by Kylie Brant
“Whoever went to the trouble of making a fake work identification badge probably obtained other forms of false ID, as well,” Cady pointed out.
Ryder had already figured the same. Aldeen was likely equipped with not only a vehicle but a new identity. Formidable obstacles if the man managed to slip through the law enforcement perimeter they’d erected.
The guard who had accompanied them stuck his head inside the room. “Director Isaacson just radioed. Dr. Luttrell has arrived.”
“The psychiatrist,” Ryder said in an aside to Cady as he headed for the door. “If anyone can help us get inside Aldeen’s head, it’ll be him.”
Fifteen minutes later Ryder was mentally reevaluating his earlier assertion.
“You understand, I’m bound by patient confidentiality,” Luttrell was saying. The stout doctor stroked his gray goatee nervously as they all settled into chairs around a conference room in the treatment ward. “As such, I can’t reveal any specifics shared by Samuel Aldeen, either in group or in individual sessions.”
“Let’s deal with your clinical expertise for now,” Ryder said. There were six of them around the table: Luttrell, Cady, Ryder, SBI agent Sweeney, Isaacson, and Bob Hammill, one of Ryder’s investigative deputies. Hammill had a notebook out to document the meeting. “Start with his diagnosis, and what to expect as far as his behavior.”
Luttrell seemed relieved at the topic. He removed his dark-framed glasses and polished them with a handkerchief he took from his coat pocket. “In short, Samuel has schizophrenia with paranoia.” He held up the glasses to look through them and, seeming satisfied, settled them back on his nose and put the handkerchief away. “When untreated, he suffers from delusions, visual hallucinations, and an inability to separate his symptoms from reality. He also exhibits a raft of sexual deviancies separate from, but impacted by, his mental illness.”
“You’re saying his medical diagnosis isn’t the cause of his compulsion to kidnap, rape, and cannibalize children?” Cady sounded surprised. “He was declared criminally insane. Do you disagree with the court’s findings?”
“He was found incapable of telling right from wrong,” Luttrell corrected her. “What I meant was his schizophrenia isn’t responsible for the parallel fetishes. They may well have existed even if he had no mental illness.”
“Like the sexual fetishes are sane,” Sweeney muttered.
“His illness didn’t cause his paraphilia.” The doctor seemed to choose his words carefully. “But it likely hampered his ability to distinguish the acts as wrong. I can speak more freely if I reference only the information found in the court transcripts, which would be available to the public. Samuel has delusions he’s some sort of demigod, and that people around him seek to steal his blood or organs to immortalize themselves at his expense. His acts of cannibalism are an attempt to rebuild the strength he believes he has lost through those interactions.”
There was a stunned silence in the room as the laypeople digested that. Sweeney spoke first. “I take it back. This guy is seriously warped.”
“Any chance he was putting on a show for the judge?” Ryder asked. “You’ve spent the last—what—three years treating him? You keep records of the time you spend with him, right?”
“Regular progress notes are kept of all sessions.” It was Isaacson’s first contribution to the conversation. “I think what these people are most interested in, Dr. Luttrell, is the chance of recidivism.”
“Is he going to victimize another child while he’s free?” Ryder put in. After Luttrell’s other revelations, the question took on even more urgency. What was the risk assessment for the public?
Luttrell stroked his goatee, his fingers trembling slightly. “Samuel has been a model patient here. He’s well behaved. He’s done everything requested of him.” The doctor seemed to hesitate.
“But . . .” Ryder prompted.
“I’m not altogether certain he’s been forthcoming about the continuing effects of his illness. And I alerted the nurses to do mouth checks after giving medication. Some of our patients are sly about palming the pills or regurgitating them later.” The doctor shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s tempting to believe my help has been advantageous for him. But therapy is a long game. In the short term, I don’t usually see the sort of progress he would have me believe.” He snapped his mouth shut, as if already regretting his candor. But his implication was clear to everyone in the room.
“You think he was playing you?” Cady asked.
“Not necessarily,” Luttrell said slowly, removing his glasses again. “It would be exceedingly difficult to pretend an absence of symptoms long-term. I noted more than once I thought he was putting up a falsely positive front. Despite our extended time together, I have never come close to the root of his paraphilia. That, of course, is one example of lack of headway. One of the two things I’m most concerned about is he won’t have access to his meds on the outside, which keep the symptoms of his psychosis controlled.”
The doctor paused, and Ryder’s gut clenched.
“The second is my certainty that given the opportunity, Samuel Aldeen will act on his sexual fetishes again. He’ll feel compelled to. No child is safe around him.”
Samuel
Dawn was tingeing the horizon with pink when Samuel pulled up to the address he’d been searching for. He got out of the car, taking a moment to study the property. The house was as described. Shielded by firs on all sides, with no close neighbors. He closed the car door quietly and approached the structure. It was a bit more dilapidated than he’d expected. Yet another sign of how desperate Joe was for money.
Avoiding the front porch, he rounded the small house and climbed the back steps silently. There had been nothing on the radio about his escape. He wondered if law enforcement had managed to keep it silent or whether the staff at Fristol was so incompetent they hadn’t discovered him gone yet. It would be a mistake to underestimate their progress, he mused as he reached out to turn the doorknob. Finding it open, he walked into a postage-stamp kitchen with a small table shoved against one wall. It was neat. Tidy. Joe seemed to take his substitute custodial duties seriously at Fristol. His diligence was evident here as well.
Smiling slightly, Samuel walked into the adjoining room. He found the man he was seeking sitting in front of an older model desktop computer next to the TV. “Hello.”
Joe started, twisting around, jaw agape as he half rose out of his chair. “You scared the hell out of me. Why didn’t you knock?”
Amused, Samuel said, “Why would I knock when you were expecting me?”
The man sank down into his chair, still studying him. “Those aren’t the clothes I left for you.”
“You’re not my only friend, Joe.” He walked to the computer. The screen was opened to the offshore account Samuel had taught him to set up. “Did you get checked in to the resort the way we discussed?”
Joe’s head bobbed. “I told my employers I wouldn’t be available to work for two weeks ’cuz of a vacation. I’ve already checked in to the cabin. I drove back here after midnight last night. The only loose end is the second half of the payment you promised me.”
Samuel grabbed the man’s chair and tipped it backward. He had the gun out of his jacket by the time Joe hit the floor. He fired, the bullet shattering the man’s knee. Samuel pitched his voice over Joe’s bloodcurdling scream. “I’m afraid you’re the loose end. There’s been a change of plans. I’m going to need the money back I wired to your account.”
“No!” Even while clutching his wound with both hands, the man refused to face reality. “I did everything you asked! The payment will be enough to get custody of my kids!”
“Listen to me.” Out of patience, Samuel crouched down beside him. Nudged the barrel of the gun under Joe’s jaw. “I want the password of your account. And you’ll give it to me, because you also told me all about your kids. Little Joey, a bit old for my tastes, at nine. But four-year-old Annabelle . . .” He licked his lips. Watched the h
orror wash over the man’s face. “You mentioned where they lived with their mama. Leastways, close enough to figure it out. Do you really doubt what will happen if I decide to make their acquaintance?”
He watched the expressions chase over the man’s face. Fear, cunning, fear again, until finally . . . acceptance. Joe reeled off the password in a choked voice, and Samuel sat down at the computer. Minutes later, the money transferred, he stood and faced the man. “I want you to know how much our talks meant to me, Joe. You can’t imagine the tedium of being locked up in a place like that.” Raising the weapon in his hand again, he shot the man twice in the chest. Samuel knelt to search the man’s jeans pocket for his cell and took the battery out of it. Then he stepped over the body to go in search of the keys to Joe’s vehicle and the room key for the cabin.
He found both sets of keys in the man’s jacket, which was hanging on a hook just inside the back door. Samuel set the items on the table and then went back to the computer. He scrolled through the files, opening each to scan them and make sure there were no references to him before deleting the computer’s browser history. He’d destroy Joe’s phone and throw both it and the battery away when he left here.
Because his “care package” hadn’t included food, he went to the refrigerator to study its contents. Taking out some ingredients, he proceeded to make himself a sandwich. A man had to take advantage of every opportunity that came his way.
He ate his first meal on the outside with enjoyment. Five years he’d been locked up. Five years of being poked and prodded, sedated for blood draws and organ sampling. There was no way to be sure how much of his tissue had already been removed. He’d been drained to dangerously low levels, he was certain of that. He’d felt it in the slow seepage of energy before he’d finally mastered the art of puking up the medication after escaping the watchful nurses.
When he finished, he brushed the crumbs into his hand and walked to the corner of the kitchen to dispose of them in the trash can. There was a familiar stirring in the pit of his belly. Even as one appetite was satiated, another was awakening.
Cady
Supervisory Deputy US Marshal Allen Gant’s office was close to overflowing. Cady stood at the man’s desk, with three of the other marshals in chairs circling it. Despite the hour, Paul Chester and John Quimby joined Miguel. The two other marshals in the Asheville office hadn’t arrived yet. Cady and Miguel were the only two working warrants full-time, while the others split their time between warrant work and court duties.
“Aldeen had only one visitor while he was in Fristol and five phone numbers on his approved contacts list. One of those is his lawyer.” Cady stabbed her finger at the sheet she’d laid before Gant. “He’s called three of these numbers this year, a couple of them multiple times. The first is his great-aunt’s home. Selma Lewis. She’s the reason cited for his hardship transfer from Bridgeport to Fristol. In the last year and a half he’s called her weekly.”
“But no contacts before that? She never came to see him at Fristol?” Gant looked up from the slip of paper and leaned back in his chair, his shaven head gleaming in the glare of the overhead track lighting.
Cady shook her head. “She’s eighty-eight. Travel might be difficult for her. I called the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department. They’ve had a cruiser outside Lewis’s house all night. Early this morning the officers went to the door and no one answered. They’ll continue surveillance until Miguel and I can get there. Not that I think Aldeen would necessarily head to his great-aunt’s house, knowing it’s the first place we’d look, but she’s one source of information on him. The other will be Sheila Preston, his only visitor. She came by monthly, but they talked by phone more frequently.”
“Bet those conversations were interesting.” Chester stifled a yawn with one big fist. He was a large man. Wider than most. Taller. And louder than anyone she’d ever known. Even the fist pressed against his lips couldn’t muffle his booming voice. “Old girlfriend?”
“If so, their relationship didn’t surface in the background check Fristol security ran on her,” Cady responded. “She and Aldeen worked together twenty-three years ago at Cisco’s, a pizza-joint-slash-bar in Charlotte. She had a pop a decade ago for possession, but charges were dropped. Nothing since then. She’s never been married and has two kids, ages four and six. Her most recent employer is Larson’s Lumber, in Fletcher, where she lives. She’s been there six years. Her last visit with Aldeen was a day before the escape. I called Preston’s cell several times, most recently on my way here. It went straight to voice mail.”
“What do the security tapes show from her most recent visit?” This from Quimby. He was as thin as Chester was wide, which had likely given rise to the pair’s nickname, Laurel and Hardy. Cady didn’t use the names, however. She’d been there only six months. Too soon to have that sort of familiar relationship with most of her colleagues. And having been the butt of some less than flattering labels herself as a kid, she’d never apply them to others.
She shrugged in response to the marshal’s question. “Too soon to be certain. The sheriff had a lot of assistance on scene, but there are a ton of details to wade through. When I left a couple of hours ago, they’d only gotten through interior and exterior security feeds for the last twelve hours or so. They learned Aldeen had a fake employee ID and uniform, which allowed him to get through the checkpoints. And the vehicle he drove off the property was parked in the employee parking lot.”
“Who left the car there?” Gant asked.
“It’s too early to say.” Cady leaned a hip against the desk. “Sheriff Talbot’s office is in the process of viewing the security tapes. But anyone hoping to enter the facility goes through two guard station checkpoints before they get to the lots. Visitors would be to the left as one drives toward the building, employees on the right. There are security cameras mounted in front of the structure, but I’m not sure whether a guard monitoring them would notice a visitor parked in the wrong lot.”
“What about the other numbers?” Gant had put on his reading glasses and was studying the list of contacts.
“Aldeen also called his bank in Charlotte a few times and his lawyer twice.” She pointed at each number on the sheet in turn. “We’ll try to question both Lewis and Preston today. We need more background on Sheila Preston, though. Relatives, friends . . . places she might run to if she does turn out to be involved in this. Were you able to get Aldeen’s contacts from the time he spent in Bridgeport?” The man had been arrested and tried in South Carolina, but he’d been linked to multiple murders in three states. He’d likely gotten away with far more.
“I’ve got a call in. Should have the information for you soon.” Gant handed her a slim file folder from atop his desk. “In the meantime, this is what we’ve compiled so far on Aldeen’s history. I’ll put Renee Baltes in charge of adding to it this morning. She and Patten had a late stakeout and will be in after they get some sleep. Renee can also follow up on Preston. If she finds something that won’t wait, she’ll reach out. Media broke the story of the escape right before you walked in. I don’t have to tell you the kind of pressure we’re going to be up against to apprehend Aldeen before he hurts someone else.”
“So the Highway Patrol came up with nothing?” Miguel rose, jamming his arms into his coat and zipping it. The other marshals stood as well.
“Since I haven’t heard anything I’m guessing not. Keep me updated on your progress.” Gant’s voice went dour. “This guy is going to have every parent in the state in a panic. And the longer he’s on the loose, the bigger the firestorm is going to get.”
It was Miguel’s turn to drive, which could be a little scary. But it meant Cady wasn’t going to swelter in her partner’s chosen temperature settings, so that was something. She convinced him to hit a drive-through for some coffees. Once she’d acquired the necessary caffeine, she settled back and plugged Selma Lewis’s address into her phone’s GPS. As she sipped, Cady opened the file Gant had given to them to
peruse its contents.
“Fristol’s in Haywood County?” Miguel reached for his cup and drank.
“Right.”
“Is the sheriff’s office heading up the case?”
Cady scanned the first page of Aldeen’s file, which listed his birthplace, family history, and education. “Yeah, so far. But SBI arrived on scene when I did, and it sounds like the FBI will be involved too. It’s going to be a multiagency investigation.” A case like this could overwhelm the resources of a county office if the escapee wasn’t found quickly. Federal agencies brought access to resources and a crime lab that wasn’t weeks behind in its caseload. Talbot hadn’t seemed like the sort to step back from the day-to-day involvement in the case, though. The amount of information he’d had in hand by the time she’d gotten on scene this morning was impressive.
Charlotte was a couple of hours from Asheville. Cady spent part of the trip telling Miguel about her conversations with Talbot and the discussion with Aldeen’s psychiatrist. They fell into silence afterward. She figured Miguel was thinking about the same thing she was. If Aldeen was smart, he’d be hiding out. And if they were all lucky, it would be in a spot where he’d have no access to children.
It was barely 8:00 a.m. when Miguel turned on a tree-lined residential street and slowed to a crawl. They pulled to a stop across from the cruiser parked in front of a white and blue two-story fronted by a screened-in porch. A detached single garage sat on the lot beside it. The houses flanking it were from the same era, 1920s or so, Cady guessed. She felt a faint flicker of recognition when she looked at Selma Lewis’s house. It reminded her a bit of her grandfather’s in Mount Airy, where she’d gone to live after Bo’s attack. His had had a similar porch, where he’d spent the evenings after supper smoking his pipe and making caustic comments about his neighbors. He’d never been a friendly sort, not given to chatting with any of them. But he’d always had plenty to say about their comings and goings.