Authors: Chris Culver
“This isn't self-righteousness. It's common sense,” said Ash. “You let someone like Fleischer go, you're just going to arrest him in another five years for committing the same offense. The whole cycle repeats. You want a better world, grow a pair and put him in jail for the rest of his life.”
Havelock crossed his arms. “And what would you do about his accomplices? Let them go? We make deals so we can build cases.”
“If you were better at your job, that wouldn't be a problem.”
Havelock took a deep breath and started to say something, but Bowers coughed loudly, interrupting him.
“I didn't come here to hear you two bicker,” he said. “Truce, all right? You two can throw down later if you want, but right now, let's focus on the job.” He looked at Havelock and then at Ash. Both men nodded, and Bowers returned his attention to Havelock. “Do you know where Fleischer lives?”
Havelock took another couple of breaths before looking at Bowers. “He's got an apartment in Miami and a house in Chicago. I put both under surveillance, but we haven't seen him yet.”
“So you'll pick him up when you can,” said Bowers. Havelock nodded. “How about Alistair Hines?”
Havelock laced his fingers together over his folder and leaned forward. “We need to talk about Hines. He could be a problem for us.”
“What kind of problem?” asked Bowers, crossing his arms.
“The kind I might need to bring Washington in on.”
“Who is he?” asked Bowers.
“First of all, I should note that Marvin Spencer didn't lie to you,” said Havelock, producing two images from the folder. “Hines
is
involved with the case.”
The FBI agent slid the images toward Ash and Bowers. The first image depicted a young man with a thin, angular face and brown hair. He stared straight at the camera, nary a smile on his lips. He wore a beige beret with an eagle crossed by a sword. Clearly, Hines was a military man, or had been at one point. The second photo showed the same man but older. His brown hair had streaks of gray, and the angles on his face had rounded somewhat with age. In the second photo, he wore a suit and tie. Ash recognized the hallway the picture had been taken from immediately, having walked in it to talk to Amina.
“Who is he?” asked Ash.
“Alistair Hines is his real name,” said Havelock. “Born in the East Midlands, just outside of Leicester, England, in seventy-one. Joined the British Army at nineteen and then became a Special Air Service operator at twenty-three. He left the military at thirty-two with a wife and two daughters. A drunk driver killed the wife and daughters in 2004, after which Hines joined an American private security company with contracts in Iraq. While there, his unit came under fire from insurgents hiding under cover near a mosque. His unit returned fire, killing the gunmen as well as eight civilians. As the unit commander, his company blamed him for the incident and fired him. He went freelance after that.”
Ash looked up from the pictures. “You've got better information on Hines than Fleischer.”
Havelock nodded. “The records are better kept.”
“He doesn't sound like a murderer, much less a rapist,” said Bowers.
“People change,” said Havelock.
“How'd he get mixed up with Fleischer?” asked Ash.
“I presume the same way he gets other clients. He has a reputation to live up to.”
“And what is that reputation?” asked Bowers.
“He finds people and brings them home.”
“In this case, he murdered at least three people,” said Ash. “I'd say he's failing to live up to his reputation.”
Havelock shook his head. “I think he's living up to it well. Think back to the Elliots' Mercedes. We found blood and gunshot residue on the backseat. Our lab has since matched that blood to a sample provided to us by the British Army. I think Fleischer hired Hines to bring him Kara and Daniel. While doing that, Daniel Elliot shot Hines, and in response, Hines shot them both.”
Ash had thought something similar earlier, but didn't say anything.
“So in your scenario, Hines abducted Rebecca because he needed a driver?” asked Bowers.
“And because she identified herself as a nurse. He was shot and needed help. Lafayette detectives found surgical equipment, sponges, and bandages at the barn up north. I think Rebecca sewed him up and administered an antibiotic called cephalexin. A vet's office up there reported a break-in and theft of medicine, so they might have gotten it there. Fleischer's men could have assaulted Rebecca while he recovered. Hines may or may not be involved with that. I think she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Then what's he doing now?” asked Ash.
Havelock shrugged. “I don't know.”
“What's his connection to the Bureau?” asked Bowers.
“That's where things get tricky. After Detective Rashid mentioned Alistair Hines, I looked him up in every database I have access to. Couldn't find a thing.” He looked at Ash. “I wanted you off my back, so I called a colleague in D.C. He filled me in on the details.”
“Why didn't you have access to it?” asked Bowers.
“Because it's an executive-level, read-only file on a mainframe computer in Quantico, Virginia. You've got to be a deputy director or above to see it.”
“Any particular reason for that?” asked Ash.
“Because we've hired him.”
Bowers swore under his breath and looked away, but Ash continued staring.
“You lied to me,” said Ash. “You said he's not an agent.”
“And he's not,” said Havelock. “We hired him as a consultant in Algeria.”
“Why?” asked Bowers.
“In 2008, two local staffers at the U.S. mission in Algiers got into a fight, and one of them ended up stabbing and killing the other. Wasn't a tough case; they were fighting about a girl. We sent two agents to consult with the Diplomatic Security Service and local authorities. They watched some interviews and closed the case. No big deal. On their last night, our agents went out with two embassy staffers and got separated. A couple of hours later, when our agents didn't show up at the embassy, DSS tried to track them down. No go, though. The local police weren't helpful, so we reached out to other governments and asked for assistance. The French have significant intelligence assets in the region and suggested we hire help. They gave us Hines. He got our people back, and we didn't ask questions.”
The story might have made a fine spy novel, but it didn't explain why the Bureau buried it. Ash squinted.
“How'd you pay Hines?”
Havelock hesitated, but then swallowed and licked his lips. “We made him a deal. Since he was a private contractor with the U.S. government, the Department of Justice could have prosecuted him in federal court for the shootings in Iraq. We agreed not to if he found our people.”
Ash nodded. “I can see why you're so enthusiastic about making deals with criminals. Sounds like they work out well for everybody.”
If Havelock's eyes had been daggers, Ash would have been dead before he finished speaking. “I had nothing to do with Alistair Hines or any deals made with him, and I'd appreciate it if you could keep that in mind. I think you also see why we have to act delicately. I've risked my job even telling you this. The Bureau is interested in finding him quickly and quietly before things get out of hand. We will provide whatever tactical and support units are required to end this as soon as we find him.”
“Hines has put three bodies in the morgue already,” said Ash. “Things are already out of hand.”
“And if we don't find him soon, it will be worse.”
Ash wanted to remind him that Hines wouldn't be free to kill anyone had the Department of Justice not made a deal with him earlier, but Bowers cleared his throat before he could.
“Thank you for the meeting. As far as I'm concerned, Hines is yours. If we find anything on him, you'll be my first call.”
Havelock took his gaze from Ash, his face and posture softening. He nodded toward Bowers. “Thank you, Captain.” He looked at Ash. “It's good to have a partner who understands the complexity of what we do.” Ash bit his tongue to avoid saying anything further. Havelock gathered his papers. “I will keep your department in the loop as much as possible. This will be your bust as much as it will be ours.”
“I'd appreciate that,” said Bowers. Havelock nodded at both men before tucking his folder under his arm and heading back to his SUV. Ash waited until his car left the parking lot to speak.
“You didn't tell him that we had a lead on Hines.”
“I noticed you didn't, either,” said Bowers.
Ash nodded and watched as the FBI agent's SUV barreled up the road toward the field office. “I'm not interested in making a deal with this guy. I want Hines in prison until he drops dead.”
Bowers nodded. “Then we've got some work to do.”
W
hen they got back in Bowers's car, neither man spoke for about half the drive. Eventually, Ash couldn't hold the question in anymore.
“Why didn't you tell Havelock about the farm?”
Bowers pulled their car to a stop as a traffic light shifted to red. They were on Fall Creek Parkway with the eponymous waterway behind a tree line to their left and a historic residential neighborhood to their right. Cars queued from one stoplight to the next.
“I trust him, if that's what you're asking,” said Bowers. “I can't say that for his superiors, though, especially during an election year. If they're afraid of being subpoenaed by Congress for what they did with Hines, they're going to be more interested in covering their asses than building a case. I'd rather not let a bunch of political appointees screw this up.”
Ash nodded. “What do you want to do?”
“We'll work with the state police and take him on our own. With Indiana's human trafficking laws, Hines and his crew will get thirty years each per victim.”
That sounded about right. After Indianapolis won the bid to host the 2012 Super Bowl, the state legislature, in a rare fit of common sense, realized that the deluge of visitors would bring with them a darker side, including drugs and sex workers. In the four years between the announcement and the event, Indiana passed some of the harshest penalties in the country for human trafficking, making the punishment for the sexual trafficking of a minor equivalent to murder.
“We're going to need a warrant. How do you plan to get that?”
Bowers glanced at him and then returned his attention to the road as the light turned green.
“You went to law school, so you're going to have to figure it out. There's got to be something we can use.”
Ash thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “We can't get a warrant with what we've got. If we creep by the house, we might find exigent circumstances that would allow a warrantless search.”
“Not going to happen, cowboy. If we go down there, we need to go down in force. Hines is too dangerous. He's put enough bodies in the ground. Find me something.”
Ash sighed. “I'll see what I can do.”
“You take care of that, and I'll take care of tactical arrangements with the state police.”
“Sounds fine.”
Bowers finished the drive to their station without saying another word. As soon as he got back to the homicide unit's floor, Ash sat at the same desk he had commandeered earlier and allowed gravity and the floor's slight lean to spin his chair. Maybe he could tie one of the farms to Kara and Daniel Elliot or the Dandelion Inn somehow. If he could do that, he might be able to convince a judge that law enforcement had cause to search it for evidence of crimes committed elsewhere. It was a stretch, but they would have to rely on stretches.
He logged into his computer and then opened a Web browser. Every county in the state had property taxes, and a lot of them now had property tax information available online. Ash doubted either farm had been registered to Evil, Inc., but he might get lucky. He logged on to the Hancock County assessors website and found a link with real estate property tax information for Cecil, Indiana. The first farm he found belonged to Doug and Loretta Brown, and from what Ash could tell, it had been in their family for as long as records were available. Ash wrote the names down before moving on.
The second home belonged to a company called Equine Express Farms, LLC, and they owed the local county just under twelve grand in back property taxes. That information wouldn't help him get a warrant, but it did indicate that its owners might have been desperate for money. Ash pushed his chair back from the desk and rubbed sleep out of his eyes before looking up the non-emergency number of the Hancock County Sheriff's Department. The phone rang four times before a woman with a slight Southern drawl picked up.
“Hi, this is Detective Sergeant Ash Rashid with the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department. Can you put me in touch with the shift supervisor tonight?”
“Sure thing. I'll get Jerry.”
Ash thought the dispatcher would actually put him on hold. Instead, it sounded as if she put the phone down and shouted until a new voice came on the phone. Very high-tech system they had down there in Hancock County.
“Yeah, this is Jerry Friedlander. I'm the deputy sheriff. Tanya says you need to talk to somebody, so what can I do for you?”
“I've heard a rumor that a murder suspect I'm looking for is in your area, and I wanted to ask you about two locations.”
“Shoot.” Ash shuffled through his notes until he found the address of the first farmhouse he had looked up. Jerry clucked his tongue for a few minutes. “I've known Doug and Loretta for going on fifty years, and they're good folk. Wouldn't hurt nobody.”
“And I'm assuming neither of them has a record,” said Ash.
“You're assuming right,” said Jerry. “Cecil is a small town, so I know who the troublemakers are. Doug and Loretta ain't them.”
Ash jotted a note down. “Good. That's what I wanted to hear,” he said. He asked about his second address, and Jerry remained quiet for a moment.
“That one I could see being a problem. We've had some calls about strange smells coming from that place. I walked around with the owner one day, but I couldn't find anything. Wouldn't let me in the barn, though. I suspect they might be cooking something, but I can't prove that.”
Ash nodded to himself. Hancock County had one of the lowest population densities of any county in the state, so meth cookers probably did find the area attractive.
“If I can get a warrant, I think I'll be visiting them tonight with some state troopers. I'll keep your department informed,” he said. “You think Doug and Loretta would talk to me if I called?”
“I bet they would. Just tell them I gave you their number.” Jerry rattled off a phone number, which Ash wrote down. “If you get a warrant up there in Indianapolis, are you sure that's going to work down here?”
“Yeah, as long as we stay in Indiana.”
“Huh,” said Jerry. “We don't do too many search warrants down here, so I didn't know that. Well, I guess you need anything else, you just let me know.”
“Will do. Thank you,” said Ash. He hung up the phone and then called the number Jerry had given him. The phone rang several times before a woman's scratchy voice answered and said hello.
“Evening. This is Detective Ash Rashid with the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department. Jerry Friedlander from the sheriff's department gave me your number. Do you have a minute to talk?”
She gasped. “Is it Jennifer? Is she okay?”
“I'm sure she is, ma'am,” said Ash. “Nothing's wrong. I'm calling to ask some questions about one of your neighbors.”
The woman, presumably Loretta, paused.
“Oh. I'll get my husband.”
Ash started to tell her that he'd rather talk to them both individually, but she put down the phone with an audible clank. The man who got on the phone next had a soft, low voice that could have belonged to a lounge singer.
“This is Doug Brown.”
Ash introduced himself again and explained why he had called. Doug seemed a little more comfortable on the phone than his wife and answered questions readily. He and Loretta had lived on their farm for nearly twenty years, having inherited it from her father. He worked as the plant engineer at a nearby factory, while Loretta had retired from the local school system a year earlier. To hear Doug tell it, he knew the personal history of everyone and every place in town. Ash got the feeling that he liked talking a lot.
“I'm calling about a farm up the street from you owned by a company called Equine Express Farms. You know it?”
“I used to pass it every day going to work. Used to be a nice place. Sixty years ago, I had a paternal uncle who used to work as a farmhand for the family that owned it. Their grandkids sold the place a couple of years back. Don't know what happened to them since.”
Ash wanted to tell him to focus on the present, but he didn't think that would help the conversation much.
“You said it used to be a nice place. So it's not anymore?”
“Well, everything around here used to be nice. I mean this is pretty country. We've got trees that are older than the state of Indiana, we got streams, we got hills. You should see this place when the leaves change color. Tourists pack the roads so thick you need a bicycle to get around.”
“I'm sure it's very pretty. Can you tell me about the farm?”
He sighed. “There ain't much to tell, tell you the truth. Used to be owned by a family named McIntosh, like the apple. Nice folk. Took my paternal uncle in when he got out of the army after Korea.”
Ash rubbed his eyes. “Why is the farm not nice
today
?”
“Well, the owners, of course,” said Doug, sounding perturbed. “They shot my dog with a BB gun. Had to have surgery to get it removed.”
“Is that the only reason why you think it's not a nice place?”
“Hell, no,” he said. “They're weird. They shot my dog, too.”
Ash had to force himself to avoid sighing. It sounded like Doug had issues with his memory. Ash might be able to get some information out of him, but no one could use him on a warrant application.
“Why are they weird?”
“They just are. I don't know. I went over there to set them straight about my dog. 'Fore I get there, some guy comes out to the road with a hunting rifle over his shoulder and stops me. First of all, his face doesn't even look like it's seen a washcloth in years. Second, what's he doing trying to scare me away with a rifle?”
“Did you call the sheriff about them?”
“'Course I did. Jerry went out and talked to them. I don't know if they got the message or not, but Jerry told me to keep my eyes open. If I see anything else, I should give him a call.”
“
Did
you see anything else?”
“I sure did,” said Doug. “Smelled things, too, like real sharp smells. I went over there to see what was going on. I got to their driveway this time before somebody stopped me. I don't know what they're doing in there, but they put fabric all over the windows in the house, so you can't see out, and they put up signs everywhere warning people to stay away. Only time I ever see the people who work there is when they go smoke by the road. ”
Ash could see why the sheriff wanted the place under observation. It sounded like a meth cookhouse. The cookers probably had to go by the road to smoke so they wouldn't cause an explosion.
“Do they have a lot of guests?”
“Yes, sir, they do. Almost always after it gets dark. Sometimes four, maybe five cars come by in one night.”
“And how about their garbage?” he asked. “Do they have a lot of garbage?”
“You sure you haven't been over there? We get garbage picked up twice a month, and they've got so much, it just about fills the truck. Fifteen, twenty bags sometimes. They got so much garbage, I caught them putting it with mine once.”
“Did you get a look at whatever they were throwing away?”
“Sure,” said Doug. “That was the weird thing. It was all empty cans of automobile starter fluid.”
If Doug had been a police officer, that would have been enough for a warrant. Starter fluid was usually somewhere between forty and sixty percent ether, one of the chemical precursors required for one production method of methamphetamine. Meth cookers bought it by the case, sprayed it out of the can, and then separated the ether from the rest of the ingredients. Ash even knew a couple of auto part stores that had started putting it in racks behind the counter and limiting the number of canisters they'd sell to individuals. Eventually, it'd probably be regulated like Sudafed.
“Okay,” said Ash. “You've helped me a lot, so thank you for talking to me tonight. I'm going to start looking into things, and hopefully I'll be able to get those people out of your neighborhood.”
“They shot my dog. Did I tell you that?”
“I'll make a note of it,” said Ash.
“If you find that BB gun, can you shoot the big one with the tattoos in the ass like he shot my dog?”
Big one with the tattoos. That could have been Marvin Spencer.
“I'll see what I can do.”
“I'd appreciate that.”
Ash thanked him again before hanging up. He jotted down a couple of quick thoughts. He considered calling Bowers with the news, but he needed to verify something first. He searched through his phone's call history and dialed the sheriff's office again and asked to speak with Jerry.
“Did you talk to Doug and Loretta?” he asked.
“I did,” said Ash. “Does Doug have problems with his memory?”
Jerry grunted. “You noticed, huh?”
“It wasn't hard.”
“Yeah, well, he's a smart man. He just forgets things now and again.”
“I asked him about the farm up the street from him, and he told me a couple of things that make me think you've got a meth lab on your hands.”
Jerry sighed. “You're probably right. When I walked through it last, I didn't find anything I could get a warrant with, and we don't have the manpower to stake the place out.”
“Doug mentioned they had a lot of garbage. He also said they put bags of empty starter fluid canisters in with his trash. You find anything like that at the house?”
Jerry paused for a moment. “Yeah. I walked through about two weeks ago. Found, I don't know, five or six cans beside their barn. I asked one of the guys there, and he said he liked fixing cars.”
“Did you smell anything?”
“Are you asking if I think it smelled like a meth lab?” asked Jerry. “Because if I smelled chemicals, I would have gotten a warrant and we wouldn't be having this conversation. I know how to do my job. We're not just a bunch of hicks around here.”