by Jette Harris
Walking in small circles, he shook out his arms and legs, then leaned against the wall to wait for Steyer’s cue. His muscles tensed up again as a deputy leaned against the wall behind him, a little too close for comfort.
Steyer took front and center, looking rather patriotic with the FBI seal projected across him, and raised his chin. This gesture was enough for everyone to take their seats or plant themselves against walls and fall silent.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve asked involved and interested to join us and Cheatham Hill Police Department to advise you of the possible risks emergency service providers and investigators may encounter while the Phoenix is present in your jurisdiction. These increased risks include espionage, sabotage, murder, and assault—both physical and sexual, for both male and female officers.”
A charge fell over the crowd, not quite a gasp, but a sudden pause.
“Starting now, I advise proceeding to all calls, all incidents, all inquiries with heightened caution.” He held up a finger. “Never respond alone.” He lifted another finger. “Always keep your partner in sight.”
Pausing, his gaze fell to the floor. He took a deep breath.
“As some of you know, we first became aware of the possibility of a serial killer in 1997, when four bodies were discovered among the remains of a house fire showing signs of torture: restraints, broken bones, different times of death, not by fire.” He cleared his throat. “Back then, my partner was a senior agent by the name of Elie Feingold. Our first day in Detroit, he was murdered while handling evidence.” Steyer spread his hands. “I had turned away for fewer than ten seconds. He was not three feet from me. A… jogger passed by, slipped a knife between his ribs, and stole the evidence, a cigarette butt. When I turned back, my partner was on the ground, and the perpetrator was too far for pursuit. Agent Feingold died within minutes, unable to speak.”
Steyer lowered his gaze again and swallowed.
“In 2002, when we suspected the Phoenix Killer had returned, this time in San Francisco, Agent Remington here—” He gestured toward where Remington leaned against the wall. “—was reassigned to me after two years with Organized Crimes. He accompanied me to California. We were there about a week before the Wi-Fi in the police station was sabotaged, and the hard drives were stolen from our computers. All of the digital evidence we had collected, all of our reports, gone.” He frowned and shook his head. “More relevant to you, the Phoenix murdered two San Francisco police officers, Officer James Ford and Corporal Kevin Woodall. Both were beaten to death; One while intervening during an abduction, and the other when the suspect returned to the scene of another abduction. Ford was alone. Woodall was with Agent Remington, who was also… assaulted.”
Steyer stepped over to the laptop hooked up to the projector. “We have footage from the location of the assault, which was an antique store owned and operated by one of the four San Francisco hostages.” He hit play and stood aside. “Please turn off the lights.”
As soon as the lights cut, Remington inched away from the deputy behind him. He did not want to be within arm’s reach of anyone during the viewing. Covering his face with his hand, he watched the footage through his fingers.
The screen flickered, and the interior of a cluttered antique studio appeared. The timestamp at the top corner read 14 SEPT 2002, 22:08. The camera was mounted on the wall behind a counter, covering both the register and the storefront. The infrared made marble and ivory glow in the darkness. The front windows were covered in butcher paper, the door with drawn blinds.
Outside, a shadow moved across the windows. It paused at the door, then pushed it open. A figure wearing a hooded sweatshirt entered the studio.
Remington squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to open them again. It was like watching a train wreck.
Since the camera only covered the front of the store, it did not offer an explanation as to why Corporal Woodall had been on the floor, eyes fixed open, with a crater in his skull. The camera had only caught the aftermath: the man, obscured by his hood, running out from the back room, pursued closely by Remington. Remington managed to grab his sweatshirt. In a graceful motion, the man ducked, slipping under Remington’s arm, and tackled him to the ground. They fought savagely until the man pinned him on his stomach. He beat Remington’s forehead against the cement floor until he stopped moving.
As if he did not know what was about to happen, Remington’s chest tightened when the Phoenix grabbed a nearby bust. The man rose it over his head, but paused. His shoulders heaved as he fought for breath. Sagging, he dropped the bust to one side. It shattered, sending luminescent pieces of porcelain across the floor.
Remington took a deep breath and held it. He tried to focus on the minute details and distance himself from the man sitting across his hips in the video. The Phoenix leaned down, disturbingly close to Remington’s face. He raised a hand—No rings, no watch, no tattoos…—and stroked Remington’s cheek.
Remington could not suppress a shudder as he watched the murderer turn his face from one side to another. With a movement so sudden it made Remington flinch, the Phoenix jumped to his feet. He took Remington’s ankles and dragged him into the back room.
Remington held his breath. After what felt like a torturous amount of time—in reality barely more than five minutes—the hooded figure ran back through the studio. He paused at the door, peering out, then disappeared. A few minutes later, Steyer appeared at the door, gun drawn, followed by a few police officers.
Without warning, the video cut off and the lights flicked on. Officers groaned and shouted, covering their eyes. Remington dropped his hand and took a deep breath. There wasn’t footage of what happened in the back room between Remington being dragged off-camera and Steyer arriving with the cavalry. Remington was grateful for that; He was content to know he had been found strung from the ceiling with his trousers around his ankles, according to Steyer’s incident report.
He didn’t want to know the rest.
45
Steyer was sitting behind his desk. It was uncharacteristically messy, cluttered with papers, reports, transcripts, manila folders, torn-open envelopes, a large stack of used coffee cups, and Post-its covered in indecipherable scribbles. Steyer wasn’t paying attention to anything there; His chair was turned, and he stared at the window, unmoving except his hand. He rhythmically tap-turned, tap-turned a pen on the desk. He would do this until he had either unraveled a problem or was interrupted.
This problem was not going to be unraveled any time soon. Remington recognized this the moment he walked into the office. Steyer did not notice. Pre-empting a potentially irritating workday, Remington confiscated the pen Steyer was tap-turning, and every other implement on the desk that could be tapped and turned. Steyer acknowledged him with an Oh, you’re here now glance and turned his gaze back to the window.
Steyer now occupied his hands by twisting the wedding band around his finger. He had known Steyer to do this until his hands were bloody and not realize it. Long bouts like these, with insanity-inducing pen-tapping or blood-letting ring-twisting, had solved several cases.
But not this one. Not yet.
The agents would clear and re-construct the wipe-board whenever they hit a wall. It grew cluttered with photos, notes, or details that may or may not be relevant. Remington stared at it, although he was no longer seeing it. Every once in a while, Steyer would think of something in his report, and look up to get a visual to go with the detail he was reading. He turned to the Detroit file, spread across his desk.
—Sandra Criss, 28—
—Benedict Criss, 42—
—Leila Speers, 24—
—Ian Kennedy, 32—
—chained and collared—
—24 Cherry Street, Detroit, MI—
Steyer glanced up, expecting to find a house. He had to remind himself the photo was not of the house, but the charred remains of a house. Curious, he leafed through the file until he came to a real estate picture they obtained. He scaven
ged through the other files for pre-fire pictures of the properties in San Francisco and Phoenix. The San Fran house had been extensively documented before the fire. All they had of the shack in Phoenix was a rough sketch the former property owner had drawn out on a napkin.
The bustling drew Remington’s attention. “Please tell me you’ve had one of your break-throughs.”
“No…” Steyer sighed, “just house-keeping.”
He emerged from behind his desk and slipped the pre-fire pictures on top of the post-fire pictures. Remington nodded. The small change altered the appearance of the board dramatically, but he couldn’t identify how.
“We need to find this house…” Remington muttered, leaning forward in his chair and running his hands over his exhausted eyes. He was about to suggest turning in, but when he looked up at Steyer, the senior agent had gone rigid.
“What?” Remington asked, afraid to feel hopeful.
“We need to find the house…”
“Yeah, that’s what I—”
“A vacant house,” Steyer continued. “A house where no one is supposed to be… but someone is.”
Remington wondered if Steyer needed a break, but before he could make a jab, Steyer threw open the door. There were three officers in the station at that hour: Kondorf, Byron, and Kline from the Sheriff’s Department.
“I need a list,” Steyer announced, clapping his hands. “We need to compile a list of houses that are currently vacant. Whether they are up for sale, abandoned, part-time homes, or the owner is on an extended vacation—anything, any reason. It will need to have been vacant for at least a month.” He turned to Kondorf. “We need every vacant property within a ten-mile radius, of, say, the high school. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Within seconds, everyone was shuffling papers or waking up their computers.
“We start making calls and doing drive-bys as soon as the sun is up,” Steyer concluded.
46
May, 2006
Washington, DC
Sam Wickes wore the light gray skirt suit. She must have known Remington was coming back. He slid the folder in his hand onto her desk and slipped into the file room, where she was rummaging through a drawer. She hadn’t heard him come in and yelped when he pressed his body against her back.
“Samantha…” he purred, slowly gathering her skirt up. She laughed. He would never admit it, but her laugh drove him mad. He kissed her neck. “You know, I’ve been thinking about your question…”
“And…?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but the door slammed. The closet went dark. He yanked Wickes’s skirt back down and pushed her into the corner.
“Remi—?”
“Shh!” He turned to the darkness.
A growling chuckle rose from in front of them. “Rrreeeem-miii…”
Remington froze. His heart pounded against his ribs. He reached behind him to reassure himself, but he found nothing. Wickes was gone.
“I’ve missed you,” the darkness said.
A body collided with his, wrapping powerful arms around his chest.
****
Remington shot up in bed with a shout. He heard the scrape of metal against wood from the other bed.
“Dream!” he gasped. “Just a… just a nightmare.”
A sigh. There was a fwump as Steyer collapsed back onto his pillow, followed shortly by soft snoring.
Quietly, so as not to get shot, Remington slipped out of bed and grabbed his phone. Shutting himself in the bathroom, he sat in the tub and dialed.
“Hello?” Wickes’s voice was heavy with sleep.
“Hey,” Remington whispered.
Wickes was suddenly awake. “Remi? Are you OK? Is Ritchie—”
“We’re fine.”
“Thank God. What time is it?”
“I don’t…” He checked the clock on his phone. It was after three. “Shit, I’m sorry. I just…” He stopped. She didn’t need to know about the nightmare.
“Remi?”
Remington sighed. He sank down until he was lying in the tub. “I was thinking about what you said the other day… What we talked about…”
“Remi, don’t—”
“I’ve made up my mind.”
“Oh.”
“I want you to keep the baby. We can get married.”
****
A tap on the door made Remington jump. He groaned, his neck and back stiff. Steyer stood in the doorway. He tilted his head.
“I woke up with my gun in my hand, and you slept in the bathtub… Did you have another nightmare?”
“Yeah.” Remington rubbed his face and stood, twisting his neck to loosen the muscles.
Steyer eyed the phone on the edge of the tub. “Calling in air support?”
“Emotional support.” Remington stepped out and stood before Steyer. To avoid complications at work, he was not supposed to tell anyone until after the marriage was final, but his partner raised his brow inquisitively. “You know how Sam and I would sometimes…”
“Fraternize?”
“Yeah… We’re getting married. She’s having—We’re having a baby.”
Steyer snorted, a smile playing on his lips. “It’s about time. Mazel tov,” he said. “When it rains, it pours. Speaking of…” He stood aside from the door.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”
Remington exited the bathroom. Before Steyer closed the door, he poked his head back out. “And Remington?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you bring a vest?”
Remington sighed. “Yeah.”
“Wear it.”
47
May, 2006
Atlanta
The officers collated their lists of several properties that were vacant or appeared abandoned, from houses belonging to deployed military personnel and being cared-for by relatives or neighbors, to the empty shells overtaken by kudzu. Locating the names of the property owners had been easy enough; Contacting them was the difficult part. Communicating their intentions and the reasons behind them was also a struggle for the officers. Young informed the FBI agents the department went through the same struggle every year, for fundraisers or whenever a particularly bad strain of flu spread through town.
Steyer sat down at his desk and scribbled out a rough template for the officers to follow if they were lucky enough to make contact with the property owners. It included a simple warning across the top:
Whatever you do, do not mention “serial killer.”
1.) Are you the owner of (property address)?
2.) Is the property currently vacant?
3.) When is the last time you or someone with your consent entered the property?
4.) May we have permission to enter the property?
If no—May we have permission to investigate the grounds?
5.) (If the property owner wishes to investigate personally) May an officer accompany you?
Steyer typed it out and made several copies. Each officer assisting with the calls had their own version of the pitch ironed out after the first few calls. Most of them, however, ended up leaving a voicemail sounding only slightly desperate, requesting a call back as soon as humanly possible.
That morning, the officers were able to verify twelve of the properties on the list were vacant, but only able to receive consent to investigate two of them. Both properties were real-estate listings awaiting renovation. All the agencies had to do was give them the code to the key box and their word they would stay away from the property until told otherwise.
When Steyer pulled the FBI fleet vehicle in front of the house, his eyes flickered over Remington’s chest to confirm a bullet proof vest bulged under his shirt. Remington’s fingers had been working the contours of his knee for the duration of the drive, and Steyer had to engage him in conversation to prevent him from grinding his teeth.
“We could wait for backup,” Steyer suggested.
Remington shook his head. “That’s ten minutes these kids might not have.�
� He shoved the door open.
The yard was overgrown, with a track in the grass from the road to the porch. The morning dew still clung to the grass on either side, but it didn’t look more than a few days old. Remington walked alongside it.
On the porch, they peered into the windows as they pulled on their gloves. The house appeared empty and neglected, with water stains on the ceiling and corpses of roaches littering the floor.
“The house in Detroit,” Remington asked, leaning over the porch railing to look in a far window, “what was it like?”
“Condemned.” Steyer punched the code into the key box and extracted the key. “Like many of the other houses in the area. I believe they cited potentially-catastrophic foundation issues.”
“He moved up,” Remington observed. The house in San Francisco had been a villa overlooking the ocean, vacant while awaiting the verdict of a highly-publicized divorce suit. Neighbors reported seeing a stranger—tall, dark, handsome—coming down from it to run on the beach every morning.
Steyer banged on the front door, powerful for his age. “Federal agents,” he yelled. “We’re entering the house.” He swung the door open. Guns down, they glanced around and stepped inside.
The house was silent and still. The agents glided from door to door, finding each room, closet, nook, and cranny empty. A window had been broken in the back bedroom, but the only sign of an occupant was a pile of blankets. Remington poked at it with his toe and holstered his gun.
“We can cross this address off the list,” Steyer said.
Remington sighed. He looked out the broken window into the large, unkempt backyard. He put his hands on his hips, looking much as he had at the attempted-retirement ceremony.
“The house in Phoenix, it was in the middle of nowhere, right?”