by Grilz, Jon
“You have good-looking boys, Mr. and Mrs. Weber,” Lockhart complimented.
“You didn’t answer my question,” said Michael Sr.
“Your son was killed in a federal forest, sir, meaning that the crime occurred in an FBI jurisdiction. I’m here to head the investigation into your son’s murder.”
“I watch TV. Where’s your partner,” Michael Sr. pried.
Lockhart resisted the desire to roll his eyes. “I don’t have a partner, Mr. Weber.”
“Why not? You one of those renegade agents, makin’ your own rules and breakin’ everyone else’s?” His tone was thick with sarcasm.
Lockhart felt no desire to continue down the road with him. “Mr. Weber, have you or your family received any threats or noticed anyone suspicious?”
Weber fixed his gaze. “Threats? Nope. But as for suspicious-looking characters…,” he looked Lockhart up and down as his response.
“When was the last time either of you saw your son?”
“Dinner, two nights ago, before he… he disappeared,” Mrs. Weber said, nearly choking on the reality of her words.
“And neither of you heard him leave the house?”
“Nope,” Mr. Weber said flatly.
“So no one followed him?” Lockhart asked as casually as he could.
“Like we said, we didn’t hear him leave. We didn’t know our boy was gone,” Mrs. Weber said. Her voice shook for a moment, and Lockhart keyed in on it.
“Neither of you left the house that night at all? Not to go to the store or a bar or anything?”
Laura looked at her husband, then back to Lockhart, but it was Mr. Weber who answered, “Nope. Stayed right here. All of us.”
No one moved and the three exchanged glances. Lockhart didn’t believe either of them, but he couldn’t prove anything yet, and it was far too early in the investigation to try and back them into a corner by calling their bluff. For now, it would have to suffice that they had more to tell. The rest would be up to him to find out. “Can you think of any reason why Michael might have left the house after dinner? Were there any friends he might have gone to see, or maybe a girlfriend?” Lockhart asked.
“Mikey didn’t have a girlfriend,” Mrs. Weber said. “He spent most of his time studying or reading. He was in college classes, you know.” Her tone was sincere, and she kept eye contact with Lockhart with every word.
Mr. Weber reached for a bottle of whiskey that was resting on a rickety table next to his chair. He poured more than a small amount of the Black Bear into a tall glass. He cracked open a can of Shasta Cola and filled the remainder of the glass before shooting a condescending and slightly threatening look at Laura, who immediately went to the kitchen and returned with several ice cubes. Lockhart had never heard of Black Bear whiskey, but he had a pretty good idea it was a bottom-shelf brand. From where he stood, he could see the neck of at least one other bottle sticking out of the garbage in the kitchen.
“Mr. and Mrs. Weber, is there anything you can tell me that you think might help me solve your son’s murder?”
Michael Jr.’s parents looked at each other before Michael Sr. answered, “Those damn college classes killed my boy. Simple as that.”
“How so? I don’t understand.”
“Good day, Agent Lockhart,” Michael Sr. said, taking a large gulp of his cheap liquor. Obviously he was done with the questioning, whether Lockhart was or not.
“Mr. Weber, I need to know—”
The man had already rotated his chair to face the television. “You can leave my house now, G-man.”
Lockhart scribbled a few notes, before thanking the parents for their time and leaving with the chief in tow. When they stepped outside, Mrs. Weber asked Donaldson to wait a moment, and the two shared a brief conversation that Lockhart couldn’t hear. The chief nodded more than he spoke. Finally he shook Laura’s hand and left the house.
As soon as they were back in the patrol car, Lockhart asked, “What was that all about?”
The car slowly backed out of the driveway with the crunching sound of loose gravel filling the tires and wheel wells. “It was nothing.”
Lockhart turned his body diagonally so as to face the chief the best he could from the confines of the seatbelt. “You know, you’re starting to wander back into that territory of interfering with a federal investigation, like we talked about before.”
“Agent Lockhart, what Mrs. Weber had to say to me back there had nothing to do with this investigation.” The man’s gaze never left the road, but his hands grew faintly white as his grip tightened ever so slightly on the steering wheel.
Lockhart had no choice but to take the man at his word. He continued to write down notes about his impressions of the Webers, adding a few about the chief’s behavior, and then asked, “How many men do you have on your police force?”
“Including me, there’s a part-time deputy and two paid volunteers.”
Lockhart looked over at the man he had been referring to as “the chief of police,”—under the assumption that there was actually a police force that he was chief of—and wondered if it was a joke. “Those aren’t the numbers I was hoping for, but I suppose we can deal with it, I want someone coming by the house and checking the perimeter every couple of hours.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Do you think the killer is still around?”
“I’m not sure, but there were post-murder fires set in seven of the past cases and I’d like to avoid a repeat.”
“So you think this is connected with the other deaths?”
Lockhart shrugged, still focusing on his notes. He couldn’t be sure it was connected, as there was no tangible proof, but there were enough similarities to warrant some genuine concern. What bothered him the most though, was how the Webers and Chief Donaldson had been acting.
“I’ll make sure the patrols are set up at the Weber home. Where are we going next?” the chief asked.
Lockhart considered the question for a moment. “Back to the police station. Do you have an evidence kit? DNA swabs, stuff like that?”
“Sure do—somewhere.”
“Good. Grab that and the best camera you’ve got. I’ll take my car, and you can meet me back at the crime scene.”
Chapter 5
By the time Donaldson returned to the crime scene, Lockhart had rounded up all the townsfolk who had taken it upon themselves to guard the place or whatever they thought they were doing. Once Donaldson got out of his car, Lockhart began his speech to the mob gathered around him near the hood of his rental car. “Okay, folks, my name is Special Agent Lockhart of the FBI. I am here to investigate the death of Michael Weber Jr. I’ll keep this as brief as possible. Two things. First, this is a federally owned national forest and regardless of your intention, it is illegal for any of you to carry a firearm within the perimeters of this property. As of right now, it is up to you to remove them from this land. If I see anyone with so much as a wrist rocket, I will arrest you on federal weapons charges. This is a presumed homicide and I will not risk a murderer getting away because of someone wanting to play hero out here. I’m sure none of you want the killer’s escape to be on your conscience.”
There was a murmur of understanding in the crowd of people.
“Second, everyone here needs to be fingerprinted. While this is voluntary, I encourage you to allow us to do this procedure. Chief Donaldson will need to take pictures of your shoes as well, and we need the names of any other citizens who have set foot on the scene. This is for your protection as well as for the validity of our investigation, because we must disqualify you all as suspects.” The last part was a lie, of course, but he knew it would garner the cooperation of the locals, even if one or more of them were guilty. With a little luck, the fingerprints or shoeprints they took might help to identify a killer who just couldn’t stay away from the scene of the crime. Anyone who refused to comply with the “voluntary” procedure would be instantly suspected and receive special scrutiny. “Do any of you smoke?”
All but about five people raised their hands.
“Fine. Those of you who do will need to provide the chief with DNA samples as well. All we need for that is a little saliva to validate the butts that have been left at the scene.”
One voice came up from the crowd. A scruffy, thirty-something man with a hunting rifle and a lip fat with chewing tobacco yelled, “I got your saliva sample right here!” He spat on the ground in grotesque fashion, sending a black, sticky wad into the dirt.
The crowd laughed.
Lockhart approached the man, his eyes cold as steel. He stared at the man, making sure that the look was returned before speaking. “A comedian, huh?” Lockhart said. “Tell me a joke.”
“What?” the scruffy man asked.
“Tell me a joke. You are the joker of the group, right? Tell lots of stories at the bar? Funny guy. C’mon, tell me a joke to make me laugh like everyone else here and forget that a fifteen-year-old boy got shot in the back of the head here.” Lockhart held his glare with vicious determination.
The man’s face flushed, and he swallowed deeply, gutting whatever chew spit he still had in his mouth.
“Come on, funny man. I’m not threatening you. I really want to hear something so funny that I can stop thinking about a possible serial killer, because I can’t do that on my own, and you seem to think all of this is a damn riot. Please… make me laugh.”
The man shook his head.
“No more jokes today? Nothing funny?”
The man shook his head again like a scolded child.
Lockhart stepped back and addressed the crowd again. “I don’t care what you think about police or the federal government. I don’t care what you‘ve seen on TV. My only concern is to solve a murder—the murder of one of this town’s children. Until that is done, I don’t think there is anything to joke about.” Lockhart cracked his neck to the side, clearly agitated at having to solicit cooperation for the investigation of a child’s murder. “So, by show of hands, is anyone on the side of a child killer?”
No one dared to move, let alone raise a hand.
“Who wants to help me find a killer?”
Slowly, almost reluctantly, they jutted their arms to the sky. He wasn’t surprised by the hesitation, considering he’d just insulted the whole crowd in a condescending but well-deserved way.
Lockhart smiled. “Who wants to get drunk when the killer is found and arrested?”
All hands remained up and a collective but tentative laugh rose into the pine-infused air.
“That’s what I was hoping to see. Now, please, one by one, go to Chief Donaldson and provide your shoe prints and DNA as needed.” Lockhart turned to face the chief. “Also, I’ll need a list of anyone who is not present right now that has been to the scene.”
The chief’s eyes squinted slightly in confusion. “But the feds from Bemidji already took the prints and samples and stuff.”
“Just do it,” Lockhart said before he walked into the woods toward the crime scene. It was busy-work, of course, but Lockhart wanted to keep the man busy with some penance. If nothing else, it would give him time to think.
This time, walking through the maze of trees, Lockhart kept his eyes and head on a swivel, looking for anything that might seem out of place. As he did so, he pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and snapped them onto his hands.
All around Lockhart, the sounds of leaves and pine needles swished in the wind. The gentle crackling of the branches was a dull moan from the forest itself. He had spent so little time in the wilderness that it was difficult for him to discern what “out of place” might mean. The local police or their chief could probably assist in such a situation, but Donaldson was busy serving his penance for being foolish enough to compromise the crime scene be soiled on the assumption that no further work had to be done during the investigation.
At the scene of the crime, Lockhart found himself reintroduced to his disgust. Footprints littered the scene, and the entire area was disturbed. From the traces of blood and displaced leaves, Lockhart matched up the initial crime scene photos he had downloaded to his phone.
There, on the screen of Lockhart’s phone, the boy lay belly down on the grass, his head twisted to the side so that only his right eye was visible about the layer of leaves and pine needles. The lids were half-opened in silent acceptance, almost boredom.
A 9mm shell casing was found near the body, and it seemed to correlate to the size of the wound, just as the chief had said. The shell was found in some pooled blood, contradicting the location of the shooter, but Lockhart ascertained that the casing had ricocheted from a rock and landed in its final position. Or it was moved intentionally to confuse the scene? He knew, though, that moving of evidence didn’t fit with the M.O. in the other deaths he had investigated.
About two years earlier, Lockhart had come up with the theory that a great number of unsolved cases were actually linked. Even though there were large gaps in the ballistic reports from each scene each and every one of those executions had been done with a 9mm handgun. None had witnesses, and some resulted in fires being set to the victim’s work or place of residence within days of the murders. All of the victims were known to be highly intelligent individuals, but those were really the only connections. No further evidence was ever unearthed that would add another piece to the puzzle. The shell casings were always found near the body, and there was never any foreign DNA or signs of assault or physical struggle. It was as if the killer would appear, kill and disappear in one sick, choreographed scene, his only goal to execute a target. Lockhart would have theorized that the killer was a hired hit-man, but who would hire someone to kill kids as young as ten years old? The whole thing picked up the moniker of “Jack the Shooter” in the department, a not-so-clever play on words for the "Jack the Ripper" killings that took place in the White Chapel district of London at the end of the 19th century when 11 women were killed and butchered over a three year span. The killer was never found.
Most of the Bureau’s unsolved murders began to be jokingly associated with “Jack” and Lockhart had never been able to thoroughly pursue his theory because of jurisdictional issues. Finally, after two long years of hell, the killer had made a mistake: He killed someone in a federal forest. The case was Lockhart’s. But why the forest? What significance does that hold? No other bodies that he had linked to Jack were found in wooded areas. The other thirty-plus victims were found in urban and suburban settings, killed on gravel or in alleyways, never in rural areas or forest backdrops.
He felt stalled at this point, so he returned to the police cruiser and found Donaldson still taking photographs of peoples’ shoes with an old wooden school ruler next to them for scale. Lockhart had to admit to himself that it was impressively done. It was good to see the chief take some initiative in the investigation process. “Just about done?” Lockhart asked.
“Last one. I did those swab things too.”
The last man put his shoe back on and walked to his car.
“What’s next? I get to compare all the pictures against any prints back at the scene?” the chief asked incredulously.
“Why? Do you want to?” Lockhart asked with a tilted head, as if he didn’t know how to answer such a question.
Donaldson’s face showed a look of total bewilderment. “Then why the hell did you ask me to—”
“Because you pissed me off. Call it being a jerk or hazing or whatever you want to call it. We each took our shots at each other, and now we can get on with this investigation, on the same side. Okay? Yeah, I’m sure the crime scene guys did an adequate job, but it isn’t your place to assume, and murderers have gotten off thanks to lesser mistakes. Whatever is left at the scene is either tainted beyond use or lost.”
“Then just how do you plan on catching this guy? You still think he’s the one who’s killed all those other people?”
“I never said that,” Lockhart clarified. “I said there are similarities. Where did they take the bo
dy?”
“FBI Resident Agency in Bemidji, about thirty miles from here.”
Lockhart looked at his watch. It was early in the afternoon, but he had no idea how long it would take to talk with the coroner, or to even find the office. “Then I’m heading to Bemidji. Either I’ll get a room there or come back to review the details here. Is there a hotel around here?”
“We have a motel and the bed-and-breakfast. The motel is just outside town, and the B&B is just up the way from the police station. Gotta preference?”
Lockhart didn’t. “I’ll just figure it out when I get back.”
Chapter 6
Bemidji, Minnesota was closer to Special Agent Darren Lockhart’s idea of what civilization should be. There was a lot of concrete and fewer unpaved roads. His mind was comforted by the same signs he saw all over the country, familiar logos of fast food places and coffee shops in all their neon glory, boasting millions served. His job didn’t come with many opportunities for comfort, so something as small and trivial as those Golden Arches was good enough to let him feel his roots again. As long as there were Quarter Pounders in the world, there was some order to it all.
The Town Car wasn’t nearly as obvious there, and it didn’t stick out like a sore thumb like it did back in that town full of pick-up trucks. Nevertheless, his suit was still an object of interest amongst a population who looked more like tourists taking one last trip up to their cabins and vacation homes. There were many trailers hauling boats, freshly pulled from the frigid near autumn waters of the Land of 10,000 Lakes.
In Bemidji, Lockhart didn’t feel so much like a stranger in a strange land, and he certainly didn’t feel like he was at odds with the locals. Quite the contrary, the county coroner—whose expertise was requested and obtained by the local FBI office—seemed excited to see him. “I know we aren’t meeting under the best of circumstances,” the young coroner said, “but I’ve only been on the job six months, so this is a pretty big deal for me. I grew up here and just got elected.” The coroner looked fresh out of med school. He was stocky, maybe just a few inches shorter than Lockhart. The agent assumed he’d probably been a local high school football star who was elected for the position because the older population at the polls recognized his name from all the area sports pages.
