Rez sighed, put the SUV in gear, and pulled out of the rental lot. She headed west on Route 98 toward Destin. Vacation or not, she had a suspect for the first time in the Smiling Jack case. His name was Regis Willoughby.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The X-Drive’s red bar graphic told me I’d already used up two and a half minutes to find any “Smiling Jack” files. I had to search out the web addresses of some of the original blogs to cover the murderous photographs. I figured the FBI tech guys would have scoured those websites for anything useful. They’d have put their findings in a report. They had, and within the first file, I found links to others.
Several thousand others. I’d let my X-drive have at those as soon as I could, but I had to get them all first.
I had all of 30 seconds left to gather information from all those pages. I clicked from link-to-link, frantically clicking link copy commands. The red graphic bar showed me I had just a few seconds. I captured 3 more pages of data and clicked the kill button. The connection was cut. The backdoor trace failed.
I breathed again.
The next order of business: the camera. I doubted the killer left a paper trail purchasing the camera he’d used to take his ghoulish photos. Still, the camera’s history might give me something I could use. I found the Vizica homepage easy enough and then the model. It was a Vizica Sport with an 8 megapixel resolution, 200X zoom, and 50GB built-in memory, enough for thousands and thousands of photographs. The killer had taken only 18. One other problem: the Vizica Sport was virtually waterproof. That explained why the camera still worked.
I removed the battery from the slide hatch on the bottom of the camera and found the serial number. I tried plugging it in to the Vizica website and found I couldn’t get in without a password. I reconnected the X-drive, submitted the web address, and waited for the algorithm to do its thing.
The door opened behind me, and I heard a breathy version of the word, “Dang.” I closed the case with one hand, and saw the old man standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips. He let out a little exasperated sigh. The little blond bounced hopefully by his leg.
“How much longer?” he asked, wearing an I-just-sucked-a-lemon face.
“Some time yet,” I said, keeping my wrath in check. “Why?”
“Well, the third computer’s blinky. I want to get back to my solitaire, and my little Caroline wants to play Cookie Munchers.” He stared at me as if, by sheer force of will, he could make me vanish from existence.
“I have a fair amount of business to attend to,” I said.
“Business? What kind of business?”
The kind of business that is not yours. But what I actually said was, “I am a headhunter.”
He paused, chewing on the word like a piece of suspect beef. “Oh, like you find people for jobs, that it?”
“Something like that.”
His expression turned slightly triumphant. “Heh, heh, heh, guess I won’t ever be givin’ you a call. Retired. Plenty of time for my granddaughter now.”
And for solitaire, I thought, turning around. “I’m afraid I’ll be needing this computer for some time.”
“I’m sorry, Carri-boo,” he told the little girl. “Looks like we’ll have to wait some more.” He adjusted the thick framed glasses and scratched the unruly thatch of gray hair near his ear. “Mister, can ye’ at least gimmie a time you’ll be off?”
I took a deep breath. “I wish I could, but my work is a bit…indefinite. You’re perfectly welcome to take the other computer.”
His face morphed back to lemon mode. “I told ye’ already that computer don’t work right.” He muttered something I couldn’t understand, but the little girl gasped, and I saw her hand fly to her lips. Then they both were gone. Maybe now, he’d do something that promoted togetherness with his granddaughter, rather than parking her in front of Cookie Munchers all day.
Back to Vizica. The algorithm battered down the firewall, and I learned that the camera had been shipped to a distributor in April and then to a Walmart just outside of Panama City, Florida…not far from Destin. Not far at all.
Back to the web browser. I needed access to Walmart’s sales records. As I suspected, that information was not normally accessible via the Internet. One of the applications on my X-drive told me that I could, however, access sales through their internal server. I clicked the “GO” button and waited.
And waited. The search and decipher program raised the internal temperature of the X-drive six degrees and took eight minutes to break through. I’d hacked national defense servers faster. Good for Walmart.
What I discovered didn’t give me much, and that didn’t surprise me. The scarlet-colored Vizica Sport had been purchased from the Walmart in July, paid for in cash, and was a part of a larger order that included five other cameras. That worried me.
Next up: the sailboats I had seen that day from the shore. If the camera had been purchased in Panama City and I found it floating just off Destin Beach, it was a good bet that the killer dropped the camera in the Gulf, somewhere in between. Maybe Smiling Jack was a sailor. Maybe he lived on a boat. Maybe the concave walls in the photographs were actually the inner hull of a ship as I suspected. Maybe the killer made a mistake and the camera went overboard.
But the Vizica was waterproof.
Maybe Smiling Jack wanted the camera to be found. After all, he’d been posting photos of himself in the act of murder…for years. And yet, no one had come close to catching him. Maybe Jack’s upping the stakes a little by throwing out some physical evidence.
I’d seen several sailboats out on the Gulf that morning. I remembered them pretty well, even their registration numbers. Maybe if I found the right boat, I’d find the killer.
A few clicks, and I found out the Sun Odyssey 42DS was a French craft built by a company called Jeanneau and sold through American dealers. The base price was just over two hundred grand. I needed to know who paid that kind of money, so I set about using the X-drive to try to discover who had purchased the Sun Odyssey with the registration code: FL 6606 KR. A few moments passed. I didn’t get the name of the purchaser, but I did discover the name and address of the dealer: Spinnaker Sales in Miramar Beach, just a few miles up Emerald Coast Parkway.
Just then, the door to the business center opened again. And there again was the old man and his granddaughter. And this time, he brought a friend.
“Excuse me, sir,” the man said, swallowing to get his full voice. “I am Donald Granderson, the Motel 6 Manager on Duty, and one of our guests, Mr. Havacamp here, says that you’ve been on this computer for well over an hour.” I nodded. He went on, rocking on his heels as he spoke. “If you’ll note on our business center rules…” He pointed to the plaque on the wall. “…there is a one hour limit if people are waiting.”
I stared at the old man. He stared back triumphantly. Fortunately for him, I am not easily provoked.
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll be very careful to observe the rules. I’m sure Mr. Havacamp has something very important to work on. I’ll clear out at once.”
The manager looked surprised and more than a little relieved. “Thank you, mister, uh?”
“Willoughby,” I said.
“Right, Mr. Willoughby. Room…?”
“Seven, just up the hall.”
“I’ll be sure that you get some meal vouchers for being so cooperative.”
That’s me, Mister Cooperative.
I force-deleted all the browser histories, disconnected my X-drive, took my silver case, and left the business center. I was mulling the fact that I didn’t get a chance to search for the other sailboats, the Hunter 54 and the Oyster 625, when I realized my mistake. I’d booked the motel room under John Spector. And now, I’d just told the manager my name was Willoughby, the alias I’d used with the FBI.
I had a feeling that was going to come back to haunt me.
Chapter 8
Dee Rezvani became suspicious when things were too easy. In her
personal and professional experience, things were never easy. People were never what they seemed. Oil changes turned into $1600 repair bills. Home improvement projects that should’ve taken minutes were measured in days instead. The open-and-shut case turned, with a single clue, into a dizzying maelstrom.
So looking at the Motel 6 in Destin, Florida made her nervous.
She sat in the parking lot at three minutes to 4:00 and wondered about Regis Willoughby. Was he just some innocent guy with an unfortunate name? Someone who found the camera and wanted to do the right thing?
Or was he something much darker? The Bureau kept statistics on almost everything related to violent crime. In most cases the killer was either family or knew the victims. And a very high percentage of killers purposefully contributed evidence that led to them getting caught. Was that what Regis was doing?
Was Regis really Smiling Jack? But this killer had pulled off a series of perfect crimes. No digital trail. No forensic trail. No missing persons. No real suspects. He wasn’t stupid, and didn’t seem the least bit interested in helping anyone catch him.
So why would he come to the FBI now, after all these years? And why would he use a traceable public computer that would take all of the guesswork out of it? The most logical theory was that LePoast and the Deputy Director were right: this is a copycat…a hoax of a hoax.
But Rez wasn’t okay with that. Her investigative intuition was practically screaming that this camera and this Regis fellow would be the first real leads in the Smiling Jack case history.
Maybe the killer’s angry that we’re so inept, she thought. Like playing a game of “hide and go seek,” and sitting in a hiding spot that’s so good for so long that you begin to worry the others have all given up.
Agent Rezvani’s gut told her that there was something here, that Smiling Jack was more than a hoax, and this might just be her chance to nail him. As she left the SUV, she chambered a 9 mm round in her Sig Sauer p226 and secured the weapon in the shoulder holster beneath her jacket. The FBI had switched over to the Glock, but Rez figured she was on vacation, she’d bring her own gun. Plus, she kept a Glock 27 “pocket pistol” in a special holster in the small of her back.
She had two extra clips on her belt. 45 rounds of 9 mm Parabellum ammunition. Parabellum, she thought, her impish smile curling. The bullet’s name was derived from the Latin Si vis pacem, para bellum. If you seek peace, prepare for war.
“Regis Willoughby,” she whispered, “come out, come out, wherever you are.”
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Say what you want about public transportation, but around the Florida beaches? They got things right.
The F-Trans bus arrived right on time. Ten seconds after 4:00 and I was on my way to Panama City Beach Hospital Center. As the bus trundled faithfully on, I held the FBI screen captures in my hand and stared down at the analysis of the murder weapon. The knife was fourteen inches long, though only two and a half of those were blade. It had a wooden handle, studded with brass like a steak knife, but the body of the weapon was enclosed in nickel plate—not brass. The blade was twin sided, likely surgical steel, but very old. FBI’s analysis said the blade would have been used by turn-of-the-century thoracic surgeons who would use the added length to cut deep inside the chest cavity. Of course, all they had were still photos of the murder weapon, so all of this was conjecture. Informed conjecture, but conjecture nonetheless.
One thing for sure, it was a very unusual weapon. I needed a second opinion. Who better to ask than doctors to get a second opinion, especially concerning a blade?
Thunder rumbled out over the Gulf. Storms were like clockwork in parts of the deep South. Almost every day between 4:30 and 4:45, you could count on the heat and humidity to bubble over into a mess of roiling dark clouds. Wind, torrential downpours, plenty of thunder and lightning—and it would all clear out in less than an hour.
I never grew tired of storms…the more powerful, the better. Looking at the black sky churning behind the hospital, I knew this storm would pack a wallop when it opened up. I hoped to be finished with my business so I could watch.
Yellow pastel facade with orange stucco shingles on its roof, towering palms scattered about the grounds, and all manner of bright, tropical flowers bursting from manicured beds—the hospital looked more like a resort, I thought. Cool, climate-controlled air washed over me as I entered. I found myself staring up into a beautiful atrium enclosed with massive sheets of glass. It felt like walking into a hollowed out prism. Colored light spilled down onto the marble floor and bathed patients and visitors alike. Three stories up hung a tall sculpted cross surrounded by winged cherubs and doves, all in brushed silver.
The angels looked like naked toddlers. I shook my head and went to the receptionist.
She was a fifty-ish woman with hair the color of dark chocolate with ribbons of caramel. Frosty clear blue eyes looked out from behind stylish black framed reading glasses. She smiled and gave me a look like she knew everything there was to know. I held up an identification card and shield, aside from money, the only contents of a wallet from my silver case. The credentials didn’t say I worked for the FBI, CIA, or NSA. But hardly anyone looked closely enough to know for certain. I flipped shut the billfold and asked, “You have cardiac surgeons?”
“Best cardiac docs in the U.S.,” she replied. Her accent, deep south, rolled off her tongue: one part brilliant, one part honey. She didn’t question my identity at all. Picture ID and shiny shield. Works every time.
“I’m looking for a certain kind,” I said. “Male or female, it doesn’t matter. Someone who has been around the field for a long time but still sharp.”
“They’re all like that,” she said. “Most heart cutters are sharp.”
“Point granted,” I said. “But I’m looking for someone who’s as clever as they come, the type who sees around corners, if you take my meaning.”
“Doc Shepherd’s who you want. Chief of Surgery, the best cutter bar none, comes from a family of surgeons.” She lowered her glasses a little. “What do you need a surgeon for? Anyone in trouble?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” I said, giving my best It’s just standard procedure shrug. “I need an expert’s opinion about a surgical instrument.”
She smiled as if she understood completely. “Cardiology’s third floor, Gulf side. Ask the nurse if Doctor Shepherd is free. Oh, and you’ll need this.” She handed me a clip-on Panama City Beach Hospital guest card.
Photo ID, shiny shield, and now a hospital badge. Nothing could stop me now…or so I thought.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The charge nurses upstairs weren’t quite as friendly as the receptionist. They looked like photocopies of each other, except one had hair dyed blonde and the other, hair dyed black. I told them I needed to see Doctor Shepherd. They told me to sit in the waiting room.
The waiting room turned out to be an uncomfortable bench in the middle of a hallway. And it’s relatively safe to say that waiting is not one of my finer qualities.
Twenty minutes later, I heard muted thunder. I went to the desk again and held up my badge and ID. Neither of the nurses looked up. “I’m sorry to trouble you,” I said. “But I’m investigating a serious crime. I really do need to speak to Doctor Shepherd.”
The fake brunette said, “Doctor Shepherd is in surgery. I don’t much care what your badge says or what you’re investigating. No one rushes surgery.”
“So, unless you’re God,” the fake blonde said, “and you’re planning a miracle, I suggest you take a seat or make an actual appointment during Doctor Shepherd’s office hours.”
The nurses glanced at each other, and I could see high fives in their eyes.
Thirty more minutes on the bench later, and I couldn’t hear any more thunder. I missed the storm.
“Ah, there you are.”
I looked up and found an amiable gentleman standing there. He had dark gray, close-cropped hair and matching sideburns. Wire-rimmed glasses
framed his owlish, gray eyes. He wore a blue bow tie and a smile. His handlebar mustache looked perfect for twirling, and I thought maybe he did twirl it as his genius intellect worked.
“They kept you in the hall, all this time?” he asked with a subtle gesture towards the charge nurses.
I nodded. “I understand you were in surgery.”
“Oh, nonsense. It was just a routine aortic stent.” With a humorous pigeon-toed gait, he strode to the nurses station. “Nurse Brandywine, Nurse Pelagris, how could you keep this fine officer waiting on this ridiculous bench?”
The brunette looked carefully indignant. “He didn’t make an appointment.”
“Oh, don’t be obtuse,” he said. “Crime doesn’t make an appointment. This man has work to do. You should have at least let him wait in my office.” He cast a surprisingly stern glare at both of them and then motioned for me to follow.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Covered by so many matted diplomas, certificates, awards, and special recognitions, the office had almost no visible wall space. Apparently, Dr. Shepherd was very good at what he did. Either that, or he was an egotist.
He sat backward at his desk so he could face me. “So tell me, detective, how can I help you?”
“You know I’m a detective just from looking at me?”
“No, no,” Dr. Shepherd replied. “I’m no Sherlock Holmes. Carol—receptionist in the front lobby—left me a message, said you had a badge and some questions.”
I decided not to correct the good doctor’s notion of my identity and nodded. “I was wondering if you could identify this instrument.” I handed him the photocopy.
He held it in both hands for a moment. Then he leaned back in the chair and used one hand to twirl his mustache while he stared on. Genius at work, just as I suspected.
“Surgical steel,” he said quietly.
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