by Edwin Dasso
“Wish I’d thought of that when I was with the Feds.”
“Anyway, the reason I went… Carter’s file adds almost nothing to what we know. Mother died in childbirth. Conjoined twins. Father raises them until, when they were seven, Tobias opts to kill him.”
“How does a seven year old kid kill a fully grown adult? Did he shoot him, or something?”
“Don’t know. There’s no cause of death listed. Tobias was then sent to a Juvenile Detention Center, one that’s not around anymore, but guess what it was called?” Adams shook his head. “Pointers!”
“Another connection with our word puzzle.”
“Carter went on to foster homes, then enrolled in the military as soon as she could.”
“Talking of the military, while you were on your coffee run, a Captain Morrison called. He was Carter’s commanding officer.”
“Yeah, he was the guy I tried to reach. What did he have to say?”
“Officially, almost nothing of any use. But, off-the-record, something else.” Adams recounted Morrison’s suspicions regarding Erin Carter. “Now, we don’t know if there’s any basis for what he says. There could be all kinds of backstories there we have no idea of, and Morrison could be avenging himself because of something that passed between Carter and himself. Who knows? So I’m inclined to take note of what he said, but not make it central to the case, unless we independently unearth something similar.”
“Sounds like a good strategy, Noah.” Brandt picked up his coffee and took a deep swig. Then his gaze fixed on the whiteboards again. “Get anywhere with that?” He used his mug to indicate the latest of the alphanumeric scribblings.
“I still think you’re right about the numbers telling us more than just this simple message. I was about to approach it using the victim’s names when the Captain called. Let’s see what we have.” He ignored the whiteboards and turned the fresh page of his yellow pad towards Brandt. Then he wrote:
Donna Cordoba
Sarah Allen
Olivia Ross
Carmen Torres
Elizabeth Anne Everett
Robin Ruan
? ?
? ?
“Eight victims, because of the numbering in the body bags and the length of the word ‘Pointers’. Okay, what we know is that ‘Pointers’ gives us the places where the bodies were dumped. Two to go, ‘O’ and ‘P’. Question, and speaking as a psychiatrist, why write the word in reverse? To disguise its significance until the killer had almost completed his spree, perhaps? Yet, you and Carter had guessed those letters weren’t random two deaths ago. Okay, we also have the phrase spelt out by the victim’s surnames. CARTER then two more letters. Probably another word, is what I’m guessing. Now if we reorder the list, applying the body bag numbers to the surnames we get C… T… ?... ?... R… A… R… E. If we apply the numbers to the first names, we get D… C… ?... ?... O… S… R… E. Sure, we are missing a couple of letters but I get the feeling these are anagrams. I can’t think of any words that start CT or DC off the top of my head. Though, in reverse, the first four letters ERAR and ERSO might be something.”
Brandt was tapping agitatedly on the screen of his cell phone.
“According to the internet there are no words in common use starting with those letters. I’ll try anagrams.” More tapping. “Okay, the first group we know gives us CARTER, but there’s a stack of other combinations given we don’t know the missing letters. Same with the second group, though there we don’t get CARTER.”
“You realize what we are saying here?”
“The killer is choosing his victims because of their initials. They aren’t random at all. What about the last two. They were a couple. Did he just get lucky when he attacked, or did he have some prior knowledge?”
“Remember, Robin Ruan was a nurse at the psychiatric department where Tobias is interned. It’s too easy for him to have known her, maybe even know she had a relationship with Elizabeth Anne Everett. Who knows? It could be that was the starting point for the creation of this sick word game.”
Brandt thought for a full minute before replying.
“What if Tobias was the killer? From what you told me about your meeting, the guy is into games and he has a genius level brain.”
“No. He can’t get out; I checked. There’s video surveillance 24/7 and they are locked up at night.”
“An accomplice? Someone he has do the killings for him.”
“He doesn’t get visitors. Mind you, I only checked the logs for a couple of months. If he had planned all this out months ago, he could have recruited another inmate who has since been released, or met with someone only once, at the beginning, to plan everything out. There have been cases of jailed serial killers working with acolytes on the outside.”
Another long pause, shared by both men.
Then Brandt spoke, his voice dark.
“We’re skirting around the obvious, Noah. There is someone who is in contact with Tobias every week, as far as we know, and we have no idea what they talk about.”
“And if she’s running around California in a vehicle no one knew she had, at night to find, kill, and dump the victims, that could explain why she’s so run down during the day. In addition, from her army days, she has the skills to take out the victims. Have you noticed that all of them have died through essentially the same cause: lack of oxygen? Is there any way we can find out how Tobias killed his father?”
Brandt glanced at his wristwatch.
“Not at this hour. First thing in the morning, I’ll call someone I know in Records who can take a peek at the father’s murder book. Tobias’ file, because of his age at the time, will have been sealed by a judge and it could take a while to get that opened. But for what we want, the father’s file should give us the answer. If it is anything like oxygen starvation, then we have a good case for Tobias’ repeating the M.O.”
“Yeah, but through a third party. During my meeting, I asked him about Toby, the parasite twin inside Erin. He said that Erin and Toby talk and that Toby was like some kind of telephone exchange enabling her to communicate with him in the hospital, pretty much whenever she wanted.”
“So we have a mastermind, Tobias; an enabler, Toby; and a perpetrator, Erin. Which means there is no one else in that van with her.”
“Assuming I’m not mistaken about who I saw driving, Jim. And, if a new body does turn up in one of the places you mentioned, maybe Erin does have a passenger in the van after all: the next victim.”
“Hell! Noah, reach out to your contacts and make those searches a major priority. The victim might not be dead yet.”
28
Two hours crawled by, minute by minute, second by second. Brandt stared, blurry-eyed, at the whiteboards as though willing them to give up a dark secret. A gentle snoring came from the figure slumped on the desk alongside. Even a second trip for ‘good’ coffee had failed to fight off the fatigue both had accumulated. Adams had succumbed to sleep’s silent summons over an hour ago. Brandt had been speaking, commenting on one of the details of Noah’s visit with Tobias Carter when he noticed his psychiatrist friend had stopped responding with grunts. At that point, he was still sitting upright in the chair. Brandt had removed his glasses and carefully lowered his upper torso onto the desk, using an arm as a pillow. He felt so tired himself, the temptation to join Noah in an impromptu siesta, or even better, use the comfortable couch in their boss’ office, had almost become overwhelming.
Then his eye caught the letters and numbers on the wall. The challenge kicked his adrenaline into gear. The moment was over.
He might have dozed for a minute.
There was a noise. A muted thudding. A stifled squeal.
His phone.
His eyes blinking away redness, and black dots scurrying everywhere, he reached for the device, his fingers closing on empty desk space. He brought his ears to bear. The noise continued from beneath a couple of the yellow legal pads he and Noah had been using to summarize what they knew, wh
at they suspected yet had no evidence for, and what was pure, unadulterated fantasy. He brushed them aside, picked up the phone in haste and blurted out his name, all without looking at the caller’s identification.
“Brandt!”
“Good Morning, Special Agent Brandt. Noah Adams asked me to call you if there were any developments. This is Special Agent Rico from the Oakland FBI Field Office. We’re on Webster Street. Less than one hundred meters from our offices, on 22nd Street, there’s a multistory parking garage. Ten minutes ago, someone returning to pick up their car after working late, someone from our office, found a body bag. Inside, a female corpse, with a zip tie pulled tight round her neck. Body is cold, so she’s been dead for a few hours. I have an ID too: Missy Irwin. It’s an ID from the DOJ offices in Sacramento. Jeez, this is brazen, Brandt. Someone from your building killed and dumped almost in ours...” The voice fade away.
Jim Brandt felt a tightness in his chest. Sweat was pouring down his forehead. He couldn’t speak. Wildly he threw out an arm and hit the sleeping form of Noah Adams hard. The latter woke with a loud grunt. Brandt thrust the phone at him.
“Wha? Who? Who’s calling? This is Noah Adams. Can you hold on for a minute…?”
He dropped the phone on the desk, and knelt by the stricken figure of his friend. Brandt was pallid, slumped against the wall he had been staring at all night. He was having trouble breathing. Noah took his pulse, checked his pupils. Possible panic attack was his diagnosis. The stress of the day, the rushing over to Carter’s apartment, too much coffee, no rest.
He eased his friend to the floor.
“Listen to me, Jim. You’re okay. It’s a panic attack. You won’t die from this. Now do exactly as I say. Breathe slowly and deeply through your nose. Let the air out through your mouth, again as slow as possible. I want you to picture in your mind that fishing trip we’ve been talking about for ages. Imagine we are at the lake, in a rock-steady boat, our lines in the water, wrapped up in warm clothes, drinking cold beers as we watch the daylight slowly ebb away behind the distant mountains. The fish are biting, and we are happy, content, sharing tales and anecdotes. Keep your mind on that moment on the lake and on breathing the crystalline air. You should close your eyes now and see the lake, smell the water, the pine trees on the shoreline, taste the ice-cold brews. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. You’ll be okay in a few minutes. Hear me?”
“They’re spruce trees, dammit,” grunted Brandt, as he closed his eyes and started to deep breath.
Adams smiled. He scooped up the phone and spoke with the Oakland FBI Special Agent. Once he had the details of the gruesome find, he asked the agent to check for something and call him back immediately on Brandt’s number.
Eight minutes went by before the cell phone chirped again.
Adams listened to the answer his ex-colleague supplied, thanked the man, and hung up.
He turned to Brandt. Color had returned to his features, his breathing was more natural now. He had opened his eyes when the phone had rung, though he was still lying on the floor.
“Feeling better, Jim?”
“Jeez, that was scary!”
“First time?”
“I thought I was having a heart attack.”
“Yeah, the symptoms can be very similar. You are going to get a full checkup, though, but I think you just had a major panic attack, triggered by this crapulous lifestyle you insist on following.”
“It was the victim’s name, Noah. I know her. Had lunch with her last week.”
“They found the number, too. It’s three.”
“And Carter?”
“Nothing. No sign of her or the panel truck. The parking garage doesn’t have security cameras or a tollbooth to enter. No record of who goes in or out. A good spot to dump a body and then just drive away. Middle of the night, not many people about.”
“Have them check she didn’t abandon the van there; took some other car.”
“Rico said they were already checking. No van, so looks like she drove back in it.”
“No, Noah. She’s driving back as we speak. If we move now, we can get ahead of her!”
29
It was a hard choice. On the one hand, they knew she would be heading back to her apartment, so waiting there was the easy option. On the other, there was no way she was going to drive that white panel truck to her place, and they were convinced there was evidence inside; solid, unbreakable trace evidence that could not be denied in court and which would back up their somewhat shaky suppositions.
The problem with option one was their accusations could easily be refuted by Carter. She knew just how much real evidence they had. She was controlling the game. The likelihood of this approach backfiring on them was high. The issue with option two was simple. They did not expect her to follow the same route back to Sacramento, and locating that panel van was the priority here. Find her, follow discreetly, wait for her to hide the van and leave, officially impound the vehicle and order a thorough forensic trace examination, then arrest Carter. Case closed.
Except, plans never work out exactly as you intend. Finding the truck Carter was driving; easy when you’re a cop. Put out a BOLO and wait for the results. However, the BOLO would be transmitted over the police radio channels, and who’s to say Carter was not listening to them in the truck. Tip off and game over. Thus, it was down to Jim Brandt and Noah Adams to locate the white van.
They took Adams’ car, a new stone-grey Ford F150 pickup truck, one that Carter had not seen. Adams had parked it in the lot next to the Bureau’s building, but had found an empty slot at the back. There was no possibility Carter could associate the pickup with the psychiatrist. Good for strategic following, once they had located the panel truck. It was a good disguise too. The Bureau did not use them, and outside of Texas, thanks to the large agricultural industry, California was the state where more of the big Fords could be found. Adams had bought this one, so he explained as they pulled out of the parking lot and headed south, because he intended to build a fishing cabin on the lake, somewhere to escape to at the weekends. The large tray on the pickup was ideal for hauling wood and other supplies to the ground he owned. The Ford was very well equipped; yet, there was one detail Brandt found amusing. There was a lockable compartment under the rear bench seat, which revealed, in Adams’ case, a small gun safe and a bulletproof vest with the letters FBI emblazoned in yellow. A souvenir, explained Adams, as he put it on. He then opened the gun safe and removed a Sig Sauer P320. Not the standard FBI Glock sidearm but an extremely good weapon nevertheless.
“I thought you were a psychiatrist,” quipped Brandt.
“I practice a particularly aggressive approach,” responded Adams with a grin.
Ruling out using Interstate 80 as Carter’s return route was a risk. Just as, audaciously, the seventh victim had been dumped close to the FBI’s Oakland office, it was clear to them she had the stones to drive back to Sacramento employing exactly the same route she had used to reach Oakland. It was the most efficient and quickest way to cover the distance by road. However, Brandt argued that she had no control over when the body bag would be discovered, or if someone had seen her drive away from the carpark. In his estimation, Carter would be taking an unnecessary risk by doing this whilst she was driving the panel truck. A quick glance at the map on the big screen in the Ford, showed both men alternate routes, initially starting on the Interstate, to put as much distance as quickly as she could between her and Oakland, then cutting inland, heading either through Fairfield or Antioch, toward the general area of Rio Vista. These would give her access to four different ways back into Sacramento using less obvious roads.
They recognized they could not cover all the routes, even had they taken both their vehicles, so they barreled down the I-5 West Side Freeway, through Elk Grove and took the off ramp onto Hood Franklin Road where it crossed over the freeway. They pulled off the side of the road and backed the pickup a short distance down an embankment. From here, as the first li
ght of dawn crept over the horizon, they had a clear view of traffic on the I-5 heading to Sacramento, as well as Hood Franklin. Now it was a question of patience, something with which the two anglers were well acquainted.
Just over an hour later, Adams, using a set of powerful binoculars, picked out a white panel truck approaching from the south on the freeway. He and Brandt slipped from their seats and stood near the hood of the pickup. Adams passed over the binoculars. Brandt adjusted the focus and found the van.
“Headlights are dazzling me a little, but it looks like a male driver. Dark hair, longish. Baseball cap. Shades. Yet if I ignore all that, it could be her. Slim build. Mouth and chin do look the same. The truck is missing the front license plate too.”
“Fifty percent sure?” asked Adams.
“Hard one to call, but my gut says it’s her.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
They boarded the pickup, and Adams gunned the big engine over the embankment, crossing Hood Franklin, and taking the on ramp down to join the freeway. Traffic was abundant, so they stayed a couple of hundred meters back. The elevated view from the Ford allowed them to see the panel truck ahead without becoming too conspicuous. Adams drove, while Brandt used the binoculars.
“We’ll need to close the gap soon. There are too many turn offs she could take.”
The panel truck eventually took the Sutterville Road off ramp, turning right at the top, passing the zoo, then turning right into the parking lot for the Sutterville Shopping Center. The white van drove straight through and out left onto South Land Park Drive, only to turn right almost immediately in to the large parking lot in front of the Farmer’s Market. There the panel truck parked in a disabled spot. They hung back near the exit to the Shopping Center parking lot, watching through the binoculars. A couple of minutes passed, and the driver’s door opened. Carter, minus disguise, stepped out, then closed and locked the door.
