Murder is Forever, Volume 2

by James Patterson

  Chapter 28

  It was beginning to feel almost physical to Mois: the sense of getting closer and closer to Anthony Garcia.

  Five long, frustrating years. Years spent going over and over the evidence and the baffling lack of motive. And, finally, a portrait of the killer of Tom Hunter and Shirlee Sherman was coming into focus. He was no longer an abstract theory, an out-there possibility, a desperate guess. Anthony Garcia was a flesh-and-blood person, and his weaknesses and vulnerabilities were leading the task force to him with the precision of a GPS tracking device.

  Hey, that’s not a bad line, Mois thought to himself. I gotta remember to use it with the team.

  Despite how tired he’d been the previous day, he’d had another night of very little sleep in his nondescript hotel room. He couldn’t get Garcia out of his mind. And he kept worrying about how he was going to keep the task force back in Omaha focused and motivated while he worked remotely from Hidalgo’s small, stark office at the Terre Haute Police Department.

  The sergeant was now at his desk, tapping away at his keyboard. Again, Hidalgo looked perfectly groomed, like a detective in a glossy studio film. Mois felt like his sad sidekick; always overtired and underdressed in comparison.

  “Okay, we’re up,” Hidalgo said with a nod.

  Mois came around to the side of his desk and took a seat, the two large men squeezing together so that they could both view Hidalgo’s computer monitor. A Skype call image sputtered on the screen and suddenly Negron’s face came into view.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said, sounding tinny and remote from the Omaha task force room. “I look terrible on this, don’t I?”

  “You’re beautiful. You could literally charge us for this call,” Mois said jokingly.

  “You heard that blatant sexual harassment, right, Sergeant Hidalgo?” Negron fired back.

  “Yep, I’m recording this,” Hidalgo said. “Demand a raise or I’ll release it to the media.”

  Just then someone off-camera said something to Negron. Mois could see only a portion of the room behind her but from the background chatter it was clear that the team was still hard at work.

  Negron listened and nodded, then turned back to the screen.

  “Big news, Mois,” she said. “Remember that attempted burglary on Dr. Bewtra’s home the same day as the Brumback killings? We ran a comparison on a DNA sample that was taken off her door and it’s a match for what we got at the Brumbacks’.”

  “Excellent!” Mois said. “We got some news on this end, too. A very scared woman called into the station this morning. Works at a local gentlemen’s club. A regular customer came in last night and boasted about stabbing an eleven-year-old boy. The woman’s description of the man matches Garcia perfectly.”

  “So, we know he’s likely been in the Terre Haute area within the last eight to ten hours,” Hidalgo chimed in. “We put a watch on his house, but he didn’t show last night.”

  Mois leaned in toward the screen. “Garcia’s home is facing foreclosure, he can’t get a job, and we saw evidence that he’s putting his personal effects in order. He must know we’re getting close. This is a guy who has come to the end of the line. He’s got nothing to lose. I want everyone to keep that in mind.”

  Negron was about to say something when suddenly Alex Burns popped his head into the frame.

  “Yo, Detective!” he said. “Hey, I tracked that doctor—Charlotte DeLavigne. She works at—”

  Negron abruptly pushed Alex away from the screen. “Hello? I’m talking here!”

  She grabbed the paper Alex had been holding and began reading. “Looks like Dr. DeLavigne works at Louisiana State U in the—”

  “Let me guess,” Mois said. “The psychiatric division.”

  Negron nodded. “Yep. And she it seems she has some very clear recollections of her encounters with Anthony Garcia, all negative.”

  “Let’s give a heads-up to the Baton Rouge PD,” Mois said. “There’s a very good chance Garcia plans to return there.”

  “You got it,” Negron agreed. “Oh, and I’ve put out a four-state alert on Garcia’s Honda. He won’t—”

  Negron sighed in irritation as yet another person said something to her from the background. She then leaned over to the right, listening intently to whatever the person was saying. Mois suddenly became aware that the chatter in the background had stopped—something was clearly up, something important. Negron urgently turned back to the screen.

  “Murkowski says Garcia’s cell phone has been reactivated!” she exclaimed. “We’ve got a signal…Garcia is traveling south—looks like he’s on I-57…just outside of Effingham, Illinois.”

  “That hooks up to I-55,” Hidalgo said. “And then it’s just a straight shot down to Louisiana!”

  Mois and Hidalgo were up and out of their chairs so quickly it seemed to Negron that they’d literally evaporated from her screen.

  “Hey!” she yelled into her monitor’s camera. “Call me from the road!”

  Negron waited for some kind of response but none came. She frowned in disappointment at the image of the two empty chairs that stared back at her. She felt put out—not only, she realized, by the men’s abrupt exit but at missing the climax of the Garcia case.

  She sighed and went to turn off the Skype chat app when suddenly Mois’s face reappeared on her screen.

  “We did it, Negron,” he said, leaning down into the camera. “Five years of disappointments and dead-end leads. Long nights and frustrating days. But it’s coming together. We’re going to nail Anthony Garcia to the wall, the floor, and the ceiling. Couldn’t have done it without ya. Just wanted you to know that.”

  He held up his hand and pressed it against the screen. Negron smiled and pressed her hand up in response.

  “Go get him, pardner.”

  Chapter 29

  The list had grown so short. It was almost disconcerting how little there was left to do. Anthony Garcia had never doubted that he’d get to the end. But the funny thing was, the list had occupied him for so long he’d never given much thought to what he’d do once he was finished, when the slate was wiped clean.

  After Baton Rouge, maybe he would head to Mexico. The warm weather would be a nice change after so many years in the chilly Midwest. He’d get a place near the ocean. Mia would like that. Everything was easier in Mexico—everybody knew that. He could probably even get some kind of medical license down there. You could buy anything in Mexico—even job references.

  The images of this new life just past the horizon made Garcia smile. It was a warm night and it was pleasant to be gliding down the uncrowded freeway. He felt a growing excitement that his destination was getting closer and closer. But he was in no hurry. As always, the timing had to be just right.

  He reached across the front seat for his flask. He noticed it felt light; he’d have to stop for a refill soon. He took a long swig and, as the whiskey warmed his throat, went back to visualizing his future in the blazing sun.

  But a flash of light interrupted that image, and it was followed a screeching siren. A patrol car had appeared out of nowhere just behind him. Garcia glanced at his odometer. Shit, he’d been flying at eighty-five miles per hour! He’d been too lost in thought to even notice.

  Garcia slowed but didn’t pull over. He had to think this through. Nothing was going to stop him from doing what he had to do—nothing.

  The patrol car’s loudspeaker angrily boomed: “Pull over to the side of the freeway immediately!”

  Garcia slowed more, hesitated, then finally pulled onto the shoulder. He glanced up in his rearview mirror and watched as the patrol car pulled in about fifteen feet behind him. Nothing happened for a moment. Garcia figured it was a state trooper and that he was probably calling in the Honda’s license plate.

  Though it was very dark, the passing headlights of other drivers slowing down to check out the off-road drama occasionally illuminated the side of the freeway. When the trooper finally exited his car, Garcia saw
that he was a large, broad-shouldered man. As he approached, he spoke into a microphone on his lapel. He then slowly came up to the car window.

  “License and registration, please.”

  The man’s voice was deep and curt. Garcia stared up at him—for some reason he wasn’t able to completely make out the trooper’s features. The passing headlights didn’t help, they backlit the hulking figure outside of his window. Garcia blinked a few times and tried to squint.

  “Have you been drinking, sir?”

  “Since—since I was fourteen,” Garcia stuttered. It was a line that had always gotten a laugh before, maybe he hadn’t said it the right way. He was suddenly feeling kind of woozy. He knew the trooper was staring at him.

  He also knew he wasn’t about to let himself be arrested.

  He thought about his gun.

  Almost as an afterthought, he had tucked it into his waistband before hitting the road. He’d half forgotten about it. But now he could feel the cool metal pressing against his stomach. How quickly could he reach for it? Should he grab it by pretending to go for his wallet?

  “I need to see your license and registration, sir.”

  Garcia realized his hands were still gripping the steering wheel. Could he hit the gas and just take off? How far could he get? How much time would he have before the patrol car caught up?

  Out of the corner of his eye, Garcia saw the trooper slowly reach for the gun on his hip. Would he draw? Could Garcia grab his gun a split-second faster?

  As Garcia sat there deliberating, he commended himself on how calm he was being, despite his hazy head. Others in a similar situation would panic. But not Anthony Garcia. Not someone who had done what he had.

  What did he really have to lose? he asked himself. He’d risk having one item on his list go unchecked. But hadn’t he already accomplished so much? He’d settled the scores that meant the most. No one could say he hadn’t gotten things done.

  “Sir?”

  The trooper quietly undid the snap of his gun holder. Garcia turned and looked up at him with a big, friendly smile.

  “Would it be okay if I reached for my wallet?” he asked politely. “Or would you rather I got out my car registration first?”

  The trooper hesitated. Though his face was still shadowed, Garcia could tell he was staring bullets at him. The two men were testing each other. Who would make the first move—and what would it be?

  Suddenly another flash of lights raked across the scene. Startled, the trooper looked to the side as another patrol car came screeching to halt just beside them. Using the distraction, Garcia grabbed for his gun. The slick metal felt amazingly powerful and reassuring as his fingers gripped the handle.

  But his head must have been woozier than he’d realized. Time seemed to have either slowed down or speeded up on him. He couldn’t tell which—all he knew was that the precious split-second advantage he’d been given had disappeared.

  He was only touching his gun while the trooper’s was aimed at the side of his head.

  “Freeze! If you so much as blink I will fire,” the trooper said with quiet ferocity.

  Garcia stared straight ahead. He didn’t move. He didn’t say a word.

  Dimly, he became aware of other voices outside the car. And then the door opened and someone pried the gun from under his belt. They yanked him out of the car, but Garcia didn’t struggle; he moved robotically. Another person started speaking, someone other than the trooper.

  “I am Detective Derek Mois of the Omaha Police Department,” the man said tersely. “And I am arresting you for the murders of Thomas Hunter, Shirlee Sherman, and Roger and Mary Brumback. You have the right to remain silent…”

  The detective droned on and on. But Garcia tuned him out. Other words filled his ears. A phrase, something he had read long ago that had stuck with him, repeated in his mind.

  If you wrong us, shall we not revenge?

  That was it. He had done what was necessary. He had shown the world who Anthony Garcia was. He could hold his head up high to these cops as well as to the lawyers and reporters and doctors who would come.

  But, as he was led in handcuffs to the trooper’s patrol car, he suddenly felt strangely deflated. Why? He had demanded and gotten retribution, even when innocent people like that housekeeper had stood in his way. He had never faltered. Then why did he now feel so…empty?

  If you wrong us, shall we not revenge?

  The patrol car’s siren screeched to life and the trooper floored the engine. The vehicle shot down freeway. But in the backseat, the shackled Anthony Garcia barely noticed. He couldn’t stop wondering something: after all that he had done—all the debts collected and all the points proven—what kind of achievements were they when, in the end, he’d never had any other choice?

  Epilogue

  October 26, 2016

  “The jury finds the defendant, Anthony Joseph Garcia, guilty of first-degree murder.”

  There was no reaction in the courtroom: no gasps of surprise, no murmurs of approval, no shouts of outrage. The lawyers, the judge, the jury, and the spectators all remained silent while the foreman read through the lengthy four-count guilty verdict. The quiet didn’t surprise Mois. He had witnessed this type of stillness many times in courtrooms; he often thought of it as a show of respect for the victims.

  Even so, there was definitely something unusual about the silence of the defendant.

  Anthony Garcia sat at the defense table with a blank look on his face, just as he had for months; his thoughts seemingly far, far away. He had never once said a word, not even when the judge directly questioned him. His lawyers had complained that their client refused to speak to them for the entirety of the trial. They had tried to use it as grounds for proof of insanity.

  Finally, the judge closed the proceedings by noting that Garcia was eligible for the death penalty. But he announced that he was delaying sentencing until Garcia underwent psychiatric testing. The prisoner’s ultimate fate—whether he would spend the remainder of his life behind bars in a psych ward or on death row—would be determined at a future date.

  Garcia remained stoic, apparently disinterested. Only when two heavily armed guards led him out of the courtroom did the palpable tension in the room finally lift.

  As the crowd began to disperse, Mois felt a hand on his arm.

  “Detective Mois, we just want to say thank you one last time.”

  William and Claire Hunter, dressed in somber dark suits, had changed a great deal in the eight years since their son’s murder. They looked older, of course, but Mois noted an even more significant change from the last time he’d seen them. It was in their faces—they no longer had that baffled, stricken look. Mois knew the pain of their son’s death would be with them for the rest of their lives. But it seemed the arrest and now the verdict had, at last, brought them some sense of peace.

  “You told me, many years ago, that you would never give up looking for my son’s killer,” Hunter said as he shook Mois’s hand. “You kept your word. We are so grateful.”

  Mois chatted with the couple for a few minutes. They were sorry to learn that Detective Negron was away on a case and asked Mois to relate their appreciation of her efforts. Future plans were discussed; the Hunters reported that they were finally both retiring and heading for a milder climate. After a moment, hands were again warmly shaken; though no one said it, they all knew it was unlikely they would ever meet again.

  After the couple headed out the door, Mois stopped by the prosecutors’ table and congratulated the lawyers. They insisted the detective and his team’s investigative work had all but done their job for them.

  Checking his watch, Mois finally turned toward the courtroom door—and saw Teresa Negron standing against the doorjamb, her arms casually folded across her chest.

  “What? I thought you were in St. Louis till next week!” Mois said, surprised and pleased at the sight of her.

  “And miss seeing Garcia go down? Oh, helllll no!” she said with mo
ck attitude.

  “I’m glad. The Hunters asked me to thank you.”

  She nodded. “I just spoke with them. Such nice people. It’s horrible that they had to go through this—any of it.”

  Together, they walked out of the courtroom and down the grand marble-tiled hallway. When they came out of the exit doors, the two paused on the courthouse steps to take in the gloriously bright, sunny autumn morning.

  “Hey, I’ve meaning to give you props on the new DNA evidence that came in on the Blanchard case,” Mois said. “I’d say you deserve a cigarette for that one.”

  “Aw, I had to give them up for good once I made detective. I was having too many successes,” Negron laughed.

  Mois chuckled but gave her a curious look. “You told me once—in no uncertain terms—that you were eventually going to get Craig Talley. How were you so sure it was him?”

  Negron thought for a moment and then shrugged. “Sometimes you just know. And then there are those other times—like this Garcia case—when it seems like no matter what you do or how hard you dig, you’re never going to know who did it. Or why.”

  “It’s a hell of a profession, Terry,” Mois sighed.

  “What were we thinking?” she asked ruefully.

  Mois started to say something but then suddenly raised his arm and pointed. Across the lush grounds surrounding the courthouse, a lone couple was walking slowly toward the parking lot. They were holding hands and, after a moment, the woman rested her head on the man’s shoulder. Leaning over, William Hunter affectionately rubbed his cheek against his wife Claire’s short white hair.

  Mois and Negron glanced at each other and smiled.

  “We were thinking about days like this.”

  “Amen, pardner.”

  DET. HARRIET BLUE IS BACK.

  BUT WHEN HER BROTHER IS ACCUSED OF MURDER,

  WILL SHE SELF-DESTRUCT?

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