“There are circular marks on the victim’s temples,” she said as she pointed them out, “and I can see the faint trademark of a coffee tamper used by commercial espresso makers.”
“Are you sure?” Mueller asked.
“I put myself through university in Portland working as a barista for three different coffee houses. I know coffee tampers well,” Franklin said as she made notes in her book.
“How’d the killer use it?” Troy asked, peering over Mueller’s shoulder.
“Someone approached our victim, who was obviously enjoying some tunes or sleeping, and quickly rapped both sides of the head with the tampers. The espresso tampers can weigh from a half pound up to two pounds each. A rap on the head with those things would be like having your head in a vice—boom—unconscious.” Franklin made a quick motion of her hands coming together.
“And then our victim doesn’t struggle during strangulation?” Troy asked.
“That’s right, the killer was good, and he or she knew how to put someone down. I say we bag and tag, and after we’ve collected some evidence in this room, we ship this girl to the coroner’s office in the south,” Franklin said, packing her CSI bag and getting ready for the next victim.
They walked out of the room and headed down the corridor. There were workers in the hall, some staring from rooms, some in pockets of conversation. Conversations would be loud as they rounded a corner and drop to almost a whisper or silence as they approached. The camp knew through texts and Tweets that the detective and crime scene investigator had arrived. Rumors were flying. Workers were eager to find some information to ease the boredom, and rumors would do—for now.
Mark’s Lafontaine’s body was in the medical room, still slightly blue from the cold and slightly chewed by the polar bear, with a number of bruises to the head. Franklin looked the body over: the shirt was undone, and there were obvious signs that the bear had started to feed. What struck her immediately was the fact that the body showed no head bites or defensive wounds from trying to fend off the bear. She knew that when a bear attacks a human, it usually goes for the face or head. The bear wants to neutralize anything that could possibly injure it, including human teeth. In the wild, teeth are teeth, regardless of the creature.
Franklin had seen numerous bear victims in Fairbanks. Hands and arms were always involved. No one lets a bear stroll up and start a buffet on his belly. Not if he is conscious. Franklin’s magnifying glass and flashlight found the same bruised temples.
“Yep, we got the same M.O.—a rap on the head with the tampers— but there is also a major contusion on the forehead. Looks like someone used this guy’s head for a battering ram,” Franklin said as she turned off her flashlight.
“Yeah, there was a blood spatter on the inside of the door leading to the exit. That’s what led my chief to think this wasn’t an accident,” Troy replied.
“Well, your chief was right; this massive contusion was enough to kill our victim here. The killer probably performed the knockout blow with the espresso tampers and then used our victim’s head as a door opener. He would’ve been dead by the time he hit the bottom of the stairs. I’ll be able to confirm it by getting a blood sample from the doorway.”
“So, the polar bear is in the clear,” Troy said with a wry smile.
“Yeah, but the bear’s probably pissed that someone took away his breakfast. Had someone not looked out the window, our bear would have consumed the evidence. You might have had to identify this guy’s DNA from bear shit.” Franklin smiled up at the two men.
“So where does this put us?” Mueller asked, looking at Franklin. He thought the talk of the polar bear was getting a little silly.
“Our brother and sister were both killed by an unknown suspect. This was no murder-suicide. We have two murders.” Franklin placed the cover back over Mark’s body.
Mueller turned to Troy. “This looks like a full investigation. We have to look at shift logs, find out whom they worked with and when, and start to interview everyone they came in contact with.
“I have those logs coming from personnel, as well as a list of everyone who flew in and out with our victims from the time of contract,” Troy said.
“So, who’s going to give the exciting news to melon head—oops, I mean Mr. Patrick Kearns?” Franklin asked. “I’d love to, but I have some bagging and shipping to do.”
Mueller and Franklin both turned to Troy, who broke into a smile. “Hell yeah, you know I’d love to break the good news to him.”
Troy’s radio came to life. “Officer Mercury.”
“Mercury here,” Troy answered Braddock as he walked away from Muller and Franklin.
“Do you have the detective and the CSI with you?” Braddock asked. His voice sounded hesitant on the radio speaker.
“Affirmative, I do.” Troy looked back and forth between Mueller and Franklin.
“Bring them to the C wing men’s room—C145.”
“What’s up?” Troy asked.
“You’ll see when you get here.” Braddock’s speech was now clipped, irritated.
“You know I hate surprises,” Troy answered. Braddock’s tone felt ominous to Troy. He felt like a small opening had been made in his gut and reality was seeping out.
“We found Cummings.”
“Found him how?” Troy replied. He turned away from the detective and the CSI and moved the radio mike to his ear.
“You’ll see when you get here.” The radio went silent.
Troy looked up at his two companions and said, “Aw shit, this doesn’t sound good. It looks like we’ve got another party to go to.”
They arrived at corridor C, and Braddock was waiting outside the men’s room. He opened the door and directed them to the first stall. Jason’s body was sitting on the toilet, coveralls pulled down, head rolled to one side.
“The janitors found him here, just as you see him now. The stall door was locked from the inside. We unlocked the door using gloves and haven’t touched anything,” Braddock said, looking at Franklin.
Franklin could see that Jason’s head had dropped far over to the right side and his right hand touched the floor. That was what had alerted the janitors—the odd posture on the toilet. She got out her magnifying glass and flashlight and this time went directly to the dead man’s head to look for similar abrasions. They were there: two circular bruises, with the same slight markings of an espresso barista tamper applied with great force.
“Damn, this guy is good to the last drop,” Franklin muttered under her breath.
“What’s that?” Mueller asked, again standing over her shoulder.
“I said, looks like our killer got the drop on the guy,” Franklin said out loud.
“Oh. Same M.O.?”
“Yeah, this killer doesn’t deviate. A quick rap to the head for each victim, but this time he snapped the kid’s neck for insurance,” Franklin said as she motioned to the victim’s head. The broken neck was obvious.
“So, you’re sure it’s the same killer?” Mueller asked.
“Well, exact same instrument applied with tremendous force to the temples, and then our barista killer had the strength to break the kid’s neck.”
“You know,” Mueller said, “I wish you wouldn’t call this unnamed suspect the barista killer.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’ll put me off lattes forever.”
“Sorry.”
“Okay, same implements, strong suspect who can snap a person’s neck. You have any idea of what we’re looking for?” Mueller asked.
“Well, there is something,” Franklin said as she looked again at the victim’s head with her flashlight and magnifying glass. “Our killer made a more pronounced blow at the bottom of the tampers than at the top.”
“Which means?”
“That the killer is shorter than the victim.”
“How do you determine that?” asked Troy from behind Mueller.
“Our victim here is about six feet tall, and the oth
er male victim was similar in height. Our killer strikes harder at the bottom than at the top, which would put our killer at . . . about five foot seven to five foot eight. He has more leverage at the bottom of the strike.”
“So, anything else?” Troy asked.
“Yeah, our killer is one stocky little son of a bitch and probably male. There are few men who can twist the neck of a victim this size without some meat on their bones.”
Troy’s mind searched through a catalog of faces he had seen at the camp in the last few days, and more importantly, those he had scanned at breakfast that morning. He had already picked out a few possible candidates.
Braddock came up to Troy. “I guess we know who shut off the CCTV feed.”
“Yeah, I think Cummings wins the prize.”
Mueller looked up from where Franklin was investigating the corpse. “I assume this was the man you suspected of turning off the closed circuit television camera?”
“Yes,” Troy answered. He was pissed that one of his men had been involved.
“Looks like the suspect is tying up loose ends,” Braddock added.
“Yeah, and the way he’s clocking people with these coffee tamping instruments is getting damn right methodical,” Troy said.
The three men stood back while Franklin examined the body further. There was a heavy silence. They all knew the investigation to come. There would be leads, interviews, and reports that would hopefully reveal the killer.
At the moment when the silence began creating a visible tension in the room, Troy asked, “Does anyone feel like a coffee?”
“Hell yeah,” Mueller said. He looked at the others in the room. “Anywhere to get a latte?”
Troy replied, “Detective, we have one of those new-fangled coffeemakers that make lattes, cappuccinos, and cafe Americanos. And the best thing—no tampers required.”
Mueller followed Troy down the hallway towards the camp cafeteria. He needed some caffeine and time to think. Murders always resonated with passion, money, or greed, and he was trying to connect the dots on this one. Two people, both working for the same company, murdered by someone, and then a third murder to cover up the accomplice who cut the CCTV transmission. He could feel there was something big behind these murders, a sense that forces had arrived in the Arctic to do something—but what? How would he explain his sense of foreboding to his chief of detectives back in Anchorage, who had sent him to look at a simple murder-suicide? How would he make his chief understand that he wasn’t having detox flashbacks when he explained? Mueller sighed as he thought about it. He didn’t like his chances.
13
Parsons Was Lingering Over The Google Maps page of his target when the phone in his hotel room rang to signal that his cab had arrived. He shut down his computer, grabbed his bag, and headed downstairs.
Almost immediately after the driver pulled away from the hotel, the cab got stuck behind two snowplows and had to dodge heavy oil-rig- truck and semi traffic as it crawled its way to the airport. The driver pulled up in front of the small Fort McMurray Airport terminal at 6:45 p.m.
Parsons wasn’t too worried about making the flight. He had only a small bag, and he would be through security in minutes. He saw Fuentes walk into the airport just ahead of him. He paid the cab driver, grabbed his bag, and followed him. Just minutes later, Parsons saw RCMP cruisers pull up in front of the terminal. No sirens, no lights. The cruisers came to a sliding halt in the snow and four officers charged into the terminal.
A big RCMP officer brushed by Parsons, and he could see Fuentes just ahead of him, inching his way into the security screening line.
Parsons froze in place. If they had found the bodies Fuentes had killed, then they were certainly after Fuentes. Did they know about his connection to Fuentes? Should he run? These thoughts raced through Parsons as he watched the scene unfold.
The officers came up behind Fuentes and grabbed the young man in front of him. A woman in jeans, a sweater, and leather jacket came out of the crowd and put handcuffs on the man, who resisted—bad idea. The woman kicked his legs out from under him, and, in the quickest takedown Parsons had ever seen, the man was rubbing his nose on the floor.
The woman hauled him to his feet with no assistance from the officers around her, and they marched the man out of the terminal. Parsons watched her walk by. She didn’t look at him—her eyes were focused in the steely determination of one who has made a capture.
Parsons heard one officer say in a low tone as they went by, “Good takedown, Detective Callahan.”
The commotion was over; Parsons and Fuentes made the flight. Both breathed a sigh of relief as they sat down in their seats, but neither of them dared to make eye contact or show that they knew each other.
Parsons glanced at Fuentes. He was sitting in the seat ahead of him watching reruns of Two and Half Men and giggling. He knew he could trust Fuentes to shoot any target or defend himself. But will he watch my back? Parsons wondered. He highly doubted it.
Parsons saw Fuentes as the ultimate asshole and was sure that his asshole switch had been turned on when he was a small child. He figured the asshole switch was left in the “on” position and never turned off. It was just the way Fuentes was wired. Somewhere in Mexico, there was a mother who loved Fuentes, and loved him just the way he was.
Parsons needed to take care of himself. He had ordered a wetsuit from Cordele. He did not care if the others wanted them—too many beach landings had left him soaked or with sand up the crack of his ass that would abrade his butt down two sizes by time the mission was over.
This time, he had ordered the equipment he would need, and he would be sure to maintain the rearguard on the mission. He hated getting shot by his own men. And these would not be his men, just men for hire with guns, the worst possible kind.
The airplane arrived in Vancouver on time at 11:45 p.m. There was a drizzle of rain, and the temperature was just above freezing. Both men were met individually by young Asian women, who led them from the main terminal to the parking garage. They kept the two men separate as CCTV cameras were everywhere.
They were led to a white van with tinted windows parked behind a pillar in the parking garage, out of sight of the cameras. The Asian contacts were young, and Parsons was unimpressed. The three young men were in their early twenties, slim, had long black hair, and were dressed in black Nike track suits. If Nike ever wants to sponsor some gang bangers, these are perfect candidates, Parsons thought. These kids probably live with their mothers by day and run drugs and kill other gangs at night. He wondered how the mothers got the blood out of their clothes. He did not like Cordele’s pick.
They piled into the van and headed south from the airport to the harbor where they would board their boat. At least they picked a plain white van, Parsons thought. Had they used some Lincoln Navigator or Cadillac Escalade, there was a good possibility of getting pulled over by the local police. Parsons was only mildly impressed by their vehicle choice.
A half hour later, they arrived at a dock near Steveston Harbour, a small tourist and fishing harbor. The boat was a dark blue Sea Ray 60. Parsons’ mouth began watering the moment he saw it. It was sixty feet long, a good eighteen feet wide, twin diesel, and had a fully covered cabin with a beige leather interior. His dream boat. He had always said that when he retired from the business, this would be his boat. He had never been on one. I can’t even afford to look at a boat this beautiful, he thought, and here are a group of Asian gang bangers with this beauty.
Parsons and Fuentes jumped on board, and Parsons put his mind to going over the inventory he had ordered. There was one wet suit, his size. Cordele had not bothered getting them for anyone else, and Parsons didn’t care. He went below and changed into his.
There was an inflatable zodiac raft with paddles sitting on the deck, ready to be set up when they got across the straight. The Sea Ray had a draft of almost five feet, and they would anchor it offshore, and use the zodiac to paddle to the beach.
The Asians
had given him and Fuentes Steyr TMP 9mm submachine guns fitted with sound suppressors and straps. There were also two Ti-Rant 9mm handguns with sound suppressors, extra clips for each weapon, and combat knives with web belts. Parsons was impressed with the choice of weapons. The Ti-Rants had been featured in a past issue of Combat Handgun in the USA, and he had not had a chance to get his hands on one yet.
The Sea Ray’s engines growled to life, and the boat pulled away from the dock and into the channel. They had no running lights. The boat made its way slowly out of the channel until it came to the open water of the Georgia Straight. The captain hit full throttle and the big diesels launched the boat up on its prow as they sped across the water.
The Coast Guard and RCMP would be out tonight, but the chances of getting caught with all the commercial traffic in the straight would be slim. Steady ocean freighter traffic would be vying for berth space outside of the Vancouver harbor, and running amongst them would be a fleet of small boats, just such as theirs. Some would be carrying the famed BC Bud south, the highly potent marijuana grown in British Columbia and sought after by both Canadians and Americans. Others would be hauling cocaine and methamphetamines north. This was not what the politicians had in mind when they thought of free trade between Canada and America.
Parsons sat at the back of the boat, the cool air rushing by, feeling the saltiness of the sea on his skin. He was homesick for Newfoundland, where he had grown up. He had had an opportunity to go back to Newfoundland when he had returned from his tour in Afghanistan. He could have gone back to sea to fish with his father or run drugs to Maine from Nova Scotia with his old buddies. Instead, he had chosen his present work, or it had chosen him.
His old buddies had offered him a plan: buy BC Bud for fifteen hundred a pound and sell it to the Americans for four thousand a pound once it hit Maine. The guys in Maine would get the dope to New York, where it would sell for eight thousand a pound. It all sounded like a great plan, but Parsons thought there were too many amateurs involved, and too many guns.
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