Authors: Allison Brennan
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #General, #Suspense, #Thrillers
Hans continued. “That’s one of the many things I’m struggling with. Price’s dog tag actually led us down the path we’re going, connecting the victims via their military records. No one had thought to check that with the first two victims because it wasn’t obvious they were both veterans. Then Rosemont sent one of Price’s tags to the FBI agent in charge of the investigation, as if to say,
‘In case you haven’t figured out this is important, let me shove this under your nose.’”
“But why did they choose Sacramento of all the cities in America to plant Price’s tags on a body? Wait . . . did you say that the killers sent Price’s dog tag directly to one of your FBI agents?”
“Megan Elliott, supervisor of the Violent Crimes Squad. I thought maybe it was a sign that he wanted to be stopped, but . . . now I don’t know.”
“What about a copycat killer?” Dillon asked.
“I don’t think so,” answered Hans. “Rosemont was found with a medical bag of the needles he used to torture his victims. The hamstring injuries are consistent with the same type of knife, though the knife is missing and is presumed to have been taken by the accomplice. But this is the thing, Dillon: Rosemont killed two innocent civilians at a rest stop. No apparent reason, he just shot them point-blank. Now he’s dead, and I can’t even ask him why. A married couple. She was eight months pregnant.” His voice cracked on the word.
“Hans?”
Jack watched Hans’s face as it went through myriad gut-wrenching emotions, then the agent rubbed his eyes and looked down at the table. Suddenly, Hans’s odd behavior for the last two days made more sense. Jack said nothing, but filed the information away.
“Let’s retrace what happened in Hidalgo when Jack’s buddy Scout was killed,” said Dillon. “Was there something different about that crime scene, inconsistent with the first three?”
“Everything on the surface appeared to be the same,” Hans said, “but I didn’t see the crime scene. I have the reports from the Rangers, and they read like it could be any of the other scenes. Putting aside the rest-stop murders and General Hackett, it was the Sacramento crime scene that was different from the others because of the planted dog tags.”
“But there was also one other thing different in Hidalgo,” Jack interjected. “My friend Frank Cardenas, a priest, had been on the mission where Rosemont was abducted, yet Rosemont killed Scout and not Frank.”
“You know this priest well, Jack?” Dillon asked.
“Yes,” Jack said, his voice clipped. Everyone was suspicious.
Hans said, “Cardenas hasn’t left Hidalgo in months, and there’s been no evident contact with Rosemont. Cardenas’s involvement doesn’t fit with what I know about him. And it goes back to motive. Cardenas doesn’t have one. Who does?”
“After the Hidalgo murder, you noticed a change?”
“The first four murders were well planned, methodical, disciplined,” said Hans. “The last three—the two civilians and General Hackett—were rash, disorganized, impulsive. Though Rosemont came prepared to torture Hackett, I don’t see how he possibly thought he’d get away with it, even with the privacy of the cabin. He registered under a variation of his name, was captured on the lobby security camera. After that, it would have been only a matter of time before he was identified and stopped.”
“His female partner lured Hackett to the room,” Dillon conjectured, “where Rosemont hamstrung him and then she shot him in the back.”
Hans wasn’t convinced. “That isn’t consistent.”
Jack asked Dillon, “How can you say that with certainty?”
“Because of Rosemont. I’ll write up a formal report for you, but here’s the nitty-gritty. The guy suffered from severe post-traumatic stress. He’d been tortured for three months, including needles in his nerves with the purpose of causing excruciating pain. Therefore, he wanted to cause pain to those he blamed for his captivity. He obviously couldn’t go back to Afghanistan and hurt those who held him, so he turned to the Delta team who were supposed to protect him.
“He acknowledged to his psychiatrist that he didn’t follow orders, and he alternately blamed himself and blamed the army. He was suicidal—had attempted suicide at least twice that the doctors knew about—and he was on medication. The psychological reports all indicated that Rosemont was a threat to himself and not others.”
“That’s bullshit,” Jack said. “Who are these idiots?”
“Let me finish, Jack.”
Jack crossed his arms. His phone vibrated and he looked down. Padre had sent a message. He clicked on it and it started to load.
Dillon continued. “But Rosemont still suffered from nightmares that were as real to him as if he were being tortured again. He also started hurting himself—cutting, poking, making himself relive the pain of captivity. I think, if he was left alone, he would have eventually been hospitalized or would have succeeded in killing himself.
“Shortly after he was ordered to start an intensive exercise program two years ago as part of therapy, he seemed to get better. But last June he disappeared and has never refilled his prescriptions.”
“You can get most drugs on the streets.”
“True, but psychopaths aren’t going to actively look for drugs that are supposed to make them calmer.”
“I thought psychopaths were born that way,” Jack said.
“Some. And some are made. I think Rosemont probably suffered from mild depression growing up—like millions of people—but this incident sent him down a deadly path. I don’t think revenge was his idea.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t have the aptitude to plan such an elaborate and detailed scheme. The two people at the rest stop? Yes, that screams an impulsive, explosive Rosemont to me. Sudden, violent, unexpected. The other murders? Controlled, well planned, organized. That’s the mind of his accomplice.”
“She’s the instigator?”
“You’re looking for a highly intelligent, extremely disciplined female between the ages of thirty-five and fifty-five. She will be attractive and a pathological liar. She is manipulative and has no remorse.”
“Why would this UNSUB want to help Rosemont kill these men?” Hans asked.
“A means to an end,” said Dillon.
Jack understood. “She wanted to play with his toys.”
“Bingo.”
Hans looked like he was still lost, so Jack added, “The needles. Torture. It takes a very specific personality to be able to torture another human being. Even if it’s for the right reason, torture itself can’t be done by someone who has a lot of empathy. She wanted to learn how to do it.”
“I suspect that’s right,” Dillon said. “This woman hooked up with Rosemont around the time he appeared to be improving. Found out who he was, what he went through, and then asked him to teach her. He didn’t want to, but she was very convincing, very manipulative. She orchestrated the murders and he went along with it. But don’t forget he had a very real psychosis culminating in the attack against the Hoffmans. Rosemont snapped at the rest stop, and I think his accomplice realized their games were drawing to a close, that if she didn’t kill him soon, he’d get them both captured or killed.”
Dillon continued, “That brings us back to Sacramento. You didn’t say that any other dog tags were sent to other law enforcement agencies, just the fed in Sacramento.”
“Megan,” Jack said, leaning forward.
“That’s the key to the case.”
“But the victim was a homeless John Doe.”
“Exactly. But absolutely killed by the same person, right? Same M.O., same caliber weapon, same method of torture. But everything else was different. John Doe was the only one
not
killed at his residence or where he was sleeping. He was the only one who
wasn’t
on the Delta Force team that Rosemont was attached to; he was the only victim who was left in a very public place to be found immediately. And he was the only victim the killer felt a need to communicate to the authorities about. But more significantly, why Sacramento? Why not a homeless guy, or anyone, in another major city? Two victims were in Texas, why not Dallas? Or Las Vegas? Or Los Angeles? Why Sacramento
specifically
? Why contact Agent Megan Elliott
personally?
”
Hans suddenly stood up. “They sent the tag to her apartment. We assumed the killers either followed her home or researched to locate her address. It isn’t difficult.”
“Very likely. But why her?”
“She was put in charge of the case.”
“How would he or she know that?” Dillon asked.
Jack slammed his fist on the table. “You’re saying that this psycho woman who wanted to learn how to torture by killing soldiers for this fucking lunatic
has Megan’s home address
?”
Hans said, “I thought you knew.”
“I assumed it had been sent to the publicly known FBI headquarters, not Megan’s private residence!”
Jack rose from the table. Years of training had made his body rigid, but he couldn’t keep his heart rate down like he did in the field. He leaned forward, fear for Megan’s life making his body cold with barely suppressed rage.
He slid his phone over to Hans, showing him the artist’s rendition e-mailed from Texas. “Do you know that woman? She’s the woman Padre saw Tuesday night before Scout was killed.”
Hans stared at the image, his face ashen. “Yes. She tried to kill Meg twelve years ago.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY
A large e-mail was downloading to Megan’s BlackBerry while she and Officer Dodge were stuck in slow traffic in Santa Maria, about midway between SLO and Santa Barbara. Megan was antsy to get a look, suspecting the e-mailed file was from the sketch artist working with Padre.
Finally,
she thought, eager to put a face on the woman she was certain was Rosemont’s accomplice.
Her phone trilled with a call, and she almost sent it directly to voice mail when she saw the caller I.D. was from Orlando.
“Megan Elliott,” she answered.
“This is Paula Andrews from the Orlando Lakeside Adult Community. I just got your message.”
“Thank you so much for promptly returning my call.”
“It sounded important. I knew the Rubins well.”
“It’s about their daughter—”
The sound of a fist hitting wood radiated through the phone. “Is that woman using Hannah’s name again?”
“So you know of the woman who was living with the Rubins and calling herself Hannah?”
“Yes. I was so upset and angered by the whole thing!”
“Can you start from the beginning? Tell me about the Rubins, and how the woman who claimed to be their daughter got away with it for months.”
“Bernard and Millie were the sweetest people on earth, very private. They didn’t socialize much, but Bernard took Millie for walks every day and it was obvious he loved her dearly. One day, right after Christmas a year ago, Millie comes into the social center with a woman on her arm. Introduces her as her daughter, Hannah. I’d heard Millie talking about Hannah before, but I didn’t know anything about her or why she never visited. But at that point, I’d only been manager for a few months and I was still getting to know the residents.
“Hannah was fabulous. She hung out with the residents, helped them with shopping, and Millie was a changed woman. She still had Alzheimer’s, of course, but she seemed brighter. Happier. The thing is, I
liked
Hannah. We went shopping together and out for lunch and I considered her a friend. There are not a lot of people my age—forty-five—in the area, so to have Hannah around was a perk.
“But then I saw her driving a new sporty car, and I started worrying that maybe this daughter was using her parents. When she took Millie to the doctor one day, I went to the house and talked to Bernard. Millie was senile, but Bernard was smart as a whip. Rarely spoke a word, but he was all there, you know? So I ask him if he’s okay, if Hannah was taking advantage of his generosity. If it was true, I was thinking I might talk to Hannah as a friend, not in a confrontation, you know? And you know what he says? That this woman wasn’t even Hannah. That one day Millie came home with her and
thought
she was Hannah. And Millie was so happy that Bernard didn’t want to hurt her. He said, ‘Millie doesn’t have many years left. I want her to have her daughter back.’ He said Hannah didn’t want money, only a place to live because she’d gone through a nasty divorce and needed time to get her life back together.”
“When you found this out, what did you do?” asked Megan.
“I checked up on her. I couldn’t believe anyone was that altruistic. Call me cynical, but though Bernard and Millie were okay financially, they had money in the bank and I thought this woman was a con artist.”
“So was Hannah stealing money from them?”
“I thought so, but Bernard said he was giving her a bit of spending money and had bought her the car. To me, that’s manipulative. Two elderly people who lost their daughter in a tragic car accident get suckered by a woman who doesn’t want to work and is happy to live off their savings. If Bernard had hired her, I wouldn’t have had as big a problem, but Hannah was playing up this martyr role to the hilt. So I confronted her when I found out that she had never been married, and therefore never been divorced. I had also found out she had been a physical therapist in New York and still had an apartment there.”
“Had you hired a private investigator?”
“My dad is a retired Miami cop. He knows people and found the information for me. I just wanted Hannah to leave the Rubins alone, but now I wish I hadn’t done anything.”
“Why’s that?”
“Millie got so depressed when Hannah took off, Bernard said it was as if their daughter had died again. They went into Sunny Day two months later.”
“What happened when you confronted Hannah?”
“I expected tears and an apology, something! I mean, we had been
friends.
But she simply said, ‘That’s fine, I was leaving anyway.’ ”
“She said that?”
“She was completely heartless. I said that maybe we could work something out, write up a more formal agreement between her and the Rubins, because I knew Millie was going to be heartbroken without her. But Hannah didn’t care. She didn’t bat an eye. Said she’d be out by that night. Then I find out that she’d had a huge fight with her boyfriend over God knows what. I thought maybe he’d found out too.”
“Her boyfriend, Kenneth Russo?”
“Yes. And then she was gone. And you know what happened to Kenny, right?”
“Yes.” Megan’s heart skipped. “That was a week after Hannah left, correct?”
“Yes. We don’t have crime here. We have a security patrol and gates and until Kenny was killed hardly anyone even locked their doors, everyone was comfortable walking at night. But now? My residents are scared. At night they barricade themselves in, and few people come to my evening events. Friday-night movies and Saturday-night dancing? Attendance dropped in half. It’s just started to grow again.” She stopped talking. Megan was about to thank her for her time, when Paula said, “So did Karin have something to do with Kenny’s murder?”
“We don’t know— Karin?”
“Yes. I told you I found out her real name, right? Karin Standler. A physical therapist from New York.”
Megan didn’t know whether she said thank-you or just hung up the phone. Officer Dodge said something, but Megan didn’t hear the question. Her face was clammy, her hands shaking, as she looked down at her BlackBerry screen to view the e-mail that had come in from the sketch artist in Texas.
Karin Standler had been Megan’s partner.
The woman who had shot her in the back twelve years ago stared at her from the BlackBerry screen.
Karin Standler was a sociopath.
Megan had come to the conclusion slowly, disbelieving. She’d ignored the signs because they were partners, friends, sisters. For three years they’d worked closely together, and Megan had learned so much from the senior agent. Karin was smart, sharp as a tack, and believed wholeheartedly in the job. “I love this job,” Karin said time and time again.
As it turned out, Megan realized, Karin loved it too much. She loved the badge, the power, the ability to scare people—criminals or not. True, she had clean cases, impeccable attention to detail, and her arrests had the highest rate of imprisonment through either confession or conviction.
Megan discounted Karin’s moodiness—Megan’s mother had been moody. Megan ignored Karin’s running commentary on the failings of the justice system, or the leniency of the courts. A lot of cops had a problem with a system that let violent criminals out early or let them plead to a lesser offense. Karin may have had extreme views of crime and punishment, but they weren’t any more extreme than the views of Megan’s own father, who, after drinking a bit too much on occasion, would lament a failing country he risked his life for. That he’d died defending the rights Americans hold dear wasn’t lost on Megan.
Karin slept around, but never had a steady boyfriend. She told Megan she was too independent and temperamental to live with someone. Megan felt like a prude around Karin.
But even with all of Karin’s flamboyant acts, Megan saw the compassionate woman inside.
Or so she’d thought. After nearly three years, she’d realized it was an act. That Karin had been playing her all that time, and Megan had sucked it up because she wanted a big sister, a mentor, a friend.
It was two months before Karin shot her that Megan made the first turn toward suspecting that her partner was overzealous in her pursuit of criminals. They had been part of an annual drug raid in coordintion with the Washington, D.C., Police Department, DEA, and ATF. Megan and Karin were assigned to a periphery post and Karin was displeased with the position.
“They’re putting us here because we’re women,” Karin complained.
Megan had been nervous—this was only her third year in the Bureau, and she’d never worked the annual roundup. Last year, two cops had been shot, one seriously, even with all the vests and protection they wore.
At the time, Megan thought she was being a coward and perhaps Karin was right. After all, they had a lot of experience working the drug cases with the DEA.
As soon as Operation Wild Wild West—named for the location they were hitting that year in west D.C.—began, Megan sensed they were in serious trouble. The cross streets they were assigned became the primary exit route of the criminals—mostly parolees who didn’t want to be caught with drugs or weapons and be sent immediately back to jail.
Megan had called for backup and Karin had a fit, but they didn’t have time to argue. Six gang members, notorious for trafficking drugs, ran down the alley toward a car parked half a block from Megan’s location. Karin immediately began pursuit, and Megan couldn’t let her partner go off without her, even though she felt it was too dangerous in this situation without having backup in place.
Five of them escaped in the car, leaving the slowest behind. The kid—Megan learned later he was sixteen and his older brother was one of the five who escaped—kept running.
Megan had to find cover as the car made a second, then third pass, trying to kill them and get the kid. Karin disappeared from view and Megan began to panic. She couldn’t leave her partner. The car finally left, and Megan ran toward where she saw Karin turn into an alley.
She didn’t see the shooting, but she heard it.
Megan had thought Karin was dead.
Instead, Karin was standing and the kid was dead, lying in a filthy alley in the worst part of Washington, D.C.
“Karin! Are you okay?”
Karin whirled around, her gun still out, and aimed at Megan, then she pulled it up and relaxed. “Just fine.”
It had been a righteous kill. The kid had a gun out; Karin had no choice but to fire.
Megan didn’t dispute that.
But in her mind, she couldn’t forget the look on Karin’s face when she turned around, gun drawn: excitement. Nor could Megan forget her calmness after the shooting. Megan questioned her own competence because she knew she wouldn’t be so calm and collected if she’d killed a human being—and that bore out the two times she was forced to draw her gun and fire. Megan had been calm on scene, but she’d been a basket case for two days afterward and grateful for the forty-eight-hour administrative leave.
Megan had done a little research after that incident and learned that Karin had killed or shot more suspects in the line of duty than any other active agent. Every shooting had been investigated and ruled unavoidable. Yet . . . Megan knew Karin was a good liar. She had caught her fibbing about little things. It had never bothered Megan too much because it hadn’t affected her. But suddenly Karin’s rages against the system and criminals who got off with a slap on the wrist took on a far more ominous meaning.
Her mistake—Megan had realized when she thought she was about to die in an alley two blocks from the D.C. jail—was not sharing her concerns with someone. Maybe they could have given Karin a psych test or counseling. Maybe Megan was wrong. She had hoped she was. She’d hoped she was very, very wrong. After all, the people Karin killed were criminals. They were wanted fugitives or suspects in violent crimes. She had no compassion for anyone. Her strength in the FBI had been her relentless and dogged pursuit of criminals. She worked extra hours, took extra training, volunteered for dangerous undercover missions, and turned in clean and prosecutable cases. The U.S. attorneys had loved her. She’d taught Megan to cover all the bases, not giving the bad guys any wiggle room.
But Karin was a sociopath. Because of their friendship, Megan had ignored or excused Karin’s actions for far too long. She couldn’t avoid the truth after the kid in D.C. was killed. Megan might have done the exact same thing in the same situation facing a gun, but it wasn’t the shooting itself that had disturbed her. It was the aftermath. The glee. The
satisfaction
on Karin’s face.
The day Megan almost died, Karin had confronted her about an in-depth report Megan had on her desk about officer-related shootings. It wasn’t an FBI article, but there were law enforcement statistics about drawing one’s weapon, firing, injuries, and fatalities. Big-city cops were in daily and consistent danger, more than the average FBI agent, but individual cops fired their guns less than half what Karin did.
Not proof of anything directly related to Karin, but enough that Megan wanted to keep an eye on her.
Megan lied about the article, but she was a pitiful liar and Karin didn’t say much the rest of the day. Megan was about to leave when Karin ran up to her, excited. “I have a location for Rentz! Let’s get him!”
Stanley Rentz, twenty-five, was a college dropout wanted for molesting prepubescent girls while traveling the country as part of the stage crew for an alternative rock band. When local and federal agencies figured out who the rapist was, they put together a sting, but Rentz had slipped out before it went down. He’d been hiding out for weeks, and his mother worked as a consultant in Congress. The FBI had received information that Rentz’s mother was helping him financially, so they had kept a close eye on her, her office, home, and commute route.
Megan followed Karin out. “Who’s our backup?”
“Marty and Ted. They’re meeting us at the station. My contact in the building said Rentz’s mother was acting nervous all day. I put a tail on her, and she’s waiting at a different Metro Stop, taking the blue line north instead of the orange south.”