Coming of Winter

by Tom Threadgill

  He flicked the paper toward the coffee table and watched as it fluttered to the floor. He needed to talk to Maggie. Soon. Get everything out in the open. She had a right to know, even if it meant risking their relationship. She needed to see that part of him. What he was truly capable of.

  Outside of a debriefing, he’d never spoken of Afghanistan. What he’d seen. Done. And if he signed that document, he’d never be able to tell her. Couldn’t do that. It’d be hard for both of them, but they’d get through it. Assuming, of course, she wanted to.

  He flicked off the lamp, laid back on the couch, and told himself not to dream. Not tonight.

  It didn’t work.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A million dollars. That was the prescription doctor’s bail, and in less than five hours, the money had been posted. No doubt the FBI, U.S. Marshals, and bounty hunters would soon be looking for the good doctor. Sometimes crime did pay, at least for a while. Not the way Jeremy wanted to start his day, especially after the early morning nightmares.

  He needed to talk to Maggie and tell her about the dinner with Cronfeld, but she was in some sort of scheduled training all morning. Another productive day at the Bureau. It’d have to wait until tonight when they were off work. He couldn’t go into much detail without explaining everything, and that wasn’t going to happen on a phone call.

  He’d bounce a few things around and try to drive up to Virginia this weekend. Long drive, but it would give him time to think about how to explain Afghanistan. How to ask her for forgiveness. Promise he’d changed.

  And hope that she believed him.

  The late May sun powered its way through his office window, reflected off the too-white wall behind him, and pinpointed his laptop’s screen. He shifted the computer and angled his chair. Should be good for another fifteen minutes before needing to repeat the process.

  Thirty-four names still on his list of missing Indiana women. He’d removed fifteen for various reasons, usually something minor that didn’t sit right with him. Not a hunch. More of a ... knowing. Like a puzzle piece in the wrong box. He couldn’t explain it to anyone, except maybe Maggie, but the women he’d taken off the list didn’t belong in the same puzzle as Sarah Goldman and Catherine Mae Blackston. The question was, did any of the others fit? For that matter, were Goldman and Blackston even in the same box?

  Jeremy squeezed his eyes shut and tried to force the thoughts and images from his mind. Too much clutter and too many rabbit trails. Which one to chase? Missing women, and what’s for lunch, and Maggie, and his next case, and Cronfeld. He knew which one he wanted to run after, but she was a few states away. And if he didn’t sign the confidentiality agreement, that distance was going to grow.

  He took a deep breath, glanced upward, and pulled the computer closer. It didn’t take long for the details beside each name to begin to blur, so he slowed, pausing deliberately as he moved between the columns of data, allowing the information to soak into him. Age. Ethnicity. Height. Weight. Hair color. Eye color. Next row. Jeremy scrolled through the list three times before giving up. If there was a connection, he didn’t see it. He could expand his search to surrounding states, make the puzzle bigger, but without knowing what he was looking for, it would be a waste of time. When all else fails, put the pieces back in the box, shake it, and start over.

  He clicked to reset the NCIC filters and scrolled to the bottom of the new list. One hundred eleven names. A press of the mouse button, and sixty-two men disappeared, leaving his original list. The white cursor arrow hovered over each option in turn as he debated which to sort by. He’d tried them all multiple times already, so what difference would it make? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Isn’t that what they say the definition of insanity is? Maybe on a T-shirt, but not in real life. Insanity was no motto.

  In his two-plus decades with the Bureau, he’d seen the damage broken minds could do. Creating their own versions of reality. Listening to the voices no one else heard. Doing the things normal people found abhorrent.

  The Bureau figured that there were between thirty and sixty serial killers at work in the U.S. at any given time. Not as easily identified as the mustached villain tying the girl to the railroad tracks while he waves her house deed in the air, this evil was far more dangerous.

  Its face was the bagger at the supermarket or the high school track coach. The city bus driver or the accountant down in the strip mall. Anonymous, deadly, and unstoppable until it was too late for at least some victims. And then the neighbors all gathered on the nightly news saying, “He was such a nice young man. We had no idea.”

  Jeremy tapped a finger on his cheek and stared at the top name on the list. Patricia Atwater. Twenty-four-year-old blonde who disappeared almost eighteen months ago. Not a peep since then. Worked at a convenience store, still lived with her folks, no kids, couple of boyfriends, neither of whom were considered suspects. Nothing that might connect her with Goldman or Blackston. Sorry, Patricia. Hope you’re alive and well wherever you are.

  His cell phone vibrated and he glanced at it. Text message from Maggie.

  “Hour 2 of this meeting. sleepy. Whatcha doing? :)”

  Normally, he preferred texting or emails over phone conversations, but not with Maggie. It robbed him of a chance to hear her voice. Still, this was better than nothing. “Between cases. Staying busy though. How’s the meeting?”

  “HR stuff. Tolerance in the workplace. If I have to role-play, I’m gonna hurt someone.”

  Jeremy laughed and ran his hands over tingling arms. “I’d like to see that. And you.”

  “:) me 2. working ur theory on the 2 women?”

  “Yeah. Looking at others missing in the state. Not finding anything. One more time thru the list and I’m going to let it go.”

  “don’t get Bailey mad!!!”

  “Seems like that’s a habit of mine. Better get back to the list before I get a new assignment.”

  “many names left?”

  “Still at the top of the list. Pat Atwater is about to get scratched off I think.”

  “:0 looking at missing men 2?”

  Jeremy stared at the message. Men? Serial killers almost always stuck to one sex. Almost. Men or women, they didn’t usually cross lines but, on rare occasions, it did happen. Herbert Mullin killed thirteen people—men and women—because he was convinced there was no other way to stop an earthquake in California. His murders were completely random, and he explained his actions to the jury by saying, “A rock doesn’t make a decision when falling. It just falls.”

  Another text came in from Maggie. “u still there?”

  “Yeah. Gotta go. And thanks.”

  “4 what?”

  “Give Rebecca a kiss and hug from me. call you tonight.”

  Jeremy reset his list and added the sixty-two men back into the mix. Several clicks and filters later, nothing stood out. If there was a pattern, he couldn’t see it. Maybe he was looking for something that wasn’t there. A connection to a killer that didn’t exist. That was preferable to the only other option. That they had another Herbert Mullin on their hands, killing at random to appease the voices in their head or stop an earthquake or because they liked watching people die.

  He rubbed his eyes and scrolled through the summary of each missing male’s case. Fifty minutes later, Jeremy had his answer. Not enough to convince anyone, especially Bailey, but he knew. A killer was at work. Not quite random, but awfully close. Two possible male victims to add to the two females. The death count had doubled to four. Two of the bodies missing, two mutilated. All linked to state or national parks in Indiana.

  He needed to expand the search and check bordering states. Dig deeper into the Indiana cases for possible links. Question the detectives who’d investigated the cases of the two men. Find out if—

  His computer dinged, the signal that an important email waited in his inbox. Bailey assigning his next case. Top priority. Identity fraud involving dead people connected wi
th millions of dollars in state tax refunds across the Midwest. Briefing scheduled ASAP.

  Jeremy pressed his lips together and ran a hand across his chest. Probable serial killer or stolen government money? Death versus taxes. He needed more information on the murders. Something—anything—that would convince Bailey of a connection between the killings. It was there. Jeremy was sure of it. He had to find the connection soon or send his suspicions to the sidelines, working the case as time allowed. He could stall a day, maybe two, but no more. Find something that may not exist and prove it to someone who doesn’t believe.

  God help him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Jeremy exhaled a steady stream of frustration and glanced away from the laptop’s camera. The computer rested on his lap while he propped his feet on the coffee table. A muted hockey game on TV cast the only other light in his apartment. If he couldn’t persuade Maggie, what chance did he have of convincing his boss? “Seriously, Mags, you don’t see it?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Uh, Mags?”

  “Trying it out.”

  “Sure, Jer.”

  “Enough said. So, seriously, Maggie, you don’t see it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Seems pretty tenuous.”

  “Maybe. But I think there’s something to it. Iffy? Sure. Could be it’s all in my head. I need more time.”

  Maggie scrunched her lips into a frown. “Well, you know if I had the authority, I’d tell you to go for it. But it’s—”

  A perky voice interrupted. “Dora’s over, Mommy. Put the TV on Spider-Man now.”

  Jeremy’s hand hovered near the screen as Maggie turned toward her daughter and smiled.

  “Not now, honey. It’s bedtime, remember? We agreed you could watch Dora, but then you had to go to sleep.”

  Rebecca climbed into her mother’s lap and burrowed into her arms. Curly red hair surrounded her plump freckled face, and she pointed at the computer. “Hi, Mr. Jewemy!”

  His shoulders dropped, and he sighed as the tension flowed from him. “Hey there, sweetie. So, who do you like better, Dora or Spider-Man?”

  The little girl sniffled and dragged the sleeve of her Strawberry Shortcake pajamas across her nose.

  Maggie rolled her eyes. “Oh, honey. Get a tissue if your nose is running.”

  “Uh-huh. I like Dora and Spider-Man both. Who do you like the most, Mr. Jewemy?”

  He furrowed his eyebrows and pouted his lips. “Well, I’d have to say my favorite is Dora the Spider-Man Explorer.”

  Rebecca snorted and ran the other sleeve under her nose. “That’s not real.”

  “Not real?” He held both hands out, palms up. “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I’ll show you. Can you come over?”

  Jeremy swallowed hard. “Not right now, sweetie. But soon, I hope. Then you’ll have to show me. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Maggie hugged her daughter. “Okay, now quit stalling. Off to bed. I’ll be in to check on you in a few minutes.”

  Rebecca pushed herself backward and opened her eyes wide. “I love you, Mommy.”

  “Love you too, baby.”

  “Please? Just one Spider-Man?”

  “Oh, baby. Of course ... not.” She poked the girl in her side, inducing a torrent of giggles. “Go on now. Get in the bed.”

  Rebecca slid onto the floor, waved at the laptop, and took off running. “Night, Mr. Jewemy. Love you!”

  Jeremy cleared his throat and slid the back of his hand under his eyes. “Allergies.”

  Maggie grinned and shifted forward in her seat. “Uh-huh. Tough guy.”

  “You know it. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

  “I think you’re doing just fine.” She inclined her head toward Rebecca’s room. “She does too.”

  “Seems like forever since you two were here.”

  She nodded. “Five weeks. Your turn. Plan a trip when you can.”

  “How about this weekend?”

  “Taking some time off?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t. Just up for the day.”

  “Long way to go for one day. What’s up?”

  He looked away from the laptop. “Miss you guys. That’s all.”

  Maggie folded her hands in her lap and leaned toward the camera. “Jeremy, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing you need to worry about. I’ll explain it when I see you.”

  Wrinkles sprang up on her forehead. “Is it about us? We’re not talking about my job again, are we? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No and never. It’s, um, I need to talk to you. About my past. Afghanistan.”

  “I’m ready to listen. Don’t worry, honey. Nothing you tell me is going to change how I feel about you.”

  He drew his lips into his mouth and held his breath for a few heartbeats before exhaling. “I hope not.”

  “Jeremy, listen to me. You know how I feel about you, right? I love you. Whatever you’re going to tell me, we’ll get through it. That’s what love does.”

  He paused and forced confidence into his voice. “I know. I wish I were closer, Maggie. Back in D.C.”

  “Well, Bailey is the man who can make that happen. Sell your case to me. Pretend I’m him. Give me your theory on these murders, and make me believe it. Or at least curious enough to want more.”

  “Role-playing, huh? Thought you hated doing that.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “The ball’s in your corner, and the clock is ticked off. Go.”

  Jeremy shut his eyes and slowed his breathing. “Okay. Five months ago, I received a call from an acquaintance asking me to look into the disappearance of his ex-wife, Catherine Mae Blackston. The initial investigation by the local police failed to turn up any evidence of foul play. They found her abandoned vehicle in the Hoosier National Forest several weeks later. The forensics team didn’t locate any sign of forcible abduction. Barring subsequent information, the assumption is Miss Blackston left of her own accord for unknown reasons.”

  Maggie yawned. “Is this going somewhere?”

  “I later learned of the murder of Sarah Goldman, a seventeen-year- old high school student in French Lick, Indiana. That’s on the opposite side of the park from where Miss Blackston’s car was found. Goldman disappeared a little over five years ago. A cadaver dog discovered her body a year and a half after she went missing. Her head and hands had been severed and taken in what we assume was an attempt to disguise her identity as long as possible.”

  She spread her hands and inspected her fingernails. “And her killer now sits in prison waiting to be executed. I’ve got a meeting in five minutes, Agent Winter. Let’s wrap this up.”

  “Yes, ma’am, uh, sir. I interviewed Lawrence Berkley, the man convicted of killing Miss Goldman. Based on his demeanor and the lack of any solid evidence tying him to the crime, I believe there’s a chance he’s innocent. Of this murder, at least. On a hunch, I—”

  “Don’t say hunch,” Maggie said. “Sounds like you’re guessing.”

  Jeremy nodded. “Got it. I requested information on other missing and murdered females in Indiana. There was no detectable pattern. Nothing to indicate any link between the two women. I decided to broaden the search to include men, on the off chance that if there was a serial killer, he was random.”

  “The odds of that happening are extremely low. What made you think to include men?”

  “Sir?”

  “I mean, it seems like a fantastic idea. Did you come up with it on your own?”

  Jeremy grinned. “You’re terrible at role-playing, you know?”

  She crossed her arms and frowned. “Agent Winter, I don’t have time for games.”

  “Yes, sir. Special Agent Maggie Keeley is actually the one who gave me the idea.”

  She squinted and cocked her head. “Good agent. One of our best.”

  “Yes, sir. Anyway, as I was saying—”

  “Do you speak with her often? Agent Keeley, I mean.”

  He held back h
is smile. “Not as often as I’d like, sir.”

  Maggie paused and bit her bottom lip. “And why is that?”

  “Well, sir, I stay busy with all that’s going on arou—”

  “Not what I meant. Why would you like to speak with her more often?”

  Jeremy scooted forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. “Because I love her, sir.”

  Maggie glanced toward her lap for a moment before looking back up. Her clear green eyes watered, and her nose had a tinge of redness. “Allergies. Go on, Agent Winter.”

  “I kind of forgot where I was.”

  “You broadened your search to include missing and murdered men based on the advice of Special Agent Keeley.”

  “Yes, sir. Since my initial interest was piqued due to a possible connection between two women at the Hoosier National Forest, I searched for men whose disappearance or death might be linked to other state or national parks in Indiana. I came up with two more names.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Two years ago, Demond Houston, a forty-two-year-old African- American, disappeared while fishing on Cagles Mill Lake in Richard Lieber State Park. That’s in the middle-western part of Indiana. Searchers found his boat, and he was presumed drowned, though no body was ever located.”

  Maggie glanced at a watch-that-wasn’t-there on her wrist. “People drown all the time. Bodies get snagged underwater. It happens.”

  “That’s true, sir. Certainly possible. It’s a big lake.” Jeremy licked his lips and rubbed his fingertips together. “The fourth person I identified as a potential victim is Barry Thornquist, a twenty-eight-year-old white male who disappeared four years ago. Last year, his remains were found by hunters in the Big Oaks National Wildlife Refuge down in the southeast corner of the state.”

  “Interesting, but not enough to warrant your time. I imagine if I had our statistics people run the data, we’d find that every state has reports of murders and disappearances near public lands. It’s a matter of convenience, availability, and population density. Murders happen where there are people, and people are near state and federal parks. Doesn’t mean all of them were killed by the same person.”