Nom de Guerre

by Gulvin, Jeff

  ‘Anybody talk to him?’

  ‘Nope. He left the morning she got killed, drove back to Alabama. We haven’t been able to trace him or the truck.’ He sucked juice and swallowed again.

  The Franklin County Detention Center was situated behind the small shopping complex on James Little Street, in Carnesville. The GBI agent explained to them that the murder of Mary Poynton had taken place right where three counties meet: Franklin, Hart and Madison. If it had been a couple of blocks in either direction, it would have fallen into Hart or Madison’s jurisdiction. ‘Don’t suppose they have too many murders way out here in the boonies,’ Harrison muttered. ‘County dicks musta been pissed when you got involved.’

  The medical examiner was sitting with the chief of deputies and the investigating detective who had worked the case before they involved Chaney and the GBI. Sheriff Clayburgh came through from his office when he heard them arrive. He looked at Mallory with a hint of scorn in his eye, then at the clean-cut young buck from Atlanta, and finally rolled a cursory glance over Harrison. ‘You all FBI?’ he asked.

  Harrison nodded, and took a pinch of chew from his pocket and stuck it under his lip. Clayburgh looked at Mallory. ‘You the profiler?’

  ‘Yes. Child Abduction and Serial Killer Unit. CASKU, in Quantico.’

  ‘Right.’ Clayburgh scratched the hairs that jutted from above his collar. ‘Y’all think we got us one here then, a serial killer, I mean?’

  Mallory smiled at him. ‘Sheriff, I don’t know anything yet. I want to check a few details with the ME.’

  ‘Y’all go ahead.’ Clayburgh sat down and folded his arms, watching Mallory’s skin redden at the base of her neck.

  Harrison had to hand it to her, she controlled it well. She would be a psychology graduate, probably Master’s level. The team that they had up in Quantico were all about as good as it gets. He could imagine the jokes flying when she got back; toothless, redneck sheriffs and hill-billy cops all spitting tobacco juice. She spoke carefully and clinically to the ME, going over every inch of his report. Then she spoke with the crime scene team that had attended the scene from Carnesville, then Chaney again in detail. Both she and Harrison wanted to view the crime scene, but the sun was fading now and they had to find a motel. Collins stayed with them and they ate dinner in the small diner by the BP station. Chaney had gone back to Athens.

  ‘It ain’t the same guy, is it,’ Harrison said to Mallory as she picked at her salad, the fork held loosely between forefinger and thumb.

  ‘I don’t think so. But I need to see the crime scene.’

  ‘The method of strangulation is different for starters,’ Harrison continued. ‘The file I got from John Cochrane indicates that the bruising marks are different. He’s used his forearm or something.’ He made a gesture like a wrestler. ‘Some kinda headlock, anyways. He’s never used a rope or a cord.’

  ‘This is a cord,’ she said, ‘probably plastic-coated. There are no rope burns, the bruising is smooth.’

  ‘But what about cutting off the nipple, that’s exactly the same?’ Collins drank mineral water.

  Harrison looked across the table at him as he chewed. ‘You got a point, bubba.’

  ‘Quit calling me bubba.’

  Harrison winked at Mallory, then looked back at Collins. ‘Come on, man. Lighten up.’ He leaned forward then. ‘The breast mutilation is the same, yes, but the rest is different. The age of the victim, the distance from the original crime scene, which was Desoto Parish, Louisiana. Every other killing’s been within a day’s drive of that parish.’

  ‘Maybe he changed his job,’ Collins went on.

  ‘Maybe he did.’ Mallory looked squarely at him. ‘But he got the method of strangulation wrong. All we’ve ever released about this guy is the fact that the victims were strangled. We couldn’t keep that quiet, anyways. There’re telltale signs that the press, who managed to get pictures, would know about. Burst blood vessels in the eyes are a giveaway.’

  ‘You released the post-mortem mutilation stuff, though,’ Harrison interrupted her.

  She nodded. ‘We did. In consultation with the victims’ families. We hoped it might trigger something in somebody’s mind.’

  ‘And did it?’ Collins asked.

  ‘About five hundred phone calls.’

  ‘All of ’em dud, right?’ Harrison sucked cigarette smoke.

  ‘Right.’ Mallory sipped water. ‘We did not, however, let out the fact that all of the victims had been killed in exactly the same manner. Just that they were strangled. We concentrated our efforts, after Fugitive Publicity got involved, on the big men that were reported to us. Louisiana men.’

  ‘All go home to momma,’ Harrison muttered.

  ‘What?’ Collins glanced at him.

  ‘It don’t matter. The dope,’ he went on. ‘That’s a first too.’

  ‘It is. Nothing we’ve got so far has indicated somebody using drugs. The opposite, matter of fact, in many ways.’

  ‘What about as a facilitator?’ Collins asked. ‘Like Bundy and booze. From what I read he couldn’t kill unless he was fucked up.’

  Mallory glanced at him. ‘It’s possible. We’ve just not seen any evidence of it till now.’

  ‘The black guy in the truck’s more than just coincidence,’ Harrison said. ‘Three days in town. Alabama plates. And no sign of either him or the truck since.’

  ‘Casing the joint properly,’ Collins put in.

  ‘Three-day surveillance.’ Harrison made a face. ‘You must want her pretty bad to go to all that trouble.’ He gestured at Mallory with his fork. ‘Who was she, anyway?’

  ‘I’ve not done any digging, Harrison. The GBI’ll be doing the full background stuff. I guess she was insured. Maybe the husband paid somebody.’ She smiled then. ‘That bit’s not our problem. We’re here to establish an indisputable link with what we’ve seen in Louisiana. I want to look at the crime scene, but I’m almost positive there is no link. Somebody killed Mary Poynton for reasons of their own and made it look like our guy.’

  8

  BOESE WALKED IN CIRCLES, edging the wire-meshed double fence of the exercise yard; hands in his jacket pockets, his collar turned up against the breeze that came in flat from the west. Morgan walked the other way and they passed each other every circuit, bars on all sides, bars above their heads. Boese could hear the rumble of lorries from the other side of the wall. Yesterday, Morgan’s sister had visited him. Since then he had waited, watched, wondered. Terlucci appeared to be growing bold again. The Blues Brothers, perhaps, goading him about not having the guts to do what he always bragged to them he would do. If he came at him again, Boese knew that the ice in his words would not be enough. He wanted to avoid trouble, though, particularly now. He watched Terlucci as they exercised, hands in his pockets like everyone else. He ambled behind Morgan, the Blues Brothers behind him. Boese watched his hands, and considered what kind of weapon he had in those pockets. Terlucci was always armed. Morgan passed him and for a second their eyes met. Boese felt the sudden surge in his veins.

  The half-hour of exercise was over and they trooped back inside, the grey, wintry sky left behind. Boese went back to his cell, then came out and found Morgan setting up chesspieces. Terlucci was watching him from the pool table. Boese caught the eye of one of the wardens in the control room, and the man seemed to be intent upon Terlucci. Maybe they could sense the air of uncertainty that weighted the atmosphere. Boese had to watch Terlucci, but he was distracted by Morgan and Morgan’s sister. Terlucci had lost considerable face. Maybe the story had leaked to the outside and he faced ridicule and dishonour within his own brotherhood. Boese knew he would have to do something about him, before the Italian lost it completely. For the moment, though, he played chess. Morgan played with the level of seriousness he always applied, but slipped a cigarette paper to Boese as he took his queen. The game finished quickly after that, Boese allowing him to win. Morgan looked in his eyes, as if it was becoming more obvious. Boese left him to clea
r away the pieces.

  In his cell, he lay on his back and read a book, one of those they brought round from the library, carefully vetted so as not to incite any emotions that would be inappropriate in a place such as this. Boese ignored the printed words on the page, studying instead the coded message from Tal-Salem.

  DO YOU ORDER ANY BASIC FORM BUYING AT ONE OF ANY HOME-BASED MULTI-XEROXING MACHINES?

  ANY FINE QUEST MACHINE GENERATES WITH ZEST AND ZEAL.

  Lying on his bed, he selected the pertinent letters in his mind, and as he did so, the hairs lifted on the back of his neck. DOBBOABXAQGZZ. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he sat upright and looked again. Now he took the pencil from his pillowcase and marked out the words, suddenly oblivious to the risks. GREER DEAD TJ CC.

  Jorge Vaczka walked into the pub with Stahl. They bought bottles of Becks and sat at the bar to drink them. Outside, cars moved up and down the A3. Two motorcycles had been set on their side stands in the car park. Both of them new Triumphs. Vaczka looked in the mirror beyond the bar for faces seated behind them. Two men sat on their own in the corner, both in leathers, no patches, colours, or markings. Both of them had short-cut hair. Vaczka sucked on his bottle and then ordered two more, and they walked over to where the two men were sitting, both on the same side of the table. They had just finished a meal and the waitress cleared the dishes away as Vaczka and Stahl sat down. Nobody said anything for a moment or two. One of the bikers took a tin of tobacco from his pocket, rolled a cigarette and licked the glued edge of the paper before twisting up both ends. Stahl flicked a match for him.

  Vaczka looked at the other man—grey-eyed, short-cut hair, leather jacket and jeans, nothing to suggest anything about him. His eyes were cold and one of his hands lay fisted on the table. ‘We’re looking for a hero to carry the flag,’ Vaczka said softly. The man did not register that he had heard, his gaze falling beyond them to the bar, eyes moving steadily over drinkers and diners alike, before he looked in Vaczka’s face. ‘You found him,’ he replied.

  Back in New Orleans, Harrison gave the details of what he had learned in Georgia to John Cochrane. ‘Gal from the CASKU’s happy it’s not your “garbageman”, John Earl. We left it with the GBI’

  Cochrane took the file notes from him. ‘Nothing I need for the 302?’

  ‘Not as far as I can figure. It’s background stuff. I guess you could refer to it when you finally pop this guy, but none of it’s testimonial.’

  Cochrane looked gratefully at him. ‘Thanks for going up there, JB. Saved me a whole buncha trouble.’

  ‘No problem.’ Harrison left him then and went back downstairs. He looked for Penny and was told that he was getting something from his car. That gave Harrison an excuse for a cigarette and he took it.

  Penny was bending over the trunk of the car. Harrison came out the backstairs and plucked a cigarette from his shirt pocket. He popped a match on his fingernail and Penny jumped at the sound. He came up with ‘Excalibur’ in his hands. ‘Jesus, Harrison. Don’t do that.’

  Harrison grinned at him and flapped out the match. The day was warm, the sun full in the sky and it reflected across the flat concrete floor like a mirror from the building across the street.

  ‘What you doing?’ Harrison asked him, nodding to the sniper’s rifle cradled in Penny’s hands. They were both SWAT-trained, and formed a sniper observer team, Harrison watching Penny’s back. The black, hand-made 308 was Matt Penny’s baby.

  ‘Just sorting through my gear.’ Penny held up the gun. ‘The sponge is coming off.’ He indicated the cheekwell space on the stock, where he had fixed a piece of sponge so he could lock in position quickly and without looking, then fire accurately at will.

  ‘Use that thing in Montana?’ Harrison asked him. Penny had been at the eighty-one day stand-off with the Freemen, as part of the regional response team.

  ‘Took her, never fired a shot.’ Penny replaced ‘Excalibur’ in her case. All the FBI sniper rifles were hand-made, specifically designed to fit their owners, by ex-US marine armourers who now worked for the FBI at Quantico. It was a 308-calibre with a 10 power scope. The barrel was free-floating, set in glass, and the recoil was your shoulder. Penny prided himself on being able to separate someone’s brain stem at two hundred yards. He closed the lid and snapped the catches shut.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Harrison asked, sucking on his cigarette.

  Penny took a pinch of snuff from his tin and placed it under his lip. ‘Martinez got busted last night.’

  ‘No kidding. Dealing?’

  ‘Possession.’ Penny leaned on the edge of the trunk. ‘Two grams of heroin, Harrison. Was driving like he was drunk and a road unit pulled him over on Sugar Bowl Drive. He’s downtown right now.’

  ‘Shit.’ Harrison took a Merit from his shirt.

  ‘It ain’t shit, ponyboy. It’s brilliant.’

  Harrison squinted at him.

  ‘Possession of heroin’ll get him five to ten on a federal rap,’ Penny said. ‘If he helps us nail Manx, then maybe that five could be a two or even just probation.’

  ‘So, what you thinking?’

  Penny shook his head at him. ‘Under Louisiana state law, possession of heroin gets you life in Angola.’

  Harrison’s battered face cracked open in a smile. ‘No shit,’ he said.

  They walked back to the stairs and Penny’s gaze wandered to the tattoo half exposed at the sleeve of Harrison’s T-shirt. Both of them had been in the military, fifteen years apart; though Penny as an officer, and he hadn’t seen any action. ‘What was it like down there, Harrison? In Cu-Chi, I mean?’

  Harrison shrugged his shoulders. ‘Dark. Snakes and spiders and stakes stuck in the ground.’

  ‘Just you and your gun, huh?’

  ‘You, your gun and him.’

  Penny shook his head. ‘Goddamn. What you got running through those veins, man, ice water?’

  ‘I’m older now, homeboy.’

  Penny kicked Harrison’s boot where the gun was strapped. ‘Sure you are,’ he said.

  They went back upstairs, Harrison suddenly aware of how he was thought of down here. When he had first arrived back in the summer, there had been all sorts of cracks about his appearance. He never wore a suit, never wore a tie, just jeans and T-shirts and his battered Idaho boots. The rat tattoo provoked conversation when it was visible and everyone knew that Agent Johnny ‘Buck’ Dollar, better known as Harrison, was the UCA who killed three men in a mine in Idaho. The jokes about his hair and his clothes were just that: underneath it all, most of the other street guys were in awe of him. The beaners and the dweebs did not even try to understand him.

  ‘You gonna talk to the DA’s office about Martinez?’ Harrison said.

  Penny nodded and picked up the phone.

  Harrison went out to take a leak and when he came back from the men’s room, Kirk Fitzpatrick was talking to Penny. ‘There y’are, hick,’ he said as Harrison came over. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I got Tom Kovalski upstairs. He wants to talk to you.’

  Harrison lifted one eyebrow. ‘What’s he doing this far south?’

  ‘Visiting me. I’m responsible for counter-terrorism down here.’

  Harrison followed him upstairs and found Kovalski sitting at the conference table in the ASAC’s office. ‘John, how are you?’ Kovalski stood up and offered his hand. He was roughly the same age as Harrison, with a lined, leathery face and thick brown hair. Harrison had known him a long time, right back to his rookie days after joining the FBI from the border patrol in New Mexico. He had done more than one undercover job for the Domestic Terrorism Section, the last one being in Idaho. Kovalski was deputy section chief now, and, unlike some of the other suits in D.C., he had been a damn good field agent.

  ‘See you didn’t cut your hair, then.’ Kovalski adjusted the knot of his tie and gestured to the chair alongside him. ‘What you working, SOG?’

  ‘Will be. R
ight now I’m helping out on the drugs squad.’

  ‘In the quarter?’

  ‘Got myself a room north of Bourbon Street.’ Harrison smiled wickedly. ‘I like the challenge at night.’

  Kovalski looked at him for a moment. Harrison was still lean and mean-looking in his faded denims and ponytail. His grey hair was thinner now and his eyes were wrinkled hollows of light, but they could still pierce you at ten paces. Kovalski thought about his grandchildren and gently shook his head. ‘You don’t change, Johnny.’

  ‘Yeah, I do. I’m old and creaky. Especially when it’s raining.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Kovalski paused then. ‘The arraignment date for Salvesen will be set next week.’

  ‘Good. I’m looking forward to seeing that sonofabitch go all the way to the bottom.’

  ‘And talking of which …’

  Harrison looked at him carefully. ‘You got some information for me, Tom?’

  Kovalski sat forward. ‘I spoke to Louis Byrne.’

  ‘About me?’

  ‘He was in London with the Foreign Emergency Search Team, wasn’t he.’ Kovalski fiddled with his fountain pen. ‘Matter of fact, he came to me. He’d heard the whisper that you were mad as hell about who might have compromised you, and he spoke to me.’ He laid down the pen again. ‘I gotta tell you, John, and I’m happy to be doing it, it’s nobody in the Bureau.’

  ‘You know for sure?’ Harrison cocked his head to one side.

  ‘Byrne does.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Right about the time you got burned, he was in Paris checking on Jack Swann’s girlfriend.’

  ‘Swann’s a British antiterrorist guy?’

  ‘Yeah. It was his girlfriend who was feeding information to Storm Crow. She knew he was in Paris, Johnny. He called her up and told her he was going.’