Sudden Death

CHAPTER THREE

Megan went home late Monday night, the murder of George L. Price weighing heavily on her mind. She didn’t know why it bothered her so much-murder was part of the job.

She poured herself a glass of red wine, kicked off her shoes, and sat heavily in her armchair. A white ball of fur jumped into her lap and meowed loudly.

She frowned at Mouse, as she called the cat, and said, “I already fed you.” She’d never been an animal person. Her job wasn’t nine-to-five, and she didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else. Megan liked to come and go as she pleased. But her ex-husband had recently presented her with the furry creature, rescued by his new fiancee when someone threw the animal into a local lake.

Unconsciously, she stroked her pet, who immediately started to purr. The purr was surprisingly soothing, and Mouse kneaded his paws on her lap.

Megan sipped her wine and closed her eyes. It was close to midnight after a long, long day. Her squad was the only Violent Crimes Squad in the Sacramento Regional FBI Office, and she’d spent hours on the Price homicide, following up with Detective Black and Simone Charles several times throughout the day, reviewing the little evidence they’d thus far collected.

Their one lead-the license plates noted by the security patrol Sunday night-was still viable, though Megan wasn’t holding out hope. Two of the vehicles cleared quickly-the owners had valid reasons for leaving their cars in the garage, and they had verified alibis as well.

The third plate was a possible. The plate was registered to an eighty-two-year-old great-grandmother. When Black went to her house, he discovered that the plates on her sedan did not match the numbers logged by garage security-someone had switched them with those off a black Econovan registered to a neighbor who had reported his vehicle stolen Monday morning. When Black followed up with him, the owner said the last time he’d driven his van was on Saturday morning, and he didn’t know it was gone until he left for work on Monday. So far, the van hadn’t turned up. Black was checking into neighbors and relatives. He was thorough and methodical.

In addition to this priority serial murder, Megan had to clear the paperwork piling up on her desk. She preferred taking care of her supervisory duties as they arose, not putting anything off too long, knowing how quickly the stacks of paper grew. But in the course of dealing with paperwork, she had to delegate new assignments, review reports, and attend a joint task force meeting on child prostitution while the assigned agent prepared to testify in a high-profile case.

She hadn’t submitted her own written report on the Price homicide until after ten that night. But she left the office with a clean desk and a plan for tomorrow.

Now that she was home, she could think about why this morning’s crime scene bothered her so much. Price was a veteran. He should have been taken care of by the country he had fought to protect, but instead he’d been marginalized and homeless. How had he gotten to that point? What had happened to put him on the streets? Drugs? Alcohol?

Megan’s father had been a career soldier and had died on the field during the first Desert War. He’d been her hero, and while he hadn’t turned to drugs or alcohol, many of his peers had. It wasn’t just from what they’d seen or done as soldiers; it was also how they were treated when they came home. Megan had known too many veterans over the years who had serious medical problems, physical or emotional, and often did nothing about it. Partly because they were men-they felt they should be able to handle it on their own-and partly because the system was a bureaucratic mess.

What if her father had been discharged instead of killed? Her father had been a soldier. He couldn’t have been anything else. But if he couldn’t be a soldier, would he have walked the streets? Lost? Confused? Angry with his fate? What about Price’s family? Did he have kids wondering where their dad was?

Men like Price often slipped through the cracks.

She was still waiting on the dead veteran’s files. All they had was one of his dog tags-if they were even his. He could have picked them up off the street or found them in a garbage can. They’d take prints at the autopsy, and the coroner’s investigators would track down family. Hopefully, they’d soon have his identification confirmed.

But Megan knew soldiers after being raised by one. She couldn’t imagine any of them tossing their tags in the trash. Not the men and women she knew.

Of course, maybe Price’s wife or ex-wife had tossed them out of spite.

Nonsequitur, Megan. You are tired.

And thinking about her mother. If Caroline had still been married to William Elliott, she would have tossed all his medals, commendations, and the numerous newspaper articles Megan had carefully preserved over the years, intending to give him a scrapbook on his retirement.

The last page in the scrapbook was her father’s obituary and a photograph she took of his headstone at Arlington National Cemetery.

Her cell phone’s symphony ring tone startled her. She grabbed the phone from the table, looked at the caller I.D., and didn’t immediately recognize the number. But it was after four in the morning-she’d fallen asleep in her chair.

“This is Megan Elliott,” she answered, clearing her throat.

“You have to get to the morgue right now!”

Morgue. “Who’s this?”

“Simone! Simone Charles, from Sac P.D. CSU. The army is snatching our victim. Says he’s AWOL and wanted for attempted murder.”

Megan sat up and Mouse jumped off her lap with an irritated meow. She couldn’t believe the army CID was pushing for jurisdiction-and at four a.m.?

“I’ll be right there.”

“I called the district attorney and asked him to file some motion or something to stop them. But he thinks the U.S. attorney needs to do it. He’s going to try to slow them down.”

“Matt Elliott?”

“Is there another D.A.?”

“Sorry. You woke me.” Of course the Sacramento P.D. would know the Sacramento district attorney, who happened to be Megan’s brother.

“I’ll call my boss,” she said. “Hold them there.”

“They’ll have to arrest me before they take my body.” Simone hung up.

Megan jumped in and out of the shower before the water warmed, pulled her wet blond hair back into a tight braid, and slid on slacks and a thin blouse, then her shoulder holster. She poured some dry food into Mouse’s dish and added water to his bowl on her way out of her downtown loft, and was in her car twenty minutes after Simone’s furious call.

She dialed her boss at his home. He answered quietly, probably so as not to wake his wife. “Richardson.”

“Megan here.” She told him what Simone told her.

“And?”

“That’s all I have. I’m on my way to the morgue to see what we can do.”

“We probably won’t be able to stop them. They have jurisdiction over their soldiers, dead or alive.”

“It would be much better if we worked together on this.”

“If anyone can convince the army’s CID to share, it’d be you, but I’m not holding my breath.” He sighed as if to emphasize the point. “I’ll call Olsen’s office.” Olsen was the U.S. attorney who oversaw their district. “Let me know what you find out. It may not be worth fighting them for.”

“Sir, Price is connected to two other murders. Did you read my report? I emailed it last night. We need the evidence to track down a serial murderer, CID and their rules notwithstanding.”

“Point taken.” He hung up, and Megan wasn’t sure if he was fully on her side.

While military investigations were essential in keeping order among the armed forces, Megan simply couldn’t see what benefit there was to the Criminal Investigation Division taking over the murder of an AWOL soldier when his death most likely had nothing to do with his being AWOL.

Unless the other two victims were AWOL.

She called Richardson back.

“Sir-”

“I’m about to shower, since you woke me. Can I have ten minutes?”

“Did you find out about the other two victims? If they were veterans?”

“No. I sent an alert to headquarters about the possible connection.”

“I’m going to follow up on that. Maybe there is another connection-”

“That they were all AWOL?” he guessed what she’d been thinking. “Let me know.” He hung up.

Texas was two hours ahead of California, but it wasn’t even seven a.m. there. Still, she called and left a message for the detective in charge of the Duane Johnson homicide. She did the same thing for the Dennis Perry homicide in Las Vegas. Then she called Matt.

“I need-”

“Good morning to you, too, Meg.”

“Sorry, I-”

“I know. I’ve had an earful from CSU. I got you a temporary restraining order, but I don’t expect it to hold up. It’ll just delay them, and probably not for long.”

“Enough time for me to convince them that they don’t want to take our victim and evidence.”

“Good luck. I’m not holding my breath.” He hung up.

Megan appreciated the legal system. Laws were there for a reason. Even military laws. But she wanted to solve a murder. Find a killer, build a case, and hand it over to the U.S. attorney for prosecution. She wanted to punish the bad guys. She only wished she was better versed in such situations like dealing with CID, but she would wing it. After all, they were on the same side.

When she pulled up in front of the morgue, there were two army jeeps and a black sedan with military plates. A soldier in uniform stood sentry. She drove around back and saw the crime scene unit’s van. An ambulance was bringing in two corpses from a local hospital for processing when Megan walked in. She didn’t see Simone, but heard her voice echoing in the sterile building. Megan cringed. She flashed her badge though the intake pathologist didn’t pay much attention, or so Megan thought. She started walking toward the voice when the gal behind the desk snapped “Grab some booties,” and pointed to a box on the wall.

“Thanks.” Megan slid them on her flats and continued to walk toward the voice.

“What about ‘restraining order’ do you not understand?” Simone said, hands on her hips, as Megan rounded the corner into the cold storage room. Rows of bodies on steel gurneys, most of them covered with sheets with only their feet showing, lined the huge refrigerator.

Megan was surprised to see that Matt had beat her to the morgue. She nodded to her brother, and to the pathologist who was standing next to Simone.

All eyes went to her. Megan quickly assessed the situation and realized that she was likely the ranking opposition, for lack of a better word. She extended her hand to the man in the suit-military lawyer, she pegged. “Hello, I’m Supervisory Special Agent Megan Elliott with the FBI. I think we can work something out where we all get what we want.”

The lawyer said, “Lieutenant Paul Stork. Your victim is our primary suspect in an attempted murder case. Private First Class Price has been AWOL for five years. And, as I was explaining to the district attorney, section-”

Megan cut him off. “I understand, Lieutenant. And I respect your need to investigate your own crimes. May I suggest that we find common ground so we-”

Stork interrupted. “There is no common ground, Agent Elliott.”

Megan appealed to his sense of justice. “Price was the victim of a serial murderer who has killed two other men-in Texas and Nevada. The evidence is crucial not only to this investigation, but to those investigations. We need to make the link-”

Stork put his hand up. Megan realized the gesture was the same one she often used when she wanted someone to stop talking, and it irritated her intensely. She vowed she wouldn’t do it again, and planned on apologizing to her ex-husband at her first opportunity.

“Agent Elliott, if there is any evidence pertinent to the Sacramento Police Department’s investigation into this homicide, my office will forward it to”-he looked at his notepad-”Detective John Black.”

“I think we can do better than that,” Megan said.

Stork’s phone rang. He answered it without excusing himself. He listened, then said, “Thank you,” and hung up.

“If-”

He put his hand up again and Megan wanted to slap it back down. Stork motioned for the two soldiers standing sentry over Price’s body to move him out.

“That was the DOD,” Stork said. “I have confirmed authority to take over this investigation. The FBI does not have jurisdiction in this matter, as I’m sure both you and the district attorney are aware.” He turned to Si-mone, who was red-faced. The pathologist had a hand on her shoulder, his knuckles white as he restrained her as subtly as possible.

“Ms. Charles, I have sent over a team to collect the evidence stored at the Sacramento Police Department. If you make this difficult, I’ll have you taken into custody for obstruction of justice.” He said to the pathologist, “Mr. Ward, if you would please retrieve all clothing, evidence, and material you removed from Private First Class Price’s body, post haste.”

Post haste? Who spoke that way?

“It’s logged in with-” Ward began.

“Please bring it to me. I have a busy day ahead and need to arrange transport of the body to our facilities.”

Ward didn’t bat an eye and left the room.

“Nice try, Mr. Elliott,” Stork said. “I assume you were trying to help your wife out, but you should have known better.”

“Sister,” Megan and Matt said simultaneously.

Matt added, “This is still my county, and that man, AWOL or not, was murdered in my jurisdiction. I will likely be prosecuting his killer at some point-before or after you. I hope you’ll consider that when you process the evidence and ensure that Ms. Charles and Detective Black have a copy of all your records and files.”

“We’ll provide what we can,” Stork said, noncommittally.

“You jumped on this real quick,” Megan said. “We’ve had the case for less than twenty-four hours.”

“Your office contacted the army,” Stork said.

“Excuse me?” Then Megan remembered. “When we were confirming his identity and seeking next-of-kin records.” Dammit, her diligence got her case yanked.

“The CID still moved faster than I’ve ever seen the army move,” Matt said. “Who’s Price’s victim? A general?” Megan noted the sarcasm in her brother’s voice.

“Price is wanted for the attempted murder of his commanding officer.”

Ward walked back in and handed a sealed box to the soldier Stork indicated.

“Thank you, Mr. Ward. You have been very helpful.” He nodded to them, then motioned for the soldiers to leave with him. “Have a nice day.”

Simone didn’t restrain her scream of frustration as Stork left with their victim. “Asshole!”

Matt said, “I know Stork’s type. He can make your life hell if he wants to.”

“I’ve never been in the military,” she snapped. “I don’t take orders well.”

Matt turned to the pathologist. “Good to see you again, Phineas. Have you met my sister, Megan Elliott?”

“I have now.” He shook her hand.

“I can’t believe we’re just standing around here doing nothing!” Simone said. “That’s my body they’re taking. You can kiss any prosecution good-bye.”

“Don’t take it out on the D.A.,” Phineas Ward said. “He delayed them long enough.”

“What does that mean?” Megan asked.

Ward shrugged. “When we process the body, we take certain samples. I forgot that I’d put the vials in the lab, and the lab director is already processing them.”

Simone wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek. “You’re wonderful.”

“It still won’t help with a prosecution,” Matt said. “Without physical evidence for the defense to test independently, most judges will throw it out.”

“But it can help with victimology,” Megan said, admiring Phineas Ward’s foresight. “Was Price on drugs? Drunk? Did he have any illnesses? Did the killer drug him in any way? There’s a connection between Price and the other two victims, and this is one way, albeit small, that we can try to figure it out.”

“Exactly,” Simone said. “And,” she added smugly, “the security tapes didn’t come in yesterday. I’m supposed to get them at nine a.m., and the damn CID will already be back on their base or in Hell or wherever they’re going.”

Megan turned to Ward. “Did you inspect the body? Did you see anything strange?”

“Other than collecting blood and hair samples, I only performed a visual examination, weighed, and measured him. Six feet tall, one hundred seventy pounds, forty-five to fifty years of age. I don’t have a positive I.D. on him, other than the identification on his person. But I collected fingerprints and already sent them off for processing.”

“So at least we’ll be able to confirm his identity,” Megan said. “You remembered those details?”

“My mind is full of useless trivia.”

“Not so useless,” Simone said, taking notes.

“I don’t think he died from the bullet in his skull.”

“What?” Megan and Simone said simultaneously.

“There wasn’t enough blood. Was there a lot at the crime scene?”

“He lost a lot of blood when his hamstrings were cut,” Simone said.

“But that didn’t kill him. The blood was clotted behind his knees, and you’d be surprised at how little blood can come from a wound like that. It tears the muscle but doesn’t hit any major arteries. The blood would clot quickly, yet the victim would be completely incapacitated. Not to mention being in intense pain.

“There was no clotting around the head,” Ward continued, “at least I didn’t see any. There might have been contamination, or perhaps a postmortem ritual of cleaning the body, but I think I would have noticed something like that.” He shrugged. “It’s just a guess.”

“The victim’s hands were very clean,” Megan remembered. “Compared to what I would expect from a homeless man.”

“Actually,” Ward said, “now that you mention it, the body was relatively clean. I see a lot of the homeless in here, and few take regular, or even weekly, baths. His clothing, however, was quite ripe.”

“Abrahamson,” Matt said, snapping his fingers.

“Who?” Megan asked.

“Detective Greg Abrahamson. He was undercover on the streets last year while investigating a series of murders. Found the killers and I have the trial coming up next month, so I’ve been working with him. I wonder if he knew the victim.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Simone said. “I’ll talk to Black about it.”

“You’re trying the case yourself?” Megan asked.

“It’s very complex. I just won the motion to try the two juveniles as adults, but the battle wasn’t pretty. Our office is going to be under scrutiny.” He didn’t have to explain why-California’s entire criminal justice system had taken a huge public slap last year for sending an innocent man to death row.

Megan knew exactly what kind of pressure Matt was under. When his knee got shot out in Desert Storm-the same war that killed their father-he turned to a law degree, became a prosecutor, then a state senator, and eventually the district attorney. Putting criminals behind bars meant more to Matt than playing politics. The events of last year had put Matt back in the political spotlight, and he hadn’t liked it.

“I’ll call Black about Abrahamson,” Simone said.

“And let me know when the security tapes come in,” Megan said. “Maybe we can put a face on the killer.”

“Killers,” Simone corrected her.

Naked, Ethan stood in the middle of the forest.

The darkness was complete, the earth and his mind. Black. Bottomless. He breathed, but he was not alive. He spoke, but he did not think. Sucked dry by the needles that controlled his nerves, an empty shell of a man told him what to feel and when. The pain, the pleasure, the pain, the nothing.

Nothing.

He’d wanted to die. Death meant nothing. He wasn’t really alive, was he?

He raised his bare arms toward the towering canopy of trees, a sliver of early light fighting its way in among the leaves. Arms outstretched, legs spread, he begged for lightning to strike him from above.

The phantom smell of charred flesh rushed through his nose, on his tongue. He snorted and moaned. The pain of electricity surging through his body, now a memory.

He looked down at his limp penis, but instead of the dank earth below he saw himself suspended by ropes, his feet barely touching the packed dirt floor. Rubbing his hands together, he felt the scars on his wrists, faint now, there for him to see and feel but no one else knew.

His body jerked as if he were on a string. He watched the needles that had pierced him years ago sink into his flesh. Wires this time, wires connected to a battery- what he thought was a battery. He looked straight ahead, the tree limbs holding the device, the wires crawling out for him.

You are mine you are mine you are mine.

Wires slithering as snakes, boa constrictors, wrapping around his ankles, knees, thighs, penis, down his throat …

Kill me God damn you kill me damn you KILL FUCK NO NO NO NO.

The pain tore all pleas from his mind, his throat, his scream suspended in midair. His body jerked violently from the electric jolt, a brief jolt that kept him bobbing long after they were done.

The room had been dark. The room had been bright. Hell. Heaven. Laughter. Laughter bubbled out of his scream-scarred throat. There was only Hell, Hell on earth, and all he wanted was nothing. Nothing. Empty, painless, nothing …

Dropping to the ground, he buried his face in the dirt, burrowing in the leaves. He would escape, run, hide.

They would find him.

She would find him.

He was being watched.

The cold hit him first. He shook uncontrollably. Raw earth assaulted him. He breathed in and coughed up dirt. His mouth was coated with the damp, moldy soil. He rose, resting on all fours, barely able to breathe.

“Ethan.”

Salty tears mingled with dirt on his tongue.

“Wa-water.” He could hardly speak. Where was he?

“Shh.”

It was his angel of death, the one who’d saved him. Over and over. She didn’t leave, didn’t desert him, leave him to the enemy, leave him to be tortured. She raised him from the dirt, draped a blanket over him. He was naked. It was so cold, where were his clothes? How did he get here?

“Walk with me.”

He went with her, her arm around him. He remembered tearing his shirt. His chest stung. He’d scratched himself. How bad? It hurt. She would take care of him.

“Kill me,” he begged, his throat raw.

She didn’t respond. He wanted to cry.

“I hurt myself,” he whispered, his throat raw.

“I’ll fix everything.”

She would. His angel would fix everything.

“Kill them.”

“Of course.”

“I will kill them. I will kill them. I promise you I will kill them.”

And she murmured in his ear, “Yes, sweetheart, we will.”