Open Chains

by D. F. Bailey

  “What threads?”

  “I remember at the memorial service, you said that Fuzzy forgot to take his baseball cap. That you still had it. Is that right?”

  “I think so. I think Tammy put it somewhere. Let me ask.” Tom covered the mouth piece of his phone as he conferred with his wife. “Yes, we have it. She says to say hello to you. And to thank you for bringing that man Brodie to justice.”

  Finch had to wonder. Justice? Brodie was dead and buried — but never brought to account by a jury of his peers. Never confessed. Never uttered a word of contrition. Never heard his guilt proclaimed to the world. No, his death alone would have to suffice.

  “Look, if it’s possible, I’d like to get hold of that baseball cap. Borrow it for about a week, if that’s okay.”

  “He wants to borrow it,” Tom whispered to Tammy, paused, then got back to Finch. “She says you can have it. We’d rather just get rid of it. Do you want me to mail it down to you?”

  Finch imagined all the things that could go wrong. Lost in transit. Damaged. Soaked in the rain. Worst of all, the DNA trace could be irretrievably damaged.

  “No. I’d like to drive to your house today and pick it up personally. Would that be okay?”

  Tom consulted with his wife again. “She says if you get here before eight.”

  Finch checked his watch. “I can be there by five.”

  “All right then.”

  “One last thing, Tom. Don’t let anyone touch that cap until I get there. Not you or Mrs. Costello. When I get to your door, just point it out to me and I’ll take it from there.”

  “Why, what’s the problem? Is it radioactive or something?” He laughed as if he’d stumbled on a pretty decent joke.

  “No, it’s the DNA. We don't want it to get mixed up with anyone else.”

  “The DNA?” His voice conveyed some bafflement, but he let it go. “Okay. See you around five, then.”

  ※

  Together Eve and Finch drove along Route 80 to Sacramento in his RAV4. As they pulled up to the curb in front of the Costello’s home Eve checked the dashboard clock.

  “Ten past five. Fashionably late,” she said and opened the car door.

  The Costellos owned a mid-80s townhouse, the second door along in a row of six attached homes that sat at the end of a neatly trimmed cul-de-sac on the south side of the state capital. The cookie-cutter units were all finished with red brick. Each one had enamel black doors with white trimmed door frames. Identical concrete sidewalks ran in perpendicular lines from the street curb up to the front steps. The faux-Georgian architectural design presented a conservative face to the neighborhood. A good place to hide your private life, Finch thought as he stepped onto the sidewalk.

  The Costello’s front door swung open before Finch could knock.

  “Hello, Will.” Tom Costello tipped his hand to his brow in a casual military salute.

  “Good to see you again.” Finch shook hands with Tom and Tammy and then swung his arm around to Eve. “Do you remember, Eve?”

  “Of course I do.” Tammy’s face worked hard to lift a smile to her lips. She turned to Finch. “You have such a beautiful wife.”

  Finch winked at Eve with an I-told-you-so expression. She’d once said that she would never marry, to which he replied that they were more married that most couples could ever be.

  After they entered the living room, Tammy guided her guests past the kitchen to a large cupboard in an enclosed porch that led down to her backyard.

  “I keep all the odds-n-sods here,” she said. “Everything else that doesn’t have a place of its own.”

  She opened the cupboard to reveal a stack of five shelves stuffed with books, toys, board games, canned goods, bottled water and sodas. Next to the racks ran a coat railing that held dozens of shirts, jackets and old pants. The inside panel of the cupboard door held five brass hooks. Two or three baseball caps hung from each hook.

  “There it is,” she said and pointed to a tattered San Francisco Giants cap. “Like you asked, nobody’s touched it.”

  “You sure it’s the one that belonged to Fuzzy?” Finch asked.

  “No question.” Tom waved a dismissive hand. “We can’t stand the bums. Even when the Giants won the World Series. All three times,” he added as if he regretted their misplaced loyalties.

  “All right then.” Eve drew an evidence baggie from her shoulder bag, clasped the brim of the cap and sealed it inside the clear plastic. “Just so it remains untainted,” she said to explain the delicate procedure.

  “So that’s all you need?” Tom asked.

  Finch’s face brightened when he heard this question. It sounded like an invitation. “In fact, there is one last thing,” he said and waited for one of them to react. His eyes shifted from Tom to Tammy.

  “What might that be?” Tom glanced at his wife.

  “We’d like to get something — nothing big or important to you — something that would still have traces of Tony’s DNA. A comb. Or his hair brush.” When he saw the look of disbelief on Tammy’s face he waved a hand to block any objections. “Again, I only need to borrow it. I could have it back to you this time next week.”

  Tom’s eyes narrowed. “What do you need his DNA for?”

  “It’s about tying those loose threads together.” Finch realized he had to explain this as simply as possible. He held up a finger. “So first thing. We’re not sure about any of this. But we have a hunch that something we found on Mayne Island — and I’m sorry, but I can’t disclose what it is — but it may have Fuzzy’s DNA on it. Or it could be Tony’s DNA.” He paused to ensure they were following his logic. Tom nodded and Finch continued. “We need a comb or brush from Tony so we can sample his DNA, too.”

  “It could even be a toothbrush,” Eve added.

  “A toothbrush?” Tammy bit on her upper lip as she considered this. “He kept one in the basement bathroom. Didn’t he Tommy?” She looked at Eve. “For times when he stayed over.”

  “No idea,” Tom said and rubbed a hand under his chin. “That’s your department.”

  “My department?” She rolled her eyes and nodded at Eve. “No one else’ll ever want to use it. You can keep it, Eve. Come on down with me. And watch your footing on the top step.”

  Tommy and Tammy. An amused smile appeared on Eve’s face. Their twin names suggested a domestic compatibility that most couples only imagined. She decided they were the sort of couple who would die within days of one another. Sometime in their late nineties, children and grandchildren gathered at their bedsides.

  Eve followed her down the basement staircase, their shoes clomping against the wooden stairs in a syncopated sequence. Minutes later they returned to the living room, Eve clutching another sealed evidence bag in her hand. Wrapped inside the baggie lay a well-worn Oral-B toothbrush.

  ※

  Leanne Spratz made the leap from the SFPD forensics team to the private sector when she’d been recruited to a biotech startup called 123-DNA. Despite her new career, she maintained her loyalty to Eve and all that she had done to improve the lives of the women employed by the SFDP five years ago. That was when Eve forced the department into a private settlement of her well documented grievances. While the settlement was never publicly disclosed, a new set of professional standards came into force that immediately (and forever) improved the treatment of women who worked for the city police. When Leanne became an equity partner with 123-DNA, she promised to expedite any forensic profiling that Eve might need.

  Three days earlier, Eve had submitted her first request. She’d met with Leanne at Caffe Trieste and given her everything related to Nine and Turino. The matchbook from Shotwell’s bar, the two cigarette butts from Bennett’s Point, Turino’s cigarette butt from the driveway, the eight bullet casings, the baseball cap and toothbrush. To minimize the testing process, Eve told Leanne to simply identify any DNA matches among all the test items, and identify any that were isolated or non-matches.

  Three days after their meet
ing, and right on schedule, the results came in.

  “Here it is,” Eve said, as she wandered into Finch’s writing loft. She carried her laptop in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other.

  “Here what is?”

  Finch sat in the wing-back reading chair, his bare feet propped on the footstool while he studied the film contract that his agent had negotiated for his new book, Death of a Second Life. The deal was good. Better than he’d hoped. In addition to the two hundred thousand dollar publisher’s advance on the book sales, an indie Hollywood studio had kicked in another two hundred thousand for the movie rights, plus a share of something called the “net-net.” His heart leapt when he read the figures involved. All of it felt like a new kind of freedom. For the first time since Tony Turino drove up to his cottage on Mayne Island, he could see the bright, warm light of his future.

  “An email from Leanne. The DNA analysis.”

  “Really?” His feet dropped to the floor and he set the contract aside. “What’s it say?”

  “Short and sweet. No sugar-coating.” Eve began to read aloud. “Trace DNA was recovered from all items submitted for analysis, except one. The exception is the matchbook cover from Shotwell’s. Furthermore, the matchbook does not provide useful impressions of fingerprints. Consequently, the matchbook has no value for evidentiary purposes. The items revealing identical DNA signatures are: the inside sweat band from the San Francisco Giants baseball cap, the filter tips of two Camel cigarette butts marked BENNETT POINT, and all eight bullet casings. All items mentioned above — except for the matchbook — share the same DNA signature and come from the same source. On the other hand, a pair of matching DNA signatures comes from the Oral-B toothbrush and the single cigarette butt identified by you as DRIVEWAY. These two samples derive from the same source. Please advise me if you need the complete statistical details (e.g. % reliability, etc.) about the analysis. Also, let me know when you’d like me to return the samples to you.”

  They took a moment to digest the information, then Finch asked the obvious question: “So what does this tell us?”

  “One thing for sure, Michael Jahnke was Fuzzy. And Fuzzy was Nine. One stone cold killer.”

  “As we suspected. But the cigarettes from Bennett Point? Both from Nine. I didn’t see it that way.” Finch considered his earlier theory. “Somehow I thought the two of them shared a last smoke. You know, just before Turino died. But this way, Nine took the time for two smokes on his own.”

  “Pretty casual about it, wasn’t he.” Eve placed her laptop on the computer desk, sat in the chair and swiveled around to face Finch.

  He gazed through the window, wondered how the last ten or fifteen minutes played out for Tony Turino. “Or maybe it was worse than that. Maybe Nine sat with him, had his first cigarette, one of Tony’s Camels. Then he killed Turino. And then sat there for the second smoke. Just sat there thinking it over. Relishing the whole thing.”

  The thought sent a shiver through Eve. “Okay, that’s enough. I can’t go back over it again and again. Not anymore.”

  “Then we won’t.” Finch stared into her eyes and they maintained a fixed, unbroken bond. “Nine stays in the box. For both of us. We both know what happened to him and it’s over.”

  ※

  Two weeks after they received the DNA report from Leanne Spratz, Finch and Eve rode the elevator up to the thirteenth floor of the FBI tower on Golden Gate Avenue.

  FBI Agents Vince McClaugherty and Amy Wishart sat side-by-side in the interview room, while Eve and Finch took two chairs on the opposite side of the rectangular oak table. Between them lay three folders, each stuffed with documents — the evidence and interview transcripts that the Bureau had amassed over the previous three months. This was their second meeting with McClaugherty and Wishart. They’d met in the same room two days after their evacuation from Mount Ashland. During a four-hour long debriefing they told their side of the story.

  Now, it was the other way around. In consideration of their cooperation and the trauma they’d endured, Finch and Eve had been granted this second meeting. An exclusive interview to reveal the results of their inquiry — one hour before a press conference when the FBI would disclose their findings to the world.

  “How’s the arm healing?” Agent McClaugherty asked. The question was perfunctory, devoid of empathy. The same stonewall grimace he wore when he met them at the elevator bay showed no signs of cracking.

  “Not bad. It only hurts when I try to sleep,” Finch said in an effort to make light of the trauma to his arm. Despite the hours of physiotherapy, he still couldn’t raise his right hand above his head. Fortunately, he was left-handed.

  “Believe me, I know the feeling. I caught one in the calf three years ago,” Wishart said in a more understanding tone.

  Finch had noticed a slight limp in her gait as they’d followed her along the corridor to the interview room. “Then you understand,” he said with a nod. He felt as if they shared a bond, and it made him warm up to her. Just a little.

  “I do,” Wishart said, then turned to the business at hand. “Well, overall it appears that your story checks out. We still can’t prove that Brodie murdered Chernovski and Kinsella but we know he was in Detroit and Bakersfield at the time of their respective deaths.”

  “He was there?”

  “Right, but the implication doesn’t cut any mustard.” McClaugherty’s voice held a note of resignation, as if he’d worked a dozen leads and come up empty handed.

  “Cut any mustard?” Finch’s voice had an edge. “What are you talking about?”

  Eve coughed into her fist, a gesture intended to ease the tension. He glanced at her, then up at the ceiling. Experience had taught him that any case could slip off the rails, and when he appreciated the challenges the investigators faced, he turned his attention back to the files on the table.

  “Tell us about the other two. Who were they?” Eve asked.

  Wishart passed a folder to Eve. She picked it up and flipped through the contents while McClaugherty continued to speak.

  “The one you called the Russian is named Jeremiah Burns. Born and raised in Florida. Spent two years in Pasco Detention Center as a teenager for aggravated assault. Then at the ripe age of twenty-two he was sentenced to five to ten years in Florida State Prison for armed robbery. Got out after six and a half.” McClaugherty spoke with a southie-Boston accent. The tough side of town.

  “And the other?”

  “Felix Ambrose.” Wishart passed a second dossier to Finch. “Pretty much cut from the same cloth as Burns.”

  When he opened the folder Finch recognized the photograph stapled to the inside flap. This was the man killed by one of the pit bulls. The only fight won by any of the terriers — seconds before the dog was shot by Jeremiah Burns.

  “Were Ambrose and Burns with Brodie in Detroit and Bakersfield?” he asked.

  “Ambrose was in Detroit, but neither of them were in Bakersfield. We couldn’t find any evidence linking them to Kinsella or Chernovski,” Wishart said. Her lips formed a half-smile and Finch could see that she took pride in her background sleuthing even if it failed to confirm his suspicions.

  “What else can you tell us?” Eve gave them an encouraging smile, knowing that the two officers would be limited in what they could divulge. On the other hand, she knew they wouldn’t reveal anything if she and Finch didn’t probe them. “Who owned the property with the dog kennels?”

  “The one you called the Aussie?” Wishart blinked with a hint of amusement. “Jonathan Moore. Born and raised in Portland. Looks like he never set one foot outside the state of Oregon. Worked as a CAD draftsman. Two kids, divorced, no other family. After the financial crash in 2008, he bought the property near Ashland and began to associate with the local survivalists and preppers.”

  Preppers. Four years ago, Finch became acquainted with a prepper in Astoria, Oregon, who dedicated his free time to “prepare” for armageddon. He and his wife embraced a bleak vision of survival. Store som
e food, cache your weapons, harden the bunker.

  “Anything more?” Eve asked, hoping they might reveal a hidden card in their hand. After a moment of silence that stretched a little too long, she added, “What about the ballistic results? Did they show a match between the weapons and the murders at the Ostermann cottage?

  Wishart’s eyes scanned the open file in front of her. She flipped a page, then another. When she found what she needed, she read a paragraph to herself as if she had to confirm some specific details.

  “The take-down shots to all three victims behind the Ostermann property were fired by Ambrose and Burns.”

  Finch set his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “What about the head shots?”

  “All three matched the weapon belonging to Deacon Brodie.”

  Finch’s lips formed a tight O and he let out a long sigh. The news answered a question that had gnawed away at him since he and Eve were escorted from the Aussie’s hideout by the Ashland Police. Was Brodie some kind of Mafia Don who orchestrated the executions in the comfort of his living room overlooking Lake Sammamish, or was he a hands-on killer? Now Finch’s darkest suspicions were confirmed. Brodie reveled in his own blood lust. He couldn’t get enough of it. “That means he had to be part of it. Like the murders on the CH-47 chopper in Iraq. And the killings in Ashland. He had to be there.”

  McClaugherty responded with a bleak nod. “It looks that way.”

  “What else?” Eve asked.

  “Well, we talked to the RCMP in Canada about Tony Turino. Their coroner reported no suspicious circumstances related to his death. Looks like he fell onto some rocks. A broken neck,” Wishart said with a shrug. “I doubt we can add anything to what you already know.” She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and tucked it behind an ear. “The only remaining mystery is Michael Jahnke. Turino’s uncle said he drove up to Canada with Turino. The Canada Border Services Agency have a record of him entering the country, but from there he appears to have disappeared. And we have no record of him crossing back into the US.” She hesitated. “You haven’t heard anything about him have you?”