Paul watched as passengers exited the train. This allowed him to keep an eye out for anything or anyone suspicious. But with rush hour, it made his task challenging.
When the passengers had entered the train, he closed the doors.
He waited, but the train did not move. Normally, when everything was clear, the train engineer would take the train into the next station.
Then the telephone rang in his cab. He picked up the black receiver and listened. It was the train engineer. Apparently, there was a problem with a train on another track, and they needed to reroute their train.
Paul hated when this happened, but such occurrences were part of his job. They were operating an old and antiquated train system, and problems like these were a daily occurrence.
He pressed a button and spoke into the receiver.
He announced to the passengers that the train would be out of service at the next station. This meant they would have to vacate the train at that time. He knew there would be much grumbling, some cursing, and he would have a few expletives hurled in his direction, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Orders were orders.
When the passengers had gotten off at the next stop, he locked his cab and began his walk through each compartment to make sure the train was indeed empty.
In the second to last compartment, he noticed a man sitting on one of the seats. He was wearing a large coat, and his chin was resting on his chest.
Another sleeper, he thought. There were many in the morning. Some were so deep in slumber that even announcements over the public address system did not wake them. Others would cover their ears with headphones or earpieces to block out all sound.
He moved closer to the man. “Sir, the train is out of service.”
The man did not stir.
“Sir, you have to get off,” he said.
The man kept his head low.
Damn, Paul thought. I will have to wake this guy up.
The moment he touched the man’s shoulder, he fell forward onto the floor.
Paul knelt to help the passenger up.
He quickly straightened up, his eyes wide with horror.
The man was lying on his side with his mouth wide open. Paul could clearly see that the man was missing something.
He stepped away from the body and reached for his walkie-talkie.
SIXTY-ONE
Jo could not believe she was back at the station’s security office, seated next to Dennis Wilmont.
The call had come from a BTA employee. The body was discovered on a train that had just dropped off passengers at Greenwood Station. Walters was on her way there now. Jo should have rushed there too, but she had more important things on her mind.
How did the killer drop off the body and then disappear? The FBI and BPD had secured all the entrances to the subway.
The killer was bold and dangerous. Even though he knew the law was looking for him, he still risked capture and did what he had said he would do.
What kind of game is he playing? Jo thought. Is he trying to taunt the FBI or the BPD? Is he trying to make us look bad? What would he gain by doing that?
Jo dismissed such thoughts. Law enforcement was not the killer’s target. He was committing murder to make a statement directed at the people at BMCI.
They had hurt him, and now he was hurting them.
The institute had been put on lockdown. Their employees and their patients had been told to stay within the institute’s walls. An extreme measure, but this was an extreme circumstance. The safety of the BMCI employees was their number one priority.
The BTA officer scanned through the footage. Jo was not watching any of it. She was still thinking of the killer.
So far, all the suspects were overweight, handicapped, missing, or dead. None of them fit the profile. Maybe it was their profile that was incorrect. Maybe they were not looking at the case from the right angle.
The BTA officer said, “I think I found it.”
Jo blinked. Her attention focused on the monitor.
“That’s Woodbine Station,” he said.
On the screen, a man wearing a baseball cap and colored overalls was pushing a garbage container on wheels.
“Is that a BTA uniform?” Jo asked.
The supervisor shook his head. “I can’t be sure from the footage, but I doubt if we mistook him for an employee.”
The man wheeled the container to the middle of the platform. It was empty. The time on the screen indicated it was well before rush hour.
The man looked around and then removed two garbage bags from the container. He looked around once more to see if the coast was clear. He then reached inside the container and pulled out a body. He propped it up beside a pillar. He looked at his watch and waited until the train pulled into the station.
One of the BTA employees, mostly likely the conductor, stuck his head out of a window. Jo could tell the employee could not see the man or the body as they were shielded behind the pillar. The employee checked one end of the platform, and when he turned to check the other, the killer lifted the body up in his arms and ran inside the train. It happened in a matter of seconds. Then the doors closed and the train left the station.
Jo did not need to see what happened next. The killer placed the dead body on a seat and mostly likely got off at the next stop.
“Do you want to see more?” the supervisor asked.
Jo shook her head. “Just send a copy to the Bridgeton FBI field office.”
She felt a powerful headache coming on.
SIXTY-TWO
Rhodes was parked outside the barbershop. He could see Guzman was inside. He never once picked up a scissors and cut hair. He left that task to the man who had given Rhodes a haircut.
Guzman is far more interested in dealing drugs, Rhodes thought. Perhaps the barbershop was a front to peddle the drugs, just like the pizza shop was. Regardless, Guzman was now laughing with some of his regular customers. None of them were there to get their hair cut.
Rhodes rubbed his chin. Tim Yates was already anxious to find his son’s killer. His patience would run out if Rhodes did not come up with a name soon. But Rhodes wasn’t even sure if Guzman was the man he was looking for. All he had was his gut instinct and footage from the pizza shop.
He needed to act quickly. But what could he do? He could not waltz into the shop and accuse Guzman of murdering Reed. He would get beat up for something like that, or worse, get shot.
It was at moments like these that made Rhodes wish he was still a lawman. The badge gave him some immunity when it came to dealing with people like Guzman. They would think twice before assaulting an officer.
Things were different now. He could not arrest Guzman and take him down to the station for questioning. Guzman’s buddies would be on him before he even touched Guzman. Rhodes could handle himself, but he would not be able to explain his actions to the police. They would want to know why he had attacked Guzman in the first place.
Rhodes had to find another way. He had to do it without being physically involved.
He had an idea. He was not sure if the idea was good or if it would even work, but it was worth a shot given the circumstances.
He looked around and spotted a phone booth in the corner of the plaza: a one-minute walk from the barbershop. Plus, it had a clear view of the shop and its inhabitants.
Rhodes walked up to the booth, grabbed the receiver and stuck some coins in. He read the telephone number posted outside the barbershop and dialed.
A few rings later, he saw the guy who had cut his hair answer. “What’s up?” he said.
“I need to speak to Alfonso,” Rhodes said. He referred to Guzman by his first name to keep the conversation informal.
“Who is this?” the guy replied.
“My name is not important, but I need to speak to Alfonso.”
“Well, he’s not here.”
Rhodes could clearly see he was lying. Guzman was lounging on one of the barber chairs. �
�Okay, fine,” he said. “I’ll just go tell the police what I know. When Alfonso finds out, he’ll be pissed at you.”
“No! Wait!” the guy replied.
Rhodes saw him turn to Guzman. After they exchanged a few words, Guzman grabbed the receiver.
“What’s up?” Guzman asked.
“I know what you did,” Rhodes said.
Guzman made a face. “Who’s this?”
“Like I told your friend, my name is not important. What is important is that I know what happened to Reed Yates.”
“Reed who?”
“The kid you shot.”
Rhodes saw Guzman jump out of his chair. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but if you have any balls, you come and say that to my face, tough guy.”
“I don’t need to say it to your face. All I need is to tell it to the police.”
Guzman laughed. “Go ahead. Tell them your lies. Let’s see if they believe you.”
“They won’t believe what I say, but they’ll believe the photos I took of you dumping the phone behind the pizza shop.” Rhodes was bluffing, but he was willing to take a risk.
Rhodes could see Guzman was startled. He ran his hands through his hair and he began pacing the shop.
“You’re lying, man,” he said.
“I’m not. Reed Yates came to you to get his phone back. You and he got into an argument, and you shot him. I’m sure you didn’t mean to, but he’s dead. You then got rid of the evidence. I will tell the police what I know. They’ll track the phone to the pizza shop. That’s where the last signal came from before you destroyed the phone. They’ll also have my photos to back up what I’m saying. This will give them enough ammo to make you suspect number one.”
Guzman was irate. He stomped his feet, and he looked like he was ready to hurl the phone at the wall. His buddies were not sure what was going on.
Guzman finally calmed himself. “Okay, okay. You want something, right? Isn’t that why you called me?”
“I want ten grand.”
“No way,” he spat. “I don’t carry that kind of money.”
“Then we’ve got a problem,” Rhodes replied.
“You gotta come up with a reasonable number, man,” Guzman complained.
“You’re a drug dealer. You handle cash all the time. Plus, what is ten grand when you could be facing life in prison?”
Guzman rubbed his chin. “Okay, but you gotta give me some time to get the money.”
“I need the money right away.”
“When?” he asked.
“Tonight,” Rhodes replied.
“That’s too soon, man. It’s just not possible.”
“It’s tonight or I go straight to the police tomorrow morning.”
Guzman sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Just have the money.”
“Okay, when?”
Rhodes gave him an address.
He hung up and watched as Guzman rallied his buddies. Even from where he was standing, Rhodes could see they were carrying weapons.
There was no way Rhodes would show up at that address without a plan.
SIXTY-THREE
Ellen could not believe her luck. Another body had been found on the subway. She had told the FBI about the impending murder, and she turned out to be right.
They now owed her exclusive access to the scene of the discovery.
Naturally, Walters was not happy, but she had no choice. They had an agreement.
Ellen and Walt followed Walters to Greenwood Station. There, she was escorted past the other media outlets gathered outside the station. Ellen caught Janie Fernandez standing by the entrance. She was in shock when she saw Ellen accompany the FBI inside. She was probably seething with anger right now.
Good, Ellen thought. She wanted her to stew knowing that her charm and beauty could not get her the lead story, and that it was Ellen Sheehan who had used her wit and cleverness to beat her to it.
Ellen would never confess that it was the killer who had given it to her on a silver platter. Regardless, when a gift fell in her lap, Ellen had used it to her advantage.
Walters was next to her as they moved down the stairs. They had to hurry to keep up with Walters.
“You can shoot your segment on the platform,” Walters said. “But you can’t go inside the train.”
“But we had a deal,” Ellen reminded her.
Walters stopped and faced her. “Our deal was that we give you information on the murders before anyone else. Under no circumstance will I let you contaminate the scene of the crime.”
“The scene is already contaminated,” Ellen said. “There were probably dozens of passengers who were on that train with the dead body.”
“As is procedure, we will block off the scene,” Walters said. “If you decide to cross the line, our deal ends. Understood?”
Ellen bit her bottom lip. She could keep arguing, but she already had a step-up on her competitors. Plus, she had a feeling Walters was waiting for a reason to annul their agreement.
“Understood,” Ellen replied.
They reached the platform, where men and women in uniform were waiting for Walters.
“Wait here,” Walters said. She walked over to a BTA security officer and exchanged some words with him. He came over after Walters boarded the train. He was big and imposing. “You can set up your camera over there,” he said, pointing to the far end of the platform.
Ellen was about to oppose him when Walt put his hand on her shoulder. “I think it’ll give us a full view of the platform and the train.”
Ellen could tell that Walt did not want a confrontation with the officer.
She sighed. “Okay, let’s go set up the shot.”
SIXTY-FOUR
When Jo reached Greenwood Station, she saw Walters standing with Ellen Sheehan at the far end of the platform. Sheehan was interviewing Walters, and Jo could tell Walters was only doing it because she had to.
Jo did not envy Walters. To face the camera and explain how a killer had slipped by the FBI was not something Jo was prepared to do.
She quickly ducked under the yellow police tape and found Ben standing in the middle of the train compartment. Today he had complimented his white overalls with a bright purple watch.
Jo did not bother walking up to him. She took a seat a few rows back.
Ben walked over to her. “You don’t look good, Jo,” he said.
“I just need a breather,” she replied.
Her skin was pale, and her forehead was beaded with sweat
“These murders are taking a toll on you, you know,” he said. “The amount of pressure you are under would’ve made a normal person have a breakdown, but with your heart condition, it could be worse.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “You sound like my brother, you know.”
“I wish I was your brother. I would physically remove you from here.”
She looked at him, smiling. “You’re really worried about me?”
He shrugged. “Sure. If anything happens to you, how am I going to find out who the real Bridgeton Ripper was.”
“Tell me again why you are so interested in that case?”
“As you already know, death fascinates me. Even as a kid, I would stay up all night reading true crime stories,” he replied. “Before I retire, I want to write a book that will be on par with all the great true crime writers. I want to be like Ann Rule, Vincent Bugliosi, and Truman Capote. What better chance of doing that than solving a case that is in my city, my very own backyard?”
Jo put her head back and closed her eyes. She was feeling fatigued. Maybe I rushed over here too fast, she thought. A little rest would do me some good.
She was drifting off to sleep when Ben’s voice woke her up. “I would normally encourage you to take a nap,” he said, “but if Walters finds you like this, she’ll surely boot you off the case.”
Walters was the only person in the FBI, other than Ben, who knew of Jo’s condition. S
he had, on numerous occasions, advised Jo to step back and focus on her health.
Ben said, “As much as I want you to take a break, I don’t want Walters suspending you.”
“Thanks,” she said.
“But Jo, take a long vacation,” he said. “You’ve earned it after all these years. Let someone else handle the case. Or maybe even let the Bridgeton Police take this one.”
Jo raised an eyebrow. “You want Crowder to lead this investigation?”
“I confess I don’t like the guy. He rubs me the wrong way, but he is a detective, after all.”
Jo stood up. “I’m not going anywhere until this is over.”
“You have to at least slow down.”
She shook her head. “There’s a killer out there who is mocking us. This is the third body he’s left for us to find. There is no way in hell I’m going to stop until I catch him. Now let’s go see the victim.”
Jo already knew the body was Doug Curran’s, so she did not bother to ask Ben for the victim’s ID. “What’s missing on this one?” she asked him instead.
“It took me a while to find it, but I’ll show you,” Ben replied. With his gloved hands, he opened the victim’s mouth. “The tongue has been removed.”
Jo thought a moment. “He’s a psychiatrist. His job is to listen to his patients and provide a professional opinion. Makes sense the killer took his tongue if he felt the psychiatrist had misdiagnosed him, or if the killer didn’t agree with the psychiatrist’s diagnosis of his condition.” She paused a moment. “What about carvings on the body?”
“Those were a little easier to spot. I’ll show you.” Ben pulled up the victim’s sleeve. The word WHAT was carved into the skin. The words were made using the same crude object used on the previous victims. Ben pulled the victim’s collar down, exposing the upper shoulder and revealing the word THE. He then lifted the left pant leg up. The word TONGUE was carved on the leg. Finally, he pulled the shirt up and revealed the word SPEAKS on the victim’s stomach.
“What the tongue speaks,” Jo said, putting the words together.
Close Your Eyes Page 16
