[Martin Rhodes 01.0] Close Your Eyes

by Thomas Fincham

  Walters said, “If you turn out to be correct, only then do we have an agreement.”

  Ellen smiled.

  FIFTY-SIX

  After his meeting with Tim Yates, Rhodes needed a drink.

  After he ordered a whiskey, a voice from behind him said, “I’ll pay for that.”

  Rhodes turned and found Barry Kowalski. He had a smile on his face, and Rhodes knew this was not going to be good.

  “I’ll have a glass of what he’s having,” Barry said. He sat next to Rhodes on the right.

  Barry’s bodyguard, whose name Rhodes still did not know, took the stool to Rhodes’s left. Like before, they had boxed Rhodes in.

  His drink came and Rhodes calmly took a sip of it.

  “I have to give it you,” Barry said with a smile, his gold tooth visible. “I never thought you hated your old man so much that you would not help him out.”

  Rhodes said nothing.

  “You and he used to be a team before.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Rhodes replied.

  Barry nodded. “I get it. It was before you went legit.”

  Barry’s goon had ordered a bottle of beer. To impress Rhodes, he removed the cap with his teeth. He smiled at him. His left canine tooth was missing.

  “What do you want, Barry?” Rhodes asked, annoyed. He was hoping to have a drink in private.

  “I don’t want anything,” Barry replied. “I’m just here celebrating. Do you want to know why?”

  Rhodes did not.

  “Should we tell him?” Barry asked his bodyguard.

  The bodyguard smiled. “Yeah, we should.”

  Barry leaned closer to Rhodes. “We just beat the shit out of your old man.”

  Rhodes’s face turned hard.

  Barry laughed. “Actually, my man did most of the damage. I just slapped him around for fun.”

  Rhodes’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t get your money?”

  “We took the motorcycle, of course. You’re old man wasn’t too happy about it, but what choice did he have? But there was the matter of my reputation, you know. If your old man had paid on time, I would have left him alone. When I had to go to his shithole of a home myself and get what belonged to me, well, I had to teach him a lesson, you know.”

  Rhodes took a deep breath. It was not his problem. Sully should not have gotten involved with them in the first place. He deserved what he got, Rhodes told himself.

  He calmly took a sip from his glass.

  Barry said, “I wish you were there, boy. You could’ve heard your old man squeal and beg for mercy.”

  Rhodes saw red.

  He took a deep breath and calmly finished his drink. He held the glass in his hand. He turned to Barry. “You must feel real proud beating up an old man.”

  Barry’s smile disappeared. “I thought you hated your old man.”

  “I do,” Rhodes said. “But I hate bullies even more.”

  Before Barry could react, Rhodes smashed the glass across his forehead. Barry fell back holding his face. In the next instant, Rhodes kicked back hard with his heel. The stool the bodyguard was sitting on slipped from underneath him. The bodyguard hit his head on the side of the bar.

  The bodyguard tried to stand, but Rhodes kicked his face with the back of his boot. Blood spurted out of his mouth as he collapsed to the ground.

  Rhodes put his boot on Barry’s chest and held him down. He was ready to take a swipe at him when a voice warned, “Stop this now!” It was the bartender, and he was aiming a rifle at Rhodes. “Get out before I put a bullet in your head.”

  Rhodes lips curled into a frown. He was beginning to enjoy coming to this bar. Now he would have to find another one.

  He wiped his hands on his coat and left.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Jo was back in the office of Dr. Stanley Freeman. She had rushed to BMCI the moment Ellen Sheehan had left the FBI office. What Sheehan had told them put the FBI and the local police on high alert. There would be another victim on the train tomorrow.

  Jo could feel the pressure in her chest, but she could not worry about the added stress on her heart. She and her team were working against the clock. They had to stop another person from losing their life.

  Even though they still did not know who the killer was, they did know how he chose his victims. They had all worked at BMCI.

  It was why Jo was back at the institute. She wanted all current and former employees to take extra precaution. They should not come to work alone or be home alone. But more importantly, they should avoid staying out at night. The killer could strike at any time.

  Freeman was on the phone. He looked anxious. “Are you sure?” He listened. “Please double-check.”

  “What’s wrong?” Jo asked.

  Freeman cupped the receiver. “Our Human Resources Department has contacted all our employees on file, except for one.”

  “Who?”

  “Doug Curran. He is our resident psychiatrist. He’s not picking up his phone, nor had he come to work today.”

  Jo moved closer. “How long he has been employed at BMCI?”

  Freeman asked the HR person on the other end. He listened and then said, “Curran has been at BMCI for almost twenty-two years.”

  Jo’s eyes narrowed. “This means he was here when Silvio Tarconi and Natasha Wedham were employees of the institute.” Jo stood up. “Can you give me his address?”

  Freeman asked the HR person and then jotted it down on a notepad.

  With a piece of paper in hand, Jo left BMCI in a hurry.

  She drove like a madwoman. She had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach. On her way out, Freeman had said that in twenty-two years, Curran had always informed the institute whenever he would be absent.

  Jo did not believe in coincidences. The killer had warned there would be another victim. All his victims came from BMCI. Curran was at BMCI at the same time the first two victims were, and now he was nowhere to be found.

  The house was located in a gated community. She drove up to the front entrance and a guard came over.

  She flashed him her credentials, and he immediately opened the gates for her.

  She drove into a newly paved road and passed neatly manicured lawns. The houses were big and opulent. They were probably close to a million dollars.

  Curran not only worked at BMCI but also his private clinic. The money must be good for him to afford a place here, Jo thought.

  She pulled up to a gray brick bungalow. There were already two cars parked in the driveway. One was a white BMW and the other a black Mercedes-Benz.

  Jo squinted.

  The killer also drove a black Mercedes.

  She pulled out her weapon and approached the front door. She peeked through the living room window. The lights were still on inside.

  The occupants are home.

  She thought about ringing the bell but quickly decided against it. She did not want to alert the killer if he was still inside.

  When she touched the door handle, the front door swung inward.

  It wasn’t locked?

  This was not good.

  She moved into the hallway. Her steps were long and deliberate. She kept her eyes on her surroundings. She listened for sounds and looked for shadows.

  If she heard anything or spotted anything, she would take swift action.

  She moved through the living room and into the kitchen.

  When she got close to the marble island, she spotted something. It was a pair of feet, and they were lying on the tiled floor.

  She slowly and carefully peeked over the edge of the island. A female body was on the floor, facing down. There was blood on the tiles.

  Jo leaned over and placed two fingers on the woman’s neck. There was no pulse. The woman was dead.

  She moved around the house, checking the rooms, hallway, and even the garage.

  When she was satisfied it was empty, she put her gun away.

  She then called forensics and sat down on the sofa
.

  A moment later, the front door swung open. Jo reached for her gun but then stopped. It was the same guard who was at the gate.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  Jo shook her head. “There’s a body in the kitchen.”

  The guard went over and then came back. “That’s Mrs. Curran,” he said.

  “Where is Mr. Curran?” Jo asked.

  “I don’t know,” the guard replied.

  “His car is still parked out in the front,” Jo said.

  “He must still be here.”

  “He isn’t. I checked the entire house.” She then thought of something. “You guys screen everyone who comes in, right?”

  He shook his head. “Not everyone, only the guests and visitors. The owners have their own access cards.”

  “Then how can someone go missing?” she asked.

  The guard thought about it and then said, “My shift started an hour ago. Let me call the guard that was here before me.”

  He dialed a number, spoke a few words, and then hung up. “The guard said he had seen Mr. Curran leave the gates to go out for a run.”

  “When was this?” Jo asked.

  “He said it was in the morning.”

  Jo frowned.

  “Maybe Mr. Curran will come back later,” the guard added.

  Jo knew better. She was too late.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Jacopo watched as Doug Curran wept like a little girl. He had snatched him while the man had gone for his morning jog. It was not that difficult.

  Jacopo had driven up to him to ask for directions. Curran did not suspect anything, and why would he? Jacopo was in a Mercedes-Benz. All the neighbors drove high-end vehicles.

  The moment Curran came near the Benz, Jacopo was able to sedate him. A dart gun filled with tranquilizer was concealed underneath a piece of cloth.

  Jacopo sharpened the blade and then paused. He waited until the noise of the train had gone away before he continued sharpening.

  Curran squirmed on the table. His mouth was duct-taped, and his hands and feet were restrained.

  Jacopo did not know why his master had chosen Curran, and quite frankly, he did not care. His master had given him specific instructions, and he did not want to deviate from them one bit.

  He held the knife to the fluorescent tube. It glistened in the light.

  He was ready.

  He stood up and walked over to Curran.

  There was a puddle of tears underneath Curran’s head. He was crying uncontrollably.

  Jacopo leaned closer to Curran’s ear and said, “I’m going to remove the tape from your mouth. If you scream, it will do you no good. No one will hear you. This room was chosen because it is buried deep in a labyrinth of tunnels. Do you understand me?”

  Curran nodded.

  “Okay, good.”

  Jacopo stripped the tape off.

  Curran screamed at the top of his lungs. Jacopo was not fazed. He half expected it.

  He waited until Curran’s face was red and he was out of breath.

  “Are you done?” Jacopo asked calmly.

  Curran’s chest moved up and down as he sucked in air.

  “You can keep screaming, but you’ll only be delaying the inevitable.”

  Curran swallowed and said, “Why are you doing this?”

  Jacopo shrugged.

  “Please, let me go.”

  “I can’t,” Jacopo replied. “I have my orders.”

  “Don’t hurt me. I haven’t done anything to you.”

  “You’re right. You haven’t done anything to me. In fact, until today, we hadn’t even met before.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Is it important?” Jacopo asked.

  “My name is Doug Curran. My wife’s name is Claudia Curran. She’s waiting for me at home.”

  Jacopo knew Curran was a psychiatrist. He also knew Curran was trying to make this personal in the hope that he would feel sorry for him and let him go.

  Jacopo smiled. “Your wife is not waiting for you. She’s dead. I killed her.”

  Curran’s face contorted in anguish. He began to cry again.

  After snatching Curran, Jacopo had used the fob on his key to get through the front gates. The guard was too busy reading the newspaper to notice him. Even if he did, the Mercedes’s windows were tinted, so he had no idea what he looked like. Plus, Jacopo had fake license plates on the vehicle. He would toss them out once he completed his task.

  Mrs. Curran was collateral damage. He feared she would call the police when her husband did not return. His master wanted Curran’s body on tomorrow’s train. Jacopo needed enough time to set everything up according to his master’s instructions.

  “Now open your mouth and stick your tongue out,” Jacopo said, raising the knife.

  Curran shut his mouth tight.

  “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice.”

  Curran shook his head.

  Jacopo sighed. Why didn’t they learn fighting him will only make things worse? he thought.

  He picked up a thin metal piece that had a sharp pointy end. He stuck it in Curran’s body, just below the ribs.

  Curran clenched his jaw. Tears flowed down his cheeks as he tried to endure the pain.

  It is a waste of time, Jacopo thought. He twisted the metal piece.

  Searing pain shot through Curran’s entire body. He tossed and thrashed, but he refused to open his mouth.

  Jacopo pushed the metal piece further and twisted it even more.

  Curran’s face was beet red. He opened his mouth and let out a long scream.

  Jacopo carefully grabbed his tongue with a pair of pliers.

  He pulled it as far as it would go.

  He smiled.

  He held the knife up in the air. “I’m afraid, doctor, after tonight, you won’t be very useful in your profession.”

  Curran’s eyes widened. They were filled with sheer terror.

  FIFTY-NINE

  The FBI and the Bridgeton PD had stationed agents and officers at the entrances and exits of all subway stations.

  They could not shut down the transit system. That would result in chaos and gridlock on the city streets. Bridgeton Transit Authority kept the city moving. Plus, the mayor did not want a serial killer holding the citizens hostage. He did not want his city to be gripped by fear.

  They should find the killer, and they should punish him for his evil crime, he reminded the authorities. Or else heads would roll.

  Jo felt the pressures in her chest again. The one place she could not afford to have it.

  If Dr. Cohen found out, he would make her take a leave of absence. Not now, she told herself. Not when the city is being terrorized by a killer.

  Jo was at Dupont Station, Tarik was at Wellington Station, Irina was at Chester Station, Crowder was at Broadview Station, and Walters and Ellen Sheehan were at Sherbourne Station. The killer had used each of these stations for his purposes. There was a remote chance he would risk using them again, but their theory was that he might want to use familiar locations for his drop-off and then eventually escape. Plus, with over forty subway stations, there was no way they could be everywhere. The BTA employees were also put on high alert, so there was some help. The more eyes there were, the better they had a chance of spotting the killer.

  Jo watched as each passenger moved through the turnstiles. Anyone walking hand-in-hand, or anyone pushing someone in a wheelchair, or anyone looking like they were homeless was her target. She was also interested in anyone with a hoodie or baseball cap.

  She tried to spot anything out of the ordinary, but as time went by, more and more people entered and exited the station.

  With rush hour upon them, her task had suddenly become even more difficult.

  SIXTY

  Paul Roopsingh sat in the conductor’s cab as the train moved along. His family had come from Guyana when Paul was only two years old. He had grown up in the United States and considered himself as
much an American as he did Guyanese.

  When he saw an opening at BTA, he jumped at the opportunity. After working for BTA for fifteen years, Paul enjoyed every minute of his job.

  That day, however, he felt differently.

  When his supervisor had called and told him about the police presence at each station, he had seriously considered calling in sick. He knew something bad was going to happen. Why else would the police be there? he thought.

  He had a sinking feeling there would be another body on the train. He shivered at the thought. Why anyone would do something like that was beyond him.

  Paul was married with two pre-teen children. He could not imagine them growing up without a father. He did not want to be involved in whatever was going on at work that day. In fact, when he told his wife, she was adamant he not go to work. But he could not just take time off so suddenly. If he did, someone else would have to cover his shift. And it would be one of his friends.

  Over the years, he had worked with a lot of BTA employees who were now his friends. He knew their spouses, their girlfriends, their boyfriends. He had even gone out drinking with some of them. When his children were born, one of his friends had covered for him, and another friend had taken over his train the day he had to leave work due to his mother’s untimely death after suffering a fall at home.

  Family.

  That was what the employees of BTA were to him. There was no way he would abandon his shift today.

  As the conductor, Paul’s duty was to make sure that all the passengers had gotten on and off the train before he closed the doors. It was not a very difficult job, but it did require him to be alert and attentive.

  There were always people rushing to catch the train before the doors closed. At times, they would shove their foot, arm, or backpack between the doors in order for them to stay open.

  Naturally, this would delay the train from moving ahead, but he had come to realize this as part of his job. He stopped being angry at the hurried passengers. No one liked waiting, especially when they could get to their destination earlier.

  The train pulled into the station. Paul immediately stuck his head out from his cabin. He turned a switch and the train’s doors opened.