by Steven James
Maybe Cheyenne could check in with Kurt before he left. I decided to call her, but first I needed to get a cab, so as I headed to the security checkpoint to collect my SIG and my knife, I phoned for a cab and arranged for it to meet me two blocks from the courthouse. Then I punched in Cheyenne’s number.
“Pat,” she answered. “That’s weird, I was just picking up the phone to call you.”
“Did you hear about Kurt and Cheryl?”
A brief silence. “Yeah,” she said. “I hate that this is happening.”
“I thought maybe you could stop by, see him before he leaves.”
“We just spoke in the hall.”
Silence spread between us. It was clear neither of us knew what to say.
At last, Cheyenne took a small breath. “I need to tell you: we found the bodies of Benjamin Rhodes and Adrian Bryant at Bryant’s house.”
Something heavy and dark sank inside of me. “It was the toothpaste, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. They died after scrubbing toxins against their teeth, just like Simona and Pasquino did in the seventh story. And they didn’t just die. You know how 5-MeO-DMT and bufotenin are psychedelic drugs?”
“Yes.” I remembered an excerpt from the research notes in the case files: “Often characterized by hallucinations of bugs crawling across the subject’s body.”
“Based on the smears of blood on the wall”-her voice was strained and somber-“Bryant must have pounded his face against it twenty or thirty times before he died. Rhodes got hold of a knife and… well
…”
She left it at that.
More death. More faces to haunt me. More guilt for what I might have done if only I’d pieced things together faster. “OK, let’s-”
“Wait,” she said. “How did you know John had targeted them?”
“When he called me yesterday he said dusk would arrive like it did in London. This morning Calvin told me he suspected John killed England’s leading Chaucer expert last year in London on May 19th-one year ago, exactly, today.”
“What? You’re kidding me!”
“No, I’ll fill you in later. I’m just saying, that’s what made me think of our Boccaccio expert, Professor Bryant. Last night, I logged into his Internet browser, and it was pretty clear what his sexual preference was. I put that together with John’s pledge to make Boccaccio’s story more politically correct.” I arrived at the security checkpoint, picked up my knife and gun, and headed for the back door of the courthouse. “Then, when you told me Rhodes went to Bryant’s house last night, I remembered they had the same screen saver.”
“The same screen saver?”
“An aquarium-the point is, I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“And the toothpaste?” she asked.
Our exchanges were quicker now and marked with urgency.
“The hypodermic needles and toothpaste tubes at the ranch. John must have been practicing his delivery method. We never had the toothpaste from Elwin’s house checked for bufotoxins, did we?”
“No. I can’t think of any reason we would have.”
“John was probably counting on that.”
“But all those details are a little sketchy, aren’t they?” Her tone had turned the question into its own conclusion. “Even with all that, you still needed to rely on your instincts.”
I hesitated. “I guess so. A little.”
As I waited for her to respond, I thought about Bryant and Rhodes-fatally poisoning themselves simply by brushing their teeth. I would never look at a tube of toothpaste the same way again.
“One more thing,” she said. As she spoke I realized that during our conversation, for the first time since I’d met her, Cheyenne Warren sounded rattled. “I wondered if I should wait until you got here but-well, here it is: John left you a note in Bryant’s medicine cabinet.”
I paused, stared out the window at the razor wire fence encircling the nearby Cook County Jail. “Read it to me.”
A short pause, and then, “‘Agent Bowers, I think we’ll do the last three stories tonight after you’re back in Denver. It’ll make for a great climax. See you soon.-John.’”
Anger. Rage. Building inside me.
“Any word on Calvin?” My tone had become iron.
“No,” she said. “Get back here, Pat. We-”
“I’m on my way.”
I was at the back door when Ralph caught up with me.
He didn’t look like he was bearing good news, although I wasn’t sure how things could get much worse. “Talk with me on the way,”
I said as he jogged toward me. “I need to catch my cab. What’s up?”
We stepped outside. “Assistant Director Wellington just called.”
“Wow. Word travels fast.”
“Yeah, well, she’s always had it in for you. And now…” He let his voice trail off, but I could fill in the words.
“Let me guess. Internal Affairs wants to speak with me?” We crossed West 26th Street toward South Francisco Avenue, where I’d requested for the cab driver to meet me.
“Well, that and you’re released from your current duties in Denver until further notice. And your interim teaching position at Quantico has been put on hold pending a full review.”
Even though his words weren’t a complete surprise, they struck me deeply. Margaret had told me yesterday that she could make my life miserable, but this time I’d helped her along by telling the truth on the stand.
“And,” Ralph added, “she didn’t think the report you submitted last night was ‘adequate in scope and depth.’”
“Of course she didn’t.”
We made it to Francisco. A cab pulled up to the curb about twenty meters away, and we headed toward it.
“So here’s the thing,” he said. “I was gonna tell you the news about the suspension, but unfortunately you’d already left for Chicago when I checked my messages. And since your cell is broken, it took me until ten o’clock tonight before I could reach you at home with the news.”
“Thanks, Ralph. I owe you one.”
“It’s a lot more than that by now.”
“Right.” The cabbie nodded toward me and I opened the door.
“I’ll deal with Margaret and Internal Affairs,” Ralph called to me. “Get things straightened out from this end. Just catch that psycho in Denver.”
“I intend to.”
I climbed into the cab.
So, two things to do: find Calvin and catch John. And I needed to do them both before ten o’clock tonight when I would officially be released from my duties with the FBI.
Denver, Colorado
11:56 a.m. Mountain Time
Amy Lynn Greer parked beside the abandoned warehouse.
The man who’d contacted her earlier in the morning had given her the address, but she didn’t see any other cars. Maybe he hadn’t arrived yet.
Even though she knew that coming here alone was taking a chance, in truth, she was more excited than frightened. This story was worth taking a few chances.
She stepped out of the car.
Since leaving Reggie and Jayson at the house after breakfast, she’d spent the morning driving to locations related to the murder spree: Cherry Creek Reservoir, police headquarters, the Bennett and Nash residences, and so on. At each location she’d taken photos and notes and dictated observations into her handheld voice recorder so she would be able to accurately describe the scenes in her book.
But through it all, her thoughts had been on this rendezvous.
In his email, her contact had told her about an opening in the southwest corner of the chain link fence that surrounded the warehouse, and an unlocked blue door that led into the shipping area. It took her less than a minute to find the broken section of fence.
She slipped through.
Saw the blue door to the building. Went inside.
Thick, dusty air. High windows letting in layered sheets of dirty light.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded thin and small in t
he room.
“I liked your article.” The words came from a shadowy corner on her left.
She didn’t recognize the voice, couldn’t see a face. “Thank you.”
“The profiling elements of it were strong, showed a lot of insight.”
She still couldn’t see who was talking to her, and now, for the first time, she began to question her decision to come here alone. “Step out so I can see you.”
She was surprised when he did.
A handsome man, slightly older than she was, approached her. He explained that he was a profiler, showed her his FBI credentials, and told her his offer.
As he spoke, she could see how much they had in common and how similar their goals were. They spent a few minutes discussing ways they could mutually benefit by collaborating, and then he explained that even though the police weren’t releasing any information to the public until they could contact the family members, the Day Four Killer had struck again that morning. “Two people you know,” he said.
“Who?”
“Benjamin Rhodes and Dr. Adrian Bryant.”
She felt a mixture of grief and surprise, but it was soon overwhelmed by a flush of excitement as she realized her unbelievably good luck: with her close personal connection with the victims-working for one and being the ex-student of the other-she was the perfect person to write the book; almost certainly the only writer who was both personally and professionally qualified.
It would veritably guarantee a contract.
Maybe the profiler knew that.
Maybe that’s why he’d contacted her.
She noticed that he was still waiting for her to respond to the news of the two deaths. “Oh,” she said. “That’s terrible.”
“Yes,” he replied simply. “Now listen, you can’t mention that you have a source at the FBI until the book comes out.”
“Of course not.”
“And don’t post any more articles until I tell you. The timing has to be just right.”
She wasn’t too excited about the stipulation, but at last she agreed.
“We both know this is the story of a lifetime,” he said.
The story of a lifetime.
Yes, yes, it is.
“I want to see any contracts before you sign them.”
She felt a thrill. It was happening. Things were finally coming together for her. “Yes. OK.”
Then, they nailed down the details: he would remain anonymous until the book launch, and then he would resign from the FBI and travel with her to promote the book. She liked the idea. He was cute. Who knows, maybe their friendship could blossom into something more mutually satisfying than just a working relationship?
She took a moment to dutifully remind herself that she was “a happily married woman.” And instead of fantasizing about the cute profiler, she allowed herself a brief reverie thinking about the money and almost certainly the subsequent movie rights for the book.
The franchise would be worth millions.
Yes, especially if the Day Four Killer were able to finish his crime spree and complete all ten stories “I get 55 percent,” her contact said. “And my name on the cover.”
“No.”
“Argue with me and I’ll make it 60.”
“I’m not going to-”
“All right.” He turned to go.
She needed him. Couldn’t lose him. “Wait. We’ll split it down the middle. Fifty each. Plus cover credit.”
He seemed to accept that. “I’ll be in touch.”
“They’re watching me. Someone might find out.”
“Leave that to me.”
“And we won’t be the only ones working on a manuscript.
Promise me you’ll pass along any information about subsequent crimes as soon as you have it so I can keep writing and stay ahead of the pack.”
“I promise. You’ll be the first to know about the next victim.”
He stepped into the shadows.
And then he was gone.
She waited for a few minutes until she heard the warehouse’s door close, then she pulled her digital voice recorder out of her purse and verified that it had recorded the entire conversation.
She would work with the profiler for now, but if she needed to, she would use the audio tape to keep him on a short leash.
Yes, it was happening. The story of a lifetime.
Things were finally coming together.
She immediately emailed three of the literary agencies she’d been in touch with and told them about the qualifications of her coauthor and about her personal connection with the last two victims.
After the emails went through, she left the warehouse to transcribe her conversation with the FBI profiler onto her laptop.
And she realized how much she liked the feeling of being in control.
A feeling she never intended to give up.
No matter what.
97
Tessa Ellis.
Tessa Ellis.
Tessa Bernice Ellis.
On every exam, she’d had to write her name. Her first and last name. And on this stupid chemistry final, her full name.
Tessa Bernice Ellis.
Her mom had complained that the day she found out she was pregnant was the worst day of her life, and then-surprise, surprise-decided to get an abortion.
So here Tessa was: stuck forever with the last name of the woman who hadn’t wanted anything to do with her. Who’d wanted to abort her.
Ellis.
As she thought about her name, it occurred to her that she hadn’t mentioned to Pandora that she’d read the story.
Later.
No big deal.
Just focus on this test.
But as she stared at her chem exam, her thoughts felt soggy and thick, and even though, normally, the finals would have been a total breeze, with everything that was on her mind, she just couldn’t concentrate. Her eyes wandered to the name at the top of the page.
Tessa Bernice Ellis.
As she scribbled down a few more fumbled answers, she realized that if nothing else, if nothing else at all, she at least needed to find out her real name.
But her mom didn’t use last names in the diary. So, how was she supposed to find out Paul’s last name?
Duh, Tessa: she stuck postcards in the diary. Postcards have return addresses.
Yes. It was possible “Two minutes!” her teacher announced. Tessa still had a quarter of the exam to finish.
She waded through the test questions but was still distracted thinking about the diary. She’d already decided that she couldn’t read anything else in that thing, I mean, what if her mom wrote about how much she wished she’d gotten the abortion in the first place?
The hall bell rang. “All right,” her teacher called. “Set down your pencils and place your tests on my desk as you walk out.”
Tessa joined the crowd of kids heading toward the door, turned in her unfinished exam, and went to find Dora in the hall to see if she could look through the diary after school to find her father’s last name.
I figured that the note John had left in Dr. Bryant’s house promising to complete the last three crimes tonight justified breaking a few FAA guidelines. So, despite the regulations prohibiting the use of mobile transmitting devices on commercial flights, I spent the trip to Denver reworking the geographic profile using my computer’s wireless access to the
military’s defense satellite network through FALCON.
We still hadn’t heard from Father Hughes, the priest who’d disappeared on Tuesday. And even though I couldn’t be certain that he’d been abducted, considering the timing and progression of the crime spree, I felt that his disappearance was too much of a coincidence to be unrelated, so I added his home, only two blocks from Rachel’s Cafe, and the location of St. Michael’s Church to the geoprofile. Then, I included the home and work addresses from the last two victims: Benjamin Rhodes and Professor Adrian Bryant, and the route Bryant had driven to the Denver News building.
Using the updated data, I analyzed the distribution and temporal progression of the crimes and discovered that the travel routes of the victims intersected in four geographic regions-near DU, Cherry Hills Mall, a section of downtown, and the neighborhoods surrounding City Park. FALCON told me there was a 58.4 percent chance he lived or worked in one of those four areas.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Most crimes occur at the nexus of opportunity and desire-the offender sees the chance to get away with something and acts. But John was different. With him, everything was premeditated. Everything was carefully planned. In fact, I couldn’t shake the thought that so far we’d only discovered what he wanted us to discover.
As I considered all of this, the advice I’d gleaned from Poe’s fictional detective, C. Auguste Dupin, came to mind: “It is essential for the investigator to understand his opponent’s intellect, training, and aptitude and then respond accordingly.”
That’s what I needed to do. Respond accordingly.
I typed three headings into my document and filled in my notes beneath them.
Physical description
Male, Caucasian, medium build, approximately six feet tall, athletic.
Training
• Drugged or poisoned at least six people. Knows lethal dosages/how to remove a human heart. Medical training? Medical background?
• Subdued Sebastian Taylor. Possible background in martial arts/self-defense?
• Knew how to distribute the hay and boards to most effectively burn down the barn. Diversionary tactics or explosives/ ordnance training? Arsonist?
• Blocked the GPS location for the phones he used to make his calls. Hacker? Military/communications experience? Intellect/Aptitude
• Broke into Taylor’s home and Dr. Bryant’s home.
• Picked the lock to the morgue. Skilled in disabling security systems, picking locks, locating video surveillance cameras, breaking and entering.
• Avoided leaving fingerprints or DNA. Forensically aware.
• Knew the location of Baptist Memorial’s video cameras. Access to blueprints or hospital security?
• Knew to ask for the Rocky Mountain Violent Crimes Task Force and that I was a member.