“Earl, can we get some illumination on the victim for just a second, please?”
On cue the two closest lights came on, two large saucers that threw an unnaturally bright hue over the scene, exposing every last bit of the depravity on Handley’s skin.
“Okay, that’s good!” Reed called. He waited until the lights flipped back off, the room seeming much darker. “Thank you, sir.”
One single sound came back that sounded kind of like, “Yup,” but Reed couldn’t be sure.
“Alright,” Reed said, glancing back to the group, his gaze settling on Bishop, “the answer to your question, I think, is maybe. They’re all certainly at risk and need to be warned, if not protected.”
“But what if he’s already taken out who he needs to?” Greene said.
“That’s why you had Earl flip the lights,” Bishop said.
“Yeah,” Reed said. “I wanted to see what kind of shape he was in, if he was anywhere near as bad as Ruggles.”
“Was he?” Iaconelli asked.
“On the outside?” Reed replied. “Maybe even worse.”
“If you give me a name, I might be able to help.”
For the first time in several minutes the phone on the desk had come to life, Reed having completely forgotten that Deek was still on the line. By the looks on the faces of the other men, they had as well.
“Say again, Deek?”
“That list you asked me to look into,” Deek said, “from the government database. It took some doing, but I got it.”
The list. With so much going on in the last hour, it had slipped Reed’s mind.
“Were we right? Were Ruggles and Handley the highest?”
“Doesn’t really work that way, least not that I can see,” Deek said. “There isn’t a numerical ranking, just something called a MELD score and a categorical listing. Both were ranked a 40 on the score, listed as Category 1.”
The information fit exactly with what Dr. Levin had told Reed. Both men were maxed out using all the usual blood work parameters, were at the most critical stage for needing to receive a new organ.
“So there’s no actual list?” Reed asked. “No number one, number two?”
“There probably is,” Deek said, “but to take a look at that means crossing some serious boundaries. Patient records, confidentiality, all that jazz. What I’m into now is more of a database. I can see how they score and what their category is; anything beyond that I’m going to need a signed Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card from a prosecutor.”
They were standing within feet of their fourth victim, knowing full well that at least one more was likely on the way. They didn’t have time to be dealing with bureaucracy.
As much as he wanted to tell Deek to forge ahead, to find the rank order, to do whatever he must, he knew he couldn’t. Deek was a civilian. He was doing him a favor for the down payment of a bottle of booze. What he needed couldn’t be protected, even by cooperating with the police.
There was no way he could endanger Deek. Even the thought of it would be enough to pull Riley back from the beyond to throttle him.
“Okay, Deek, can you pull the records for each of the six on the list? I know we can’t get a clear heading, but maybe we can cross somebody out.”
“Roger that,” Deek said, the line falling silent.
Again Reed glanced at each of the men before looking down to Billie. She was still seated on her haunches, both ears upright. She stared at him, coiled energy practically rolling off of her body.
Reed knew the feeling.
“Gilchrist!” Reed shouted, stepping forward and looking out through the house. He ignored Earl and his men working in the foreground, staring at the door on the far end of the kitchen, before the screen swung back and the young officer stepped in, panting badly.
Sweat streamed down his face as he thrust the two pages out before him, droplets staining them in a couple of places. Reed laid them side by side on the table in front of the laptop, his gaze moving between the sheets and the list pulled up on screen.
Bishop was the first to appear beside him, his own head shifting up and down as he compared the two. All air seemed to suck out of the room as everyone leaned in tight, watching, waiting.
Halfway down the sheet, Reed found what he was looking for. His heart lurched in his chest as the name jumped out at him, looking between the paper and the list on the screen twice to be certain.
“Deek, can you look up Amber Morgan for me? What are her MELD and category scores?”
The only response was the clatter of a keyboard, Deek searching for the information.
“Same as the first two,” he finally said. “Both are completely maxed out. That woman does not have long.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Free of the stuffy interior of Frederick Handley’s house, the air outside bordered on cool. It picked at the perspiration soaking Reed’s back, dropping his core temperature a few degrees, though the high humidity kept any hope of evaporation at bay.
Grouped into a loose circle on the front lawn, Reed stood with Billie by his knee. To either side were Officers Greene and Gilchrist, Detectives Iaconelli and Bishop, everybody intently listening to the voice coming through Reed’s speaker phone.
“Okay,” Captain Grimes said, his voice much thicker than Deek’s had been. Just from the tone it was obvious his nerves were stretched tight, Reed guessing it stemmed from his earlier encounter with Leveritt, but knowing better than to ask.
“Amber Morgan, 53-years-old, lives on 21st Street,” Grimes said. The address matched with the list Handley had on his computer. “Completely clean sheet. No priors, no citations, not even a damn parking ticket. Wow.”
The phone was balanced in the palm of Reed’s hand as he listened. Around him he could see the others either staring straight at it or avoiding eye contact, Gilchrist shuffling from side to side, shifting his weight back and forth.
The decision to bypass Jackie at the dispatch desk and go straight to Grimes was one Reed made unilaterally, despite knowing he would probably catch flack for it. He could tell Jackie was practically salivating earlier, looking for any morsel of insider info.
The idea of being bypassed now would not only bruise her ego, it would hurt her feelings in a way that would take weeks to repair.
Reed knew there was no chance Grimes would step away until things were wrapped up, at least for the night. He also knew the man had no ego in situations like this, would not think twice about curt inquiries or quick hang-ups.
“How about Kyle Morgan?” Reed asked, reciting the name on the list of Big Q employees Beauregard had given him.
“Um,” Grimes said, holding the sound out as he sought what Reed was asking for, sounding like a giant insect buzzing across the front lawn. “Kyle Anthony Morgan, 25-years-old. Two speeding tickets, neither too outrageous. Otherwise, he’s clean.”
Unable to hide it, Reed’s face scrunched up in confusion. He looked at the others around the circle, trying to force things into place.
The kinds of crimes they were seeing did not simply appear out of nowhere. Nobody ever jumped from being clean to committing multiple murders. There was almost always, especially for someone so young, a history of escalation. Theft. Assault. Animal cruelty. Something that would indicate future behavior.
“This has to be our guy, right?” Bishop asked, voicing what Reed was already thinking. “I mean, young, capable, a direct tie to someone very high on the list.”
“Geography fits,” Reed agreed. He paused, running through the list of everything Bishop had just mentioned, going over all that had transpired in recent days.
“What about a car?” Reed asked. “What does Kyle Morgan drive?”
More heavy pounding could be heard, followed by, “A 1999 Chevy Silverado.”
“Shit,” Reed muttered.
Everything pointed toward Morgan being their guy, but things refused to fit into place the way they were supposed to. Right now all they had was supposition, albeit strong,
but that wouldn’t be enough to move on.
“What about the mother?” Reed asked, staring back down at the phone.
Another moment passed. “Looks like there is a 1995 Chrysler LeBaron registered in her name.”
“What color?” Reed asked, feeling his pulse rise.
“Um,” Grimes repeated, again drawing it out. “Silver. Why?”
“Finally,” Reed said, looking up at the others in the group. He could see questions on both Iaconelli and Bishop’s faces and said, “Witnesses at both Esther Rosen’s and Ira Soto’s reported thinking they saw a silver car parked nearby.”
“This has to be our guy,” Iaconelli said, slapping his hands together before him and rubbing them twice.
Reed nodded, the same thought in mind, the slightest bit of nervous excitement arising with it.
“How you want to play it?” Bishop asked.
His pulse continuing to move at a frenetic pace, Reed remained silent for several seconds. Right now he had a strong lead suspect, and some people who needed protection. He also had the possibility that Morgan would bypass the others on the list altogether and target a new donor.
Piece by piece, he fit everything together in his mind.
“Captain, can you put out a BOLO for both of the Morgan’s cars? If he’s out hunting for another organ donor, I want him found and stopped immediately.”
“You got it,” Grimes replied.
“Greene, can you and Gilchrist take the list we got from Handley’s computer and begin alerting the other members of the support group?”
“Yes, sir,” Greene said.
“McMichaels and Jacobs should be on by now too. You can split the list with them and anybody else who might be available.”
This time the only response was a nod, both officers wheeling and heading toward their car. Reed watched as they jogged away, the shadows soon swallowing up their black uniforms. Once they were gone, he looked at Bishop and Iaconelli beside him, reached down and ran his hand along the scruff of Billie’s neck.
“And the four of us go pay the Morgans a visit?”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Sweat dripped off the end of The Good Son’s nose. It started up high on his head, running through his hair, trickling down over his forehead. Some of streams passed along the outside of his face, making their way down his jaw line while others went straight for his eyebrows. Every so often one split them evenly, traversing the ridge of his nose, and dropped straight down off the tip.
The Good Son paid it no mind. He stood with his back pressed against the rear of the house, the brick warm to the touch, just as it had been at Ira Soto’s. Unlike that night though, there was no small dog that needed to be let out to make things easy for him.
Less than five minutes had passed since the light in the upstairs window went out, the cue The Good Son had been waiting for. He had no idea what time it was, his best guess putting it somewhere close to 11:00 as he had eased the driver’s side door open and stepped out. Every instinct had told him to crouch, to dart behind the truck in front of him, to run as fast as he could.
Just like at Frederick Handley’s that afternoon though, he had to make himself look natural. In the off chance there was someone watching, he had to look like he belonged there. He had to ensure they saw, processed, and dismissed him all in a matter of seconds.
Nothing more than a young man out for an evening jog.
Exiting the car, The Good Son turned in the opposite direction of the house. Taking advantage of the sweat already coating his body, soaking his t-shirt through, he walked to the corner before turning left, his gait rising into an even lope.
By the time he made the next corner his skin had passed from moist to sopping wet, sweat leaking from every pore. His breath became short in his chest, a combination of nerves and exertion. Still he kept up an even pace, moving forward through the night, passing house after house. Nearly all of them appeared to already be shut down for the night, a couple of televisions in the darkened front rooms the only signs of life.
For three blocks The Good Son kept his pace even. Years of living in the area had instilled in him a keen understanding of the gridded street system, all of them running in 100 yard squares. At the end of the third block he hooked another left, fighting the burning in his lungs as he came back to the street he had started on.
Slowing to a walk, The Good Son made a show of extending his hands high over his head, hoping that anybody who happened to be nearby would accept the charade, continuing to believe he was nothing more than a late runner. His steps uniform, his pace measured, he walked forward to the Tudor home and made a final turn up the darkened driveway.
The front of the house was completely shadowed as he approached. No security lights lined the front walk, no overhead beam showed down from above the garage.
As The Good Son grew closer, he realized the home was much larger than it appeared from the car. Gray brick with black trim, it rose two stories, stretched nearly the entire width of their lot. The driveway sloped upward to a two-car garage.
Not once did The Good Son slow his pace as he walked up the driveway, glancing over his shoulder before sliding off to the side. His steps quick and light, he passed along the side of the garage and into the backyard, nudging his way around the corner.
Dropping to his knees, The Good Son crawled across most of the rear of the house, using a waist-high hedge for cover. The grass beneath his palms was soft and supple, the result of untold amounts of watering.
Twenty yards across he came to a stop, a patio of matching brick extended out from the rear of the home. The Good Son could see a barbecue grill and a hot tub with assorted lawn furniture arranged around them. Interspersed between were large potted plants, everything shrouded in shadows as he rose to his feet and inched his way to the wall.
Three minutes had passed since he’d assumed his position against the brick. In that time, his only movement was the sweat that continued to drip from his nose.
It was time. If he was going to finish things, to make sure his mother was taken care of, this had to be the moment. There was no way to know what waited inside, but that didn’t matter now.
All that mattered was his mother across town, her tired body giving out, too frail to continue fending for itself.
Now was the time to do right by her.
Using his hips, The Good Son pushed himself a few inches away from the wall. He crept two steps to his left and extended a fist out from the door, holding it there briefly, feeling his entire body quiver with anticipation.
Allowing his eyes to slide shut, he slammed his hand back against the glass of the door once, twice, three times, listening as the sound of it echoed through the cavernous house.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Reed still didn’t bother with the siren. He let the flashers clear the way for him, the few cars that were out peeling off to the side. Iaconelli and Bishop ran right on his tail, their front headlamps dancing from side to side in his rearview mirror.
In a place as geographically dense as Franklinton, sirens could be all the warning someone like Kyle Morgan would need. The wail would pierce the night for blocks before the detectives arrived, giving him a several minute head start if he chose to run.
Reed felt reasonably certain that if he tried to move on foot, Billie could track him down with ease. The bigger concern would be if he happened to jump into a car, weaving his way through the gridded streets of the area. The freeway was just a few miles away and could present all kinds of problems, ranging from a high-speed chase to having to call for much wider assistance across the region.
The mere thought of that, and the field day Eleanor Brandt would have with the 8th over it, was more than Reed wanted to consider at the moment.
Instead, he focused on where they were going, on the address his dashboard GPS was leading him to.
Over the preceding six months Reed had driven past the place probably 20 times while making various rounds, though the location
itself didn’t stand out at all in his mind. He knew most of the streets on the edge of Franklinton were pretty much identical, near replicas of the places Rosen and Soto were both found. The home would be single story, brick, aged, built in the ‘60s for a single family. It would have a small, square plot of land wedged in tight between two like it or one and an adjacent cross street.
The speedometer rose and fell like an Indy car as he sped where he could and slowed down when he had to.
Five days had passed since this all started, though it felt like much, much longer. In that time he had slept precious little, his body clock turned upside down, his mind refusing to slow long enough for him to rest. The heat was intent on trying to sap what remaining energy reserves he had, leaving him feeling like he was fighting a constant losing battle against dehydration.
At the moment, though, Reed felt none of that. A wave of adrenaline had surged within him, propelling him forward. The knowledge that things were coming together, that they could be within minutes of finding a conclusion to so much chaos, refused to let him slow down. When things were over, he and Billie would both take the weekend. They would eat and drink and sleep, not leaving the house until replenished.
Not quite yet though.
The neighborhood was exactly as Reed had anticipated. Low-slung brick homes lined both sides of the street, cars from the mid-‘90s with pockets of rust parked in most of the driveways. A couple of the yards were badly in need of attention, though by and large the place was a duplicate of many just like it in central Ohio.
Anticipation crept steadily upward as Reed stared out, ignoring the GPS in favor of matching numbers on mailboxes. He drew in a sharp breath and held it as their destination came into view.
He slid past the driveway to the far corner of the yard and put the car in park. Behind him he could see Iaconelli pull up blocking the driveway, both corners of the property now covered.
The Good Son: A Suspense Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 2) Page 21
