The Fifth to Die

by J. D. Barker

  Clair’s phone beeped. “Hold on a second. I’ve got another call.”

  Nash watched one of the CSI techs bag a green quilt from the corner of the cage, gently folding it before placing it inside the large evidence bag.

  He had to get out of there.

  He took the stairs back to the kitchen and slowly crossed the room, waiting for Clair to return. When she finally did, he was on the second level, outside the room with the mannequin and all the drawings.

  “Nash?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here.”

  “That was the patrol team taking Upchurch to Metro. He passed out in the back of their car. They’re rerouting to here.”

  “Passed out?”

  “They said he started screaming, tried to reach his head but couldn’t with his hands cuffed behind his back. Banged his head against the door. Next best thing, I guess. They think he had a seizure or something.”

  “Could it be some kind of trick? An attempt to escape?”

  “Doesn’t sound like it, but we’re not taking any chances. I told them not to open the back until they get here. The patrol car with the key you sent over just arrived. I’m on my way down to grab it, see if I can match it to a locker. I’ll ask the officers to stick around and help secure Upchurch. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “Okay, let me know what you find. I’ll stay here until CSI wraps up.” He had entered the small room. Some of the drawings had been bagged, others laid out on the bed, CSI photographing all.

  117

  Clair

  Day 4 • 6:07 p.m.

  Clair followed an orderly off the elevator to the third floor, down the corridor, toward the east end of the building. The woman was talking to her over her shoulder. “This is the only other locker room we have. If that key didn’t fit any of the lockers downstairs, it’s got to be up here.”

  Clair had been all over the hospital, stopping only to visit Kati Quigley (still unconscious) and supervise the unloading of Paul Upchurch. He had been cuffed to a gurney upon arrival at the emergency entrance and brought to a private room with two uniforms stationed outside.

  He wasn’t going anywhere.

  She had been told he was conscious but physically unable to speak, the result of whatever attack he suffered on the way in. The attending physician had been instructed to contact her the moment he uttered anything coherent.

  The orderly stopped at a door at the end of the hall and unlocked it with a key from her ring. The lights came on automatically. She held the door as Clair stepped inside. “Thanks, Sue.”

  “I wish you had two, this would go faster,” Sue said. “Left side is women, right side is men.”

  Lockers lined all the outer walls, with two more rows positioned at the center of the room, benches spaced between. A wall separated the two halves.

  Clair took out her cell phone to try Poole again.

  “That’s not going to work in here,” Sue said. “This whole floor is a dead space because of the radiology equipment down the hall. You’ll either have to go upstairs or down to the first level. They have repeaters down there.”

  Clair frowned and dropped the phone back into her pocket.

  Poole would have to wait.

  Turning to the first row of lockers on her right, she slipped the key into the one at the top right, tried to turn it, then pulled it out and moved on to the next locker. One down, about three million more to go.

  118

  Diary

  The doctor was staring at me.

  Back in his office.

  My knife on the corner of his desk.

  A heavy hand on my shoulder belonging to someone I could not see.

  The doctor leaned in close.

  His breath smelled of onions.

  “Anson?”

  I should take my knife.

  I should forget my plan and take my knife and—

  I screamed.

  I screamed so loud the sound burned at my throat, a thousand razorblades rushing up and out.

  Suppressed time.

  Back in my room.

  On my bed.

  Staring at the ceiling.

  I wanted to leave, but the girl did not cry anymore.

  My plan did not work if she did not cry.

  More days of this.

  More nights of this.

  Why didn’t I take my knife?

  119

  Poole

  Day 4 • 6:38 p.m.

  Frank Poole stepped out of the interview room for the umpteenth time and leaned against the wall in the hallway. If he didn’t think he’d break his hand, he’d probably punch the cinder block.

  “That guy is not gonna talk,” Direnzo said. “I’d offer to take a run at him if I thought it would help, but I’ve seen enough guys like that. You’ve got a double whammy—as a guard, he knows the routine better than most, and he won’t crack. He knows you’re only allowed to push so far.”

  “Did our team find anything at his apartment?”

  The captain shook his head. “The man lives in a shoebox, and I use the term lives loosely. No pictures on the wall, no television, no furniture other than a folding table and chair in the kitchen and a mattress on the bedroom floor. My guys said they caught him packing, but I get the impression he was already packed. I don’t think he ever unpacked. Nola was a temporary stop for him. He got that woman out this morning, his work here is done. He was moving on.”

  “What about Stateville?”

  “Warden Vina has been chasing the Stateville warden all afternoon. No luck yet. The guy is either very busy or ducking his calls.” Direnzo clucked his tongue. “I’ve been at this for going on twenty-five years now. I’m suspicious of everyone, so feel free to completely ignore me, but my gut says that with your boss calling, my boss calling, and who knows who else calling, the Stateville warden is scrambling to clean house internally. Unless someone drops in, I don’t think anyone will hear from him until he’s got his shit together and a nice, plausible story in place for whatever Weidner did over there.”

  Libby McInley.

  Direnzo turned to the one-way window. Weidner’s expression had only tightened in the past few hours, resolved. “Here’s problem number two—he asked for a lawyer more than two hours ago. Even by New Orleans standards, you’re pushing more than one limit there. Technically, neither of us should be talking to him anymore.”

  “You said you called her, right?”

  “Yeah, no answer, though. Straight to voice mail on her cell and office numbers.”

  “How about Jane Doe?”

  “We let her be, just like you asked. She hasn’t left the general vicinity of Werner’s office. The tracker in her ankle monitor has her across the street in an alley. There’s some abandoned buildings over there, not much to look at. She’s waiting for something or someone for sure. New Orleans PD has undercover cars at all the egress points. They’re keeping a safe distance, monitoring all traffic in and out. We’re thinking she’ll cut the monitor off when her ride shows up. She won’t get far.”

  “No sign of Porter?”

  “Nothing yet. Looks like he left her there. Must’ve gone with Werner somewhere and hasn’t come back. Or Werner is inside and taking a page from the Stateville warden and ignoring her phone. No way to know for sure. She lives in an apartment upstairs. She could hole up for days without a reason to come out.”

  When Poole had updated SAIC Hurless, his supervisor had felt Porter busted the woman out and Bishop was coming for her. Most likely they were set to meet in that alley. The lawyer wouldn’t risk an exchange in her office. Outside her office, she could claim some kind of deniability. Poole didn’t understand why she involved herself at all. Why risk her license? Her livelihood? Possibly, even her freedom.

  Of course, all Hurless’s suspicions were based on his theory that Sam Porter was working with Bishop, but that still didn’t feel right to Poole. He tried to believe it, tried to make the theory work, but something didn’t fit.

&
nbsp; Hurless had left strict instructions—watch for Porter, use Bishop’s mother as bait. Monitor the area, close in when Bishop was spotted. Until then, hang back.

  Poole was spinning wheels. He had nothing else. “Can you give me a ride out there?”

  120

  Clair

  Day 4 • 7:13 p.m.

  When Clair slipped the silver key engraved with J.H.S.H. into locker 1812 and turned it, she didn’t expect anything to happen. She expected the key to freeze in place like it had on every other locker she’d tried in the past few hours. She didn’t expect it to turn, and she surely didn’t expect it to unlock.

  “Sue?”

  Her orderly/locker tour guide glanced up from a paperback copy of the latest Nora Roberts novel and pulled the earbuds from her ears. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Who does locker eighteen-twelve belong to?”

  Sue brushed a strand of blond hair from her eyes and began flipping through the folder at her side. She stopped on the third or fourth page and ran a finger down the list. “That is . . . shit.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “Dr. Randal Davies, Oncology. He . . . he died, day before last. The whole hospital is talking about it. Severe stroke, but he was healthy as a horse. His daughter . . .”

  Clair had stopped listening.

  She tugged at the locker door, opened it slowly.

  Inside she found a thick folder, nearly two inches thick. Sitting atop the folder was a bright red apple. A hypodermic needle stuck out from the side.

  Clair pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and slipped them on. “Sue? Can you get my bag? I think it’s still in the admin office.” She would need evidence bags.

  With two fingers, she gingerly removed the apple from the locker and turned it in her hand. The flesh around the needle was slightly discolored, but otherwise the apple showed no sign of age. She carefully set it down on the bench behind her and reached back in for the folder, both hands this time. She removed the bulky folder from the locker and placed it on the bench beside the apple.

  The label read: PAUL EDWARD UPCHURCH.

  Inside the folder she found at least two hundred pages, some fastened to the sides, others loose. Reports, notes, test results, imaging—all dating back nearly a year. At the very top, written in familiar blocky letters, was a note:

  Hello, Detective Norton, or maybe Detective Nash? I imagine one of you. I hope you have been well. Better than others.

  B

  121

  Diary

  I haven’t been writing.

  I’ve lost track of the days.

  Father would be mad.

  Father would be mad indeed.

  It was 3:24 in the afternoon, I knew that much, my internal clock, but I had no idea of the day or how long I had been here now. So much of the same, each sameness blurring into the next.

  When the door to my room clicked with the turn of the lock, I looked up to find Dr. Oglesby standing in the opening.

  “How are you today, Anson?”

  “Fine.”

  The word came out soft and low and seemed to take him by surprise, the first time I had spoken or responded to him in days.

  I sat on the edge of my bed, then stood up, stretching my legs.

  Normally, the doctor smiled when he came for me for our sessions. Today he did not. His eyes darted around my room—my empty lunch tray on the dresser, yesterday’s clothing rumpled in a pile on the chair—the paper clip was tucked under the corner of my mattress and I thought I saw his eyes linger even there for a second, although I was sure to be careful when I placed it, mindful of the camera.

  “Let’s go, Anson.”

  He opened the door wider and gestured for me to go first.

  At the nurses’ station, Nurse Gilman did not smile as we passed; instead, she looked down at some papers on her desk and shuffled them.

  The girl’s door was open.

  I looked inside, hoping to see her propped up on her bed. She was not in the room. There were no sheets on the bed, and the room was completely empty—more so, soulless.

  “Where is she?”

  The doctor put a hand on my shoulder, pressed me forward. “Come along now, Anson.”

  There were two men sitting outside the doctor’s office, both in rumpled suits. They looked up as we approached.

  One of the men stood up. “Is this him?”

  The doctor’s grip on my shoulder tightened, and then he let go. “Detective, this is Anson Bishop. Anson, this is the detective I told you about, Detective Welderman, and his partner, Detective . . . I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”

  The other man stood up, smoothing out his slacks. “Stocks, Ezra Stocks.”

  “Go ahead and turn around, Anson. Put your hands behind your back,” Detective Welderman said.

  I did as I was told.

  Cold steel slipped over my wrists and clicked tight.

  Handcuffs.

  The detective clicked both sides one more time, until they bit into my wrists. “They’re tight.”

  “Yep.”

  I thought about the paper clip under my mattress. I could open the handcuffs with the paper clip.

  “Let’s go.” Welderman again, pushing at my back.

  Detective Stocks led the way past the guard desk, through the metal door that opened with an electronic buzz, then down a series of hallways, an elevator, and finally out the front door. I could hear Dr. Oglesby behind me, talking in a hushed tone with Detective Welderman, but I could not make out the words.

  A white Chevy Malibu waited at the curb, the paint covered in a layer of dirt and grime. Stocks opened the back door.

  I planted my feet firmly on the ground. Welderman pulled up on the handcuffs, causing my arms to rotate painfully at my shoulders. “Keep moving, kid.”

  He pushed me toward the car.

  “Can I speak to the boy for one second? Privately?” Dr. Oglesby said from behind me.

  “Keep it fast.” The grip on my handcuffs dropped away, and both detectives went around to the front of the car. Stocks pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Welderman raised a hand. “No time,” I heard him say.

  The doctor turned me toward him and kneeled on the sidewalk. “I gave you every opportunity to talk to me, Anson, every opportunity. There is nothing else I can do for you.”

  “Where is the girl?” I asked. “Where did she go?”

  “You need to cooperate with these men. You’re young, you can get through this.”

  “I want my knife back.”

  The doctor leaned in close. I thought he was going to hug me. Then came a whisper in my ear: “What knife?”

  The doctor stood up, took a step back from me. “Good luck, Anson. I wish you nothing but the best.”

  He gave the detectives a wave, and both men returned.

  Stocks forced me into the backseat, closing the door with a thud.

  122

  Porter

  Day 4 • 8:01 p.m.

  They made surprisingly good time.

  Porter glanced over on more than one occasion and caught the speedometer deep in the red, though Sarah insisted that her BMW was police-proof.

  As the lights of Chicago came into view, Sarah finally slowed, not because she was worried but because they hit traffic.

  “Take exit 26A,” Jane said. She hadn’t said a word for the entire drive.

  Porter had tried to get her talk early on, prompting her with leading questions from Bishop’s diary—questions about the Carters, Franklin Kirby and Riggs, her husband, even Bishop—but she said nothing, only looked at him with steely eyes or back out the window at the rolling countryside.

  “Chatty Cathy finally speaks,” Sarah said, merging to the right. “Where exactly are we going?”

  “Take exit 26A,” she repeated.

  “26A, check. Then what?”

  She said nothing.

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “Fine, but give me enough warning to get in the right lane so we
don’t get caught in traffic.”

  The city grew near and soon wrapped around them, the tall buildings looming above.

  The air looked cold.

  Snow had fallen recently, every surface covered in a bright white sheen. Porter knew by morning the snow along the highway would take on a dull gray look, black in some spots, but for now it was crisp and white. His jacket was still in the trunk—there had been no need for it in New Orleans. Sarah was still in short sleeves.

  The BMW slowed, and Sarah followed the edge of the off-ramp as it twisted down and below the highway. The plows had been through, but he cautioned her anyway, unsure of how much experience she had driving in these conditions.

  “At the bottom of the ramp, take Independence and follow it south to Hamilton.”

  Porter knew the area. They were heading toward West Garfield and K-town. “This is not a good neighborhood.”

  “We’re not here to sightsee. We’re also late.”

  “It’s two minutes past eight,” Porter told her.

  “Anson was very clear.”

  “I don’t like this,” Sarah said, her eyes on the various men standing at street corners, eyeing them as they drove past.

  South Independence Boulevard made a slight jog to the right, then became North Hamilton Avenue.

  “Make a left on Washington.”

  Sarah did as she was told.

  “There. Pull in there. Pull around back.”

  Porter pressed his head against the window and looked up. “This is the Guyon Hotel, isn’t it? I thought they demoed this place years ago.”

  Jane stared out the window like she’d caught sight of an old friend. “Many people have tried, but she’s a fickle bitch. Just swats the developers away like mosquitoes. The federal government declared it a historic landmark in ’85. She’s not going anywhere.”

  Sarah pulled into the lot at the back and shifted the car into Park. “Now what?”

  “Now, we go inside.”

  “How? It’s boarded up.”