Drained (8 page)

“So, body, no one saw anything, and no evidence left behind,” Beth said.

Nelson removed his hat and wiped his sleeved bicep across his forehead. He put the baseball cap back on his head and snugged it down. “That’s about the extent of it,” he said. “We obviously didn’t know that we were dealing with some kind of serial killer. It was just a woman, dead, in a Dumpster. She didn’t even look injured.”

Beth nodded.

Something caught my attention from the corner of my eye. I looked at the Winnebago. The sun-faded curtain in one of the side windows of the RV moved. “You guys ever check the RV here?” I asked.

The two patrol officers looked at each other.

“Um, no, I don’t think so,” Nelson said.

“It looks like someone is inside of it,” I said.

“In that old heap?” Murray asked. “That thing looks like it’s been sitting there for ten years.”

“Could be,” I said. “Could also be someone living in it.”

I walked to the RV’s side door and rapped my knuckles on the metal. I heard footsteps inside but didn’t receive an answer at the door, so I banged my fist on it again. “FBI, open up.”

That was the first time I’d announced myself as such—the phrase didn’t yet sound natural in my ears. A moment later, the doorknob turned, and the door pushed open. A large, overweight man appearing in his sixties stood in the doorway in his underwear. Gray hair covered his chest, belly, and legs. His head was bald. A white beard took up space on his chin. In his right hand was a beer in a Chicago Bears koozie, in his left hand, a cigarette.

“Help you?” he asked.

I flipped open my bifold and showed him my FBI badge. “Agent Rawlings with the FBI. I have a couple questions. Mind putting on some pants for me, sir?” I said.

“I’m in my house. I’ll damn well stand here in my underwear if I want.”

I shrugged and stuffed my credentials back in my suit jacket. “Whatever. Do you live in this vehicle?” I asked.

“Yeah, and I pay to park here. So what of it?”

Beth took up a spot to my side and looked through the doorway at the man.

“Mind putting some pants on for me, please?” she asked.

“What’s the matter, princess?” He took a pull from his cigarette. “You don’t like the view?” he asked.

“Pants.” Beth snapped her fingers. “Now, or I’ll find something we can arrest you for. I don’t think you’ll be a fan of the Cook County Jail, arriving like that. Some people there might be fans of you, though if this is how you’re taken in.”

“Ugh, fine.” The man disappeared from the doorway.

I looked at Beth.

She shrugged and ran a hand through her dark hair. “What? I don’t want to stand here and stare at his hairy gut.”

I smirked.

He came back to the doorway a moment later in some orange-striped sweatpants and a T-shirt. “What do you two want, anyway?”

“Did you see or hear anything going on over by this Dumpster maybe a month or so ago?” I asked.

“I assume you’re talking about the body they fished out of there?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“I can’t be sure,” he said. “Which is why I didn’t bother talking to the cops that were here.”

“Why don’t you tell us what you’re not sure about,” Beth said.

“Well, I got woken up by a noise late the night prior to the cops digging around. Or early that morning, depending how you’re looking at it. It sounded like someone dumping something in the Dumpster. Well, it was either that or raccoons. I didn’t get up to look.”

“What time was this?” I asked.

“Maybe about four in the morning.” He lifted one arm and scratched at his exposed armpit with his other hand, holding the beer. “Might have been a few minutes after that. I don’t know. Middle of the night.”

“And you didn’t get up to look?” Beth asked.

“No. Why would I get out of bed to watch someone throwing out the trash in the middle of the night?”

The guy did have a point.

“Other than what you heard, anything else?” I asked. “See any strange people or cars that weren’t normally around here?”

He shrugged. “We have a bar in the lot. Different cars in and out of here every day and night.”

My cell phone vibrated against my leg in my pocket. I slipped the phone out and looked at the screen but didn’t recognize the number.

I excused myself from Beth and the man then answered the call. “Agent Rawlings.”

“Mark Green, Cook County night shift medical examiner. I got your message regarding the remains of Kennedy Taylor.”

“Yes, hello. I’d like to view the body if possible.”

“Well, it’s already gone from our facility. We released the remains to a crematorium yesterday at the family’s request.”

“Any idea if the remains have actually been cremated?” I asked.

“No idea. Not much to see there either way, aside from a few needle marks. We could give you the results from the autopsy if that helps.”

“I already have it. I guess I was just looking for a little personal insight into the remains.”

“The body was drained of blood. Needle marks in arms, legs, and neck. Tox screen showed Rohypnol.”

“That much I know. Nothing else stood out?” I asked.

“Not really. Stomach contents—”

I cut him off. “Contained alcohol and some kind of pasta that was barely digested.”

“Yeah. Exactly. How did you know that?”

I told him the stomach contents had been the same with previous victims. We spoke for another few minutes, but he didn’t have anything else for me. I hung up and walked back to Beth. The door on the Winnebago was closed, and she was standing with the two officers.

“Done with underwear guy?” I asked.

“Yeah, he doesn’t know anything. Who was on the phone?” she asked.

“Medical examiner that handled Kennedy Taylor.”

“And?”

“The body was already sent over for cremation. Nothing new.”

Beth and I thanked the patrol officers for meeting us and headed back for the hotel. We pulled up to the valet at the front entrance a bit before nine o’clock. Beth and I had put in a full day plus with the traveling. We walked through the front entrance and climbed the stairs toward the lobby. Beth stopped halfway up the flight of steps and dug her hand into the front pocket of her blazer. She pulled her phone out and hit the button to talk.

“Agent Beth Harper,” she said.

I continued up the flight of steps to take a seat in the lobby and wait for her to finish her call. She met me a moment later.

“That was the mother of Jasmine Thomas, our second-most-recent victim. We have an appointment with her tomorrow morning at ten.”

“Good,” I said.

“That’s enough for the night,” Beth said. She motioned toward the elevators. We walked over, and she thumbed the button to take us upstairs.

I dug my fingers into my eyes and gave them a hard rub. The elevator doors opened, took us inside, and let us out on the tenth floor a moment later. Beth and I walked for our rooms. I fished my hotel key card from my wallet.

Beth looked over at me from her room door. “Are you going to sleep soon?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’ll probably call my wife, relax in front of the television for a bit, and call it a night.”

“Feel like going downstairs and getting a drink?” she asked.

I took a rain check.

Brett pulled the Ferrari past the front door of the address Monica had given him.

“Shit,” he said.

Her apartment complex was above a row of cafes and small businesses. People roamed the sidewalks back and forth. The stairs leading to the entrance of her building were immediately to the right of the cafes’ outdoor seating—seating that appeared full. Brett continued for a block or two and found a parking spot on a side street. He parked, placed a baseball cap upon his head, and stepped from his car. Then he walked back to her building.

He kept his head down and to the right as he passed the cafe. Brett quickly climbed the stairs and walked through the glass door of Monica’s building. He stood in a small entryway the size of a closet. Another door, which was locked, led into the apartment building itself. Before Brett was a row of buttons on the wall to buzz each apartment. He found her name next to unit three eighteen. He thumbed down the button.

“Hello,” a woman’s voice called.

“Here to pick you up,” he said.

“Sure, I’ll be down in a minute.”

Brett waited in the entryway. A moment later, he saw her approaching from an elevator down the hall.

She opened the locked door. “Oh, it’s you. I thought you were sending a driver.”

“I couldn’t get a hold of him, so I figured I’d pick you up myself. I tried sending you a message, but I never got a response,” Brett said.

“Yeah, my phone just up and died. Weirdest thing. I went to grab it to make a call, and it just did nothing. I swapped batteries, everything. Whatever. I guess I’ll have to get a new one tomorrow on my lunch break.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely odd. You didn’t get it wet, did you?” Brett asked.

“No, not at all.”

“Well, more bad news. I was in a rush out the door and forgot my wallet, so we’ll have to stop and get it.” Brett looked down at his watch. “We have like an hour and a half until our dinner reservation, so we should be fine.”

“Oh, okay,” Monica said.

Brett looked her up and down. She wore a tight white dress with thin straps at the top.

“You look amazing,” he said.

“Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said.

Brett smirked but said nothing. He was wearing a black tailored suit. His shoes were a couple thousand—his watch more. The amount of scruff on his cheeks was perfect. He waved for her to follow him out from the building’s entryway.

She did.

“Where’s your car?” she asked.

“I had to park like two blocks away. I drove past and couldn’t find a single spot, but now there are a bunch.”

She shook her head. “A lot of weird stuff seems to be going on. Maybe it’s a sign.”

Brett chuckled. “Yeah, maybe.” He walked fast past the cafe, trying to get off of her heavily populated block as quickly as possible.

“Where’s the fire?” she asked. Monica jogged a couple steps in her high heels to catch up to him.

“Oh, sorry.” He slowed and let her meet him at his side as he placed his hand at the small of her back. “I didn’t have any change, so I didn’t put anything in the parking meter. I don’t want to get a ticket.”

Brett crossed the street, and the pair found his car and got in.

“Wow, Rick. I’ve never been in one of these. I saw the photos of it online in your ad. This thing is so cool.”

“Yeah.” He fired the motor and revved the engine. “A little pricey.” He chuckled. “I actually have a more expensive one on the way.” That was a lie.

“Wow,” she said again. “I can’t imagine what a car payment on something like this would be.”

“No car payment,” Brett said. “Just a purchase.”

He quickly glanced over to catch her reaction. She looked at him and smiled.

Monica reached over and placed her hand on his thigh. “How far away is your house?”

“About a half hour. We’ll still be able to make our reservations, and if we don’t, I’m sure the restaurant will accommodate us. I’m friends with the owner.”

“Oh, okay,” she said.

Brett smirked—he had no reservations at any restaurant. He exchanged a bit of small talk with the woman on the drive toward his house—it mostly consisted of her talking about her phone and him talking over her head about business.

Brett pulled up to the front gates at his driveway.

“This is your place?” Monica asked.

Brett reached from the window of his car and punched in the gate code. “One of them. I have another home in St. Louis and another outside of Columbus. My business has a regional office in each location. I also have a condo in Aspen.”

“I don’t know if you ever actually told me what you do.”

“Oh, actually, I own the site you found me on.”

She jerked her head back. “What? You own Classified OD?”

Brett smiled and nodded.

The gates spread. Brett drove up the driveway and stopped just beyond the front of the home. He shut the car off and stepped out while Monica remained in the car. He pretended he was receiving a phone call, putting the phone to his ear. After a few seconds, he walked to the passenger side and opened her door.

“That was my driver,” he said. “He’s going to meet us here and pick us up. He should be here in about a half hour. Care for a tour while we wait?”

“Okay, sure.”

Monica stepped out and looked around, staring at the brick home. “Wow, Rick. This place is great.”

“Thanks. I wanted a place with a fair amount of land. When this place came on the market, listed with twenty-some acres, I kind of fell in love with it.”

Brett walked toward the front door, and Monica followed. He unlocked it and entered.

“Glass of wine while we wait?” he asked.

“Yeah, that would be fine,” she said.

“I just got this new bottle from France that’s supposed to be to die for. We’ll have a glass, walk around the house and grounds for a bit, and then take off when Henry gets here.”

“Sounds good,” she said.

“Make yourself at home.” Brett pointed toward the living room. “I’ll bring you a glass.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Brett went to the kitchen and pulled open the drawer beside the refrigerator. He removed a small Tupperware dish of powdered Rohypnol. The drug had been in pill form when he acquired it in Mexico years prior—grinding it into a powder made dissolving it into a food or drink much easier. He took the lid off the dish—inside was a plastic teaspoon. Brett grabbed a pair of wine glasses from the cupboard and a bottle of wine from the rack on the counter. He turned the bottle in his hand and looked at the label. The wine was some everyday brand he’d picked up for a few dollars at the grocery store.

Brett scooped a teaspoon of the Rohypnol from the container and placed it in one of the glasses. He uncorked the bottle and poured wine over the top of the powder to dissolve it. With a few swirls of the wine in the glass, the powder remaining at the bottom dissolved. Brett filled his glass and walked from the kitchen back to the woman. He handed the tainted wine to her.