Authors: Dan Ames
S
till reeling
from the information in front of him, Locust Springs Deputy Sheriff Windsor Smith fired up his cell phone.
The phrase “call in the FBI” seemed like something out of a bad movie with Bruce Willis. Die Hard 16, or something like that. Never in a million years would he, Windsor Smith, have thought that one day he’d be picking up the phone calling the number for the FBI in the official Locust Springs Police Department handbook.
But he had no choice.
He had already called in the coroner and his team, as well as some other local law enforcement to help seal off the crime scene.
And then he had gotten honest with himself. He knew that in most cases, local cops resented the Feds. They stonewalled them, wanting to work the case themselves and then bask in the glory of catching a killer.
But Windsor Smith was different. He enjoyed keeping the peace. Running an orderly operation in his territory. However, when it came to innocent little children being butchered and stuffed into the ground, the whole world went sideways on him. The thought of becoming engrossed in the case disturbed him on a level so deep he could barely register it. Yes, he wanted justice for these little kids, but he was not the man to deliver it. He would help in any way he could, but there was someone else who could do this job much better than he could, and he was either modest enough, or was devoid of the required confidence, that he had no problem admitting it.
Now, with the images of the bodies in the woods, the sight of dead children still rattling his mind, he began to punch in the numbers on his phone with a slightly shaking hand.
How old was this handbook anyway, Smith thought. Were these phone numbers still good? It would be just his luck that the number was out of service and he took forever to somehow get in touch with the FBI. If they never caught the killer, years from now people would look back and say, well, if that local cop hadn’t taken so goddamn long to call the Feds.
Smith heard a ring on the other end of the line and then a voice answered, “Denver FBI, how may I direct your call?”
For just a moment, he was at a complete loss for words. Even though it was only the receptionist, Smith struggled to get the words out of his mouth.
Finally, after a quick gulp of lukewarm coffee, and trying not to sound like an overly dramatic bumpkin from the Colorado boonies, Smith eventually told the right person just what he’d found.
I
f it were
possible for shaken nerves to transmit themselves through the phone lines, clear evidence of the phenomenon could have been documented via the phone call from Deputy Sheriff Windsor Smith to Denver Special Agent In Charge Brent Kunzelman.
Kunzelman was a thin reed of a man with thick black hair and long, thin limbs. He looked like a praying mantis in a dark suit. He was also a year from retirement, anxiously awaiting his pension, and looking forward to moving to Montana and memorizing every pool and eddy on the Bozeman River where a lunker trout might be hiding.
The news he got from the local cop didn’t exactly make him shake with anxiety, but his blood pressure gained twenty points by the time he was done with the call.
An FBI agent for nearly twenty-five years, Kunzelman had not, by any means, seen it all. A handful of murders, sure, but mostly drug dealing and stupid criminals.
But this was the kind of case he had never expected to pop up in his backyard.
Fifteen years ago there had been a child murdered, but it had been an accident. A shootout between drug dealers and an errant bullet had caught a child sleeping in his bedroom.
But this. Several children, buried in a remote location, with all the signs of mass murder?
The first thing to do would be to visit the crime scene, along with a team of agents, each with a unique skill set. Kunzelman would assign the team, send them on their way, and then he would join them as soon as possible.
Kunzelman was also enough of a veteran to know that this kind of case would need to be reported sooner than later to the head office in D.C.
If there was no immediate evidence pointing them in a clear direction, and he highly doubted there would be, some more investigative assistance would be needed.
Not that he didn’t feel he had a world-class group of agents working underneath him, because he did. They had handled everything the world had thrown at them since he was in charge of the office.
To be safe, and if FBI bureaucracy had taught him anything, it was that there was safety in protocol.
So Kunzelman fired up his company laptop, opened his encrypted email program, and began writing an email to his superior in Washington, detailing what little he knew, but at least putting the incident on his boss’s radar.
When he was done, he dragged the sent email into a folder he had created within the program.
It was called CYA for Cover Your Ass.
M
ack knew
firsthand that when Archibald Spencer wanted something done, it tended to get done, and fast.
Which is why in less than eight hours from the Senator’s call to Mack, Mack had packed a bag, been whisked to the Ft. Myers airport, flown to Des Moines first-class, and then promptly transported via black limo to the Spencer home.
The door opened before Mack’s driver knocked and Mack saw his old friend looking like he’d never seen him.
“Mack,” Archibald Spencer said. Mack took in the tired face, the dark circles underneath the eyes, and the stooped shoulders. But there was still fire in the senator’s eyes, and Mack knew that Archibald Spencer would never stop fighting.
“Arch,” Mack responded. He and his old college roommate hugged, and then Mack was led into the dining room where a massive oak table had been transformed into a communications center.
Several cops, detectives, and assorted security personnel were milling about.
“How’s Molly holding up?” Mack asked. He looked around the cavernous home, not surprised by what he was seeing. Mack hadn’t seen Spencer in over five years, and he had never been to his home. Most of their dealings had been in Washington, D.C. when Mack was still on active duty with the Bureau.
“She’s sleeping,” Spencer said. “With a little chemical help. She’s been through the ringer.”
“I wish I was here for any other reason,” Mack said.
Spencer nodded and then led Mack to an agent. Mack knew that because it was a kidnapping and Spencer was technically a federal employee, the FBI would take control of the case as it fell legally in their jurisdiction.
“Mack, this is Agent Bullock,” the Senator said.
Bullock was a short, square man with dark skin and light blue eyes. “Mr. Mack, it’s good to meet you.”
Mack shook his hand. “Thanks. I don’t intend to interfere…”
“Bullshit,” Spencer said. He looked at Bullock. “Give Mack everything you have and keep him informed.”
That was the Archibald Spencer who Mack knew. Tough, sometimes abrasive, and uncompromising.
“Yes, sir,” Bullock said.
“I’m going to check on Molly,” Spencer said. He left the room and a tension that Mack hadn’t sensed before now seemed to ease from the space along with Spencer’s departure.
Mack turned back to Agent Bullock. “Sorry about that, he’s in attack mode and I can’t blame him.”
“I understand,” Bullock said. “It’s an honor to meet you – I studied a lot of your cases at Quantico.”
Mack nodded and changed the subject to Rebecca Spencer. “So what do you have?”
“Not a lot,” Bullock admitted. “It was very quick and clean. But we think he got her in the bathroom.”
“Security cameras?” Mack asked.
Bullock nodded and motioned Mack over to a desktop computer with a wide screen display. A young man in a wrinkled dress shirt was tapping the keys. He had long, skeletal fingers that flew across the keys faster than Mack could track them.
“Logan, show Mr. Mack the clip.”
The young man worked the keys until an image popped onto the monitor. It showed a hallway with a long seating bench, a wastebasket, and a water fountain.
“Check this out,” the young man said. He fast forwarded to a specific time at which a young woman entered the ladies room. Logan slowed the video down so Mack could absorb every detail.
“That’s Rebecca Spencer,” Bullock noted.
Mack watched the girl go into the bathroom. There were no other people in the hallway. Moments later, a janitor rolled a cart into the hallway and then into the ladies room.
“We examined the schedule – the mall’s cleaning service wasn’t in this part of the mall at the time, and that’s not the cart, or the clothing they use,” Bullock told Mack.
Mack squinted at the image – it was black-and-white and grainy, but he could make out a relatively short, stocky figure. The face wasn’t visible.
In less than a minute, the janitor and the cleaning cart came back out.
“That was quick,” Mack said.
“The security camera works on a revolving time schedule,” Logan said. “It only captures part of the mall at certain times, so we don’t have the actual time it was taken, but it’s the same time frame as when we believe the abduction took place.”
“And no, Rebecca never came back out,” Bullock added.
Mack squinted at the image of the janitor’s cart.
Logan must have sensed Mack’s focus. “Our best guess is ‘Capitol Cleaning Services’ and the rest of it is impossible to make out, even with video enhancing,” he said. “We’ve searched and put out the call, but so far, no luck.”
“Let me see the whole thing again,” Mack said.
He watched the sequence.
“Two things,” he said. Bullock took out a notepad and a pen.
“One, that janitor had already picked Rebecca out. It wasn’t a case of hitting the bathroom and grabbing whoever might be in there. This was pre-planned. You can even tell that the janitor knows where the security camera is and purposely didn’t let it get a good look.”
Bullock nodded.
“And the second thing, I’m almost as sure of.”
Mack squinted at the computer screen.
“That janitor is a woman.”
H
er name was Butterfly
.
At the same time Mack was studying the security camera footage of her in Des Moines, she was nearly four hundred miles away on the outskirts of North Platte, Nebraska.
It had been a long drive as she had been forced to observe the speed limit for most of the trip. A little extra time was not worth the risk of getting pulled over only to have an overeager traffic cop look inside the van.
Now, she exited the freeway and followed an unpaved road for several miles until she reached the abandoned junkyard. It was a spot she had carefully chosen for its location, and its complete absence of people.
She spotted the pickup truck she had stashed in order to switch vehicles, and saw a man sitting on the ground next to it, with his back against one of the rear tires.
Butterfly didn’t hesitate.
She pulled the van up next to the Dodge pickup truck with its camper shell and shut down the engine.
The man watched with silent curiosity as Butterfly got out of the truck.
Finally, he smiled, revealing a row of stained and broken teeth. “Well looky here, my prayers have been answered!”
He got to his feet and Butterfly took in the dirty clothes, the smell of the man, and knew he was a transient who had probably made a temporary home in the back of her getaway vehicle.
“Get away from my truck,” Butterfly said.
The man cackled with laughter. “Who the hell you think you’re talkin’ to little lady?” he said, his voice ragged and raw. “You see any one else out here but you and me?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. He thumbed a button and the blade shot out with an audible swish.
Butterfly saw the solution instantly and she walked right up to him and with each step that brought her closer his eyes got a little wilder. She could tell he was torn between trying to stab her or running away. She hoped he wouldn’t run as her legs were still a little cramped from the drive.
“Get back bitch!” the man hissed.
But by then Butterfly was within an arm’s length and he thrust the knife at her. She slapped his arm with her left hand and caught his wrist with her right. She pulled him closer and drove her left elbow into his temple. He sagged and her right hand closed on his wrist. She turned the knife back toward him and slammed it into the center of his chest. He sank to his knees and his hands fell away from his body. Butterfly pulled the knife from his chest and ran its blade across his throat, cutting his neck wide open. He fell to the ground and she thumbed the button on the knife and its blade retracted into the handle. She slipped the knife back into his pants pocket.
Butterfly went to the back of the van, got the girl out, and transferred her to the pickup truck. There was a blanket and a plastic bag of clothes that must have belonged to the homeless man. She took those out.
The truck wasn’t as comfortable as the van, but it had a mattress and some tie-downs in the back so she was able to secure the girl in place.
Next, she dragged the dead man to the back of the van and heaved him inside, then did the same with his blanket and clothes bag. She went to the front of the van and wiped it down even though she’d worn gloves, peeled off the Capitol City Cleaners stickers, and tossed them inside the vehicle.
From the back of the van she took a gas can and thoroughly doused the vehicle inside and out, along with the dead man.
It was likely no one would notice the fire, and even less likely that those who did would report it. Smoke at a junkyard? No need to call the police.
Now, she splashed a trail of gas fifty feet away, then tossed a lit match onto the trail.
A bright blue flame erupted and raced to the van.
Butterfly trotted away and climbed into the truck, keyed the ignition, and pulled out of the yard.
By the time the van erupted into flames and exploded, Butterfly was merging onto the freeway, heading for the cabins.