by Jette Harris
Frank’s face soured. He chewed on his words before replying, “They’ve already told the cops everything they know, and they wouldn’t have anything to say they can’t say with us here.”
Steyer spread his arms in an uncharacteristically large gesture. “We understand. Our questions are not specific to them, however. It’s common for students to withhold information or delay telling for fear of incriminating their peers. A friend may have told them something after they spoke with the officers that they are reluctant to say in front of adults who know their parents.”
Steps thundered down the stairs and a tall, brown-haired young man stepped into the doorway, a gym bag over his shoulder.
“Ah! Finally! This is my other son, Dean.” Frank gestured to the chair between him and Steyer. “Dean, take a seat.”
Dean glanced over them nervously. “I was about to head to practice.”
“These men are with the FBI.”
Dean’s face fell. He entered the kitchen hesitantly. “So… what? Like, kidnapping? Alien abduction? I thought Chuck ran away.”
“He did, sweetie,” Cathy said with a nod.
Steyer and Remington turned slowly to stare at her. She continued to smile at Dean, blinking too much.
Frank shook his hand to wave off whatever ideas they may have had. “Whatever trouble those girls’ve gotten themselves into, that’s got nothing to do with my boy.”
Remington and Steyer turned their stares upon Frank. “I’m afraid there is evidence… that does not support that theory,” Steyer said.
“My son was a decent young man, but spineless. He probably buckled under the pressure of graduating, getting out on his own, and going to college. But he knows better than to have dealings with those whores.”
Cathy wilted. Carly covered her face and sighed.
Dean stood, his chair scraping across the floor. “I gotta go to practice.”
“I’ll lock up after you,” Carly said, pushing her chair back as well.
“Before you go…” Remington pulled his card holder out of his breast pocket. He handed each of them two cards. “If your friends, your teammates think of anything that may be relevant, don’t hesitate to give them our number or swing by the station.”
“Thanks,” Dean said. They left the kitchen. As soon as the door was closed and locked, Carly disappeared into the living room across the way.
Steyer laced his fingers together and leaned forward across the table. He spoke in a low, quiet tone. “Mr. and Mrs. Witt, we were called here to investigate whether or not your eldest son has been abducted by a pattern killer known as the Phoenix.”
Cathy paled. She stared at them open-mouthed. Frank’s eyes widened. The red in his face faded.
“And this is… is based on your evidence?” he asked.
“The circumstances are similar.”
“Like hell they are!” Frank slammed his fist on the table.
Remington recoiled. Cathy also jumped in her seat.
“There is nothing—”
Steyer appeared unruffled. He raised his voice only slightly. “The exact same blood splatter patters appear at both scenes.”
“Blood splatter—your son’s blood,” Remington added, “also indicates he did not ‘run away’.”
“We were…” Cathy cleared her throat. “We were just telling the children that… to…”
“We don’t recommend lying to your children,” Steyer said. “It causes a sense of betrayal and distrust in addition to grief when… when the truth is revealed.”
The color returned to Frank’s face, surpassing its enraged redness to turn a livid puce. His mouth worked around his words before he spoke. “Gentlemen, I believe it’s time for you to leave now.”
Cathy jerked her head toward him. “They… they need to see his bedroom.”
Frank continued to stare at the agents. “Make it quick.”
****
Remington stepped into Chuck Witt’s bedroom and felt an uneasiness for which couldn’t place the cause. Steyer stood next to him with a placid expression, hands in his pockets.
The walls were bare and painted taupe. The bed was a full-sized mattress on a plain steel frame. There was a simple desk with a keyboard, mouse, a mousepad arranged around a gap where a laptop would sit. The laptop itself was at the lab with the truck. The shelves under the desk contained binders and old textbooks. The bottom shelf was lined with yearbooks.
A low bookshelf next to the door contained football trophies, team photos, and the bottom shelf was lined with a few classic novels, almost exclusively about pirates and cowboys. Slid in between the novels and the edge of the bookshelf, as if hiding, were books on early childhood education.
“Chuck was nineteen, right?” Steyer asked, his eyes roaming around the walls.
“Yes, his birthday is Valentine’s Day,” Cathy said from the doorway.
Steyer glanced at Remington. “Does this look anything like your room when you were nineteen?”
Remington frowned. “No, not at all. When I was nineteen, you couldn’t see my walls. They were covered in posters of girls and heavy metal bands and movies...” That was it: the room was so impersonal. They could determine very little based on his room beyond that its resident was an athlete, a student, vaguely literate, with narrow interests, and a bashful interest in becoming a school teacher.
Cathy’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Chuck was not allowed to put pins or tape on his paint. Not only does it damage the walls, but he had trouble selecting appropriate material.”
“Girls?” Remington asked.
Cathy pursed her lips and shook her head.
“Do you mind if we… poke around?” Steyer asked, pointing to the bed.
After a moment’s consideration, she nodded. Remington went to the desk while Steyer slid his hands under the mattress and peered into the bedside table. A radio alarm clock sat on top, with a half-completed Rubik’s Cube and a football-player figurine that looked hand-made. The drawer rattled with tubes of chap stick, a mini-flashlight, toenail clippers, a rabbit’s foot, and a small collection of pebbles with no distinguishable value.
Steyer pulled several envelopes out of the bedside table and shuffled through them. He raised his eyebrows, impressed. Spreading them out like a hand of cards, he displayed them for Remington. “Acceptance letters.”
“Makes me wish I had played ball.”
“You didn’t end up too shabby.”
“Thanks, boss.”
The desk drawer contained pens, pencils, and other various office supplies, a handheld video game console, a rubber band ball, a deck of Star Wars playing cards, college brochures and military recruitment booklets.
A window separated the bed from the desk. Without any serious intent, Remington nudged it. It squeaked up. Steyer and Cathy jerked their heads toward the sound. Remington raised the window all the way. The screen was open about half an inch, enough to slip a few fingers through.
“That… that was locked after the police left,” Cathy breathed.
They stared at her, then inspected the window. There were not any scratches or signs of forced entry. Steyer knelt down and studied the floor. There was a fan of carpeting that had been swiped in the opposite direction of the rest. Steyer twisted his body and waved his hand over it to imitate the motion that had created it.
“He came in some other way, climbed out through the window, then leaned back in and wiped his shoeprints away.” He scanned the carpet around the discoloration. Among the other trails around the room, the one leading from the window ran directly to the door. Steyer and Remington followed it and peered out the door. Cathy, still in shock, stepped aside. Steyer gazed at the hardwood floor of the hallway and sighed.
“Is anything missing from the bedroom?” Remington asked. Cathy shook her head numbly. “What about the rest of the house? His bathroom?”
“I… I don’t know…” she said. “Dean would know; They… they share…”
Steyer nodded. “You mi
nd if we speak to him in private some time?”
She rose her hand to her mouth to think. With a flicker of her eyes toward them, she gave a small nod.
“Thank you, Mrs. Witt.” Remington nodded. “We’ll have Chief Collins send a team to check for fingerprints and other trace evidence.”
16
Byron felt foolish as he returned to the coffee shop at a quarter to six and ordered four coffees. Less that he was ordering four coffees and more that he had eavesdropped on Steyer and Remington earlier as they placed their orders. He justified this by telling himself he memorized the orders of everyone he worked with, because, as the rookie, fetching coffee was his job.
The tiny substation Cheatham Hill Police Department shared with Cobb County Sheriff’s Department was crawling with deputies and officers, but no suits. Byron sighed. Kondorf sat at his desk with a phone to his ear. Byron placed his coffee—plain black medium roast—on his desk. With an affirmative grunt, Kondorf hung up the phone and stood.
“We’re goin’ back to Tex’s.”
“Oh! OK.” Byron reached to put the coffee back in the holder, but Kondorf smacked his hand and snatched it up.
Kondorf drove with his cup up to his mouth or between his teeth. Byron shot him side-long glances, tempted to tap it once it got empty enough. He resisted, however, considering he had a lap full of ammunition in the form of three full, piping-hot coffees.
“Agent Steyer said he was going to try to interview all the parents today,” Kondorf said as he turned onto the street where Tex and Heather lived next door to the Shatterthwaith family. “How about I run over and see if Sean’s home and feeling up to a chat, and you check in on Tex?”
Byron glanced at Tex’s house anxiously. “Why don’t we just go together?”
“The feds’re on the way now. I wanta give them some kind of head’s up.” Kondorf pulled up to the curb and gave him a look. “Do you really want strange men showing up on an old man’s doorstep and breaking his heart with news of a serial killer?”
“That poor, poor old man,” Byron said flatly.
Kondorf sighed. “Do it for Heather.”
“You’re not right,” Byron breathed as he popped the door open and climbed out. He shook his head and made faces the entire way to the front porch.
“You look like you got the palsy, boy.”
Byron scowled up at the old man in the doorway. “Don’t call me ‘boy.’”
Tex looked taken aback, then smirked. “Sorry, old man’s habit. Lucky Heather isn’t here; I never would’ve heard the end of it.”
Byron’s scowl faded. Tex hadn’t looked so rough since his daughter and son-in-law’s funeral; He had looked sick then, since he went from raging alcoholic to responsible guardian in the span of a week. Now he looked haggard, drained. Byron sniffed. “Woulda been worth it.”
Tex nodded. “True.” He cleared his throat. “So what brings you here… officer? Any… news?”
Byron regretted he hadn’t taken the walk up to consider what he would say. “The FBI is coming.”
Tex’s eyebrows shot up. “Coming to Georgia?”
“Coming here, now, to talk to you and Monica’s parents. We wanted to give y’all a head’s up, so you’re not blindsided.”
Tex looked thoughtful, then his shoulders slumped, as if he were slowly deflating. “What… what’s changed? What’s happened?” His voice was thin, like he didn’t want to know the answer, but he had to ask.
“Nothing’s happened,” Byron assured him. “So far, nothing’s changed. We think… We’re just… looking at… at… well, I’ll let them explain. They’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“Ah.” Tex raised his chin and searched the porch ceiling, his throat working anxiously. He sniffled and tried to cover it with a sigh, but Byron knew better. “I’ll get… I’ll tidy up then.”
Byron glanced into the house, but nothing looked different. He shrugged. “Need any help?”
“Uh-uh.” Tex shook his head and turned back into the house. “Just gimme a minute.”
“Yessir.” Byron descended a few steps.
“An-and, Jamal…”
Surprised, he paused. Tex’s head poked through the door.
“Thank you… for lettin’ me know. And… for everything.”
Byron blinked, at a loss for words. The front door closed, and Byron headed toward the car. Kondorf met him on the lawn.
“They’re not there.” He tipped the remainder of his coffee back. “So, you tell ’im? Did he crack any X-Files jokes?”
“He’s not alright,” Byron said, shaking his head.
Kondorf lowered the cup slowly. “He’s not drinkin’ again, is he?”
Shit, I should have thought of that. “I… I don’t think so. I didn’t smell alcohol. He wasn’t slurring or anything.”
Kondorf nodded. “We’ll have to keep a close eye on him.”
A car turned onto the street. Agent Remington sat behind the wheel. Agent Steyer was furrowing his brow at a manila folder.
“Grab your coffee; It’s show time.”
****
Remington was starting to get a bad taste in his mouth, more bitter than usual. Not only that, but doubt was beginning to creep in: These kids are just spoiled brats. Why would the Phoenix target someone like them?
Remington’s energy was flagging, especially after the frustrating interview with the Witts and the intoxicating smells of Waffle House. He had cracked open an energy drink, although he had promised himself he would be cutting down. To assuage his guilt, he had been sipping it slowly rather than gulping it down.
“What’s the name of the street?”
Steyer flipped open another folder. “This one coming up on the right. They appear to be neighbors.”
“Would be nice to wrap this up not-too-late after dinnertime.”
“Focus…” Steyer’s tone sounded oddly distant. Remington glanced over. Steyer was staring at Heather Stokes’s dossier, brow furrowed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Russell Brewer… Heather Stokes’s grandfather. I know that name; I’ve read it before.”
“In the case?” Hope lurched in Remington’s chest. There was no such thing as coincidence during an investigation.
Sighing, Steyer shook his head. “I would remember if it were from the case. No, this is something… from before…” He trailed off, looking more troubled than confused.
“Before the case?”
Steyer shook his head, slower this time. “Before the FBI.”
Remington chuckled. “No wonder you can’t remember.”
Even Steyer’s mouth twitched into a smirk.
A Cheatham Hill police cruiser sat on the curb in front of one of the houses. Kondorf and Byron were waiting on the well-kept lawn. Remington pulled up behind them. These houses were much smaller than the Witts’, but still nice, two-story houses.
The agents climbed out of the car. Steyer straightened his tie—his ritual for reorienting himself—and tossed the folder onto the seat. Remington slammed the remainder of his energy drink and tossed the can into the back of the car.
Byron smiled a little too enthusiastically as he held a coffee cup out to each of them. Although tempted, Remington shook his head. Byron covered his disappointment by sipping the rejected coffee. Remington wasn’t sure what to make of the local law enforcement; They were either too eager or too laid back. Small town, Remington reminded himself. Not much to get excited about on a day-to-day basis.
“The Shatterthwaiths are out,” Kondorf informed them. “But they got small kids, so they should be home before too long.”
“Mr. Brewer’s home,” Byron said, “but we should probably warn you: He’s a real joker. He may be serious, seeing as it’s Heather missing, but otherwise take everything he says with a grain of salt.”
Remington raised an eyebrow. He hated smart-asses; Humor was often used to shield guilt. Byron’s face reddened slightly. He took another sip of coffee. Steyer nodded, admiring
the red 1972 Mustang sitting in the driveway.
The front door scraped open. The old man who stepped out wore the air of feebleness, but had the sturdy trunk of a man who knew how to handle himself. Steyer stared, head cocked as the old man took a deep breath and descended the porch steps.
“Oh, and no one calls him Mr. Brewer,” Byron added. “Everyone calls him—”
“Tech…” Steyer breathed.
Remington jerked his head to find Steyer gaping. Obviously, he remembered how he knew that name. Remington realized Russell Brewer and Steyer must have been of similar ages, although he never thought of Steyer as old anymore.
Byron blinked, confused. “It’s… it’s ‘Tex,’ sir.”
“Oh, no, son.” Steyer shook his head with an odd smirk. “It’s Tech.” He walked toward the old man, smirk broadening into a grin. “You son of a bitch!”
Remington’s jaw dropped.
“Intel!” Tech’s eyes also grew wide and bright. His body unfolded, and Remington recognized the broad posture of a former soldier. He spread his arms and threw them around Steyer’s shoulders.
Remington flinched with the urge to lunge forward. But Steyer reciprocated the hug, rocking Tech from side to side. Remington settled back, hopelessly confused.
“Huh,” Kondorf grunted. “Tech. I wonder why he never corrected us?”
“I thought you were dead!” Tech took a step back with a hand over his mouth. “I thought everyone was dead!”
Remington’s face burned. He had known Steyer was in the military as an intelligence officer, which spring-boarded his FBI career after an ear injury. But he had been under the impression Steyer had never seen action.
“I did too.” Steyer placed a reassuring hand on Tech’s shoulder.
Tech covered his eyes. His body quaked. Steyer steered him around back toward the house. “C’mon, Sarge,” he said, loud enough for them to hear. “Let’s talk.”
Remington’s jaw was still hanging open when the door shut behind them.
“I think that means we’re out,” Kondorf said.
Remington snapped his mouth shut. He furrowed his brow and pointed at the door. “Did he just… swear?”