Basically, Albrecht was saying that this type of testing was tricky because it made more copies of smaller DNA samples. From the article Tom had read, it seemed Ward had been against such a method — it didn’t jibe with his meticulousness. And because he hadn’t gone along with it, his superiors had given him a hard time, and forced his resignation. A few months later, Ward had filed a lawsuit.