by Alex Ander
… … … … … … … … … …
An hour later, Cruz stood and paced back and forth in her stocking feet, one hand on her hip and the fingers of the other rubbing her eyes. After several trips, she stopped, stretched her arms over her head and leaned from side to side. Walking back to the table, she took a couple swigs from her water bottle. Her eyes compared the images on both mobile devices, while she undid her ponytail and let her hair fall. Shaking her head, she ran the fingers of both hands through the long locks, finishing with a vigorous scalp massage. She and Ashford had viewed the pictures and they were fifteen minutes into the first video. So far, they had no matches. This is taking too long. If the killer was at the second scene, he’s getting away and we’re losing ground.
Ashford stood, circled behind her and performed a shortened version of calisthenics, loosening his muscles and getting his blood pumping. “This doesn’t look very promising.” Hands on his hips, he cranked his head as far as it would go to the left before doing the same thing in the other direction. “I wonder if the techies in Washington have had better luck.”
Cruz brought up the images from Ashford’s phone. Starting with the first one, she scrolled through them one at a time. Her finger hovering in the air, she paused, gawking at an image. Leaning over her chair, she picked up her phone, tapped the screen a few times and whipped her index finger over the device’s surface, until she found what she wanted. Throwing her hair over her left shoulder, she grabbed both mobiles and held them up side by side. She squinted and her eyebrows scrunched together.
Ashford stood beside her. “What’s up?”
“Here, take this.” She gave him his phone, while bringing hers closer to her face. “Do you see the man in the black coat in the center of your screen?”
Ashford zeroed in on the man and replied, “Yeah.”
She put her phone next to his and pointed out a man on it. “What do you think?”
Ashford spun his head left and right several times, comparing the two men. He motioned with his head. “This one is a profile shot, but I definitely see a resemblance. How’d we miss it?”
In her mind, Cruz knew the answer. She had been so focused on finding the man in the black ski hat and dark blue puffer coat she had lost a certain amount of objectivity. She chastised herself for the rookie mistake, but took solace in knowing she was not the only one who made the error. She forfeited her cell to Ashford. “Contact the D.C. computer gurus and have them run this man through facial software. All other cases can wait, until they get him identified. When they do, I want everything on him, including the kitchen sink.”
He nodded and brought up the number for the FBI in Washington.
… … … … … … … … … …
Twenty minutes later, Cruz eyed her partner, her ears straining to hear his conversation.
“This is Ashford.” He gave her the ‘thumbs up’ sign. “Uh-huh…uh-huh…okay, send it all to me ASAP.”
After Ashford had finished the call, Cruz peppered him questions. “What is it? What did they find? Were they able to ID him?”
“It turns out the guy was already in the criminal database. His ex-wife had filed for and received a restraining order against him a few years back. She claimed he had been stalking her and she was in fear for her life. A little while later, he violated the conditions of the order.”
“So, who is he? Where is he?”
Ashford stuck his finger in the air. “Hold on, Cruz.” He grinned. “You can only get so much information over the phone. The agent I spoke with said he was sending me—” a chime sounded and he checked his mobile. “Okay, our man’s name is Harold Hawkins. He’s a thirty-five-year-old computer information engineer for a Fortune 500 software company out of…scratch that…he was a computer information engineer. He was fired three years ago. It looks like it happened right around the same time as his divorce and the restraining order.”
Cruz stepped into one of her boots, bent over and ran the zipper the length of the shaft. “So, do we have someone with anger issues or mental health problems on our hands?” Her voice low, she was thinking aloud rather than speaking to her partner. “Has he finally snapped after all this time and gone on a killing spree?”
“He and his wife lived in Chelsea, near Boston, while they were married. No kids in the picture from what I can see here.”
Cruz sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward to grab her second boot. “Where is he living now?” She jammed her foot into the boot, crossed the leg over her knee and slid the zipper to the top. Remaining in the cross-legged position, she drew her hair back and formed a ponytail. “Do we have a last known address?”
Ashford scrolled down the document. “According to his last tax return, he’s living in an apartment in Cleveland.”
Cruz stood and grabbed her overcoat. “Cleveland’s not that far from here.”
Ashford did a quick Google search. “It’s less than two hours away.”
She scanned the hotel room for personal belongings. “Okay, if you’re ready, let’s go.”
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Chapter 13: Fire
4:04 p.m.
Slamming the front door, he dropped his bag onto the rug and peeled away the winter coat and stocking hat. The drive from Ohio had taken longer than he had expected. Traffic had been horrible. He remarked to himself, “For people who live in this part of the country, you’d think they’d know how to drive in the snow.” Walking further into the living room, he noticed the atmosphere had a cold bite to it. Passing by the couch, he opened the glass doors on the fireplace and began the process of building a fire.
Twenty minutes later, a fire was blazing behind the closed glass doors. Undersized for the cabin, the fireplace was the only source of heat. The propane tank in the backyard was empty and there had not been enough time to schedule a delivery. He would have to take whatever heat the small fireplace provided. Ambling toward an end table, he turned on a lamp. The incandescent bulb cast a sparse yellow tint over everything and everyone.
He stood behind the couch for several minutes, his mind recalling every detail of what he had done. The woman had been difficult. Holding the bat, an aluminum softball bat, his hands trembled. He had been a good ball player when he was younger. Hitting the ball was his favorite part of the game. He loved the feeling that radiated from the bat through his hands and arms when he hit the ball on the bat’s sweet spot. That same feeling came rushing back to him when he struck the woman on the back of the head, sending her to the kitchen floor, but not before her head bounced off the kitchen table. She was most likely dead before he went to work on her with the other tool in his duffle bag.
The big black man had been easier. Having experienced the taking of human life once already, he found the act surprisingly routine the second time. Unfortunately, the second victim had not expired from the blow to the head. He was alive when the axe was pulled from the bag.
The man leaned over the couch and gently touched the cheek of a young blonde-haired woman. She flinched and drew away from his hand. He pursued her, until she could withdraw no further. Stroking her hair, he curled up the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry. It won’t be long now. I have something special planned for you.” He played with her hair for a few minutes, much like a cat toying with a mouse. “First, I need some sleep, however. Be a dear and keep quiet, will you?” He patted her head and sloughed into the bedroom.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
Chapter 14: Cleveland Heights
4:55 p.m.
The address for Harold Hawkins was a three-story red brick apartment building near the intersection of Overlook Road and Euclid Heights Boulevard in Cleveland Heights, Ohio, an inner-ring suburb of Cleveland. Agent Ashford parked the SUV in front of the building on the opposite side of the street. He and Special Agent Cruz got out of their vehicle and jogged across the lane, Ashford sticking out his hand to stop an oncoming car. They ascended the concrete steps and entered the stru
cture.
Cruz approached a man behind a short counter. She glimpsed his nametag—Paul Kentwood, Manager. He was barely out of his teens. His skinny frame was hunched over the counter. Pimples dotted his facial landscape, though he did a good job of masking them. He greeted her in a professional tone, befitting that of a more mature man.
“Good afternoon. How may I help you?” He stood and pushed aside the magazine he had been reading. Standing, he easily surpassed Ashford’s height.
She displayed a digital copy of a search warrant she had obtained during the trip from Youngstown. Finding a judge on a Sunday afternoon to issue the warrant had been a challenge. Luckily, her colleagues in D.C. had done most of the work. “I’m Special Agent DelaCruz of the FBI and I have a search warrant for the apartment of Harold Hawkins.”
The manager’s eyes moved from the phone in her hand to Ashford’s FBI badge. Unsure what to say, he shrugged. “What do you need me to do?”
She verified the man’s name. “Mister…Kentwood, do you have a key to his room?” When he nodded, she opened her hand. “Give it to me.” He complied. “Where’s his room?”
The manager pointed through the ceiling. “It’s on the top floor, last one on the left.”
Cruz stuffed the room key and her phone into her coat pocket. “Are the rooms near his occupied?”
Thinking, Kentwood rolled his eyes. “There are three other apartments on the floor…and two of them have tenants.”
She headed for the stairs, beckoning him to follow. Once the trio was on the third floor, she whispered to the manager, “I want you to quietly knock on the doors of these other two apartments and get them to open the door. Tell them whatever you have to. Just get them to open up.”
He gently knocked on the first door to his right. When a voice from the other side answered, he said, “This is the building manager. I…you have a delivery downstairs.” He shot a look toward Cruz, who nodded her head. “You have to sign for it.”
The door opened and Cruz stepped in front of Kentwood.
Presenting her credentials, she motioned for the man to undo the chain latch and open the door. “I’m with the FBI. Are you alone?” The man nodded. “I need you to quietly exit your room and go downstairs.”
… … … … … … … … … …
Once both apartments were cleared and she had sent the manager away, Cruz pulled back the right lapel of her overcoat and drew her pistol. Ashford did the same. She pressed her back against the wall. Hawkins’s apartment door was to her left. Standing on the other side, Ashford confirmed he was ready. She beat on the door with her fist. “Harold Hawkins, this is the FBI. We have a warrant to search the premises. Open the door, now.” There was no response. She repeated the command. Not getting an answer, she slid the room key into the doorknob and unlocked the door before moving the key toward the deadbolt.
Ashford gripped his pistol with both hands and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, rocking in place. “What’s the hold up, Cruz?”
She fiddled with the key for a few seconds. “It won’t work. It’s not the right key.”
“I’ll get the manager.” He took two steps toward the stairs.
“Forget it.” She moved aside and tilted her head toward the door. “This is what you live for. Have at it.”
Ashford’s face transformed into that of a kid on Christmas morning. Holstering his weapon, he backed against the apartment door on the opposite side of the hallway, squatted and charged, ramming his shoulder into the door. The door buckled, but did not yield. He made a second run and it bowed in further.
Cruz watched her partner rub his shoulder, while he prepared for a third attempt. “I thought you said you played linebacker in college.”
“They moved me to running back during the preseason.”
Making ready to storm the apartment, Cruz smiled. “I’m beginning to understand why.”
“Watch it,” he shot back, his face contorted. He lowered his center of gravity and bolted forward.
The short screws securing the deadbolt to the doorframe were no match for Ashford’s third try. The wood fibers surrounding the screws split apart, sending tiny slivers into the dwelling. Cruz spun around and rushed inside, her partner a step behind, pistol in both hands.
Everything in the studio apartment could be seen at once. A kitchen and dining area was at the far end. A combination couch and bed was in the center. A flat-screen television was mounted on the wall to her left. Cruz moved left and peeked around the corner to the bathroom. Retreating, she said, “Clear.”
“Clear,” said Ashford.
Cruz holstered her weapon and double backed toward a small end table under the television. She picked up a stack of unopened envelopes, addressed to the apartment’s occupant. “Okay, let’s turn this place.”
… … … … … … … … … …
Cruz looked at her phone. The time read 6:13. She and Ashford had spent more than an hour combing every square inch of the apartment. They found nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that pointed toward the possibility that Harold Hawkins had anything to do with the murders. He had run up his credit cards and had little money in the bank; however, that only made him an average American, not a serial killer. She walked to the couch and hauled off the cushions before probing the sides and back with her fingers.
Ashford inspected the built-in wall closet for the third time, sliding suits, shirts and sweaters along the metal bar supporting the hangers. He started to turn around, but stopped when he noticed a panel at the back of the closet. It did not match the pattern of the adjacent paneling. Spreading his arms, he pushed the clothing out of the way. He poked the nonmatching section. It curved inward. Under his breath, he said, “What the hell?”
Down on all fours and peeking under the couch, Cruz heard him. “What is it?”
“I’m not sure.” He slipped his fingers behind the panel. He pushed, pulled and slid, until it separated from the rest of the wall. His eyes grew wide. “Uh, Cruz, you better have a look at this.”
She had been standing beside him when he lowered the panel. “Oh, my…” She saw a three-foot-by-three-foot white poster board filled with pictures, mostly of her. Her stomach churned, while her heart slowly crept into her throat. Shifting her eyes left and right, up and down, she thought she was seeing a scrapbook of her life. The board held newspaper clippings from ten years ago when she competed at the Miss America Pageant, a photo from when she received special recognition from the FBI for arresting the Mexican drug trafficker and several pictures from when she was with the Dalhart Police Department. A copy of the same image found on the murder victims was positioned in the center of the board.
Ashford was the first to notice the most disturbing part. He pointed and cranked his head toward her. He watched her jaw drop and her eyes bulge.
Cruz’s cheeks and forehead turned red and she squinted. Clamping her jaw shut, she clenched her fists. The fingernails dug into her palms. If Hawkins were standing in front of her, she would have ended his life—no handcuffs, no Mirandizing, no judgment by a jury of peers. No, a single bullet would have accomplished all three.
At the end of Ashford’s pointing finger were pictures of Cruz, and her boyfriend (ex-boyfriend), at her home in Maryland. One picture featured her in a pair of shorts and a tank top, mowing the lawn. Another photo showed her and Derek kissing at the front bumper of his Mercedes. A third image had been taken at a restaurant. Sitting cross-legged at a café table, she was depicted reading a newspaper; however, the focal point of the snapshot was her above-the-knee skirt, legs and high heels. Several additional photos of her at different locations, wearing similar outfits, littered the right side of the board.
Cruz forced herself to open her hands, flexing her fingers several times. Cool it, Raychel. This isn’t helping. You’ll get this son-of-a…breathe…just breathe. She let out a slow breath and focused on the other half of the poster board.
Ashford backed away. “Well, we certainly
have our man. How do you want to play this?” She did not answer him. “Cruz, you okay?” Realizing the stupidity of his question, he gave her a moment.
Cruz was sweating. The top portion of her long underwear was clinging to her body. Pinching her sweater and long underwear between her fingers, she fanned herself. The anger inside continued to rise and fall, despite her self-counseling. Her mind went back to those moments portrayed on the board and she put a hand to her stomach, suppressing the urge to vomit. She now had a glimpse into what it must feel like to be a victim of a robbery. No, being stalked was worse. A robbery was a moment in time. As devastating as it was, being robbed was a singular event. Being stalked was something that continued for days and months, even years. She flicked her eyes to the right. Even though this man had not physically touched her, he had violated her in other ways. She dropped her head, shaking it back and forth.
Ashford put a gentle hand on his partner’s shoulder. His voice barely audible, he said, “What do you want to do, Raychel?”
Raychel. He only used her first name when they were off the clock, having a beer, hanging out. This was not one of those times. There was work to be done. It’s time you get your head on straight, Raychel. Slamming her eyes shut and scrunching up her face, she asked for help. God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference. Seconds later, her eyes opened, she lifted her head and issued commands. “Get a BOLO” —Be On the Lookout— “on this guy. If he’s spotted, no one is to engage…monitor only. I want to know when he’s found ASAP. I repeat…no one moves in on him.”
Ashford nodded. “You got it.”
“Contact Jameson and have him move Heaven and earth to get every scrap of digital data on Mr. Hawkins. I want his credit cards tracked, his cell phone tapped. If he has a Facebook page or a Twitter account, I want to know if he makes a post, sends a tweet or if he scratches his…all of it.”
