by Ethan Cross
Eventually she said, “Why do you think Belacourt personally asked me to be part of this case?”
“No idea.”
“Don’t give me that crap. I want an answer.”
Marcus rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Fine. They didn’t want too many investigators involved. The more people, the bigger the chance of someone figuring something out. So almost all the killings took place in Belacourt’s jurisdiction. That way he could control the flow of information.”
“You’re avoiding the question. Why me specifically? He didn’t want the feds involved, so he recruited one that he didn’t think was smart enough to hurt him. And he was right. I would never have figured any of this out without your help.”
He shook his head. “I don’t believe any of that. Belacourt just thought you were someone that he could control. I’ve reviewed your file. You’re a damn good agent. You’ve done fantastic work breaking up human-trafficking rings, and you shouldn’t come down hard on yourself because you’re not built for profiling serial killers. Belacourt might have seen you transferring from the BAU as a sign of weakness, but I see it as a display of strength. You realized it wasn’t a fit, and you figured out what was. Hell, I’ve tried to run from what I am my whole life.”
“Thank you, Marcus.”
He scratched at the stubble on his cheek and considered his next words carefully. “This may not be the best time, but there’s something else that I want to tell you. About the other night—”
“You don’t have to say anything to me. I know. But you probably should say something to Maggie.”
He laughed. “Maybe you’re not such a bad profiler after all.”
Vasques smiled back, but he could see sadness in her eyes. He wondered if the Maggie comment was just a self-conscious guess that he had now confirmed. She said, “What about Jansen? Do we know anything about him?”
“We’ve put out an all-points on him. I had Stan check his background while I was on my way back from Wisconsin. Pretty standard scumbag. Dishonorable discharge from the Marines. Went to Pontiac prison for assault. Started running with the Neo-Nazis, and later he turned to satanism. About two years ago, he dropped completely off the grid. But he’s a foot soldier. He’s not smart enough to be the Anarchist.”
“So we’re thinking this Harrison that Belacourt mentioned on the phone is our guy?”
“I think so.”
“What about the list of Camry owners? We should check that for the name Harrison.”
“Already did. No Harrison.”
“When did you do that?”
“In my head. I memorized the list. Your next question is going to be about the spouses, but no go there either. I had Stan add each spouse’s name onto the list as well.”
“What if it’s a company car?”
“I reviewed the list of businesses, too. Nothing that fits.”
Marcus’s phone rattled in its resting spot in the center console. He slid his finger across the screen to answer the call and then put the device on speaker. “What do we have, Stan?” he said.
“Belacourt just received a call from Jansen,” Stan said. “They’re meeting behind Jackson’s Grove mall in two hours. Belacourt said that he’d be driving a green Honda Civic and would park along the back edge of the parking lot’s far corner.”
Vasques asked, “Did he say anything else?”
“I can play it for you, but that was pretty much it. Short and to the point.”
Marcus slipped the Crown Vic into gear and pulled out onto Route 30, heading in the direction of the mall. This wasn’t going as he had hoped. Belacourt hadn’t given anything useful away on the phone, and the foot soldier was coming to the meeting instead of the general. Even if they took in both Jansen and Belacourt, there were no guarantees that it would lead to Conlan or the Anarchist. Belacourt might turn state’s evidence, but he might not. And if Marcus’s suspicions were correct, five women would be ritualistically murdered the next evening, and the clock was ticking. He growled and reached out to disconnect the call, but Vasques caught his hand.
She said, “Wait, Stan, was the list of Toyotas you pulled just for Illinois or did you include Indiana as well?”
“Just Illinois.”
“Indiana’s only a little over twenty minutes from here.”
“Okay, checking now.” There was a pause that lasted a few minutes as the phone line filled with nothing but the sound of clicking keys and the whir of computer fans. Then Stan said, “Nothing matching the name Harrison.”
Marcus added, “I’m fairly certain that the Anarchist lives within only a few minutes of Jackson’s Grove, if not within the city limits.”
She shook her head. “What about businesses, Stan?”
“One sec … I think I got something. There’s a security company called Schofield Security Associates that owns several Camrys.”
Marcus leaned toward the phone, as if closer proximity would make the answers more easily accessible. “That fits, Stan. Can you get a list of employees?”
“I can try, but I’ll have to hack their personnel files. Wait a second, I’m on their website now. They list the company officers, and one of them is named Harrison Schofield.”
“What’s his job?” Marcus said.
“Chief Financial Officer.”
“That’s him. Everything fits. Do you have an address?”
“Hold onto your butts, boys and girls, because our man Schofield lives right there in Jackson’s Grove.”
Marcus checked the time. A little after two in the afternoon. Schofield should have been at work, but he might already have received a warning from Jansen. They needed to take Schofield down soon or risk the killer escaping. If that happened, they might never find him, and those women would be as good as dead.
Everything was coming together and falling apart at the same time. He knew that Vasques wouldn’t let up on Belacourt, and he didn’t blame her. If Belacourt was the man responsible for his parents’ deaths, the monster inside Marcus would have broken free already and killed the cop slow and bloody. Vasques was handling it pretty well, all things considered. But there was no way she would let Belacourt get away.
Andrew was making some calls about Jansen and awaiting further orders, and Maggie was resting up from the Wisconsin trip. He could call both of them out, but they still didn’t have enough bodies. They were spread too thin.
“Stan, call Schofield’s office and find out if he’s there, but don’t tip him off in any way. Then get the local police department out there. Tell them that he’s a suspect in a serial-murder case and is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. Then send me his home address and the address for his office.”
Marcus disconnected the call, took a left on a side road, and pulled over. The tires rumbled as he tore through the snow to reach a parking spot next to a packaged liquor store named Cliff’s. Advertisements for twenty-dollar thirty-packs of Budweiser and seventeen-dollar bottles of gin hung in the front window.
Before he could speak, Vasques grabbed a handful of his shirt and leaned over the console to stare directly into his face. “I’m going after Belacourt. I won’t let him get away with this. And I won’t let anyone stand in my way.”
Glancing down at her hand, Marcus slipped the Crown Vic into park and said, “Don’t be so dramatic. I’m not trying to stop you from taking him down. You can be the one to slap the cuffs on or put him in the ground. I don’t care either way. But I’m calling Andrew to pick me up, and then I’m going after the Anarchist. I would suggest that you scramble your FBI friends and use a coordinated effort to arrest Belacourt and Jansen together. But I’ll leave that up to you. I’ll also send you Stan’s contact info. He’s at your disposal. Either way, good luck … and be careful.”
Without another word, he grabbed his phone and stepped out into the cold.
96
With a tan leather briefcase dangling from his right hand, Harrison Schofield stood in front of a large chrome and glass d
esk that held a computer and monitor. The woman behind the desk looked at him with questioning yet sympathetic eyes. Her name was Valerie, but everyone called her Val. She was in her mid-forties and had mocha skin and short black hair. Her lips pouted at all times as though she had just tasted something sour and one of her arms hung in a sling, the result of permanent nerve damage from a car accident. She had been like that for as long as Schofield could remember, and when he’d been younger, he had sat in front of his grandfather’s office and
watched her type proficiently with one hand and a special keyboard. Behind her was a door with large black letters embossed on a gold plaque. It read Raymond Schofield, President.
“Hello, Val,” he said. “Is he in?”
Schofield already knew the answer to his question before she even opened her mouth. He had known that Raymond was scheduled to meet with a prospective client concerning a lucrative contract to provide security for sports stadiums that the potential customer constructed all over the world. Unfortunately, he hadn’t known the details of the meeting and had been forced to monitor the security gate from his office window for the entire afternoon. Then, fifteen minutes ago, he had finally witnessed his grandfather’s big Bentley pull through the gate.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Schofield. He just stepped out for a meeting. Can I help you with anything?”
“That’s okay. I have some papers for him. I’ll leave them on his desk.”
He took a step toward the door, but Val said, “You can just leave them here with me.”
Once, when Schofield had been a boy, the Prophet had picked him up by the neck and slammed him down flat on his back. The wind had been knocked from his lungs, and he hadn’t been able to breathe. He felt the same way in that moment as he fought for words and stammered at the older woman. The silenced .22 caliber pistol felt heavy in his suit jacket’s inner pocket. He liked Val. He didn’t want to have to kill her.
But then Val stood up from the desk, patted him on the arm, and said, “It’s okay, Mr. Schofield. Go on in.” She reached out and pulled open the big black door for him.
Once inside and with the door shut, he was able to breathe again. But he didn’t have time to truly center himself; he needed to be in and out. There was a massive family photo of Raymond and himself with Eleanor and the kids hanging against the back wall. It was an old cliché to have a safe behind a picture or painting, but it was also the best way to conceal it. The hiding place was more for aesthetics than for security. The safe’s protection came from its advanced features: a keypad requiring a fifteen-digit PIN number and a biometric palm reader that monitored ambient skin viscosity and temperature to determine duress.
Luckily, his grandfather had given him the PIN and programmed his handprint. He felt bad for betraying the old man’s trust, but he was also confident that if Raymond knew the dire circumstances, he would have given the money freely.
The safe slid open with a whirring of gears and the whoosh of a breaking seal. Val would be expecting him to be back out soon, so Schofield wasted no time in loading his briefcase and suit pockets full of the stacks of money that he found inside the safe.
He closed the briefcase and locked it, but as he stepped back toward the door, he heard the sound of sirens and screeching tires. Rushing to the window, the sight outside nearly stopped his heart. This couldn’t be happening now. Not when he was so close to escape. Black and white police cruisers with their light bars shooting out red and blue pulses converged on the office from several directions.
He thought quickly. He had planned for various circumstances such as this and had multiple contingency plans. After all, that was where his aptitude lay. Assessing the risks, calculating the variables.
Moving quickly to the door, he cracked it open and said, “Val, could you come here for a moment? I have something very important to discuss with you.”
Schofield wondered if he would have had the courage to do what he was about to do before he’d taken the souls of his last several victims. He didn’t think so, but self-preservation was always a strong motivator.
Val stepped inside and shut the door behind her. As she was turning back to face him, he pulled the silenced pistol and jammed it into her face. Her eyes went wide, and she froze in place. He had always heard that your life flashes before your eyes just before death. He wondered if Val was experiencing that now. Did she find happiness or despair in those memories?
Schofield said, “I’m a murderer, Val. The newspapers and television anchors call me the Anarchist. I’ve killed many, many people. I’m telling you this so that you realize that you don’t know me or what I’m capable of. But I know you. I know your family. And if you don’t do exactly as I say, I will kill you and every member of your family that I can find.”
97
Marcus waited inside Cliff’s Liquor Store for Andrew to arrive. The place looked like an old grocery store that had gone out of business. Bottles were stacked haphazardly in an open cooler that had obviously been designed for fresh produce. There was metal shelf after metal shelf full of all types of liquors and different-flavored beers of all brands. Stan had instilled in him a taste for Scotch, and he wondered if downing a bottle of Glenlivet would help with the migraine throbbing at the back of his eyes. An older black man with a Jheri curl eyed him from behind the counter. Marcus wasn’t exactly up on the newest trends, but he was fairly certain that the man’s haircut had been out of style for over two decades.
His phone vibrated with a text message saying Here a moment before Andrew pulled up in the Yukon. He hopped in, and they headed back down Route 30 toward Indiana. The SUV was warm and welcoming and smelled of new leather. Checking his watch, he estimated that they’d be at Schofield’s office in twenty minutes.
Glancing toward the back seat, he said, “Where’s Maggie?”
Andrew’s gaze didn’t leave the road. “You’re not going to like it.”
“What?”
“She decided to check out Schofield’s house for any sign of the women or a clue to where they may be holding them.”
Andrew was right. Marcus didn’t like it. But Maggie was her own person and a competent agent. If he was going to lead this team, he would need to trust her and give her some operational leeway. In that moment, the realization struck him that he was exactly the kind of leader that he would never be able to work with. He had a real problem with authority and didn’t relish the idea of being a boss. But it wasn’t too late to rectify his mistakes.
He dialed Maggie, and she answered without saying hello. “Marcus, I know what I’m doing, and you’re not talking me out of anything. You’ll just—”
“Whoa, slow down. I wasn’t calling to talk you out of it. I trust your judgment.”
Total silence filled the other end of the line for a long moment, but then she said, “Thank you.”
“Just remember that Schofield may be contained, but Conlan is still out there. Be careful.”
“I will.”
“Maggie, you know that …”
“What is it?”
“Just keep me posted,” Marcus said as he ended the call.
The south suburbs whipped by outside the window. The radio was off; the only sound was from the heat pumping out of the Yukon’s vents. Andrew looked at him sideways from the driver’s seat. The surprise on his partner’s face was clear to see but Andrew didn’t say a word.
98
Maggie pulled her rental car, a light blue Kia Rio, up to the curb in front of the address that Stan had given her. The GPS unit resting on the dark gray dashboard had found Schofield’s home easily, but she still checked the address in the device to be sure. The house wasn’t at all what she had expected. It was a massive and gorgeous red-brick structure. Professionally landscaped plants and shrubbery, still visible beneath a layer of snow, bordered the house. A stamped concrete walkway that matched the home’s brick led up to the front door and then around the side. The sidewalk and the driveway had been recently shoveled.
She parked two houses down and backtracked to Schofield’s front door. It was made of heavy oak and was the color of maple syrup. There was no answer when she knocked, and so she made her way around the side of the house to the back. She discovered a large backyard housing an in-ground pool, a covered patio with a built-in grill, and a balcony leading off what she assumed to be the master bathroom. A large building housing another garage and a workshop or pool house rested along the back half of the property. It was covered with the same intricately patterned brick as the house.
Schofield worked for a security company, and it seemed highly unlikely that he wouldn’t have top-of-the-line protection for his home. Luckily, Maggie had Stan on her side. He had already broken into SSA’s database and extracted the disarm code along with Schofield’s personnel file.
After picking the lock, she entered the house and punched the code into a number pad hanging on the wall a few feet from the entryway. The kitchen was all chrome and granite and dark, ornate wood. Elaborate decorative patterns lined the hardwood floors. The house had a new and clean smell mixed with the aroma of French vanilla.
Maggie called out to make sure that no one was home, and then she walked through the ground floor. All the rooms had been beautifully decorated by someone with elegant and expensive tastes, but the house still had a strange feeling of homeyness. There was no doubt that a family lived there, evidenced by little things like colored pictures hanging on the refrigerator and baseball gloves lying discarded on the granite countertop.
There was a large staircase that curled up to the second story from an inviting foyer, but she decided to check for a basement first. If Schofield was hiding something from his wife, that was where Maggie would find it. She doubted that a man living with a wife and children would be able to hide anything right under their noses, but she also knew that people often saw only what they wanted to see.