Drained (3 page)

“Marcus Phillips.”

I shook his hand. “Hank Rawlings.”

The one on the left held out his hand toward me next.

I took it. “Hank Rawlings,” I said again.

“Lewis Phillips.”

I looked at him and then the other. Hair matched, eye color matched, apparel matched, and last name matched.

“We’re not related,” Lewis said. “Just a coincidence that we have the same last name.”

“We actually think they may have been separated at birth,” Beth said. “We’re going to look into it one of these days.”

“Yeah, yeah, ha ha. We look nothing alike,” Marcus said.

“Keep telling yourselves that,” Beth said. “So what are you two on today?”

“Hunting down cell-phone coordinates for someone Scott was interested in. We’ll see where that goes,” Lewis said.

Beth turned her attention to Marcus.

“Still working on those credit-card purchases and associated video that you requested. I should have everything by the end of the day,” Marcus said.

“Thanks,” Beth said. “We’ll leave you guys to it.”

We walked from the tech office back toward our desks. “Seems like they keep busy,” I said.

“They’re surprisingly good when they’re not looking at dumb videos or reading tech articles online.”

“Sounds like my old tech department,” I said.

“I think it comes with the profession.”

She pointed at a man at the desk one over from mine as she took a seat at hers. “This is Scott. Scott, this is our newest, Hank.”

He stood from his desk. The man was roughly my size in height and weight though I imagined he had a few years on me, from the crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes. He wore a gray suit with a white undershirt and a maroon tie. His hair was dark and finger length on the top while the sides were shorter and graying. I stepped toward him and shook his hand.

“Scott Mathews,” he said.

“Hank Rawlings.”

“You were in law enforcement, correct?” His voice carried a northeastern New England accent.

“Tampa homicide sergeant,” I said.

“I used to work violent crimes in Boston until about two thousand five, when I came here. I was a detective.” He smiled. “I’m sure we’ll have some stories.”

“Without a doubt,” I said.

“Well, I was just heading off to grab a coffee. We’ll chat more later.”

I nodded. He passed me and walked out. I sat at my desk and took in my new surroundings. A computer monitor, mouse, and keyboard were directly before me though I had nothing to use the computer for. I continued checking out my work area, which was far nicer than my metal desk in the center of the Tampa PD bullpen. My workstation was cherry colored and the better part of five feet long. Slots for files and folders were attached to the wall—all empty. I slid out the drawer beneath the computer keyboard—also empty. I’d been given nothing to work on and had no clue what I should have been doing. I wasn’t a fan of the feeling. I turned in my chair. “Beth, do you need a hand with something?” I asked.

“Um, I think I’m good. Ball will give you a few things to start with when he gets in.” She responded without turning around.

I went back to staring at a blank work area. I wiggled the computer’s mouse. A blue screen with an FBI logo popped up. A rectangular box below the logo on the screen asked for a login and password—I had neither. I turned in my chair and looked toward Ball’s office. From my spot, I could just see the door and blinds of his office from around the corner. He still wasn’t in.

Someone rounded the corner as soon as I was about to go back to staring at my blank desk. His eyes locked on me. The man looked to be in his later sixties. He was African American with short white hair and a short white beard. He stood an inch or two over six foot. I put his weight around one eighty. The man wore a tan sports coat over a patterned shirt—no tie. Under his right arm was a folder. He walked directly toward me.

“Are you Agent Hank Rawlings?” he asked.

“I am,” I said.

“Good. I found you. We’re going to need to do a little follow-up here on your psych evaluation. It looks like we have an abnormality.”

“Um.” I paused. “Abnormality? What does that mean?”

“A few conflicting things on our test results that we’ll have to get ironed out before we can have you active.”

“All right. Well, what do we have to do to get this straightened out?” I asked.

“We’d like to administer another polygraph and have our panel compare the results against your previous one.” The man stood next to my chair, staring down at me as I was seated. His face showed no emotion.

I glanced over at Beth to see her spinning her chair back toward her computer. She appeared to want no part in the conversation the man and I were having.

“Um, okay, I guess,” I said.

“It should take about six hours,” he said.

“Yeah, sure, if we need to.”

Beth snorted. I glanced over at her and then back up at the man.

The corner of his mouth turned up into a smile. “Sorry,” he said. The man snickered. “What fun is life if you can’t mess with the new guy? Jim Robinson.” He reached out for a handshake.

I shook my head, smirked, and gave him a handshake. “Good to meet you,” I said.

“I take care of the records around here,” he said. “Well, that and pretty much everything else. Travel arrangements, hotel bookings, warrants, you name it.”

“Good to know,” I said.

He turned his attention to Beth. “Beth, Ball has something for you. You were on the bodies found drained of blood from years back, right?”

Beth spun on her chair and faced us. “Yeah. Why? Something new?”

“It looks like he’s active again.”

“What? No one told me anything about that,” she said. “There hasn’t been a new homicide that we could attribute to him for what, like eight years?”

“Ball just got the word early this morning, I guess. I passed him on the way in, and we spoke a bit. I’m sure he’ll be briefing you on it shortly.” He looked back at me. “Good to meet you again, Hank—and welcome.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He walked toward his office.

Beth flashed a concerned face and turned back toward her computer.

Scott returned from getting his coffee and took a seat beside me at his desk. The only agent I had yet to meet from the team was Bill, yet it had sounded as though that wouldn’t happen for a good week or so. I glanced down at my watch, and the time was inching up on nine thirty. I looked back up to see a man in his early fifties and of average build staring back at me. His suit was gray, his undershirt light blue, and his tie a darker shade of blue. An American-flag pin was affixed to his lapel of his suit jacket. He had styled gray hair and was clean shaven. He held a couple of folders under his right arm.

“Beth, Hank, meeting room,” Ball said. He turned and disappeared.

Beth scooted herself back from her desk, and I did the same. I followed her around the corner and into the conference room. Ball stood at the doorway and saw us in. “Grab a seat,” he said.

We funneled in and sat.

“We have more bodies drained of blood?” Beth asked. “Same guy?”

“It looks like it.” Agent Ball set down the folders he was carrying on the table and looked at me. “I’m assuming you’ve met Beth here?”

“I have,” I said.

“Good. You and I will get together as soon as we’re done here and go over some other things.”

I nodded.

“Okay, let’s get down to business.” Ball handed both of us a file.

I took the folder in my hands and flipped it open. The cover sheet read SK 138. I assumed SK stood for “serial killer.” I flipped another page in to see photos of a deceased woman lying in a Dumpster, and the next page was an autopsy report and more photos. I kept flipping pages. A copy of the woman’s driver’s-license photo and personal information came next. She appeared to be from a Chicago suburb. The following pages looked to be sheets from interviews with friends and family. I flipped another page—photos of different woman in a Dumpster and then another—three total. The last two victims were three weeks apart and also from the Chicago area. The last victim had been found just two days prior.

Beth spoke up. “These dates…” She thumbed through the pages. “Looks like the first one was a month ago. Why didn’t I hear about this?”

“The local PD never reported it to the bureau. The second two were dumped in the same precinct. They called the bureau after the second victim. The bureau found out about the first in the other precinct, put it together, connected the dots, and notified us.”

I flipped to the pages of the autopsy reports and ran my finger down the page to the cause of death. I looked up at Ball, standing on the far side of the table. “Drugged and drained of blood?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Yeah. The draining of the blood was this guy’s MO when he was active years ago,” Beth said. She flipped to another page in her file.

“Appears it still is,” Ball said. “They found Rohypnol in each woman, which is new. A lot of Rohypnol. It looks like about four or five times what it would take to incapacitate someone. The body dumps are all similar—basically, someplace off the beaten path where there’s a Dumpster. The draining of blood is done by needles—it’s consistent with victims past.”

“Nothing to connect the victims?” I asked.

“There never was on the past victims,” Beth said.

“The new ones?” I asked.

“The local branch is just getting rolling with the most recent ones, but so far, no,” Ball said.

“How many victims were there before?” I asked.

“Thirteen total now,” Ball said.

“Do we have files from the previous victims?” I asked.

“We do, and I’ll give them to you to look over. Those files have been gone over who-knows-how-many times, though,” Ball said.

“Okay. Were there ever any suspects with the previous killings?” I asked.

“Not a single one, as far as I recall,” Beth said.

“Keep in mind we didn’t have the technology then that we do now for hunting people down. It’s a lot harder to hide now than it was even eight years ago,” Ball said.

“Any idea how he was selecting his victims?” I asked.

Ball looked at Beth to field the question.

“I think I remember there being theories in the original files, but that’s it. Nothing was ever proven,” Beth said.

I nodded and looked at Ball. “You said the local branch of the bureau was working on this… How far are they into the investigation?”

“The Chicago branch is actively investigating it but only a couple of days in. They requested us as it’s an open investigation through our department. I told them we’d be at their office tomorrow.” Ball looked at me. “Trial by fire?” he asked.

“I’m up for it,” I said.

“Okay. Beth, this guy is one of yours, so…”

“Absolutely. I’m ready to go,” Beth said.

Ball looked at me. “You guys will fly out in the morning. Jim will arrange everything for you. That’s it. Rawlings, you come with me so I can get you set up on a few things. After that, Beth can get you up to speed on everything we have regarding the previous homicides attributed to this guy.”

“Sure,” I said.

We disbanded and left the office.

Brett sat at the breakfast bar in his kitchen, wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a white undershirt. He was fresh from the shower after his daily morning workout. He was just about through with his breakfast—a grapefruit, two eggs, and a chicken breast. He washed down each bite with a gulp of a protein shake. Brett glanced at the clock on the oven—a bit after nine. He’d need to get moving if he wanted to be in the office on time for his first meeting. He lifted the last forkful of chicken to his mouth, chewed, and washed it down. Then he rinsed his plate, set it in the dishwasher, and from the counter, grabbed a piece of paper he’d printed. He made for the basement stairs.

Brett walked downstairs. The lower level of his home was completely furnished, his own personal man cave. The main room held a pair of pool tables, a foosball table, and a pair of dartboards against the left wall. A large bar shaped in an L took up the far right corner. He walked past the large theater seats facing a huge television in the center of the wall next to the bar. A single door stood in the middle of the large room’s back wall. The door led to a short hallway. His home gym was to the right, a sauna to the left. Brett continued past them to another door leading to an area of unfinished basement reserved for storage. In the far left corner of the unfinished side of the basement was a washbasin, some miscellaneous shelving, and his washer and dryer. To the right side was a flight of stairs leading up to the garage. He walked over toward the washbasin and the stainless-steel embalmer’s table standing before it.

Brett reached for a roll of tape on a shelf. He tore off a two-inch piece and taped the paper he’d printed next to others like it on the wall. Brett put on some blue rubber kitchen gloves that were sitting on the edge of the washbasin.

He looked down and to the left. Becca lay in her undergarments on the embalming table. Needles with tubes attached came from both sides of her neck, both arms, and both thighs. The clear plastic tubes held a bit of blood, but most of it had already drained into the basin under Brett’s watchful eye the night prior. Brett liked to keep the needles in overnight though the women generally drained within minutes of having them inserted. Becca was dead and had been that way for at least twelve hours.

Brett pulled the needles from her neck first, then arms, then legs. He lay them inside the washbasin, where he would thoroughly clean them at another time. He turned and grabbed a bottle of bleach and a sponge from another shelf on the wall. He doused the woman’s body and began scrubbing, head to toe. When she was cleaned to his satisfaction, he rinsed her down to wash the bleach away. He took his old Polaroid camera from the shelf, snapped a photo, and pulled it from the camera. Brett shook it in his hand and set the camera back on the shelf. When the photo finished developing, Brett paper clipped it to the page he’d just taped to the wall.

He turned and walked back upstairs to get ready for work, planning to dispose of her when he found a suitable time.