Committed

by E. H. Reinhard

  “Where are you headed, bitch?” Molly asked.

  Nick watched Heather pull herself across the white floor until she neared the door. Then he walked over, grabbed her by the back of the hair, and wrapped her neck with the garrote. Nick sat on her back as he pulled. He felt the wire pull through her throat almost immediately. Nick saw the blood pooling under her head. The woman was dead in seconds.

  Nick removed himself from her back. “Okay, baby. Let’s get this cleaned up.”

  “Got it.” Molly knelt next to the bloody trail from the woman and gently picked up broken pieces of glass.

  Nick lifted Joey’s body by the armpits and dragged him toward the RV’s door.

  “What are we going to do with them?” Molly asked.

  “We’ll put them below if they fit—get rid of them tomorrow or something,” Nick said.

  He popped open the door and looked out. The campground was dark, aside from their fire and a couple of additional campfires burning in the distance between the trees—he heard the faint sounds of people holding conversations and a bit of music. Nick stepped out from the front door and went to the doors at the side of the RV, or what Joey had referred to as the basement. Nick crouched and looked into the one where Joey had kept the wood. The light from their campfire lit the compartment enough for Nick to get a good view inside—the area was big enough to accommodate both bodies if the wood was removed. Nick pulled all the wood from the compartment and stacked it near the side of the RV. Then he walked back inside.

  Molly was still working on cleaning up. “So what’s the plan?”

  “Well, let’s get these two below.”

  “And then? Are we getting our stuff from our site and leaving right away?”

  Nick shrugged. “We have firewood and this guy’s beer. Clean up, have a couple of beers around the fire, and see what happens.”

  Molly smiled and went back to swabbing blood from the floor.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  We’d put the wheels in motion the prior night after a discussion with Scott and Bill. After a call back to Manassas, Ball and the twins were going to make contact again with the Montana resident agency and the local sheriff’s department. While we didn’t know if that was where they were heading, and the local department had already spoken with anyone they could connect with the girl, we wanted everyone on high alert.

  I’d just finished a morning phone call with Karen and was about to head downstairs in search of breakfast when my phone buzzed against my leg. I yanked it out, glanced at the screen and clicked Talk.

  “Yeah, Scott,” I said.

  “How close are you to being ready?” he asked.

  “I’m pretty much ready right now. What’s up?”

  “It looks like we found Lindsay Dunbar.” Scott paused. “Or at least the man’s body. We’re heading out in ten.”

  I shook my head at his words. For a split second, I’d thought he’d been found alive. “Where was he found?”

  “Back up I-80 toward the rest area about fifteen minutes. Locals are on the scene now.”

  “Okay. Are you at your room?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Bill just called Beth, so she knows. We’re meeting downstairs.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you down there in a minute.”

  “Yup.” He hung up.

  I pulled on my gray suit jacket and left the room. After taking the elevator downstairs, I grabbed a coffee from the station near the check-in desk and waited for the rest of the team.

  Bill walked up first. His short brown hair was parted on the side, recently combed, and still a bit wet. His cheeks were pink from what I guessed was a shave about five minutes prior. “Morning, Hank.” He let out a bit of a long breath that could have been called a sigh.

  “Bill,” I said.

  “More shit left in these two’s wake.” Bill glanced at his big black watch.

  “Get any more details other than he was found?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Nah. Scott’s call was pretty short. He just said he was contacted by the local office. I guess the sheriff’s department said they found our guy and that he was deceased. They called it in to the local office. Local office called Scott.”

  I nodded.

  I caught the ding of the elevators and glanced over. The brass doors spread, and Beth and Scott stepped out. The two saw us and headed over.

  “Morning, guys,” Scott said.

  “Morning. What do we have over there?” I asked.

  “A motorist called it in. The guy found Mr. Dunbar dead in a cornfield. What came through to me was that the man had been shot in the back.”

  “How does a motorist find a DB in a cornfield?” Beth asked.

  “Good question, which we will find out as soon as we get over there. The body is still on the scene. Locals are keeping his remains there until we arrive. Are we ready?” Scott asked.

  “I’m good to go,” I said.

  Beth and Bill nodded.

  “All right, well, let’s get over there. We have the same forensics guys from yesterday meeting us in about a half hour or so, as well as Agents Gents and Makara.”

  “Sure,” Beth said.

  We left the hotel, got our vehicles from the parking structure, and headed out. Beth and I followed Scott back to the interstate and roughly ten miles back toward the rest area where we’d found the RV. Scott exited and made a left. We traveled down a two-lane country road lined with cornfields for about two miles until we came on the scene. Four sheriff’s cruisers were parked along the right-hand shoulder of the road, and two unmarked sedans sat on the left.

  “I’m guessing this is our spot,” Beth said.

  Scott pulled to the shoulder behind the sheriff’s cruiser, and Beth and I pulled up behind them. We stepped from the car and followed Bill and Scott toward the group of deputies huddled near the first car. I glanced at the last cruiser in the line and saw a man sitting in the back with a small brown-and-white dog, which I thought was odd. The dog had a leash attached around its neck to its collar. We stopped with the group of six deputies—I recognized a pair of them from the RV at the rest area the previous day.

  “What are we looking at here?” Bill asked.

  One of the deputies from the day prior spoke up, a short, round man with the name Mullins embroidered in yellow on his brown long-sleeved sheriff’s shirt. “Guy in the cruiser there stopped for a dog on the side of the street.”

  “I’m assuming it’s the dog in the car with him?” I interrupted.

  “Correct.” Deputy Mullins continued, “So he stops at the side of the road, and the dog runs into the cornfield at the disturbed area there.” Mullins pointed toward a line of bent-over and damaged cornstalks leading into the field. “Well, the guy follows the dog for a bit and sees the body. The guy is still back there. We didn’t touch him—nothing. What you see back there is exactly as found.”

  “How exactly do we know this is our guy? ID on him?” Scott asked.

  “Well, I guess we don’t know a hundred percent, but the DL photo we have in our system for the guy looks like him. We didn’t check him for ID. Like I said, we didn’t touch the body,” Deputy Mullins said. “The name came from the tags on the dog’s collar. Deputy Schumer was first on the scene here. I guess I’ll let him explain.” Mullins nodded to the other deputy.

  Deputy Schumer looked to be young—late twenties was my guess. He coughed into his fist, clearing his throat. “I reported to the scene, and this guy showed me what he’d found. I ran the name from the tags, which came back to a man looking like our vic back there. There was an alert for the man in the system to contact the local FBI. I did, and I guess they called you. When I called everything back in to the station, they just told me to sit on the guy and wait on the scene until the FBI arrived.”

  “We appreciate that,” I said. “Do one of you guys want to lead us back there to have a look?”

  “Yeah, I can walk you back,” Deputy Schumer said.

  Bill, Scott, Beth and
I followed the deputy into the field.

  Schumer looked back over his shoulder. “The deceased is up here about thirty feet.”

  None of us responded but followed along, taking large steps over the bent cornstalks. I could hear the leaves of the stalks scratching against our group as we walked.

  “Here we go,” Deputy Schumer said.

  Our group stopped, did our best to spread out against the corn a bit, and got a look. The man lay facedown. His tan sweatshirt had two bullet holes in the back. Around the holes and down the man’s sides was blood. It looked dry. The way he lay and the lack of blood anywhere except the man’s immediate vicinity told me he’d gone down and not moved much again before he expired.

  “That’s our guy that the couple took from the rest stop,” Beth said. “He’s wearing the same hooded sweatshirt.”

  “I’m guessing he was killed damn near right away after they left,” I said. “The blood looks old. Forensics should be able to tell us for certain, though.”

  “I spotted whatever that was there right away when I got to the scene”—Deputy Schumer pointed a bit off to the right of Bill, amongst the corn—“I figured I’d leave it for forensics.”

  We all looked over where he pointed. A rectangular pamphlet lay a few feet from Bill’s feet.

  “That looks like the map that she showed to this guy at the rest stop. We have that on video,” I said.

  “Okay, let’s leave this for the forensics team and get back out to the street. I want to see if that guy happened to see anything else,” Scott said.

  We walked single file from the field back to the street. A gray sedan approached and pulled up behind our line of cars. Two men stepped out—Agents Makara and Gents.

  “You said that you wanted a word with our guy here?” Schumer asked. “We should probably kick him loose pretty soon.”

  “Yeah,” Scott said.

  Scott and I followed Deputy Schumer to his car. Beth and Bill went to meet with the Omaha agents.

  Schumer opened the rear door of the car and motioned the man to get out.

  The thin, thirty-some-year-old man stepped out, followed by the dog. He held the dog’s leash and stood before us. Schumer closed the rear door of the car and went to the group of deputies.

  “We’ll try to get you out of here in a second, Mister…?” Scott said.

  “Tarabay,” he said. “Jeff Tarabay.”

  “Do you mind just running through what happened?” I asked.

  The guy ran his fingers through his short blond hair. “Well, I was driving over to my mother’s place, and I see this little dog on the side of the road. I could see it had on a collar and leash, so I stopped—don’t want the thing to get hit, you know. Plus, with the collar on, I figure I can find out who the owner is and call. Hell, I’d appreciate that if one of my dogs got away. Anyways, as soon as I pull off to the shoulder and park, the dog bolts back into the field there. Well, I think it’s a bit odd that the dog runs directly up where the corn looks damaged, so I go in after it to see what is going on. I get about thirty or forty feet back in there and see the dog sitting next to a guy who is facedown. I walked to him, saying, “Sir, sir, sir.” The guy didn’t respond. When I get next to him, I could see that he was shot or whatever. Well, I kind of kick the bottom of his shoe with mine to see if he moves, which he doesn’t. That’s when I called 9-1-1. That’s about it. I took the dog with me back out to the street and waited for the sheriff’s department to arrive.”

  “Did you give that statement to anyone?” Scott asked.

  “Yeah, the deputy who just let me out of the car. He took my name, statement, all of that.”

  “Deputy Schumer!” I called. “Do you have everything you need from him here?” I asked.

  Schumer turned from speaking with the other deputies and gave me a nod.

  “Okay, Mr. Tarabay, you’re free to leave,” I said.

  “What should I do with the dog?” he asked.

  I thought for a moment. “Um, leave him with us. We’ll find something suitable for him until we can contact some family for him or something.”

  “Sure,” Tarabay said. He held the leash out toward me.

  Though I’d meant the guy should pass the dog off to one of the deputies, I took the leash in my hand. Tarabay headed toward his car.

  “New pet?” Scott asked.

  “For about thirty seconds while I find someone to take him,” I said.

  I looked down toward my feet, and the little dog stared back at me. It looked as though it could have been some kind of a mix with a pug, by its scrunched face. I got low and gave him a scratch behind the ears.

  “Sorry about your owner, buddy,” I said. I took the dog’s tags in hand and looked at them. The first of the two was blue and read Matilda. Apparently, it was female, not male. I moved that tag to the side and checked the other. It said if lost to contact Lindsay Dunbar and listed a number. I looked back up at Scott, who was watching me deal with the dog. “Do you remember the number we tried tracking on this guy?”

  Scott shook his head.

  I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed the number on the dog tag. My phone rang in my ear until a message came on, stating that Mr. Dunbar was out of the office on business for the week and listing two phone numbers where he could be reached. I hung up and pulled out my notepad.

  “Did you get something?” Scott asked.

  “Maybe. The message I just got listed two numbers to reach him at.” I hit the button on my cell phone to redial so I could jot the numbers down.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I called Ball in Manassas as soon as I clicked off from Lindsay Dunbar’s voice-mail message. I gave Ball both numbers, as well as the one I’d originally called that gave me those numbers—he said he would see what the twins could do.

  Beth and Bill had filled in Agents Gents and Makara on what we had on scene. Makara had told Beth that the forensics guys had been going over the RV they had towed from the rest area but had gotten nothing other than prints.

  I stood along the road’s shoulder, looking back into the cornfield. Every few moments, I caught flashes of a few guys in white clean suits walking around through the corn. A coroner had just taken the body back into Omaha, and the forensics guys were searching for any other evidence that could have been tossed. The white-and-red pamphlet we saw near the body had turned out to be an RV Map of America, according to the title on the front. Aside from it being a standard map, it listed all the major attractions and RV parks across the US. While we didn’t know why they’d kept it, we’d sent the sheriff’s department out in search of the locations that were local, just in case.

  My cell phone rang in my pocket. I slid it out and hit Talk. The call was coming from our home office.

  “Rawlings,” I said.

  “Hey, it’s Ball. We have a hit on one of the numbers. It belongs to a business, which we called. They said the phone was issued to Dunbar.”

  I dug my notepad from my pocket. “Where?”

  “Lewis and Marcus say Sweet Creek Campground. It’s just off of twenty-nine, about five miles north of Omaha.”

  Ball gave me the address, which I wrote down. “And it’s there now?”

  “Yup.”

  “All right, we’re going.”

  “Let me know,” Ball said.

  “Yup.” I hung up and jammed my phone back into my pocket. I turned away from the cornfield and faced Beth, Bill, and Scott, who were standing with the other agents at Bill and Scott’s rental car. “Let’s roll. We got a hit on one of the phone numbers for this guy.”

  I took a step toward them and realized I was still holding a leash with a little dog attached to it. “Shit. Um, come on, girl.”

  The dog trotted along toward the group as I walked over.

  “Bringing the pup with?” Beth asked. “Deputy Mullins said he’d take her.”

  “He did?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Deputy Mullins!” Beth called.

  He was standi
ng at the front of his cruiser a few cars up and turned back toward us.

  Beth waved him over, and he walked up.

  “You don’t mind looking after Matilda here, right?” Beth asked.

  He held out his hand for the leash. “Yeah, I’ll see if anyone from the department wants to take her in until we can figure out what to do with her. If not, she can come and stay with me until we do. We have three dogs at home now. I’m sure a fourth for a few days wouldn’t make too much of a difference.”

  I handed the leash off to him. “Appreciate it. We’re heading over to the Sweet Creek Campground. I know some of the other deputies were out searching the local RV spots. Can we get one or two to meet us there?”

  “I’ll call it back to the station. Whoever is in the area will meet you.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Sure. C’mon, pooch.” He walked back toward the other deputies.

  I looked at Agents Gents and Makara. “Are you guys heading over there with us? The hit on the cell came from a campground a couple miles out from Omaha.”

  Both men nodded.

  Beth and I hopped in our car. Bill and Scott did the same behind us, as did Makara and Gents. Beth and I led the way, and I punched the address into my phone and hit the button to make it navigate. “Back to the interstate toward the city.”

  “Got it,” Beth said.

  Our ride over was mostly quiet. Beth exited the interstate, and after a few turns on surface streets, the navigation on my phone told us the campground should be coming up on our right. I saw a wooden sign in the distance, with yellow lettering spelling out Sweet Creek. I pointed at the sign and exited the navigation on my phone. Beth turned in, and we found two sheriff’s cars waiting along the side of the entrance. Beth pulled alongside the leading car, and I rolled down my window.

  I pulled out my bifold and showed my badge to the deputy driving. “Agent Rawlings,” I said. “This is Agent Harper. The cars behind us are agents as well. Did you guys head in yet?”

  “We just arrived not more than a minute or two ago,” the deputy said. “We were over at another campground a few miles away when we got the call. Our instructions were to wait on the FBI.”