The Deadliest Sins

by Rick Reed

  “We did. The wallet and money were gone, but so were his shoes and belt. For all we know, some homeless bastard found the body before we did and helped himself. The driver’s fingerprints were a goldmine. We got a hit, or rather, Anna got a hit, on the driver’s latent prints.”

  Jack and Liddell opened the next folder marked “Driver”—Hank Brown. Last known address, Cincinnati, Ohio. He had a commercial driver’s license issued in Ohio. He was thirty-one years old, and the physical description on the license was of a big man, six-four, two hundred forty pounds.

  Sanchez had included copies of handwritten notes reporting Brown had a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice and an MBA from the University of Dallas. The notes added that after graduation, Brown was hired by US Border Patrol. He attended training at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Glynco, Georgia, worked the Mexican border for two years, and resigned. The notes didn’t give a reason for the resignation.

  “He was ex-Border Patrol?” Liddell said.

  “Yeah. Brown disappeared after resigning and made no contact with family, friends, school chums, or past co-workers for the last four years.”

  “This is all accurate?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah. Anna had some of her people run this stuff down. He hasn’t been seen or heard from for four years, except to get the Ohio CDL license, and he used a phony address in Cincinnati to get that. His family thought he’d run off and joined the Peace Corps,” Sanchez said.

  “Why the Peace Corps?”

  “He was always talking human rights.”

  “Sounds more like he was preparing himself for a lucrative job than protecting human rights,” Jack said. “His education and two years working for the Border Patrol must have given him some good contacts. He started hitting for the other side.”

  Sanchez agreed.

  Jack suggested, “He may have had a partner in his new business. Maybe someone went to the dark side with him.”

  “Damn!” Sanchez said sarcastically. “See, that’s the kind of stuff Toomey was talking about. Fresh eyes. You are good, bro.”

  “You already ran that down,” Jack said.

  “First thing I did when we got his name. In fact, Anna gave me some contact numbers for ex-coworkers and friends. He wasn’t married. No girlfriend that we could identify.”

  “Disciplinary actions in his personnel file?” Jack asked.

  Sanchez’s grin faded. “I’ll check.”

  “Roommates in school? Favorite bar?” Jack persisted.

  “I’m running down what I can. But he’s not our suspect. There have been five of these cases. He was a random victim. Wrong truck, wrong time.”

  Jack said nothing. He didn’t want to make enemies.

  “Sorry,” Sanchez said. “It’s hard enough working with the Feds and pissing my own detectives off. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t hit all the corners. You got good instincts, Murphy. I’ll pass some of those leads on to Toomey, and he can have someone start checking. Just for my dead driver, we’ll want to talk to a lot of people in Dallas and Ohio. That will take boots on the ground. I’ve been working strictly by telephone.”

  Jack agreed that it wasn’t something they could do on the telephone. But he believed that sooner or later they would have to follow their guts to wherever that would take them. Tracking a serial killer through five states wasn’t something he’d had to do.

  “Let’s move on,” Sanchez suggested. “Like I said, we have a witness. Her name is Libby Quinn. She’s homeless, a semi-hooker depending on if she’s eaten or shot up that day. She was squatting in one of the abandoned warehouses that would have a view of the abandoned truck, and she’s the darling of the Homicide Squad at present.”

  “You don’t think she’s credible?” Liddell asked.

  “She’s desperate. A week ago, she walked up to officers in a squad car and propositioned them. Both of them. The female officers didn’t think it was funny. They arrested her and turned her over to Vice. That’s when she came up with the ‘I saw the whole thing’ bit. They knew she was full of shit, but they still had to check it out. Right? They took her through her story a couple of times and showed her mug shots of known traffickers, murderers, and people with a record for violence. The guy she picked out was dead for two years.”

  “Are you still talking to her?” Liddell asked.

  “Me? I never talked to her. Last I heard she said she didn’t actually see the driver get whacked, but she saw him park the truck and start talking to a dude. She thought the other guy came up in a mid-size dark-colored car. The description she gave of the guy that came up talking to the driver could be anyone. But she did come damn close to describing the driver. That’s why I’m telling you about her.”

  “Are we going to talk to her?” Jack asked.

  “I’d say why waste our time. But Toomey wants you to take a shot.”

  Chapter 22

  The three detectives were in Sanchez’s beast, heading east on Interstate 70. Interstate 70 turned into I-44, and they headed into downtown St. Louis.

  Sanchez said, “Our witness is scared to stay at the warehouse where she was squatting. She’s afraid the killer will come back for her because—and this is another phase of her story—the killer saw her watching them. You see where I’m going with this?”

  “She’s not too dumb,” Jack said.

  Sanchez continued. “Homicide gets all excited that they might have a witness. They get a sketch artist, put her up at the Hyatt, feed her, round the clock protection, cable TV, and...get this. They get her absolved of all charges. It’s a win-win for her.”

  “You really haven’t talked to her yet?” Jack asked.

  “A team in Homicide was—is—handling it. I wasn’t involved until Toomey kidnapped me, so I didn’t want to interfere in Homicide’s investigation. That’s one of my crews when I’m not on loan to the Feds. These guys have worked hard on this case since August, and they don’t take well to outsiders—that includes me—coming in and asking questions. You know how it is.”

  Jack knew how it was. He would have felt the same way if someone got up in his investigation. It would feel like he was being second-guessed. It was bad enough that Double Dick interfered and screwed things up more times than not.

  “Did the sketch artist do any good?” Liddell asked. Liddell was stretched out in the back seat.

  Sanchez gave a snort. “I saw the sketches. The picture of the dude in the dark car looks a little like me when I’m drunk and mean. But the sketch of the guy she said was the driver is damn close, like I said. She’s either turned a trick for the guy before, or did after he parked. Or she’s a lucky liar. But she’s all they got. It’s been three weeks now, and she’s still living on the county’s tit. Every time they question her she remembers something else. Something that conveniently has the ring of truth. Probably because it’s been on the news or she’s overheard her protection detail talking about. I think one of my guys is doing her and giving her tips on what to say next. Strike that. I’m sure one of the guys is doing her, but I can’t prove it and I’ve got more important things on my plate. Who cares if a hooker is getting a free ride? But she’s tying up valuable resources.”

  Jack knew Sanchez had other reasons for wanting Jack and Liddell to be there for the first official federal interview of this witness. Sanchez didn’t want his guys to be pissed at him. He could blame the interference on Evansville and Toomey. He asked Sanchez, “You want us to talk to her, or are you going to do the questioning?”

  “I want you to interview her. I hear you have a certain charm.”

  “Bite me, Lieutenant. Sir,” Jack said.

  “None of that rank crap. Well, maybe you should defer to me in front of any of my officers who might be present. I don’t want them forgetting who the boss is.”

  Sanchez turned off I-44 and onto Chestnut Street. The top of
the Arch was visible over the tops of the buildings from I-44. He slowed down for the garage entrance to the Hyatt at the Arch Hotel.

  “She’s staying here?” Liddell asked.

  Sanchez answered by pulling into the parking garage. He held his credentials out of the window for the gateman.

  “The witness got a pretty sweet deal. The Hyatt Regency,” Jack said.

  “Yeah. The Homicide Squad has a deal with the Hyatt. We do a lot of business with them because we get stuck with presidential details and visiting dignitaries and such. They figured she’d be safer here than anywhere else, and they would be more comfortable here than anywhere else.”

  “Good thinking,” Jack said and thought about the run-down twelve-dollar-a-night motel rooms he’d been stuck in with various witnesses.

  Liddell got out and stretched. “Where our department puts us up, a continental breakfast is something you find on another continent. You have to cross the street to a McDonald’s to get food.”

  No one said anything, so Liddell continued his rant. “Room service is when the manager goes through your stuff while you’re out and only steals a little of it. The front desk is behind shatterproof glass and the concierge is...”

  “I think he gets the picture,” Jack said.

  Sanchez parked, stuck the FBI placard on the dash, and they went up the elevator. The doors opened on the ninth floor, and Sanchez led the way. Jack didn’t see anyone in the hallway. He put a hand on Sanchez’s arm, and the other hand rested on the butt of his .45. “Where’s the guard,” Jack whispered.

  Sanchez chuckled. “Probably inside the room banging the maid.”

  They stopped at a door marked 919, and Sanchez knocked. “Police. Open up.”

  “What’s the password?” A female voice came from behind the door.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” Sanchez said. “Open the damn door, Kim.”

  The door cracked open, and a pretty blond woman in a tracksuit said, “Good enough, I guess. What’chu want, Lou?”

  “World peace, Kim,” Sanchez said. “But I’ll settle for talking to your ‘charge.’”

  “I don’t mean to be insensitive,” Kim said, “but I don’t know these guys, so get stuffed.”

  “You’re Kim?” Liddell said. “Lou’s—I mean, Lieutenant Sanchez’s—partner?”

  “Has he been talking about me again?” Detective Kim Burdick said and grinned.

  “They’re with me dammit, Kim,” Sanchez said.

  She stepped back, letting them enter the suite. She gave Sanchez a quick hug and said, “Where you been, Pops. You never call. You never write. I thought the Feds put you in a suit and stuck your ass behind a desk to rot. Or worse yet, stuck a suit up your ass like the rest of them.”

  “We just talked yesterday. Kim, these are the Evansville detectives I told you about. The big one’s Liddell.”

  “Play football?” Kim asked Liddell.

  Liddell said, “A little. College.”

  “Lou said your partner calls you Bigfoot. I can see why. Lookit them feet! What’chu wear? Michael Jordan hand-me-downs?” She laughed at her own joke.

  The living room looked like a tornado had hit it. The door to the bedroom was partially shut, and he could hear loud snoring coming from that room. A small kitchenette, a bathroom, and a full-size refrigerator created an ambiance that said, “My boss gets the penthouse suite and I get this shit.”

  “The Princess is still sleeping. She gets up around noon and takes frequent naps for getting up so early. She’s like a damned cat. Sometimes I swear...” she said, mimicking a strangling.

  “Wake her up,” Sanchez said.

  “Okay, but you’ve got to put her back to sleep when you’re done,” Kim said and slapped the palm of her hand on the bedroom door until the snoring stopped.

  “Get up, Libby. You got visitors,” Kim said loudly.

  “I’m not decent,” a young-sounding voice said.

  “You’re tellin’ me,” Kim muttered.

  Lou asked Kim, “Are you working this alone? I was told there were two of you round the clock.”

  “Are you seeing two of me, Lou?” Kim asked and chuffed. “You were up drinking all night with Cutie again, weren’t you?”

  “His dog had a beer can this morning,” Liddell interjected, and Kim chuckled.

  “Dog’s a lush,” she said. “They deserve each other. And he gets gas so bad from beer the damn dog’s the only one stupid enough to sleep in the same bed.”

  The bedroom door opened, and Libby Quinn came out wearing a Hyatt Regency robe that completely swallowed her thin body. “Who’s this?” she asked and stumbled on the hem of the plush hotel robe. The robe was pulled so tightly that all that showed was a head and toes sticking out of the top and bottom. She smiled hesitantly and extended a hand toward Jack.

  “Libby Quinn,” she said, and they introduced themselves.

  The heat in the room was cranked up to “smelter,” but Libby was shivering and her skin was pale. Her eyes were sunken and the whites were yellow. Jack imagined the arms underneath the robe’s sleeves were marked with enough needle tracks to make a map of St. Louis.

  She’s in withdrawals.

  “Are they taking care of you, Libby?” Jack asked.

  “As can be expected,” she said. “Did you catch him?”

  “No, ma’am,” Liddell said. “We’re from Evansville, Indiana.”

  “Evansville?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sanchez said, “They’re here to ask you some questions that might relate to a case they’re working. Do you feel up to it?” His tone brooked no reply but a yes.

  “Can’t I have coffee first?” Libby asked.

  “I’ll get it,” Kim said. “While I’m at it, maybe I’ll go out for croissants. You guys hungry? I’m sick of room service.” Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed her coat and was out the door, leaving them alone with Libby.

  Before Jack could ask a question, Sanchez told the woman, “Have a seat, Libby.”

  She sat on the sofa, arms snugged across her middle, eyes staring into another dimension. She had entered the twilight zone.

  Sanchez said, “I don’t care why you’re here or how long you stay. Understand?”

  “I don’t...”

  “Don’t talk,” Sanchez said. His tone wasn’t angry, just determined. “The St. Louis PD has you here, and I imagine it’s a sweet deal compared to where you were living. But I have to warn you that if you lie to us the deal goes in the toilet. We’re sworn federal agents. You get it? If you lie to us, it’s a federal crime. I’ll take you straight to prison. You will go away for a very long time. No money. No privacy. No skag.”

  She slumped forward and let her breath out. Sanchez winked at Jack.

  “You’re a heroin user, aren’t you?” Sanchez asked.

  She nodded.

  “Agent Murphy is going to ask you some questions, and on my mother’s grave, if you lie, I’ll let the big one use you for batting practice. Got it?”

  She nodded again.

  Jack and Liddell asked Libby questions, and she gave the expected vague answers until Kim came in with a bag of bagels and four cups of Starbucks Komodo Dragon coffee in a holder.

  “You got nowhere,” Kim said.

  Sanchez shrugged. “Had to try. Now we’ve got to go. Good luck with this. I’ll keep trying to get you off this detail and back where you belong.”

  “On a beach in Hawaii? You sweet-talker you,” Kim said. “I’ve got a master’s degree in criminology and I’m being a damn babysitter. Now go before I jump out the window.”

  Liddell asked Sanchez in the hallway, “You’re not going to tell Kim?”

  “I told Libby I didn’t care what deal she had with Homicide. I keep my word. If she’d lied to us, I would gladly rip her throat out a
nd feed it to my dog.”

  “You should tell Kim she made most of her testimony up,” Jack said. “I believe her about the driver, because I believe she turned a trick with him. She may or may not have seen a dark-colored car. She could have been hallucinating that part.”

  “Yeah. I believe she saw the driver and the truck,” Sanchez said. “One look at her and you know she’s a junkie. She’s going through withdrawal. She’ll be in a psych ward detoxing by Monday. Probably a good thing she lied to the Homicide detectives. It’s probably all that’s kept her alive in this cold.”

  “We’re back to square one?” Liddell said.

  “I was never past square one,” Sanchez answered. “Let’s hope Anna comes up with something we can investigate.”

  Jack said, “We’ll be heading back to Evansville when we get to your place. That is, unless you have something else?”

  “Nada. I really hoped we’d get something from her, catch a break and be home in time for some really good Scotch,” Sanchez said.

  Liddell said, “The only thing we’d get from her would be catchy.”

  Murphy’s Law says: “The degree to which you look on the bright side is directly proportional to the amount of misfortune that will befall you.”

  An FBI agent once told Jack that a case is either solved in the first twenty-four hours or it will never be solved. That type of thinking was part of Jack’s lack of willingness to join the task force. However, knowing he could work with guys like Sanchez made it more palatable. He knew Sanchez would never give up.

  Sanchez drove twice the speed limit, pulled in his driveway, and stopped beside the Crown Vic. Cutie was lying on the porch with two empty beer cans between her paws.

  “OCD,” Sanchez said about the dog.

  “I’ll go get the boxes, bwana. I c’n fetch ’n tote, suh,” Liddell said and headed for the barn.

  “We’ll go through all this stuff and call you,” Jack said to Sanchez.

  “Toomey’s a dick, but I’m hoping you see something I’ve missed.”

  The radio in the SUV came to life. “Hey, Lou. You there?” It was Kim calling on a side channel used by detectives on special assignments.