The Fifth to Die

by J. D. Barker

  Porter studied the building. Sarah was right. Plywood covered every opening from the ground level to the fifth floor. The fifth was out of reach, the fire escapes long ago removed. A chainlink fence also surrounded the structure. Places like this were a haven for gangs and the homeless.

  “As I’ve already pointed out, we’re late. Let me out of this car.”

  123

  Poole

  Day 4 • 8:07 p.m.

  “Are you sure she’s in there?” Poole had been on his share of stakeouts, more than he could count at this point, but his patience had come to an end. He caught himself drumming his fingers on the passenger door while Direnzo flipped through a paperback.

  “I can call in again,” Direnzo said. “But as of fifteen minutes ago, she was in that alley. There’s no other way out. We’ve got movement and vitals. She’s there.”

  Poole had called SAIC Hurless twice since they arrived, and he insisted they only observe, wait for Bishop. Porter wouldn’t bust her out of prison only to leave her in an alley. They were coming back.

  Poole not only believed Hurless was wrong, but he was also beginning to believe Bishop was nowhere near here. Everything about this situation felt wrong. “What does it take to remove one of your monitors?”

  “We went over this back at the prison—can’t be done.”

  “Anything can be done. Tell me again.”

  “Each monitor has a unique key that can’t be copied. If someone cuts it off, we see a continued drop in vitals. There’s an alarm. The key for Jane Doe number 2138 is right where it’s supposed to be. We checked that too.”

  “Does Weidner have access to the keys?”

  “We have her key,” Direnzo said. “There’s only one.”

  Poole cursed himself for not realizing it sooner. “Weidner knows you’d check the key—he’d switch them. He’d swap the key with one you wouldn’t be looking for so nothing would be out of place. That’s what I would do.”

  “You go in that alley and we’re blown. There’s no going back.”

  Poole was already out the door.

  124

  Clair

  Day 4 • 8:08 p.m.

  Clair hung up with Nash.

  He was still at the house.

  She and Kloz had Upchurch’s patient file spread out on a table, searching the text. They found references to everyone currently in the cafeteria, but it didn’t stop there. They found a dozen other names scattered throughout the various documents. She had patrol cars running all over the city picking up anyone mentioned and bringing them back here.

  “Here’s one more,” Kloz said. “Angelique Waltimyer. She’s a nurse in the ER downstairs. Looks like Upchurch came in about a month ago and was held overnight.”

  Clair nodded to Sue behind her. They had recruited the orderly in their roundup efforts. Sue was already on the phone, dialing downstairs.

  “I don’t care if she’s plugging a gunshot wound with her index finger. I want her up here,” Clair said, returning to the folder.

  “This guy has had three surgeries so far, all performed here,” Kloz said. “They might as well install a zipper on his head. They scrape away the tumor and it comes right back. The first one was the size of a golf ball . . . and get this—it grew that big in only a few weeks.”

  “They’re prepping him for another surgery right now,” Clair muttered. “I hope the fucker dies on the table.”

  “I’m not sure how he’s even still alive. They took out so much of his brain, he could be a politician.”

  “Detective?”

  Clair looked up. Dr. Hirsch stood in the open doorway. A balding man of about fifty, with small round glasses and a bright purple tie. “Yes?”

  “Kati Quigley just woke up. Her parents are with her.”

  Clair glanced at Klozowski.

  “Go, I’ve got this,” he said.

  Clair rushed out the door, the doctor behind her. In the elevator, she asked, “Any word on Larissa Biel?”

  Dr. Hirsch scratched at his chin. “Still in surgery. I think she’ll pull through, but repairing this kind of damage can be time-consuming. She’s with Dr. Crandal. He’s a phenomenal surgeon. I know he called for a specialist to look at her throat, specifically her vocal cords. If there’s going to be any permanent damage, it will be speech related. Too early to tell, but we should know soon. I’d expect them to be in there at least another hour.”

  The elevator doors opened. They turned left and followed the hall.

  Kati Quigley was in a private room on the second floor, a uniformed officer stationed outside her door. Clair could see her through the door’s thin observation window. She was sitting up, her hands animated. Her mother and father stood on the left side of her bed. The doctor pulled open the door and ushered Clair inside. Kati and her parents all looked up.

  Kati’s father stepped between Clair and the bed. “Oh no, she needs to rest. She can give a statement once she’s gotten her strength back.” He had been wearing a suit, but his jacket and tie were on one of the chairs in the corner. Kloz said he was a lawyer.

  “It’s fine, Dad. I’m okay. I want to help.”

  Kati’s mother reached down and squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Of course you do, but your father’s right.”

  Clair felt the roadblock going up and wanted to knock these people over and push past them, but instead she counted to five in her head, drew a breath, and forced a smile. “I completely understand, Mr. and Mrs. Quigley, I do. I promise, I won’t take a lot of her time. It’s always best to do this when events are fresh. Dr. Hirsch here will monitor her. If at any time she’s under duress, we’ll stop.”

  “Dammit, Dad. This is important!”

  “Kati!” Her mother glared.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” Kati said. “Please let me talk to her.”

  Her father didn’t move. “You have the monster who did this in custody, right?”

  “We think there were two.”

  “Please, Dad?”

  He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Okay, but only for a minute.”

  “Thank you.” Clair stepped past him and sat on the right side of the bed, opposite Kati’s mother. She took out her cell phone and set it on top of the sheets. She reached out and took Kati’s free hand, the one with the IV in it. “I’m so glad you’re safe. Do you mind if I record this?”

  “No. It’s okay.”

  “Please tell me everything you remember. Start from the beginning and take your time. Sometimes the smallest of details can be the most important.”

  Kati nodded. Her face crinkled and she sneezed.

  “Bless you,” Mrs. Quigley said.

  Clair handed Kati a tissue from the bedside table.

  The girl dabbed at her watering eyes.

  125

  Poole

  Day 4 • 8:08 p.m.

  Poole rounded the corner, and a dozen eyes were upon him from within the alley, frozen stares. A woman of about fifty with colored beads in her tangled gray hair stepped aside and pressed against the wall of the building at her back. With her foot, she tugged a cardboard box to her side.

  Poole raised his badge. She turned and nodded toward the back of the alley.

  The alley was about eight feet wide and thirty deep, lined with large cardboard boxes and makeshift tents constructed of anything from sheets to garbage bags held together with duct tape. The air stank of piss and rotten food.

  She nodded again.

  Poole followed her gaze.

  A refrigerator box along the wall at the left about twenty feet in.

  The people in the alley began to move away from it, spreading out in all directions. Three ran past him and out the front. Poole heard officers grab them at the sidewalk.

  He approached the refrigerator box with his hand on the butt of his gun. When only a few feet away, he kicked at the side. “I’m Special Agent Frank Poole with the FBI. I need you to come out of there.”

  A hand poked out the opening at
the opposite end, then another.

  Poole watched as a man in a filthy blue shirt and jeans shuffled out. “Don’t shoot.”

  Direnzo came up behind Poole, his weapon drawn. “Shit.”

  The homeless man had an ankle monitor on his leg.

  Poole spun past Direnzo. “Werner’s office! Now!”

  126

  Porter

  Day 4 • 8:09 p.m.

  “Pop the trunk,” Porter said.

  They had parked just outside the fence at the rear corner of the hotel.

  Porter was first out of the car. He rounded the back and grabbed his coat as well as Sarah’s. After the warmth of New Orleans, it felt like he was stepping out into a bucket of ice. He handed Sarah’s coat to her as she exited the car, then opened the back door and helped their passenger to her feet. He draped his coat over her shoulders.

  “Aren’t you the gentleman,” she said.

  Porter didn’t care whether or not she was cold. He wanted to further restrict the use of her hands. Although still handcuffed, he didn’t trust her in the slightest. “How are we getting in?”

  “Oh, I think you already know.” She ducked through a break in the chainlink fence and started across the parking lot toward the back of the building with Sarah chasing after her.

  Porter understood then. He ran back around to the passenger side and opened the glove box. He tore open the plastic bag with the chain containing the locket and key.

  His eyes fell on the second bag with the knife.

  He tore that bag open too, dropping both into his pocket before closing the door, and ran after the two women.

  Without plows to attend to the grounds, the snow surrounding the Guyon Hotel had climbed to staggering heights. The wind drove it against the building and swept drifts up to nearly the second floor along the back and sides. The white powder swirled loosely at the surface, a fine mist over a lake of white.

  Porter quickly realized there were three sets of tracks in the snow ahead of him. From Sarah, Bishop’s mother, and another. Bishop was already here, most likely alone. His tracks had already begun to fill back in. A few hours, and they would be gone altogether.

  He caught up with the women at a heavy metal door in a small brick alcove beside a loading dock.

  Sarah stood off to the side, glaring at the other woman.

  Bishop’s mother was humming “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” behind a Cheshire cat grin.

  She nodded at the deadbolt. “Chop chop, Detective.”

  Porter frowned at her, then shoved a hand into his pocket and retrieved the chain with Libby’s locket and key.

  His hand was shaking when he fumbled it into the lock. He wanted to blame that on the cold.

  The key turned smoothly. Someone had recently oiled the lock. The deadbolt slid back with a clunk. Porter tugged the door open and gestured the women inside, pulling it shut behind him, the icy wind arguing with a howl.

  Sarah pulled out her cell phone and activated the flashlight.

  They were standing in a kitchen. Or, more appropriately, what used to be a kitchen.

  Most of the appliances had been stripped away long ago along with many of the industrial stainless steel tables. All that remained was the unwanted clutter. The ceiling had given way in various places, adding chunks of plaster and rotten boards to the mix.

  “What a hellhole,” Sarah said, sweeping the light across the room.

  Porter stepped deeper into the room, avoiding the mess on the floor. “Where’s Bishop?”

  “This way.” Jane Doe shuffled forward, her ankles still in restraints.

  Porter and Sarah followed her past a series of rusted-out stoves and some old wooden crates stacked floor to ceiling on the left.

  A set of swinging double doors with round windows at eye level had once separated the kitchen from the lobby, but now one door was lying flat on the floor and the other held to the wall at a precarious angle from the remaining hinge. Candles flickered from the other side of the opening.

  They stepped through into the lobby, coming out behind a counter overlooking the once grand space. A popcorn machine, now old and filled with spiderwebs, stood in the far corner.

  “A medium-size buttered popcorn contains more fat than a breakfast of bacon and eggs, a Big Mac and fries, and a steak dinner combined,” Bishop said from somewhere in the room. “Maybe that’s why we never ate popcorn at the Bishop house, right, Mother?”

  Porter peered out into the dark, at the shadows dancing against the walls and ceiling to some unheard song.

  “Over here, Sam. You’ll need to give your eyes a little time to adjust.”

  A bell dinged, and Porter swung around toward the front door, which was all boarded up. Bishop stood beside the large door, next to the bellhops’ station. There was a gun in his hand, but the barrel pointed toward the floor. It looked like a .38. His hair was longer than the last time Porter had seen him, the scruff of a beard covering his face. Porter had expected a disguise of some sort, possibly dyed hair, but no—this was the Bishop he knew, the man who haunted him.

  Porter took a few steps forward, putting himself between Bishop and Sarah. “You never struck me as the gun type.”

  “This?” Bishop raised it and smiled, waved the gun about. “Desperate times.”

  Bishop peered past Porter. “Hello, Mother. How have you been?”

  Before she could answer, Porter took another step forward. “Where’s the bomb, Bishop? You said if I got her here, if I brought her to you, you’d tell me where you planted it. You said you’d release the girls too.”

  “I did say that, didn’t I?” He scratched at the side of his head with the stubby barrel of the .38. “I do believe I gave you a timetable too, didn’t I? You’re late, Sam, woefully late. It’s never polite to keep someone waiting, but under the current circumstances, tardiness can be downright deadly. I always pegged you as Mr. Punctual.”

  Porter felt the weight of the knife in his pocket pressing against his leg.

  “We got here as fast as we could,” Sarah said from behind him.

  Bishop dropped the gun and paced in a circle around the bellhop station. “I suppose you did. That was quite a drive, wasn’t it? A bit presumptuous of me to make this so difficult for you, for all of you.” He leaned back, the old wood frame groaning under his weight. “You can relax, nobody has died, not yet. There’s always time for that. Unfortunately, your lateness does cut into the time we get to spend together. I had hoped we would have a chance to talk, to discuss everything you’ve seen in the past few days, but now, now I’m afraid we simply can’t. Not to the extent such a conversation deserves, anyway. That bomb is still tick, tick, ticking away. Our Boy Scout here would like to see to that. I think we all have pressing matters to attend to.”

  Bishop took a few steps forward, the .38 at his side. “You could have removed her shackles, Sam. They’re a little barbaric, don’t you think?”

  His mother shuffled forward, closer to him. “It’s good to see you, Anson. So good.”

  Bishop smiled. “You remember this place, don’t you? So many fond memories for you, I’m sure.” He turned and looked up at the ornate ceiling, his eyes drifting over the crumbling millwork and intricate patterns above. “There are ghosts in these walls, Sam. Can you hear them screaming? I can, like it was yesterday—Libby loudest of all.”

  Porter reached over and grabbed the woman at his side by her hair. He pulled her close, the sound of her chains jangling beneath his coat. With his free hand, he snatched the knife from his pocket, flicked open the blade, and pressed the sharp steel against her pale, exposed throat. “This is the last time I am going to ask, you crazy shit. Where is the bomb? Where are the girls?”

  Bishop smiled and raised the gun. “Thanks for bringing my knife, Sam. Maybe we can swap for the gun when we’re done here? I like that knife.”

  He started across the room, the barrel growing larger with each step.

  The woman pushed back against Sam. “We’re
even now, Anson. I can’t run anymore. I did everything you asked of me. Everything.”

  “Yeah? Almost,” Bishop said.

  The .38 went off with an explosion loud enough to rattle what remained of the windows.

  Sarah screamed.

  Jane Doe’s head jerked into Sam’s chest.

  “Now, maybe,” Bishop said. “Yeah, now I think we’re even.”

  127

  Poole

  Day 4 • 8:09 p.m.

  “It’s that one!” Direnzo shouted. “The shotgun with the green and white trim!”

  Poole darted across the street, the alley at his back. A taxi screeched to a stop, fishtailing. The driver shouted something, but Poole couldn’t make out what he said, wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  Werner’s office was dark.

  He peered through one of the windows and saw the dim outline of a deserted desk and some chairs at the back of the room.

  No movement.

  At the door, he pounded with his fist. “Sarah Werner. I’m Special Agent Frank Poole with the FBI. I need you to open this door!”

  No response from inside.

  He shuffled back onto the small porch and tried to see through one of the second-floor windows. Too dark.

  Poole returned to the door, tried the knob.

  Locked.

  “Sarah Werner!”

  He pounded again.

  Nothing.

  Poole pulled the Glock from his shoulder holster and used the butt to break one of the door’s windowpanes. He reached through, mindful of the glass, and twisted the deadbolt.

  He opened the door and stepped inside, his free hand groping the wall until he found the light switch and flicked it on.

  “Sarah? Sam? I’m coming in! If you’re in here, I need you to come downstairs with your hands above your head.”

  From above, the floor groaned. The barrel of his gun instinctively pointed toward the sound. Poole couldn’t be sure if it was the result of someone moving upstairs or one of the many sounds made by old buildings as they sagged and settled slowly into the dirt.