“Good. Gibson, what about other cases involving morphine?”
“Well, out of the fifty-two cases, forty-six are actually cases where a patient, while high on morphine, escaped either a hospital or their caregiver. In all forty-six, the police assisted finding and returning them. One guy was so stoned, he drove his car across the beach and straight into the ocean. Another woman went shopping at the mall—nude.” Gibson laughed, tossing some files into a box. When he realized the room was quiet, he looked around. “Well, I thought it was funny.”
“You better tell Charlie about the other six cases,” Abe said. “She not a fan of jokes when she’s working a case.”
Gibson straightened in his chair and grabbed his notepad. “Right. Well, of the remaining six cases, one was a kid stealing a morphine drip from the hospital, but he didn’t get very far. The police got him to admit he was stealing it for his grandfather who was bedridden. Two other cases were hospital workers caught injecting themselves. A fourth was a girl who’d swiped a vial of morphine from a hospice doctor. She was found by police an hour later. Number five was… Let’s see here…” Gibson dug through the stack of files. “Ah, yes, number five stole morphine out of a paramedic’s hand, but the medic was ex-army and dropped the kid on his ass. By the way, the patient who needed the morphine also lived. And the sixth case was a morphine overdose in an assisted living center.”
“Yoo-hoo…” Tasha said, barreling through the door and dropping a box at my feet. “Presents. I pulled the four victim files that Natalie requested. Two were marked heart failure, but one of the two had the bruise on the back of his neck. Another one died of an arterial embolism—a blood clot—but he also had the neck bruise. The fourth died of a heart attack, but he had late-stage cancer so realistically his organs were shutting down.” Tasha pulled out a chair and sat. “Of the four, we still had two of their blood samples in storage, so I ran a preliminary screening on them. One was clean, though he didn’t have the bruise so not surprising. The other was the arterial embolism.” She looked at me expectantly, almost giddy.
“And?” I asked, waving my hand for her to get to the point.
“The blood tested positive for coagulant medication! Can you believe that? Heparin to be precise.” She bounced in her chair with excitement.
“I don’t have a medical license, Tasha. You’ll have to dumb it down for me.”
“Oh, sorry. Someone with his medical record would never have been prescribed Heparin. In fact, he was on a prescription for blood thinners, so Heparin is a major no-no.”
I pulled the files out and found the two with the neck bruises. I handed one to Natalie and the other to Gibson. “Get me everything you can on these victims. I want to know where they worked, their family background, their financial status, everything. And I want it yesterday.”
Natalie and Gibson took off out of the conference room with their assigned files.
“Why Heparin?” Chambers asked Tasha. “The morphine was odd enough, but Heparin?”
“I don’t know, but I also have these files,” Tasha said, handing me three more files that she’d been holding. “Huey and I reviewed the ME office’s suspicious death files, looking for the similar bruising. One man died of an Oxi overdose but had no history of drug use. The other two died from hyperglycemia.”
“That’s low blood sugar, right?” Chambers asked.
“Right. But neither patient was diabetic and insulin levels were through the roof.”
“Abe,” I said. “Can you search police cases for Heparin and Insulin? See if anything pops?”
Abe didn’t answer but click-clacked on his keyboard. “In the last twenty-four months, we’ve had four cases involving Heparin and twelve relating to insulin. Want me to go back further than that?”
“Take a closer look at the Heparin cases,” Quille said from the doorway. “In either case, did we log the Heparin into evidence?”
“How long have you been standing there?” I asked Quille.
“I followed Tasha in,” Quille answered, frowning over at me. “I’m not liking that you and I seem to be thinking the same thing about this case.”
Ford looked between us, then over at Abe.
Abe studied his screen as he spoke. “We logged the Heparin into evidence for two of the four cases.”
Chambers stood. “All right, clue us in. What are you two thinking?”
I looked at Quille but he was just as reluctant to speak as I was. I looked over at Abe. “Can you finish the background check Gibson’s running? I need him for another assignment.”
“Sure,” Abe said, standing and closing his laptop. “Just give me a minute to grab the evidence logs off the printer. I have a feeling you’ll be needing them.”
Abe was smart, too smart. But he was also good at keeping his mouth shut, so I wasn’t worried that he’d figured it out. He returned a few minutes later with six pages of evidence log numbers, in numeric order by box number. Next to each number was the type of drug and the quantity of the drug that was logged.
When Gibson returned, Quille closed the door. “Let me make this crystal clear, what we are about to discuss is only a theory.” He scowled around the room. “Right now, we have no evidence to support our theory, therefore, we are not required to report our findings to internal affairs—yet.”
“Internal affairs,” Ford said as his eyebrows skyrocketed upward. “You think—”
“A cop?” Gibson said, then looked over his shoulder at the door and lowered his voice. “You think the killer we’re hunting could be a cop?”
I looked at each of them, before speaking. “Where is the one place you can find both hospital grade drugs and street drugs?”
Chambers sighed, nodding to the list of evidence logs. “A police evidence vault. Shit.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, thinking. “But wait, the truck stop manager confessed to buying the morphine for the hitman. Weren’t we assuming that was how he was getting the drugs for all the victims?”
“Maybe I would’ve assumed that,” I said glancing at Quille. “If the entire precinct hadn’t been drug tested three months ago.”
All eyes turned to Quille.
Quille scowled at me. “You’re too damn observant, Kid.” He pulled out a chair and threw himself into it. “This doesn’t leave this room, but a few months back, a small amount of Oxi went missing from evidence. We assumed it was taken for recreational purposes. We ran a drug screening, but other than two cops who tested positive for marijuana, we never found anything linking back to the Oxi. We shuffled the staff assigned to the evidence vault, but that’s about all we could do.”
My hands fisted and thumped the table. “Son-of-a—” I glared over at Quille. “If Internal Affairs spent less energy investigating people like me, maybe, just maybe, they’d have solved the case—before two more people died!”
Ford chuckled. “I think a cop turned hitman is a little out of I.A.’s wheelhouse. Hell, I’m not sure I can get behind this theory, and I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit.”
Chambers looked to Ford. “But if this is a cop, he might’ve lost access when he was reassigned duties. That would explain why he had the truck stop manager supply the drugs for the last hit.”
“But it might not have been one of the cops assigned to evidence,” Quille said. “The Oxi could’ve been lifted at any point when the evidence was signed out. Or someone could’ve grabbed it while they were pulling another box. We never found proof against anyone.”
“We need to inventory the evidence room,” I said, handing the evidence logs to Quille. “Can you oversee the process while I handle something else?”
Quille looked up from the logs and back at me. “Is this something else legal?”
I didn’t answer.
Quille’s eyes narrowed.
I still didn’t answer.
“My office,” he said pointing toward the door.
“Wait. Just give me a minute.” I stood and paced, trying to think of how much to say. It was mom
ents like this that I hated working on a team. “There’s a particular cop I need to check into. I haven’t had time to run a background on him. I have a name and address, but that’s all.”
“And you’re just now telling us you have a suspect?” Quille asked.
“He’s a COP!” I said, throwing my hands up into the air. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not overly enthusiastic about tarnishing his record without evidence!” I kicked one of the boxes sitting on the floor. It only moved about three feet, but the files spilled out. I crossed my arms and turned back to the group. “So far, the only thing I have on this guy is a suspicious arrest a few years back. The bust sounded legit, but the perp was a middleman drug dealer. According to the rumor mill, the dealer should’ve had a lot more drugs on him.”
“Name?” Quille ordered.
I shook my head. “As soon as we run him in our database, red flags will go off. We can’t take the chance.”
“Name?” Quille said again, getting more and more pissed.
My shoulders fell as I looked down at the floor and answered. “Officer Grenway. Stuart Grenway.”
“Why does that name sound familiar?” Ford asked.
Quille answered Ford as he walked toward me. “Grenway rolled his cruiser about three years back. He chose riding the desk over disability pay.” Quille stood in front of me and leaned into my face. “He had severe nerve damage in his right hand from the accident.”
My stomach rolled. I didn’t want to be right. I stepped closer to the table, reaching a hand out to balance myself. After a few deep breaths, I picked up my cellphone and called Kierson.
Kierson answered on the first ring. “I miss you.”
“I’m sorry, but this is a work thing. I need your help. Or, rather, the FBI’s help. And I don’t have time to go through Maggie.”
“What do you need?” Kierson asked. His voice had shifted from soft and sweet, to all business.
“A background on a Miami cop—without triggering a red flag in our database.” I gave him the name and address I had for Grenway.
“Genie’s with me now. I’m putting her on speaker.”
“Hello, my favorite drinking partner. I hear the gang is in Florida in some fancy mansion. Is it as fabulous as Maggie says?”
“It’s ridiculously fabulous. And if you get me the background check I need, I’ll send you a plane ticket.”
Genie giggled. “Kierson is scowling, so I’d wager me agreeing to the exchange would break some FBI rule, but if a ticket were to magically appear, I wouldn’t turn it away.”
I could hear Kierson grumbling something in a low tone.
Genie giggled again. “Give me a few minutes to do my thing, and I’ll call you back with this background check.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
“You owe me like thirty, but it’s all good. I’m happy to help. And if we close our case before this weekend, I’ll take you up on the plane ticket.”
As Genie disconnected, Abe and Natalie entered.
I focused on them. “Give me the run down.”
Natalie gestured for Abe to go first.
“I’ve got an Allen Franklin. Age forty-eight. Happily married with two kids. He was a volunteer at a teen shelter: The Sunrise Center. Your typical do-gooder.”
“My guy is the opposite of Abe’s. More of an evil-doer,” Natalie said. “Holland Parker. Fifty-six years old. Real estate developer. Net worth in the millions. No kids.” She flipped a page on her notepad. “His first wife filed abuse charges two months into the marriage and then split. Wife number two lasted longer, about two years. The official filing in their divorce was irreconcilable differences, but despite a prenup, she received a two-million-dollar settlement. Which makes me think she had some spectacular dirt on him that he didn’t want made public. And by the time of his death, Mr. Parker was six months into his third marriage.” Natalie flipped another page on her notepad. “He was also investigated a few times, but nothing stuck. Mostly bribery and fraud stuff. White collar crime.”
Chambers tapped a pencil on the table as he looked at me. “If our killer was responsible for both victims, then the second guy,” he pointed to Natalie’s notepad, “would be a prime candidate for a hired hit. Without any kids, the third wife would’ve raked in millions upon his death. But the first guy—” he pointed to the papers in Abe’s hands, “was likely killed because he knew the killer. Or he knew something about the killer. Either way, that might be our best lead.”
“I can head over to the shelter. Ask around about Allen Franklin,” Gibson offered.
I shook my head. “Not yet. Let’s wait for Genie.”
As if summoned, Genie’s face popped up on my phone and it started to ring. I pushed the icon for speaker. “Hey, just a second,” I told Genie before looking over at Abe and Natalie and then the door. They both stepped out of the room, shoulders slumped. I fake scowled at Quille, not liking playing the bad cop role, before looking back at my phone. “Go ahead, Genie.”
“Do we like this guy? I’m assuming if I’m running a background, then we don’t. But I’m having these really conflicting feelings about him.”
“What did you find?”
“Grenway was born in Fort Lauderdale. No dad listed on the birth certificate. Mom was a drunk, in and out of rehab. Child services stepped in a few times, but kept sending Stewy back to her when she sobered up. One night she passed out and choked to death on her own vomit. Game over for her. By then, Stewy had suffered fourteen years of alcohol-related abuse. After she died, he bounced around in foster care for three years, but eventually ran away. Six months later he appeared at a teen outreach center. The center helped him arrange independent housing and re-enroll in school.”
“Sun…” I took the file from Abe and checked the name. “The Sunset Center?”
“Yup. That’s the one. On paper, Stewy sounds like a troubled kid who turned his life around. He joined the police department and all seems normal until about five years ago.”
“What happened five years ago?”
“I don’t know. But something smells fishy. Stewy traded in his beat-up Camry for a shiny new Corolla. Nothing flashy, but that’s when his lifestyle started to exceed his income. After applying all my magic, I didn’t find a single loan or credit card that explains how he could afford the car, let alone the three-bedroom house or the cabin cruiser purchased since then. And Uncle Sam wasn’t aware of his change in income either.”
“Five years? Are you sure?”
“Positive. I’ll send you the details. Why is that important?”
“Because I was under the impression he started killing people three years ago.”
“Oh. Stewy’s been bad…”
“You need to stop calling him Stewy. It’s creepy.”
Genie laughed while asking, “Anything else I can do?”
“Not right now, but thanks. This helped.” I ended the call but continued staring at my phone.
“Five years?” Tasha said. “Huey and I looked back seven years, but only found the two cases. We can look again.”
“What if…” Gibson started to say. “Never mind.”
“What if what?” Chambers asked. “If you have a theory, let’s hear it.”
“What if he changed his MO after the car accident. Remember? He took a knife to the park to kill Terri Weston.”
“You’re on to something,” I said, pointing to Gibson. “I like it. So, before the accident, he was a stabber or slasher. But when he tried to kill Terri, his damaged hand prevented him from killing in his usual manner. He had to improvise. Come up with a new method.”
“And now he’s improvised again, combining the stabbing with the choking,” Chambers said.
“Which is closer to his preferred method,” Ford grumbled, throwing his pen onto the table. “This makes me sick. How could a brother in blue be behind this?”
I ignored Ford and opened the door to the conference room. Abe and Natalie were waiting a few feet away. �
��We need to run a search on unsolved stab victims. But further back. At least a decade.”
“We’ll get started,” Natalie said, moving with Abe toward their cubicles.
I turned back into the room and walked over to Quille. Grabbing the lapels on his suit jacket, I gave them a playful tug like I was straightening them. “Did I ever tell you that you’re the best boss ever?”
“What do you want?”
“Can you call your judge friend and get me a warrant?”
“You don’t have any evidence. It’s all circumstantial.”
“Come on. We both know you have mad skills getting warrants.” I smirked at him. “Please! Pretty-please! I gotta bring Grenway in before the rumor mill gets wind of this and he realizes we’re on to him.”
“Fine!” Quille barked. “I’ll get you a warrant, but SWAT goes in first. If anyone ends up shooting this guy, it’s sure as hell not going to be you. Not with your I.A. file.”
Knowing better than to wait for Quille to change his mind, I grabbed my handbag and keys. Beast had been napping against the wall but bounced to his feet when he heard my keys jingle.
“I’ll call when the warrant is signed,” Quille said, opening the door for me. “Then I’ll get a team together to start inventorying the evidence vault.”
Chambers stood. “Gibson and I will help Abe and Natalie run down more victims. We’ll do the best we can to put the information together before you get back.”
“I’d rather be on the team serving the warrant,” Gibson complained.
“Learn what’s important and where you’re needed,” Chambers told him. “Charlie needs that info so she can interrogate Grenway.”
“I’ll head over to the teen shelter,” Ford said, standing and grabbing his suit jacket. “See if I can find anyone who can link some of the pieces.”
“Maybe working on a team isn’t so bad,” I said as I walked out.
Chapter Forty-Six
CHARLIE
Wednesday, 11:27 a.m.
In the movies, the detectives lead the SWAT team into the house, wearing maybe a bullet proof vest, as the SWAT guys fan out around them in full body armor. In the real world, the detectives sit in their car down the block and drink coffee as the specialized team bears down on their target, charging into the home in a synchronized assault. It was fun to watch, but it would be a lot more fun to be part of the kick the door in team.
Hunt and Prey (Kelsey's Burden Series Book 8) Page 33
