Authors: Carolyn Arnold
“Annie, we don’t have time for this.”
Annie ground one of her shoes into the floor.
“My Dad likes to control everything I do. He drives me nuts.”
“Well, until you pay your own rent.”
“Yadda, yadda.” She looked at me. “You ever get the as-long-as-you-live-under-my-roof speech from your parents?”
How young did she think I was? I had at least seven or eight years on her.
“You’re kidding? He still gets that.” Zachery, who was sitting beside me, patted my back.
Annie laughed. The expression suited her—well. She was probably a heartbreaker. I had a feeling McClellan was well aware of it too. His attention narrowed in on me.
“Annie, please, we have work to do.”
She rolled her eyes and distributed the coffees, then held the round tray against her chest when she was finished.
“If it’s true that murdered man killed a dog, then he deserved what he got.” Annie gauged us for a response, but when none of us offered one, she left.
“You discuss open cases with your daughter?” Jack asked.
“I didn’t discuss anything with her. The news was all over it.”
“The news?”
“You know what they’re like. They sniff out murder like ants do a picnic.”
“Hmm.”
“We were talking about the missing men’s significant others,” Paige interjected, “before we came inside. Tell us more about them.”
McClellan pulled his eyes from Jack. “None of the women have a violent history. Even with Simpson’s drunk and disorderly, she wasn’t hostile, she was half-naked in a public place. Charges of indecent exposure should have been pursued.”
“Why weren’t they? You said she spent the night in jail.”
Color saturated the detective
’s face. “That’s all she got. The chief thought formal charges were excessive.”
“She is a nice-looking piece of ass.” Jack pulled out his pack of cigarettes and placed it on the table. His hand covered it, but he didn’t light up. There were no smoking signs posted all over.
“Yeah.”
“What about here? Anything about this site that seems significant?” I asked.
McClellan shook his head.
“None that we’re aware of at this point.”
“We need to know who wrote the articles on all of these men. We need to speak to the garbage man who found Simpson, his significant other, along with those of the other missing men,” Jack addressed his team. “I’d say things possibly started with Karl Ball, who went missing in two thousand and nine, but we’ve got a fresh body, and a new missing persons case. We dig into those first.”
“Agree, Boss.” Paige blew on her coffee and took a sip.
“I believe we’re after a male killer, who targets those who specifically abuse dogs.” I offered a summation.
Zachery popped a piece of cookie into his mouth and jabbed the uneaten part toward me.
“Good point. He probably also experienced something at a younger age that made him predisposed to—”
Hogan coughed and held a hand over his mouth. Its source, clearly, was derision.
We all looked at him.
“You can tell all of this from what we have so far?”
“Hogan, please.” McClellan leaned into his chair and flung his arm over the back.
“It just seems like, what’s the point of local law enforcement as long as we have the FBI.” He tossed a five on the table and stood.
McClellan shot to his feet and leaned in to Hogan. He spoke low, but it was easy to hear.
“Why are you acting like this? You said you’d be of help.”
Hogan scanned McClellan
’s face, but addressed us. “I want this killer stopped just as much as all of you, but a serial at work? Unsub? Your fancy terminology for what we would call a perp. You have to do everything different. And, if that’s not enough, you have to pry your nose into our cases.” Back to McClellan. “I’ve gotta go do some police work.”
He left, and his wet boots squeaked across the floor of the bakery.
McClellan’s inhale expanded his chest. He took his seat again.
“I’m sorry about him.”
“From the file, one journalist reported on all these cases,” Zachery said.
“Yeah.” McClellan’s hand went for his coffee. Disappointment radiated from him, but he tried to counter with a smile. It didn’t fully form. “The guy’s name is Kent Fields, now a giant in the publishing industry. He’s got three Pulitzers to his credit and many other awards. I highly doubt it’s him behind these murders.”
“He might have information, from behind the scenes, that will prove useful to the investigation.”
“You sure about that? Remember these cases go back twenty-six years. That’s a long time.”
“We’ll see if it feels that long ago to him.”
Enlightenment dawned on the detective
’s face. “Ah, so you’ll set a trap for the rat. If he bites, he could be our man.”
Zachery nodded.
“Precisely.”
“It might not be a bad idea to talk to the main animal activist group in town either. I’ll get you their information.”
“There’s a lot of people we need to speak with and we’re not getting it done sitting around here.” Jack stood and the rest of us followed his lead.
“You guys take my car. I’ll call for a ride.”
McClellan
’s gaze went to the window. Outside large snowflakes fell in quick succession.
“Don’t worry, Detective, we get snow in Virginia.” Jack slipped out a cigarette and tucked the package back into his pocket.
McClellan’s eyes went to it. “Of course you do. I didn’t—”
“We’ll head to the station first, see if our rides are there, and get someone to come back for you.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
His hands shook every time, but someone had to clean up the city. The government certainly wasn’t going to do anything about it. Those who were elected put on a show for glamor and fame with no real purpose. They slept in their million-dollar homes and shut out the ugliness of the world around them. For appearance’s sake, they went to their charity benefits while being too lazy to deal with the issues. The promises made to those who’d voted them into office in the first place were forgotten. It was a disgusting irony that defined politics. The very men who swore to deal with issues, to rectify injustices, sat on the sidelines, more incompetent than most.
This is why he was left to take the power into his own hands and make a difference to society. He brought justice for the Defenseless by condemning their Offender.
It was this reasoning that added justification for his actions. Everyone had a purpose. His was to speak for the victims who have no voice. He was their Advocate.
Placing Simpson’s body on display was a message to the world to let them know crimes against the Defenseless would not be tolerated, and that those who inflicted abuse upon them would be held accountable.
This Offender, his latest captive, would take patience, but that was one thing he had developed over the years. A tempering of knowing when best to strike, and whom.
The Advocate watched his captive through a camera he had placed in the man’s cell. The Offender was extended the same courtesies he had provided his canine companion—a dank corner with an empty food dish and a shitty water bowl. To complete the retribution he put a tight choker around his neck and attached it to a short chain.
For hours, the man had protested his captivity, but now his cries for help had lost conviction. What was once a high-pitched fervor had dulled to a mumbled whisper. Despair and hopelessness were taking over.
The thought made the Advocate smile. He was making a difference.
He offered no mercy for these men. The Offenders deserved what was coming their way, and if he was the one destined to exact the punishment, he would see it through. Exacting revenge and punishment on these mongrels had become his driving purpose in life. It was what he was meant to do.
The Offender was alternating between balling his fists and pulling out on the choker, but his efforts were futile. The collar was latched tight and secured with a tiny padlock.
“Aw, is it getting a little harder to breathe?” the Advocate said to himself. Laughter had his eyes pinching shut and tears seeping from the corners.
The man kept trying to reach the bench to sit down, but the length of the chain had been adjusted so there was no possibility of that happening. He would stand or hang himself.
Still, the Advocate experienced no remorse. The Offender should have thought through to the consequences of his actions before he outworked his madness on one of the Defenseless.
“Why are you doing this?” the Offender called out.
Rarely did the Advocate respond. They didn
’t deserve to be heard, to be granted a say. He had tried that in the beginning, but their speeches about their being guileless fell not only on deaf ears, but on a mind forged by retribution.
The Advocate pushed the button that would allow his voice to carry into the room. He wasn
’t worried about being identified—there would be no escape for an Offender—but he had modified the output anyhow. The speech distortion would toy with their minds even further.
“You brought this on yourself.”
“I—” The Offender buried his face in his hands, the muffled sobbing still loud enough to hear.
The crying always reaped the opposite of their desired outcome. Instead of it tugging on the Advocate’s humanity, his mind went to the Defenseless, to those who wept internally, in darkness.
“You deserve to die!”
The man slid his hands down his face and sputtered,
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Drink your water, animal.”
It pained the Advocate to equate this mammal to the four-legged variety. The Defenseless were superior to Offenders in many ways.
The man’s legs buckled beneath him, the choker, doing its job, tightened its hold against his larynx. The Offender righted himself and his hands rushed to his throat, where he tugged on the collar without much success.
“Drink!”
“Why are you—”
Vomit spewed across the room, splattering some on the camera lens.
The Advocate rubbed his hands, sat back, and swiveled in his chair.
Jack had Paige call Nadia at head office to request a more in-depth background on both the journalist, Kent Fields, and the garbage man, Craig Bowen.
Nadia Webber was our contact at Quantico, who managed to gather any data we required. Her expertise and know-how contributed toward solving every case.
We reached the police station and two shiny, black SUVs were parked in the lot. Based on the lack of accumulated snow, I surmised they had just recently been dropped off. Our coffee break and discussion wasn
’t a waste of time.
We handed over McClellan’s keys and requested that he be picked up at Lynn’s Bakery. A few officers heard us mention the name and were eager to volunteer for the task. I have to admit the Christmas cookies would serve as sufficient payment.
After retrieving the keys for the SUVs, we reconvened outside.
Jack lit a cigarette and waved it toward Paige.
“I want you and Zach to visit Gene Lyons’s wife. Find out when she saw him last, what he was up to. Brandon and I are going to speak with Simpson’s wife.”
“Figures. You guys get the hot one. Be sure to keep it in your pants, Pending.” Zachery laughed.
“Come on.” Though what I had with Paige was not exactly a committed relationship, it still had the confines of one. I angled my head to the side, concerned about her reaction.
She was smiling. Her eyes teased. “He does have a point, Brandon.”
If she kept acting like that, we
’d have a really hard time keeping our attraction from Jack. As it was we flirted with the edge of insubordination. As members of the same team there wasn’t to be any fraternization. It was too late for that a few times over. And, factoring in the possible repercussions, it was stupid. There was a lot at stake. I was a probationary agent and Jack probably wouldn’t have an issue knocking me out of the bureau. Paige faced removal from Jack’s team.
I returned her smile, opting to play it light. “Why? Are you going to get jealous, Dawson?”
“Jealous? Of you? Hardly.” She laughed, but the spark in her eyes revealed the contradiction.
Jack suctioned in on his cigarette with a definitive
piff
. He was calculating.
“Let’s go.” I wondered why we gravitated to congregating outdoors when we could have talked in the warmth of the station. Then I realized the blasted cigarette in Jack’s hand was to blame.
“Seems someone is eager to get going.” It served as one last jab from Zachery before he walked away with Paige toward their SUV.
*****
For the second time that day my fingers gripped the armrest and dug into the foam—they alternated between there and the dash. My legs were extended, feet flattened to the floor, pressing on imaginary brakes.
“You do know you have no control over there.” Jack tapped his cigarette on his lowered window.
“Even in the frigid arctic, you still need that stick bad enough to let in the cold air.”
“This is hardly the arctic.”
I rolled my eyes and faced out the passenger-side window. Another frustrating attempt at conversation with Jack. I might as well go for the gold. During a recent interrogation he had let something slip and I was determined to get full disclosure.
“You never told me about your kids.”
He inhaled and flicked the butt out the window, closed it and continued to drive, with his eyes on the road.
According to the GPS we were still twenty minutes out, but the technology didn’t account for
treacherous roads and weather conditions.
Maybe we
’d sit in silence the entire way.
When Jack still hadn’t responded a minute later, I tried another tactic. “You think I’m going to give up, but I’m not. I’m going to find out—”
Jack faced me.
I peeled one hand off the dash and pointed ahead.
“The road.”
He ignored my plea.
His eyes were still on me. “You want to know about my kid?”
Faced with the direct question, under his burning gaze, I wasn
’t sure if I cared anymore—and the road conditions…his focus should be there.
If I didn’t calm myself and carry out what I had started, he’d never comply. Both my hands went to the dash, but it was freezing. I pulled them back and blew on them, doing my best to be nonchalant. “Only if you want to tell me.”
“Hmm.”
His eyes went back to the road, and I drew a full breath.
Seconds passed
in silence.
“Why not just pull my background?” Jack asked.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“I’d need a reason—and clearance.”
“You could have Nadia do it.”
The gears in my head moved. What could I say to that? That I’d thought of it but would never dream of following through?
“Of course, if I found out you did, you’d be off the team faster than a shooting star.”
We slid to a stop at a four-way. To hell with it. I’d brave the cold plastic.
“I never have…pulled your background.”
“Good.”
The GPS showed one minute from our destination. Why did I have a feeling we’d get there and I still wouldn
’t have an answer?
“You know it doesn’t really matter if you have a kid.” I shook my head. “Really. It changes nothing.”
Just adds a little character
…
“I don’t have a kid.”
He pulled into the Simpsons
’ driveway.
“What do you mean? You told that guy months ago—”
“Yeah, I know what I told him.”
I studied Jack
’s profile. The intensity in his gaze, how he now avoided eye contact, he was lying.
*****
The house was in a nice neighborhood. I imagined all the lawns would be manicured in the summer months and the garden beds alive with color. The structure itself was gray block, lending it a modernistic design perfect for the architectural types. The front face of the building was broken up by numerous large windows that would let in natural light. Today, there wasn’t much of it; the sky was heavy with cloud cover. There was only a faint hope that the snow would stop falling anytime soon.
I rang the doorbell and it chimed a beautiful rendition of some classical song I recognized but couldn’t name. That wasn
’t within my realm of expertise, but I’d say the bell had been custom-designed.
A brunette, obviously struggling on her tiptoes, peeked through the high window in the door. Her eyes scanned us from head to as far down as she could see. She lifted a hand and waved us away.
“We have religion.”
She was still in the window when Jack hit the doorbell again.
The door
whooshed
open, fighting against its seal.
“I told you—” Her attention went to Jack’s credentials.
“Can we come in?”
She slid her bottom lip through her teeth.
“Sure.”
“We want to speak with—”
“Jenna,” the brunette yelled over her shoulder. “The FBI is here to see you.”
“The FBI?” She pranced, in bare feet, into the grand foyer. When she saw us, her steps slowed.
Jenna Simpson was slight, like the woman who had let us in. She wore tights and a large sweater that fell off her right shoulder and exposed the strap of a teal tank top. Based on appearance and genetic structure, the women were not related but merely friends. Jenna had a quality that made men take notice, though. It was hard to ascertain whether it was her physique—which had the necessary female curves—the platinum blond hair, or the tastefully applied eye makeup that made her gray eyes appear mysterious. Her cheeks held a healthy glow.
“They’re with the FBI.” The brunette turned to Jenna.
“I heard you.” Jenna laced her arms and addressed us.
“What do you want?” The tip of her tongue peeked through her lips.
“Your husband was murdered,” Jack said.
Just when I thought he couldn’t possibly be any blunter in his phrasing, he managed to surpass my expectations.
“I’m fully aware of that.” Her eyelashes fluttered but she stood her ground.
“Do you have somewhere we can sit and talk?” I asked, doing my best to add a little more delicacy to the situation.
“I’ll put on some tea,” the brunette said.
Jenna placed a hand on her friend
’s forearm. “They won’t be here for long.”
Jenna’s eyes disclosed that she was a tangled mess. She was a complicated woman, who many might perceive as less intelligent, given her favorable genetics.
“Remove your shoes and follow me.” She hooked her finger and spun on her heels.
I noticed her pedicure matched her french-manicured fingernails.
She led us to a sunken living room. I took in the lavish space, wondering what it would be like to actually live in a place like this. It must make one feel as if they were royalty. Maybe it was immersion in that emotion that bred entitlement and arrogance.
The floor-to-ceiling windows contributed a sense of enchantment and awe. Outside, the snowflakes appeared to be getting larger.
“You have a beautiful home.”
“Thank you.” She smiled—the expression carrying the
hint of seduction.
“You’re welcome.” I would be strong, or Paige would kill me. I broke eye contact and looked at Jack.
He dropped onto a cream colored leather sofa, utilizing the edge of the seat cushion and not getting too comfortable. I sat beside him and took full advantage of the plush hug.
Jenna’s eyebrows jabbed upward.
“I see this is good cop, bad cop.”
I found it interesting that, for a woman who recently lost her husband, she didn’t give the impression she was overly affected by his death.
I unzipped my jacket but left it on. The heat of the home had sweat gathering at the nape of my neck and trickling down my back. Even the marble floors were heated, which also explained Jenna
’s bare feet. Unexpectedly, with the thought, I couldn’t picture the woman in socks. She fit better with the imagery of a lingerie model—in high heels and silk.
“Tell us about your husband.”
Jack
’s voice sliced through my fantasy.
Jenna peeled her focus from me and cast her gaze to Jack.
Her friend took a seat beside her, and her chestnut eyes narrowed in on me, harboring a glare.
I tugged down on the sleeve of my shirt, which was riding up inside the arm of the jacket.
The brunette rolled her eyes.
Jenna crossed her legs, away from her friend, toward me.
“What do you want to know?”
“Did he have any enemies?”
“Typical question I’m sure you get sick of asking, but no. Not that I know of. I mean, who wouldn’t love him?” She spread her arms to take in the room. “The man was loaded. Even if people didn’t like him, you’d never know. They’d smile and wish him a good day. Know what I mean?” She hitched an eyebrow again.
“What did he do for work?”
Another smile.
“You should know that from some file, shouldn’t you? Surely there’s more valuable information that I could provide to you.”
I faced Jack, but his
profile held steady, his gaze settled on her. I wondered if he registered her good looks, or whether he remained oblivious. Part of me hoped he was aware. He was still a man. The other part of me wouldn’t be surprised if he were ignorant to the fact she was a beauty. He tended to lean more toward business than pleasure.
“There was quite an age difference between you,” Jack said.
“I prefer a mature man, and we made it work.”
“Did you?”
“Are you accusing me of killing him?”