Shattered Lives

by Joseph Lewis

  Instead of calling Dandridge directly, he went through the FBI switchboard and had the receptionist connect him to Rita, Dandridge’s secretary.

  “Rita, don’t say my name, but do you recognize my voice?”

  There was a pause, and he knew that Rita had begun recording the conversation.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. You have caller ID on your phone, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Write down the number and find Whitey. Tell him to call me at this number, but he needs to do it from a secure line. He can’t use anyone’s number that might have been in contact with me in the last four days. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be waiting at this number for his phone call. And Rita?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s urgent.”

  “Understood.”

  “This is Whitey,” was all that was said when Pete picked up the receiver.

  Whitey had been Pete’s name for Dandridge when they went through training together at Quantico. No one other than Pete had ever dared to call him that. The two men had developed a lasting friendship that didn’t stop at the supervisor – subordinate boundary because they had recognized they were different sides of the same coin.

  “I think we’re good, as long as your end is secure.”

  “It is. What’s up?”

  “I have reason to believe Cochrane compromised phone numbers.”

  “I see,” Dandridge said slowly. He paused and asked, “Why do you suspect that?”

  “I’m looking at his contact list and there are a lot of numbers in it. Same for the call log. I only have a hunch . . . no proof, but I think he might have passed on numbers to the bad guys. If so, I wonder if they’re monitoring phone calls and text messages. I don’t know their technological capabilities, but I do know they’re resourceful.”

  Dandridge knew Pete well enough to trust his hunches.

  “How do you want to play this?”

  “Could go a couple of ways.”

  “Which are?”

  “We could warn everyone, but if we do, we have no connection to the bad guys.”

  “But if we don’t warn everyone, it potentially puts them in danger.” He paused and then asked, “What do you think we should do?”

  Dandridge asked the question cautiously as if he didn’t want to hear the answer, but also as if he knew what Pete’s answer was going to be.

  “We use the lines as we normally do, but we use them to our advantage.”

  “Feeding the bad guys misinformation.”

  “The problem is it’s dangerous.”

  Pete went on to explain his plan, knowing Dandridge might confer with Summer, but he doubted it. It would be Dandridge’s decision and his alone. Like the captain of the Titanic, Dandridge was the kind of man to either sail the ship into port or if he hit the iceberg, go down with the ship. Either way, the decision was his.

  Dandridge let his breath out slowly.

  “One condition, Pete.”

  “Of course.”

  “If at any point it puts kids or other innocents in jeopardy, we call it off and come clean to everyone involved.”

  Pete nodded and said, “Absolutely. I won’t have their deaths on my conscience.”

  “Nor on mine,” Dandridge said. There was a final pause and he said, “Go with it. I’ll take care of things on my end and get word to MB.”

  Pete punched the phone dead, rubbed his eyes, and swiveled around and looked out the window, worrying that if things went sideways, he had just sentenced four innocent lives to death.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Chicago, Illinois

  Pete’s idea was to set up a noose so the bad guys would hang themselves. He called Chet from a payphone at the airport and told him to get to a secure line. Chet called back using a phone in a library lobby, Pete filled him in on his suspicions, told him to warn Skip but no one else. He also told Chet to contact Morgan Billias.

  Billias was a mild-mannered, easy-going middle-aged guy with a wife, two teenage daughters and a preteen son that Chet never knew about. He had an easy laugh, a ready wise crack, and could find humor in anything. He didn’t work for the CIA or the NSA or any of the other alphabet groupings that belonged to the government. Chet had never asked Morgan what he did or where he lived or whether or not he was married and had two or six children. And Morgan had never told him.

  He and Chet had met at a computer expo in San Francisco, got to talking about computers, had a couple of beers together and hit it off. They kept in contact off and on with Chet reaching out to him whenever a “puzzle” needed to be solved. Nothing grandiose, just puzzles. He had played a huge part in freeing the boys from captivity, and an even bigger part in saving George’s, Jeremy’s and the twins’ lives.

  This time, however, it was Pete’s idea to bring Billias into the circle to monitor Cochrane’s cell phones and to monitor the phones of those who had tried to contact him.

  Billias readily agreed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Indianapolis, Indiana

  Only the two Indianapolis cops who had responded to the 9-1-1 call and MB had entered the home, so that had made Skip’s job easier. He had worked the crime scene in Luke Pressman’s home silently, quickly and thoroughly like the professional he was. Pressman’s body still sat in the recliner in his living room. Blood had pooled under both legs from the shots to his kneecaps, and there was blood spatter on the curtains behind the chair, along with a chunk of brain matter and bits of skull. The fact that Pressman’s eyes and mouth were open made the whole tableau gruesome.

  Skip had found partials in the back bedroom and possible DNA in and around the toilet. Of course, he’d have to compare these with Pressman’s DNA to determine if they were his or Dominico’s or anyone else’s. He had found indeterminate fiber on the couch facing Pressman, and it was sent to the FBI lab to analyze it further to determine what it was and what the origins were.

  He felt like he hadn’t done enough, and what he did do, didn’t amount to anything usable beyond what they already knew: Dominico had murdered Pressman, and this murder was the first of several with more to come if the 9-1-1 tape was accurate.

  He had found even less at Dominico’s home. There was nothing, other than the empty hole in the floor of the spare bedroom. One could only speculate as to what was in it. Other than that hole, there was nothing that would help close the case any quicker.

  “Is he always so serious?” Wilkey asked Chet without taking his eyes off Skip.

  “Pretty much.”

  “He doesn’t talk much.”

  “Nope.”

  She watched him work a bit longer and said, “He seems really young. Must be smart.”

  “His IQ is 156, which is fifteen points higher than mine and twenty-one points higher than yours,” Chet answered not looking up from his laptop.

  Wilkey glanced back at Chet and said, “How do you know his IQ and how the hell do you know mine?”

  Chet sighed, punched a few more keys and then said, “I was burned twice . . . once with Rawson and once with Cochrane.” He stared and said, “I’m not going to make that mistake again.”

  MB glared at him, folded her arms across her chest and said, “Don’t pry into any of my business again.”

  Chet went back to his laptop and didn’t commit one way or the other. When it came to his safety or the safety of the team, he’d pry into anyone he saw fit.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Fishers, Indiana

  Mary Beth Wilkey, or MB for short, stood five foot four and a fit 130 pounds. Compact and solid, she had attended Indiana University on a volleyball scholarship and earned a starting spot for four years as the Libero. She graduated Cum Laude in Health and Physical Education in four years with the intention of becoming a high school teacher and coach, but when the FBI called, Wilkey said yes.

  She liked the academy, especially the physical aspects of it. After she graduat
ed, she returned to her home state of Indiana and landed in the urban crime section, which normally dealt with inter-state gang-related issues, but also dealt with any crime that had federal written all over it or one that crossed state lines, which was why she was chosen for the Pressman murder.

  She wore her dark hair short because she liked the fact that she could step out of a shower and towel it off. Besides, long hair and crime scenes didn’t mix very well. She typically wore black or navy slacks with a matching jacket over a white blouse with little or no jewelry other than simple gold or silver posts in her earlobes. She also didn’t see the need for makeup, and her looks and coloring were of the type that didn’t need it.

  She had driven Chet and Skip to the McGovern house after the crime scene work at Dominico’s and Pressman’s homes and met up with Pete who had arrived forty minutes earlier. He sat at the curb in his four door navy Chevy Malibu rental. They eased themselves out of their cars all the while looking up and down the street and into front windows that didn’t have curtains pulled shut. MB tapped in the garage code, and with Pete, Chet, and Skip providing backup, did a quick sweep of the four bedroom ranch finding nothing but a few breakfast dishes in the sink, the morning paper on the kitchen table and an unmade bed in the master bedroom.

  MB stood at the front window with her hands on her hips and looked around at the quiet neighborhood. From the outside, the houses appeared to be the same. Each had a two and a half car garage in the front of the house alternating on either the left or right as you went up the street, and the only apparent variation was the color, but even then the choice was one of three colors.

  A house kitty-corner and across the street from the McGovern house had a For Sale sign in its front yard, and MB wondered absently what price they might be asking. She had saved enough for a down payment, had done a little on-line browsing and had given a fair amount of thought to purchasing a home in the burbs away from Indianapolis where she was based. She looked at the house number and made a mental note to check it out when she had the time.

  Chet and Skip lounged around the McGovern living room watching Pete pace with a frown on his face.

  Something pulled at the back of his mind, but Pete couldn’t quite get hold of it. It didn’t help that Summer wasn’t partnered up with him. When she was, they’d piece the puzzle out together. No such luck now.

  Chet didn’t stray far from his laptop. Pete liked Skip and was developing trust in him, and he knew nothing of MB at all.

  “What?” Chet asked, puzzled by Pete’s manner, which was usually much more direct.

  MB turned around from the window, folded her arms across her chest and eyed the older man.

  Pete ran a hand through his hair and said, “Tell me what we know about Dominico.” He paused and added, “What type of man is he?”

  “You mean besides the fact that he’s a fuckin’ pervert?” Chet said.

  Ignoring the retort, he turned to each and said, “Describe his personality.”

  MB shrugged and said, “The reports said he could be mean, nasty, and in general, unfriendly.”

  “Pedophiles are into control,” Skip said quietly.

  Pete pointed a finger at him and said, “Exactly!” He looked at each and said, “If Dominico wanted to control a situation or people . . . this family . . . what might he do?”

  “Orders, maybe even passive-aggressive behavior,” MB said.

  Pete shook his head and said, “Nothing passive-aggressive about this asshole. He’s all about aggression, about dominating a situation, about controlling a situation.”

  “What are you getting at?” MB asked.

  Pete turned to Chet and asked, “If I wanted to control the McGovern family, what would be the ultimate control?”

  “Withholding information. He did that by not letting the kid’s parents know he was alive.”

  Skip added, “He did this by pretending to be undercover when in fact he knew all along Brett was in Chicago. He knew because he helped put him there, and on weekends, went and raped him.”

  Pete nodded and asked, “But how could he control and dominate the family besides withholding information?”

  The four of them looked at each other and then the realization spread over Chet’s face.

  He said, “Oh fuck! No way!”

  Pete shrugged reading Chet’s mind. “It’s possible. Maybe likely.”

  “Just like-“

  “-Stop,” Pete said holding up his hand and cutting him off, not wanting to give away too much information in case his hunch was correct.

  Chet set his laptop aside, stood up from the couch and looked around the living room. He shook his head and went into the kitchen. Pete followed him with Skip and MB trailing.

  “Besides the bathroom, the kitchen and the family room would be the most lived-in rooms in the house. Next would be the bedrooms.”

  Chet did a slow 360 in the middle of the kitchen, eyes up at the recessed lighting in the ceiling. He dragged a chair over from the kitchen table, climbed up and began unscrewing the small floods sweeping his fingers cautiously and carefully around the socket. On his third light, he left his fingers where they were and stared at Pete, who shook his head. Chet nodded. Realization dawned on Skip and MB. He checked the rest of the lights but found nothing.

  Next he moved to the air-conditioning vent in the ceiling. He pulled out a small pocket knife and unscrewed the cover and opened up the vent. At the top left and almost out of sight, mounted to the drywall, Chet found another. He turned to Pete, motioned to his eyes and nodded, then to his ears and shook his head. Pete made a note on a piece of paper.

  The group then went into the family room, and Chet examined the stereo system hooked up to the 42 inch big screen. Inside one of the speakers, small and unobtrusive to most eyes, Chet found a small camera. It was motion sensitive and state-of-the-art. He left it where it was, pretending to examine the speaker size, commenting on the fact that he had a similar system at his house, but that the McGovern speakers were of a better quality. He next began examining the recessed lighting, and on his second try, just above the couch facing the TV, Chet found a small microphone.

  Room by room they went. There was one camera in the master bedroom. There were two microphones and a camera in the study, all three in recessed lighting. There was one camera and one microphone in Brett’s former room, now the spare bedroom. There was another set in the other spare bedroom.

  They hit the jackpot in Bobby’s room, Brett’s younger brother. They found one camera in one light over the bed, one in the air-conditioning vent, and two microphones, both in recessed lighting over the bed.

  Their search done, Pete said, “Guys, I think we should wait for the family in the driveway. I don’t feel comfortable in their house without them being here.”

  “I agree,” Chet said.

  They left by the front door, climbed into Pete’s car and rolled the windows up though the day was warm and humid.

  They sat in silence and then Pete asked Chet, “What kind of system is it?”

  “Near as I can tell all motion sensitive. If he’s recording, he’s doing it via remote access.”

  “How would that be possible?” Skip asked.

  Chet started out in geek mode, but switched to common, every-day English when he recognized the puzzlement on Skip’s and MB’s faces.

  “It is as simple as tapping into a phone line or internet. The computer wouldn’t necessarily have to be on, but it’s a lot easier if it was.” Then he added, “Did you notice that the computer was on, just asleep?”

  Skip nodded.

  “As long as it’s on, he has access. Then, he can monitor from just about anywhere, especially if he knows their IP address, which I’m willing to bet he does.”

  “Why all the electronics in the younger brother’s room?” MB asked.

  “Yup,” Chet said.

  He stared long and hard at Pete.

  “Oh Jesus, no,” MB said quietly.

  Pete shr
ugged and said, “He’s about the same age Brett was when Dominico first molested him.”

  “Easy access. Availability. An uncle looking out for his nephew.” Skip added looking out the window. “If Dominico is molesting Bobby, I’m wondering who else he might be molesting in the extended family and just how much about it Brett’s brother knew.”

  “Good questions, Skip,” Pete said, impressed at the way Skip’s mind worked.

  “But why?” MB asked, shaking her head.

  “All about control,” Pete said turning and looking at the McGovern house. “As simple and ugly as control.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Indianapolis, Indiana

  The car hadn’t even pulled into the driveway yet when Bobby burst out the front door waving, dancing from foot to foot, and peering into the McGovern vehicle. It came to a stop, and he moved to the rear door where he knew Brett to be and was rewarded when Brett opened the door and climbed out.

  Bobby stepped forward, took gentle hold of his brother’s shoulders and said, “Brett?”

  Brett smiled at him, his eyes tearing up.

  “It’s over, right?” Bobby asked. “It’s over . . . done . . . right?” He asked, shaking him a little, hurting Brett’s shoulder without realizing he had done so.

  Brett nodded and said, “I’m home. It’s over.”

  Bobby broke down, wrapped Brett in a hug and both boys wept.

  “It’s okay, Bobby. It’s okay.”

  They stood almost the same height, Brett just a smidge taller, but not much more than that. Bobby had filled out to almost the same size as his older brother, and at first glance, they looked identical. They even had the same longish haircut.

  Eerie was what Brett thought at the time.

  “Bobby, be gentle of your brother’s shoulder, okay?” Victoria said.

  Brett smiled at her through his tears and said, “He’s okay, Mom. I missed him too.”