The Scarlett Bell FBI Series

by Dan Padavona

  She entered his mind, rushing forth where angels fear to tread, and pictured the businessman with the dark blue suit walking down the sidewalk. Did the killer know the man? Why him and not someone else?

  Bell visualized the scope targeting the businessman’s chest, the four lines converging on a circle, the feel of the trigger against her finger. She sensed the cloying darkness of the shooter’s seclusion.

  In her mind, she pulled the trigger. The man’s chest erupted with blood as the massive 0.50 caliber round punctured his heart. What level of hate did it take to kill an innocent man?

  She shuddered. Felt a little sick like something crawled into her stomach and died.

  LDSK. A long distance serial killer. The official definition described his character. Not a sniper, a hero who defends the public, but a serial killer who murders from a distance. And he was just getting started.

  A news reporter with a camera slipped around the barricades and rushed up to her. He took Bell’s picture as she glared at him.

  “What do you know about the shooter, Agent Bell?”

  The bastard knew her name.

  “How similar is he to Derek Longo? Would you call the shooter a serial killer?”

  The cops spotted the reporter and forced him back to the sidewalk as he continued to shout questions over their shoulders.

  “Is it true Alan Hodge almost murdered you in Coral Lake and that you broke his neck?”

  Bell didn’t look at him as she hurried toward Gardy and Ames.

  Gardy raised his eyebrows at her approach.

  “Find anything?”

  “He’s copying the DC snipers.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  His heart races. Pulse thrums with the cold attack of adrenaline.

  William Meeks guides the black Lincoln MKS through a glut of traffic as he escapes the city center. The memory of the kill, the explosion when the 0.50 caliber bullet opened a hole in the businessman’s chest, makes him light-headed. Dizzy.

  The world moves at hyper-speed, and he seems to look at too many things at once—

  The city buildings and interspersed apartments. Vehicles sweeping past and darting around the MKS. People talking excitedly on the corner.

  About him.

  Horns blare as he drives headlong into oncoming traffic. Meeks cranks the wheel and darts into his lane. His arms shake, and he can’t slow his breathing. He’s bitten his thumbnail down to the quick.

  Yet he realizes the shootings have gone better than expected. Easy. He can kill for weeks and months, and no one can stop him.

  The light turns red, and he brings the car to a stop on the edge of the crossing lane. He reaches for the radio dial when a male traffic cop with a thick mustache crosses in front of the grille. The cop locks eyes with Meeks.

  Reaching across the seat for the M82, Meeks realizes the rifle is in the trunk. Nothing to defend himself with. The cop continues to stare as Meeks edges his toe onto the gas pedal. He’ll run the son-of-a-bitch down if it comes to it.

  Then the cop turns and waves a group of pedestrians into the crosswalk. Meeks breathes again.

  When the drive resumes, he recalls the first time he shot the M82 upon the forested mountain several miles outside of Milanville. He placed a dummy fifty yards away, an easy shot for a beginner. The recoil stung his shoulder, but it wasn’t as bad as he expected. The bullet shredded the dummy’s abdomen, a sound like a bomb detonating beneath a pillow. Then he shot from seventy-five yards, one hundred yards. Kept moving the target into the distance until he mastered the shot.

  He doesn't understand how he reached this point in his life. When Meeks was young, he spent his days in front of the television while his father worked. The mother died giving birth to Meeks, and he never thought about who she was or what life might be like had she lived. There were photographs, but they meant nothing to him. Like looking at pictures of strangers in a magazine.

  Meeks didn't have friends. The gray farmhouse was six miles from town, the nearest neighbors an elderly couple a half-mile up the road.

  The first time he killed an animal he was twelve. Walking the perimeter of their farmland, Meeks heard the shrill cries and parted the bushes. A fawn lay on its side, leg broken and skewed in the wrong direction. He watched it for a long time before he dropped the rock on its head. On the way home, he convinced himself it was an act of mercy. His conscience knew better.

  He passed through school as the invisible man, grades a tick below average, no clubs, no sports, not a hint of trouble. Once, shortly after community college graduation, he stumbled into Mr. Davidson, his senior year English teacher and one of the few educators who made an impression on young William Meeks, at a bar outside of San Jose. Davidson politely feigned forgetting his name, snapping his fingers as though it lay on the tip of his tongue. Meeks knew the truth. Davidson had no idea who he was.

  Traffic crawls to a stop at the edge of town. Horns honk as Meeks juts his head through the window, wondering what the hold up is. Not construction or an accident.

  Overpopulation. Too many vehicles on the road. Throughout history, the human race was occasionally thinned by plague and natural disaster. It needs to be whittled down to a manageable number again.

  The thump of hip-hop shakes the MKS before the Jeep pulls beside him. He can’t see the man through the tinted windows, only his silhouette. The bass hurts his ears and sends a metronome of shock waves up his spine. Meeks stares at the man’s shape and senses the driver glaring back. The window descends, and now he sees the driver. The boy is younger than Meeks expected, a hard challenge in his eyes.

  Meeks brings his hand up, thumb and forefinger extended into a faux gun, and points it at the driver. He pictures the crevice the M82 would open in the man’s forehead and wishes he kept the gun in the front seat.

  The light turns green, and Meeks punches the gas. Tires squeal as he shoots down the road. The Jeep accelerates until it is even with the MKS, the music louder, volume pushing the speakers to distortion. The driver has one hand on the wheel, the other on the door. Window down. An invitation to pull over and settle this.

  Meeks grins and lifts his middle finger. The driver screams unintelligibly over the rap beat. The Jeep drifts in-and-out of its lane.

  Looking forward, Meeks sees the line of stopped cars in the Jeep’s lane and smiles. The driver notices too late and slams on the brakes. Tires squeal before the grille crushes the rear bumper of a red sedan. Meeks is laughing as he races out of the city and into suburbia. Laughs until tears stream down his cheeks. Distant mountains grow out of the land like dragon fangs.

  The shootings are only the beginning. He needs more than this. Something larger.

  People will remember his name forever.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Bell sat beside Gardy at a wobbly table in the Milanville Police Department’s break room. Across the room, two male cops and a female officer huddled together and spoke in hushed tones, though Bell eavesdropped bits and pieces about the latest shooting.

  Gardy dropped three quarters into the vending machine and punched a button, and the machine spat out a sugary pie wrapped in plastic.

  Bell cocked an eyebrow.

  “You’re not serious about putting that into your body, are you?”

  “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  “You’ll get di-a-bee-tus. Haven’t you listened to Wilford Brimley’s warnings?”

  The front door to the police station banged open when Ames brought Kyle Hostetler inside. Though the boy wasn’t cuffed, the detective held a firm grip on his wrist like an angry teacher leading a misbehaving child to the principal’s office. When Ames and Hostetler breezed past the doorway, Bell shared a look with Gardy and shot out of her seat.

  Hostetler was alone in the interrogation room when the agents met Ames outside the door.

  “No, he isn’t under arrest, but he’s damn well going to answer my questions.”

  Bell pulled Ames aside so the gawking officers at
the end of the hall couldn’t listen in.

  “Maybe it would be better if we handled the interview.”

  Ames narrowed her eyes.

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “Look, you will be in the room with us, and if we miss something you can ask Hostetler anything you want. But let us have a go at him first. We haven’t determined if he fits the profile.”

  “If your profile says asshole sociopath prick then Hostetler fits.”

  “Please, detective.”

  Ames looked between Gardy and Bell and shrugged.

  “Okay. We’ll do it your way, but I’m telling you Hostetler is the shooter.”

  The interrogation room was lit by LED flood lights, overkill for a small room. The table and six chairs, three on each side, consumed most of the space and made it a challenge to squeeze into the seats.

  Hostetler sat alone in the middle seat. The detective and agents took up three seats across the table.

  Initially, Bell was struck by Hostetler’s hair. It was blonde and spiked, but the black roots were clear. The boy’s t-shirt was white with RESIST written across the front in black letters. His neck was sunburned, and the term redneck crossed her mind as she opened the notebook to a blank page and clicked her pen.

  The boy was cord-like. Thin yet strong. His eyes held theirs and displayed no fear.

  Twenty-years-old, the boy possessed a surprisingly clean record. Except for the speeding ticket, Hostetler appeared to be an exemplary citizen.

  Gardy winked at Bell. He placed full confidence in her to begin the interview.

  “Hey, Kyle. Thanks for coming in.”

  Hostetler glared at Ames from the corner of his eye.

  “Not like I had much of a choice.”

  “You’re not under arrest, and nobody is forcing you to be here.”

  “It’s fine. I didn’t do anything wrong so ask your questions.”

  Bell pointed at his t-shirt.

  “I like the shirt. Resist. What exactly are you resisting?”

  “I know where you’re going with this. You can stop right there because I’m not racist.”

  “That’s good to know, but I never said you were. What about the White Wall? Are they racist?”

  “The White Wall doesn’t believe in racism. We want to keep what’s ours, you see? But the government wants to give everything we’ve earned to illegal aliens who shouldn’t even be in the country.”

  “But the wall in White Wall implies you wish to stop immigration. Seems rather restrictive.”

  Hostetler shrugged.

  “It’s not that immigrants are bad people. There’s just too many of them. Picture America as an exclusive club. Everyone wants in, right? But if you let too many inside it gets overcrowded. At some point, you have to close the doors and tell people to go find their own club. They all end up on welfare when they get here, anyhow.”

  Ames chewed her lip as Bell continued.

  “But that’s not what’s happening. Immigration hasn’t stopped, and the population continues to grow. I bet that makes you angry.”

  “I’m not a violent person.”

  “You shoved students at the diversity festival.”

  “Did Dean Steinman tell you that? She’ll do anything to get us kicked off campus. Check my record. I speak my mind, but I never hurt anyone.”

  Bell opened a folder and placed a picture of Eugene Buettner on the table.

  “Did you know Eugene Buettner?”

  Hostetler’s mouth twitched.

  “We had words a few times.”

  “At the festival?”

  “Probably, yeah. We come from two different worlds. Not always going to agree. It’s nothing personal.”

  “What did you argue about?”

  “I don’t remember. That was several months ago. Life moves fast.”

  “Did any of the White Wall members argue with Buettner?”

  “Damned if I know. Just a lot of brats shouting at the tops of their lungs that day.”

  Bell slid the photograph in front of Hostetler.

  “Eugene nearly quit school over the summer. His father was diagnosed with prostate cancer, and the mother has early onset Alzheimer’s.”

  If Bell humanized Buettner in Hostetler’s eyes, the boy didn’t show it.

  “Sucks for him. We all have problems.”

  “He had a seven-year-old sister. How do you think she feels now that Eugene is dead?”

  “She’s probably sad. That doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  Bell flipped the page to her notes on the Buettner shooting.

  “Where were you Thursday afternoon around three o’clock?”

  Hostetler looked between the three people glaring at him and slowly nodded.

  “Shit. You think I killed him.”

  “You admitted you had problems with Eugene.”

  “Not enough to shoot him. I don’t even own a gun.”

  “Really? You seem like the outdoorsy type. Someone who hunts or partakes in target shooting.”

  “I skateboard and hike. Guns aren’t my thing.”

  “What about the other members of the White Wall? Any of them own guns?”

  “No…I mean, not that I know of.”

  “The college strictly bans firearms or weapons of any sort on campus.”

  “Yeah, and we don’t keep weapons on campus. Look, we have almost twenty members. I don’t know all of their hobbies or how they spend their weekends. Do you know everything your co-workers do in their spare time?”

  “You haven’t answered the question. Where were you Thursday around three?”

  Hostetler leaned back and locked his fingers behind his head, a triumphant gleam to his smile.

  “Chemistry lab. And yes, you can ask Professor Baldwin.”

  “Okay, I will. I’d also like to look inside your car.”

  “Not without a warrant.”

  Bell glanced at Ames. The detective looked like her head might blow off her shoulders in a shower of sparks and fire. This probably wasn’t the time to pull Ames aside and tell her Hostetler didn’t fit the profile. The boy was a degenerate, but he wasn’t a loner and didn’t possess the hair-trigger fury required to shoot perceived enemies. Furthermore, Bell didn’t require a warrant. If holes were drilled into the trunk they’d be visible from the outside. That the boy didn’t want Bell snooping inside his car suggested either he possessed incriminating evidence unrelated to the case, perhaps a few joints, or he was being a pain in the ass.

  Bell was about to turn the questions over to Gardy when her partner opened the folder and removed a photocopy of an M82 advertisement. He turned it face-down.

  “Say, Kyle,” Gardy said. “Obviously misconceptions exist regarding the White Wall.”

  “Obviously.”

  “And perhaps the fringe elements on campus, those capable of violence, contact your group from time-to-time.”

  “I don’t know who those people are and wouldn’t give them the time of day.”

  “Be that as it may, has anyone approached the White Wall about obtaining weapons? Guns, in particular.”

  Hostetler shifted in his seat. The room grew a degree warmer.

  “Shouldn’t I ask for a lawyer right about now?”

  “You’re not in trouble, Kyle.”

  He thought on the question, then shook his head.

  “Never. As I said, we don’t keep weapons—”

  “Specifically, did someone request a Barrett M82?”

  Gardy flipped the paper over and pushed it in front of Hostetler. The boy glared at it as though a rattlesnake coiled on the desk. His mouth moved in silence.

  “What’s that, Kyle? I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “No. I don’t know anything about guns.” The room went uncomfortably quiet. “Can I go now?”

  “Technically we can’t keep you, so…”

  Gardy shrugged and nodded at the door. Hostetler pushed his chair back and collided with the wall befor
e scrambling out of the room.

  As soon as the door shut Ames slapped her palms on the table and snarled.

  “What the hell was that about? You let our number one suspect walk out the door.”

  Gardy gathered the papers and closed the folder.

  “He doesn’t fit the profile.”

  “That’s ridiculous. He’s a racist sociopath who—”

  “The murders aren’t racially motivated. Both victims are white.”

  “Buettner was an outspoken supporter of cultural diversity and stood up to the White Wall.”

  “What about the businessman? These aren’t hate crimes. These are crimes of rage and opportunity.”

  Ames looked to Bell for support. Bell pocketed her phone.

  “Gardy’s right. And Hostetler has an alibi at the time of the shooting.”

  Ames bit her tongue.

  “He knows something about the murders.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Gardy’s hotel room was ludicrously tidy. It didn’t appear he’d checked in yet. The suitcase was tucked into the closet, the bedspread military-straight, and there were no signs of the half-drank water glasses which littered Bell’s counter.

  “Do you sleep in your car or something?”

  Gardy grinned.

  “I keep the room organized. You should try it sometime, Messy Marvin.”

  They’d stopped for coffee on the way back from the police department and discussed the profile again. Gardy agreed Hostetler couldn’t possibly be the killer, but Bell made the call to the boy’s chemistry professor to verify the alibi. It checked out.

  “What bothers me most is the pace of the shootings,” said Bell, falling into the lounge chair. She put her coffee cup on the table and Gardy frowned. “Two murders in two days, and I’m not counting the shot he took at us.”

  “He’s accelerating. Whatever set him off, he won’t stop until we catch him. And you should really use a coaster.”