Matt didn’t need the sociology lesson, though he didn’t disagree with her. “You mentioned another teacher who had a conflict with Mr. Marston.”
“No—not a teacher. It was an employee. And ever since those nice officers left, I’ve been trying to remember his name. I can almost picture him.”
“Him. That’s good. What was the conflict?”
“Mr. Marston fired him—and I honestly don’t think I ever knew the circumstances around it. But it must have been egregious. Mr. Marston rarely fired anyone. Teachers are hired by the school district, and he wouldn’t be able to specifically terminate any, though I’m sure he would have a say. All serious discipline was handled by the school board. But he had discretion over other hires.”
“Like?”
“Maintenance, teaching assistants, some of the support staff.”
That’s good. That narrows it down, Matt thought.
“How are you aware of this?”
“It was winter. I remember that much, because we had just come off three snow days in a row. We’re used to snow and ice here, but this was a particularly bad storm. This man pushed Mr. Marston when he was getting out of his car. Just pushed him down into the snowbank. He was belligerent, yelling at Mr. Marston. I had just driven into the parking lot—I got out of my car and told them I was calling the police. Mr. Marston said no, don’t. A couple other teachers were there and we were talking about calling the police, regardless of what Mr. Marston said. We didn’t know if the man had a weapon, or if he was going to use his fists. The man yelled more, pushed Mr. Marston down, then left. Stomped through the snow to a car on the far side of the lot. Later, I asked Mr. Marston what had happened. He said he had to let the man go because he’d come to work drunk again. The way he said it, it was clear it wasn’t the first time. I asked why he didn’t go to the police, and Mr. Marston said the man had lost his wife a year ago, and hadn’t been the same since.”
Matt leaned forward. “You didn’t tell the other officers that.”
“I guess I didn’t remember this morning.” She smiled. “You’re very good at your job.”
“You just had more time to think about it. And you don’t remember his name?”
“No, I recognized him, but I never had interactions with him, if that makes sense. I taught American History to high school juniors for thirty years, until I retired eight years ago. This happened—well, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen years ago. Maybe longer? I haven’t lost my mind, thank the Lord, but I don’t remember everything well.”
Sixteen years ago—that was when Marston left Spokane to get his PhD. That would help. “I can find out exactly when because you had three snow days in a row, correct?”
“Oh my, yes! You would. The school district would have records of that. And it was February, I’m almost positive. I drove to school irritated because the neighbors didn’t take down their Christmas lights yet and I had lost a bet.”
“A bet?”
“My husband and I used to make these silly little bets. He told me the Lawtons wouldn’t have their lights down before February. I said of course they would, they’re responsible folks. And that morning must have been early February because they were still up and I had to cook dinner every night for a week. And Agent Costa, I don’t like to cook.”
When Matt left Mrs. Bollinger’s house, he called Brian Maddox and relayed the information to him.
Maddox remembered the storm, down to the day and year—eighteen months before Marston left.
Matt said, “We need all employment records from that school—any male who was fired in January or early February that year.”
“I can do that, but we might not get anything until Monday.”
“Can’t you light a fire under the school district? This is our single best lead.”
“I’ll see what I can do on a Saturday. I know the superintendent—he might do it himself.”
“Thanks, Brian. I’m going to check in with the forensics team, then go to the hotel to help with the lawsuits I have my team going through. We’re getting closer.”
Matt hung up. He’d been so certain they’d thwarted the killer after the warnings they issued. So certain that the killer wouldn’t be able to get to someone... But he had. Whether Ogdenburg was the intended victim this time or a backup because the killer couldn’t get to Joanne Grant, Matt didn’t know. But destroying Grant’s house suggested someone with barely controlled rage.
But he calmed down. Ogdenburg was killed just like the others. One deep cut, three slices. Methodical, and he cleaned up after.
They had less than three days to find the answers—when their psychopath would target a cop.
Damn if Matt was going to lose someone else.
29
Liberty Lake
3:00 p.m.
Kara had sent her boss Lex to voice mail three times; each message said, “Call me when you can.” Nothing more, nothing less. But three times?
She was still angry with Andy. He was a cop; he should act like it. She wasn’t a coddler; she didn’t tell people that it was okay when they screwed up. She expected a certain level of competence, and being a good backup was required. Hell, she screwed up plenty and took the knocks for it, but she’d never failed in her duty. She’d never put another cop’s life in danger.
She worked the scene because Andy didn’t. She wasn’t a cop in this town; she would have bailed if she wasn’t already invested in the outcome.
If she wasn’t worried about the cops in Liberty Lake.
The feds knew what they were doing, but they were sorely understaffed. Spokane PD was more than competent, in particular Maddox, but this wasn’t their jurisdiction and they had other cases to attend. They were pulling out all the stops, but for how long? Would it take another dead cop before they found this nut job?
Kara couldn’t just sit by and kick back while every cop in eastern Washington was looking for this killer. If something happened while she zoned out, she would never forgive herself. People she cared about lived here—were cops here—and she had to put aside her frustration with Andy Knolls. Focus on his strengths—and he had them. Hell, she had liked him until he walked out of that house while she searched it high and low. It didn’t matter that nothing happened and the killer was long gone; it was the moment of panic when she called for him and he didn’t answer—she thought he was dead. Then the moment of disbelief and rage that he had walked out and didn’t have her back.
Calm. Down.
Andy needed more training. This was Liberty Lake after all—he’d probably never seen a murder victim in his life.
Forensics had found one small piece of evidence, but Kara didn’t think it would lead anywhere. They determined that the killer hadn’t parked on the street, but had used the trail system on foot. There was evidence of footprints leading up to the house from the back. There were many other footprints—but Andy had brought out cops to check the house last night. These were distinct because they went to and from a trail that edged the back of Ogdenburg’s unfenced property.
A team of two officers were following it, but Kara didn’t hold out much hope that they’d find a witness or evidence.
Once forensics had cleared the scene and the cops came back from their canvass of neighbors—none of whom could be seen from Ogdenburg’s house, and those who were home couldn’t recall seeing a trespasser—Kara left. She drove back to Em’s, had a very late lunch, and called Lex.
“Planning to transfer to Spokane now?” Lex said, irritated.
“You didn’t say it was urgent.”
He sighed. “Kara, we have a problem.”
She hated Lex’s lead-ins. “Just tell me.”
“Chen’s working on a plea deal with the feds.”
“What the fuck? What are the feds even doing in this shit storm? This is an LAPD case! It’s our jurisdiction, our evidence, our
undercover sting. You damn well know that when I shot Chen’s thug that it was justified.”
“I know that. You were cleared internally. But the feds want Chen’s supplier. And Chen says that Xavier Fong wasn’t armed when you shot him.”
“He threw a fucking knife at me!”
“And missed—”
“I have a scar.”
“Mostly missed. And then wasn’t armed and you shot him.”
“He threw a knife at my back and if his aim was any better you’d be talking to my corpse. He was reaching into his belt for another weapon and I shot him.”
“The feds are listening to Chen.”
“He runs a sweatshop. Brings in slaves to do his work for him. He killed Sunny!”
“I know, Kara—and believe me, we’re doing everything we can—”
“I’m coming back. Right now. You can’t let them do this!”
“That would be the worst thing you can do right now.”
This could not be happening. “I spent the last fourteen months building a case against David Chen. We have him. I handed the DA a damn good, prosecutable case. Against Chen and a dozen of his associates and three businesses!”
“Kara, you did what you were supposed to, and we rescued hundreds of people. Hundreds. Feel good about that.”
“I do feel good about that,” she snapped, “and I’ll feel fucking amazing when I know David Chen will never see the light of day.”
“I just wanted to tell you what was going on before you heard it from anyone else. I’m doing my best here—I’ve taken it all the way to the top. The chief knows that the feds only got involved when your name came up.”
“Shit. Because I pissed off a couple fibbies years ago they’re going to let a predator like David Chen get a walk?”
“He won’t walk. But...yeah, they’re thinking about a plea and reduced sentence. And if they take the case from us and make it federal, we’re screwed. The DA wants it—he’s fighting for it. You do have friends down here, and DA Dyson is one of your biggest fans. I’ll let you know what happens.”
“I should be there.” Dear God, she was whining now. This wasn’t fair!
“Dyson might call you. You can talk to him, but being a thousand miles away from LA is a good thing.”
“Call me when you know anything,” she said. “Please,” she added. She sounded desperate. She was desperate. She hated being stuck up here when her entire case was falling apart because the fucking federal bureaucrats had their nose out of joint because she embarrassed them years ago.
“You still helping the Liberty Lake PD?”
“Doing their fucking job is more like it,” she muttered.
“You okay?”
She rubbed her eyes. No. “Just tired. Our killer took a second victim in Liberty Lake. A high school principal. If pattern holds, his next victim is supposed to be a cop. But damn, I’m going to help catch him before a cop dies.”
“Sounds messy up there.”
“It is, but there are some competent feds. They seem to all be in Spokane.”
“Good to know, because I haven’t met any that I liked. Be careful.”
“Anything for you, boss.” She hung up.
Damn, damn, damn!
“Honey?” Em said from the doorway. “Is everything okay?”
“Peachy.”
“You can talk to me. You know that, right?”
Kara looked at her sweet grandmother. Emily Dorsey didn’t have a mean bone in her body. She didn’t watch the news because she thought it was sad; she didn’t watch violence on television. She liked the shows where unknown people sang, where stars danced, where there was always a happy ending.
No way was Kara going to introduce her to a dark slice of humanity. Em had enough of that shit from her own daughter.
“Thanks, Em,” Kara said. She got up and hugged her. “I love you.”
Em seemed surprised. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s just—you haven’t said I love you in, well, since you told me you were moving to Los Angeles.”
“That can’t be right.”
“I’m old, not senile.”
“Maybe I don’t tell you enough. But I do.”
“I’ve always known that, pumpkin.” Em smiled and touched her cheek. “Are you going back to Spokane tonight?”
She had been thinking about it. Because if she stayed here, she’d be thinking about what was going on in Los Angeles. If she started thinking about her case against Chen falling apart, then she would get on a plane and confront whichever bastard was screwing with her. And that would probably not help Lex or the DA keep jurisdiction within LAPD.
“Is that okay?”
“Honey, working makes you happy. And all I’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy.”
30
Spokane
8:30 p.m.
The killer followed the federal agent—Special Agent in Charge Mathias Costa according to the news reports—from the Spokane Police Department. He had been waiting for his target to leave at his usual time, but he didn’t. Maybe he wasn’t even there.
Which bothered him. He made a point of keeping his targets under tight watch in the days leading up to the kill.
He told himself it didn’t matter. He’d seen him yesterday; he’d see him tonight. Maybe drive by his house, watch him turn off the lights.
But when he saw the head federal agent, the killer was compelled to follow him. Learn everything about him. Where was he staying? How many people did he have with him? Did he have a bad habit or two? Drink too much like his old man? Pick up a prostitute because he was in a town far from home?
The newspaper itself didn’t have as much information as the online blog the newspaper ran. They’d done a big article on Costa and his team and interviewed the Assistant Director of the FBI. One of the very top, most important people in the FBI.
All thinking about him. They called him the Triple Killer. He didn’t care much for the name, but he had a name, a special FBI code name.
It was kind of scary and kind of exciting, all at the same time.
According to the blog, Mathias Costa was in charge of the Mobile Response Team, a new squad of the FBI that traveled to areas that had minimal law enforcement presence.
“Our goal,” Assistant Director Anthony Greer said, “is to provide support and assistance to local law enforcement in rural and underserved communities. We have some of the sharpest minds attached to the Mobile Response Team with advanced training in forensics, investigations, interrogation, and psychology.”
One interesting note, he saw, was that the MRT unit wasn’t fully staffed yet. But he read the article three times and it was clear that the team had been sent here half-staffed because of him, because he was that important, because his case was crucial.
How exciting!
Still, the killer couldn’t afford to get sloppy. After seeing the cops at his target last night, and going to Plan B and the bitch not even being there, he had to be smart. He shouldn’t have gone into her house when he realized she had run away. That had been a mistake, though he wore gloves and his hair was under a cap and he had been careful. Now? He had to be smarter than he’d ever been. So what if they had figured out his pattern. They didn’t know what these people had done to him. They didn’t know who was really important.
He couldn’t be stopped now. The best for last. The most guilty would die, and then he had a new plan. A new, perfect finale that would atone for all that had been stolen from him.
He followed Special Agent in Charge Mathias Costa to a hotel off the interstate, just outside of the downtown area. It was neither a fancy hotel or a dive.
Calling it quits early, are you?
He frowned. He saw Deputy Chief Brian Maddox’s car in the parking lot. Were the
y all having a meeting? Why would they be meeting here, at the hotel? That seemed rather odd.
He had to take the risk. He had to know what they were doing. No one would recognize him, but he was always careful during his killing week not to do anything that would draw attention to himself. People were generally stupid, but some people weren’t.
Some people might remember a face if they saw it twice.
He needed to wait for a count of ten before he followed Costa.
His palms itched to open the car door. He wondered if the federal agent would know him if he saw him. Would he know that he was looking into the eyes of a man who had killed?
Had Costa killed? He was a cop. How many cops had pulled the trigger in the line of duty? How many had pulled the trigger just because they felt like it? Had Costa been in the military? Had he fought in a war?
Ten.
His subconscious told him it was time. He opened the door, casually closed it. Didn’t lock it. He left nothing of import in his car. He’d only had it for two months. He always bought a different car before he started hunting. Then when he left Spokane, he would sell it and get something else. Another nondescript, five-year-old reliable sedan that looked like half the cars on the road.
He didn’t want to stand out.
He entered the lobby. It was a nice lobby, but not crowded. He would definitely stand out if he stood here for too long.
Look like you have a purpose.
There was a lounge to the right. Only a dozen or so people were in the bar, probably all guests. He walked in purposefully. Sat at the bar. Ordered a beer. He hated drinking—his father had made sure of that—but he could tolerate a beer.
The bartender said, “Charge to your room?”
The Third to Die Page 23
