by Jette Harris
“Lieutenant,” Collins announced, “Officer, these are Special Agents Steyer and Remington, on loan from the FBI’s Violent Crimes division.”
Kondorf’s mouth twitched as he heard their names. Byron snorted, but covered it with a cough. Agent Remington stared at him flatly. Steyer succumbed to a wry smirk.
Byron cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
“We’re used to it,” Steyer replied.
“The rookie—” Collins clapped a hand on Byron’s shoulder. “—is Jamal Byron. And this—” He gestured toward Kondorf. “—is our late-shift detective, Lieutenant Tom Kondorf, my most veteran officer.”
The agents shook hands with firm, sure grips. Steyer’s hand was cool, but Remington’s was hot and dry. Touching the handsome agent’s hand and looking into his light brown eyes made Byron’s belly squirm. He smothered the stirring, as he had learned to do whenever a man inspired it.
Remington flipped open a small notebook and shifted his weight from one foot to another, shifting the conversation to the reason they were there: “You two found the Stokes girl’s car?” He pointed to Byron and Kondorf. His accent smacked of Brooklyn.
“Yessir,” Byron said. Kondorf nodded.
Remington glanced at his notes. “And you responded to the 9-1-1 call?”
“Yeah.”
Remington raised his brow and scratched it with the cap of his pen. He studied Byron briefly, but studied Kondorf longer.
“How many officers are on your battalion?” Steyer’s accent was also distinctly Northern, with the Boston not quite polished out. He did not seem interested that Kondorf was between 5’10 and 6-foot, over 160 pounds, and had dark hair and brown eyes.
“Four,” the lieutenant replied, “but depending on the swing shift, there can be up to eleven officers in the office around ten o’clock who can be considered on-duty.”
“We have twenty officers altogether,” Collins added, “and we pull from Cobb County or Marietta when we need assistance.”
Steyer nodded. “What time was the 9-1-1 call?”
“About ten-fifteen, ten-twenty,” Byron replied. “Swing shift had already cleared out.”
Steyer pulled out a stack of manila folders tucked under his arm. He selected the thinnest one and flipped it open. The tab read ATL, and it contained the police reports for the disappearances. He skimmed the top report and made a few notes. “What was your response time?”
“Maybe five minutes,” Kondorf replied.
“Maybe five minutes to incapacitate and abduct two able-bodied high school athletes…” Steyer raised his eyes to Remington, who wore a dark expression.
The air escaped Byron’s lungs. He scraped for possible discrepancies in the time line, but found none. “Look, I know how it looks—”
“How does it look, officer?” Steyer asked coolly.
“Like… a prank, or like they orchestrated this themselves…” He shook his head. “I know three of these kids pretty well. I went to school with them; They wouldn’t do something like this. Heather would never put her grandfather through something like this.”
“How long have you known them?” Remington asked.
“I only know Z from the coffee shop—”
“That’s Zachariah Vlasov,” Young explained. The agents nodded and made their respective notes.
“But Chuck, Heather, and Monica were all freshmen when I was a senior. Chuck and I played football together, Monica is a cheerleader, and Heather runs track. I’ve known them all for four years.” He paused, then gestured at Collins, Kondorf, and Young. “They know Heather, too.”
“Heather Stokes?” Steyer glanced at the file to confirm the name. “How does everyone know Heather Stokes?”
“Small town,” Young said. “Her parents died in a car accident a few years back. We all, you know, came together to help her and her grandpa out, help them cope and get back on their feet.”
“Are they connected at all beyond going to the same school and athletics?”
“They’re in the same AP class,” Young replied.
“Heather Stokes lives next door to Monica Shatterthwaith,” Kondorf said.
Byron rubbed the back of his neck. “They’re all… pretty much friends. Except Heather hates Witt…”
Young watched Byron out of the corner of her eye, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, she said, “Heather and Z were… an item the summer before last. After her parents died.”
“An item?” Remington raised a brow.
Byron exhaled slowly through his nose. “They were sleeping together. She was using him to blow off some steam.”
“Ah.” He jotted down a note.
“They’re OK now, but they don’t talk about it,” Young added.
“It’s just another reason we know they didn’t just run off together,” Byron said. “There’s a lot of tension there.”
Steyer searched each of their faces, then dropped his eyes back to the report.
“Five minutes is more than enough time,” Remington said, quiet but firm.
“I agree.” Steyer nodded.
“What?” Byron’s eyes were wide as he looked from one agent to another.
“Five minutes,” Steyer explained with a sigh, “is more than enough time for the Phoenix to beat a man unconscious, toss him in a vehicle, and escape. Two men isn’t much of a stretch.”
Remington took a deep breath. “We’ve seen how he works.”
10
2002
San Francisco (“Lark Alexander”)
“I’m so fucking scared,” Brandy said into her phone. She pulled the chef’s knife from the butcher block on her counter halfway out, then let it slide back in. “I mean, this job is perfect for me. I’m perfect for the job. But, what if I choke?”
She walked into the dining room to look at herself in the mirror one more time. She had an hour before she had to leave for her interview, and she had been ready for just as long. She had already changed her suit, then changed back, and re-styled her hair twice.
“Brandy, sit down,” her sister ordered on the other end of the line.
Sighing, Brandy sat on the nearest surface that could be sat upon, a coffee table. “I’m just… I mean—”
But her sister never got to learn what Brady just or meant. There was a series of sharp knocks on the door. “Oh, hold on, there’s someone at the door. It better not be Mormons…”
She was surprised to open the door to a man. He was tall, attractive, and sweaty, still panting as if he had been running. His too-tight t-shirt and jaunty stance implied that he was not Mormon by any extent of the imagination.
“Is that your white car?” he huffed.
Brandy pressed the phone into her shoulder. “Uh—yeah, do I need to move it?”
“No. The window’s broken. I think someone broke into it.”
“What?” Her tone was harsher than she intended. As the man walked with her down the front path, she filled her sister in. “My car’s been broken into! This is literally the last thing I need right now…”
The driver’s side window lay in tiny pieces on the ground. The driver’s door was ajar.
“Oh, my God!” She covered her mouth. She had been hoping there had been a mistake, or this stranger was playing some kind of cruel prank.
“I’ll call the cops.” Pulling out a phone, he dialed 9-1-1.
Brandy nodded dumbly. As he gave her address to the dispatcher, she opened the door and looked around inside.
“It doesn’t look like anything’s missing… Let them know everything’s OK. Nothing’s missing.”
He held up a finger. “Yeah, the guy just shoved her into the car and took off.”
“What?”
Dropping the phone in his hand, he shoved Brandy into the car. She screamed and kicked, but her pencil skirt did not allow for much movement. He pushed her into the passenger seat and slammed her head against the window until the screaming stopped.
Brandy’s phone had fallen to the floor
board. Her sister shouted for her, asking her if she was OK, demanding to know what was going on. He picked up the phone. The name on the screen said “Pum’kin.”
“Sorry, Pum’kin,” he said. “Brandy won’t be able to call you back.”
He tossed the phone over his shoulder, and it clattered onto the road. He made himself as comfortable as he could sitting on glass and tugged at the wires he had pulled out from under the dash earlier, bringing the car to life.
Sirens wailed in the distance as he pulled away.
11
May, 2006
Atlanta
While Chief Collins pulled Agent Steyer aside to discuss office space and acquisitions, Agent Remington crossed to the front of the office. An ancient wooden desk had been pushed against the front wall to act as a coffee station. The marred surface was sticky and coffee-stained, baring the chips and dents from rowdy detainees and mischievous officers. The coffee-maker was comparatively new, but it didn’t improve the quality of the coffee itself.
Byron rubbed his hands a bit longer, cracked his knuckles, then followed Remington to the front. He caught the agent grimacing after his first sip.
“We usually don’t drink the sludge unless we have to.” Byron gave an apologetic smile.
“I should be used to this by now.” Remington smirked. Byron was shocked at how dramatically the small gesture changed his appearance.
“We usually get our coffee from the coffee shop—the one Witt and Z disappeared from. Free, if we go inside to get it.” Byron pursed his lips; He was talking too much.
Remington eyed him. “Something on your mind, Office Byron?”
Shit. Caught staring. “I—um—the Phoenix Killer… If it is him, what… what kind of timeline are we working with?”
Remington sighed, looking away. “Maybe a month. But it could be two, three weeks. In Detroit, back in ’97, it was a little under two weeks.”
“That’s when he killed the fed, right?” The question slipped from Byron’s mouth before he considered his wording. A shadow flit across Remington’s face, and Byron shook his head. “Sorry. I’m just… there’s a lot going on.”
Remington nodded, but the shadow remained.
“I couldn’t find a reliable report of what happened.”
They turned to watch Steyer, who had his hands folded in his pockets, looking around one of the small glass-walled conference rooms.
“It was his partner, not mine,” Remington said in a low voice. “Feingold. Don’t ask Ritchie, though. He won’t respond, but the look he’ll give you will make you feel two foot small.” He took another sip of coffee, accompanied by another grimace.
“They caught him and he escaped?”
He shook his head. “Feingold found some evidence, a cigarette butt. Perp must have been watching, because he stole it back, stabbing Feingold in the process. Fucker’s fast. I had my own run-in with him in San Fran.” He reached up to stroke a scar on his forehead. “Fast. Reckless. Creepy as fuck, too. Sometimes it feels like he’s everywhere.”
“Professionalism,” Steyer chided as he crossed to them.
“Sorry,” Remington murmured into his coffee.
Steyer stood next to his partner and studied Byron, who drew himself up under the scrutiny. If Steyer developed any opinions, his face did not betray them. “I wanted to ask why you are out of uniform, Officer Byron?”
“Oh.” Byron involuntarily tugged at the front of his shirt. “Our shift hasn’t started yet. We came in to…” He swallowed, not wanted to say he came in just to meet the FBI. “Because Aly called… Detective Young called us.”
“How long have you been with the force?”
“A little over a year, sir.”
Steyer nodded. “Are you going to be able to cope assisting us with this case, officer?”
Byron’s throat tightened. He nodded. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
“Let us know if you begin to feel differently, or any misgiving whatsoever. As you were discussing…” He shot Remington a look. “…it’s a high-risk case.” He eyed the coffee in Remington’s hand, then reached for a cup.
“You don’t want that,” Remington warned. Steyer dropped his hand and resumed his place as if nothing had happened. Remington stared into his coffee, then dropped it into the trashcan. “You said officers get their coffee at the same location Charles Witt and Zachariah Vlasov disappeared?”
“Yea—Yes, sir.”
“Would you mind showing us where it is?”
Byron’s face broke into a grin. “Aight.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, no, of course. I can… Kondorf and I can lead you there. We carpool.”
Steyer raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Let’s go kill some birds.”
12
The FBI agents climbed into their fleet vehicle to follow Kondorf’s faded and rusting Ford pick-up to the coffee shop. As they drove, Byron drew a sloppy map of how to get back on a napkin pressed against his knee, just in case. He told himself it was because he wanted to be accommodating to make a good impression on the FBI, not because he wanted to stand out to one of the agents.
Nevertheless, when they climbed out of the truck, he leaned back in before Kondorf could close his door. “Mind if I show them around? Solo?”
“Leavin’ us so soon?” Kondorf chuckled. “You go right on ahead.”
Licking his lips nervously, Byron tucked in his shirt and tightened his belt before closing the door and crossing the parking lot to where the agents had parked. The corner where Chuck’s truck had been parked was cordoned off with yellow caution tape. Byron hesitated and steeled himself, eyeing the neon lines and circles on the asphalt. To his relief, the blood was no longer visible. Knowing it could be his former teammate’s made him feel an uneasiness he didn’t usually feel at the sight of blood.
Steyer stood by the car, only one thin folder in his hand this time, the one labeled ATL. It was open, and he was sorting through 8x10 glossy photos. Byron eyed them enviously. Cheatham Hill PD’s printer was often out of ink, and they had to sneak over to use the one on the other side of the office, property of Cobb County Sheriff’s Department.
Remington sat in the car, his feet out the door. He had the little notebook on his knee and was spiraling a pen around the paper, the cap between his teeth. Declaring the pen dead, he tossed it on the floorboard, spit the cap out, and dug a fresh pen out of the center console. He breathed with palpable relief when it worked on the first swipe. He slammed the door and stood on the curb, scribbling a note.
Steyer found a photo of the truck in situ and took two large steps to the right to stand where the photographer had been standing. He lined the photo up, put it back down, and looked at Byron expectantly. His time to shine.
“As you can see,” Byron began, “this is where Witt—where Chuck’s truck was parked. When we responded, his truck and the manager’s car were the only vehicles here. She—the manager—was parked up by the front door.” He twisted to point, but realized that was irrelevant. He glanced around and indicated the neon circles. “This is where they found notable amounts of blood.”
Steyer flicked through his photos and pulled out two: one of the puddles and one of the streaks where a body had been dragged. Byron choked and had to clear his throat
“Th-they were able to determine using blood type the big circle is… the large puddle belonged… was from Chuck. The smaller circle, and the least amount of blood, was from Z. They also found Witt’s blood on the inside of the back driver’s side door of his truck.” Byron waved his hand to show the pattern the blood had splattered. He faltered and frowned as he realized he had seen the same pattern elsewhere…
Remington furrowed his brown. He imitated the wave. “Fanned like that?”
“Yeah.” Byron pointed to the stack of photos. “If there’s a photo in there of the passenger side of Heather’s car…” Steyer pulled out a picture of Heather’s car, then shuffled through and found a picture of the interior of Chuck’s truck. The three tilted their
heads to study them side-by-side. “It looks exactly—It… it looked very… similar…”
Steyer glanced at him, then tucked the photos back in and snapped the folder shut without comment. Remington raised an eyebrow.
“When do you get on duty, Officer Byron?” Steyer asked without looking at him.
“Six o’clock.”
“Thank you, officer. We will continue this at six.”
Byron gave a hesitant nod. “No problem. See you then.”
Byron retreated inside feeling like he was walking out of an exam without knowing if he passed with flying colors or failed epically. As the door scraped closed behind him, he shoved his hands in his pockets and hung his head. Kondorf held a coffee under his nose—black with two sugars, just the way he liked it.
“Thanks, man.” Byron accepted it with a grateful smile.
“C’mon.” Kondorf nodded toward the window in the back. “I got us front-row seats. You’re about to see how the FBI really works.”
Kondorf led him across the shop to the back corner. From there, they could see the side and rear parking lot from the comfort of the air conditioned building. Byron sipped his coffee with growing contentment.
“This is exactly how it’s gonna go,” Kondorf said, gesturing to the agents. “Those two’ll walk around with their hands in their pockets, kicking stuff on the ground, maybe inspecting a… a cigarette butt or a piece of paper. Once they get familiar with the area, they’ll start pointing and gesturing, and re-enactin’ what they think might’ve happened. After a while, one’ll declare it’s too damn hot; They’ll know more when they hear back from the lab, and they’ll come in for some coffee.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” Kondorf nodded and sipped his coffee. They turned back to the FBI agents. Both were inspecting the ground with their hands in their pockets.