by Robert Ellis
If anyone found out.
Matt couldn’t help thinking that his father was as much a scoundrel as any of these horrible people. He couldn’t help thinking that maybe killing his father was what came next instead of chasing a madman with blond cornrows. He looked over at his uncle and caught the doctor staring at him as he sipped his glass of water.
Matt had noticed that his eyes had gone dead a few minutes ago, and his uncle had that look going. The one he shared from time to time with Adam Lanza and Dylann Roof, the mass killers in Connecticut and South Carolina. Matt was beginning to feel more anxious. He checked his watch. They’d spent more than thirty minutes here, and it felt long.
“We need to get out of here,” Matt said. “Out of here, and out of the city.”
Baylor nodded and got up from the table. “Give me a quick update.”
Matt sensed something was wrong and thought he heard an errant noise. “We need to get out of here.”
“Two sentences.”
Matt got into his jacket and grabbed his scarf. “He’s using the society page in the paper to pick his victims. Both Stratton and Holloway were featured stories on the first page. We know what he looks like, but there’s still no way of identifying him. Nothing’s changed. No one’s looking for him.”
The doctor nodded. “It’s time to go.”
Matt opened the kitchen door and watched his uncle leg his way past the pool and into the backyard, heading for the rear gate. But after just a few minutes—before the doctor even made it halfway—Matt saw the men in black uniforms carrying rifles enter the lawn from the trees. They seemed all jacked up as they shouted at him and surrounded him. He could hear the sounds of others storming the mansion and racing down the hallway toward the kitchen.
Matt shook his head. They hadn’t made it. Half an hour turned out to be five minutes too long.
He raised his hands and waited, staring out the window and watching the men in black uniforms push his uncle onto the ground, their rifles pointed at his head. He heard them entering the kitchen behind him. He caught the reflection in the window of a man in a black uniform moving toward him with his rifle up and ready. He could feel three sets of different hands grab his jacket and scarf, yanking him backward and heaving him onto the kitchen floor.
The violence was unnecessary, but he didn’t say anything. And he didn’t look at them or try to fight them off. They seemed scared, and he didn’t want to give any one of them the opportunity to shoot him in the back. He didn’t want to die at the hand of an amped-up cop the way so many young men were dying these days.
He could feel them jamming their knees into his back. When one of them ripped at his hair and smashed his face into the floor, Matt kept his cool. Blood seemed to be spilling everywhere. He could hear them shouting at him. He could feel his wrists being cuffed. He could hear FBI Special Agent Wes Rogers announcing his arrest and reading him his rights.
Aiding and abetting—he stopped listening after that.
When the men in black uniforms lifted him off the floor, he looked outside and saw his uncle being herded toward the house. When two of the men inside the kitchen seized Matt’s arms and shoulders and spun him around, his view changed.
Assistant US Attorney Ken Doyle was standing beside his fuck object, Assistant Agent in Charge Kate Brown. They were wearing big grins, and both seemed delighted with the way things had finally turned out.
No doubt about it, the two of them were going places.
Doyle stepped forward, still grinning as he measured Matt. “You were the media’s golden boy, Jones. You could have had anything you wanted. But now your career in law enforcement is over. I’m gonna ruin your life. I’m taking you down, and I’m gonna enjoy it.”
Matt met his gaze, the blood dripping off his chin onto the floor. “Baylor isn’t the killer, Doyle. You’ve got the wrong man. You’re just too full of yourself, too stupid to get it.”
The federal prosecutor laughed. Kate Brown seemed to find Matt amusing as well.
Doyle glanced at the two men holding Matt up, then nodded and turned away.
“Get it him out of my sight,” Doyle said. “He’s an insult to anyone who carries a badge.”
CHAPTER 56
Matt was sitting on a bench with Dr. Baylor in a holding cell in the Federal Detention Center across the street from the FBI’s field office in the federal building. US marshals had taken them into custody. After their arrival to the underground parking garage just a few aisles down from where Matt used to park the Crown Vic, they were ferried through a tunnel that connects the two buildings below Seventh Street. They were fingerprinted and photographed and placed in this cell.
They had been waiting for twelve hours, but nothing had happened. No interrogations, no interviews, no written statements. Just a tray of food last night and another this morning.
Matt gazed through the bars at the TV mounted on the wall over the doorway. The network was breaking into their normal programming with a special report. Matt almost choked when he realized that it was Doyle, the federal prosecutor, holding a morning press conference from the Crisis Room across the street.
Even at a glance, even dulled down by the filter of television, Matt could feel the electricity in the Crisis Room. Doyle wanted a big headline, and he’d achieved a big headline. The room appeared to be jam packed with media from every market in the country. As the federal prosecutor read his opening statement, flanked on stage by Kate Brown and Wes Rogers, a barrage of strobe lights from cameras representing the newspapers and various web news services hit the room in rapid-fire succession. The video broadcast for network and cable outlets flickered and glowed from the flashing lights like a horror movie.
It seemed clear that Doyle was trying to play the role of a federal prosecutor and remain cool, calm, and collected. It seemed clear that he was playing the part of a future attorney general. But the big grin on Brown’s face, the look of primal satisfaction in Rogers’s eyes, had become infectious. Overnight the three of them had become conquering heroes. The city, even the country, had been saved from a madman on this cold day in December, and the media was eating it up.
Dr. George Baylor, the serial killer who had murdered three coeds in LA, another girl in New Orleans, and two entire families in Philadelphia on the Main Line, had been captured and taken into custody. But that was only where the federal prosecutor’s story began.
Assistant US Attorney Ken Doyle was pushing his story into a far darker place. A soulless place with no oxygen where no candle could ever burn.
Matt looked at the media wall that was being used as a high-tech background for the sea of cameras. The three massive video screens towering over the stage were switched on. The monitors on the left and right included two images of Dr. Baylor. But the screen in the center was decidedly different.
The screen in the center was an image of LAPD Detective Matt Jones.
The photograph had been taken by a US marshal, but only after a doctor had cleaned up his face. Only after Matt’s bloodstained shirt had been switched with a clean one.
Doyle finished his statement and took a question from a reporter. Matt gave Dr. Baylor a nudge and turned back to the TV. Doyle had told Matt that he would ruin his life yesterday, and apparently, the federal prosecutor was a man who kept his word.
“I’ll answer that question,” Doyle said, pointing at a journalist who was off camera. “I’d be happy to answer that question. I’ve felt for more than a month that there was no way Dr. Baylor could have escaped LA without help. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that he had someone on the inside helping him out. I didn’t trust the LAPD, so instead of working with them, I asked the FBI to run the doctor’s DNA against everyone who was employed by Los Angeles County. When we got a hit, when I realized that LAPD Detective Matt Jones was related to Dr. Baylor, that the doctor was in fact his uncle on his mother’s side, it became clear that in all probability, Detective Jones had helped, even engineered Baylor�
�s escape.”
Everyone in the Crisis Room seemed to let out a gasp at the same time.
A man shouted from the audience. “If you thought Jones was a dirty cop, then why did you deputize him as a US marshal and bring him into the task force?”
Doyle covered his mouth before a smile could leak out, then pretended to give the question some degree of thought. He took a sip of water and cleared his throat.
“You have to understand who Dr. Baylor was and is to answer that question,” he said as he lifted his chin and brushed back his hair. “We had been given the monumental task of hunting down a killer of unprecedented savagery and cunning. There are times when investigators have to lay it on the line and take risks. I realized that I had reached that moment in the hunt for Dr. Baylor. In order to capture this mass killer, I had to be willing to take a risk.”
It almost seemed like Doyle had become an actor in a play. It looked like he was striking poses as the strobe lights continued to spray rapid-fire light his way. He seemed so full of himself. So difficult to watch.
“Could you talk about the risks you took, Mr. Doyle?” another man called out like he was planting talk points.
The federal prosecutor nodded, his voice becoming intimate. “Here’s the situation,” he said. “We have a dirty cop who let a serial killer off free and clear. They’re related by blood. We even know that Dr. Baylor saved the dirty cop’s life when he was shot. So what do we do? What would you do? In a case like this, you’d take advantage of the situation, which is exactly what we did. We exploited the relationship. We used Jones to bring the doctor out of hiding, and it worked. Once we had him out in the open, we pounced. With the two of them off the street, everyone’s safer now.”
A female reporter spoke up. “But what about the danger you exposed the public to?”
Doyle flashed a boyish smile and shook his head. “That was the beauty of my plan.”
The federal prosecutor took another sip of water. If his intention was to let the words my plan settle into the room, Matt guessed that it worked. Everyone in the Crisis Room quieted and became still.
“No one was ever in jeopardy,” Doyle went on finally. “There was no risk to the public at all. We had eyes on Detective Jones twenty-four seven. His apartment was wired and monitored by FBI agents who were right there. His car was equipped with a GPS device, cameras, and sound. When he was out and about, Assistant Agent in Charge Kate Brown, this fine member of the FBI, had Jones every step of the way. We should give her a hand, folks. Every taxpayer should be proud.”
The media clapped and cheered, and Kate Brown, the FBI agent who apparently now defined the standard, smiled and lowered her eyes as she feigned humility in what had the look and feel of a command performance. When another burst of strobe lights hit the stage, Matt turned away and caught Dr. Baylor staring at him. The doctor didn’t seem very pleased with Agent Brown.
“I was following you one night, Matthew. I saw you with her. I saw you go into her townhouse.”
Matt nodded and held the gaze. “It was part of Doyle’s plan, right?”
Baylor’s eyes went dead as he thought something over. “Right,” he said in a dangerously quiet voice. “Part of Ken Doyle’s plan. They’re an item, aren’t they? They’re together.”
Matt nodded, wishing for a Marlboro and no longer able to listen or watch the federal prosecutor’s press conference. Even though Doyle’s words were false, even though the facts had been bent and broken and glued together with flour and water, it seemed to ring so true. Even worse, the media appeared to accept everything at face value and were all in.
Matt could feel it in his body and his mind. His new, ever-changing reality. The plane he was piloting losing power and hitting the treetops before bursting into flames.
No way out. No parachute. Just heat and fire.
The cell-block door opened. The man who entered was dressed in an expensive suit and wore eyeglasses. His hair was graying, his eyes dark, and Matt guessed that he was somewhere between forty-five and fifty. Nothing about the way he was dressed—the way he carried himself—looked like a US marshal. The man stopped at the door and gazed through the bars, his eyes moving from Dr. Baylor to Matt.
“Someone wants to see you, Jones.”
“Who?”
“Your attorney.”
Matt exchanged looks with the doctor, then turned back. “My attorney? Who’s my attorney?”
“A guy who just performed a miracle.”
“Is that right?” Matt said. “What’s his name?”
The man paused a moment, almost reverently. “Teddy Mack,” he said finally.
CHAPTER 57
The man beckoned Matt into the elevator, and they descended to street level. After passing through a series of checkpoints, they walked down a long hallway to a room at the very end. The man pointed at the closed door.
“I’ll be waiting for you out here,” he said.
The man turned away. As he took a position against the wall, Matt spotted the semiautomatic strapped to his shoulder and realized that he was in fact a US marshal.
That feeling in his gut came back. That feeling of facing the unknown. Something was going on that he couldn’t see yet.
Matt opened the door just as a man turned from the window. Stepping around the meeting table, Matt shook his hand.
“My name’s Teddy Mack, Detective Jones. I’m a defense attorney, and I’ve been retained by Ryan Day and the television network to represent you. Sorry it took so long.”
Matt nodded, thinking about how the gossip reporter had come through for him. The surprise almost took his breath away. As the defense attorney offered him a seat, it struck Matt that Teddy Mack had been the attorney who solved the ET Killings fifteen years ago in Philadelphia. Matt could remember his face now. He could remember reading the newspaper everyday with his aunt in New Jersey and watching Teddy Mack on TV. Mack had just graduated from law school and had gone up against the district attorney to solve the most brutal serial murder case in the city’s history.
An innocent man had been set free.
Matt slid the chair out and sat down. “I thought you gave up practicing law to work with the FBI. I read that in the paper a long time ago.”
Teddy Mack nodded as he returned to the window and leaned against the sill. “Just for a couple of years,” he said. “Just long enough to solve a case and confirm why I always wanted to be an attorney. It looks like Ken Doyle is out to get you, Detective. Do you have any idea why?”
“It could be a lot of reasons,” Matt said. “My guess is that you’re probably not interested in speculation.”
“If that’s your guess, you’d be wrong.”
Matt gave Teddy Mack a long look. He was a tall, angular man with an athletic build, no older than forty. Matt could tell the moment he met the defense attorney that he was unusually bright. But there was something about him that Matt found striking even though he couldn’t put his finger on it. He had a strong chin and prominent cheekbones. His suit appeared to be Italian and handmade, his silk tie a standout. But there was something about him. Something more than that. Almost a certain darkness. Almost the look of someone who had taken a hit in life and was ready for the next one. The look of someone who knew how to get things done while swimming against the tide.
“So what’s with Doyle, Detective? Why is the federal prosecutor out to get you?”
“Because he’s got the wrong man,” Matt said in a quiet voice. “He’s doing his press conference, he’s taking credit for the arrest, he’s posing for the cameras—but he’s got the wrong man. Dr. Baylor had nothing to do with the murders of the Strattons or the Holloways. The killer is the same man who beat up the gossip reporter the other night. The Daily News published a picture of him taken by the hotel’s security cameras. I briefed Agent Brown repeatedly, and I warned Doyle that he had the wrong man on numerous occasions. Unfortunately, neither one of them have done anything.”
Teddy Mack flashed a tho
ughtful smile. “I’ve known Ken Doyle for more than a few years. He’s a man with issues.”
“Many issues,” Matt said.
The defense attorney moved to the head of the table and grasped the back of the chair with both hands. “He’s coming after you, Detective. He’ll try anyway. He’s already calling for a review of the way you and the LAPD handled the homicide investigations two months ago. And not just the three young women who were murdered in LA. He’s saying that you knew Baylor was your own flesh and blood all along. Let me ask you something.”
“Anything.”
“When you were shot six weeks ago, why didn’t you go to a hospital?”
“I was shot by a dirty cop,” Matt said. “I was on the run and couldn’t go to a hospital. My only chance was Dr. Baylor. At the time, no one knew that he was the killer.”
“Exactly,” the attorney said. “But that’s not what it’ll look like. Doyle thinks that because Dr. Baylor’s a blood relative, everything that went down is open to question. Who’s to say that the detective who shot you was really dirty? Who’s to say that when you shot his partner it wasn’t an act of murder? You see where he’s trying to go?”
“But it’s ridiculous. It’s worse than ridiculous. It’s ignorant. There’s no basis in reality. The facts, the official record, speak for themselves.”
Teddy Mack nodded. “People like Doyle don’t generally have much use for facts. He’s not an investigator, he’s not even a very good prosecutor. Ken Doyle’s a politician, Detective. A politician on the move. It doesn’t matter how things turn out. When it’s over, he’ll have everything he ever wanted.”
“And what’s that?”
“Name recognition.”
Matt sat back in the chair, noticed his hands quivering, and realized that he was nervous. His supervisor in Hollywood, Lieutenant Howard McKensie, had called it right before he’d even left LA. McKensie had taken one look at Doyle and known.
Trouble ahead. Proceed with caution.
