The Immortal Harvest (10 page)

“It’s a shell casing Lewiston. What are you trying to show me?

You’ve already established that there are no weapons to match the striation marks. I’m not amused if you’ve called me in here to tell me something I already know.”

“Yes I know you’re busy Boss but I thought you’d want to see this.”

Lewiston moved in closer to the input device and magnified the image. He pointed to the striation marks on the outside of the case. He then increased the image further and the faint unmistakeable swirls of a partial finger print suddenly materialised on the casing.

“You’ve found a finger print. Have you run it through AFIS and all the other agencies’ databases?”

“Yes I have Boss. That’s the confusing part.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense Lewiston, I’m not getting any younger and I’ve got other shit to do. Spit it out.”

“I found a definite match for the print.”

“Well that’s great news. Give me the identity of the
‘unsub’
and I’ll have him brought in for questioning.”

“That’s the problem. This is the print of Edward Stringer.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Edward Stringer is deceased, he was a Marine. He was killed in action in the first Gulf War.”

“K. I. A? Crap! What the fuck are you trying to tell me Lewiston? Are you saying that Senator Baker was killed by a dead man? I thought fingerprints were unique.”

“They are unique. However, computerised fingerprint matching technology is only ninety nine percent accurate.

It is theoretically possible that two absolutely identical twins could possess fingerprints that could fall within that other one percent. A DNA sample would be the only way to know for sure.”

“Ok Einstein, did Edward Stringer have an identical twin?”

Lewiston shook his head from side to side as he flicked the strand from his eyes. He grabbed a bundle of notes from the desk and held them out.

“I’m sorry Boss. I have run a complete and comprehensive background check on Stringer. Here is his profile.”

Baxter retrieved the dossier from Lewiston and began flipping through the pages; he frowned when he came to the Ex Marines family history.

“According to this he was an only child. His parents are Bob and Betty Stringer and they are apparently still alive and live in Washington. Is this their latest contact details?”

“Yes they are. But I don’t think they would be able to help.”

“Look Lewiston, unless you or the rest of the team can come up with any other leads I’m going to have a chat with Bob and Betty.

Maybe they have a few skeletons in their closet that we don’t know about.”

“With all due respect Boss, I don’t think it’s a good idea to interrogate them about their dead son.”

Baxter ignored the comment and the look of dismay that ran across Lewiston’s face.

“Thanks Lewiston, but your expertise is ballistics. You can carry on with your investigation here in the lab. Don’t concern yourself with the field work. Leave that to me and the rest of the team ok.”

With that said he tucked the Dossier under his arm, spun around and strode out of the Lab and headed towards his office.

It took twenty minutes to navigate his way back through the security checkpoints and reach his office.

He brushed his hand absently across the name plate secured to the mahogany, unlocked the door and exhaled heavily as he went inside his own private sanctuary.

Baxter’s Quantico office provided a much larger workspace than the single desk that he had occupied at the Washington Headquarters.

Apart from a flagging Bromeliad plant, the decor was otherwise sterile. This office at least had furniture.

Other than the mahogany desk, there was a small two seater settee. It’s leather polished by years of polyester clad backsides. The settee had two matching single chairs.

A small walnut coffee table sat adjacent to the chairs and the settee.

Against Baxter’s better judgement, the door to his office remained open as part of the upper managements’ “open door” policy.

He immediately slumped into his chair, dumped the dossier unceremoniously onto his desk and leant back in his chair.

After reclining in his chair for several minutes with his hands clasped behind his head and his eyes closed in a contemplative state, he finally leant forward and opened the dossier.

He stared at the names of Stringer’s parents again.

He punched in the number of Bob and Betty Stringer on his office commander phone and punched the speaker phone button. As the phone beeped and complained through the dialling sequence, a single thought ran through his mind.

Stringer better have a long lost murderous twin brother or we’re screwed!

Shit! I’m bloody freezing!
Murdoch thought as he wrestled the sleek black Chevrolet van through the narrow alleyways.

He swore under his breath as he skilfully negotiated the strewn garbage cans and piles of discarded waste.

“What’s fucking eating you?”

Murdoch turned and looked with disgust at his partner.

He noted the paunch that threatened to tear apart the sweat and filth stained flannelette shirt. It was covered in uneaten, half chewed fries.

He noted the bloated pock marked face, the yellow nicotine stained teeth, and the bulging blood shot eyes.

No wonder ya Mother named you Judas
, he thought as he gripped the wheel harder and hunched his shoulders.

“I’m not getting paid enough to do this shit!” he said begrudgingly as he stared fixedly through the bug streaked windscreen.

“I’d rather be getting tanked and pokin’ the whiskers of some piece of arse, then havin to drag your sorry arse on this gig.”

“It’s no picnic having to sit here and listen to your groaning and bitchin’ either, but you know the consequences if we fail to deliver. Let’s just find us a couple of losers and get the fuck out of here.”

“Have you seen any fucken homeless out here you moron?” asked Murdoch savagely.

He saw Judas slowly shake his head as he wound down the window and spat out a wad of phlegm.

“Nah, but it’s early. We’ll find ’em,” Judas said and flashed a yellow row of food encrusted teeth as he hurriedly wound the window back up.

He wiped the remaining crap off his flabby jowls with the back of his hand.

“It’s too fucken cold ya dickwad. They’ll all be parking their arses in some goddamn tree huggin shelter and sucking up free soup.” Murdoch said as he swung on the steering wheel violently and pointed the van up yet another alley darkened by the encroaching overhang of the dilapidated buildings.

Up until this point he had been driving with just the parking lights on, and was concentrating on the small periphery the dim light afforded, through the area of windscreen he had managed to clear of condensation.

He jumped when he felt Judas’ hand squeeze his arm.

“Yeah smartarse, well what about those two,” Judas said as he pointed towards the dark silhouettes of what looked like a man and a small boy.

They were further up the alley and were only thirty feet away from leaving the alley and entering the much larger side street. He noticed that they had stopped and the man had moved towards the wall of one of the buildings.

He’s probably taking a leak,
Murdoch thought as he slammed on the brakes.

He turned the door handle and bailed quickly out of the driver’s seat.

“Hurry up Judas, grab the bags, we gotta get ’em before he finishes his piss and they get out in the open,” Murdoch said quietly as he rushed to the shadows and stealthily manoeuvred himself up the alley.

By taking advantage of the piles of debris he managed to get within twenty feet of the two without being detected.

Crouching down behind an industrial bin, Murdoch could plainly see the man. He looked to be about six foot tall and even though he was definitely a homeless guy he looked like he could take care of himself.

The boy was very young, probably only five or six.

Murdoch could see the boy holding a rusty shopping trolley which was stuffed full of cardboard and crap.

Bingo
, he thought as he heard the rasping sound of Judas squat down next to him.

He silently gestured to him to take one of the bags as he doused a couple of rags with a white fluid which he poured from a bottle marked ‘
Suprane
’.

He took care not to breathe in too deeply.

He really wished that he could have used a taser; a device that Murdoch knew was a much more efficient immobiliser.

Unfortunately, his request to use one had been denied categorically by the Doc.

Some medical mumbo jumbo about there being too much risk that the electrical shock would damage the goods

Murdoch thrust one of the soaked rags at Judas.

“Here take this! You grab the boy and I’ll tackle the pisser,” he whispered harshly as he handed the soaked rag to Judas.

He put his rag in his pocket and then pulled a balaclava over his face and watched as Judas did the same.

He held up three fingers and lowered each one as a silent countdown to their attack.

As he lowered the last finger he sprung up from behind the industrial bin and launched himself at the startled homeless man who was fumbling with his pants as he hurriedly tried to secure his penis.

“What the fuck?” were the only words the homeless guy was able to utter before being rammed from the side by Murdoch’s bulk.

Both men were propelled forward and crashed headlong into several garbage cans. The vile stench of rotting garbage permeated the air as the cans spewed forth the contents over the alley as Murdoch clamped onto the homeless guys legs to prevent him from escaping.

Hindered by his reduced peripheral vision Murdoch screamed and then swore viciously as the homeless guy twisted under his grip and managed to impact his arm with a broken beer bottle. He felt the sickening feeling of the shattered glass tearing into his flesh.

Murdoch, being momentarily stunned by the assault released his grip slightly, allowing the homeless guy the opportunity to begin scrambling away from him.

Consumed by adrenaline and rage Murdoch dove at him and once again clamped his arms around the old man’s legs. He heaved on the legs and managed to drag the old man back on his stomach towards him.

“You’re not going anywhere fella!” he growled as he knelt down onto the small of victim’s back and heard him groan in pain.

He pulled the rag from out of his pocket and clamped his hand down over the guy’s face.

He could feel the muscles of the guy’s back spasm as he fought to throw Murdoch off him. The struggling subsided quickly as the anaesthetic did its work.

Murdoch reached around and felt the victim’s neck for a pulse. Once satisfied that the old man was only unconscious, he was about to scream out for Judas when he saw him appear at the mouth of the alleyway with a sack draped over his shoulder.

Even in the dimly lit alleyway he could tell that the man was smiling. The yellow teeth irked him.

“What the fuck happened to you? I could have done with a hand. This guy put up quite a fight,” he said as he gingerly ran a finger over his lacerated arm.

“This one’s a slippery little tyke. I had to run ’im down.

“He’s real healthy, the Doc’s gonna be real pleased,” Judas said as he dropped the sack next to Murdoch.

“Hey ya dickwad, take it easy, the Doc’s not gonna be pleased if you’ve damaged his specimen.

Now give me a hand to load this one in the van, he’s a big fucker.”

“Ya know, it was the weirdest thing, when I finally grabbed the tyke, all of the street lights blew out. It was some damn freaky shit,” Judas said as he grunted under the strain of lifting the body into the van.

Murdoch ignored the weird look on Judas’ face as he spat on his hands and rubbed them together.

“Yeah, whatever, just get your arse over here and grab the old man’s legs.

You know, for a homeless guy, he sure is a heavy Mother fucker.”

After finally securing their prizes in the back of the van, the two men climbed into the front.

As Murdoch started the van and sped away from the alley he scanned the vicinity to ensure that they had not been seen.

He knew the cost of indiscretion; their mission had to be performed flawlessly with no loose ends.

He smiled inwardly; he knew that Judas was right; the boy was quite a catch.

As he looked into the rear view mirror, he thought of the reward that he would be given. He thought of the bevy of high priced whores he could fuck.

As the van pulled out onto the freeway, he checked on his cargo. He could see the two body bags lying motionless in the back of the van and smiled.

More meat for the weirdos! The Doc will be pleased.

After organising a meeting with the Stringers, Baxter slouched on the settee as he rested his feet on the coffee table. He slowly sipped on a cup of coffee as he read through the latest report.

His head pounded, but he tried to ignore it as he casually flicked through the pages, and took in the scant details. He was just about to pull out his medication when he was startled by a knock on his door. He looked up and frowned when he realised that he had no idea who was intruding on his time.

“Can I help you lady?”

He noticed that the woman was roughly his age. She had that whole ‘librarian-like’ look, reinforced by the neat business suit and the slim leather satchel she carried under her arms. Her slightly silvered hair was tied back tightly. Her flawless makeup tried in vain to hide her age under the thick lenses of her glasses. Small laughter lines appeared as she spoke.

“Hello, Special Agent Baxter? I’m not sure if we’ve met. My name is Ms James; I’m from Child Protective Services.”

Baxter raised an eyebrow as he stood and made his way behind his desk. He pulled out his chair and sat down.

What would Child Protective Services want with me?
Baxter thought as he motioned for the woman to sit down in the chair adjacent to his.

He sipped on his coffee and tried to smile she slowly sat down. He noticed that the woman was obviously all business as she wasted no time in getting to the point.