Sudden Death

CHAPTER FIVE

By the end of Tuesday, Megan had exhausted all avenues she could think of to regain control of the evidence and Price’s body. She finally decided to break ranks and call an old friend. If J. T. Caruso, one of the principals in the local office of Rogan-Caruso Protective Services, couldn’t find the answers she needed, no one could.

She was one of the select few who had J.T.’s private cell phone number-courtesy of her brother who had been in the navy SEALs with J.T.-though she rarely used it.

“Caruso,” the deep voice said.

“It’s Megan Elliott.”

“Meg,” J.T. said warmly. “How are you doing?”

“Personally, fine. Professionally … well, I have a situation I need your advice on.”

“Does it have to do with the dead veteran you pulled yesterday?”

It always unnerved Megan how J.T. seemed to know everything. “I swear you’re a psychic.”

He laughed honestly, seeming to surprise both himself and Megan. “Sometimes I wish I were. Truth, Mitch mentioned it to me this morning. Do you need to borrow him? I know your squad is spread thin.”

She hadn’t even talked to her ex-husband, Mitch Bianchi, but he still had a lot of friends on the squad. Half the time Megan wished she had never encouraged him to take the job offer from Rogan-Caruso last year. The best agent in fugitive apprehension, Mitch’s exceptional instincts and abilities were sorely missed. However, Megan had to admit that Mitch was better suited to private investigation than following the rigid rules of federal law enforcement.

“Thanks, J.T, but I really need you on this one.”

“What can I do?”

“You were in the military police, weren’t you?”

“Navy.”

“My victim was AWOL from the army. Their CID took my evidence and my body. I want them back.”

“That won’t be possible. The army-hell, the entire military-doesn’t like to share. If CID has flexed its ju-risdictional muscles, you’re out of luck. Though I’m surprised they acted so quickly.”

“That’s what I thought as well, but the vic attempted to kill his commanding officer. At least that’s what they told us.”

“Okay, that makes more sense. If he was simply a deserter they’d probably have been satisfied with positive identification and the coroner’s report.”

“Price is the third in a string of murders with the same M.O. Two dead men in two other states killed by the same people.”

“There’s more than one killer?”

“Evidence suggests there were at least two on scene.”

“How common are serial killers working in pairs?”

“Not rare, but not common. There’ve been several high-profile cases-the Hillside Stranglers; several male-female partnerships, where the woman lures the victim into the trap; Bittaker and Norris, who were prison buddies and started a killing spree when they got out. There’s usually a dominant and submissive- Why am I telling you this?”

“It’s interesting.”

“You don’t need me to teach you Forensic Profiling 101,” Megan said.

“I don’t usually draw such violent cases.”

It was Megan’s turn to laugh. “Perhaps not serial murderers, but don’t forget I’ve known you for a long time.”

“I could never forget that,” he said, perhaps too seriously, or maybe because Megan was on pins and needles. “What would you like me to do?”

“If I can’t get the evidence back, do you think you can find out what’s going on? I am particularly interested in the autopsy report and any trace evidence report. The Sacramento Police Department isn’t letting go; the detective in charge is digging into the victim’s background, his last few weeks, trying to put together some sort of victimology profile, plus following up on one lead we had before the CID took our case. But without the autopsy report, a weapon analysis, and a comparison of the needle marks with the previous victims, it’ll be hard to tie him into the other two murders. I need to be sure we’re dealing with the same killer, or the joint investigation could be compromised.”

“Why? If you have two other victims, why is this one so important?”

“If there are three known victims attributed to the same killer, where the M.O. is similar and there is a cooling off period, that puts these killers into the serial murderer category and they’re most likely to kill again. It frees up staff and resources at the federal level, and when we’re competing with other, higher-priority squads like counterterrorism and counterintelligence-”

“Say no more. I know someone at the DOD. Let me see what I can find out. What information do you have on the victim?”

Megan shared everything she knew, and thanked J.T. She felt immensely better knowing that she was at least working the case.

Her BlackBerry rang and it was an out-of-state number. She took the call.

The caller had a Texas drawl, definitely southern with a slight accent that sounded Hispanic. “Miz Elliott? This is Detective Jose Vasquez with the Austin Police Department. To what honor do I owe speaking with the FBI?”

Megan couldn’t tell if Vasquez was being sarcastic or not. Her office had a terrific relationship with local law enforcement; other regional divisions didn’t. She glanced at her watch. It was after eight in the evening, putting Vasquez in Texas two hours later.

“Working late,” she said.

“So are you.”

Okay, no small talk. “I’m working with Sacramento Police Detective John Black. He told me he spoke with you briefly yesterday about a homicide two months ago in your jurisdiction.”

“Yes. He had a similar M.O. And the FBI is involved?”

“Three cases, similar M.O.s, and Black called me in early. We’ve worked together before.”

“What do you need to know?”

“My victim was in the military. Army. I’m trying to track down any connection among the three victims, but so far other than their gender, that they lived alone, and were roughly middle-age, we have nothing.”

“I sent Detective Black a copy of our files.”

She’d read them. “There was nothing about a military record. Did you run a check?”

“No need to. I didn’t see anything in the house-well, he had a POW sticker on his truck. Lotta people have them.”

“I need his Social Security number to look up his records through the online military personnel system.” She’d put in the name and current address, but that wasn’t enough. “I have a copy of the autopsy report, but it’s a fax of a copy and the numbers are unclear.” She’d been surprised they were handwritten. Most records were typed or computer-generated now.

He rattled off the number. She wrote it down, then logged into the online military database and typed in the search parameters. She couldn’t access detailed records without a specific request that needed to be approved by the military, but she could pull up basic information like name, rank, last-known address, and status.

“What do you think is happening here? As I told Detective Black, the trail went cold mighty quick. No witnesses, no other like crimes. Our lab has been going over trace fibers, but so far nothing we can use. I was thinking revenge.”

“Revenge?”

“Oh, yeah. Guy was hamstrung then had all these needle marks. Couldn’t see them until the autopsy. Reggie, the coroner, called me in to see them, he didn’t believe it. Hundreds under the skin, but a needle so thin it didn’t leave a visible mark unless you looked real close.”

“Revenge?” It didn’t make sense on the surface, but it felt like that to her. Personal. She cringed. She was beginning to sound a lot like her ex-husband. She preferred dealing with facts. The fact was that there was no evidence of revenge, unless she could find a specific connection among the three victims, something more specific than the possibility that they were all military.

She asked, “In your investigation, did you come up with a connection to Dennis Perry, the mechanic in Las Vegas?”

“Name ain’t familiar ‘cept from the hot sheet. When I saw it, I went through my notes. Name didn’t come up. Wish I could be more help.”

Her records search online was complete. She couldn’t suppress the excitement in her voice as she said, “Detective, I think we have our connection. Johnson was in the U.S. Army from 1986 to 2006, honorably discharged. Price was in the U.S. Army from 1978 to 2004, when he went AWOL.”

“That’s near a twenty-year overlap.”

“But it’s something I didn’t have before, and maybe Dennis Perry’s records can narrow it down further. Thank you for your help.”

“Call me if you need anything else. Keep me informed, all right?”

“I promise.”

Thirty minutes later, Megan had Perry’s service record and now a nine-year window-Perry was in the army from 1995 to 2005.

She grinned tightly. She had something! A slim thread, but it was more than she’d had this morning.

She picked up her phone to call Detective Black when her BlackBerry trilled again. She answered, “I was just about to call you.”

“The security tapes came in. Completely worthless.”

“Why?”

“Someone blocked the signal from seven p.m. until three a.m.”

“And no one noticed?”

“No one monitors the cameras. They operate automatically, more as a deterrent than anything else. And if someone gets his car vandalized, he can get a person on tape. But for practical or preventive security? Worthless.”

“Dammit,” she muttered. “What about the van?”

“Not on the camera before seven. That gave them an hour to drive in and disappear before security came through.”

“All tapes? Even the stairwells?”

“It’s all the same system. So what did you want to tell me?”

“I have a connection among the three victims.” She told him about their U.S. Army records.

“Were they stationed together?” he asked, excited.

“That’s going another level in, and I need more time. I can’t get it without a formal request. I’m giving it to one of my best analysts and I’ll let you know if anything comes up, but it won’t be tonight.” And it probably wouldn’t be tomorrow. Or the next day. Unless orders came down from high up the food chain, the army wasn’t going to jump immediately. And Megan didn’t have enough juice to go all the way to the top.

“I have plenty to do. By the way, I spoke to Greg Abrahamson, the detective who was undercover downtown. He knew Price. Not by name, but when I mentioned the clean hands Abrahamson knew exactly who I was talking about. Said he was obsessive about keeping clean. Washed his hands constantly, was known to bathe in the river regularly. No sicko ritual there for the killer.”

“Thanks for checking.”

Megan hung up and called J.T. back, only to get his voice mail. She left the information she’d learned about the three victims. There was no way she could get their military records quickly through traditional bureaucratic routes. But she might be able to get the information through other, faster channels.

She feared that if she didn’t figure out the connection soon, another veteran would die. She’d do everything in her power to stop it.

Jack had checked the Cessna Caravan’s instruments and now inspected the weather report in the small open office inside the private hangar. The sun was quickly disappearing and Jack wanted to get back to Hidalgo tonight. His trip had been troublesome on many levels, though it was good to see Patrick awake.

He heard footsteps and looked up to see Dillon approach. “Ma wasn’t the only one upset you didn’t come by the house.”

His twin brother knew just how to twist the knife. Jack shrugged, continued to look at the weather report but didn’t see anything new. “I called.”

“What happened between you and Dad today?”

Jack had never told anyone what had happened between him and the Colonel, and didn’t plan to break that silence now.

“Dammit, Jack, I thought we were beyond this martyr crap.”

“Is that Doctor Kincaid speaking or my brother?”

“Take your pick.”

Jack assessed his brother. They weren’t identical- Dillon was fair-skinned like their father, his hair light brown, his eyes green. Dillon and Colonel Pat Kincaid had a lot in common. Honor. Rules. Society.

But it was Jack-the dark-haired, dark-skinned, dark-eyed son-who’d worshipped their dad for the first nineteen years of their lives. Dillon was the smart kid; Jack was the kid expelled for fighting. Dillon prided himself on straight A’s; Jack prided himself on pitching no-hitters. Dillon went to college on full scholarship; Jack enlisted in the army the day he graduated from high school.

Jack had wanted to be his dad.

Now he wanted to be anyone but.

“Take off your shrink hat, Dillon. I’m not open for inspection.”

“I’ve never tried.”

“Bullshit.”

“Shit, Jack, you make this so hard sometimes.”

“Don’t go touchy-feely on me.”

Dillon laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Every time we make headway, you pull out the fact that I’m a psychiatrist. I specialize in violent killers, not stubborn mercenaries.”

Jack leaned against the half wall of the office and gave his brother a wry smile. “How’s Kate?”

Dillon tensed. “If you think baiting me is going to work, you’re shit out of luck, Jack. And if you think I haven’t figured out what happened, you must think I’m an idiot.”

Jack picked up his overnight bag. He didn’t need Dillon’s lectures or disdain.

“I have friends at the hospital,” Dillon said quietly.

Jack didn’t say a word. His eyes closed. He didn’t want to explain.

“Tell me,” Dillon pushed.

“It’s none of your fucking business.”

“Is family so unimportant to you that you’re just going to turn your back on us again?”

Again. That stung.

“I never suspected that the reason you disappeared was because of Dad.”

“We all thought he was a saint,” Jack said, surprising himself. He took a deep breath and faced Dillon. He didn’t know what he was expecting-his father, a saint, or a shrink, but what he saw was his brother. The brother he once had. The brother he could have again if he wasn’t such a “stubborn mercenary.”

“He’s human. So are you.” Dillon caught his eye. “I think.”

Jack didn’t smile, but the tension dissipated. “Tell Ma-” He stopped. What should he say? That his father had disowned him? That her son may have been responsible for the deaths of an innocent family-or that her husband had been responsible? Could the family live with the fact that the Colonel had placed Jack’s career above the lives of civilians?

“I can’t go back, Dil. Not now.”

“What happened?” he asked quietly. “Jack, you and me. What happened?”

Jack shook his head. He had promised himself twenty years ago that he would never talk about his father’s betrayal with anyone, especially the family. Ma loved him, and Jack wouldn’t hurt her again for the world.

“Dad disowned me,” Jack said, staring straight ahead. “And that’s it.”

“Don’t leave it at that-”

“I realized tonight that twenty years isn’t long enough. I also realized that I shouldn’t have let him sever ties to my family. He thought that if he took away everyone I cared about, I would come back and tell him he was right and thank him for showing me the error of my ways and saving my career.” He grunted. “It’s clear now. I made a new family in the army and I didn’t need-I didn’t think I needed-you or Ma or anyone.”

Jack faced Dillon, jaw tight with restrained emotion. “You’re my brother. I-” He paused. “I want my family back. But I no longer have a father.”

“You don’t-”

“I do mean it, Dillon. He told me never to come home. No more. He no longer exists to me. He disowned me twenty years ago, but he still controlled me all this time. Now I’m free. And if you can’t accept it, that’s you.”

Dillon frowned. “You know this isn’t over.”

“Yes, it is.”

They stared at each other in silence for a long time. Dillon’s phone beeped. He read a text message. “Everyone is at Connor’s place. Come back with me. One night.”

The radio buzzed behind him.

“Kincaid, you’re cleared. The thunderstorms moved northeast.”

Jack stared at the radio. Dillon didn’t say another word. It was on Jack now. Did he want his family back? Could he turn his back again?

Could he live with himself if he did? Would they call him if they needed him, or would they disown him as well?

“5-A-Z-1-1-1-3-4, copy.”

Did he want to turn into Scout? He loved the man, but Scout had nothing outside of their team. No family. No wife. No kids. And while a wife and kids were out of the cards for Jack, he did have a family. Brothers and sisters, and maybe a few nieces and nephews down the road. Could he turn his back on the future?

Did he want to?

He picked up the microphone. “Thanks, but I have a change of plans. I won’t be leaving until oh seven hundred.”

“Roger, oh seven hundred. I’ll have the Cessna ready.”