by Eric Flint
“Hey, I’ve had a rough go of it lately. And, yes. I need a source. They grade us on how many sources we have.” Jasper winked back.
“I’ll whip up a quick assessment for you. May I send the particulars to your Bureau phone?”
“Sure thing, I’ll be out in the field.”
Jasper escaped the air-conditioned administrative confines of the FBI building and entered the air-conditioned freedom of his bucar, still safe from the sweltering August heat and oppressive humidity. He drove northwest into East Chicago and hooked up with Pete at a local diner.
Pete had willingly accepted a chance to work some overtime. Jasper was the only one not making any extra money on this. Special Agents only made overtime on extremely rare occasions, and were expected to be available at all times.
“You up for a source meet? I have Mandy, one of the SOSs at work putting together an informal source identification package for me on the Hispanic male who phoned in the tip.” Jasper took a sip of coffee. The stuff brewed by the diner was decent, if not up to Starbucks standards.
Pete was still visibly shaken from the previous night. His skin seemed more ashen than tan, as if his pigment had soured overnight.
“I can’t get that scene out of my mind,” Pete said.
“The men going up like human sparklers?”
Pete shook his head. “No. The girl. Lashed to a stone slab. Jesus, it was like something you’d see in a horror movie.”
Jasper gazed down at his half-empty cup. “They were going to kill her, for sure. It was some kind of weird sacrifice, at least that’s my belief. I don’t think they were going to violate her—”
“And killing her isn’t a violation?”
“Come on, Pete, you know I didn’t mean that. I’m just trying to make some sense of it.”
“Yeah, I know. But the older I get the less interesting this work is becoming.” Pete covered his eyes with one hand and dragged it down his face as if attempting to wipe away a layer of filth. Hernandez was older than Jasper. He was still in his fifties, but he’d been doing this sort of thing for more than thirty years now. By comparison, Jasper was a total newb with his nine or so years with the Bureau. Even if he counted his time in the Marines, he came nowhere close to Pete’s experience and time dealing with monsters and staring into the face of evil.
Jasper shivered, despite the intense morning heat. Maybe the air conditioning in the diner was set too high.
“You okay?” Pete asked.
“Yeah, just thinking about how long you’ve dealt with the dregs, and all the shit you must have put up with over the years.”
“Don’t think it’s all been bad. We rescued a girl, didn’t we?”
Jasper laughed and sat his coffee mug down with a heavy clunk. “And here I thought I was consoling you.”
“It’s a long career. I’m winding down, but you’ve still got quite a bit of time left. This is a marathon, my friend, not a sprint.”
“I’ll remember that,” Jasper said. “I just hope we don’t have any repeats of last night, at least not for quite some time. Give me bad guy on bad guy killings, any day. Those aren’t victimless crimes, but…”
“You hear yourself?” Pete asked, finally smiling. “You’re beginning to sound like the news, or the ass-covering executive management we all have. Knock it off.”
Jasper smiled back. “I have the information on the man who tipped us off to not only the van, but also the Euclid Hotel. I want to know how he knows so much. And speaking of the Euclid, I want to go back there and look it over again. It’s still early, and I bet we can get in there before any of your CSIs or, heaven forbid, Morris and the Bureau’s ERT get on scene.”
“Bad news—the department isn’t all that interested in evidence collection right now,” Pete said. “But you still know how to process a scene, right?”
Jasper sighed. “Yeah, but I’m not even sure what we’d get out of it. I’m hesitant to use any of the ERT gear stored at the office.”
Pete arched an eyebrow.
“Morris tried to get me fired.”
Pete sipped his coffee.
Jasper sighed. “It isn’t much of a story, really. I called him an oxygen thief and he got me kicked off the team.”
“That all?” Pete shook his head. “That’s nothing. But is that why you want to get to the scene early? To avoid him?”
“Personally, I don’t mind being around him if there is a need, but he can’t stand me.”
“Gee, I can’t for the life of me figure that out,” Pete said. “So we’ll go the hotel first?”
Jasper nodded. “I already called the potential source. He agreed to meet us this afternoon at three o’clock.”
“A full day.”
“C’mon. What else would you rather be doing?”
“Don’t worry. I already have plans for how I’m going to spend all this overtime pay.”
Chapter 6
In the full light of day, the Euclid Hotel looked just like all the other abandoned buildings in the northwestern part of Indiana. Not crumbling—they were mostly made of brick and solidly built—but forlorn; the brick faded, and black lines streaking the masonry.
Crime scene tape had been placed across all the obvious entrance points. They went around to the rear, where they had entered the night before. Jasper pulled back at the sight of two East Chicago police standing guard.
“There’re still people in there going over the crime scene?” Jasper asked. They stared back at him blankly.
“Guys,” Pete said, appearing through the trees, weeds and bushes, “answer the man. He’s not exactly one of us, but he’s Bureau.”
“Oh, sorry, sir,” one of the policemen said to Pete. They looked so impossibly young, reminding Jasper of the young Marine guards at Quantico where the FBI Academy was housed. He’d been one of those Marines once, but had he ever looked so young and green?
“Don’t call me ‘sir.’ Just tell us what’s going on here.”
“We’re the ones who rescued that girl last night,” Jasper said.
“Down there.” Pete glanced at the ground, as if the girl had been in Hell, and perhaps she had.
Their radios clicked: “Abandoned vehicle on Gary Avenue near Cline, possibly stolen. Requesting one unit to investigate the scene. Vehicle is an SUV parked along the south side of the road near the animal control facility. Dark-colored, late model, exact make unspecified.”
“Hey,” Pete said, “want to check that out? It’s close by.”
Jasper shrugged. “Sure.”
“Advise dispatch we’re checking it out.”
Both policemen nodded.
Jasper and Pete rolled to the scene of the abandoned SUV in their respective vehicles in less than five minutes. They passed by the tank farm and most of a nearby asphalt plant before they reached it. The SUV was on the opposite side of Gary Avenue from the asphalt plant and just before the entrance to the animal control center. The center was down a driveway, across a railroad track and behind a screen of trees and tall grass. It was barely visible from the road.
The abandoned vehicle was a dark green 2012 Chevy Equinox bearing Illinois tags, sitting off the road and well onto the shoulder. The driver’s side door was open.
Jasper got out of his bucar and approached Pete’s driver’s side window, which was already down by the time Jasper reached the door.
“Just called in the tags,” Pete said.
“Think it was stolen? Joy ride perhaps?”
“Possibly.”
The radio clicked, and dispatch reported the vehicle was not stolen and the owner of the vehicle had not yet been reported missing.
“Let’s check out the vehicle first,” Pete said, scratching his chin. “Maybe the owner or driver got sick and wandered into the woods over there.” He nodded toward the animal control facility.
Jasper didn’t have high hopes for finding the owner of the vehicle nearby. He figured the vehicle had probably been stolen, just not reported yet.
He and Pete approached the vehicle, each with their hands resting on their service weapons. That was somewhat unusual, but the previous night had left them both jumpy.
They peered into the vehicle and saw nothing outwardly suspicious or any sign of foul play. A sport coat lay draped across the passenger seat, folded in half lengthwise. The keys were still in the ignition. A few miscellaneous CDs were in the console along with a few pens, lip balm, a pack of tissues, and curiously, an MP3 player. The vehicle had obviously not been stolen. Neither the coat nor the MP3 player would have remained if that had been the case.
In fact, Jasper was a little surprised, given the proximity to the rougher areas not too far away, that some random passerby hadn’t stopped and looted the vehicle. Gary Avenue didn’t get a lot of traffic, especially on weekends. He didn’t think the animal control center had anyone working today, either. The gate leading into the facility was closed. He wasn’t sure if that was true of the asphalt plant, but if there was anyone over there they weren’t visible outside.
Whatever had happened here, in other words, it was quite likely there’d been no witnesses—or if there were, it would have been someone driving by who didn’t pay much attention to a vehicle on the side of the road. The SUV had obviously sat here for some time.
“Not stolen,” Pete said.
“At least not the typical stolen vehicle,” Jasper said. “But yeah, now I’m thinking this wasn’t stolen. Maybe you’re right, the owner or driver got sick.”
Pete shrugged. “And maybe it broke down and he had a friend pick him up. There are a lot of possibilities.”
Jasper sat behind the wheel and turned the ignition. The vehicle started without hesitation. “It runs nicely. Any flats?”
Pete walked around the van. “Nope.”
While he checked the tires, Jasper opened the sport coat and checked the pockets. “Our friend is a busy guy,” Jasper said. “Or maybe just an optimist.” He tossed a pair of unopened condoms he’d found in a small inside pocket at Pete, who stepped back reflexively, allowing them to hit the ground.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“They’re not used.”
“I don’t care.” Pete scrunched up his face. “What else did you get?”
“A wallet, some more lip balm, keys.” Jasper opened the black faux leather wallet. “Typical credit and debit cards. A few rewards cards, all bearing the registered owner’s name. There’s a couple hundred in cash.” He checked the slot where pictures would be kept and pulled out a driver’s license. “Great photo,” he said and shook his head. He handed it to Pete.
“It’s like a villain from that old detective comic strip.”
“Dick Tracy?”
“Yeah, that one. This guy would be rubber man or something.”
“I’m surprised you know those books, Pete. Shoot, I’m surprised I know.”
“I came across a stack of old papers one time, and snuck them whenever I could.” Pete laughed.
Jasper had been examining the photo while they bantered. “You’re right about the picture. He is sort of rubbery looking. What they call ‘nondescript,’ too.” He frowned. “He look familiar to you, Pete?”
“Should he? The answer’s no—never seen him before.”
“I can’t place it, but there’s a familiarity there.”
“He could be anyone. We’ve arrested how many people over the years?”
Jasper sighed. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose.” He tilted his head back, and ran the image through his memory. But Pete was right, they’d arrested hundreds of people and interviewed hundreds more. After a while, names and faces ran together. But this man was so average and so bland that now he stood out to Jasper.
The sun had climbed higher into the open sky, which was a dingy blue today. The morning heat threatened misery in the afternoon. Two turkey vultures appeared, their black wings forming a shallow vee as they circled a spot closer to the animal control center.
“You see that?” Jasper asked. “Something is dead or dying over at Animal Control.”
“Yeah, maybe the driver is close by after all. Start looking. I’ll call this in and get a squad car over here to assist. Perhaps an ambulance.”
Jasper got out of the van and walked along the road, scanning the tall grass for any signs of activity and making his way toward the driveway leading into the animal control center. That would be the only way to reach the spot the vultures were circling that didn’t involve fighting his way through the grass—which in some places would be over his head. The buzzing and chattering of insects filled his ears for a moment when the sounds of man disappeared briefly, reminding him of where he grew up, Tennessee, and what people referred to as the country.
Northwest Indiana was odd, that way. It was basically a heavily populated residential area, with lots of industry and commerce in the mix. Part of the great Chicago metropolis, artificially divided by the state line between Illinois and Indiana. But there were country patches scattered all through it, some of them operating farms and others just stretches of wild prairie and woodlands.
The weeds and brush gave way to the long driveway leading to the animal control center, and he started down it. After a few yards, he came to a dirt road branching to his right. It was still a little soggy and muddy from the rain a couple of days earlier. He glanced up once more at the vultures and rather than continuing toward the animal control center went down the dirt road.
The back of his neck itched and a chill shook his body, raising the hair on his arms. Two days in a row.
A thrumming invaded the stillness that had overcome the road, as if he was nearing a nest of bees. But when he got closer he saw that it was a mass of flies, not bees, making that noise. About twenty-five feet ahead, lying in what appeared to be a puddle, was a large lump of something. At this distance, the thing was hard to make out. A dead animal of some kind, he figured. Big, but certainly not human. The shape was all wrong.
Jasper came forward slowly. After a couple of steps his hand moved reflexively to his gun’s grip, his thumb on the break, ready to free the weapon from the holster.
Something wrong was up ahead. Terribly wrong.
A mound of flesh lay in a puddle of light pink, as if blood had been mixed with water and mud. Bits of white poked through the flesh—pieces of bone, clearly. A horde of insects swarmed over the mound. Jasper swallowed and took a step back, but then two forward, attempting to overcome his fear and revulsion. His heart thumped, and his chest felt hollow. Even the two men burning themselves into nothing the previous night didn’t match this horror. Sure, he’d watched them die, but it had been swift and he doubted that they had suffered more than a few seconds. This, however—whatever it was—looked like a pile of uncooked, shredded meat. It was more pink than red, laced with bones, and permeated with shriveled organs.
The pulse magnified in Jasper’s ears, and his vision narrowed. He leaned over, placed his hands on his knees and took a few deep breaths. He’d seen horrible crime scenes over the years, but nothing quite like this.
He didn’t even understand what he was looking at. An animal? An animal killed by another animal? But if so, what kind? No animal he knew of had a shape like this. More than anything else he could think of, the bloody lump on the ground looked like a slab of halibut he’d once seen in a photograph hanging on the wall of a fishery—but it didn’t really look like that, either.
A curved piece of bone caught his eye. It took a couple of seconds before his brain could make sense of what he was seeing.
That was part of a human skull. The front half of one, missing the lower jaw. The edge was sharp, as if somebody—something—had cut straight down with a huge razor, separating the facial bones—what he was looking at—from the back of the skull.
He retched, but managed not to lose his breakfast.
A female voice spoke behind him. “Agent Wilde? Zeke Wilde?”
His heart raced and he jumped, nearly falling over. He swallowed and took a deep bre
ath, then straightened and turned around.
A smartly dressed black woman stood about twenty feet from him. She was about five and a half feet tall, maybe a little less, judging from the low heels of her shoes. Solidly built; somewhere in her early-to-mid forties. Her hair was closely cropped, and he could see a shock of white in the tight curls on both temples. Her skin was quite dark, as were her eyes. Her nose was broad and her lips were full. The navy blue suit she wore matched her looks—well-made if not flashy; sober and businesslike.
Jasper moved a little, to block her view of the remains. She placed her hands on her hips and cocked her head.
“Agent Wilde, we need to speak.”
“What?” Jasper asked, nonplussed by the intrusion. “Why did you call me Zeke? No one calls me that, not even—”
“You received our phone call, did you not?” she asked. “Special Agent Ravel rang you earlier and informed you we’d be arriving today.”
Jasper remembered the phone call at his home. “Oh. Right.” He shook his head. “You mean that wasn’t a practical joke? You’re for real, then?”
“For real?” She had a rather ferocious frown. “Of course I’m for real. I’m Supervisory Special Agent Temple Black.” She stepped forward and offered her hand, but stopped when she got within five feet of Jasper. She’d finally spotted what was lying on the road.
“I’m not sure, but I think that’s the driver of the vehicle on the side of the road,” Jasper said.
She spun away and her hands flew to her mouth.
“And yes, I’m Jasper, not Zeke. My official bureau name is Z. Jasper Wilde. Now, what are you doing here exactly?”
A man appeared behind Black, carrying a large case. This would be Agent Ravel, he assumed, the owner of what Jasper had thought was one of the guys at the office doing an Indian impression when he had received the phone call late in the night. But Ravel was obviously of south Asian ancestry. Probably a first-generation immigrant, from the trace of accent Jasper had detected.
“Agent Wilde,” the man said, moving past Black. “Vance Ravel, pleased to meet—” His cheeks puffed and his free hand flew to his mouth, except he wasn’t successful in tamping down his reaction. Fortunately, he was able to turn aside before he vomited. He even had the presence of mind to hold the case well away from his body, so it wouldn’t get splattered.
