by James Glass
He laughed. “Hence the name, sweetheart. Explosive Ordinance Disposal. How may we be of service?”
A smile escaped. I missed his weird sense of humor. “Then when we both returned to the States we started a long-distance relationship. After three years we got married. Then you changed from a caring, sensitive man to this Neanderthal who thought the ideal wife should walk barefoot, clean the house, and pop out a few kids.” I took another sip. “That and you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.”
“Neanderthal. Really. Just because I want my wife to stay home doesn’t make me a chauvinistic pig.”
That’s right, skip over the part where you cheated on me. I rubbed my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Wait. How did you get into my apartment anyway?”
“I have my ways.”
“You do remember I’m a cop.”
He fished a set of keys from a pocket and jangled them. “You never took my key.” He cocked his head, an affectation that made his midnight silky mane feather across one side of his face, highlighting his jaw and cheekbones. Before things went south in our relationship, it made me swoon. But his skin sagged a little under his chin and the lines along his throat were more pronounced. Maybe it was because he was forty. Or maybe the Marines had made him age faster. Either way, it felt comforting knowing his old tricks didn’t work.
Michael removed a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.
“Put those away,” I said. “Now either tell me what you came for or get out. I have to work in the morning.”
His eyes darted from the smokes to me. “Okay, okay. Do you still have a copy of the divorce papers?”
I winced. “What? What are you getting at?”
He moved the fingers of his free hand as if trying to do sign language. “Do. You. Have. A. Copy. Of. The. Divorce—”
“Quit being so obnoxious. Of course I have a copy. Why do you care?”
“Well you missed one of the signature blocks.”
“Whatever.” Condensation ran down my bottle.
“No. Seriously, you missed one.”
“What’s this all about…you’re getting married?”
His face broke into a charming, lazy smile. “Her name’s Fiona and we’re in love. The wedding’s set for February 14.” He hooked a finger at me. “That is if we,” he gestured his index finger from him to me, “are officially divorced.”
Fiona. Sounded similar to Bambi. Tall, blonde hair, blue eyes, and clueless. Instead of telling him my thoughts, I marched toward the bedroom.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To prove you wrong. We are divorced.”
The closet was a mess but the banker’s box with all my personal files was located on the top shelf. As I reached up to pull it down, the Glock 40 in my shoulder holster rubbed along my ribs. The thought of putting two bullets in his head seemed very tempting at the moment.
Michael looked at me through half-closed eyes upon my return. He drained his beer and set it on the countertop. “So did you find it?”
I ignored the question and plopped on a stool next to him and flipped through the pages. Damn it! The air squeezed out of my lungs, rendering me speechless.
Michael laughed. “Found it now.”
My breathing returned. I grabbed one of the pens from a cup at the end of the bar and signed it.
“That won’t work, Rebecca. That’s a copy.” He stood and walked to the door. “I’ll have my lawyer draft a new one up and sent over as soon as possible. And for what it’s worth, I never meant to hurt you. I happened to fall in love with Fiona.”
I followed him to the door. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
His eyebrows furrowed. “What?”
Sam came up and nudged her head against my thigh.
“My key. And don’t let me find you here again.”
After he walked to his car and backed away, I grabbed the leash hanging on a hook on the wall. “C’mon Sam, let’s go for your walk before it starts to rain again.”
Chapter 19
Sunday, 2:30 a.m.
“Ugh!” My cell chirped. Who the hell could be calling at this hour? I snatched the phone from the dresser next to the bed and read the screen. Roanoke PD. The thought of letting it go to voicemail was tempting. But if it was another police department, it probably wasn’t good news.
“Sergeant Watson.”
“Sergeant, this is Detective Beauchamp with the Roanoke Police Department. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for several hours. Anyway, your dispatch transferred me to your cell.”
I used a hand to wipe away the sleep from my eyes. A yawn escaped. It sucked how this job robbed me of sleep.
Moonlight penetrated the blinds of the window next to the bed, casting a soft glow on the comforter.
Beauchamp was speaking. “About four hours ago we were called to a scene. When my partner and I arrived, we discovered a judge who was mutilated, but still alive.”
I sat up, my feet several inches from the floor. Sam walked over and nudged my leg with her cold, wet nose. “Mutilated how?ˮ
“His tongue was cut out and the words ‘Oh let the wickedness of the wicked come to an end; but establish the just; for the righteous God trieth the hearts and reins,’ carved into the wall.”
Beauchamp cleared his throat. “Because of the brutality of the crime scene I suspected we were looking for someone who’s done this before. I entered the information into ViCAP. This led me to you.”
“Do you have someone in custody?”
“No, but we’ve set up checkpoints to all exits of the city. It’s a long shot, but maybe we’ll get lucky and the killer hasn’t been able to clean himself up.”
A collage of thoughts circled in my head. I knew better then to try and make sense of all this, but my mind wouldn’t let go. At random, I snatched one of the thoughts. “Why would the killer attack a judge? I mean he must know we’re close…”
“Close to what? Catching him?”
“Damn it! I can’t believe I didn’t put this together until now. Our three victims were in the Navy. Was the judge?”
Sam gave a sideways glance. I scratched her head.
“He was. Retired several years ago and moved here with his wife.”
“Is the wife okay?”
“Well she’s pretty shaken up. She’s the one who found her husband.” He paused. “There’s one more thing you should know. I think the murderer may be trying to change his signature or maybe he wanted the judge to suffer for the rest of his life.”
“How so?”
“The ER doctor said it appears the killer tried to perform a lobotomy with an ice pick.”
Chapter 20
Sunday, 3:30 a.m.
After hanging up with Detective Beauchamp, I called Francisco and Lieutenant McVay. With a new victim added to the list, we needed to work on finding the identity of our killer and where he might be headed next.
The night sky was a hodgepodge of twinkling lights as the stars watched from above. Wind whipped through my hair as I sped down Interstate 10 in my Jeep. The Jeep Renegade was a gift from my aunties when I graduated high school. It had belonged to my father before he was murdered. Three months later, after I graduated high school, the Twin Towers fell in New York and I joined the Navy.
My cell chirped. “Sergeant Watson.”
“This is Special Agent Carrubba with NCIS. I’m returning your call.”
I thought about asking why he waited until now to call but let it go. After all, it was still the weekend.
“Yes, would you be willing to meet me at the Eugene Falls Police Department? We’re working a case and our suspect might be a Navy veteran who was sent to Leavenworth.”
“You’re talking about The Silencer case?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The newspapers are calling your killer The Silencer. I imagine it’s because he uses twine to sew the victim’s lips shut.”
I squeezed my phone. This was the
first I’d heard about this. As if the public needed anything else to scare them.
“Sergeant, are you there?”
I realized I hadn’t taken a breath. “Yes, I’m here. Can you meet me at the precinct or not, Special Agent Carrubba? I’m headed there now.”
“That would be fine. I’ll be there in about half an hour.”
“I’ll wait for you out front by the flower garden.”
****
Under the glow of the streetlamp stood a man with salt and pepper hair. He leaned against the driver side door of a black Tahoe with government plates. He wore a dark suit. His arms were crossed. When I parked my jeep next to his SUV, he gave a sloppy salute.
“Nice garden.” He opened the back door to the Tahoe and retrieved a briefcase. “I’m sure there’s a story behind it.”
I stepped out of the Jeep. “The old red-brick building was once the original courthouse, now converted into the Eugene Falls Police Department.” We walked across the cobblestone path that led to the front entrance, where a flower garden, beautifully manicured, had been planted on either side of the walkway.
“The garden hides the remains of the old hanging square, where public executions took place. When the state abolished hangings in 1923, they brought in the electric chair. A man by the name of Frank Johnson, convicted of murder, was the first death row inmate executed by ‘Old Sparky’ in 1924.”
Carrubba summoned a faint smile. “Thanks for the history lesson.” I couldn’t tell if he was being facetious or not.
We approached the front door and headed down a narrow hallway. Pictures of fallen officers hung on both walls. Thirty-two men and women had given their lives on the job since 1926.
Carrubba rubbed his chin. “How did the town get its name? I didn’t know Florida had any falls.”
“The town’s named after a man, Eugene Falls. There’s a lot you can research about him at the local library, or online, but here’s the shorthand. Eugene fought for the Confederacy during the Civil War. When the war finally ended, he came home only to discover his entire family had been killed during the war. The wife, three kids, even his dog, or so the story goes. Anyway, he moved here from Virginia afterward and founded the city. I don’t know if you saw it, but there’s a statue erected in the middle of town square.”
We entered the homicide squad room. Every cubicle was empty except for Francisco’s. My partner sat on the edge of his desk in conversation with the lieutenant. Francisco was immaculately dressed in a fitted charcoal gray suit, blue shirt, and yellow tie. The lieutenant wore khaki pants and a green shirt with another one of his loud ties. This one a mishmash of so many colors, I was tempted to squint.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee hung in the air. Since there weren’t any coffee places in town open at this hour, I made a beeline for the pot, Carrubba in tow. I poured some in two cups. I added two sugars and some hazelnut creamer to mine, and we moved toward my desk, next to Francisco’s.
“Gentlemen, this is Special Agent Carrubba from NCIS.” They all shook hands, and then Lieutenant McVay showed me the Sunday paper. “Damn press. I’d be surprised if we don’t get a call from the mayor about this.”
Steam wafted from my cup. I winced after taking a sip. The hot liquid burned my upper lip. Not enough to leave a blister, but hot enough to not take another chance. I set the cup on my desk. “Anything worth mentioning?”
McVay tossed the paper in the trashcan next to the desk. “Nothing we don’t already know. At least they’re not aware of the tongue be—”
I flinched as McVay caught himself. All we needed was for wonder-boy from NCIS to leak this to the press.
Carrubba stepped forward. “The killer ripped out the tongue of his victims?”
Well, the cat was out of the bag now. This could get interesting.
Carrubba picked up the paper. “What’s shared in this room stays here.” He turned to me. “I did some research before I called. You’re a Chief Master at Arms in the Navy Reserves. I’m a retired Master Chief. My word is my bond.”
That made me feel much better. The Chief was the backbone of the Navy. Nothing was more sacred than your word as a Chief.
“Yes,” I said. “The killer cut the tongue out of each victim.”
He pressed his lips together. “With such a high-profile case, you’re going to have a lot of people calling the tip hotline. Some will try to confess.”
I turned to McVay. “Will you give us a few extra bodies to man the hotline? Francisco and I aren’t going to have time to take every call.”
He stared at the front page of the newspaper for a long moment. “Our manpower is short and the mayor is asking for more cutbacks.” He sighed. “But I’ll get a few bodies to man the phones.”
“One more thing.”
He rolled his eyes. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Can they be detectives? It would make it easier to weed out the crazies. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the real killer will call.”
“Sure, why not? Anything else, Your Highness?”
Francisco laughed. “Yes, anything else, Your Highness?”
Carrubba smiled and turned to me. “What is it you need my help with?”
“Our three victims spent time in the Navy. What I’d like for you to do is figure out where they may have crossed paths with each other. Maybe it will connect us to the killer.”
He walked to my desk and took a seat. “Can I use your computer?”
“Yes.” I moved to my workstation, hit the keyboard, and entered the password.
He set his briefcase on the desk, opened it, took out a card reader, and connected it to a port in the tower. He removed an ID card with a small chip imbedded near his picture and inserted it into the reader and looked up at me. “This will allow me access to government databases.”
Several minutes later, he peered over the monitor. “Got something here. Eight years ago, Judge Wiggins, Lee Green, Eric Baxter, and Josh Grogan were assigned to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Seems they were part of Joint Detainee Operations.”
“What did they do there?” McVay asked. His bright tie could have lit up the room if we lost power.
Carrubba sipped some coffee. “The Joint Detainee Operations oversees all the insurgents brought from around the world in our fight against global terrorism. They’re housed in the different compounds down there. It doesn’t say what Judge Wiggins’s role was, but it states here that Baxter and Grogan were interrogators.”
“What about Lee Green?” Francisco asked. “What’s it say about him?”
“He was a defense lawyer.”
Carrubba clicked several more keys. “Ah, I may have something here. I’m not sure how reliable it is because it’s from The Missile, aka the base paper for Guantanamo Bay. Says here six detainees committed suicide. The Commanding Officer of Joint Detainee Operations, Navy Captain William (Fuzz) Williams, stated, ‘It has been confirmed that six detainees killed themselves. There will be an internal investigation into the allegations of misconduct from the guards who provide patrols to ensure this sort of tragedy doesn’t happen again.’”
Carrubba read a litany of unintelligible names. He sipped more coffee. “Williams also said that the Guantanamo detainees were ‘dangerous terrorists who committed atrocities against Americans.’ He claimed there was a myth among the detainees that if there was a mass suicide of six or more who died within the camps, the DOD would be pressured to send the rest of the detainees home.”
I shook my head. “Seems like Mrs. Grogan could be right.”
Carrubba tilted his head sideways. “Right about what?”
“Mrs. Grogan believes one of the detainees who may have been released could be the one who killed her husband. After reading this, I’m inclined to believe her. It places all of our victims together at the same time period. We need to know the names of every detainee who’s been released. More so, we need to find out where they are.”
Chapter 21
12:25 p.m.
Veronica Theriot sat at the conference table at the District Attorney’s office located next to the courthouse. You would think the building would be empty as the legal team for the state spent time at home, the movies, or with family. One thing I’ve learned as a detective is crime never takes a day off. The DA didn’t either.
Folders were strewn across the table. Some were open. A box of pepperoni pizza lay open next to her.
I grabbed a slice of pie and slid into a chair. Steam wafted in the air. “Spared no expense.”
She smiled. “It was the best I could do at the moment. We have a lot of work to do.”
Veronica placed her iPhone between us and hit record.
“Do we really need to do this?”
She pressed the pause button. “We can’t afford to let Lucius walk. I know this may be difficult for you to talk about, but we don’t need any surprises. You know I like to be prepared, and if the defense throws a curveball I need to hit it out of the park.”
“Can’t you prevent my mother from testifying?”
“As a witness added after the trial begins, yes, that’s the way it usually works. But…”
“But what?”
“The judge held a special meeting in his chambers Friday night. Mr. Crane argued his point to the judge about allowing her to testify if needed.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
She interlaced her fingers and propped her chin on the back of her hands. “I’m certain Crane has already vetted your mother for information that will either hurt you as an expert witness or something more.”
“What is it you’re trying to say, Veronica? Out with it.”
“I need to know about what happened the night you killed your father.”
“Stepfather!”
“I’m sorry. Your stepfather. Is there anything your mother could say that might hurt our case?”
“Do you really think Lucius will be found not guilty?”
She wrinkled her forehead and thought about it. “Chances of the jurors returning with a not-guilty verdict are slim. But we need to dot our i’s and cross our t’s. After all, Crane made your former partner look incompetent. If he’s able to do the same with you, well, nothing is certain. Hell, the jury could decide the knife was planted and come back with a not-guilty verdict.”