Checkmate (Caitlin Calloway Mystery Book 2) (49 page)

“So, you’re not so much treating them as you are studying them,” Val said.

“What did I miss?” Wayne asked.

“Simon shouldn’t have known his father died on a golf course,” CC explained for him. “Since no one told him how or where his father died, he was either in on it or psychic.”

“I still say someone tipped him.” Palmucci gave a huff.

“There wasn’t enough time,” Dr. Richards said. CC fumbled with the remote control trying to rewind the DVD.

Leigh snatched the remote from CC’s grasp. “Where do you want me to cue it?”

“The beginning,” CC said sheepishly. “There, look at the way he’s sitting when he’s alone. He knows why he’s there. That’s the same cocky attitude the little prick had when we had him in the box. Max almost broke him, then all of a sudden he was all smiles just like at the end of this interview. I’m telling you, he knew Daddy was dead and all the details.”

“You can’t prove it,” Rousseau argued. “All you have is a handful of unfortunate incidents.”

“Not entirely.” CC felt queasy when her boss challenged her theory. The dubious looks she was getting from everyone else did nothing to help calm her nerves. “First we have Simon’s father, who turned his back on Simon and controlled his trust fund. He died from bee venom. Yet there wasn’t a single mark on his body. The woman who stole the love of Fisher’s life, Elizabeth Pryce, was poisoned. Billy Ryan, who at one time was Simon’s alibi, until he confessed he was far too wasted to know what was happening that weekend. Professor Harding ruined Simon’s GPA. Bitsy Marsden, who all throughout their teen years shunned Simon’s advances, ended up with her throat slashed and lying almost naked for everyone to see. Max, who almost got him to crack by playing the father figure, got his head bashed in and was set up to look like a dirty cop. There’s one more that we just found out about. A prisoner guard named, Fernandez, who was trying to make Simon’s already miserable life even more miserable, was crushed to death. Then we have Detective Brooks, who chased Simon for years. Every time we got a tip to chase after Beaumont, someone who pissed Fisher off died. Everyone on that list, at one time or another, testified against him at a competency hearing.”

“Can you prove all of it?” Rousseau asked. “Or any of it?”

“No.”

Val clenched her jaw. “On paper, all of these events appear to be nothing more than happenstance. I, for one, don’t believe in coincidences. What I want to know is who is next?”

“Simon is probably working a short list at the moment,” Dr. Richards began to say. “Based on his belief that everyone is out to get him, I would put Dr. Watkins, who is the head psychiatrist at the facility, and myself, on his list. I did the profile that helped catch him. I also wrote about him in one of my books. I listed everything from animal mutilation to setting fires and that he was a bed wetter up until he was fourteen.”

“Fourteen?” Palmucci gave a squeal. “This guy couldn’t fit the pattern of a serial killer whack job any better if he tried.”

“No kidding,” CC said. “I’m sure I’m on his short list.”

“And your wife,” Dr. Richards added. “After he clears his major obstacles, those of us who have testified against him, he will start with the lesser evils. I’d guess anyone who has been his legal advisor. At the moment, he seems to be focused on clearing the path. He wants his freedom.”

“Maybe we should give it to him?” CC eerily suggested.

“What?” Rousseau barked.

“We could get him on the I-20 murders. After Fisher was incarcerated, I entered his DNA into CODAS. His profile was a match on three bodies. The murders happened less than a year after he killed his first victim. He was a little sloppy in those days.”

“And I’m just hearing this now because?” Rousseau asked.

“Not our jurisdiction.” CC squirmed in a futile effort to duck her boss’s angry glare.

“Yeah, right.”

“This little prick is a smarmy little bastard,” Palmucci said, still watching the interview that Mulligan had been playing over and over again. “Look at him. He knew that the old man bought it on the back nine.”

“When the doc failed to react, he thought he won,” CC said. “Fisher’s fatal flaw has always been that he assumes that he’s smarter than everyone else. Look at the way he watched for a reaction. When there wasn’t one, he just leaned back and smirked. I hate this guy.”

“How in the hell are you ever going to prove anything?”

It didn’t escape CC’s notice that Palmucci was dumping the problem squarely in her lap.

“Dr. Richards,” Ricky said before CC had the chance to admit she was completely clueless. “During the time frame we’re looking at, who has visited Fisher?”

“Just his mother and his lawyer.”

“Lawyer’s name?” Val and Ricky began making notes and flipping through files.

“Eunice Cockburn.”

“Really?” Val said. “Geez, anyone else willing to bet she spent high school being stuffed in her locker?”

“Probably,” CC readily agreed. “She’s an odd duck. I only met her once. It was during Simon’s last competency hearing. She barely asked any questions.”

“Simon has run through a lengthy list of legal representation,” Dr. Richards said. “Scraping the bottle of the barrel isn’t that uncommon for someone who has been in the system as long as he has.”

“Does he have any friends inside?” Ricky asked.

“Not anymore. He had managed to convince a great number of his fellow inmates that he was a staff member. When they found out the truth, they didn’t take it well. His neighbors aren’t the most stable group. For the past couple of years, he’s been restricted to the locked ward. He’s only allowed out for one hour of exercise, meetings with his lawyer, and therapy.”

“How about mail, any pen pals?” Ricky was furiously typing on his tablet.

“He gets very little mail, only from his mother now and then. His case has never been publicized, so he doesn’t have the usual groupies. Lately, he has received newspaper clippings with no return address cartoons, recipes, daily events kind of a mixed bag, they appear to be harmless.”

“Can you fax those to us?” Ricky asked.

“Yes, they were collected after he had a chance to read them.”

“There’s a fax machine here in the conference room,” CC said, confused as to why anyone would be sending Fisher recipes. “The number is six-one-seven-five-five-five-nineteen-forty-six.”

“Front and back,” Val said. “Send us copies of both sides.”

“What are you thinking?” Ricky asked her.

“Barcelona.”

“Right.” He smiled knowingly.

“Tell me again how you were just a glorified file clerk in the navy.” CC narrowed her gaze. “Anything else for the good doctor?”

“I’d like to see Fisher’s profile and any other notes you have on him,” Ricky politely requested. “You can send it to my e-mail at the bureau. It will go straight to my Blackberry.”

“I’ll do it right away.”

“Dr. Richards?” CC said. “I have one more request.”

“Yes?”

“Get the hell out of town. Go someplace no one would ever think to look for you.”

“I was about to suggest the same thing to you. I’m sending all the information. I would appreciate being kept up-to-date. I’m heading back to Quantico in the morning. I think I should be safe there.”

Dr. Richards hung up. Everyone sat around drinking coffee and reviewing the files. Ricky studied the files on Simon on his Blackberry and tablet while the fax machine started spitting out papers. Rousseau just sat there with a sour look plastered on his face. CC couldn’t sit down; she kept pacing while she silently prayed for a miracle.

“Keep going,” Leigh whispered her encouragement.

“Bees and keys,” CC lamely began to say, “Two instances that prove those two deaths weren’t the unfortunate events they appeared to be.”

“You’ve got nothing,” Rousseau repeated.

“On the surface, no I don’t. When you put the pieces together, we’ve got murder.”

“I’m not so sure,” Palmucci said.

“Why don’t we take a look at Fisher’s mail?” Val suggested before Palmucci could further express his displeasure.

As they flipped through the fax sheets, CC felt defeated. They were indeed benign: nothing but recipes, random articles, and comic strips. She couldn’t understand why Val and Ricky seemed excited.

“Want to share with the rest of the class?” CC asked them.

“It’s a simple system,” Val carefully explained. “Here we have a copy of the comic strips from the San Diego Times. Nothing noteworthy, unless you look at the back.” She held up the paper. Everyone leaned over squinting and no one seemed to see what she was excited about. “Bottom right hand corner.” She pressed the paper closer.

“Memorial services for Malcolm Fisher,” CC read aloud. “It cuts off there.”

“Now look at this one, the recipe for banana nut bread.” Val thrust another sheet of paper across the table. “On the front we have a recipe and on the back…” She flipped the page over.

“There it is,” Leigh exclaimed. “Alumnus attacked at the university training track. Bitsy Marsden, class of… it cuts off there.”

Frantically, everyone began sifting through the printouts. The room filled with murmurs as they discovered the blurbs carefully hidden on the back of each newspaper article.

“Clever son of a bitch.” CC was disgusted. “On the surface, it looks like he’s reading something completely lame.”

“On the back, just a snippet small enough to slip under the radar,” Val said. “Just enough information to let Fisher know the job had been done.”

“Just like I told you, Palmucci,” CC said. “This is why your mystery caller was determined that you identify Max as the victim.”

“Proof of death from the hit man?” Palmucci shook his head. “You still haven’t explained the why.”

“Fisher is a typical sociopath. Nothing is his fault.”

“But how could he hire a hit man when he’s locked up?” Wayne sounded completely bewildered. “He’s in a secure mental health facility. It’s the super max version of a booby hatch.”

“Sadly, the best place to find a criminal is in prison. Granted, Fisher isn’t in your typical prison, but he is surrounded by criminals,” CC wearily explained. For someone who worked in law enforcement, Wayne could be extremely naïve at times. Much to her frustration, the room grew quiet.

“Look at the time line.” Leigh was clearly frustrated by the lack of enthusiasm. “A tip comes in, and someone who knew and betrayed Fisher dies. Although the burner phone couldn’t be traced, the calls all came from the same areas where the murders took place. Beaumont was an excellent decoy. News of his untimely passing will be public knowledge soon. That’s going to make our enforcer more than a little edgy. We need to move quickly.”

“Officially, all I can do is assist the US Marshals with the aiding and abetting,” Mills said. “Unofficially, I’m with you.”

“I don’t know how long we can stick it out,” Val said. “None of our bosses are thrilled, so we don’t have a lot of time.”

“Understood.”

“Flying by the seat of your pants has never stopped you before,” Rousseau said to CC.

“Whatever you need,” Wayne promised.

“Same here,” McManus said. “I’m working a suspected homicide. That might give me a little leverage.”

“Palmucci?” CC was curious as to which way he would lean now that he had all the facts and it looked like a lost cause. Palmucci had already made it clear he needed a winner. CC doubted if he cared how he got his win.

“I always said you had balls, Calloway,” he said gruffly. “Someone tried to kill a cop in my backyard. That doesn’t fly with me. I’m in.”

CC wanted to believe Palmucci. She just didn’t trust that he wouldn’t jump ship at the first sign of trouble. As for the others, she had to have faith that they had her back. The meeting wrapped up, and everyone went on their way with the notable exception of Rousseau.

“I’m stepping outside for some fresh air,” he said. “Join me.”

CC understood that by fresh air her boss meant he needed a smoke, which meant he was stressed. Filled with a sense of dread, she followed after him as he huffed and puffed his way out of the building. It took time to reach a designated smoking area. Rousseau took a seat on a wooden bench located next to an ashtray. CC tightened her long coat around her body and joined him.

Her nervousness grew when he just sat there, lighting up one cigarette after another. On paper, cops weren’t allowed to smoke anymore unless, like her commanding officer, they joined the force prior to 1986. Still they weren’t supposed to be seen smoking while in uniform. CC suspected that was why the dingy hidden area cleared out when the boss showed up. He snubbed out his third cigarette and was lighting up his fourth when he finally looked at her.

“You never smoked?”

“No, sir. I was afraid I would set a bad example for Stevie.”

“My wife quit about fourteen years ago. She didn’t want us to smoke around our grandkids. Can’t smoke at home. Can’t smoke at work. I don’t drink, so how am I going to relieve my stress? And now I have to walk to Rhode Island just to light up. What kind of sense does that make?”

She was about to make a smart-ass comment but thought better of it. She just sat there with her hands shoved in her pockets and waited for the axe to fall.

“Damn clever.”

“Making people smoke out by a smelly dumpster?” She questioned nervousness growing steadily with each passing moment.

“Not that. When I was watching the tape, I could see he’s the same cocky son of a bitch he was when you first had him in the box. Bastard is still too smart for his own good. Talk about your perfect alibi. He’s locked up in a federal loony bin. The victims seem random. Their deaths, for the most part, appear to be mishaps. Until you had people look closer.”

“Not just me,” CC said. “Cops in Wisconsin were really bugged they didn’t find any makeup in that house. The ME in San Francisco couldn’t let it go, and Brooks was on it from the get-go. I should have started looking sooner. The whole time I was chasing Beaumont, I knew someone was playing me and I still chased after him.”

“Don’t beat yourself up for going after a child molester. Now impress me with how you’re going to catch this cocksucker?”