Spin (Captain Chase)

by Patricia Cornwell

  “You might be surprised what I understand,” I reply, brushing snow off the top of the supercan.

  I open it and get a snootful of a putrid stench before my light finds the cause of it.

  “Shhhhh . . . !” I slam down the lid, about to gag, and I don’t like snakes any better than Fran does. “You don’t want to look.”

  “Oh God! What now?” startled, she almost falls on her butt, which wouldn’t be a good thing to do while holding a machine gun.

  “I know how you are around dead stuff,” I explain, and she doesn’t need to experience the rotting headless python that’s at least as long as I’m tall. “I guess we know what happened to Birdman’s pet snake.”

  “God no! Crap! What if there are more of them inside? Who the hell is Birdman?”

  “Well if there are reptiles of any description inside, they’re not moving around much as cold as it’s going to be,” I reply. “Because no power, and the heat’s not on. Anything cold blooded would be pretty lethargic.”

  “Gross! You’re not making me feel any better!”

  “The man who used to live here, a.k.a. Birdman, had a python,” I explain, as Fran and I make our way to the front porch. “And let’s just say it appears to have been euthanized rather inhumanely possibly weeks or months ago. There’s nothing else in the garbage can, and that’s significant,” I add as we carefully climb up snowy steps to the front door.

  “Meaning the guy in the Denali moved in last August, and since then has been disposing of his trash himself, hauling it somewhere,” Fran decides. “Which is what you do if you want to make sure nobody goes through it.”

  I shine my light on the front door with its dead bolt lock, then up at the wireless white metal camera, probably the only thing on the property that’s powered and running. I’ve counted 6 so far, all of them tracking us, their LEDs lighting up when our motion is detected.

  00:00:00:00:0

  THE HITMAN isn’t monitoring what we’re doing but that doesn’t mean someone else isn’t.

  “We’re being filmed for sure,” I tell Fran. “But the question is whether anybody’s watching,” and as I say it, I’m hoping ART has the information I want.

  But nothing appears in my SPIES that tells me much. The trailer’s wireless network is locked as I’d expect. It’s called KMA, which could be the dead assassin’s initials. Or maybe it’s an acronym for Kiss My Ass, and that would fit with what I think of the man who tried to kill me.

  He must have a mobile router somewhere that runs on batteries the same as the outdoor cameras, and at the moment the only devices connected to his network would appear to be those. That would suggest he doesn’t have additional cameras inside the house or I’d pick up the electronic signal, I explain as ART does what he’s so good at and hacks.

  Suddenly I’m watching Fran and me in my SPIES, our faces looming large as we stare up at the camera over the front porch. He’s letting me see what someone else could. But if we’re being surveilled remotely, then he should be able to detect that another device is logged into the cameras.

  If he does, then he’s not telling me, and I can’t outright ask without Fran wondering who the hell-o I’m talking to. Rapping the door with my gloved knuckles, I’m disappointed to discover that it’s solid wood, the brass lock shiny like new.

  “Police!” I yell. “Anybody in there?” I bang harder.

  Silence.

  “It’s pretty obvious nobody’s here,” Fran says, and she’d prefer not to be either. “I think we should call Hampton PD . . .”

  “Nope,” and I decide to go after the hinges first.

  Working on them with the screwdriver, I remove them in short order. Taking the pry bar from Fran, I splinter the door out of its frame, hoping like crazy we don’t set off anything. Gas masks on, face shields down, helmet chin straps fastened, and it’s time to remount our flashlights on the rails of the submachine guns.

  Covered from head to toe in black, only our eyes showing, we’re armed to the teeth, ready for a raid or a riot, and I go first. Stepping through the opening, the ruined door overboard in the snow, I point my lighted weapon wherever I turn, clearing the landfill of the trailer from one end to the other. Searching for anything living or dead, I make quick checks of every nook and cranny without stopping to examine and explore.

  “All clear,” I shout, pointing the barrel down, returning to the living room where Fran is cussing up a storm.

  “Dammit! Oh crap,” she complains through the voicemitter covering her foul mouth like a hockey puck. “It’s as dark as a freakin’ cave in here,” as we shine our lights around the den of a monster.

  Folding tables are arranged with tools including the same macabre ones I discovered inside the Denali. Also, there are the makings for cement-boot anchors, and all the right stuff for reloading your own organ-shearing, armor-piercing ammo. The hitman’s assortment of pistols, carbines, machine guns and other deadly weapons brings to mind what he intended to shoot me with.

  And I wonder what became of the full-auto assault rifle equipped with a grenade launcher. Who has it now? Carme or Dick? And has anything been learned from it? Why does nobody fill me in on anything I really need to know? I’d never heard of a Chinese QBZ-95 before Carme told me what I was holding, and it doesn’t make me happy that my DNA’s all over it.

  How did something like that end up in the United States? It wouldn’t be simple to sneak it across the border. Probably the best way was the good old-fashioned postal service, I suppose. The hitman must have places he was using for his mail drops and packages. I doubt he frequents gun stores or shows, any place where he might become familiar.

  As I’m thinking all this, Fran shines her light on something big and boxy covered by a braided rug. I make my way over to her in a hurry, shouting not to disturb anything because I don’t need her going into a full-blown panic attack.

  “I have a feeling I know what this is,” I unpleasantly recall what was inside the supercan. “I doubt there’s anything in it to worry about but . . .”

  “Oh crap!” as it dawns on her. “It’s not some kind of snake tank, is it?” she backs off as fast as she can while I remove the rug.

  The python’s former home has been converted into storage space, and there’s no sign of the erstwhile exotic pet, not so much as a trace of mulch. The big glass aquarium is crowded with primers, bottles of smokeless gunpowder and metal cans of military-grade solvents, degreasers, lubricants, acetones.

  Everything is tightly sealed, nothing off-gassing abnormally, and the air is safe enough to breathe, my sensors are telling me. We’re not about to be poisoned or blown up it seems, and boy howdy it would make me happy to take off some of this gear. I have a hotspot on the top of my head, and my face shield keeps fogging up. It takes way too much effort to talk, the sound of my own breathing distracting and loud.

  “Are you sure it’s too cold for snakes?” Fran’s muffled voice, the intense beam of her light probing wherever her weapon points. “What about rats?”

  “Rats and mice are a possibility if they can burrow into something,” I reply. “Especially if it was warmer in the recent past.”

  I shine my light on an indoor propane heater near a makeshift workbench scattered with tools, alligator clips, sections of PVC pipe, batteries, rolls of electrical wire, buckets of nails and ball bearings.

  “Why couldn’t a freakin’ snake do the same thing as a freakin’ mouse? And do it even better since it’s not freakin’ warm blooded!” Fran is swearing like a sailor. “So, what you’re saying is there could be snakes in the furniture. In anything, let’s be honest!”

  “I seriously doubt it. But you know what they say, expect the unexpected. We’re okay to take these off. And how about disconnecting your light from your rifle before you shoot something y
ou don’t mean to. Like me,” I remove my gas mask, my helmet, clipping them to D rings on my gun belt, and what a relief.

  Fran does likewise, far more worried about reptiles and rodents than any bomb, gun, chemical or physical discomfort. She detaches the flashlight from her MP5, the high-intensity beam stabbing and slashing everywhere, especially down low, and under and between things. And in cramped cozy places.

  Awkward in all her gear, she picks her way to the couch that’s been shoved up against a wall. She’s careful approaching cushions and hidden places where danger might coil, poking and prodding grocery bags of food and other provisions that I suspect came from a food pantry, perhaps the one at the Baptist church that Lex mentioned.

  Using her gun barrel, Fran flicks filthy towels off the nearby reclining chair, and uncovers a pile of mail she starts going through. We may know who Birdman is, she declares.

  “Does the name Pebo Sweeny ring a bell?” she asks.

  “I don’t know him,” and for the most part that’s true.

  “Well, I’ve never heard of him,” Fran replies. “Not that I would necessarily. At least we know who used to live here. That’s a start.”

  She digs out more envelopes, different sizes, some with cellophane windows, a lot of what she sifts through junk mail and circulars. Some of it has been opened, most of it not.

  “Apparently, he worked at the Air Force base, must be older because he’s retired based on what I’m seeing,” Fran informs me.

  His date of birth indicates he’s almost 80, and she’s finding a lot of the mail relates to his benefits.

  “Medicare, notices about missed appointments,” she says. “The dentist. A proctologist. Plus, notifications about events coming up on the Air Force base that he might want to attend. The most recent postmark I’m finding so far is December 3rd, this past Tuesday,” she adds, and it fits with the timing.

  The hitman picked up the mail that day, probably doing it routinely so the PO box didn’t fill up, raising questions and drawing attention. Not long after that, he was dead inside his stolen silver Denali, out of gas and out of luck in a deserted parking lot.

  “So, Pebo Sweeny’s mail delivery wasn’t stopped, and was being picked up until just a few days ago,” Fran adds. “I’m betting that includes checks, and I’m not seeing any.”

  27

  WITHOUT POWER, the appliances inside the kitchen couldn’t be used unless the hitman cranked up the generator.

  But as much gas as it probably burns in an hour, I suspect he saved it for more important electronics such as the tablet I saw inside his truck. Or he’d wait until he wanted to watch TV, charge his burner phones, maybe turn on the electric heat for brief durations when the temperature dipped below freezing as it did earlier in the week.

  Nothing I’m seeing gives me the impression he cooked or did much in the way of preparing meals. My light paints over a countertop disgusting with stains and crumbs, a plastic double sink caked with dried detritus, dust bunnies and dead bugs on the faux bamboo flooring.

  In a corner is a pile of glass shelving from the powered-off refrigerator-freezer, and opening the doors, I discover cases of ammunition, range bags full of loaded magazines, another Mossberg 12-gauge pump-action shotgun like the one that was in the hitman’s truck. I try the handles of the faucet next. Nothing. Not even a drip.

  The water has been turned off. Or more likely, the pipes froze during the nor’easter because the heat wasn’t on, and Pebo Sweeny’s murderous squatter wasn’t around to do anything about it, thanks to Carme. Opening a door, I discover a broom, dustpan, a mop in a bucket, a vacuum cleaner, and three big black plastic trash bags that are full.

  Dragging them out, I slash them open with my tactical knife, kicking them over to see what’s inside. I shine my light over paperwork, receipts, all sorts of miscellany that I suspect came from Sweeny’s files or desk drawers. Commingled with this are dirty paper towels and plates, and a lot of cans and jars.

  I push around fast-food wrappers, containers, bags, and caffeine-infused energy drinks, Vienna sausages, tuna fish, sardines, beef jerky, SpaghettiOs and Chinese noodles. Most of what I’m looking at could have come from a charitable pantry and local drive-through restaurants.

  In fact, all but the fast food could be ordered over the internet, dropped off wherever the hitman decided, and no one was the wiser. It wasn’t necessary for him to visit many stores, and not the same ones frequently. Much of what he ate was either take-out food or it didn’t need to be cooked or even warmed.

  But there’s a two-burner propane stove top with a kettle on it, and teabags, packets of honey and instant soup. He had plastic spoons, big Styrofoam cups, and it may be that hot beverages were as much as he was going to bother fixing for himself. Had he cared, there’s cookware in cabinets and drawers, also dishes and silverware he wasn’t interested in, and a lot of spices he didn’t use.

  Under the sink are more cleaning supplies he didn’t touch, and based on what I’m seeing so far, the hitman didn’t stay here all the time. I seriously doubt he planned on hanging around indefinitely, was in this area temporarily because that’s what Neva wanted.

  There’s no question he would have monitored the trailer from a distance should anybody decide to show up uninvited. I suspect this was his temporary office and workshop where he dreamed up and fabricated his monstrous acts. I’m betting there’s some other place he’s been staying, and I mention this to Fran.

  “A place not too far away in case his cameras picked up something he didn’t like, and he wanted to get here in a hurry,” I add, returning to the living room where she’s taken off a glove, and is unlocking her phone. “And he might have a boat somewhere.”

  “It’s going to be hard to look if we don’t know what name he might have been using,” she scrolls through her contact list. “You finding anything that might tell us why he’d kill himself? And since when do serial killers and hitmen off themselves?”

  “I can’t imagine how many aliases someone like this might have,” I reply. “One thing’s for sure, he’s got a big enough arsenal to take out the entire neighborhood. Maybe more than that.”

  “God only knows what he planned to do next. Or what else might already be set in motion. Time to bring in the troops,” Fran has the number queued up on her cell phone.

  She hits send, and we listen to the ringing over speakerphone, waiting in our cumbersome gear, standing in the dark horror of the trailer’s living room. Cold air blows through the opening where the front door used to be, our flashlights and gun barrels pointed down so we don’t blind or shoot each other.

  “I know it’s Sunday night,” Fran says right off when a familiar male voice finally answers. “I’m sorry to bother you, Al,” and she’s talking to her counterpart at the Hampton Police Division, Major Alvin Pepper.

  “I’m actually in the office catching up on paperwork,” he sounds tired and harried. “That’s how I’m spending my Sunday night. What’s up?”

  “We’ve got a situation in the mobile home park near NASA . . .”

  As I leave the living room, I overhear Fran request the crime scene unit, the bomb squad, battery-powered auxiliary lights and possibly hazmat.

  “Maybe animal control too,” she says, “because there’s this huge mother of an owl loose that captured a drone . . .”

  She gives him the sound bites of what’s going on as I follow the hyphen of a hallway, checking out the only bathroom, and it’s beyond disgusting. The toilet is stained muddy brown, no water in it, the plastic sink scummy, the linoleum floor filthy. Rolls of toilet paper are in a plastic bucket, the trash overflowing, and I push back the shower curtain.

  It scrapes loudly along the rod, and not many bathtubs have butcher tools in them. A meat cleaver, a meat saw, a boning knife and the ty
pe of cut-resistant gloves that I’ve seen in the morgue, all of it is clean, the stainless steel blades spotted from their last rinsing. My light paints over heavy-duty trash bags, folded black plastic tarps, duct tape, a big sponge, a jug of an industrial cleaner and degreaser.

  It’s obvious what they’re for, and I feel an angry sadness settle over me as I turn my attention to the chipped Formica-topped vanity. Opening drawers, I illuminate personal belongings that shouldn’t be any of my business, hemorrhoid and anti-itch creams, stool softeners and laxatives, ankle and wrist braces, and all kinds of over-the-counter pain remedies.

  Prescription bottles in the cabinet over the sink include Sectral, Ativan, Celexa, all refilled not long before Pebo Sweeny disappeared. As I look at the labels with his name on them, I’m seeing data about the medications in my lenses. It would seem he had high blood pressure, problems sleeping, possibly anxiety and depression.

  At the end of the hallway I open a door, and he might have done his laundry not long before he vanished. Khaki pants, boxer shorts, and dark socks are still in the compact washer-dryer that can’t be run without electrical power. To the left is the bedroom, and the first place I check is the closet, my sensors detecting naphthalene before I get a whiff of mothballs as I open the door.

  00:00:00:00:0

  MY GLOVED FINGERS walk through old suits, shirts, ties, a winter coat hanging on a rod. Some of them have laundry labels sewn inside with Pebo Sweeny’s name on them, and I’m getting the impression he was small of stature and slender.

  I don’t see clothing or other personal effects that might tell me anything about the hitman, but there’s plenty of evidence to show what he was up to. The desk is cluttered with paper, a ruler, scissors, Magic Markers, and a stack of prepaid phone cards for his burners.