“Sir—”
“I’m about to shower, since you woke me. Can I have ten minutes?”
“Did you find out about the other two victims? If they were veterans?”
“No. I sent an alert to headquarters about the possible connection.”
“I’m going to follow up on that. Maybe there is another connection—”
“That they were all AWOL?” he guessed what she’d been thinking. “Let me know.” He hung up.
Texas was two hours ahead of California, but it wasn’t even seven a.m. there. Still, she called and left a message for the detective in charge of the Duane Johnson homicide. She did the same thing for the Dennis Perry homicide in Las Vegas. Then she called Matt.
“I need—”
“Good morning to you, too, Meg.”
“Sorry, I—”
“I know. I’ve had an earful from CSU. I got you a temporary restraining order, but I don’t expect it to hold up. It’ll just delay them, and probably not for long.”
“Enough time for me to convince them that they don’t want to take our victim and evidence.”
“Good luck. I’m not holding my breath.” He hung up.
Megan appreciated the legal system. Laws were there for a reason. Even military laws. But she wanted to solve a murder. Find a killer, build a case, and hand it over to the U.S. attorney for prosecution. She wanted to punish the bad guys. She only wished she was better versed in such situations like dealing with CID, but she would wing it. After all, they were on the same side.
When she pulled up in front of the morgue, there were two army jeeps and a black sedan with military plates. A soldier in uniform stood sentry. She drove around back and saw the crime scene unit’s van. An ambulance was bringing in two corpses from a local hospital for processing when Megan walked in. She didn’t see Simone, but heard her voice echoing in the sterile building. Megan cringed. She flashed her badge though the intake pathologist didn’t pay much attention, or so Megan thought. She started walking toward the voice when the gal behind the desk snapped “Grab some booties,” and pointed to a box on the wall.
“Thanks.” Megan slid them on her flats and continued to walk toward the voice.
“What about ‘restraining order’ do you not understand?” Simone said, hands on her hips, as Megan rounded the corner into the cold storage room. Rows of bodies on steel gurneys, most of them covered with sheets with only their feet showing, lined the huge refrigerator.
Megan was surprised to see that Matt had beat her to the morgue. She nodded to her brother, and to the pathologist who was standing next to Simone.
All eyes went to her. Megan quickly assessed the situation and realized that she was likely the ranking opposition, for lack of a better word. She extended her hand to the man in the suit—military lawyer, she pegged. “Hello, I’m Supervisory Special Agent Megan Elliott with the FBI. I think we can work something out where we all get what we want.”
The lawyer said, “Lieutenant Paul Stork. Your victim is our primary suspect in an attempted murder case. Private First Class Price has been AWOL for five years. And, as I was explaining to the district attorney, section—”
Megan cut him off. “I understand, Lieutenant. And I respect your need to investigate your own crimes. May I suggest that we find common ground so we—”
Stork interrupted. “There is no common ground, Agent Elliott.”
Megan appealed to his sense of justice. “Price was the victim of a serial murderer who has killed two other men—in Texas and Nevada. The evidence is crucial not only to this investigation, but to those investigations. We need to make the link—”
Stork put his hand up. Megan realized the gesture was the same one she often used when she wanted someone to stop talking, and it irritated her intensely. She vowed she wouldn’t do it again, and planned on apologizing to her ex-husband at her first opportunity.
“Agent Elliott, if there is any evidence pertinent to the Sacramento Police Department’s investigation into this homicide, my office will forward it to”—he looked at his notepad—”Detective John Black.”
“I think we can do better than that,” Megan said.
Stork’s phone rang. He answered it without excusing himself. He listened, then said, “Thank you,” and hung up.
“If—”
He put his hand up again and Megan wanted to slap it back down. Stork motioned for the two soldiers standing sentry over Price’s body to move him out.
“That was the DOD,” Stork said. “I have confirmed authority to take over this investigation. The FBI does not have jurisdiction in this matter, as I’m sure both you and the district attorney are aware.” He turned to Si-mone, who was red-faced. The pathologist had a hand on her shoulder, his knuckles white as he restrained her as subtly as possible.
“Ms. Charles, I have sent over a team to collect the evidence stored at the Sacramento Police Department. If you make this difficult, I’ll have you taken into custody for obstruction of justice.” He said to the pathologist, “Mr. Ward, if you would please retrieve all clothing, evidence, and material you removed from Private First Class Price’s body, post haste.”
Post haste? Who spoke that way?
“It’s logged in with—” Ward began.
“Please bring it to me. I have a busy day ahead and need to arrange transport of the body to our facilities.”
Ward didn’t bat an eye and left the room.
“Nice try, Mr. Elliott,” Stork said. “I assume you were trying to help your wife out, but you should have known better.”
“Sister,” Megan and Matt said simultaneously.
Matt added, “This is still my county, and that man, AWOL or not, was murdered in my jurisdiction. I will likely be prosecuting his killer at some point—before or after you. I hope you’ll consider that when you process the evidence and ensure that Ms. Charles and Detective Black have a copy of all your records and files.”
“We’ll provide what we can,” Stork said, noncommittally.
“You jumped on this real quick,” Megan said. “We’ve had the case for less than twenty-four hours.”
“Your office contacted the army,” Stork said.
“Excuse me?” Then Megan remembered. “When we were confirming his identity and seeking next-of-kin records.” Dammit, her diligence got her case yanked.
“The CID still moved faster than I’ve ever seen the army move,” Matt said. “Who’s Price’s victim? A general?” Megan noted the sarcasm in her brother’s voice.
“Price is wanted for the attempted murder of his commanding officer.”
Ward walked back in and handed a sealed box to the soldier Stork indicated.
“Thank you, Mr. Ward. You have been very helpful.” He nodded to them, then motioned for the soldiers to leave with him. “Have a nice day.”
Simone didn’t restrain her scream of frustration as Stork left with their victim. “Asshole!”
Matt said, “I know Stork’s type. He can make your life hell if he wants to.”
“I’ve never been in the military,” she snapped. “I don’t take orders well.”
Matt turned to the pathologist. “Good to see you again, Phineas. Have you met my sister, Megan Elliott?”
“I have now.” He shook her hand.
“I can’t believe we’re just standing around here doing nothing!” Simone said. “That’s my body they’re taking. You can kiss any prosecution good-bye.”
“Don’t take it out on the D.A.,” Phineas Ward said. “He delayed them long enough.”
“What does that mean?” Megan asked.
Ward shrugged. “When we process the body, we take certain samples. I forgot that I’d put the vials in the lab, and the lab director is already processing them.”
Simone wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “You’re wonderful.”
“It still won’t help with a prosecution,” Matt said. “Without physical evidence for the defense to test independently, most judges wil
l throw it out.”
“But it can help with victimology,” Megan said, admiring Phineas Ward’s foresight. “Was Price on drugs? Drunk? Did he have any illnesses? Did the killer drug him in any way? There’s a connection between Price and the other two victims, and this is one way, albeit small, that we can try to figure it out.”
“Exactly,” Simone said. “And,” she added smugly, “the security tapes didn’t come in yesterday. I’m supposed to get them at nine a.m., and the damn CID will already be back on their base or in Hell or wherever they’re going.”
Megan turned to Ward. “Did you inspect the body? Did you see anything strange?”
“Other than collecting blood and hair samples, I only performed a visual examination, weighed, and measured him. Six feet tall, one hundred seventy pounds, forty-five to fifty years of age. I don’t have a positive I.D. on him, other than the identification on his person. But I collected fingerprints and already sent them off for processing.”
“So at least we’ll be able to confirm his identity,” Megan said. “You remembered those details?”
“My mind is full of useless trivia.”
“Not so useless,” Simone said, taking notes.
“I don’t think he died from the bullet in his skull.”
“What?” Megan and Simone said simultaneously.
“There wasn’t enough blood. Was there a lot at the crime scene?”
“He lost a lot of blood when his hamstrings were cut,” Simone said.
“But that didn’t kill him. The blood was clotted behind his knees, and you’d be surprised at how little blood can come from a wound like that. It tears the muscle but doesn’t hit any major arteries. The blood would clot quickly, yet the victim would be completely incapacitated. Not to mention being in intense pain.
“There was no clotting around the head,” Ward continued, “at least I didn’t see any. There might have been contamination, or perhaps a postmortem ritual of cleaning the body, but I think I would have noticed something like that.” He shrugged. “It’s just a guess.”
“The victim’s hands were very clean,” Megan remembered. “Compared to what I would expect from a homeless man.”
“Actually,” Ward said, “now that you mention it, the body was relatively clean. I see a lot of the homeless in here, and few take regular, or even weekly, baths. His clothing, however, was quite ripe.”
“Abrahamson,” Matt said, snapping his fingers.
“Who?” Megan asked.
“Detective Greg Abrahamson. He was undercover on the streets last year while investigating a series of murders. Found the killers and I have the trial coming up next month, so I’ve been working with him. I wonder if he knew the victim.”
“It’s worth a shot,” Simone said. “I’ll talk to Black about it.”
“You’re trying the case yourself?” Megan asked.
“It’s very complex. I just won the motion to try the two juveniles as adults, but the battle wasn’t pretty. Our office is going to be under scrutiny.” He didn’t have to explain why—California’s entire criminal justice system had taken a huge public slap last year for sending an innocent man to death row.
Megan knew exactly what kind of pressure Matt was under. When his knee got shot out in Desert Storm—the same war that killed their father—he turned to a law degree, became a prosecutor, then a state senator, and eventually the district attorney. Putting criminals behind bars meant more to Matt than playing politics. The events of last year had put Matt back in the political spotlight, and he hadn’t liked it.
“I’ll call Black about Abrahamson,” Simone said.
“And let me know when the security tapes come in,” Megan said. “Maybe we can put a face on the killer.”
“Killers,” Simone corrected her.
Naked, Ethan stood in the middle of the forest.
The darkness was complete, the earth and his mind. Black. Bottomless. He breathed, but he was not alive. He spoke, but he did not think. Sucked dry by the needles that controlled his nerves, an empty shell of a man told him what to feel and when. The pain, the pleasure, the pain, the nothing.
Nothing.
He’d wanted to die. Death meant nothing. He wasn’t really alive, was he?
He raised his bare arms toward the towering canopy of trees, a sliver of early light fighting its way in among the leaves. Arms outstretched, legs spread, he begged for lightning to strike him from above.
The phantom smell of charred flesh rushed through his nose, on his tongue. He snorted and moaned. The pain of electricity surging through his body, now a memory.
He looked down at his limp penis, but instead of the dank earth below he saw himself suspended by ropes, his feet barely touching the packed dirt floor. Rubbing his hands together, he felt the scars on his wrists, faint now, there for him to see and feel but no one else knew.
His body jerked as if he were on a string. He watched the needles that had pierced him years ago sink into his flesh. Wires this time, wires connected to a battery— what he thought was a battery. He looked straight ahead, the tree limbs holding the device, the wires crawling out for him.
You are mine you are mine you are mine.
Wires slithering as snakes, boa constrictors, wrapping around his ankles, knees, thighs, penis, down his throat …
Kill me God damn you kill me damn you KILL FUCK NO NO NO NO.
The pain tore all pleas from his mind, his throat, his scream suspended in midair. His body jerked violently from the electric jolt, a brief jolt that kept him bobbing long after they were done.
The room had been dark. The room had been bright. Hell. Heaven. Laughter. Laughter bubbled out of his scream-scarred throat. There was only Hell, Hell on earth, and all he wanted was nothing. Nothing. Empty, painless, nothing …
Dropping to the ground, he buried his face in the dirt, burrowing in the leaves. He would escape, run, hide.
They would find him.
She would find him.
He was being watched.
The cold hit him first. He shook uncontrollably. Raw earth assaulted him. He breathed in and coughed up dirt. His mouth was coated with the damp, moldy soil. He rose, resting on all fours, barely able to breathe.
“Ethan.”
Salty tears mingled with dirt on his tongue.
“Wa-water.” He could hardly speak. Where was he?
“Shh.”
It was his angel of death, the one who’d saved him. Over and over. She didn’t leave, didn’t desert him, leave him to the enemy, leave him to be tortured. She raised him from the dirt, draped a blanket over him. He was naked. It was so cold, where were his clothes? How did he get here?
“Walk with me.”
He went with her, her arm around him. He remembered tearing his shirt. His chest stung. He’d scratched himself. How bad? It hurt. She would take care of him.
“Kill me,” he begged, his throat raw.
She didn’t respond. He wanted to cry.
“I hurt myself,” he whispered, his throat raw.
“I’ll fix everything.”
She would. His angel would fix everything.
“Kill them.”
“Of course.”
“I will kill them. I will kill them. I promise you I will kill them.”
And she murmured in his ear, “Yes, sweetheart, we will.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
Jack had been in San Diego for two hours, and in Patrick’s hospital room for the last thirty minutes, and now he wanted to leave. Hospitals and anything medical made Jack antsy. He’d spent enough time in triage to cringe at the sights and smells and sounds of the sanitary building.
Unfortunately, Patrick saw that in him. The kid had an uncanny sixth sense, like Dillon. Jack didn’t like to be psychoanalyzed by either his kid brother or his twin.
“You don’t want to be here,” Patrick said.
“I wanted to see you, make sure Dillon wasn’t jerking my chain when he said you woke up as if n
othing happened.”
“Slight exaggeration. My muscles are weak and I remember everything. Up until the explosion,” he added quietly.
Two years ago, their eighteen-year-old sister Lucy had been kidnapped and Patrick, a cybercrimes cop with San Diego P.D., had gone with a team of FBI agents to an island off Baja California where they believed she was being held captive. The trap had left Patrick barely alive; life-saving brain surgery put him in a coma. The only life support he required was a feeding tube, his body went through all the rituals of breathing and blood pumping on its own. Twenty-two months later he woke up without fanfare. Jack didn’t believe in miracles, but Patrick’s recovery was the closest thing to one he’d ever seen.
Patrick reached for a five-pound weight on the table next to the hospital bed. Jack resisted the urge to help him when he saw the strain cross his brother’s face. Patrick did three curls then put the weight down, winded.
“Dillon came by earlier. You just missed him.”
Jack hadn’t missed his twin. He’d avoided him. He had plans to meet up later with Dillon and the rest of the Kincaid clan, but for now he wanted to focus on Patrick and adjust to being home.
“Thanks for coming,” Patrick added.
Jack nodded. “I’m glad you made it.”
“Nearly two years.” Patrick frowned and stared at the foot of his bed. “Looks like they’ll let me go in a few days. I’ll have P.T. daily, but at least I won’t be in here anymore.”
“Good.”
Jack didn’t know what else to say. He stood. “I’ll let you rest.”
“I don’t want to rest,” Patrick said. “Did you come to San Diego to spend five minutes with me, only to go back to Texas or Mexico or wherever it is you live?”
“Pretty much.”
Patrick picked up the weight again, this time in his left hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that, it’s just … two years and nothing has changed.”
“Everything has changed.”
Patrick raised his eyebrow. “I missed so much. Dillon said you’d gone to D.C. a few times to visit him and Lucy.”
“I have.” Jack’s trips to D.C. had given him back the family he’d let his father deny him.
You didn’t have to follow the Colonel’s orders to steer clear.
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