by Brian Ewing
“Toby emailed me a report a few hours ago, after calling to some of the coroners that did the autopsies on the victims.”
“And?”
“Toby knows the questions to ask. He knows our theory and looks at stuff from a forensic view. He asked things a regular agent or detective, myself included, may not have even asked. Apparently, both victims five and eleven had small burn marks, matching a particular model of a stun gun. Hard to find now. The brand was popular for a short time about twenty years ago.”
Sisto thought about that for a minute. “Only those two? Not the others?”
“The majority were suffocated or strangled in some way. Piece of shit likes to make it personal.”
“Jesus,” Sisto said. “Was that all you wanted to tell me?”
“No. I had submitted my report to Jenkins last night after our debrief and he notified the Mayor. Maitland isn’t comfortable with it just being you and Fitz out there alone. He is having a UC meet up separately to watch your back.”
A UC, or undercover operative, could be the safety net Sisto and Fitz needed or could be the thing that would expose them to no end.
“Who?” Sisto asked, mind running wildly.
“No idea. I hope to find out tonight, tomorrow morning earliest. You may be out of range by then but when you get set up in Mustain, I should have the info by your evening check-in.”
It was explained to Sisto and Fitz the night before, it would be mandatory to check in every six hours, to ensure neither they nor the mission was compromised.
“Fuck me,” Sisto said.
“From what Winter was able to pull up through the grapevine, the event will spend two nights in Mustain starting tomorrow. You got everything you need for your cover story?”
“Yes, I should be fine. Plus, anything that looks out of place, Fitz will call me out on and fix it before it becomes an issue. Any other surprises you want to get off your chest?”
Bell remained silent a few moments as Sisto could hear some papers shuffling around on the other end of the line.
“One last thing,” Bell lingered. “The feds have been keeping BOLOs for surrounding areas off the I-83 for brutal murders or missing persons. The group was in Findlay, Ohio, and were partying at a bar, Rucker’s, they always go to each year.”
“Okay?”
“Last night, a couple in Miriam, no more than twenty minutes away, a stockbroker and real estate agent, went missing. Normally, I would say it’s not connected, but Winter also mentioned a homeowner that leased his home through Airbnb recently called the authorities this afternoon about finding two bodies in his home, after a recent rental.”
“Our guy?”
“The rental was right behind Rucker’s. If we had more time, I would have told you to drive that way and check the home out, but let’s assume they are the same missing people.”
“That is only six days since the last known victim.” Sisto processed. “The unsub is devolving.”
“What?” Bell asked, more annoyed that Sisto tried to sound knowledgeable than anything.
Not only did Sisto learn to look in odd corners of crime scenes for blood droplets, courtesy of Dexter, or facial tells from Lie to Me, but one of the first pieces of research he did was binge the syndicated show, Criminal Minds. A common call-out was when a killer or person of interest had devolved.
“He is losing his cool, can’t control himself. He used to do two to three kills per year. He is already at three, that we know of, and the event is barely two-thirds done. The timeframe is closing too quickly. This guy is acting like it’s his final ride.”
Sisto could almost hear Bell shake his head at the comment, more so confused at how a man with only recent police training, primarily learning from police procedurals on the television, probably nailed it on the head.
“Be careful, Kid. I don’t like you, but I don’t like bad marks on my record either.”
“Your concern is heartwarming.”
“You are leaving at eight tomorrow and should be at Mustain around nine, right?”
“Yeah, sounds right.”
“Every six hours, Sisto. Check in at three.”
Bell ended the call.
Wallace showed up ten minutes later to pick up Sisto and chauffeur him to Flashy Jack’s. Sisto waited out in front of Corden Palisades, to avoid any interaction between himself and Super Dave. Looking at his phone, he realized if Wallace weren’t on time, it would be possible that he could run across Fitz, coming to meet up with Ama. The situation frustrated Sisto to no end. Fitz Ackerman was a nice enough guy and Ama deserved to be happy. Sisto realized his jealousy was just him being selfish but didn’t change the fact he wanted to have his cake and eat it too.
Ama was a beautiful, smart woman, that accepted Sisto for who he was and even liked his personality for the most part. The only thing holding him back was the fact he didn’t want to hurt her or make her feel like a replacement to Caden. Looking back, it had been months and Sisto could recall a few times he thought Ama initiated a move. Sisto had been too much of a wuss to pursue it and now he lost his opportunity as the hard-as-nails biker on his team that seems to have swooped in. His disappointment in himself subsided as he saw Wallace pull up in his personal vehicle, a five-year-old Toyota Tundra.
“Not used to seeing you in anything other than a squad car, Wallace.”
Wallace had been recruited by Bell and Caden regularly last year to pick up Sisto, on account, he doesn’t drive. Sisto rarely broke his own rule of driving, as he would never want to be responsible for an injury or death if a visit from The Reels ever caused a distraction while operating a vehicle. He used to take the bus frequently but after months of working for the SCPD as a consultant, had elevated his transport to police escorts.
“Yeah, it’s weird for me too. I am not used to being in plain clothes and still having to come to pick your ass up.”
“Whoa, language!” Sisto joked.
Jordan Wallace was a clean-cut, brick-wall built, twenty-something with nothing but honor and patriotism running through his blood. Sisto had never heard him be anything less than proper. Wallace was one of the few people while Sisto had been an occasional consultant for the police department, that treated him with respect. Sisto consistently praised Wallace during his conversations with the late Camille Caden. Sisto liked to think his kind words had something to do with her recommending him as part of the experimental task force.
Looking around the vehicle, it was spotless. Sisto had known Wallace had owned the vehicle quite a while, but it was routinely shampooed and vacuumed. It couldn’t have looked any nicer on the interior if Jordan Wallace had just driven off the lot from the car dealership.
“Wallace, how much time do you spend cleaning this thing?”
“What do you mean?”
“I could eat off the seat I am sitting on right now, it’s so clean.”
“My father always told me a clean car was a matter of respecting yourself.”
“I don’t get that saying,” Sisto said.
“Neither do I, but in my house, we did what we were told. I guess I got used to having a nice car and kept the tradition going.”
Sisto understood the young man’s thought process. Sisto, while heavily absent of parental eyes watching over him growing up, took some of his own father’s famous sayings into his daily life. Sam Sisto was a good man, distant in the nurturing field, but still meant the best for his kids. He told Sisto and his late brother, Eddie, two phrases repeatedly. First, you don’t do good things to get rewarded, you do them because they are the right thing to do. The second one, which had become one he left on the backburner over the years was, there may be tons more people qualified than you, but no one deserves anything more than you do. Sam Sisto was a blue-collared man that advised like a white-collared man. Sisto enjoyed having that memory of his dad.
Flashy Jack’s parking lot was heavily congested.
The penalty of coming out for drinks on a Saturday night, Sist
o told himself.
The two men walked inside to see a few familiar faces at the back table, near the shuffleboard game. Dakota Mitchell had her naturally curly hair pulled back into a half-ponytail. Her dark, flawless skin glowed under the fluorescent beer sign posted above the wall to her left. Across from her, was a mousy man with a pristine part combed to one side.
“Look what the cat drug in,” Mitchell smiled, raising her glass of beer.
Toby LeNard turned to greet Sisto and Wallace as the men sat down. Wallace didn’t ask which seat Sisto wanted, sitting next to Mitchell. It left Sisto to sit next to Toby, which was fine but made him wonder if there was any reason for the decision. Mitchell was older than Wallace, but both were attractive, fit people, that bled blue. Sisto decided to simmer on his guess they had a fling in the works and took one of the empty glasses off the table. He poured himself a glass of an amber-colored ale, then passed the pitcher to Wallace.
“Toby was just telling me what he found today while reaching out to the M.E.’s on some of the victim’s cases,” Mitchell said, nodding over to the shy lab nerd.
“Bell gave me a brief rundown. That’s some good work, Toby.”
“Thank you, Officer Sisto,” Toby politely accepted.
Mitchell and Wallace both snickered at the response, not because Toby talked like a high school English book had been shoved up his ass at a young age, but because they knew Sisto hated being addressed with a title.
“Toby, for the love of fuck. Please, just Sisto. Officer makes me feel like I have to go out in the intersection and start directing traffic.”
“So, did you tell him?” Mitchell nudged Wallace.
“Tell me what?”
“No, I didn’t want to spoil anything until we got here,” Wallace said.
“What the fuck are you two secret hand-shakers talking about?” Sisto asked.
Wallace looked at Mitchell, allowing the senior Detective to let Sisto into their secret society of giggling assholes.
“Bell had us reach out to all the local police that were involved in the kills that were on the list the feds gave the team.”
Sisto nodded, waiting for the punchline. Mitchell paused to take a sip of her beer and continued.
“Apparently, in Lincoln City, the responding officer said that the victim had been surrounded by footprints.”
“I assume they are unique or you two wouldn’t have dumb smiles on your faces?”
Mitchell and Wallace both laughed.
“For some reason, the footprints were logged as a part of forensics and on the LCPD report, including in the official report handed over to the FBI.”
“There was no mention of any footprint on the case notes we got,” Sisto stated.
“Exactly,” Wallace interjected. “The officer we spoke with there said he recognized the logo on the bottom of the print. It was a brand called XTRAGRUFF. It’s commonly used when ice fishing or hiking the snowy mountains. He only recognized the brand because it’s something his cousin and everyone in Alaska wears when he visited them last summer. The shoe company’s main headquarters is in Juneau.”
“So, our boy is an outdoorsman?”
“For a psychic, you really aren’t forward-thinking, are you?” Mitchell joked.
Forward-thinking enough to realize you two are wrestling in the sheets, Sisto responded internally.
“We called Juneau PD and surrounding cities, to see if there had been any similar kills.” Mitchell continued.
“There was a match,” Sisto said, a statement more than a question.
The two across from him nodded in unison.
“Well, kind of,” Wallace prefaced. “There had been a small-town South of Juneau called Hoskins, where a kid had been found downriver after a kegger in the woods. The kid had a huge indention in his skull and his body was beat to hell from the creekbed rocks. During the investigation, both sides of the river were searched and on the Northern side of Logan Woods, a size thirteen pair of XTRAGRUFF Alaskan boots, along with a second pair of footprints that matched the victim, were found. Same size and brand of print found in Lincoln City. Apparently, the bottom of the shoe has an ‘X’ on the mold of the print, pretty easy to spot.”
“Our guy started in Alaska before running down the I-83?” Sisto said, trying it on as a fact.
Mitchell and Wallace looked at each other again.
“What?” Sisto asked, annoyed at their little game.
Mitchell looked at Sisto with a huge grin, “The kill in Hoskins, presumably the first kill, was from 1995.”
Sisto was hesitant. The team had run on thinner leads, but he would need to get his hands on those case files in the hope The Reels could give Sisto the confirmation he desired.
“Were you able to get the case files sent to you?”
“They are sending through official channels. It will probably be forty-eight hours earliest before we get the files.” Wallace advised.
“Damn. So, keep an eye out for a biker wearing boots. Easy enough.” Sisto mocked.
“Can I get you another pitcher of beer?” A peppy voice called as it approached the table. The waitress that had first greeted Toby and Mitchell reappeared.
“Four shots of Jameson, and another pitcher, please,” Sisto answered for the group.
CHAPTER 18
Andrick woke up within his tent around six in the morning. His endorphins were working overtime and the kill upon kills was putting him in a euphoric state. He felt stronger, more focused, happier even if it were possible. Andrick remained in his sleeping bag a few minutes but had no groggy cloud lingering over him. Even drinking three beers the night before could not damper his high he got from the kill of that pest, Mole. He relished in his new acceptance of who he was becoming.
He felt like a snake, shedding his skin. No longer was Andrick bound by the formality of reservation or caution. He knew one day his time would come and he too would be swept away into the aftermath of what was beyond life. Something had changed after all the years since Logan Woods. He felt comfort in his choices. He felt he was finally able to be himself. No more masks, no more tiptoeing around. If he wanted to kill, he would kill. If he got caught, well, fuck it.
Andrick spent the next twenty minutes breaking down his tent and sleeping bag. The tightly secured bundle was next strapped onto the passenger seat that was never occupied on Andrick’s Dyna Super Glide Sport. He wanted to be ready to leave for his next stop, which was Mustain. The stop had been on the event trail the last few years and Andrick remembered it well. Three years back, Andrick went about forty miles North, further than his normal detour, to find a swinger couple that wanted to take him to their home and perform heinous sexual acts with him. He had left the impression with the couple in their late forties that he would enjoy sharing a bed with the two sinners.
The man, who owned a body chiseled from years of construction, along with his dainty trophy wife, came up to him. He hadn’t been at the bar nearly ten minutes before the poofy-haired woman with shimmering pink lip gloss and eye shadow from the set of a bad ’80s movie, had approached him. She struck up a conversation, rubbing his knee within a few minutes. It was a signal to the husband, Andrick later put together, to have him approach in an attempt to not scare him off. The husband, who must have been hiding by the restrooms appeared within moments of the woman stroking her acrylic nails over Andrick’s denim-covered knee.
Andrick immediately knew what was going on but allowed it to proceed. It saved him the time to groom someone into leaving with him. After a few beers and shots, which Andrick forcefully made himself throw up to avoid intoxication, the couple made their proposition. Andrick had done his best to balance the look of being flattered and surprised when in reality he was repulsed and agitated.
He hadn’t killed in almost a year before the beginning of that trip. He had gotten his first kill out of the way the second night on the event trail but restrained himself about two weeks until his tribe set roots in Mustain. He looked up the map an
d debated on whether to head slightly south to Saratoga City, or North, to Wadsworth. He chose North because from what he had read, it was a very preppy town and he thought he may find a rich housewife that was under the impression she needed a bad boy biker to take away the sting of a dull existence in suburbia.
He followed the couple, who he had remembered should not have been driving, less than ten minutes into a pleasantly quiet neighborhood. Andrick parked at the end of the street and walked up eight houses to confused looks on the couple’s faces. He explained his clutch started giving out and the engine started to putter. He had actually parked at the end of the street to avoid any neighbors associating the sound of a motorcycle with the eventual discovery of the couple’s bodies. The couple had offered to take him to a mechanic the next morning. They said it so nonchalantly as if it were completely normal to have a stranger’s cum all over their bed one moment, wake up the next morning to have a glass of orange juice in an attempt to wash out the taste of unfamiliar cock, then go on to be good Samaritans.
Andrick grabbed a hot cup of coffee from one of the dozen carafes that a few of the prospects were tasked with having ready each morning by six. He walked over to a secluded boulder and watched the beautiful sunrise, while surrounded by nature. He looked back and quickly let himself be whisked away to finish the memory that bombarded his mind that early morning. He took a sip of the hot brew and tried to reposition his erection as he started to remember how that couple’s story had ended. There was no orange juice to wash out the taste of foreign cock. There had only been despair and fear by the time Andrick Wesley was done visiting.
The woman trying to re-live her best Saved by the Bell moments growing up, handed Andrick a vodka tonic. She turned on the couple’s satellite radio and began to dance a silly attempt at a seductive invitation. The construction worker sat next to Andrick on the couch to join in on watching the show his wife was providing. Andrick felt the man try to rub his hand on Andrick’s thigh. At that moment, Andrick decided he would find a cleaver in the kitchen and remove that hand later in the evening. Andrick forced himself to smile at the man’s bisexual act and cheers him so if nothing else, it would remove his hand off Andrick’s leg for a moment.
