by James Swain
“How many victims are there?” he asked.
“Fifteen so far. The photos show up like clockwork every six months. They rotate between Houston, Atlanta, and Fort Lauderdale. The killers have a unique calling card. In the before photo, the victim is wearing a gold Saint Jude medal, in the after photo, she’s not. Just when I get ready to shut the investigation down, I have to start it back up.”
“Why would you shut it down?”
“Bureau rules. If there’s no movement in six months, the case is put on the back burner, and the agent handling the case is given a new assignment.”
“Are you telling me that you’ve been working this case continuously since 2012?”
“Afraid so.”
“That’s seven years working one case. You must be frustrated as hell.”
“I am. But I can’t stop. I look at the photographs of these dead girls, and it rips me apart.” She turned her head and stared through the windshield. “I can’t remember the last time I had a decent night’s sleep.”
She fell silent. The pastry was a memory, so he got out of the car and went into the Starbucks and purchased an apple fritter the size of a softball. He brought it to her, and she immediately started picking at it. Sweets were definitely her weakness.
“We caught a break two years ago,” she said. “The photographs were dropped off at a Walgreens pharmacy in Plantation in South Broward. I flew down and interviewed the photo processor who’d been on duty that day. His last name was Daniels, so of course we hit it off. Daniels remembered the guy who’d dropped the film off, and told me that he’d seen the guy at a Fourth of July fireworks celebration on the beach.”
“So our killers live in Fort Lauderdale,” he said.
“At least part of the time. They may also have residences in Houston and Atlanta as well. You want some of this fritter? It’s really tasty.”
He tore off a small piece to be sociable. “Where are we in the rotation?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said that every six months there’s another victim. Are we due for another killing? If the way you ransacked my condo is an indication, I’m guessing we are.”
“Yes, we’re due. The last victim was killed five months and three weeks ago. I should be getting another packet on my desk any day now.”
“From Fort Lauderdale?”
“Correct. It’s next in line. We think the killers kidnap a girl and keep her doped up for a few days. They feed her a last meal, and then it’s lights out.”
“What’s the significance of the last meal?”
“We don’t know. Maybe it’s a way to calm her down.”
He chewed on the fritter and washed it down with his coffee. “If your math is right, these guys are going to kill another girl very soon. Do you have any other leads?”
“No. I’m running blind.” She gave him a weary look. “Can you help me save her?”
The question caught him off guard. Saving people had been his specialty as a SEAL. His pot belly and small stature had made it easy for him to blend in just about anywhere in the world. That had come in handy during hostage rescues.
“I’m happy to try. You want to take a break first? Go for a walk?”
“I’m okay, but thanks for offering,” she said.
“I have a theory about your killers,” he said. “Before I share it with you, I need to ask you a question. How many of the victims worked at malls or in retail centers?”
“All of them.”
“So the victims were around groups of people when they were abducted.”
“Yes. Except for me. I was walking home from a class.”
“You were different.”
“How so?”
“Our killers saw you walking by yourself and decided to be opportunistic and grab you. They put ski masks on, jumped out of their car, and abducted you. It was a rushed job, and they botched it. That’s why you managed to escape.”
“That makes sense. What’s your theory?”
He thought back to the elderly man in the tracksuit pushing the dying woman in the wheelchair, and how every person they’d encountered had avoided them. “Our killers have come up with a unique way to abduct their victims from public places,” he said. “They use a wheelchair. I first thought the wheelchair was for distraction, but there’s another reason. Let me show you how it works.”
He took out his cell phone and pulled up the surveillance video of Nicki’s near abduction at the Galleria mall. Daniels held the phone up to her face and stared at the screen. Her mouth grew taut with rage.
“My brother-in-law saved the day,” she said.
“Yes, he did,” he said. “Nicki was the killers’ next victim. They connected her to the Cassandra videos and decided to abduct her, knowing it would destroy you when the photos of her landed on your desk.”
“How can you know that for certain?”
“I know because of how hard they tried. The abduction at the Galleria mall failed, so they tried to grab her from home and escape in a boat. When that failed, they parked a van across the street and started watching the house. They were on a mission.”
“You may be right. So what’s your theory?”
“I’ll show you. Watch the video again. This time, focus on the people in the mall.”
Daniels watched the surveillance video a second time.
“None of them are paying attention,” she said. “Why do you think that is?”
“It’s the presence of the wheelchair,” he said. “From the time we’re little kids, our parents train us not to stare at people being pushed in wheelchairs, who are either handicapped or sick. It’s considered bad manners, so we avoid making eye contact when we see a person in a wheelchair. That’s our killers’ trick. They approach their victim from behind. One pushes a wheelchair, while the other holds a bottle of chloroform and a rag. They knock their victim out and strap her into the wheelchair, which they push through the crowd while people deliberately avoid looking at them. Outside in the parking lot, they put the victim in their vehicle, and load the wheelchair in the trunk.”
“You’re saying that there are witnesses, but they’re not paying attention.”
“Correct. There were plenty of people present when Nicki was nearly abducted at the Galleria mall, yet none of them helped your brother-in-law. That’s because they were looking the other way. Which leads me to my next theory.”
“Which is what?”
“You’ve been looking for a pair of cops. That makes sense, since the police from the nearby towns didn’t submit to DNA testing during the investigation of the Hanover killers. But what if this wasn’t a pair of cops? What if it was a pair of nurses or paramedics? They would have experience handling a wheelchair and also access to chloroform at the hospital where they worked.”
“Jesus. I never considered that,” Daniels said.
She fell silent. Her fist punched the dashboard.
“Don’t be hard on yourself,” he said. “People in the medical profession rarely commit crimes and hardly come up on law enforcement’s radar. But there are always exceptions. Did the employees at the hospitals in Hanover submit to DNA testing during the investigation?”
“I don’t know. There’s only one hospital near Hanover, and that’s the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center in Lebanon, which is three miles from the college.”
“How hard would it be to find out?”
“Not hard at all. I stay in contact with the FBI agent that handled that case. He’s retired now and lives in a community in central Florida called The Villages. Every time I get new information, I share it with him, hoping it might spark a memory.”
“You should call him. I’m willing to bet that the employees at Dartmouth-Hitchcock didn’t submit to DNA testing either.”
“You think our killers are male nurses,” she said.
“Yes, I do,” he said.
CHAPTER 34
KEEP MOVING FORWARD
Daniels placed a call to the r
etired FBI agent who’d handled the Hanover killers case. His name was Mark Eberbach, and he confirmed to her that the male employees at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center had not submitted to DNA testing during the investigation. Daniels thanked Eberbach for his time and promised to stay in touch.
“I need to go to the FBI’s office in North Miami Beach and get on a computer and do some digging,” Daniels said. “Want to tag along?”
He’d finally gained her trust. He nodded, and she pulled out of the Starbucks parking lot and drove west toward I-95. The FBI had three facilities in South Florida: one in Miami, a newly opened office in Miramar, and an office in North Miami Beach. The NMB office was the closest, but that was a relative term when driving in South Florida, where a ten-mile journey could take between ten minutes and an hour.
Traffic was at a standstill a mile from the entrance ramp to I-95. He opened the traffic app on his phone and saw that I-95 was a parking lot. Daniels punched the wheel in frustration. Every wasted minute might lead to another young woman being lost.
“Why don’t you work out of my place,” he suggested. “I do consulting work with Team Adam, and have access to all the major databases on my computer.”
Daniels answered him by doing a U-turn and heading back to the beach. He gave her instructions as she drove. Daniels had a wire in the blood and was seeing things in a new light. It was how many investigations went. Months or years of tedious searching were rewarded by a sudden revelation that propelled the case forward.
“How long have you consulted for Team Adam?” she asked.
“Two years,” he said.
“What do you think of them?”
“They have a ninety-two percent success rate.”
“Wow. How does that work?”
“I asked myself the same question when I started with them. Why is Team Adam more effective at solving difficult cases than other law enforcement agencies? After working a few cases, I saw what it was. They never stop moving forward. If a team working an investigation hits a wall, a fresh pair of eyes is brought in to review the evidence and offer a different perspective.”
“Keep moving forward,” she said. “I’ll have to remember that.”
Three blocks from his condo, they hit another deterrent. The King Tides were unpredictable and often flooded roads without warning. A pair of metal detour signs had been placed in the middle of the road, forcing drivers to seek alternative routes.
“What’s with all the water? Have you had a lot of rain recently?” she asked.
“It hasn’t rained in weeks,” he said. “The flooding is a strange phenomenon called the King Tides. No one really knows what causes it.”
“I’m assuming there’s an alternative route,” she said.
“Of course. Back up, and I’ll get you there.”
She threw the rental into reverse. Turning in her seat, she looked over her shoulder, hit the gas, and expertly drove backward down the block until she reached the intersection, where she made a sharp turn, then hit the brakes, threw the rental into drive, and headed off in the direction that his finger was pointing. He’d been trained in defensive driving while in the SEALs, but this was a cut above.
“Where did you learn to drive like that?” he asked.
“Impressed?” she asked.
“You’re way good. I’m very impressed.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, coming from a former SEAL.”
“I trained in Southern California. We didn’t spend a lot of time learning to drive in reverse. Most of our missions were conducted on foot or using small boats. No cars.”
“I learned on a course at TEVOC at Quantico. That’s short for Tactical and Emergency Vehicle Operations Center. The FBI teaches its agents how to drive every vehicle you can imagine in an emergency situation. We’re required to go back every six months for a refresher.”
“Do they take outsiders?”
“Help me solve this, and I’ll put in a word for you.”
Soon they were at his condo. He brewed a fresh pot of coffee while Daniels sat at the desk in his study and spoke with the head of human resources at Dartmouth-Hitchcock, with whom she was on a first-name basis. The head of HR agreed to email Daniels the names of all male employees at the hospital during the time of the Hanover killings, and the call ended. He placed a steaming mug in front of her.
“Sounds like you’re making progress,” he said.
“One step at a time,” she said. “Dartmouth-Hitchcock is an academic facility and has several thousand employees. There are a lot of male nurses working there. I’ll need to run background checks on each one to see if they have criminal records. We could be here for a while.”
Running criminal background checks was problematic since there was no single database that contained every criminal record.
“I think there might be a simpler way to track down our killers,” he said.
Her eyebrows lifted. “I’m listening.”
“We know these guys have a residence in Fort Lauderdale and live here part of the year,” he said. “I’d suggest that you run the names of the male nurses the hospital sends you against the Department of Motor Vehicles database to see what pops up. The DMV database includes address changes and name changes and is always current.”
“That’s an interesting angle,” she said. “What if our killers are still using their out-of-state driver’s licenses? Your idea wouldn’t work then.”
“That’s unlikely. If our killers have a residence here, they’ve probably applied for a homestead exemption, which saves them a bundle on property taxes. They’d also want to establish residency so as to not pay state income tax.”
“There’s no state income tax in Florida?”
“Nope. It’s why so many people retire here. Once a person establishes residency, they have thirty days to get a new driver’s license. If they don’t, and get pulled over by a cop for speeding, they’ll get arrested.”
“Good thinking. Do you have access to the DMV database?”
“I sure do. And I have a Team Adam password.”
“I’m willing to give it a try.”
They drank more coffee waiting for the head of HR’s email. Daniels got up from the desk and moved around the study, admiring the collection of art hanging on the walls. There were paintings, glass work, ceramics, and a black-and-white photograph of the Everglades at sunrise taken by the state’s answer to Ansel Adams, Clyde Butcher.
“You have good taste,” she said. “There was an exhibition of Clyde Butcher’s work at a gallery in Georgetown, where I live. The prices were through the roof.”
“I actually have lousy taste,” he said. “Just about everything in my place was given to me by one of my clients. It’s how I do business. I don’t take cash.”
She sat on the edge of the desk and looked him in the eye. “Is that the deal that you have with my sister and her husband?”
“Yes. Your brother-in-law agreed to buy me a new refrigerator. I’m got my eye on a make by Bosch with all the trimmings.”
“So no cash. Are you hiding it from the government and not paying taxes?”
“No. I declare everything and pay taxes on it.”
“Okay, I’m hooked. What’s the story here?”
“I need the memories.”
Daniels shook her head, not understanding.
“While I was a SEAL, I performed a hundred and fifty missions in all parts of the world. Most were rescues and were done in secret. They weren’t written down, and our government will disavow that they ever happened. The people I rescued were kidnap victims that worked in our embassies or undercover CIA agents whose cover got blown. Except for my first mission, where we were given bad information, I got every single one out alive.”
“That’s some record. Good for you, Jon.”
“Thanks. There was only one problem. I wanted to know what happened to the people I rescued later on. Did their lives go back to normal? Did everything work out okay? Because the miss
ion was never officially acknowledged by the government, I couldn’t contact them and find out. It bugged the hell out of me.”
“You got attached to the people you rescued.”
“In a way, yes. I wanted to know if they were okay. That way, I could move on and stop worrying about them.”
“You wanted closure,” she said.
“Yes, closure. Over time, the missions faded from memory, which bothered me even more. I had nothing to remember these people by. Not even a selfie.”
Daniels was a quick study and nodded understanding. “You make your clients pay you in material objects so you have something to remember them by. Does it work?”
“Yes, it does. It all started with Jimmy Buffett.”
“The singer? What’s your connection?”
“I saved his life once.”
“Is that how you got the autographed guitar hanging in your living room?”
“Yes. I was a cop and assigned to protect him while he was giving a concert. When the show was over, we drove back to his hotel in a limo. As we pulled up, I got out first. There was a guy inside the lobby who struck me as suspicious.”
“What caught your eye?”
“It was summer, and he was wearing a long-sleeve Nike athletic shirt and jeans. Nobody wears long-sleeve shirts in the summer unless they’re hiding something.”
“Was he?”
“A knife, two guns, and a stun grenade. He was planning to ambush us and take Buffett out. He’d been stalking him for a while and wanted to kill him.”
“Jon to the rescue.”
He smiled at the memory. “It was one of my better moments. I took the crazy bastard down and the other cops on the detail whisked Buffett into an elevator and took him upstairs. Nobody got hurt. We arrested the perp and took him down to the station to book him. A couple of hours later I got a phone call from Buffett’s manager asking me to come back to the hotel. I went, and Buffett was in his suite waiting for me with the autographed guitar. He shook my hand so hard I thought he was going to break my fingers. Every time I look at the guitar, I’m reminded of that night.”
“Do you like Buffett’s music? I saw that you had a lot of his CDs.”
