Sudden Death f-1

by Allison Brennan

  He wished he was dead.

  But the bitch had taken his gun.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The bodies had long ago been taken to the morgue when Megan arrived at the crime scene. Thirty miles east of Indio, California, it was near the highway leading to Joshua Tree National Park. The entire rest stop had been taped off and dozens of law enforcement officers from the California Highway Patrol to National Park Rangers to the Riverside County Sheriff’s Department scoured the area for evidence that would point a finger at whomever had shot and killed a young pregnant wife and her husband.

  The man in charge was Assistant Sheriff Red Warren. Megan introduced herself and Hans, then Jack by his military rank of staff sergeant-easier than explaining who he was and why he was here.

  “You sure came quickly,” Warren said.

  “We weren’t far,” said Megan. “This may be connected to a serial murder investigation,” Hans added. “Can you walk us through the crime scene?”

  “We’ll start over there.” Warren gestured to a big rig on the far side of the lot. As they walked over, he said, “According to the male victim’s driving log-Thomas Hoffman-he stopped at the rest area at oh three hundred hours. The Highway Patrol drove through the rest stop at oh seven hundred hours and the rig was here, no activity. CHP noted the plates and went on. We’ve put a call out to the other big rigs in the area-” He gestured toward the opposite end of the rest stop where three eighteen-wheelers were lined up, and another was pulling in, being directed by a CHP officer where to park. “We asked who had been in communication with Hoffman in the last twenty-four hours. They started showing up-it’s a tight community. Last word we had is that Hoffman told another trucker that he was getting a late start, but planned on making his destination- Portland, Oregon-by midnight. It’s about fifteen hours, taking mandatory rests, so he couldn’t have planned on leaving much after nine this morning.”

  “What time was that?” Hans asked.

  “Eight-thirty this morning.”

  “When were the bodies found?” Megan asked.

  “Ten-ten. An older couple stopped to use the facilities and found the bodies.”

  “Any other witnesses?”

  “Not that we’ve found. This stop doesn’t see a lot of traffic during the week.”

  Warren opened the cab of the truck. A simple wood cross hung from the rearview mirror. A well-worn Bible rested on the center console. Knitting needles attached to a half-made white and green blanket stuck out of a needlepoint bag with a Thomas Kincade design and the phrase “With God All Things Are Possible” embroidered in fancy script.

  “Where were the bodies?” Megan asked, her voice sounding unnatural. She should know better than to get emotional. But this double homicide hit her unusually hard. She should have been able to stop it. What had she done wrong? Had she missed something? Could she have been able to save the lives of these two young married lovers and their unborn child?

  “Behind the facilities.” Warren led the way.

  Jack was behind Megan. He put his hand on the small of her back, so lightly she wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not. She glanced over at him; looking straight ahead, he applied more pressure on her waist. She took a deep breath and pushed aside the unexpected emotion.

  “Why did they park so far from the building?” Hans asked.

  “Privacy,” Warren replied. “The restrooms are open twenty-four hours. Headlights from oncoming cars could be distracting. And over there, where the Hoff-mans parked, big rigs often park overnight. It’s not technically legal, but we never rouse them. I’d rather have them rested and living on the cheap than exceeding their limits.”

  “Were they the only rig here last night?”

  “We’re trying to find out. Probably not, there are usually a few on any given night.” He shook his head in disgust. “We’ve never had any problems here. Never had a serious crime. Nothing more than simple vandalism. Nothing like this.”

  The assistant sheriff stopped in a clearing behind the restrooms, approximately fifty yards from the truck. There were half a dozen wooden picnic tables cemented to slabs of concrete surrounded by hearty grass and low-maintenance evergreens.

  “We’ve had our best people out there going through the entire area with a fine-toothed comb,” Warren said. “The M.E. is performing the autopsies today, so we can extract the bullets and rush ballistics; half my off-duty cops are asking to work on their own time. The sheriff has the word of the attorney general that this case is a priority, but when I found out your people were involved, I was hoping we could ask for a bit of forensic assistance. Your ballistics capabilities are the best in the world, from what I’ve been told.”

  Hans said firmly, “I’ll fly the bullets to the lab tonight and personally assure you that we’ll have a report in less than twenty-four hours, if I have to return to Quantico and do it myself.”

  Hans’s raw voice surprised Megan. She glanced at him, saw that he was staring straight ahead, eyes dry but red. She’d seen him angry, she’d heard him express sorrow and frustration over victims or the system, but she’d never seen him emotionally involved at a crime scene.

  He’d been quiet during the plane ride, but Megan thought he’d been asleep. Now she wondered.

  Megan noted the evidence markers-one to the left of the facilities, one halfway between the picnic tables and the first victim. “Was the husband at the tables approaching his wife or here moving away?”

  “We believe that the husband was at the picnic tables and his wife was here, near the facilities. Evidence in the restroom suggests she’d used the facilities to freshen up. A small trash bag was next to that table,” he gestured, “and we think they’d had breakfast, then Mrs. Hoffman entered the restroom. We don’t have a good indication as to which victim was shot first, and no idea why. The female victim was shot once in the chest at close range; her husband three times.”

  “Robbery?” Megan asked.

  “Not that we can tell. Mrs. Hoffman had her purse, with about forty dollars cash and two major credit cards. Mr. Hoffman had nearly two hundred dollars, credit and gas cards. The rig was unlocked, nothing appeared disturbed. My men have already printed it.”

  “Where did you find the dog tag?” Megan asked.

  Warren gestured for them to follow. Thirty feet from the building was another police marker. He said to one of his deputies, “Grab the dog tag. It’s in the van.”

  Warren pointed to the ground. “Right there, on the asphalt. We were hoping initially that they belonged to the killer, but when we ran the name we learned he was recently murdered.”

  “The killer took the I.D. off the body,” Megan said, glancing at Jack. He’d been so quiet she would have forgotten he was there except for his stalwart and commanding presence.

  “It could have been another sign,” Hans said. “A sick way to connect these murders with the previous. Was Mr. Hoffman or his wife ever in the military?”

  “I wouldn’t know, but I’ll have one of my deputies check immediately.”

  Megan frowned. She didn’t want to disagree with Hans in front of anyone, but cautiously she said, “It doesn’t make sense. While these killers take risks, I don’t see them shooting someone and tossing evidence like garbage. If they’d planned on leaving the tag, it would be more purposeful, like when Price’s tag was mailed to me. They wouldn’t have dropped it here as if by accident. It would be with the bodies.”

  “We can’t assume anything,” Hans snapped. “Sheriff, have you printed the bathrooms? Male and female? The dog tag? What about the picnic tables, looking for anything that might belong to the killer? Quantico has state-of-the-art facilities to help with trace evidence. Does your CSI unit have a forensic vacuum?”

  Hans’s unusual brusque manner had Megan both concerned and irritated.

  “Let me walk you through what we’ve done, Dr. Vigo,” Warren said, straightening his back, “and you can let me know if I’ve forgotten anything.”

  Meg
an watched Hans walk off with the assistant sheriff. Jack said, “What do you think?”

  “I think-” She stopped. She was committing an investigational sin, snap theories that could cloud her impartial judgment.

  “We need more evidence,” she said.

  “But you have a theory,” Jack prompted.

  “I don’t have proof.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  Megan looked around. The rest stop-unseen from the road. The picnic tables-obscured, but not completely hidden, from where the killer’s car was presumably parked.

  “The killers stopped here. To rest, to use the bathroom, to look at a map. It’s secluded and they would have the expectation of some privacy. With robbery as a motive pretty much ruled out, I don’t see why they killed the couple. For the thrill?”

  “The thrill,” Jack said flatly.

  “They’re not dumb criminals. They’ve killed too often and left too little evidence to be spontaneous and undisciplined. Maybe they heard a car approach and got out of the lot fast. Or panicked because the murders weren’t planned. Maybe the Hoffmans witnessed something or overheard the killers talking about murder. Our killers feared a witness. Something made them pull out fast. I’d stake my career on the theory that they didn’t know Scout’s dog tag was left behind.”

  “Aren’t most criminals caught because they do something stupid? Wasn’t Ted Bundy pulled over for speeding or something?”

  “Exactly. And that’s why I think they didn’t know about the dog tag. It’s a screwup, and let’s hope for more of them. They may well lead to our perps. We know much more about them now.”

  “How so?”

  “We know that they were in Hidalgo Tuesday night and killed Scout, and then here, near Joshua Tree, Thursday morning before ten a.m. That’s less than thirty-six hours. There’re not a lot of routes they could have taken here in that short time. The most likely route is I-10, which means we can contact all the motels immediately off the interstate, restaurants, gas stations. It might not yield anything, but it’s more than we had yesterday.”

  “But we have no descriptions,” said Jack. “Nothing to show people.”

  She sighed. “It’s still a thread to follow. With high-profile murders, we can call in extra people and resources and scour security tapes. Especially if we narrow it down.”

  “How?”

  “That there’s a woman involved.”

  Jack thought on that for a moment. “You think the brunette who came by the church is involved?”

  Megan took a deep breath. She didn’t like running forward on a hunch, but her ex-husband had told her time and time again to trust her instincts, and she’d recently been trying to do just that. It wasn’t just her gut feeling, it was the circumstantial evidence….

  It had been circumstantial evidence that had her wrongly identifying the body in Sacramento as George L. Price.

  “I don’t know,” Megan mumbled.

  “But you think she’s part of it?” Jack pressed.

  “It’s the only thing that makes sense with what we know,” she said, qualifying her comments. She glanced over to where a tight-lipped Hans was standing, writing down everything the assistant sheriff was saying.

  “They would have made it more obvious,” Megan said to herself. She put her hand to her mouth and looked up at Jack, heart pounding with the realization. “That’s it!”

  “What?”

  “Price. What if the killers had Price’s tags-and put them on the homeless John Doe?”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “To connect the murders.” As she spoke, Megan knew she was on to the something that had been eluding her for the last four days. “We now know John Doe in Sacramento wasn’t George Price, but for a couple days, we assumed he was until CID said the prints didn’t match.”

  Meg had bought into the assumption the killers wanted her to. She had ignored her years of experience and training, which taught her that no matter what you thought, assumptions were not facts supported by evidence. One of her Quantico instructors told the class, “If you walk into a crime scene and see red drops on the floor, ninety-nine times out of a hundred it’s human blood-but it’s the one time it isn’t, and you assume it is, that’s going to jeopardize your entire case, embarrass you, and put the entire FBI on the hot seat. It’s not blood until you prove it’s blood.”

  “Why would the killers want us to think the homeless victim was Price?”

  “We may not know until we find them. But I do know that it would have taken us longer to make the military connection between the victims. The tags gave us a clue to pursue, and sending one to me was another big arrow telling us that it was important. It’s the why that stumps me.”

  “They’re taunting you. Mocking. Showing their superiority. ‘You,’ meaning the police in general.”

  Megan nodded. “I think you might be right.”

  “How do you know the homeless guy didn’t just find the tags in the garbage?” Jack said.

  “I don’t. And up until CID took the body, I’d considered that possibility, but I screwed up. When CID came in, I labeled him Price and didn’t question his identity any further.”

  “So is it a coincidence or not?”

  “Not. Price was in the same unit as Padre and the others. His tags were found on a dead John Doe. Scout’s tag was taken from his body, and dropped at this crime scene-accidentally or not, it came from Hidalgo, which means the killers were here. Whether they were planning to send the tag to the police again, or planned on leaving it on another body, we don’t know, but we definitely have a connection.”

  Her cell phone rang and she glanced at the caller I.D. J.T She didn’t want to take it, knowing he most likely had a report on Jack’s background for her. She almost sent it to voice mail, when Jack said, “Answer it.” He seemed to sense the nature of the call.

  A tic throbbed in Jack’s neck as he walked past her, toward the far end of the rest stop.

  She answered the phone. It was J.T. “You’re not going to believe the latest,” she said.

  “That the victim isn’t Price?”

  “Dammit, J.T., how do you know these things?”

  “From the same guy who told me about the autopsy. CID knew yesterday, by the way. They kept it to themselves. What does that mean on your end?”

  “It means I need to find George Price.”

  “Thought so. I put some feelers out, but so far not even a nibble.”

  “Father Francis Cardenas, the priest I told you about, used to be on Price’s Delta team and is trying to track him down. Considering he’s been AWOL for five years, he could have taken a new identity or left the country. For all we know, he’s hiding out in Mexico or Canada. Anyway, right now I need to get back to work. I’m at an ugly crime scene.”

  “Aren’t you interested in the background check you asked me for?”

  She looked around for Jack and couldn’t see him. She wanted the information, and she didn’t. She felt like a voyeur, spying on Jack Kincaid’s life. Did she really need to know who he was and what he’d done?

  Yet he was a witness. Jack Kincaid had a relationship with at least one of the victims, and he was their pilot for the time being. She needed to know who she was dealing with, especially if it got really messy.

  You’re kidding yourself. You know exactly who you’re dealing with.

  She found herself trusting Jack in ways that surprised her, but her training told her she had to be cautious. And she was curious.

  “Abbreviated version,” Megan said. “I really don’t have much time.”

  “There’s nothing that sends up red flags for me, so you can rest easier. Now, the government might have some issues with him, but he had an honorable discharge, several major commendations, and saw some heavy combat. Most of his records are sealed so tightly that even I can’t sneak a peak. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind having a man like Jack on my team.”

  That made her feel marginally better, but she’d also d
ealt with some of the men J.T employed and contracted with. They were hardly saints.

  “Jack enlisted in the army when he was eighteen. Army Rangers. Made it out-most don’t last through training. Missions across the globe, most in Central and South America. Ten years ago he retired and has been living in Hidalgo ever since, hiring out his services. I don’t know him, but I ran the name by Duke Rogan and he says it’s familiar. Probably through Kane-he’s been known to bring in mercenaries when needed. There’re no public photos of Kincaid that aren’t military issue, no public articles or interviews. He does the job and keeps his mouth shut. He’s exactly the type of man I would want for liberation and rescue operations. But-”

  She waited. “But what?”

  “He’s a bit of a maverick. I get a sense that he’s a bit of a fixer.”

  “A what?”

  “Fixer. Kane and I use it to describe people who want to right wrongs, who stand for the underdog even when the underdog is about to get his brains bashed in. I don’t have a list of all his ops, Delta or private, but the ones I found support this. I did hear that last week he led the rescue of a team of medical missionaries from the University of Mexico, and not only returned them to the embassy unharmed, but retrieved most of their supplies. Penicillin, hydrocortisone, prednisone. All extremely valuable on the black market.”

  Megan almost wished she was writing this down. “Thanks, J.T.”

  “You don’t have any questions? How unlike you, Meg.”

  “You’ve been immensely helpful. Now if you can find George Price for me …”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I owe you another one.”

  He chuckled and hung up.

  Hans approached her. “I’m going to the morgue with the assistant sheriff. He said there’s a decent motel just outside Indio. His deputy will give you directions.”