by J. C. Fields
A chuckle was his response.
“JR thinks he might know the name Monk is using at the apartment.”
“Good, what is it?”
“Chronos.”
Gibbs nodded.
Two hours later with the sun a third of the way up a cloudless sky, the day promised to be warm. Kruger and Gibbs sat in the rental car three blocks from the apartment building Monk had entered the previous afternoon. Jimmie said, “Any idea when he leaves?”
“The seminar was over yesterday. Coleman thinks he’ll be on campus until around one today. After that he’s done for the semester.”
“Once he’s on the bus, I’ll do my research.”
Kruger said, “I’ll follow the bus and make sure you’re not disturbed.”
“Got it.”
They waited ten more minutes before Kruger pointed at a lanky figure exiting the apartment complex. “That’s him.”
Gibbs looked through Nikon Trailblazer ATB compact binoculars. “Huh—why do the weird ones always look so ordinary?”
With a smile, Kruger shook his head. “Welcome to my world.”
Lowering the binoculars, Gibbs watched the man get on the bus. As it pulled away from the curb, the retired Seal opened the car door and slipped out. He bent over before shutting the door. “Let me know if he turns around.”
“You got it.”
***
Gibbs secured his wireless earbud in his left ear and shuffled over to the apartment complex. He found a bulletin board just inside the building’s entrance which announced several vacant apartments. It gave directions to the manager’s office, which he followed. Office hours were posted on the door indicating the manager would be there from nine in the morning till noon. He checked his watch and noticed it was two minutes after nine and knocked.
The door opened and an elderly heavyset woman opened the door. Her disheveled gray hair fell haphazardly over a wrinkled forehead. She stared at him with dull gray eyes behind blocky black rimmed glasses.
“Yes?”
“I saw you have several apartments for rent.”
“Only have one, it has two bedrooms.”
“Can I see it?”
She glared at him for several moments and nodded. “I’ll show you where it is. If you’re interested, get back to me.”
She left the front door open and led him to a table in the middle of the front room. On the table resided an architectural blueprint of the apartment complex. Multi-colored Post It Notes identified the occupant of each unit. As she pointed to a corner apartment on the diagram, Gibbs quickly scanned the names. One was of interest and he made a note of the apartment’s location. He returned his attention to the older woman. “Looks interesting. Mind if I look around first?”
“Sure, just don’t bother the other residents.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
After exiting the manager’s office, he made his way toward the apartment and listened as he passed other doors. He heard TVs, conversations, yelling, crying babies and a variety of other sounds.
When he arrived at the apartment of interest, he knocked gently. He heard only silence from the interior. This was the apartment belonging to T. Chronos, according to the Post-It-Note on the landlord’s architectural drawing.
He extracted a slim flat wire from his billfold and held it like a key. He quickly scanned the door frame and did not find anything that would tell the occupant the door had been opened during his absence. It only took ten seconds for Jimmie to conquer the cheap door lock and slip into Dorian Monk’s home.
Chapter 13
Covington, KY
The room smelled of Pine-Sol and chlorine. He stood perfectly still, listening. The only sounds he heard came from adjacent apartments. The one where he stood remained silent.
Once his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he noticed the furnishings appeared old and threadbare. A sagging sofa with a chipped pressed-board coffee table dominated the space. An old floor lamp from the seventies stood next to the sofa, offering the only option for light in the depressing area.
Boxes were neatly stacked near the door. Gibbs slipped on latex gloves retrieved from his jeans pocket and opened the top box. Books. He extracted one and looked at the first page. With a smile, he read the neatly written hand note. Property of DR. DORIAN MONK.
Satisfied, he ventured further into the apartment. Three rooms occupied the space within. The living area, which joined a small kitchen separated by a breakfast bar made up the front space. Gibbs checked the cabinets and only found a few plates, cups and glasses. The refrigerator contained even less—a head of lettuce, a bottle of ranch dressing, orange juice, a carton of eggs and a few tomatoes.
In the freezer compartment, boxes of Lean Cuisine entrées were neatly stacked within the space. Gibbs shook his head at the austere life of the apartment’s tenant. Toward the back of the apartment, he found one bedroom with a small bath next to it. The chlorine smell detected earlier emanated from this area. As he stood at the entrance to the bedroom, his eyes searched for anything of interest. The only furnishings were a neatly made twin-size bed and a nightstand with a small digital clock and a lamp on the top. More boxes were stacked against one wall.
He approached a door he assumed was a closet. Within the space he found five shirts hung exactly one inch apart. Five pairs of jeans, also separated by the same amount of space, were next. He took a picture with his cell phone. At the bottom of the closet he found two rolling suitcases which were heavier than they should be. With a slight grin, he took both out of the closet.
The smaller one contained files and bank statements. He checked the files and only found pages of mathematical formulas. He photographed several of the bank statements and then took pictures of the contents of several files. Once everything was repacked, he opened the larger case.
Inside were men’s undergarments, socks, and a folded Carhart jacket. Gibbs took pictures of these as well. At the bottom, under the folded jacket, he found a bank bag. He unzipped it and stared at the contents. Cash—lots of cash. There were five bundles of one-hundred-dollar bills, plus loose currency. These Gibbs spread out on the floor and photographed. He counted the unbundled bills and determined there was two-thousand dollars in a variety of denominations. Replacing everything exactly where he found them, he closed the closet door and looked under the bed.
What he saw made him dial Kruger’s number.
“What’s wrong, Jimmie?”
“I’ve got a Glock 17 with a suppressor, a Glock 30, a Remington 700 with a scope and a Savage MSR15. Lots of ammo for all of them.”
“This is the guy, Jimmie. What else did you find?”
“Bank records, files and a lot of cash.”
“Take pictures and get out of there. I’ll head back and pick you up.”
“See you in a few.”
***
“How much cash?”
Gibbs stared out the front window of the rental car as they drove back toward campus. “Right at fifty-two thousand. Sean, the guy’s apartment looked like he could bolt in five minutes. There isn’t much there.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t know we know it. Okay, with the information you photographed, we’ll see if JR can trace him better. Did you see any other IDs?”
Shaking his head, Gibbs said, “No, and I was looking.”
Kruger nodded. “Okay, now we have to figure out a legal way of getting into his apartment.”
“Got any ideas?”
“Not at the moment, but I’m working on it.”
***
From the backseat of the bus, Dorian Monk observed the white Chevy Malibu slow and turn into a parking lot. It reversed its course and headed in the opposite direction. His concern increased as the car disappeared into the morning traffic. The older FBI agent he interviewed with drove the car. He suddenly realized why the car would back track. He stood and waited for the bus to arrive at the next stop.
As he stepped off, he removed a small prepaid cell phone from his leather sat
chel and dialed a local taxi service.
Thirty minutes later, he opened the door to his apartment and turned on the lights. He was surprised to see the apartment exactly the same as when he had left earlier in the morning. He hurried to his bed and peered underneath. Nothing appeared missing. Taking a deep breath, he opened the closet and took inventory. Everything was there and looked undisturbed. He started to relax until he noticed the suitcases were not properly placed. Their current location did not match the indentations left in the carpet.
He stood and closed his eyes. Taking several deeper breaths, he tried to calm himself. He’d always known this moment would come, but he was not ready to give up just yet. He opened the suitcase with the cash and extracted one of the small bundles.
The taxi driver, an overweight middle-aged woman, remained outside the apartment building nervously waiting for him to return. When he did, he asked her to take him to an address in Cincinnati just over the river.
By noon, Monk was loading his boxes, gun cases and suitcases into the back of a 2008 Chevy Equinox purchased for five thousand dollars in cash. With the vehicle packed, he made one last trip through the apartment. Satisfied all of his important possessions were out of the apartment, he left his key on the coffee table and returned to the SUV. Once out of the parking lot, he drove west.
***
Kruger paced the hotel room, his cell phone held in his hand on speaker. Gibbs sat quietly near the writing desk and listened.
“I understand that, Don. There has to be a way to get a search warrant for this guy’s apartment.”
“Not with the evidence you’ve told me so far, Sean.” Don Meacham, a bureau attorney who Kruger knew personally, did not comment further.
“What if Jimmie and I are knocking on his door and we both smell smoke?”
“Iffy at best. The problem with a scenario like that is a good defense attorney will shoot a hole through it because there is no fire. Now, if there truly was a fire, any evidence gathered would be admissible.”
“You’re not making this easy, Don.”
A chuckle sounded through the speaker. “It never is with you, Sean.”
“Okay, what if—”
When his cell phone beeped, Kruger glanced at the screen and said, “I’ve got to go, I’ll call you back, Don.”
“Okay, in the meantime, I’ll look for legal precedents.”
Kruger touched a button. “This is Kruger.”
“Agent, this is Harvey Copeland. I was just informed that Professor Monk did not show up today.”’
“What do you mean, didn’t show up?”
“I just left his office and it appears he has not been there. It’s past one and he hasn’t turned in his class summaries for the next semester.”
With a frown, Kruger glanced at Jimmie who was now standing next to the desk, his brow furrowed.
“So, no one’s seen him today?”
“Not that I can find.”
“Has he ever done this before, just not show up?”
“Never.”
“Okay, thank you Dr. Copeland, we’ll check on him.”
The call ended. Kruger smiled and looked at Jimmie. “That’s our ticket. Wellness check.”
Gibbs smiled as the two men left the hotel room.
***
Jimmie Gibbs knocked on the apartment door for the third time. “Dr. Monk, FBI. Can we talk to you?”
Silence was their only response.
Gibbs put a latex glove on his right hand and tried the doorknob. It turned. With raised eyebrows, he glanced at Kruger, who nodded, his service Glock in both hands and pointed at the ground.
Withdrawing his Sig Sauer P226 with his left hand, Jimmie carefully opened the door. “Dr. Monk, we’re coming in.”
Both men rushed in and covered both sides of the room. It was empty except for the furniture.
“Shit.” Jimmie hurried to the bedroom followed by Kruger. Each man stood on either side of the opening, guns still in hand, pointing up. Jimmie stole a quick glance into the room and holstered his Sig Sauer. “He’s gone, Sean.”
Kruger glanced into the room and saw the closet door open with nothing inside. He too, holstered his gun.
Jimmie bent down and glanced under the bed. “Nothing there either.”
Taking out his cell phone, Kruger rapidly punched in a number. When it was answered, he said. “Paul, I need a forensic team ASAP.”
He listened.
“Covington, Kentucky.” Kruger gave him the address.
A pause.
“Yeah, on the other side of the river south of Cincinnati.”
More listening.
“We found him, Paul. We know who killed Alan.”
Chapter 14
Springfield, MO
Kruger leaned against the credenza behind JR’s cubicle and sipped coffee.
The computer hacker stood next to him, pouring a cup for himself. “So, what did the forensic team find?”
“Not much. Jimmie told me he smelled chlorine when he first entered the apartment. Apparently, Monk maintained a ritual of wiping the surfaces around the apartment to rid it of fingerprints.”
“Did they find any?”
Nodding, Kruger took another sip. “A few. We have an index finger from his left hand and three fingers on the right. They’ve run them through the database.” He paused and sipped coffee. “He’s never been fingerprinted.”
“What about DNA?”
“Lots of it.”
“What else did they find?”
“They found trace elements of gunpowder and gun lubricants in the carpet under the bed. We have proof he stored guns there. Other than the DNA, fingerprints and the residue, they didn’t find much else.”
JR nodded as he tasted his coffee. “Any idea where he went?”
“None. We do, however, have a few names I want you to research.”
Raising an eyebrow, JR looked over his rimless glasses.
“Jimmie’s found evidence, during his first excursion into Monk’s apartment, that he uses a couple of aliases in the financial world. He rented the apartment under the name Timothy Chronos. My bet is he has an ID with that name. We also think he uses the name Dorian Marshall.”
“You think, you’re not sure?”
“It’s the name he used to open the bank account where his paychecks from Hendrick College were deposited.”
“How’d that work?”
Kruger shrugged. “We’re not sure. Jimmie is still at Hendrick looking into it. Lots of questions. Unfortunately, everyone in administration seems to have contracted a severe case of amnesia concerning Dorian Monk. Even Doctor Copeland.”
JR scratched his chin. “So, the bank was able to give you the social security number he opened the checking account with?”
With a nod, Kruger pulled a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his sport coat. “Before I left yesterday, Jimmie and I stopped and met with them. This is a printout from the bank. You’ll find the social and a history of the account after I—uh—asked them nicely.”
“I’m sure you were very diplomatic when you requested this information.”
After another sip of coffee, Kruger shook his head. “No, I wasn’t. They were too busy covering their ass and I got tired of it. Something about a bank audit came up. They got very cooperative after that part of the conversation.”
With a chuckle, JR took the page and looked at it. “Only deposits and a withdrawal after each deposit.” He looked up. “That’s it?”
His answer was a nod.
“Huh.”
“I’ve got other agents at all the colleges and universities Monk’s taught at over the years. They’re checking to see if he was paid with direct deposits or checks.”
JR said, “Direct deposit’s been common since the eighties, Sean.”
“We’re hoping we’ll get lucky and find more names he’s used.” He paused for a moment. “What I can’t figure out is how he moved so fast. We got back to his apart
ment by 1:30 and he had already packed everything and left. What did he use for transportation?”
Staring off at a spot only he could see, JR sipped his coffee. After almost half a minute, he said, “Are there any truck rental places close to his apartment?”
“No, we thought of that and couldn’t find any.”
“Have you checked taxi services? Uber and Lyft?”
Kruger nodded. “No one by the name Dorian Monk was picked up.”
JR tilted his head. “Sean, think about what you just said.”
Kruger’s eyes widened. “Shit…”
“Uber and Lyft only take credit cards. Monk doesn’t have a credit card in his real name. Taxis still take cash.”
Pointing at JR’s computer, Kruger asked, “Can you find out what taxi services operate in Covington?”
JR’s fingers danced on the keyboard. “There are several, most service Cincinnati and the airport.”
“Email the list to Jimmie.” As he punched in a number on his cell phone, the FBI agent looked at JR again. “Taxi companies will have a record of the destination of who they pick up, regardless of how the fare is paid.”
“They should.”
When the call was answered, Kruger said, “Jimmie, JR is emailing you a list of taxi services in and around Covington. There’s a chance Monk used one to get back to the apartment.”
Kruger was silent for a few moments. “Yeah, I know, it’s a long shot.”
More silence.
“Are you still at the college?” A pause. “Good, prevail on Dr. Copeland for a copy of Monk’s faculty ID picture. Maybe we can figure out how he got his stuff out of the apartment so fast.”
The call ended and Kruger looked at JR. “Think back on when you deleted all of your public records and disappeared from the radar. How would Monk do it now?”
“You said he has cash.”
“At least fifty thousand dollars.”
“That’s not really a lot, but it’s a start.” He paused. “Did Jimmie find a computer in the apartment?”
