Vengeance is Mine

by Alex Ander

  Ashford retrieved his cell phone and walked away.

  Cruz rested her crossed arms on her chest, studying the board. Shifting her weight to her right foot, she rocked her left boot backward, balancing on the heel. Cocking her head to the left, her eyes zeroed in on a picture. She plucked the image from the board and drew it closer. A black man and two white women, dressed in eveningwear, were shown. The man had his arms around the women. All three were posing for the cameraperson. She walked to the floor lamp.

  Ashford returned. “I issued the BOLO and got Jameson—”

  Cruz spun. “Take a look at this.” She pointed at the left shoulder of the woman on the right before pulling out her phone.

  Ashford seized the picture.

  She found the snapshot of the tattoo on the left shoulder of the first victim. Both of them moved their heads back and forth, comparing the images.

  “It looks the same,” he said.

  Cruz pointed. “I know her. She used to be a member of an all-girl band. They had a hit single a decade ago.” She put her finger over her lips. “What was their—”

  “Oh, yeah, the Red Roses,” Ashford blurted. “I remember that.” The rhythm of the song played inside his head. His lips moved, while his mind tried to sing the words. He saw Cruz out of the corner of his eye and stopped miming. She was grinning. His defenses kicked in and he felt his ears getting hot. “What?”

  “I always thought you were a rock and roll kind of guy. I never figured you for an all-girl groupie.”

  The redness in his ears moved to his cheeks. “I was a dumb teenager.” He shrugged. “What did I know?” He motioned toward the picture, eager to get her back on track. “What’s this got to do with our killer?”

  Cruz tapped her phone’s screen, until she had the information she wanted. “Jaclyn Doherty…drummer for the band, the Red Roses…thirty-nine-years-old…fits the age of our first victim.” After scrolling the page, she snapped her fingers and twisted her hand to show her discovery.

  Ashford pursed his lips. “That’s it all right. It’s a perfect match.”

  Cruz had found the logo for the Red Roses, a skull with a pair of crossed drumsticks beneath it. The same skull and drumsticks on the body of victim number one.

  “So, now we know who she was, but that doesn’t tell us why she was targeted.”

  Cruz took the picture from Ashford. There was something else familiar about it, but she could not place it.

  He waved his arm toward the closet. “And, why is she on this board…with all these pictures of you. How is she connected to you?”

  Ashford’s words echoed in her mind…Connected to you…me. She let her head fall backward. “Of course,” she said, eyeing the snapshot and validating her theory. She spun on the heels of her boots to face him. “I know who the third victim is going to be.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  Chapter 15: Gulfstream

  7:19 p.m.

  With Ashford listening, Special Agent Cruz had called Director Jameson and informed him of the killer’s next target. The two women and one black man in the picture from the poster board had been the three judges for the Miss America Pageant for the year Cruz had competed. With one of the three judges confirmed dead and a second one reported missing, Cruz urged Jameson to focus all efforts on locating the third judge, Mandy Mason.

  Officers from the local police department were dispatched to Mason’s home in Syracuse, New York. After getting no response, they entered the home and discovered signs a struggle had taken place in the living room. The rest of the rooms were neat and tidy. After interviewing neighbors, family members and friends, it had been determined the thirty-one-year-old aspiring singer and actor had not been seen or heard from in three days. Her phone had been turned off and/or the battery had been removed, not allowing the device to be tracked.

  Unable to find Harold Hawkins through his digital footprint, Cruz and Ashford turned their investigation toward the ex-wife, hoping to interview her and get information that might lead to Hawkins’s whereabouts.

  Ashford tucked his phone into his jacket pocket and got the attention of his partner, who was speaking with one of four FBI agents from the crime lab. Hawkins’s apartment had been turned over to them and they were gathering potential evidence for analysis.

  Cruz wrapped up her conversation with the agent and joined Ashford near the sofa bed. She folded her hands and touched her lips. “What is it?”

  Ashford grinned. “Are you praying for good news?”

  She chuckled. “Have you got some?”

  He nodded. “Hawkins’s ex-wife, Brenda Dobson, is still living in Chelsea, the same home they shared when they were married.”

  Cruz’s rolled her eyes and her shoulders slumped. “I thought you said you had good news.” After a moment of reflection, she shook her head. “I can’t do it, Ash. I’m not driving that far.” She produced her mobile. “That’s got to be eight or nine hours away.”

  He clarified the distance. “It’s nine hours and thirty-four minutes.”

  She scrolled her contact list and tapped the screen. Twenty seconds later, she heard a man’s gruff and raspy voice on the other end of the line.

  “This is Special Agent Smith.” Anthony Smith was the Special Agent in Charge of the FBI Cleveland field office. He and Cruz had known each other, since her training days at the FBI academy. Assisting in training the cadets, he was the first person to notice her raw skills and potential as an agent.

  “Hello, Anthony. It’s Raychel…Special Agent Cruz.”

  A split-second went by, while Smith attached the name to the face. His smile came through the phone. “Special Agent Cruz, it’s nice to hear your voice. How’ve you been, Raychel? It’s been a long time, since we’ve talked.”

  “Yes, I’ve been busy lately.”

  “Are you still working with that knucklehead?”

  She shifted her eyes toward Ashford. “Yes, Curtis is standing here with me.”

  Having heard Smith’s comment, Ashford let out a short laugh. The two knew each other well. Ashford tried to get Cruz to relay a message to his friend. “Tell him, he can kiss my—”

  She waved her partner off before covering her ear with her hand. “I’m afraid this isn’t a social call, Anthony. I’m in the middle of a case and I need a favor from you.”

  After chuckling over the implication of Ashford’s partial sentence, Smith grew serious. “Name it, Raychel, and you’ve got it. What can I do for you?”

  … … … … … … … … … …

  Checking the time on her phone—8:31 p.m., Cruz eased the seat back aboard the Gulfstream V. Having taken off from Cleveland-Hopkins International Airport, she and Ashford were flying to Boston to interview Hawkins’s ex-wife. Special Agent Smith had the jet standing by when Cruz and Ashford arrived. The aircraft left the runway fifteen minutes later. Smith had informed her that a car would be waiting for them when they landed at Boston Logan International Airport. The driver had instructions to take them wherever they needed to go.

  Cruz leaned back and let the muscles of her body relax. Doing the math in her head, she concluded she had spent a little over six hours in the SUV. Add the time she had expended on raiding Hawkins’s apartment, investigating a crime scene, staring at photos and figuring out Hawkins’s twisted scrapbook of her life, and she felt as if she had been awake for twenty-four hours straight. The flight to Boston would take a little more than an hour. Since there was nothing she could do in that time, she planned to get some rest.

  Tucking the pillow behind her head and raising the blanket to her chest, she closed her eyes. At first, the day’s events rushed to greet her mind. Playing like a movie, she saw the mangled bodies of the murder victims, the faces of the people trying to get a peek at the gore, the photos of her in Hawkins’s apartment. Even Derek, her boyfriend, skipped past her subconscious. She corrected herself. Ex-boyfriend, Raychel…he’s your ex-boyfriend. Get over him. Move on. That was going to be easier said
than done. She had invested much of herself into their relationship. Erasing him from her life would not be a simple task. She breathed deeply and let the oxygen gently escape her drawn lips. No more than ten minutes eclipsed and she was asleep.

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  Chapter 16: Chelsea

  9:57 p.m.

  After the Gulfstream V touched down in Boston, Special Agent Cruz and Ashford hopped into a waiting Chevy Tahoe and made the short drive north to Chelsea to a neighborhood on Hawthorne Street. She noticed the lack of snow on the streets. The wintery weather had bypassed Boston and the surrounding area. Although the temperatures were warmer, compared to Ohio and Pennsylvania, she was glad to have her knee boots and long underwear. A fierce wind was blowing from the north, dropping the ‘feels like’ temperature ten to fifteen degrees.

  The driver of the SUV, a young agent in his mid-twenties, found an open parking spot a block away from their destination. Cruz and Ashford exited the vehicle and strode along the sidewalk. They came to a three-story brick building with a white picket fence next to wooden steps that led to the front door. The red brick building was connected to several other multi-level dwellings, creating a massive structure.

  Ashford knocked on the door. The porch light came on before the curtain covering the small window in the door moved slightly. The owner had been expecting the federal agents. The door opened and Brenda Dobson appeared in the doorway, barefoot and dressed in pink sweatpants and a black sweatshirt. Feeling the rush of cold air, she folded her arms and hunched her shoulders.

  Cruz presented her identification and said, “Brenda Dobson?” When the woman nodded, she motioned toward her partner. “Ms. Dobson, this is Special Agent Ashford and I’m Special Agent DelaCruz of the FBI. We’re here to speak with you about your ex-husband. You should have been expecting us.”

  Brenda forced a smile. “Yes, of course. Please come in.”

  Once the agents entered the house, the threesome headed for the living room. Cruz and Brenda sat on a black leather couch, while Ashford stood next to Cruz, his eyes scanning the room.

  The living room was small. The usual furnishings—couch, reclining chair, coffee and end tables, were close together. The light brown walls were barren, except for a couple of paintings. Against the wall in front of the couch was a tiny entertainment center, which supported a small flat-screen television.

  “Is there anything I can get you…water, coffee?” Brenda said, starting to stand.

  Cruz shook her head. “No thank you.” Her words stopped the young woman. “We’re sorry it’s so late, Ms. Dobson, but it’s very important that we talk to you about your ex-husband.”

  Brenda coerced another smile. Her lips parted, briefly showing a set of straight and white teeth. Bright blue eyes popped outward above her round and full cheeks. She had long blonde hair, parted on the side. Wavy bangs fell across her forehead, covering her eyebrows. Her cute physical appearance added innocence to her pleasant and charming demeanor.

  Cruz regarded the woman’s features. How does someone like her end up with a monster like Harold Hawkins?

  “Please call me Brenda.”

  “Thank you, Brenda.” Cruz spent a few minutes sharing as many of the details as she could regarding the murders. Her next words took the sweet girl by surprise. “Brenda, we believe your ex-husband is involved in these killings.”

  Brenda leaned backward. Her warm and friendly face became stoic and her body grew tense, rigid. Harold…a murderer? She lowered her gaze and stammered, “I…I don’t know what to say.”

  Cruz put her hand on Brenda’s arm. The woman flinched at the touch. “Is there anything you can tell us that might help find him?”

  “I don’t know. He was always a little odd. I mean…he’s a computer person…a little geeky. I can’t believe he’s capable of doing something like this.”

  Ashford stuck his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans. “You filed a restraining order against him. Did you feel threatened? Did you think he was going to hurt you?”

  Brenda tilted her head to observe the man towering above her. “I got that because he had become paranoid during our divorce. He was spying on me at all hours of the day and night. I was scared. He thought I’d been cheating on him and I think he was trying to prove it.”

  “Were you?” Ashford stated, flatly. He watched Brenda’s upper body rock backward. At the same time, Cruz shot him a menacing look and he regretted his words. He was operating on instinct, questioning the woman as if she was a suspect. He backtracked. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to accuse you of any wrongdoing.”

  Cruz covered for her partner. “It’s been a long day. Please excuse us. We’ve been on the go, since early this morning.” After a short pause, she continued. “Do you know where your ex-husband might be? Does he have relatives or friends in the area or another state? Is there property somewhere where he might be staying? Anything you can remember would be helpful, Brenda.”

  Shaking her head, Brenda stood and walked toward the entertainment center, her hands folded over her mouth. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen or spoken with him. Our divorce was not amicable. When it was finalized, I wanted nothing to do with him. I just wanted to move on with my life.”

  The face of Cruz’s ex-boyfriend flashed across her mind. “I can certainly understand that. And, I’m sorry to have to make you relive bad memories; however, a young woman’s life is at stake. Again, any scrap of information you can remember that might lead us to your ex-husband…” Cruz let her voice trail off, waiting for the woman to respond.

  Her back to Cruz and gazing at the floor, Brenda shook her head. “Nothing’s coming to mind. I wish I could help you. I really do.”

  Cruz stood and fished out a business card from her pocket. It was late and the woman was tired. Pushing her to think of something was not producing results. “Thank you for your time. If you remember anything—”

  Brenda whirled around and stuck her finger into the air. “Wait a minute.” She stared past Cruz’s shoulder. “Harold spoke about a piece of property…that had been in his family for decades.”

  Cruz glanced at Ashford. He was already fishing for his pen and pad of paper.

  Brenda rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, while gently tapping her nose with her fingertips. “He always talked about taking me to the cabin…but he never did. After all these years, I just forgot about it.” She shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I have no idea if it ever existed.”

  Cruz stepped forward and put her hand on Brenda’s upper arm. “Do you know where the property is located?”

  Several moments went by, while Brenda recalled her ex-husband’s words from many years ago. “I think he said it was lakefront property in…upstate New York…Albany…or Utica…” She brought her shoulders to her neck and contorted her face. “I’m not sure. I wish I knew more.”

  Cruz rubbed the woman’s arm and smiled. “You’ve given us a place to start.” She faced Ashford. “Find out if Hawkins, or anyone in his family, owns property in New York.”

  “I’m on it.” He pulled out his phone and left the room.

  She focused on Brenda. “Can you remember anything else he might have mentioned about this cabin?”

  ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

  Chapter 17: Full Circle

  January 11th, 1:07 a.m.

  New York

  Wearing an FBI bulletproof vest over his dress shirt, Ashford adjusted the sling on his MP5 rifle, chambered in nine millimeter. His mind drifted back to the apprehension of Peterson and Lopez. “It’s funny how it all comes full circle to a cabin in the woods.”

  Using the sliver of information from Brenda Dobson, the information analysts in Washington, D.C. had discovered a tract of land south of Northville, New York on the eastern shore of the Great Sacandaga Lake, deeded to Harold Hawkins’s great grandfather. Off County Road 109 and surrounded by a mini forest, a single-story fifteen hundred square foot cabin sat on the land.
Aerial reconnaissance had shown a vehicle parked in the driveway. At the request of the FBI, New York State Troopers were sent to the location. When they checked the license plates, they determined the vehicle had been stolen a day earlier. Upon learning that, Special Agent Cruz decided she had enough information to warrant a visit to the property.

  Half an hour later, two Bell 407 helicopters, bound for Northville, lifted off with two FBI SWAT teams aboard. Special Agent Cruz and Ashford were in one helicopter with three SWAT team members, while the second aircraft transported the remaining five members. When the helicopters landed in a deserted field a mile south of the cabin, two SUV’s from the New York State Police were waiting to drive them the rest of the way.

  Standing at the rear of one of the SUV’s, a few hundred yards south of the cabin, Cruz had discarded her overcoat and put on a bulletproof vest over her black sweater. She double-checked her pistol and holstered it before grabbing an MP5 and making it ready. Letting the weapon hang from its sling, she addressed one of the state troopers. “Both ends of this road have been blocked?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied the trooper, a black man around thirty years old, who was at least six inches taller than Cruz and twice as wide. “As per your instructions, we’ve evacuated everyone from the three houses north and the lone house south of the dwelling in question. There’s no one but us,” he pivoted his head, “for five hundred yards in all directions.”

  Cruz nodded. “Thank you, Trooper Williams…excellent work.” She faced the SWAT team leader. “Are your men in position?”

  “I’ve got two men stationed at the back of the structure and one each at the north and south ends. All of them are just inside the tree line. They have orders to engage only if the subject escapes.”

  “Good. What about the assault teams?”