On His Watch

by Susanne Matthews

  “Shit. That’s not good, and I have more bad news for you.”

  Jason frowned. “What do you mean? They’re not taking me off the case, are they?”

  “No, not that I know of. Javier Gomez from the California State Police called this afternoon. He’s been on vacation the past week and found a message on his desk from Rafe Somers, the park ranger over at Auburn State Recreation Area. He called him back and got some news he thought might interest us. Do you remember when Dad took us camping there when we were kids?”

  “What kind of news?” he asked impatiently. Rick took forever to get to the point at times. It was probably why it had taken him three years to propose.

  “I was coming to that. A couple of prospectors found two bodies in a tent. According to Rafe, the cadavers were pretty badly decomposed, and the animals had been at them. He figures they’ve been there a while. He called Gomez because of the APB the state police put out just after the murders. They’ve sent the remains to the FBI lab in Sacramento for forensic investigation. The man in charge of the case is Calder Jackson. I’m sure he must have something by now.”

  “It’s kind of late to get anyone in the office tonight.” Jason swallowed his Scotch and let the liquor burn away his frustration.

  “Not a problem. Molly called the office to check when he’d be around, and he gave her his home number. I was going to call him myself, but I thought you’d rather do it. This could be the break we need. Rafe said their throats had been cut. I’m thinking it might be two of our guys. You know—a falling out among thieves? On the other hand, it could be two more victims. Either way, if it’s in any way related to our case, it’s a lead.”

  Jason sighed. The last thing he needed was for this to become a serial killer case creating a media feeding frenzy. There’d be enough attention on it tomorrow once news of Nikki’s amnesia was out.

  “Call Calder.” He copied down the number Rick gave him. “Let me know what he said. I’ll be up for a couple of hours yet.”

  Jason ended the call and poured more Scotch in his glass before walking back to the desk and picking up one of Nikki’s promo shots. The lady was a highly respected artist. He’d looked through the brochures of her work and had been impressed. A couple of her pieces looked similar to the only oil painting he owned, an unsigned seascape he’d bought for a song at a little boutique in Venice Beach seven or eight years ago. The painting had called to him, reminded him of the bluff he usually visited when he needed time to think. He’d felt the man in the painting’s loneliness and isolation. But what the hell did he know about art? He’d bought that picture of the dogs playing poker, too.

  He put down the photograph and reached for the phone to call Sacramento. In one way he hoped the men in that tent weren’t connected to his case. He seemed to be spinning his wheels here and adding to the body count probably wouldn’t help.

  Thank God, Brad was back. Jason hated to admit it, but he was pretty sure he wouldn’t solve this one alone. Being the agent in charge of a case gone cold was frustrating as hell, and the one witness he had didn’t remember a thing. Brad, who’d stayed with the BAU a few years longer than he had, had a way of looking at things that brought them into focus. His old partner had returned to the San Francisco bureau office last week after finishing a case up in Alaska. Jason had sucked up his pride and begged his friend to look at the case. He’d sent everything they had. As he’d hoped, the case had fascinated Brad who’d agreed to pull strings and get assigned to it. If Brad wanted to see him tomorrow, it was good news.

  Jason dialed the number Rick had given him and waited for Calder to answer. If the bodies in Auburn were connected, Brad needed to know, too.

  • • •

  “You’re absolutely certain, Calder?” Jason said, his voice betraying his dismay.

  “Yes. There’s no mistake. The blood on their clothing and boots matches your victims. According to the forensic experts, both men overdosed on prescription drugs mixed with alcohol. They must have had a hell of a party. We found Mrs. Hart’s jewelry in the tent—according to the insurance records everything is there except the couple’s wedding rings. Fenced, they could have brought in a cool quarter million dollars. Slitting their throats was overkill. Neither of them would have survived the drug cocktail.”

  Jason whistled. “That’s a lot of money to leave behind. Well, at least they weren’t innocent prospectors. The last thing I want is more victims. Have they been identified yet?”

  Was Rick right—a falling out among thieves, or had that been the plan all along? No survivors. Did that apply to the executioners as well as the victims?

  “Yep, and their deaths might have done the country a favor. Sorry, that wasn’t a very professional thing to say, but they weren’t exactly model citizens. The first one was Jean-Guy Le Roy. You were looking for him in the wrong place. He was born in Louisiana and moved to Dumas, Texas, when he was six. He was in and out of trouble from the age of ten. Spent nine years in the Clements unit of the Texas state prison system for aggravated assault. Got out in June after serving his full sentence.”

  “Son of a bitch. I thought it was a first name.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it. Everybody did. The coroner puts time of death within a day of your murders. Whoever the third man is, he doesn’t leave witnesses. The other guy was from Indiana—a small-time hustler who graduated to the big leagues when he killed a man in a bar fight. He and Le Roy were cellmates for seven years. His name was Clayton Fisher. I’m sorry I don’t have better news for you.”

  Jason sighed. Now his case was really cold. “It shouldn’t surprise me. The first rule of assassination is killing the assassin, right? Thanks for everything. I appreciate the time your guys put in on this. Have copies of the autopsies sent to Larosa along with the rest of the evidence. By the way, were the bodies mutilated?”

  “Do you mean were their fingers missing? No. Other than the slit throats, there wasn’t a mark on them.”

  He thanked him again and ended the call.

  Damn! Another dead end. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

  • • •

  Jason picked up the check the waitress had left on his table and carried it to the counter. The restaurant in the hotel provided a decent breakfast for the price.

  He paid his tab, left the hotel, and crossed the street to the parking lot where he’d left his SUV. He’d gone shopping earlier at a Men’s Warehouse just down from the hotel. He’d bought jeans, polo shirts, as well as a couple of more professional looking outfits. It hadn’t been cheap, but he wanted to look competent. No one looked competent in dirty, wrinkled clothes.

  He eased the vehicle forward through the narrow parking lanes. He checked the sign on the edge of the lot—four bucks per half hour to a maximum of fifty dollars a day. Good thing parking was part of the room rate. At over $200 bucks a night for a room only slightly larger than Rick’s guest room at home, it had better be.

  He pulled into traffic, heading across town to FBI headquarters. Brad had phoned at the crack of dawn and assured him they had a team of agents eager to help. Jason was to give a full briefing at noon. He hoped he could stay focused. He hadn’t slept well.

  A pair of hazel eyes accusing him of allowing the killers to get away had haunted his sleep. There’d been some strange erotic dreams thrown in, too, and he’d awakened cranky and edgy. The six Scotches hadn’t helped either. He shouldn’t have kissed her—shouldn’t have looked into those eyes.

  San Francisco traffic was brutal at eleven o’clock in the morning, and it took more than half an hour to reach Golden Gate Avenue. He parked in the visitors’ lot and entered the office tower, his ID ready.

  Once he’d cleared security, he took the elevator to the thirteenth floor. The secretary, a pretty brunette, assured him someone would come for him momentarily. He was still cooling his heels ten minutes later, waiting for someone—anyone. Patience had never been one of his virtues, and it was quickly becoming a commodity in
short supply.

  The office door at the end of the hall opened, and he stood and smiled. Elizabeth Bradley, Brad to her friends and co-workers, rushed forward and threw her arms around him, giving him her version of a bear hug. She stepped back, allowing him to get a good look at her when she did.

  Brad hadn’t changed much. The woman’s appearance was deceiving. Ex-military, in her mid-forties, she was an ace marksman and had a black belt in at least three different martial arts. More than one guy got his ass kicked trying to hit on her in Chicago when they’d been partners stationed at the bureau’s branch. How her husband, Jacob, survived their first date was anybody’s guess. The man was a sci-fi novelist. Maybe he’d offered to put her in a book.

  “Jase, you haven’t changed a bit,” she used his nickname, one of the few allowed to do so. “Still need a haircut, I see. I saw you and Dr. Marion on television last night. Good move to hold the press conference that way. I’ll bet Meredith Sykes owed the doctor a big favor for that exclusive. I saw Thomas Lincoln speaking to the press, too. I take it you’ve posted security to keep the curiosity seekers and anyone else away? The poor woman has been through enough.”

  Brad put her arm through his and led him down the hall toward the office she’d just left. No one seemed to pay any attention to them—they either knew who he was, or they didn’t care.

  “Yeah. Her father hired Sentinel Security. I’ve read their dossier. Troy McDerban is handling the case himself.”

  “Sentinel Security is the best money can buy, but I don’t envy them this. Your files were more detailed than the ones I was able to access in Alaska. I’d heard that was the case—we do have interoffice gossip—but I’m still surprised at what you were able to suppress, especially about the surviving child. How’d you manage to do it?”

  “It wasn’t easy, but Lincoln money talks loud and clear.” He shook his head and frustration filled him. “Brad, the case has gone cold—amnesia’s been confirmed, and I learned last night that two of my suspects are dead. I’m fresh out of ideas. I hope you’ve got something up that sleeve of yours to kick start this investigation.”

  Brad winked. “Don’t I always?” She opened the door to her office. The room was large, well decorated, with a bank of windows facing San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge.

  She touched his arm. “I’d like to introduce you to some of my colleagues. They’re among the best in their fields.” She indicated three people sitting at the round table.

  Look at these guys—what the hell’s Brad thinking?

  Jason stared at the eclectic group of people. They ranged from a thirty-some techno geek in front of a laptop to a man in a three-piece suit who could have posed for Sigmund Freud’s last portrait. How on earth were these people going to help him?

  She smiled at what he was sure was the stunned look on his face and turned to the assembled group.

  “Here’s the man you’ve all been waiting to meet. This is my good friend and former partner, Special Agent Jason Spark, temporarily seconded to the Larosa Sheriff’s Department. Jason, I’d like you to meet Greg Poirier, our computer guru. He can find anything and everything. The gentleman who looks like he’s come from a funeral is Dr. Alf Lystrom, an expert on execution and revenge killings. He doesn’t always dress so formally. Last but not least, this is Ivan Smirnov. He’s French and works with Interpol. He contacted us three days ago and asked if he could join the investigation. The director okayed it, and here he is.”

  Jason shook hands with the FBI agents and turned to Ivan. The Interpol agent was about six-two, well muscled, and his hair was thinning. He was clean shaven, with a slight hook to his nose, and a friendly smile that was deceiving. One look in his brown, almost black, eyes told Jason he was a man of power and danger. Messing with him wouldn’t be healthy.

  “Welcome to the United States, Mr. Smirnov, but I have to say, your name doesn’t sound too French to me.”

  Ivan shook Jason’s hand. “My family fled Russia before the Bolsheviks stormed the Winter Palace. I was raised among the French aristocracy. It has opened doors for me often closed to others.”

  “I didn’t mean to pry,” Jason apologized hoping he hadn’t offended the man. He needed all the help he could get.

  Ivan chuckled. “Sometimes being different from the rest is a good thing. I’m eager to learn more about this case.”

  “We all are.” Brad offered Jason the chair beside her.

  “The crime file in front of you is the official FBI one, but it’s incomplete. Jason sent me his full file, and it’s the reason I begged the director to let me form the team. The FBI and the CBI have been on this for six weeks now. This team’s going to go over everything with a fine-tooth comb. Fresh eyes might find something missed or bring a new perspective to the case,” Brad began. “I had copies made of the crime scene photos. Let’s start by looking at them.”

  She opened the folder in front of her and passed the printed photos around the table. Jason stood, walked over to the whiteboard, and wrote down the names of the victims, including the two killers who’d been identified.

  “Merde!” Ivan cursed in French as he examined the photos of the carnage.

  Other expletives followed as the pictures circulated, but soon there was no sound at all. Jason glanced at their faces and saw the horror that echoed the dismay he'd felt when he’d walked into the crime scene. His stomach churned at the memory.

  When it appeared they’d finished examining the photos, Brad spoke. “Jason, it’s all yours. You were the first responder. Take us through it. Don’t leave anything out.”

  He swallowed and reluctantly allowed his mind to go back to that grisly Labor Day night. He began by admitting he’d thought it was a false call and had taken his time to get there. Confessing the truth, even part of it, to these people was a knife wound to his heart. He knew exactly how much could have been prevented if he’d moved his ass.

  He described the house and how the crime scene unfolded right up to the moment Mandy had been found alive.

  “Why was the kid under the bed? Was she hiding?” Greg asked. “It’s a strange place to sleep. I’d get claustrophobic under there.”

  “Apparently she’s afraid of the dark and was practicing for a sleepover at the deputy’s house on the weekend. As I understand it, she’d chosen to sleep under that bed because it was the darkest place in the house.”

  “And she didn’t hear anything? That’s odd, isn’t it? I mean, there had to have been some noise.” Greg looked again at the picture of the kitchen floor covered in blood.

  “I thought so, too, at first, but Buck—that’s the deputy—said the child is a very sound sleeper. Her room was at the back of the house, on the side opposite the kitchen, where the murders and assault took place. The bedroom door was closed as well. There weren’t any prints on the handle other than Mrs. Hart’s.”

  “Tell me about the second scene. Was there any writing at the clinic?”

  Alf spoke abruptly, stopping Jason’s answer to Greg and forcing him to answer his question instead.

  “No, the walls were bare. We believe the killers gained access to the doctor there. The clinic normally closed at eight, but a camper had taken a gash out of his leg with a hatchet, and the doctor and nurse stayed late to stitch him up. The camper and his wife came forward with the information after they saw the newspaper report when they returned home to San Jose. They left the clinic at eight thirty. They hadn’t seen anyone in the parking lot. According to the woman, they last saw the doctor and his nurse cleaning up the examination room.”

  Jason paused, swallowed, and cleared his throat. No one could have done anything for the nurse. She’d been dead at least half an hour before the call had been made. He ran his hand through his disheveled hair.

  “My deputy found Kelly Barbour out by the reception desk. Her throat was cut, like the boy’s. The drug cabinet was empty, and the small cashbox was gone, as was Kelly’s engagement ring and a gold cross necklace. Both items ha
ve been recovered. Before you ask, her fiancé has a rock-solid alibi. He’s in Afghanistan. He’d talked to her on Skype the previous night.”

  Alf nodded. “I see. Thanks.”

  “Where’d they recover her jewelry?” Greg asked. “Did they find any from the house?”

  “I learned last night that two bodies found in Auburn National Park are two of my suspects. According to the autopsy they were drugged and then had their throats cut. Blood found on the victims confirm they were at the crime scene. One of them was the Le Roy mentioned on the 911 tape. Turns out it’s a last name, not a first one, so we spent days working a false trail. All of the stolen jewelry, minus wedding rings, was recovered. I’m told it was worth about a quarter million bucks.”

  “And it was left behind? That makes no sense.” Greg shook his head in disgust. “Why go to the bother of stealing it in the first place?”

  “To lay a false trail, perhaps?” Ivan spoke softly, but his attention was still focused on the photograph he held.

  Jason waited for more questions. There weren’t any, so he continued. “My brother, Rick, his detective, Buck, and I have gone over every shred of evidence from the clinic, and we can’t find anything there to help us. The doctor’s empty medical bag was in the back of the car. They tortured the doctor for the combination to the safe—probably figured he’d have more drugs in there and maybe some money. We can’t figure out the purpose of the writing on the wall. We’ve toyed with a few different theories. Maybe you’ll have some new ideas for me to pursue.”

  Alf dropped the photograph he’d been holding onto the table and shook his head. His lips were compressed. “It’s possible the doctor thought they’d spare his wife and children if he gave them the information they wanted. Whatever they were after had to be in that safe. A man will believe anything if he’s in enough pain.”

  Ivan stood and tossed his photo on the table. Jason noted it was the one of the doctor’s mutilated hands.