Code Four

by Colin Conway

  As he approached the clearing, Rutledge could hear voices. The conversation was limited, hushed. It seemed purposeful, but why? He drew close to the tree line and stopped. Two pickup trucks were parked side by side. Both had caps covering their rear beds. The cap door and tailgate were open on the vehicle nearest to him. He could see what appeared to be a large wooden crate inside, and another on the ground just behind it. Three men, all in dark clothing, stood behind the trucks. They seemed to be engaged in some sort of negotiation. Rutledge couldn’t make out what they were saying. He strained to listen. It sounded almost like…

  Rutledge sensed the presence behind him, but too late. The hand yanked his head back as the blade slashed across his throat. He slumped to the ground, clutching, gurgling, as the world turned black.

  CHAPTER 2

  8:12 a.m., Friday, January 10, Lake Wappapello State Park, Williamsville, Missouri

  Sean Stroud took a sip of coffee to warm himself against the morning chill. The temperature display in his truck showed thirty-four degrees. That was a little above average for this time of year, but for a Louisiana native it was just damn cold. After fifteen years as a Missouri State Park Ranger you’d have thought he’d be used to it. He wasn’t.

  A southern wind had blown warm, moist air up from the Gulf. As it crossed the frigid waters of the lake it formed wisps of fog that hovered on the surface. The effect was haunting, yet peaceful. It was moments like these that reminded Stroud why he chose this line of work in the first place.

  His cell phone rang, interrupting the moment. Stroud retrieved it from his jacket and checked the display. It was Luther Duncan, his sergeant.

  “Morning, Sarge.”

  “Don’t get comfortable,” Duncan said. “We’ve got a floater.”

  “No shit.”

  “Two fishermen found him, called our office. They said it looked like his throat had been cut.”

  Stroud now understood why Duncan had called his cell instead of using the radio.

  “I’ve already called the Highway Patrol and the Sheriff’s Office,” Duncan continued. “But I need to have one of our people over there right now.”

  “Where at?”

  “About a hundred-and-twenty yards northeast of the turnaround at Ridge campground, right at the top of the inlet there. At least that’s where the body washed up.”

  “Anybody on scene yet?” Stroud asked, wondering why he hadn’t been called first.

  “Don’t think so. Sheriff’s dispatch said the nearest deputy was fifteen miles away. State Patrol is ten minutes out.”

  “I can be there in five.”

  “Good man. Update me as soon as you get there and assess the situation.”

  “Will do.”

  Stroud terminated the call. He spun the truck around and activated his lights and siren. It was going to be an interesting day.

  Stroud pulled into the campground and made his way to the turnaround at the end of the road leading in. He had switched off the light bar and siren to avoid waking the campers and drawing a crowd. As he drew close, he could see that there was no need. Word had already gotten around. The Ridge was a year-round campsite. The few hearty souls who braved the January weather were already up and waiting for him. Clearly, the fishermen had notified more than just his office. He parked his truck and got out, nodding to the folks who were gathered.

  “It’s over that way,” one man said, pointing in a northeasterly direction. “I can take you.”

  Stroud waved him off. “Thanks,” he said, “but it’s a potential crime scene. The fewer people the better. You understand”

  “Oh, of course,” the man replied, nodding his head.

  Stroud started through the woods toward the area Duncan had described. He was familiar with it not just through the job, but also because he had fished that inlet many times over the years. Soon, he could see the two fishermen up ahead. They were standing, hands in pockets, looking down at what he assumed was the body. One of the men looked up and spotted him.

  “Morning, fellas,” Stroud said when he got close enough for them to hear.

  They nodded a greeting. “Morning, Ranger,” the older of the two added. He held out his hand. “Name’s John Holman.”

  “Sean Stroud.” They shook.

  “This here’s my son, Jason,” Holman said.

  Stroud guessed the boy to be sixteen or seventeen years old, tops. Too young to be seeing something like this.

  “Howdy, Jason.” Stroud said, extending his hand.

  The boy took it. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  It was a kid’s response, awkward, but polite. Stroud could only imagine how difficult it would be for Jason to process this.

  “We camped here the last two nights,” Holman said. “Planned to do a little fishin’ this morning. Then, well…”

  Stroud nodded. He looked down at the body. It was onshore, just above the waterline. As with all floaters, it was distended, the accumulated gases of decomposition being what caused it to rise to the surface. Notably, the smell was only slightly diminished by the cold. Some of the skin had sloughed off. Still, it appeared to be reasonably intact, all things considered. The icy water likely helped with that. It could also mean that this, whatever it was, had been a relatively recent event.

  “Did you two pull him out?” Stroud asked.

  “We did,” Holman replied. “I hope that was okay.”

  “It’s fine,” Stroud said. In truth, he hoped that they hadn’t disturbed anything of evidentiary value. It was a natural human impulse to want to do something in a situation like this. Stroud wanted them to feel good about their attempt to do the right thing. He, on the other hand, would refrain from touching anything until State Patrol showed up. They would have the lead on a possible murder on state land.

  Stroud bent down to study the corpse. The body was lying faceup. He could immediately see the neck wound. A forensic exam would give a better indication, but it did appear that someone might have slashed the victim’s throat. It was a deep, seemingly even cut. Not the kind of injury that could have come from a boat propeller or feeding fish, though the latter did appear to have nibbled around the edges. The condition of the body made it difficult to determine, but there did not appear to be any obvious defensive wounds on the hands or other major injuries. Had the perpetrator come up from behind? One thing Stroud knew for certain, whoever this was had not been hunting or fishing. The clothing was all wrong. He guessed the age at early to mid-twenties. Stroud was used to the occasional drunken partier who fell into the lake, or the fisherman who was knocked out of his boat and drowned after hypothermia set in. This was something very different. What happened to you, he wondered?

  “Highway Patrol is here,” Holman said, interrupting Stroud’s train of thought.

  Stroud looked up to see two troopers about fifty yards off, marching toward them. They would quickly take over the scene. He turned back toward the body. That’s when he saw it, a piece of nylon rope tied to the ankle. It had frayed and broke just below the heel of the victim’s boot. Someone had wanted this body to stay submerged.

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  Chatham County, Georgia

  In her bones, she knew it was too early for her to be flying solo. Two more weeks at the side of a mentor was what she had been told, but that promise had vanished along with so many of the faces with which she had become familiar since taking the job. Those first few days had been stressful enough; everything seemed to be moving at the speed of light. She marveled at how the calls flooded in and grizzled veterans made quick, dispassionate assessments before keying up their microphones to broadcast information in a language that at times seemed foreign. The most experienced among
them could take a call made by some dude screaming his head off like he was being chased by a maniac with an axe, get the caller to give the basic information needed for a response, send a unit, and then turn back to the neighboring dispatcher to resume a meaningless conversation about the latest episode of The Bachelor. But that was before.

  Now, there was no idle chitchat. On the rare instances the Savannah area let the phone lines rest, there was nothing but silence in the dispatch center that somehow still seemed cramped despite some of the stations being empty. Silence was what Denise Warren wanted right now because she didn’t know if she could handle anything more difficult than the two calls she’d taken since coming on shift: a small car fire on Bull Street and a report of a homeless man harassing tourists down by the riverfront. On most days, because of the poor layout of the Savannah-Chatham Communications Center, not all the dispatchers were in the same room. However, with so many of the communications officers calling in sick or flat-out quitting, Denise could see all the other dispatchers’ anxious expressions. Throughout her abbreviated training, a phrase had been drilled into her: There are no routine calls. While she appreciated the sentiment, Denise knew it was mostly bullshit. Routine was the dream. To be competent enough to handle the barrage of phone and radio chatter while keeping your cool was supposed to be the goal. Not tonight. Tonight, the goal was to make it through without getting the call.

  She glanced up at the fluorescent clock on the wall at the far side of the room. The red digits burned 9:10 PM. As if the rest of the city—hell, the rest of the county—knew, the phones stopped ringing. Nobody made a sound. Not a chair squeak. Not a tap on a keyboard.

  Denise examined the faces around her. Elizabeth—a husband and two kids. She’d heard Jake was newlywed. She didn’t know Alfonzo well, but the heavy-set man had a wedding band and seemed the family type. Alicia was definitely single. She’d become friendly with Alicia after the two had gone out for drinks one night. After downing a couple of gin and tonics, Alicia had become flirty and tested the waters with Denise. While flattered, Denise politely let her know the winds weren’t going to blow that direction, but the two had remained friends. Skyler and the guy everyone just called “T” were total mysteries to her since they were recent emergency additions called in from some adjacent jurisdiction. Patrice, who was a total bitch to all the other women, complained incessantly about her husband, who was retired from the Army and apparently bored out of his mind at home. If Denise remembered correctly, she had two grown kids who were both living somewhere in the area.

  The numbers on the clock changed to 9:11 PM. Denise became aware of a low hum from the fans somewhere within the communications consoles. She’d never noticed it before and wondered if anyone ever had since the center was normally a beehive twenty-four hours a day. She watched her screen and then took a few surreptitious peeks at the others who were all doing the same.

  Damn. She forgot to count. How many seconds had passed? Twenty? Thirty? No, it had to be more than that because she could see the tension leaving Alfonzo’s face. He was starting to nod, and Denise could tell it was part of an inner monologue. He was probably saying something like, Okay. Okay. It’s okay tonight. Now Elizabeth was also nodding and silently mouthing something, probably a prayer.

  Denise stole a look at the clock one more time, knowing it had to have changed by now. It hadn’t, but any second now. Any—

  Ringggggggggggg

  Everyone in the room jolted.

  Ringggggggggggg

  The readout was on everyone’s screen.

  9-1-1 Unknown Location/Blocked Number

  All eyes went to Elizabeth. As the senior dispatcher, she would be the one to take the call. There was still a realistic chance it was a routine 9-1-1 call. They’d had plenty of those from cell phones on or around the designated time on nights when they hadn’t gotten the call. Elizabeth swallowed hard, adjusted her chair, and wheeled herself a little too close to her console.

  “Put it on speaker, please.”

  Everyone jumped again when the command came from the back of the room.

  The wiry man with skin as dark as night repeated his request, which to Denise didn’t sound like a request at all. Denise didn’t know who the man was, but there was no doubt in her mind that the call was going to be broadcasted throughout the room. She’d seen him hovering on the outskirts of the circles of yellow illumination created by the oversized bulbs in the facility’s recessed lighting fixtures on two other occasions, but this was the first time she’d heard him speak.

  Elizabeth answered the call and pressed an icon on her screen, allowing the call to be heard by all of them.

  “Chatham 9-1-1. What’s your emergency?” asked the senior dispatcher.

  Dead air.

  “Chatham 9-1-1.”

  Elizabeth looked at the others in the room and finally at the man in the doorway whose face was unreadable.

  “Caller, are you there?” she said.

  When no response came, she exhaled, not realizing she had been keeping the air in her lungs, and turned toward the console to deactivate the call.

  A distorted voice boomed through the speakers.

  “Thirteen-Fifty-One Exley Street. Rush, rush, but I bet you won’t be on time.”

  All the eyes in the room began searching—seeking out the individual for whom that address might have meaning.

  It meant nothing to Denise, who was already trying to gauge if Elizabeth, who was already visibly shaken, was the one. She was rattled but didn’t seem to react to what the caller had said. She turned toward Jake, but he was looking at T and Skyler who appeared to be checking in on each other. Alfonzo. Alfonzo was leaning over in his chair and had his face in his hands. Denise wondered if she should approach him and say something to him. But then, Patrice walked over to him, put a hand on his back, and whispered something in his ear. He raised his head and quietly said the words not me.

  Denise rotated her chair slowly to the station behind her. Alicia was staring wide-eyed into nothingness, tears streaming down her face. Now everyone focused on the young woman who was becoming aware of the attention.

  The man standing in the back of the room said, “What are you waiting for? Dispatch officers to that address now. Advise them to use extreme caution.”

  Elizabeth wiped a tear from her eye and made the call.

  The wiry man walked past Denise to where Alicia was sitting and knelt down, bringing his six-foot-three frame closer to her level. He spoke softly, but Denise could still hear him.

  “Who lives there?” he asked with a calm and evenness Denise had never witnessed from anyone.

  “My…my grandmother,” Alicia wept.

  The man nodded and started to stand.

  “And my two cousins.”

  The man lowered himself again and struggled to keep his expression neutral as he said, “How old are your cousins? Damon and Jeremy.”

  Through a wave of tears, Alicia said, “Damon’s seventeen. Jeremy turned nineteen last week.”

  The man who Denise had noted was in a suit, not a uniform, stood and rubbed a hand over his clean-shaven head. There was a flash of anger in his eyes, but then it was gone, and Denise saw it had been replaced with something else. She wasn’t sure what had pushed the anger away, but the only words that came to Denise’s mind were reason and calculation.

  The man strode to Elizabeth’s station, put an arm on her shoulder, and said, “Send multiple ambulances there now. Have them hold their positions nearby until the scene is cleared by PD.”

  Denise watched Elizabeth adjust her headset and take a deep breath. How many times had Elizabeth given these commands over the air during her fifteen-year career, Denise wondered. Five thousand? Ten thousand? Now the woman’s hands were trembling, and her voice was cracking as she sent the EMTs to go treat victims that were undoubtedly past the point of help. The comfort of routine was long gone, and it didn’t seem like it was ever coming back. Denise grabbed her purse, stood, and walked
toward the door. She needed a paycheck, but she didn’t want any part of this.

  Chapter 1

  Trevor Galloway

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  “You need to breathe,” I said, not for the first time.

  “I am breathing.”

  “No. You’re on the verge of hyperventilating. Remember our training. When we panic, we make mistakes. You’ve prepared for this. You’ve rehearsed this. You know the sequence of events and the timing. It’s like any other operation we’ve worked. Simple clockwork.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Chase Vinson snapped. “I’m the first through this door. I always thought it would be you.”

  A bead of sweat formed on my friend’s forehead. The usually unflappable detective tugged at a too-tight collar as his massive neck threatened to pop the button and unravel the bowtie. I sneaked a glance into the seats and saw Bethany was enjoying every moment of seeing Chase squirm. I should have felt sorry for the man who had taken extraordinary chances and assisted me on countless occasions, but the part of me that is a student of human behavior found his ongoing internal apocalypse fascinating—and, yes, entertaining.