“Who would do such a thing?” Marcie continued to peer at Sam as if he had all the answers.
“Maybe our killer’s a trophy taker. Or it’s meant as a message.”
“Message, like what? You broke my heart, so I’m taking yours?”
“Could be.”
“Which could also mean our killer might be a woman jilted by this guy.”
“So you’re thinking she lures him back here for a little fun and games, then kills him?”
“Maybe. Though, he surely had to wonder why she shackled him to the floor in the office instead of a bed.”
“Or it’s some creepy serial killer,” Sam said, hoping he was wrong. “But if that was the case, we probably would have heard about another murder like this. Still, I’ll run it through ViCAP.”
After seven years as a homicide detective, Sam was all too familiar with the FBI’s ViCAP database designed to track and correlate information on violent crime, especially murder. Current cases could be matched to others to see if their killer had struck before.
He opened his mouth to speculate further, when a deadbolt on the door caught his interest. Odd. Who puts a deadbolt on a bedroom? He’d been too wrapped up in looking at the body to see it before, so he went to investigate.
In the hallway, he found a hook near the top of the doorframe with a key dangling from it. He checked the lock again. It carried the shine of a newer lockset. He’d like to make sure the key fit the lock, but he didn’t want to risk smudging any fingerprints.
He pulled out his notepad and jotted down the brand of the lock, then snapped a picture with his cell phone. “Did you see this deadbolt? Key’s hanging in the hallway. Either the vic routinely secured his equipment, or our killer locked up the vic.”
“Curiousier and curiousier,” Marcie mumbled, her gaze never leaving the body.
Curious and disturbing. The kind of thing that, combined with the missing heart, took this case from a routine homicide and pushed it to top priority status. One he needed to alert his commanding officer to before the press got wind of it. But the first thing his lieutenant would for ask was the vic’s identity.
Sam rejoined Marcie. “Mind looking for an ID so I can get to work on finding the sicko who did this?”
“My pleasure.” She withdrew a wallet from the vic’s back pocket and handed it to him.
He flipped through the cheap nylon billfold. “No driver’s license. Not surprising. Didn’t find a car in the garage either. Now if I was investigating this case in Texas, that in itself would be a red flag. Since everything’s so spread out there, you need a car, but—”
“With Portland’s solid public transit system, plenty of people don’t own cars here,” Marcie finished for him.
He pulled out a warehouse club card. “ID’s for Elliot Congdon. House is registered to him, too.” He held the photo out for Marcie.
She looked at it, then at the body. “That picture is so small and grainy, I wouldn’t bet my job on this being Congdon.”
Sam slipped the card back in the wallet and bagged it. He didn’t mind giving his lieutenant an unverified ID, but going to the next of kin without being positive was something he worked hard to avoid. And he sure as shootin’ didn’t like to bring people to the morgue for an ID when the body was in such a decomposed state.
In hopes of finding a better picture, Sam would search DMV records just in case the vic had a license but didn’t carry it. They’d also fingerprint the body and search databases. If their vic had been arrested, had completed a background check, or was in the military, his prints would be readily searchable. Though from his rumpled clothing, Sam doubted the deceased had served in the military.
The process would take time, but it was time well spent. He’d rather do a bit more legwork instead of mistakenly telling the wrong person their loved one had been brutally murdered.
SULYARD HAD LOST all patience with Kait, but she wasn’t giving up. Not when a chance existed—albeit a miniscule one—that Fenton had been murdered in the house across the street.
“May I remind you, sir,” she said keeping her tone free of emotion, “that with our suspect headed to the morgue, you said I couldn’t do any damage to the case. And I know you never go back on your word.” She held her breath and waited for him to knock her down a peg. He simply let his icy look do the work for him. She’d pushed him too far, and she was certain she’d blown it.
“She’s right, sir. You did say that when we arrived,” Nina said, surprising Kait. Nina often soothed ruffled feathers in the office, her kindness legendary to all who worked with her, and she rarely rocked the boat. Now here she was standing up for Kait.
Kait waited for Sulyard to freeze Nina with the same stare. If he was a kinder, gentler supervisor, like many others Kait had worked with at the FBI, he’d take this in stride. But he was old school. Rigid. Unyielding and always in control.
He focused on Kait. “You can stay until the vic is ID’d. But report in the minute that happens. You got that?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and immediately clamped her mouth closed on a victory smile begging for release.
“And Brandt.” He swung his gaze to Nina. “No more double teaming me if you know what’s good for you.” He clapped his hands, the sound reverberating through the neighborhood and sending birds flying. “Let’s go, people.” He pivoted and climbed into his vehicle.
Nina hung back.
“Thanks for that,” Kait said. “But you should go, before he gets angrier. I can handle myself, and I don’t want you to get in trouble for me.”
Ignoring Kait, Nina turned to face the crime scene. “So, Sam Murdock, huh? He’s the cop who was so kind to you the night Abby died, right?”
Wondering where Nina was going with this, Kait nodded.
“Then your job here won’t be too difficult.” Nina gestured across the street where Sam had stepped around the forensics van. “That guy’s not hard on the eyes. Not hard on them at all.”
“You want me to introduce you?” Kait asked in jest. Nina’s recent difficult breakup with Navy SEAL Quinn Stone had left her wary of all relationships.
“Oh, no, honey. With the way he’s looking at you, I’d say he’s all yours.” Laughing, she dropped her car keys into Kait’s hand and walked away, but honestly, with Sam’s gaze locked on Kait, she hardly noticed her friend leaving.
She’d like to say she was so focused on the case, that when they’d talked earlier, his barely veiled interest hadn’t piqued her curiosity, but the connection she’d felt continued to simmer under the surface. Not that she’d do a thing about it. She only had eyes for the victim today.
Pocketing the keys, she worked her way through the crowd to talk to Sam. By the time she reached him, he’d casually leaned his shoulder against the van. His ankles were crossed, his gaze still intently watching. She was sure he’d meant his relaxed posture to catch her off guard, but his laser-sharp focus gave away his intensity.
“Kait.” Her name oozed out like warm honey.
“Do you have an ID for the deceased?” she asked, ignoring his attempt to charm her.
He cast an equally languid look across the road. “Where’s the rest of your team going?”
So that’s the way they were going to play it. She’d thought they were over the local versus fed dance. Obviously not. Too bad. She wasn’t all that good at dancing. She had the long lean body of a dancer, but she was much better at stepping on toes.
“You first,” she said. “Is the deceased Congdon?”
“We’re still not positive.” He watched her for a moment. “Seems like a good time for you to tell me what’s going on here.”
They could ride this seesaw of redirection forever if she allowed it, but she needed to know if Fenton had died, so she’d get this conversation started. “We tracked a bot h
erder named Fenton Rhodes to this location. The code was indicative of something he would write. He’s the creep who killed my sister. He’s evaded us for three years. Not even a hint of his activity until today.”
“I remember Rhodes, but I won’t pretend to know what a bot herder is.”
“It’s—”
Sam held up his hands, horror, or maybe disgust, on his face. “If it turns out I need to know about this bot herder thingy for the case, then you can explain. But please, spare me the details until then.”
“Not into technology, huh?”
He patted the smartphone case on his belt. “I still haven’t totally figured this thing out, much less understand all that computer jargon.”
Despite her desire not to succumb to the charms of this dashing Texan, she couldn’t help smiling at his technophobia. It was oddly intriguing, and under normal circumstances, she’d consider exploring it, but her life had been far from normal the last three years. “So is it possible that Fenton Rhodes is the victim? He’s six feet. One hundred eighty pounds. Jet black hair. Prominent nose. Blue eyes.”
“He fits the description of our vic, but we have tentatively ID’d him as the homeowner, Elliot Congdon.”
“But you’re not positive on the ID.”
“Not one hundred percent, no.”
“Since there’s a chance it could be Fenton, I’d like to do a physical confirmation.”
“Shoot, Kait.” He pushed off the van and planted his boots wide apart, making him seem bigger and more imposing. Likely his intent. “You don’t want to go in there. Not unless you have to. This one is grimmer than most. It’s not a pretty sight. And with the heat . . .”
Kait’s irritation flared over his assumption that she was fragile. “I can handle it, detective.”
“I know you can, but why would you want to when there’s no need? I’ll update you on what we find.”
“I need to see him.” She met Sam’s gaze and saw him warring with indecision. “Please,” she added, wishing she could draw out the word for emphasis the way he did.
He gave a sad shake of his head. “If you insist, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Right.” He rolled his eyes and held up the yellow tape, allowing her to duck under.
She followed him to the officer of record stationed at the end of the walkway and registered her information in the official logbook.
“That’s the ME on the porch.” Sam gestured at the redhead Kait had seen him talking with earlier. She wore white coveralls and squatted to dig something out of a tote bag. “We’ll talk to her first to see if she’s discovered anything helpful.”
He handed Kait a pair of latex gloves, then took off. His long legs cut across the grass, but she matched him stride for stride. At the house, she followed him up the stairs. The awful decaying smell of death greeted her at the top, sending her lurching back. If Sam saw her squeamishness, he didn’t comment, and for that, she was grateful.
“Marcie,” he said, his voice carrying a note of fondness for the woman. “This is Kaitlyn Knight. FBI. She might know our vic.” Sam shared Kait and Abby’s story.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Marcie snapped off a glove and thrust out her hand to Kait. “Marcie Jensen. Deputy Medical Examiner.”
“Any luck in narrowing down the time of death?” Sam asked while Kait shook hands with Marcie.
Marcie frowned. “Won’t know until I get him back to the morgue, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to give you an accurate time even then.”
“A guess, then?”
Marcie sighed.
“I know, I know,” Sam said as if he read her mind. “You don’t like to guess, but it could help us solve this case faster and give Kait the closure she needs.”
Marcie eyed him for a long time. With the way he patiently stood under her study, Kait suspected these two were friends outside of work.
“Fine,” she finally said. “If I have to guess, the best I can do is two or three days. The large blisters on the skin and the abdominal bloating would normally tell me he’s been dead three or four days. But this heat wave speeds up decomp, so I doubt it’s been that long.”
The smell, combined with Marcie’s graphic description, made Kait’s stomach churn. “Do you have a cause of death?”
“We don’t need to—”
“No clue at this point,” Marcie interrupted. “I’d like to say it’s not a gunshot or stabbing. Especially since the deceased’s shirt wasn’t damaged, but with the removal of his heart, I can’t be sure of that.”
“Someone cut out his heart?” Kait’s voice raised two octaves, catching the attention of a forensic photographer standing near the corner of the house. The threatening nausea intensified, and her stomach roiled with unease. She’d been so cocky, saying she could handle seeing the body, but could she? Could she really?
“You didn’t tell her?” Marcie flashed Sam an irritated look. “Guess I need to stop telling people you’re one of the good guys.”
“I didn’t tell her because I hoped she’d make a quick ID and leave before she had to hear about that.”
“Hello, I’m right here.” Kait tried to sound frustrated instead of nauseated.
“Sorry, sweetie.” Marcie patted Kait’s arm. “With the heat wave, we’re all a little bit on edge here. Sounds like Sam’s just looking out for your best interests. Which is a good thing, I suppose. This isn’t going to be an easy case. Everything I’ve seen so far points to a professional, or at least a very experienced killer.”
Rivulets of perspiration rolled down Kait’s back, and she wasn’t sure if it was from the heat or because this case was starting to make her skin crawl. “Are you suggesting a serial killer?”
“No, not serial.” Marcie pushed a stray curl from her sweaty forehead. “I’m just saying, though I think the heart was taken postmortem, the killer shackled our vic to the floor, which suggests premeditation. Plus, he has to be a real sicko to mutilate the body, and then abscond with the heart.”
“He not only cut it out, but it’s missing, too?” Kait turned to Sam for an answer. “And the poor guy was restrained?”
Sam nodded, his expression grimmer. “Still sound like Rhodes? Or someone he might be involved with?”
She had no idea how to answer his question. Before Abby’s death, Kait would have said absolutely not, but now she knew the real Fenton. The one who would do anything to keep his status as the supreme hacker—and that could make him a target of others who wanted to dethrone him.
But a murder as brutal as this one . . .
She peered at Sam. “Fenton shot another hacker point-blank in the back of the skull. That’s why our team tried to arrest him three years ago. So what Marcie describes isn’t out of the question, I suppose.”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Sam donned a pair of disposable booties and entered the house.
Swallowing hard, Kait grabbed a pair, too, her pulse hammering in her neck. She was finally going to see if Fenton was shackled to the floor, his heart removed by some ruthless killer. Fitting, she supposed, since Fenton was as heartless as they came. Very fitting indeed.
Chapter Five
KAIT WOULDN’T have a chance to inspect the crime scene again, so she took a quick look at the flaking paint clinging to the front door which held a tarnished brass mail slot. She examined the lock and found no sign of forced entry, but the deadbolt had seen better days. That, coupled with the worn boards on the porch and weather-beaten siding, said Congdon didn’t maintain his property in this neighborhood of pricey homes. Must have made the neighbors angry. Angry enough to kill him and cut out his heart? Not likely.
From the small entryway, she saw Sam waiting for her in the living room. He watched her, but it felt more like one pr
ofessional law enforcement officer evaluating another. Nothing personal. Nothing like the moments between them outside, so she took her time.
She noted the absence of mail on the garish sixties ceramic tile. If the victim had died a few days ago, there should be envelopes and brochures strewn across the floor. Either the mail was moved, or none had been delivered for days. With the abundance of junk mail these days, that would be unlikely.
She looked at Sam. “No mail, or has it been bagged already?”
“There wasn’t any. The post office must have stopped delivering for some reason, or the trusty postal worker would have smelled the body sooner and reported it.”
She jotted a note on her pad and took the single step up to the living room. A sixty-inch flat screen mounted above the fireplace was the first thing that caught her attention. Next, she noted a gaming console and two controllers on the floor beside a denim beanbag chair. The rest of the room was empty. No pictures on the wall, no knickknacks on the fireplace mantel. No clue about who Elliot Congdon was other than a single guy who liked gaming. Nothing unusual, she supposed.
She took a closer look at the walls, finding holes where pictures had once hung, and her pulse tripped faster.
Sam’s focus honed in on her. “You want to tell me what put that look on your face?”
He’d think she was crazy, but she had to be forthright if she wanted him to share his findings with her. “Fenton was a neat freak. Pictures collected dust, so he wouldn’t let Abby hang any.”
“And you think because there’s nothing on the walls that he’s our vic?”
She did, but she had nothing to base it on other than a hunch, so she shrugged and moved on. “You never mentioned how the murder was reported.”
“I didn’t, did I?” he said, once again back to the avoidance dance.
“C’mon, detective.” She planted a hand on her hip. “What’s the point in this? I’m not going to steal your investigation out from under you. Even if I wanted to, you have jurisdiction here.”
Web of Deceit Page 4
