by Blake Pierce
Another soldier barked back at her, “Well, good for you. Some of us are going to be in real combat. We need to be ready. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a damn shame hazing’s against the rules. You’re not really part of a unit until you’re broken down mentally and physically.”
There was a flurry of voices now, some agreeing, others disagreeing sharply.
She noticed one young man who hadn’t said a word so far. From his nametag, Riley saw that his last name was Shealy. He looked especially anxious, sitting rigidly with his hands clenched together. She sensed that it was only a matter of moments before he’d open up with something.
She asked, “What about rumors you may have heard? Kinds of stuff that might even be hard to believe?”
A silence fell. The air felt charged with tension.
Finally, a shy-looking soldier spoke up.
“I’ve heard stories. About a place called the ‘Den.’ And things called ‘abductions.’”
The tension in the group suddenly felt as though it might explode. Riley started to worry that a fight might break out.
Another private pounded on the mess hall table and pointed at the soldier who just spoke.
“That’s just a myth, Daniels,” he yelled. “Keep it to yourself.”
A few of the others voiced their angry agreement. Others looked like they had never heard of such a thing before. A handful looked truly worried now.
Riley heard a gasp at her side. She turned and saw that Col. Larson’s mouth was hanging open from shock.
Riley’s nerves tingled. She could tell that Larson had just heard something that meant something to her.
Riley knew that she was about to find out something crucial to solving the case.
She also knew that it wasn’t going to be pretty.
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
Riley kept very still as Col. Dana Larson stepped forward to ask her own questions of the group. She looked truly agitated now and her voice was shaking as she commanded them, “Tell me about these ‘abductions.’ I don’t care if you believe they’re real or not. If you know anything talk, damn it. If anybody holds back, I promise there will be consequences.”
The private named Daniels shyly spoke again.
“I hear that some privates get snatched up off the base grounds at night. Not by aliens, but strange guys—soldiers, I guess. The privates are put through all kinds of ugly ordeals. When they get broken down enough, they’re turned loose. They never understand what happened.”
Col. Larson was staring hard at Daniels.
“You said you heard about this,” she snapped. “From who?”
Daniels ducked his head, trying not to look at anyone. But Riley could tell whose face he was most anxious to avoid. It was the quiet young man she had noticed just before—Private Shealy.
Riley spoke to him.
“Private, I think you’ve got something you’d better tell us.”
Private Shealy was silent for a moment. Then he mumbled something inaudible.
Riley said, “I couldn’t hear you, Private.”
Shealy spoke just a little louder.
“I said it happened to me. I was abducted. I told Daniels about it.”
Col. Larson folded her arms. Her expression seemed to be growing more troubled by the moment.
“Tell us, Shealy,” she said. “Tell us now. Tell us everything.”
Private Shealy shuddered.
“It was crazy,” he said. “It was awful. It was the worst thing that ever happened to me.”
He paused for a moment, as if trying to summon his nerve.
“I was taking a walk one night when a bunch of guys rushed out of the bushes, put a hood over my head, and tied my hands behind my back. I couldn’t see anything. They kept turning me around and around as they led me somewhere. I had no idea where we wound up, but …”
He fell silent. Col. Larson stepped toward him as if she wanted to shake him. Riley motioned her back.
“Take your time, Private,” Riley said.
“We wound up inside some building. First they took me to a room, and they bound me to a chair, and they kept my head covered so I still couldn’t see anything. The guys around me were pushing and hitting me and yelling insults at me. They made me drink vinegar and eat something hard and tasteless—cardboard, I think. They made me swallow it. I kept throwing up, but they kept making me eat and drink more. And then …”
Beads of sweat broke out on Shealy’s forehead.
“They put a different hood on me. This one had eyeholes in it. But it kept flopping around on my head, so it was still hard to see. Then they led me into a big room with a balcony. They told me that this was the ‘Den.’ There must have been a hundred guys sitting all around, wearing weird masks—clowns, animals, monsters, that kind of thing. A group on the balcony seemed to be overseeing everything, and they wore masks too. And there were five more people like me in an open area. All of us had on those hoods with eyeholes. I didn’t know who they were. Our hands were all tied, and they cut us loose, and—”
Private Shealy seemed to choke back a groan of horror.
“They made us fight. They made us beat each other as hard as we could. If we tried not to do it, they beat us up. We had no choice. We pounded on each other like crazy. And the thing was …”
He fell silent again. Riley sensed that he was struggling to find the words to describe what happened next.
Finally he said, “I got into it. The violence made me crazy, and I fought back harder and harder, and didn’t want to stop. It looked like we were supposed to keep fighting until there was only one of us standing. And I wanted to be that one guy still left. I wanted to be … part of whatever was going on there.”
“Then what happened?” Riley asked.
“I got punched real hard to the side of the head, knocked unconscious. The next thing I knew I was laying in a heap in front of my barracks, and it was long after lights out. I went to my bunk and collapsed. I was—”
Shealy’s face twitched with what seemed to be both horror and anger.
“I know this sounds crazy, but I was so disappointed, so ashamed.”
Riley was full of questions she wanted to ask. But before she could speak, a young woman spoke sharply. According to her nametag, her name was Nelson.
“You’re an asshole, Shealy. You’re a piece-of-shit asshole.”
Shealy looked at Nelson as if she’d slapped him.
Nelson continued, “It happened to me too. But I refused to let them make me their bitch—not like they did to you, Shealy. I wouldn’t let them make me fight the others. I let them pound me down. Finally they gave up on me and hauled me back to my barracks, hooded up so I couldn’t see where I’d been.”
She was shaking with fury now.
“I’ve never been so angry about anything,” she said. “I’m still angry. If I could find one of the guys who did that to me, I swear to God, I’d kill him. I wouldn’t even blink.”
Shealy and Nelson stared each other—Shealy with horror, Nelson with rage.
Riley’s head reeled with stunned confusion.
She knew she’d just learned something vitally important.
But what did it mean?
Col. Larson asked, “Do either of you have any idea who any of your abductors were—any idea at all, even one of them?”
Nelson shook her head. But Shealy looked at Col. Larson and nodded.
“Some of their voices sounded familiar,” he said. “And I’m sure I recognized one of their voices.”
“Who was it?” Larson asked.
Shealy gulped and said, “It was Private Barton. He was one of the guys yelling at me in the room, and he was also in the crowd ordering us to fight. I wasn’t sure until the next day. Barton and I had been pals before that. But he never treated me the same afterwards. He acted like I was beneath him. He always kept his distance from me—right up until he died.”
Riley felt pieces of the puzzle coming together.
There seemed to be a powerful secret society at Fort Mowat. And its members carried on brutal initiations that few young soldiers ever passed—or even voluntarily signed up for. Those who did survive became proud members of that shadowy elite.
Those initiations took place in a place known as the “Den.”
That name kept nagging at Riley.
The Den …
Then she remembered again what Private Pope had said about Private Worthing …
“He ran with the pack.”
Before Riley could think this through, Col. Larson spoke to the group.
“We have no more questions for now.”
Riley was startled. Why had Larson decided to end the meeting completely on her own? Riley had more questions she wanted to ask.
Then Larson added, “Privates Shealy and Nelson, I want you to give full reports of what happened to you to Sergeant Matthews here. If any of the rest of you knows anything, do the same. Don’t even think about holding back. We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
Then turning to her team head, she said, “Take those reports, Matthews. Don’t miss a single detail, or there will be hell to pay.”
Looking a bit intimidated, Sergeant Matthews said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Without another word, Col. Larson strode out of the mess hall.
Riley, Bill, and Lucy hurried after her.
Riley asked, “Colonel, would you mind telling me what this is all about?”
Col. Larson replied in a breathless voice, “I know who the killer is. Come with me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
Col. Larson didn’t say another word during the walk to the CID building. Riley was wondering what was about to happen, and she saw that Bill and Lucy were exchanging equally puzzled glances.
Only one thing seemed certain to Riley—there was about to be some kind of break in the case.
When they arrived at the colonel’s office, Larson didn’t speak right away. She sat down at her computer and started to search frantically through records.
As she typed, she finally said, “I’ve heard about this ‘abduction’ thing before. I just didn’t believe it.”
“What do you mean?” Riley asked. “Actual abductions?”
Larson kept typing as she talked.
“A few months ago, we had to discharge a recruit with psych issues. His name was Brandon Graham.”
“A dishonorable discharge?” Bill asked.
“No,” Larson said. “Someone convicted in that kind of case would likely be imprisoned. What happened with Graham is called a ‘separation,’ and it’s a kind of medical discharge.”
Riley’s curiosity was mounting.
“What kind of medical problem did he have?” she asked.
“It was called a personality disorder,” Larson said. “He was having nightmares, losing weight because he wouldn’t eat, couldn’t concentrate on anything. Graham’s drill sergeant referred him for a medical examination because his behavior interfered with his ability to continue basic training. The psychologist who examined him concluded that he was delusional, possibly schizophrenic.”
“Delusional?” Lucy asked. “How?”
“He kept saying he’d been ‘abducted,’” Larson said.
Riley felt a tingle of understanding. Everything was starting to come clearer.
Larson turned her computer around so that Riley and her colleagues could see the records she’d brought up.
“You can see the psychologist’s report right here, including transcripts of their sessions,” she said.
Riley and her colleagues looked at the transcript. An exchange between Graham and the psychologist caught her eye.
Dr. Sears: Who abducted you, Brandon? What did they do to you?
Private Graham: I’m not telling you anything more about it.
Dr. Sears: Why not?
Private Graham: Because it’s none of your damn business.
Dr. Sears: If you want to stay in the Army, you’ll have to tell me.
Private Graham: Not a chance. Payback is mine. Revenge is mine. I’ll take care of this on my own. The Army be damned. Kick me out for all I care. It won’t stop me from doing what I have to do.
As she read, Riley remembered what the female private had said during the meeting in the mess hall.
“If I could find one of the guys who did that to me, I swear to God, I’d kill him. I wouldn’t even blink.”
Now it seemed that Private Graham had been just as angry as that young woman—and a lot less stable.
And he’d been much more likely to actually seek revenge.
Riley also remembered something Private Pope had told her on the beach last night about the four slain soldiers.
“They were the toughest of the hazers.”
While Riley was putting all this together in her mind, Col. Larson added, “Of course, the psychologist thought Graham was simply delusional, maybe having hallucinations. It sounded like he was talking about an alien abduction. Everybody thought so, including me. But as soon as those recruits started talking about abductions, the whole thing suddenly made sense. What happened to Graham was real.”
Lucy asked, “Does that mean that he didn’t have a personality disorder after all?”
“Oh, I’m sure he did,” Larson replied. “After all, not everybody who was exposed to hazing responded the same way. In fact, the psychiatrist concluded that the personality disorder had most likely existed before his enlistment. But now I understand why his problems got so much worse.”
Bill scratched his chin thoughtfully.
He asked, “Did Graham have any particular military skills while he was in training?”
Larson typed a bit more.
Then she said, “Yeah. He was a promising sharpshooter.”
Riley heard herself let out an audible gasp.
Suddenly the whole case seemed to be open and shut.
She said, “We’ve got to find this man. Where is he now?”
Larson kept on typing.
“He’s originally from South Carolina. But he didn’t move back there after his separation. It looks like he lives in Limington, a beach town not far from here. I’ve got an address for him there.”
Lucy asked, “Can we find out what he does for a living?”
Larson said, “I’ve got his Social Security number, so we should be able to find out.”
Larson typed some more.
“He’s a delivery man for Oriana’s Pizza. I know the place. It’s not one of the big pizza chains, just a popular place in Limington. Base personnel order pizzas from there all the time. Food delivery guys routinely check in and out of Fort Mowat. So he had access to the base pretty much all the time.”
“Let’s go get him,” Riley said.
*
A few minutes later, Riley, Bill, and Lucy were driving toward Limington. In a car right behind them were three CID agents—Sergeant Matthews and his two-man team, Agents Goodwin and Shores.
Riley wasn’t especially happy to have the CID agents in tow. They were in uniform, of course, which was going to attract attention. In Riley’s experience, uniforms tended to generate alarm, which usually made arrests more difficult. But Col. Larson had insisted, and Riley felt that she couldn’t say no. After all, Larson herself had supplied the insight that probably was going to lead to the arrest.
Limington was a sparkling, gentrified, coastal tourist town. Its main street was lined with palm trees and expensive-looking stores, cafes, and gift shops. It hardly looked like the kind of place that would be harboring a serial killer, but Riley knew that looks could be deceiving.
The two vehicles parked in front of Oriana’s Pizza. Riley and her colleagues got out of their car, and Riley walked over to meet the three CID agents.
“I’d like you to stay in your car for now,” she told them.
“Why, ma’am?” Sergeant Matthews asked.
Riley bristled a little. She was sure that Matthews wouldn’t question an order from Col. Larson
. And she didn’t feel like explaining the disruption he and his team would cause simply by walking into the restaurant.
“Just do as I say,” Riley said.
Matthews and his agents got back into the car, and Riley and her BAU colleagues went into the restaurant. The management had tried to make it look like an old-fashioned Italian trattoria with heavy ceiling beams, dozens of small bare light bulbs, and tile roofing hanging over the bar. But everything looked too new to be convincingly quaint.
Riley and her companions were greeted by a stout, middle-aged woman who reminded Riley a little of Gabriela.
“May I get you a table?” the woman asked in a distinct Italian accent.
“We need to talk with the manager,” Riley said.
The woman smiled broadly.
“That would be me. I’m Oriana Bellone.”
Riley wondered whether the accent was authentic or just an old-world affectation. She and her colleagues produced their badges and introduced themselves. Oriana’s smile faded into an expression of concern.
Riley said, “We’re looking for an employee of yours—Brandon Graham.”
“Is Brandon in some kind of trouble?” Oriana asked.
Riley thought she heard the accent falter just a little bit, but she wasn’t sure.
“We just need to talk to him,” Riley said.
Oriana shook her head.
“Brandon’s not here,” she said. “He works mostly at night.”
“Doing deliveries?” Riley asked.
“That’s right. Most drivers don’t like night runs, but Brandon does. He’s ex-military, so maybe that’s why he feels safer than some of the others.”
Bill asked, “Does he carry a weapon?”
“I don’t know if he has a gun permit or not. They’re not easy to come by in California.”
Riley knew that California gun laws weren’t likely to deter someone determined to get a weapon. Drug runners and gang members had no trouble getting them.
“Does he drive his own car?” Riley asked.
