by Robert Ellis
Their genitals were touching. The photograph may have been dark and shot from a distance to take in the entire crime scene, but Matt could still see it. Still picture it. And then that stray thought buoyed to the surface again, and this time Matt seized it.
If Baylor had been trying to make a statement, it seemed forced. It felt like he was straining. Obviously Baylor’s condition had deteriorated over the past month and a half and he’d lost control of himself. He was no longer just a serial killer, but had graduated and become a mass killer. He’d unlocked the door to his demons, and on the night of the murders, they all came running out.
But that still didn’t explain why there was so much blood on the walls, nor did it even come close to answering the key question.
Why did Baylor choose to kill these people here on a landing instead of a bedroom? Given the obvious sexual nature of the killings, the crime would seem to have been better orchestrated on a bed.
Why here?
Matt stood up and stepped through the doorway into the master bedroom suite. Like the first floor, fingerprint powder coated every object in the room. But the bed was neatly made, nothing had been disturbed or appeared out of place, and Matt didn’t see a single drop of blood. He entered the bathroom, shined his flashlight in the shower and tub, then passed through two dressing rooms and a study and out a second door onto the landing. When he noticed a door at the base of the stairs to the third floor, he swung it open and found what he thought might be a room dedicated to yoga and meditation.
He took the stairs to the third floor two at a time and made a quick inspection of each room; three were bedrooms for the Strattons’ children while the fourth had been turned into a rec room for watching TV and playing video games. The tubs and showers in the bathrooms were clean. Except for the fingerprint powder, nothing appeared to be out of order anywhere on the floor, and he didn’t see a single drop of blood.
So why the landing? Why do it on a carpet and hardwood floor when a king-sized mattress was right through the door in the Strattons’ bedroom?
Matt returned to the second floor. There was a window beside the meditation room, and he could see Brown in the car talking to someone on her cell phone. On the other side of the driveway and garage, a forest of trees covered the steep hill. Matt noted that they were pine trees and guessed that this was the north side of the property. From the forest’s size and density, it was a safe bet that the trees had been planted as cover and were as old as the house.
Why here? Why the landing?
He turned and noticed that he’d forgotten to close the door to the study off the master suite. Sidestepping the blood, he shut the door and glanced at the fingerprint powder clinging to his glove. When he noticed another door by the top of the stairs, he opened it to reveal the rear staircase and the door to one of the three guest suites. It was dark. Spooky. He could feel his mind chewing through everything he was seeing. He could feel a certain clarity and vision that he hadn’t experienced for a single moment since he’d been shot.
And then it happened—the sudden freeze right between his shoulder blades. This heightened sense of concentration. He could feel the ghosts in the house. They were closer now. They were watching him.
He turned sharply, counting all the closed doors as his eyes rocked through the crime scene.
Why had Baylor staged his killing spree on the landing?
The answer seemed so obvious now.
CHAPTER 7
The snow flurries had stopped with nothing more than a dusting on the frozen ground. As Matt climbed into the passenger seat, Brown switched off her cell phone and gave him a measured look.
“You okay?” she asked.
Matt shrugged. “I’m good.”
“Really?” she said in a voice laced with sarcasm. “I’ve already got you figured out, Jones. When you lie, your left eye twitches.”
“How long’s it gonna take to get the toxicology reports?”
“A couple of weeks,” she said. “You’re thinking they were drugged.”
“Yeah.”
He watched her pull down the drive and give the three cops in black uniforms a nod as they waved them through with their rifles. After making a right turn onto County Line Road, she took a quick glimpse at the media’s outpost on the lawn and coasted down the hill. There was a small bridge built over the stream here. Matt read the street sign, searching for the gatehouse he had seen earlier and realizing that it was too far down the road and way too dark. The entire area would have to be explored in daylight, and to Matt, it was important enough that he hoped he could return tomorrow.
Baylor had to have parked his car somewhere, and Matt knew with absolute certainty that it wouldn’t have been anywhere near the Strattons’ home. He would have parked his car where it wouldn’t stand out—maybe the train station—and hiked in through the woods. In a neighborhood like this one, it wouldn’t—
His mind switched back to the tox screen. “Were any puncture marks found on the victims during the autopsies?”
“No,” Brown said. “And the medical examiner made it a point to look for them. We already had the fingerprint match, so he read your reports and final statement and knew that Baylor had a history of using something to keep his victims docile. Something that works through the system quickly and was never picked up. He didn’t find any puncture wounds, but like he said himself, that doesn’t mean they weren’t there. Baylor’s a plastic surgeon and would know where to hide them. We’re thinking he’s using Pentothal. It works quickly and they would have been helpless.”
Matt wanted to get his hands on the murder book. And he wanted in on the FBI’s website so that he could read through the chronological record they were keeping online. His mind was back, and he wanted to burn through it while the clarity lasted.
Brown made a left at the light. “I need to know how it went, Jones. Why do you think Baylor killed them on the landing?”
Matt didn’t say anything. After thinking it over, he leaned against the door and gave her a look.
“Because he needed to,” he said finally.
“What do you mean?”
“He needed to dampen the sound. Like we said before, it would’ve been a loud night. There would’ve been shrieks and cries for help, at least until he could get them sedated. How many gunshots were fired?”
“Five,” she said. “One for each victim.”
“Okay, so Baylor needed to dampen the sound of five gunshots. The landing is surrounded on every side by other rooms. The exterior walls are a foot and a half thick. The only weak spot is the window. When I looked outside, the angle was off and I couldn’t see the carriage house. All I saw were pine trees and a steep hill. It was breezy tonight. I could hear the tree branches when we were standing in the drive. If it was like this on the night of the murders, any sound that leaked through the glass would have stayed right where Baylor wanted it.”
She turned and met his eyes. “In the wind,” she said.
Matt nodded. “In the wind.”
It hung there, in the warmth of the Crown Vic on a cold night.
When Brown spoke, her voice was soft and low. “I’ll let Doyle and Rogers know.”
Matt settled back in his seat and yawned, the sleep he’d lost last night beginning to catch up to him. After a while Brown switched on the radio to KYW, a news station that sounded a lot like KNX, the news station in LA. Headlines began at the top of the hour, with traffic and weather updates recycling every ten minutes. But tonight there was only one story in Philadelphia. Because the media had been given so little information about the murders, the stories and interviews were with retired members of various law enforcement agencies and physicians from local hospitals who had nothing to do with the investigation and could offer little more than speculation.
Most thought that one of Stratton’s former patients committed the murders in an act of revenge that got out of hand. Had Matt not been aware of the physical evidence, had he not walked through the crime
scene, he might have thought the same thing. Stratton had used his patients as cash cows, administering chemotherapy and radiation treatments even though they were healthy. His vulgar thirst for money and power, his greed, contaminated his entire being. Like most narcissists, Stratton had evolved into a monster. And that’s exactly what would have attracted Dr. Baylor. As Matt tossed it over, he couldn’t help thinking that the barbaric nature of Stratton’s crime was what sent Baylor over the edge. This had to be why Baylor wanted to destroy Stratton’s entire bloodline. The fact that Stratton had taken the Hippocratic oath and broken his vows as a physician would have resonated with Baylor in spite of his own personal history and mental decline.
Matt looked over at Brown’s face in the soft glow of the dashboard lights. She knew that he was tired and not in the mood to talk right now. And he liked the fact that nothing about his silence felt uncomfortable.
Traffic on the expressway was light, and the drive downtown to the exit at Thirtieth Street Station took less than half an hour. As Brown circled the train station, Matt realized that everything was beginning to look familiar to him again. The FBI’s apartment was located in a section of the city called Fitler Square and covered a number of blocks that included the Schuylkill River Park. Brown turned right off Market Street onto Twenty-Third Street, heading south and making the cut over to Twenty-Fourth. A few minutes later she made a left onto Pine Street and pulled to the curb before a pair of four-story apartment buildings that were set directly across the street from the actual square. Matt gazed through the wrought iron fence at the benches and fountain and all the trees that would be leafing out in the spring and providing shade on a hot summer day. When he turned back to the pair of buildings, he noted the same sign, “Fitler Commons,” over both entrances.
“You’re on the fourth floor of the building on the left. It’s a front corner two-bedroom apartment with a view of the square and Center City. The river’s only two blocks away, so if this were April or May and you jogged and had any spare time, you’d be in the right place.”
She was making a joke and had a look going.
“But this is December,” he said. “And so I’m not.”
She laughed. “You’re in a real nice neighborhood, Jones. Cafés, restaurants, it’s quiet here. Not a lot of traffic. You need any help getting your bags upstairs?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“The elevator’s a little shaky.”
Matt climbed out of the car, then opened the rear door and grabbed his duffel bag and briefcase. When he looked in on Brown, she was writing something down on the back of a business card.
“It’s my home number,” she said, “just in case. I live five minutes north of here in the museum district. Call me if you need me. My cell’s on the front with our office numbers and the address.”
“What about my cell number?”
“Doyle already gave it to me. Oh, and it’s supposed to get colder tomorrow. A real deep freeze. The office is on the other side of town. If I were you, I’d take a cab in the morning.”
“When’s morning?”
“Eight sharp.”
Matt thought about what he was wearing: a pair of slacks and a casual dress shirt. He hadn’t brought a suit and had forgotten to pack a sports jacket.
“What about the dress code?” he said. “I’m a G-man now.”
She gave him a quick look. “A temporary G-man who grew up in Jersey and lives in LA. With that kind of résumé what you’re wearing will do just fine.”
Matt closed the passenger door, and Brown lowered the window.
“Thanks, Kate,” he said. “Thanks for making everything so easy.”
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. She smiled and nodded and pulled away from the curb.
CHAPTER 8
Matt flipped the business card over and glanced at her name and title printed on the front: “Kate Brown, Assistant Agent in Charge.” Slipping the card into his pocket, he watched her drive off until she vanished around the corner on Twenty-Second Street. The sidewalks were nearly empty, and he noticed the silhouette of a man walking toward him two blocks away. Matt waited for him to step beneath a streetlight, then grabbed his bags and entered the building.
It wasn’t his shadow. It wasn’t the man he’d seen on his flight and at the airport. His hair wasn’t black, but blond, and he carried a knapsack and had the build, at least from a distance, of someone who worked out in a gym.
Matt found the elevator and listened to the cables creak all the way up to the fourth floor. As he stepped out into a dimly lit hallway, he could hear the sound of someone’s TV bleeding through their door. Apartment 4B was just down the way on the left. After unlocking the deadbolt and the handle lock, he switched on the lights and walked inside.
The place was nicer than he expected. Much nicer. Whoever furnished the rooms had taste and seemed to know that the people staying here were away from home. The kitchen was to his right directly behind him. Someone had stocked the fridge with milk and eggs and almost anything he might need for a day or two. He grabbed a beer, twisted off the cap, and took a swig. Then he checked the cabinets and found cereal and coffee. As he walked through the living room, he noted the large bay window and gazed outside at the square across the street. From four stories up, it looked like a very cold and lonely place. Like an arcade on a Jersey boardwalk that was closed for winter and wouldn’t open again until spring.
He turned back to the room and took another sip of beer. The art on the walls, the black-and-white photographs, all seemed so familiar. One of the three photographs was by Minor White. It was an incredible shot of a road heading toward the hills and lined with white poplar trees that looked as if they were burning. An actual print of the same photograph hung in the Blackbird Café, one of Matt’s homes away from home in LA.
He stepped away from the window. There were no hallways in the apartment, each room opening to the next. He could see that the front bedroom had been converted into a study and shared a bath with the rear bedroom. Matt walked into the room, checked the mattress, then passed through the door into the living room.
Everything felt good, and he was more than grateful to be here instead of a hotel room.
He tossed his duffel bag on the bed. When he came back for his laptop and briefcase, he heard the elevator and looked through the peephole.
It was that man he’d seen on the street. The man with the knapsack. He was walking down the hall, searching for a key on his key ring. Matt watched him unlock the door to the next apartment and announce to someone inside that he was home. When the door closed, Matt got out of his jacket, found the remote, and switched on the TV.
CNN had just cut to a string of commercials. Matt muted the sound and set his laptop up on the coffee table. Then he pulled his shaving kit out of his briefcase and ripped it open. The gunshot wounds were beginning to blister through his chest, the real pain probably an hour off. He sorted through his medications, passing over the Vicodin and opening the bottle of Advil. But as he knocked back two capsules with a swig of beer, he glanced at the TV and thought he might choke.
It was his father, M. Trevor Jones.
Matt grabbed the remote and turned up the sound. It looked like the media had caught up to him as he exited a building in New York and tried to get to the limousine waiting for him in the street. The building was set back from the sidewalk and had an unusually large open-air entrance, so reaching the limo wouldn’t be easy.
Within a few seconds, Matt caught the gist of the story and stopped listening. He already knew why his father was being hounded by the media and didn’t need to listen to a newsreader from CNN repeat a story that had been in the papers for weeks. His father was negotiating a financial settlement with the Department of Justice, the Office of the Comptroller of the Currency, and the Federal Reserve Bank for an unspecified amount that many believed would exceed one billion dollars. His father’s bank had been caught playing games with mortgages to veterans and acti
ve members of the military. Overcharges, hidden fees, and improper foreclosure practices had forced thousands of people out of their homes. The investigation had been completed, and now it was time for dear old Dad, the King of Wall Street, to pay up.
But something else was going on here. Matt stepped closer to the TV. The camera was handheld and bouncing up and down in the chaos. Matt looked at his father’s face—the man’s teeth were clenched, his arms up, his head down—but it wasn’t his father making the push through the crowd. It was the two men beside him that were clearing the way. Both of them were wearing suits and appeared hard and tough, the reporters poking his father with their microphones completely outmatched.
Matt took another step closer to the screen.
What concerned him wasn’t their appearance or physical strength. It was the fact that both men were armed. Their jackets were open, and Matt could see the pistols strapped to their shoulders.
His father had hired a pair of bodyguards. Armed bodyguards.
This was new, and Matt didn’t believe that it had anything to do with his father’s financial troubles. His bank could easily afford to pay a billion-dollar fine. This was about Matt. His father knew that he was coming. Matt could sense it. His father had begun to prepare.
CHAPTER 9
The FBI’s field office occupied most of the federal building at 600 Arch Street. It was a ten-story low-rise building that shared underground parking with the federal courthouse and had been named after William J. Green Jr., a beloved congressman from Philadelphia who died young and fathered a son who would later become the city’s mayor.
Matt breezed through security with his new ID. The special task force was housed on the eighth floor with Violent Crime. Kate Brown was waiting for him and eyed the badge clipped to his belt as he stepped out of the elevator.
“Any trouble downstairs?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “It was easy.”
