“Damn! So, where the hell do we start?”
“We start with the crime scene. I have to see this for myself. Are we going to make the flight to New York?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get us there in time.”
Foxx pressed harder on the accelerator, surging onward to eighty miles per hour. They didn’t have flashing lights or sirens, but there was no way they were going to miss that flight.
*****
As much as Alan wanted to go straight to the crime scene from the airport, SAC Judd Talbot had demanded they first go to the FBI field office at Federal Plaza in New York City. This placed the normally mild-mannered Beach in a direct confrontation with his immediate superior in the SAC’s office.
“You forget yourself, Beach!” Talbot raised his voice to remind Alan of his authority. “You’re a new agent. What makes you think you’re qualified to lead such an investigation? Don’t bother answering, that was purely rhetorical. I’ll be assigning the case to more senior agents.”
“Why did you bother calling to tell me then?” Beach countered, trying to keep his anger in check.
“It was a courtesy because of your involvement in the Devlin case. Now get back to -” Talbot stopped mid-sentence and cleared his throat. “Afternoon, sir,” he said, snapping to attention upon seeing FBI Deputy Director Iain Whyley round the corner into his office.
Talbot was obviously taken aback by the appearance, in his little corner of the world, of the second-in-command of the Bureau. Whyley gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry to take this out of your hands, Judd, but Director Jamison has specifically requested Beach on this case.”
Despite the deference due his boss’ boss, Talbot bristled at the interference. “With all due respect, sir, there are far more experienced -”
“I’ve learned not to question the Director,” Whyley interrupted. “I’m sure you can too.”
“Of course, sir. Excuse me.”
“It’s all right, I appreciate your position, but the Director obviously has his reasons. Besides, I think we sometimes forget Senior Special Agent Beach’s distinguished record as a veteran homicide detective.”
Was Whyley being sarcastic? Beach searched for signs of this and didn’t see any. It seemed the Deputy Director’s comment was a genuine attempt to smooth over the situation by offering Talbot a graceful way out. Wisely, the SAC took the opportunity.
“I suppose I do sometimes forget your experience, Agent Beach. One of the hazards of being the new guy, I guess. I’m sure you and Foxx are up to the task. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thank you, sir. I fully understand your position.”
As if on cue, Foxx jumped in, “We’ll keep you up to date, and don’t worry, we won’t let you down, sir - or sirs, I mean.”
Whyley smiled thinly and left the office. Talbot had lost the battle and knew it, but he’d managed to salvage some dignity. He held out his hand to Beach. “This has the potential to be a huge win for the Bureau, Agent Beach - or a massive loss. I meant what I said. If you need anything, let me know. I know you had direct interaction with Bryan Adler when he was still alive, so you’re familiar with his history and psychological profile. But remember, Adler is long gone. We’re potentially looking at either a copycat or a former killing partner. You’re going to need the Bureau’s full resources, so push everything through me, and I’ll make sure you get priority on lab tests, profiling, whatever comes up.”
Alan accepted the handshake. “Thank you, sir, and I apologize for my earlier outburst. Adler had a significant effect on me. If someone’s out there perpetuating his legacy, I need to stop them.”
“We need to stop them.” Foxx chimed in.
“Sorry, partner. Of course, we’ll get this done. If it is a copycat, my knowledge of Adler’s history and M.O. will help us to distinguish any disparities in this case - and Foxx’s skills speak for themselves. Don’t worry, sir - we’ve got this.”
With the mood lightened, Talbot sat down at his desk. “Well, what are you waiting for? Keep me posted.”
Foxx and Beach glanced at each other then left without further words. Within fifteen minutes, they were in their standard FBI-issue black SUV heading out of the city toward Poughkeepsie, about eighty-five miles north of the Big Apple. With Foxx at his usual place behind the wheel, Alan explained as much as he could about Bryan Adler and his infamous crimes. He discussed the killer’s childhood on a remote farm in Arkansas, the extreme physical and emotional abuse he’d suffered at the hands of both parents, and the trigger which had ultimately transformed him into one of the most notorious serial killers in American history.
Not yet fourteen, his body toughened and scarred from a lifetime of hard physical labor and terrible abuse, young Bryan Adler had been enduring one of his religious zealot father’s regular, merciless whippings. Between lashes from the thick leather belt, Bryan had looked up through streaming tears to see a fencing hammer within his reach on the workbench. Something inside him, stretched beyond breaking point, had snapped. Seizing the opportunity, he’d turned and smashed the hammer into his father’s head, stunning the bigger man. Then with years of built-up rage, Bryan had used his fists to beat Curtis Adler’s face into a jellied pulp. Finally, he’d grabbed a rusted cut-throat razor from the bench and slit his father’s throat ear-to-ear.
Bryan’s mother, Ruth, the illegitimate daughter of two first cousins, had come upon the scene. Seeing her beloved husband lying dead in a pool of blood, she’d snatched the razor from the floor and cut a large diagonal swath across her own forearm. Bryan had watched, mesmerized by the river of blood flowing from his mother’s wound as it converged and pooled with his father’s. As each pulse of life force flowed from his mother’s arm, the boy had felt his own pain and anguish flow out of him. It was this gruesome but liberating scene that Adler sought to relive through each double homicide he carefully planned and committed, beginning years after the original event.
Following several months living and learning the cunning ways of the hobo, Bryan had been discovered by social services authorities and put into the foster-care system until he came of age. Prior to that, the budding serial-killer had had no schooling other than daily enforced reading of the Old Testament. However, once his formal education began, he’d proven an extremely intelligent, fast-learning pupil with a genius level IQ.
His uncanny intelligence along with seemingly unnatural physical strength had made him an extremely formidable killer. A clever, methodical approach, combined with unremarkable victim choices, and random locations throughout the country had prevented his horrific crimes from being linked for several years after his murder spree started. When he was finally caught, it had been by pure, dumb luck, and during his interrogations and closed legal proceedings, Adler had made certain that every law enforcement agency was reminded of that fact at every possible opportunity.
With each crime and successful elusion of capture, a macabre vanity and arrogance had grown within Adler. Once he was convicted and securely incarcerated at the Sherbourne Institute for the Criminally Insane, Adler’s only amusement was demonstrating his intellectual superiority over people he felt worthy of his attentions. Persons of lesser intellect were either ignored or disdainfully tolerated, as he schemed to amuse himself at the expense of his doctors, therapists, and other more intellectual probers.
Absorbing Alan’s history lesson on Adler, Foxx could only shake his head. “Man. this guy was seriously twisted!”
“Beyond belief. Then again, only he knew the misery he suffered at the hands of his own parents for all those years.”
“Okay, but all those innocent couples he brutally murdered, what the hell did they ever do to him?”
“Don’t try to understand the acts. Whatever horrors he endured obviously drove him quite mad. There doesn’t need to be a valid reason for someone like him to kill, only a primal drive to relive the day he escaped his own private hell.”
“I guess I’ll never get psychos. T
hink I’ll leave that to you, and just do the grunt work.”
“I can’t say I get them either, but I have to use every shred of information I have to help us catch whoever is responsible for this new nightmare. Anyway, you need to know the details of Adler’s M.O. so you can fully participate in the investigation by looking for any disparities between his crimes and the new one. Because I can tell you one thing for sure - this is only the first of many to come until we stop it.”
Alan described how Adler had stalked his victims; waiting and watching for the unfortunate young couples to demonstrate the tiniest hint of what he could perceive as abuse toward their children. Anything would do - from minor corporal punishment to a harsh word. Even harmless discipline, by normal societal standards, was enough to trigger Adler’s ultraviolent response and set his gruesome game in play.
He would take his time to closely observe his victims’ daily routines, associations with outsiders, security measures, and individual behaviors, until he was familiar with all aspects of their lives. When he was confident he could complete his scenario and safely escape, he’d gain access to the family’s home by disguising himself as a delivery man using a stolen uniform. Holding an empty box in front of him, he’d create a scenario believable to anyone looking through a peephole or a window. When the husband or wife answered, he’d calmly step forward to block the door from being closed, pull the pistol from its concealment in the box, order the first victim backward into the house, and lock the door behind him.
He would then force the wife to bind her husband to a chair using plastic zip ties he’d brought with him. The wife would then be tied to a chair facing her husband so Adler could silently savor the fear in his victims’ eyes for several moments before bringing their child into the room. He would force the mother to admit all their faults as parents, no matter how petty, by holding the child on his lap, causing the mother to fear for her offspring’s life. Once satisfied with her confessions, he would gag the mother and beat the father senseless with his bare fists. While the mother whimpered in horror, he would slit the father’s throat from ear to ear with his cutthroat razor, watching him bleed to death.
With any physical threat from the father neutralized, Adler would begin a methodical psychological assault on the mother, asking tonelessly and devoid of emotion why she was such a bad mother; how she could be so neglectful, cruel, and uncaring toward her child - and so unworthy of the blessing God had given her.
Having been forced to witness her husband’s brutal murder, and observing the madman’s menacing glances at her child, the mother would eventually break and comply with his demand that she take her own life. He would then release her right hand and pass her the cutthroat razor, hypnotically goading her to release her child from the grip of its evil parents. Finally, to save her child, the mother would follow his instruction to slit her own inner forearm, diagonally from the base of her wrist, almost to the crease of her elbow. With the length and angle of the wound, there was no hope of stemming the blood flow from two major arteries. Adler would watch as the life drained from the woman’s eyes, just as he’d watched his own mother’s dying eyes in a rickety tool shed on a remote Arkansas farm years before. Adler would then put the child in its bedroom, remove all his tools and evidence, and calmly disappear into the night.
The monster didn’t care what the police thought, as his planning and execution were so meticulous that no incriminating evidence was ever found. The only certainty the police and FBI knew was that violent deaths were occurring all over the country with the same details and modus operandi. Naturally they suspected a serial killer but with nothing to give them any direction, they were left scratching their heads.
Foxx broke his silence. “So the scene we’re going to, it’s exactly the same as Adler’s crime scenes?”
“I’m afraid so. This couple was brutally murdered and their young son is now left an orphan just like in Adler’s infamous crimes.”
“Like I said, man - one twisted son of a bitch.”
The two partners continued to discuss details and investigative strategy until they arrived at their destination in Poughkeepsie. The SUV’s GPS system guided them down a small street until yellow and black crime-scene tape came into view strung around the property’s boundary. It was nearly ten o’clock at night. The crime scene technicians and preliminary investigation officers had long since finished their jobs and left the site in darkness. Foxx left the car lights on, and pointed at the house, to guide their entrance. They ducked under the tape to walk across the front yard, and pushed open the front door of the brick bungalow. What they saw in the middle of the living room resembled a massive reproduction of bad 1970’s Pop Art in deep reddish-brown.
The grey nylon carpet was heavily matted with congealing blood and clumped in various directions by random footprints during removal of the parents’ bodies from the scene. Beach and Foxx would need to view the crime scene photographs to see the exact location and positions in which the bodies were originally found. Those details were secondary, though, as Foxx stood with his eyes transfixed on the gruesome scene before him. Alan sunk to his haunches at the edge of the vast bloodstain, recalling in vivid detail a similar scene in Dr. Helen Benson’s apartment in Columbus, Ohio.
Even a year later he was overcome with emotion recalling Dr. Benson’s husband in the aftermath of his wife’s murder. The distraught man had been covered in Helen Benson’s blood from his attempts to revive her. Inconsolable during questioning, he’d been unable to provide any reason his wife would commit suicide. Mr. Benson’s sincerity and genuine shock had formed part of Beach’s motivation to dig so deeply into the circumstances of her death. Suspicious surveillance footage and other evidence had eventually led him to discover that the serial killer, Bryan Adler, was not responsible for Benson’s death. Alan had kept digging until he eventually uncovered the massive Devlin conspiracy, which led to his recruitment by the FBI.
Shaking himself free of the tragic memory, Beach focused on the larger and even gorier scene before him. After a few moments of contemplation, he stood, turning to his partner. Foxx had been scratching his head as if still in disbelief, but now, as he brought his hand down past his line of sight, his eyes bulged with the realization that his fingers were covered in thick, dark blood. Alan’s face contorted too, seeing a trail of the oozing liquid slide slowly down his partner’s forehead like red molasses. Beach’s mind raced, trying to grasp what was happening, as a deep, creaking groan emanated from above them.
The two FBI agents jerked their heads upward to see that a six-foot oval of the plasterboard ceiling was sagging badly. The groan changed to a sharper sound just before, seemingly in slow motion, the entire section of ceiling collapsed onto the floor directly in front of Foxx, leaving small chunks of the chalky material stuck in his hair. The crashing sounds of drywall hitting the floor was accompanied by a deeper thud. Alan stared in horror at the floor between him and his partner. Foxx shook his head vigorously to free his hair and eyes of the dust and fallen debris. The moist darkness surrounding his eyes contrasted comically against his dust covered face. As his vision began to clear, it took a couple of seconds for his mind to process the scene. He could manage only two words - “Holy shit!”
On the floor between them lay the dead body of a large, muscular man. He was dressed in black, complete with military-style combat boots and gloves. His face was beaten beyond recognition.
Chapter 4
Mike Lee’s revelation had briefly thrown the normally unflappable Jake Riley into an emotional whirlpool. The big man shook his head, as though resetting his brain. He leaned in close to Mike, so they could hear each other over the cacophony of loud music and street-market sounds. “How is that possible? You told me the case file was completely inaccessible. I even got Equilibrium to hack into the CIA records system, but there’s no electronic record.”
Mike looked surprised. “Equilibrium is probably the best computer jock in the world, but since the only exi
sting file is on hard copy, and eyes only for the Director, there’s no way to access it electronically. But what are you doing mixed up with that hacker anyway? Wasn’t he a CIA target a few years ago?”
Jake paused, realizing Mike didn’t know Equilibrium was actually a woman – a beautiful woman with whom he now had a very personal relationship.
In fact, he decided, it would be best to keep details of his new lover secret from Mike. “Turned out the boys at Langley had it wrong. Equilibrium was removed from the target list. Anyway, let’s get back on point. How the hell did you find out about Shane’s killer - and what’s his name?”
Now it was Lee’s turn at secrecy. “All I can tell you is, I got it from a friend in the NSA - any more than that and I’m jeopardizing my contact. But believe me when I say the intel is rock-solid. The name is Sergey Ugolev. He’s definitely the guy who fired the shots that killed your brother.”
Jake’s elite military training, and years of experience in dangerous covert operations, made him a different kind of man. The news that he might finally have the chance to avenge his brother’s death was deeply savored, but the effects of this revelation remained invisible to the outside world. Emotion was not something Jake outwardly expressed, especially in such solemn matters. Not that he was devoid of true feeling - far from it - but his experiences had molded his public persona to the point where even his closest associates had difficulty discerning changes in his mood.
With the name, Sergey Ugolev, burning indelibly into his mind, Jake’s mouth formed an almost imperceptible grin. “How long do I have to wait?”
“Not long, my friend. He’s on the move right now, but my guy says he’ll be in Pattaya the day-after-tomorrow, checking up on his Thai operations. I know your sights are set, but there’s nothing you can do right now, so let’s take the night to catch up on old times then head down there tomorrow afternoon for some recon. I’ve got transport arranged for 1300 hours. Sound good?”
The Killing Chase (Beach & Riley Book 2) Page 3