by James Swain
She nodded solemnly. “Correct. That’s not just my opinion. It’s also the bureau’s. Our profilers looked at the evidence and determined that’s their motivation.”
“I’m surprised they left you on the case.”
“In the beginning, I was too. But then I realized how much sense it made. If anyone was going to catch them, it was going to be me.”
The study was starting to feel claustrophobic. He rose and soon was standing with his stomach pressed to the balcony railing, breathing sweet salt air. She joined him holding two glasses of OJ and handed him one. She clinked her glass against his.
“What are we celebrating?” he asked.
“I’ve been chasing these fuckers for a long time, and now I’m going to take them down,” she said, unable to hide the satisfaction in her voice.
“How? You don’t have any evidence.”
“No, but I can still arrest them, and get a DNA swab, and make a match.”
“On what charges?”
“When Rhoden and Butler moved to Fort Lauderdale they didn’t register themselves as sexual predators. The Sex Offender Registration and Notification Act requires that all sexual predators register when they change addresses. They’re also required to make in-person appearances with local law enforcement to verify and update their information.
“They didn’t do that. The authorities in Atlanta should have checked up on them, since that was the last place where they lived, but it never happened.”
“They slipped through the cracks.”
“Uh-huh. I’m guessing they moved here and waited to see if the law would catch up with them. When it didn’t, they went on their killing spree.”
She had made the pieces of the puzzle fit. Rhoden and Butler had lived in Hanover during the first killings and also lived in the cities where the subsequent killings had taken place. And, they were sexual predators with criminal records. All the road signs pointed to them, which 99 percent of the time meant it was them. It was a solid piece of investigative work born out of years of frustration and failure. He hardly knew her, but that didn’t lessen how proud he felt for her. She had gone down the long road, and now the finish line was in sight.
“I have their current address,” she said. “Got it from DMV and reconfirmed it on the property appraiser’s website. They live in a house in Oakland Park they bought seven years ago. I’ve asked a team of agents from our North Miami office to help me bust them. I’d like you to join us. I think you deserve it.”
For a cop, there was no greater honor than to be asked to join a bust. Whatever lingering bad feelings he’d had for her evaporated, including her breaking his grandmother’s ladle.
“Count me in,” he said. “Would you like me to draw them out? It’s my specialty.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“Easy. I’ll pretend I work for Amazon.”
CHAPTER 36
KARMA
In Lancaster’s experience, there was no better way to get a suspect inside a dwelling to drop their guard than by posing as an Amazon delivery person. This was especially true in South Florida, where Amazon was the preferred online retailer for many residents.
Delivery people for Amazon did not wear uniforms but did their jobs in street clothes. The vehicles they drove were their own, and had no decals or roof signs. Best of all, they did not have assigned routes but constantly moved around. A customer might receive a package from an Indian gentleman wearing a turban one day, a fetching college coed with purple hair and a brass ring in her nose the next. Customers were accustomed to not seeing the same delivery person, and as a result, they did not become suspicious when a stranger showed up on their doorstep holding a clipboard and carrying a cardboard box with the iconic Amazon logo stamped on its sides.
There was another plus. Amazon delivered every day of the week, including Sundays, often at odd hours. No other delivery company did that.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Daniels asked.
They sat in Daniels’s rental a block from Rhoden and Butler’s residence in Oakland Park. The neighborhood was a testimonial to suburbia, with two cars parked in every driveway and landscaping so well maintained that it looked artificial. It was just past nine o’clock in the evening. It had taken two hours for Daniels’s team of local FBI agents to assemble. The backup unit consisted of five male agents ranging in age from early thirties to late forties. Apparently, Daniels liked them big, and the men looked like the offensive line of a college football team.
A few minutes earlier, Daniels had done a drive-by of Rhoden and Butler’s house. An older vehicle sat in the driveway, and the windows were lit up. Through a filmy curtain covering the front window, dancing images on a TV screen were visible.
“Of course I’m sure,” he replied. “Drawing suspects out is my specialty. When I was a SEAL, my unit commander always sent me in first. My appearance threw people off, and they’d let their guard down.”
“I still want you to wear a vest,” she insisted.
“Beneath my shirt? That won’t work.”
“You could get shot.”
“I’ve dealt with worse people than these two, and no one’s put a bullet in me so far,” he said reassuringly. “Stop worrying.”
“Don’t tell me not to worry,” she said.
The concern in her voice was not the professional kind. She cared about him. He had helped her find her adversaries, and now there was a bond between them. He reached across the front seat and gave her arm a squeeze.
“I’m also good on the draw,” he said.
“You’re carrying?” she asked.
He lifted the front of his shirt to reveal the Ruger tucked beneath his belt.
“When did you put that there?” she asked.
“When you weren’t looking,” he said.
“How good a shot are you?”
“I’ve won medals for my marksmanship, and I don’t miss at close range. If Rhoden or Butler get Western on me, I’ll take them both out of the picture.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that. Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.” He paused. “Now let’s get these monsters.”
They got out. He walked around to the driver’s side where she stood. She handed him the keys and crossed the road to where a pair of matching black sedans carrying the backup unit were parked. She gave him a parting nod before climbing into the lead sedan.
“Good luck,” her lips said.
He got into the rental and started the engine. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins, and his face was burning up. The world was filled with clever killers who mistakenly believed that they’d never be caught. This was not true. Karma had everyone’s address, and it was only a matter of time before a killer tripped up and was apprehended. He knew of no greater pleasure than of seeing the shock register across a suspect’s face when the cuffs got slapped on his wrists. He did a U-turn in the street, drove down the block to their suspects’ house, and made the front tire kiss the curb. Killing the engine, he found the button to pop the trunk and pressed it. Then he got out.
From the trunk he retrieved the brown cardboard Amazon delivery box that he’d gotten from his apartment, along with a clipboard. He was a Prime member and regularly got shipments sent to his condo. The Amazon box was the size of a hardcover book. He held the box in his left hand next to his body. He placed the clipboard on top of the box so it faced him. On the clipboard was a sheet of paper that contained blurred photographs of Rhoden and Butler, which he’d printed off their Facebook pages. Rhoden had a bald crown and a reddish discoloration on his neck that suggested he might suffer from eczema. Butler had a full head of hair and wore a pair of shades, which Lancaster guessed he wore when having his photograph taken to hide his discolored eye. Both men’s faces were soulless.
The backup sedans pulled in behind him and went silent. The front sedan flashed its brights, indicating they were ready to roll. He walked up the brick path to the f
ront stoop. There was a screen door, which he tested and found locked. He pressed the buzzer and waited. The front door swung in, and a man holding a metal cane stood before him. The man wore a bathrobe that hung off his body like a tent. Lancaster glanced at the driver’s license photos on the clipboard and determined it was Rhoden.
“Good evening,” he said. “I have an Amazon delivery that needs to be signed for.”
Rhoden’s eyes narrowed, inherently suspicious. “I didn’t order anything from Amazon. You have the wrong address.”
“This is the right address. I checked the mailbox.” He consulted his clipboard. “Does Jack Butler live here? The package is for him.”
“Jack didn’t order anything either.”
His eyes returned to the clipboard. “It’s a gift.”
“A gift? From who?”
“I have no idea, sir. Is Mr. Butler here? I need to give him his package, and have him sign for it. Or you can sign for it.”
“Who’s that?” came a man’s voice from within the house.
“Guy from Amazon has a package, says it’s a gift for you,” Rhoden called over his shoulder.
“That must be from my sister. Sign for it.”
“What would your sister be sending you?” Rhoden asked.
“My birthday present,” said the voice.
“Your birthday was last month.”
“She’s always late. Sign for it.”
Rhoden didn’t want to open the screen door. Intuition was the messenger of fear, and Rhoden’s instincts were telling him that something was wrong with this picture. Maybe it was the nervous sweat matting Lancaster’s brow that tipped Rhoden off. Or maybe it was something else. It didn’t really matter; Rhoden knew something wasn’t right.
Only the voice inside the house was insistent. Sign for it. Rhoden went against his better judgment and unlocked the screen door and pushed it open. Lancaster passed the box through the opening. As it touched Rhoden’s hand and he felt its weight, his eyes grew wide in surprise.
“Wait a minute. This box is empty,” Rhoden said.
Lancaster grabbed the screen door with his left hand and pulled it wide open. His right hand lifted the front of his shirt and drew the Ruger. He pointed it at Rhoden’s chest.
“Lift your arms into the air,” he said.
The empty box fell from Rhoden’s hand. He continued to lean on his cane, while his other hand remained in front of his chest. His big bathrobe was a problem. Just about anything could be hidden behind it.
“Do it,” Lancaster said.
Rhoden didn’t comply. He was plotting his last stand. The bad ones often did, preferring to die by cop than rot away in a prison cell.
“Last chance,” he said.
Behind him he heard pounding footsteps on the lawn. Rhoden shifted his gaze as the FBI agents closed in. Bad thoughts flashed through his eyes. Lancaster used his free hand to grab the lapels of Rhoden’s bathrobe and hold them closed. He didn’t want to discharge his weapon and have to deal with all the legal crap that would follow. If Rhoden needed to be shot, he preferred to let Daniels or one of the other agents do it.
The FBI agents took over. Rhoden was pulled from the house and put on the ground. Daniels handcuffed him behind his back before frisking him. He was clean.
“FBI. You’re under arrest,” she said.
“For what?” their suspect asked indignantly.
“Failing to register as a sexual predator. Get up.”
“I can’t. I was in a car accident. I can barely walk.”
“That’s nonsense. Get up.”
“I told you, I can’t.”
Daniels barked a command, and two of the agents pulled Rhoden to his feet.
“I’ve been looking a long time for you,” Daniels told him.
The other three agents had entered the house to arrest Butler. An agent named Moore appeared in the doorway with his sidearm held loosely at his side. It was a sign that Butler had been contained. The situation was under control, and Lancaster felt himself relax. He had expected Rhoden and Butler to put up more of a fight.
“Special Agent Daniels, you need to come inside and see this,” Moore said.
Rhoden noticeably stiffened and stared at Daniels. The two agents holding Rhoden’s arms sensed he was going to attack, and they tightened their grip. Daniels shot their suspect a contemptuous sneer before heading inside.
“Care to join me?” she said to Lancaster.
Daniels was savoring the moment and had a real spring to her step. Lancaster followed her into a foyer, which led to a low-ceilinged living room with a collection of matching chairs and a sofa that had grown old together. A porno movie played on the muted TV starring a barely legal Asian girl. On a TV dinner tray sat a laptop computer on which a second porno movie played, the girl clearly not legal. Moore and the other two agents who’d come into the house stood on the far side of the room in a circle. With them was a shriveled man in a wheelchair with a plaid blanket draped over his legs.
Daniels stopped so quickly that Lancaster nearly ran into her from behind.
“Where’s Butler?” she asked.
“You’re looking at him,” Moore said.
“This can’t be him. You searched the rest of the house?”
“Yes, and we didn’t find anyone else. This is Butler,” Moore said.
Daniels drew closer to the suspect, as did Lancaster. The man in the wheelchair resembled Butler but wasn’t a perfect match, his face a sickly yellow as if jaundiced. There was no life in his eyes, neither of which was discolored, and he did not acknowledge the FBI agents’ presence.
“Are you Jack Butler?” Daniels asked.
The man in the wheelchair gazed at the pornographic images on the TV and smiled. Daniels picked up the remote off a coffee table and killed the picture.
“Answer the question,” she said.
The man in the wheelchair wasn’t going to play ball, and Daniels angrily tossed the remote onto the coffee table. It slid off and went under the couch. A black Persian cat bolted out and made for the door. Daniels intercepted the animal and scooped it off the floor, holding it by the nape of the neck. The cat let out an ear-piercing yowl.
“You’re hurting her,” the man in the wheelchair protested.
“What’s her name?” Daniels asked.
“Her name is Samantha. Stop hurting her.”
“Does Samantha like to play in traffic? If you don’t start talking, I’m going to take her outside, and let her loose in the street.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Oh yes, I can. In fact, I can do any damn thing I please.”
“Give her to me.”
“Will you answer my questions?”
“Yes. Just give her to me.”
Daniels passed him the screaming feline. The man in the wheelchair held the pet against his chest and lovingly stroked its fur while talking to it in a tender voice.
“Is your name Jack Butler?” Daniels asked.
“It was the last time I checked,” the man said.
“Did you once live in Hanover, New Hampshire, and work as a nurse at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center?”
“I did.”
“Have you ever been arrested for possession of child pornography and for soliciting sex with a minor?”
“Yes, I have.”
It was him. Daniels paused before asking the next question. The expression on her face bordered on defeat, but she still asked it.
“Why are you in a wheelchair?”
“I was involved in a car crash seven years ago, right after we moved here,” Butler said. “A drunk kid ran a red light and T-boned our car. I was driving, Rhoden was in the passenger seat. He recovered, I didn’t.”
“You’re saying you don’t have the use of your legs,” she said.
“I’m paralyzed from the waist down.”
A tiny scream escaped her lips. They all heard it, but no one acknowledged it.
She yanked away the blank
et covering Butler’s waist. He wore a pair of green shorts, and his legs were visible. They were milk white and sickly thin, with no muscle hanging off the bone. She spent a long moment composing herself. “You’re under arrest for failing to register as a sexual predator and for the possession of child pornography.” She gave him his rights, reciting them from memory. When she was done, she said, “Do you have anything to say?”
“Screw you, bitch,” Butler said.
Daniels raised her arm as if to strike him. Lancaster stepped between them and escorted her out of the house and onto the front lawn. The darkness was a shield to hide behind, and she dropped her chin onto her chest and began to weep.
“It’s not them,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
“What do we do?”
“Our killers are nurses who worked in Hanover,” he said. “They have to be. There are no other suspects that could have done this. We must have missed them in the list the hospital sent you. We start over.”
“Are you going to help me?”
“Yes. We’re in this together, Beth.”
In times of defeat the simplest things often give us strength. Daniels straightened her shoulders and sucked up her rage.
“Okay. Let’s go back to your place,” she said.
They went to her rental parked at the curb. Rhoden stood on the sidewalk in his bathrobe holding his handcuffed wrists by his waist with two of the FBI agents guarding him. Rhoden stepped forward. The agents grabbed his arms and pulled him back.
“You’re Elizabeth Daniels,” Rhoden said.
It had been a night filled with surprises. Daniels cautiously approached him.
“How did you know that?” she said.
“I guess you don’t remember me. I treated you at Dartmouth-Hitchcock after those two men tried to abduct you. You were in shock and crying hysterically when you came into the ER. I stabilized you and got you calmed down. While we waited for the police to come and take your statement, I asked you if you wanted anything. You told me you were hungry, so I went to the hospital kitchen and got you a cup of chicken noodle soup and a roll. I stood next to you while you ate it. Do you remember?”
