by Robert Ellis
“I’ll bet he is. You got that password?”
She flashed another sarcastic smile his way, then wrote a series of letters and numbers on a pad, ripped the sheet off, and pushed it over. Matt found the FBI’s website and logged in. Then he took a moment and tried to clear his mind and ignore what had just happened in Rogers’s office. It wasn’t easy, but he needed to catch up on the case as quickly as he could.
He found Dr. Baylor’s file, then clicked through the screens until he reached what was essentially a live, digital version of the chronological record in a murder book. When any member of the task force learned something new or had a thought or question that seemed relevant to the investigation, it was added to the record beside the time and date, then stamped with the agent’s electronic signature. For all intents and purposes, this area of the site worked like every other blog on the Internet. Everything about it was fluid, everything current, except in this case, everything was validated and a matter of record.
Matt skimmed through the timeline, surprised by the lack of progress that had been made over the past month and a half. He read through an entry made by Jeff Kaplin and realized that he and Steve Vega had just left New Orleans and were heading back to LA. A tip that Baylor had been staying at Le Pavillon Hotel in the French Quarter had proved fruitless. The doctor had covered his tracks, his trail ice-cold until the Strattons had been found murdered in their home.
A small window popped up on his screen, announcing that someone had posted a new message. Matt scrolled forward on the timeline and started reading. Apparently there was something wrong with the two slugs that struck Stratton’s wife and son. Although they had been found in soft tissue and recovered by the medical examiner, there were marks that the Bureau of Forensic Services in Montgomery County couldn’t account for. Close-up photographs of the slugs were included in the post, and Matt studied them carefully. Each slug appeared to have been lightly scratched all the way around. And there were gashes running lengthwise as if each bullet had hit a hard edge. The forensic scientist who examined the evidence and posted his findings had more than twenty years on the job. In spite of his experience, he had never seen anything like it before and was sending both slugs to the FBI’s Firearms and Toolmarks Unit at Quantico.
Matt looked up. Brown had left her desk, and he hadn’t noticed. He turned and saw her talking to Doyle in the conference room with the door closed. She was holding a file folder and showing him something inside.
Matt checked his watch. It was almost noon. He glanced at the murder book sitting on his desk and tried to clear his mind again. Concentrating on anything seemed difficult right now.
Wishing for a Marlboro and a cup of strong coffee, he reached inside his jacket and slipped a piece of nicotine gum into his mouth.
He could no longer block it out. No longer ignore the things Rogers had said to him in his office. At the time he had tried to keep cool and not let his thoughts and emotions show on his face. But now he was sitting here wondering why the FBI couldn’t find his mother’s and aunt’s birth certificates. Why their history had suddenly become so vague. It seemed odd, peculiar, even corrupt, and he didn’t know what to make of it. As much as he despised Rogers, he couldn’t fault him for being suspicious. Had Matt been wearing the special agent’s shoes, he would have said and done exactly the same thing.
There were holes in Matt’s past. And they stood out.
Although his early years had been tough, Matt used to be able to count on the fact that everything was at least self-evident and true. But all of that had burned up in Rogers’s office thirty minutes ago. As Rogers said himself, when he sees loose ends like this in someone’s past, he begins to think he’s looking at bullshit. It’s got that vibe of being manufactured and overprocessed.
Matt bit into the nicotine gum, feeling the drug rush through his head. When the wave subsided, he grabbed his leather jacket and walked out.
CHAPTER 12
The air had a raw feel to it, and Matt wished that he hadn’t left his down vest at the apartment. He headed south on Sixth Street, passing Independence Hall. When he reached Walnut Street at Washington Square, he made a right and started walking toward city hall. He was looking for a café. Something small and quiet where he could sip hot coffee and collect his thoughts. He had a vague impression of a place he’d been to in his teens and looked up and down the street. When his eyes landed on Rogers half a block ahead, he stepped to the side and stopped.
Rogers was speaking to someone on his cell phone and so distracted that he bumped into the man ahead of him. They were entering a sushi restaurant, but it didn’t seem like they were together. Matt waited until the special agent disappeared behind the glass door, then walked by without letting it get to him. Two blocks up he spotted the Walnut Street Theater, and everything started to become more familiar. Across the street he noticed a hospital. The building appeared new and had been set halfway into the block to accommodate a drive-up entrance and a work of sculpture that rose several stories into the air. As Matt took in the sculpture, he couldn’t help thinking how much it reminded him of Marcel Duchamp. The design of both the building and the sculpture, the mix of different materials and all the curved lines, was stunning.
Matt had forgotten that Philadelphia was different than other cities. It felt like Europe here. It looked like Europe. He could remember his aunt taking him to a van Gogh exhibition at the Museum of Art. They had just walked out and were standing at the top of the steps overlooking the city. She was younger then, all jazzed up after seeing so many paintings by one of her favorite artists. She was saying that what made this city different was its relationship to art. Art was everywhere here. Not just in the museums, but on every street.
Why couldn’t the FBI find her birth certificate?
Matt tried to shake it off, but the string of memories just kept pounding back one after the next. He crossed Broad Street and the Avenue of the Arts. A few blocks later he glanced around the corner and saw a brick building with awnings, sidewalk tables, and gas heaters. This was the place. Benny’s Café Blue.
Matt walked in, ordered a large cup of the house blend, and found an empty booth by the window. As he stirred sugar into the piping-hot brew, enjoying the sounds of people talking and laughing, he realized that the café had changed since his last visit. The place seemed brighter, cleaner, warmer than he remembered. The Formica tables had been replaced with beautifully grained woods, and logs were burning in the fireplace. Sipping through the steam, he sat back and gazed out the window. Across the street was a gym, and he could see a pair of young women working out on StairMasters. He took another sip of coffee, letting the hot java soothe his stomach. One of the women had just ended her workout and was wiping off the machine with a towel.
His eyes drifted down to the sidewalk, sorting through the people waiting for the light to change. And that’s when he spotted him. He was standing on the corner, staring back at him. The man with the ultra-pale skin. The man he’d seen on the plane and at the airport. His shadow.
Matt tried to keep cool, but heard the café go quiet and realized that he’d shifted over to automatic pilot; he’d drawn his gun and had already rocked back the slide. He pushed the door open and burst onto the street, his expression fierce and determined as he started sprinting. The man had his cell phone out, no doubt shooting video again. But now it was different. He seemed frightened. He turned away and started running.
Matt chased him down the street. When the man ducked into a dress shop, Matt reached out and got a piece of his jacket before he slipped away. The man was yelping and trying to flee through the racks of clothing. But he was too soft and too slow, and Matt lunged forward, tackling him to the floor.
He rolled the man over, stuffing the .45 into his mouth. The man started weeping and appeared to be panic-stricken. He was struggling to catch his breath. As the sales staff rushed behind the counter, a woman at the cash register reached for the phone. Then Matt held up his badge and shoute
d, “Police business. Put down that phone.”
She backed away, and Matt seized the man by his hair and banged his head on the floor. He felt a breeze behind his back and heard the door.
“Why are you following me?”
The man tried to speak, but couldn’t get the words out. Matt removed the gun from his mouth and jammed the muzzle into the side of his head.
“Why are you following me?” Matt repeated. “Give it up, or I’ll blow your head off right in front of these people.”
The man met his eyes, still trying to catch his breath. “I’m doing a story.”
Matt didn’t believe him. “A story,” he said in a voice filled with sarcasm. “A story about what?”
“You and your father. I think I know who he is. I’m gonna prove it.”
“Who are you?”
The man let out a sigh. “You’ve seen me on TV. I’m on every night.”
Matt shook his head. The woman by the register was staring at the man, and Matt could see recognition beginning to bloom in her eyes.
“That’s Ryan Day,” she said. “He’s the star of Get Buzzed. Oh my God. It’s Ryan Day.”
A thought flashed through Matt’s mind. He’d never watched the show, but had seen the commercials. Get Buzzed was a popular celebrity gossip program that followed the network news five nights a week. He looked the man over—he seemed familiar—then began patting him down just in case.
“How did you know I’d be on that plane?” he said.
“I got a tip. I took a chance, and you were there.”
“A tip from who?”
The man shrugged. “I don’t know. A voice left on my service. Is M. Trevor Jones your father?”
Matt clenched his jaw, but didn’t say anything. He found the man’s wallet and opened it to check his ID.
“Why are you afraid to answer the question, Jones? What are you hiding?”
The driver’s license confirmed his shadow’s identity. The man he’d tackled to the floor and almost shot was Ryan Day.
“I’m a reporter,” Day said as he thought it through. “But you didn’t know that. What did you think I was here to do?”
Matt remained quiet. He could see Day putting it together in his head.
“Your father’s trying to keep tabs on you, or is it something more than that?” Day’s eyes lit up. “My God. You thought I’d come to—who shot you in LA, Jones?”
Matt holstered his pistol. Day looked at someone behind him. When Matt turned, he saw a man with a video camera on his shoulder.
“You get it?” Day asked.
The man with the camera nodded. “I got everything. We’re still shooting.”
Matt stood up, then helped the gossip reporter to his feet. “Why me?” he said.
Day was flashing a big grin as well now and offered to shake Matt’s hand. “Why not you?” he said. “It’ll make a great story. Tonight’s segment will probably be pretty good, too. I guess I should thank you, Jones. No harm, no foul. My producer will pay for any damage you may have done here, so don’t worry about it. We still win.”
Matt shook Day’s hand, but only reluctantly, then started toward the door. He could hear Day calling after him.
“I know the reason why you’re here in Philly, Jones. After tonight, everybody’s gonna know.”
Matt yanked the door open and walked out into the blast of cold air. He was in trouble. He’d blown it. Now Rogers could act with a clear conscience. Matt would be thrown off the case and shipped back to LA. He hadn’t even made it through his first day.
CHAPTER 13
He found Doyle in Rogers’s office. They were watching a video on a desktop computer with a large screen. When Doyle saw Matt in the hallway, he waved him into the room and around Rogers’s desk for a look.
It was the video the gossip reporter had shot on the plane and at the airport with his cell phone. Day had posted it on his show’s website, along with the words “Why is LAPD Detective Matt Jones in Philly?”
Doyle gave Matt a look. “Did you know you were being photographed?”
“I saw him with his phone, but I wasn’t sure.”
“Who?”
“The gossip reporter. Ryan Day.”
Doyle seemed surprised. “Do you know him?”
A moment passed as Matt tried to think of the right words. When he noticed Rogers staring at him, he turned back to Doyle.
“We’ve met,” he said finally.
Rogers got to his feet and walked over to the window, shaking his head. Doyle sat on the end of Rogers’s desk.
“I thought we’d catch a break and keep Baylor’s name out of it for a few more days,” Doyle said. “But now the media knows you’re here and they’re pretty good at connecting the dots. Rogers, you’ll need to hold a press conference this afternoon.”
Rogers gave Doyle a look over his shoulder, then turned back to the view through his window. The Ben Franklin Bridge was just seven blocks away.
Matt stepped over to a chair, but remained standing. “Something just happened that you guys need to know about. None of it’s good.”
Rogers turned to face him, the distrust and suspicion in his eyes easy enough to read. Matt spent the next five minutes telling them exactly what had happened with Ryan Day and warning them that everything had been recorded and would be aired on tonight’s show. When he finished, he held on to the back of the chair and braced himself.
Rogers turned to Doyle. “This is exactly what I was afraid of. He’s jeopardizing the case. He could scare off Baylor.”
“You need to hold a press conference, Rogers.”
Rogers shook his head and pointed a finger at Matt. “Everything’s different now, Doyle. You’re the one who needs to hold the press conference. He’s your boy.”
Doyle turned to Matt, measuring him. “What do you have to say for yourself, Detective?”
“I thought he was trying to kill me. He followed me on the plane and at the airport. When I caught him on the street, I knew it wasn’t by chance. I didn’t know who he was, so I confronted him.”
Rogers narrowed his eyes. “Sounds like it was more than that, Jones. It sounds like it got physical.”
“It ended as soon as he identified himself,” Matt said. “It ended quickly.”
“What the hell’s that going to look like on national TV?”
Matt didn’t say anything. He could pack his bags in fifteen minutes and make it to the airport inside of an hour. He turned back to Doyle. The federal prosecutor was staring at the floor the way a chess player sits over a game board and decides on his next three moves. After a long moment, Doyle seemed to snap out of it and met Matt’s gaze.
“I think Rogers is right, Jones. I’ll take care of the press conference. Then we’ll let this gossip reporter air his dirty laundry and see what happens next. A word of warning, Detective. If this Ryan Day makes us look like fools, you’re the world’s next fall guy. If it looks like we’re taking on water, you’re going over the side.”
CHAPTER 14
Matt had the Crisis Room to himself and didn’t understand why. Given the lack of any plausible leads on Baylor’s whereabouts, he wondered how anyone calling themselves a special agent with the FBI could have packed it in and gone home. It was just 6:45 p.m. The only one still working was Brown, and she had walked up to a market on Walnut Street for coffee.
Matt glanced at his laptop and turned up the volume. He had been waiting for Ryan Day’s Get Buzzed to begin, but the network news had picked up on the Stratton murders. An eerie shot of the mansion hit the screen first, followed by pictures of the family. After a few seconds they cut to footage of Matt at the airport lifted off the Get Buzzed website, and then the money shot, the killer, Dr. George Baylor. After they set up the story, they cut to the press conference Doyle held this afternoon.
Matt studied the reporters’ faces. It was more than a story now. Everyone asking those tough questions looked frightened. Everyone knew Baylor’s history and the grues
ome things he’d done to four innocent girls.
What exactly happened to Jim and Tammy Stratton and their three children? What is the FBI hiding, and why are they hiding it? Why are you going through so much effort to keep us out of the loop? How bad could the details really be? LAPD Detective Matt Jones was one of the lead detectives in the hunt for Dr. George Baylor, the serial killer who fled Los Angeles and New Orleans. Baylor’s first victim was the daughter of a United States congressman. There are rumors that the Department of Justice will be supervising the prosecution of the doctor in at least two trials if he’s captured alive. Why are you and Detective Jones in Philadelphia? Did Dr. Baylor murder the Strattons? Why are you here, Mr. Doyle?
Why are you here?
The segment ended. It seemed obvious to Matt that Doyle had a knack for speaking to the media. He’d remained calm, seemed to answer every question as best he could, and, in the end, had given the reporters what they really wanted. He admitted that Dr. Baylor was a person of interest in the Stratton murder case, and that LAPD Detective Matt Jones had recovered from his gunshot wounds and was joining the FBI’s special task force.
The only question Matt had was why Doyle used his name. Doyle knew that Matt was about to be smeared on a gossip show airing on national television later that night. So why did the federal prosecutor stick his neck out? He didn’t just mention Matt’s name, he underlined it.
Why?
Matt let the thought go and looked back at the murder book. He’d spent the last two hours reading the medical examiner’s report and studying what must have been more than one hundred photographs taken at the crime scene. It seemed clear to him that Baylor had planned the night the same way a film director might stage a scene in a movie. There had to be an order to things. With Stratton as his target, Matt had no doubt that Baylor would have saved him for last. The medical examiner confirmed that Stratton wore a pacemaker and that the device shut down at 11:35 p.m., so it was a safe bet that everyone else would have been killed prior to Stratton’s death.
