The Summer House

by James Patterson

  Behind me, Connie and Manuel have notebooks and pencils in hand, both starting to scribble. She says, “This past Thursday Whitey Klamer, a friend of one of the deceased and a student at Savannah Technical College, came by for what he said was a random visit at about 7:00 a.m. Right. At that hour of the day? Based on what we’ve found in the house, he was probably coming for a drug buy. Nobody answered his knocks, the door was partially open, he went in, saw what he saw, came out and puked, and then called Dispatch. First unit responded, saw the extent of the crime scene, and I was next, along with everybody else on the force, including retirees.”

  She squats and points to the hinges, where I note familiar-looking scorch marks and bent metal. “One of the first things I spotted. Look. The Rangers used det cord or some other explosive device to get in. Very quick, very pro.” She stands up and takes a folding knife from her pocket, opens it up, and cuts through the seal blocking the entry. “Give me a hand, will you?”

  She drags the door to one side, and I do the best I can with one hand, the other one holding on to my cane, and I think, Good job, Sheriff, putting me in my place and showing us who’s still in charge.

  Williams says, “You can bet how much the shit hit the fan when we saw what was in here. My investigators got right to work, and we started canvassing the area.”

  I ask, “Did you call for help from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation?”

  She scoffs. “The GBI? The vampires? Nope, no thank you.”

  Connie says, “Why do you call them vampires?”

  The sheriff turns to Connie and Manuel. “Legend has it vampires can only come into your house if you give ’em permission. Same with the GBI. State law says they can only come in to work with local law enforcement if you let them in. Believe me, not many sheriffs in Georgia want that. Not going to happen in my county. Okay, let’s take a look-see.”

  We cluster just beyond the entrance. My eyes adjust to the dim light. The first thing I see is an overturned couch. There are yellow and orange triangular evidence markers on the scuffed and worn wooden floor, now stained with blood.

  Without notes—which I admire—Williams starts reciting the facts of the crime scene, pointing to different areas in the room.

  “This is where we found the first three victims,” she says. “Gordon Tilly, Randall Gleason, and Sally Tisdale. This TV here was still on when their friend stopped by Thursday morning, paused on some kind of shoot-’em video game. Ironic, huh?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Very ironic.”

  We go farther into the home, and I spot more of the plastic triangles on the floor. The counter in the kitchen area has fingerprint dust residue, and the same is on the wooden walls leading to the stairs going up to the second story.

  Williams says, “We recovered from the residence two 9mm pistols, a shotgun, and a .308 hunting rifle, along with scales, plastic bags, and about twenty pounds of marijuana. And before you ask, the pistols had not been recently fired.”

  Manuel says, “Were these people known to you?”

  The sheriff shrugs. “Some. But from what I heard from my sources and others, they were strictly small-time, not on my top ten. Upstairs?”

  To me, the wide stairs look as daunting as the first time I saw a climbing rope, dangling in a gym when I was in seventh grade at PS 19.

  “You go first,” I say. “I don’t want to hold you up.”

  Six minutes later, I’m at the top of the stairs, with Williams, Connie, and Manuel all pointedly looking away from me, as I feel how warm my face is, the trickle of sweat down my neck and back, and the burning and screaming coming from my insulted left leg. Fingerprint dust is on the doorframes to both bedrooms.

  “Thanks,” I say to no one in particular. “Sheriff?”

  She takes an audible breath. “Worst scene is in here.”

  “Then let’s get it over with.”

  We cluster at the entrance to the bedroom while the sheriff goes in, points to a group of evidence triangles on the floor and stains on the floor and against the cracked plaster wall.

  “Gina Zachary,” she says. “She was found here, shot in the back of the head. Looks like she was trying to protect her little girl…and, well, that’s her bloodstain over there.”

  It’s small and cramped in this bedroom, the smells deeper and fouler. I’m breathing through my mouth.

  “The bed,” she says, not bothering to point. Blood spatter is on the wall where the mattress butts up against it. “Stuart Pike. Shot dead here in bed. His name’s on the lease.”

  Manuel speaks up. “He was in bed?”

  “Yes,” the sheriff says.

  “Okay,” Manuel says after a moment.

  The sheriff says, “Something wrong?”

  “No,” Manuel says. “Seems funny, that’s all. Downstairs the door gets blown open, there’s shooting, running up here, the Rangers are chasing up after them…and he’s still in bed.”

  I keep quiet, and so does Connie.

  Williams shrugs. “Maybe he was drunk. Or doped up.” She glances at her watch. “One more, right across the way.”

  We go into the other bedroom, which has two beds. The air is only slightly better in here.

  Williams points to blood spatter on the floor. “Last victim. Lillian Zachary. Older sister of Gina. Looks like she was hiding under the bed when she was dragged out and shot.”

  I look at Manuel and Connie, and they’re just taking in the scene. A few seconds pass.

  “Sheriff, anything else you can tell us?” I ask.

  She rubs at her chin, checks her watch again. “We got two witnesses who put your boys on the scene or heading to the scene. Lady up the way was walking her dog Wednesday night, heard some shouts and gunfire. There’s a utility light at the end of the driveway. She saw a pickup truck come down the driveway, haulin’ ass. It stopped, and she saw the driver and a passenger. She got a partial plate number ’cause she was spooked by all the noise. We managed to trace it to a Ford F-150 Supercrew registered to Sergeant Jefferson, and she IDed him and another Ranger from a photo lineup we were able to later pull together. After we put out a BOLO for ’em, a Ralston police cruiser spotted the Ford at the Ralston Pub & Grub Friday night, and all four were inside, getting drunk.”

  “All right,” I said. “And the other witness?”

  “There’s a Gas N’ Go about a mile down the road. Owner of the store remembered two of your Rangers coming into the store, kinda wired up. They were dressed in regular Army camo gear, not civilian clothing. Two other fellas were out in the parking lot, smoking. Then they got into the F-150 and headed out, going in the direction of this place. Time stamp says they were at the store ’bout twenty minutes before the lady walking her dog heard the shooting.”

  Manuel and Connie maintain their composure, but I can sense what they’re feeling. This is not looking good for the four Rangers.

  I say, “That’s very thorough. Thank you, Sheriff.”

  One more look at her watch. “I’ll tell you two other things before I get going. One is that we dusted the area and found prints belonging to two of your Rangers, Staff Sergeant Jefferson and Corporal Barnes. And we recovered shell casings, and they’re—”

  A chiming sound cuts through the thick air, and the sheriff digs a cell phone out of a rear pocket, slides a finger across the screen, and brings it up to her face. “Sheriff Williams,” she says. I can make out the murmur of someone talking to her, and she nods and says, “Okay, okay…Thanks, Bobby, for pushing this one through. Appreciate it. You take care. Best to Mary and the kids.”

  Her face looks worn as she puts the phone back into her pocket. “That was Bobby Pruitt over at the GBI’s forensics lab in Savannah. We seized Sergeant Jefferson’s 9mm Beretta pistol when he was arrested Friday night, and Bobby did me a favor, put the pistol right on top of the test list.”

  “I thought the GBI were vampires.”

  The sheriff says, “Not when they’re staying put in Savannah and helping me out with a
solid.”

  I think we all know what’s coming next, which doesn’t make it sound any better.

  “Sorry, Major,” she says. “The shell casings we found here are a match to Sergeant Jefferson’s sidearm. The truth is, your Rangers were in this house that night and killed all these people, including that little girl.”

  Chapter 14

  AT HUNTER ARMY AIRFIELD—just south of Savannah—Special Agent Connie York parks their Ford rental in front of a three-story brick building, headquarters for the Fourth Battalion, Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment, and home to the four Rangers who are in a town jail in Ralston, nearly an hour away. The water tower for the post is visible nearby, and while most of the facility is open land with palmetto trees and southern oaks draped with Spanish moss, the Ranger complex is a post within a post, with high brick walls enclosing it, complete with wire and spikes on top to discourage any unofficial visitors.

  Next to her, Major Cook stays silent. He’s been quiet on the drive over here after that horrid search of the kill house, although he was quick and pleasant during their earlier meeting on post with Colonel Brenda Tringali, head of the Third MP Group of the CID. She gave them additional information about the four Rangers—the usual and typical complaints of them being drunk and disorderly while off duty, though the initial complaints were never followed up because local law enforcement agencies didn’t want to get the Rangers into trouble. When they left her office, Connie said to Cook, “She seemed fairly cooperative, Major.”

  And he said, “Of course she was cooperative. This case is white-hot and is going to cause one hell of a mess for the Fourth Battalion here and everybody else on post. Better we outsiders take the heat than her and her MPs.”

  Connie switches off the car engine. Cook remains quiet, holding his cane in his hands.

  “What are you thinking about, sir?” she asks. There have been times when she’s felt comfortable enough to banter and joke with him, but not this time.

  “I’m thinking about what Sanchez asked, back at the murder house.”

  Connie says, “About the civilian, Stuart Pike? The one found dead in his bed?”

  “That’s right,” Cook says. “Sanchez made a good point. Why was he still in bed?”

  “Maybe the sheriff is right,” she says. “Maybe he was drugged, drunk, or passed out.”

  “Passed out enough so he doesn’t at least get off the bed when his girlfriend runs screaming into the bedroom, after the front door gets blasted open?” Cook replies, opening the door. “Come along. We’ve got work to do.”

  An hour later, she and Major Cook are still waiting outside the office of Lieutenant Colonel Vincent Marcello, commanding officer of the Fourth Battalion. They are in a small outer office, sitting on a black leather couch, while at his desk an apologetic Major Frank Moore keeps on making excuses for his commanding officer.

  Moore says, “I’m sure he’ll be free in just a few minutes, Major. I’m so sorry for the wait.”

  Cook says, “No apologies necessary,” but Connie knows exactly what’s going on. She and Major Cook are just Army cops, dressed in civilian clothes, and the commanding officer here is putting the two of them in their place. All around them on the walls are photos of the Rangers with the Fourth Battalion, in action in places like Iraq and Afghanistan as well as earlier deployments to Panama and Grenada.

  Several helicopters thrum overhead, and not for the first time as a CID agent, Connie thinks of herself as a fraud. She’s a tough cop, a good investigator, but she’s not a real soldier. She knows that. She and Sanchez are both warrant officers, an odd and mostly overlooked rank between an NCO and an officer, and even though they’re supposed equals, Sanchez always likes to rag on her that he’s got more field experience with the LAPD and six months more in the CID than she has.

  This airfield and those photos and the men and women out there in this hot Georgia heat, they’re the real Army. The records of the four Rangers they all examined this morning were certainly eye-opening, with the listings of their duty stations, schools attended, and deployments conducted. The records also displayed what the four accused Rangers overall have achieved: Combat Infantry, Pathfinder, Parachutist, and Air Assault badges, ribbons denoting the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star Medal, plus various other recognitions.

  At the time, Connie felt embarrassed. She’s known as a slick sleeve, her uniform bare of service medals and overseas campaign ribbons. Waiting now for Lieutenant Colonel Marcello, that feeling comes back, of being an imposter among these real soldiers.

  Major Moore is wearing camouflage fatigues, and his ink-black hair is closely trimmed. He says, “I still can’t believe you’re here, and that Sergeant Jefferson and his fire team were arrested. It must be some kind of mistake.”

  After seeing and hearing all the evidence this Sunday morning, Connie doesn’t want to burst the major’s bubble, but Cook says, “That’s what we’re hoping, too. Tell me, do you know them well?”

  Moore shakes his head. “They’re in Alpha Company. I never interacted much with them, but, man, the stories about them…They’re called the Ninja Squad.”

  “Really?” Cook asks. “Why’s that?”

  Moore says, “They’re superb at moving at night. I mean, everyone can move at night; with NVGs on, it’s hard not to. But Sergeant Jefferson and his crew, they take it a step further. It’s like…like they’re goddamn shadows or something. And Sergeant Jefferson, he’s tight with his men. All teams are tight, but Jefferson, his men trust him and follow him, no questions asked. Once I heard how he weeds out newbies who want to be in his section. They go on a night hike, through some deep woods, and Jefferson marches right off a cliff…into a swamp. Fall isn’t much, but for Sergeant Jefferson, those who fall with him into the swamp with no hesitation, no questions, they get in. The others…don’t.”

  Connie says, “Sounds impressive…for training.”

  Moore shakes his head. “Same thing out on deployments. His fire team always gets the tough jobs because they can get them done, no bullshit. He and his team can approach a target farmhouse, even with dogs and Taliban guards around, and they can still slip into a compound without anyone noticing, breach the door, and kill everyone before someone can pick up a weapon.”

  Shit, Connie thinks, doesn’t that sound familiar, and Moore says, “Thing is, when they get stateside, wow, can they get into—”

  When his phone buzzes Moore gives the two of them a big smile. He picks up the receiver and says, “Moore,” and after a few nods, he says, “Yes, sir, straightaway.”

  He hangs up the phone.

  “The lieutenant colonel will see you now.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Vincent Marcello is standing behind his desk, an impressive piece of furniture that Connie thinks is bigger than her bed back at Quantico. The desk is brightly clean, and Marcello continues to stand as he looks down upon a piece of paper. There are the typical in and out baskets, two telephones, and a computer monitor. It’s a corner office, filled with light, and souvenirs, plaques, and photos are up on the wall.

  Marcello is huge, bulky, like under his camo uniform there are slabs of muscle, and he’s bald, the only hair being two bushy black eyebrows.

  Without lifting his head, he says, “Major Cook, why are you here?”

  After half a beat, Cook says, “Colonel Marcello, my team and I were ordered here to conduct an investigation into—”

  “I know that, Major,” he cuts in, voice louder, head still bowed down. “But I have a very competent investigator here, Colonel Tringali of the Third MP Group. I trust her and her CID investigators. She even has a positive working relationship with Sheriff Williams over there in Sullivan County, the scene of the crime. So why are you here?”

  “Orders, sir.”

  Marcello finally lifts his head. There’s a pink scar running down his right cheek. Connie is suddenly glad that her boss is the focus of the colonel’s anger and attention.

  “A special squad for a special case?”r />
  “You could say that, sir. We investigate those matters of high priority and high attention, to make sure the accused’s rights are preserved but also to ensure that justice is done. Sir.”

  Marcello stares at her boss. “In other words, you big-foot right in and take over the investigation.”

  “Not entirely accurate, sir.”

  “If you say so.”

  Marcello picks up a pen, signs the document before him. “Well, you’re here. You have questions, I’m sure. Ask away.”

  “Sir, we’d like to interview fellow members of their platoon, to see if—”

  “Not going to happen.”

  From Connie’s vantage point, it seems like Cook is really leaning on his cane. The pain in his left leg must be awful this afternoon, with all the walking and standing.

  “Sir?” Cook asks.

  “Oh, didn’t I make myself clear? You cannot and will not interview members of that team’s platoon.”

  “May I ask why, sir?”

  “Certainly,” Marcello says, opening his center drawer and carefully putting his pen inside, then closing the drawer. “Because we are this nation’s firefighters, ready to go anywhere when the president tells us to go. We’re trained and equipped to deploy to anywhere in the world within eighteen hours. And in approximately”—he glances at a large watch on his large wrist—“two hours Alpha Company is boarding C-17s to go overseas. And those men don’t have time to talk to you. Nor do I, for you see, Major Cook, I’m leaving with them, to join them and Bravo and Charlie Companies.”