by Diane Capri
41
Tampa, Florida
Sunday 5:30 p.m.
Ben Fleming arrived at Tampa International Airport and parked his white Toyota in the longterm garage, away from the ramps and the elevators. The space was vacated just for him, a perfect location, even when the lot was supposed to be full already with holiday travelers. He wasn’t surprised. He’d always been lucky.
Like all international airports in the United States, almost every inch of TIA was covered by surveillance cameras. Worst case, the car might be discovered and impounded before it was stolen, but even that wouldn’t happen before his plane departed. Longterm parking was for travelers who expected to be gone more than twenty-four hours. The car was two years old, a common model in an unremarkable color. It would raise no suspicion if it remained parked here through the end of the year, assuming someone wasn’t looking for it.
He tucked the parking ticket into the space between the driver’s seat and the center console. A sign on the wall of the garage advised drivers not to leave the ticket in the car because thieves could pay the parking fee in cash and steal the car without being stopped at the exit. Should thieves choose his car, they would have no problem getting out of the lot.
The vehicle was licensed and registered to Dr. Benjamin Fleming. He made no effort to disguise these facts. If security noticed a missing license plate, for example, they would become immediately suspicious of the car. Ben counted on the normalcy of the situation to lull everyone as long as necessary.
Nor did he disguise himself. Leaving town for the holiday was a normal thing to do. Even grief counselors were entitled to happy times. His presence at the airport would arouse no unnecessary suspicion.
Ben exited the car and lifted his suitcase out of the trunk, setting it down behind the car so the cameras would record the evidence unambiguously. Then, he returned to the interior of the car and leaned into the back seat to retrieve his briefcase. While he was bent over out of camera range, he pressed the key fob’s lock button and tossed the keys under the front seat.
Ben removed the briefcase and slammed the door. He walked to the rear of the car, pulled up the handle on the suitcase, and rolled it along behind him toward the elevator.
Once inside the terminal, Ben checked in for his flight to New York City. He could have used the self-service kiosk or proceeded directly to the gate. But he wanted to be seen and remembered by the ticket agent. There were few people traveling toward the snowy city on the Sunday before Christmas. Most people going north to visit families for the holidays had already departed. The check-in line was short.
When he reached the desk, he chatted with the pretty agent in a friendly way, and requested a seat change to prolong the contact. They exchanged dialogue about his plans to see the Radio City Rockettes’ holiday extravaganza while he was in New York. His boarding pass was printed, his suitcase checked. “Thank you, Dr. Fleming,” she said, “Have a good flight and Merry Christmas.”
“Thank you, Mary. You have a wonderful Christmas, too.”
He took the tram to the air side for his carrier, patiently waited his turn at the security line, and made his way to the gate area. When the flight was called, he presented his boarding pass to the gate agent for scanning. “Have a good flight, sir,” the man said, without looking at him.
“Thank you,” Ben said, before he stepped away from the podium and moved off to the side while the gate agent continued to process passengers expeditiously through the line to secure an on-time departure.
Ben entered the men’s restroom instead of boarding the plane. The computers would reflect that he moved past the gate agent. If the security cameras were checked, they would show that he didn’t enter the jet way, but that was unlikely to happen. The flight attendants might notice he was missing, but with the holiday cheer and its attendant confusion, they might not. He tended to be lucky in these matters, as well.
In the restroom, Ben entered one of the large, self-contained handicapped stalls. There were no cameras recording activity inside. He smiled. He loved privacy laws. He loved all laws, actually. Laws are for the law-abiding, he’d realized long ago. He always knew exactly what law-abiding people would do. Law-abiding people followed the rules, which made it easier to manipulate both the rules and those who lived by them.
He balanced the briefcase on the sink, pulled out colored contact lenses and popped them into his eyes, changing the irises instantly from blue to brown. He stripped, pulled on black jeans, black sweater, and black athletic shoes. He donned the curly brown wig, baseball cap and heavy-framed glasses. Checking his reflection in the mirror, he said, “Hello, Barry,” as he stuck a fake mustache under his nose.
He heard the final call announcement for his flight for New York and glanced down at his watch. Right on time.
Ben pulled out his false identification, all reflecting his new identity as Barry Foster, stuffed his blazer, slacks, and dress shoes into the briefcase along with his wallet containing Ben Fleming’s identity. When he was able to return, he could easily duplicate the items in the wallet. After all, wallets were stolen every day.
He considered the cell phone for a few moments, holding it in his hand. He’d already used it to leave a message on Helen Sullivan’s private voice mail, wishing her and Oliver a merry Christmas and saying he’d see them after the holidays. If everything went according to plan, he wouldn’t need it again until he returned.
Decision made, he removed the battery from the phone and tossed it into the briefcase, too. He lifted the plastic bag out of the oversized trash receptacle on the wall, hid the briefcase in the bottom, and returned the bag.
Like the car, the briefcase would be discovered, but not for a while. By then, it would be too late.
Ben went over everything in his mind, making sure he hadn’t made any more mistakes like letting Oliver Sullivan live and leaving his fingerprints on Vivian’s oxygen regulator. He hadn’t worried about it at the time because he’d expected to return the regulator to the two liter position. No one would have known about the overdose if he’d been able to return the dial. What he hadn’t expected was to be prevented by those well-wishers at the casket.
He’d always excelled at handling the unforeseen challenges. This series of screw-ups infuriated him and resulted in his need to leave town. At least for a while. His life was here. His work was here. After he cleaned up his mistakes, he had every intention of returning.
When he was satisfied with his performance, he sat on the toilet seat and waited for a rush of passengers seeking bladder relief after a long plane flight from colder climes before they headed downstairs to retrieve their luggage.
He didn’t have to wait long. The room filled quickly. He saw a line of feet forming from his vantage point peeking under the stalls. He stood, flushed the toilet, opened the door and walked out with the crowd. He mingled with the group until they reached the baggage claim and ground transportation area.
Once outside, he skipped the taxi line and instead boarded the shuttle bus for an off-site budget hotel. When the bus deposited him at the hotel, he walked quickly toward the parking deck at the shopping mall across the street.
The mall was a madhouse of last-minute shoppers two days before Christmas. He blended in with everyone else wandering the parking garage seeking their vehicles. In short order, he found his minivan, and pulled the ignition key from its hiding place under the front rocker panel. Within ten minutes, he was on the expressway, heading toward the Sullivan ranch to rectify his mistakes of the past. True, he was lucky. But he also believed in insurance.
42
Thornberry, Florida
Sunday 7:00 p.m.
When Helen returned to the living room, she felt the change in energy at once. Frank and Mac were both talking on their cell phones in urgent tones. Something happened while she was with Oliver and his doctors. What was it?
She caught Frank’s eye and he held up his index finger to ask her to wait a moment. Mac had his back turned to
her. Both men were listening and responding too quietly for their voices to carry the distance between them and her. Gathering the protective cloak of her work around her, Helen sat behind her desk to wait for them.
Frank’s conversation ended first and he took one of the chairs across the desk from Helen. Mac’s call concluded a moment later. Before he could place another, Helen called out, “Mac? Can you join us? I need you both to bring me up to speed. Have you found Jess?”
Mac nodded. He had a new toothpick between his clenched teeth. “I’ve talked to her twice. The first time was a couple of hours ago, then again just now. She’s got some crazy ideas she’s chasing down. She wouldn’t say where she’d been, but she and Mike are on their way here. Should arrive in about an hour.” He seated his bulk in the chair next to Frank and began to shake his legs as if he was hot to head out on urgent business. Helen could feel the floor vibrating.
“That’s great,” she said, avoiding a reaction to Mac’s characterization of Jess’s ideas as crazy. Helen’s experience with the younger woman was quite the opposite. Jess had good instincts and made good judgments. But she could ask Jess herself in an hour. For now, there were too many other items to attend to.
“The rest of the news is more troubling, but we’re working on it,” Mac continued. The toothpick moved little between his clenched teeth as he paced. The vibrating floor was wearing on Helen’s nerves, but she held her tongue. All three of them were edgy.
The low-level headache she’d noticed when she first entered the room had increased its volume. She grabbed a bottle of Tylenol from a drawer and swallowed three extra-strength capsules with a sip of her cold coffee. Her empty stomach revolted at the assault. How long had it been since she’d eaten? Too long.
As Mac started to talk and Helen put the Tylenol back in the drawer, she saw that the private cell phone that had been her constant companion for the past few years was blinking. Only three people had the number, and two of them were in the house with her.
She pulled it out of the drawer and checked the display. One message had been received two hours ago. She pushed the button to reveal the caller. Ben Fleming. Whatever he had to say could wait. She tossed the cell back into the drawer and closed it.
“So what I was gonna say,” said Mac, making sure he had her attention, “is that there’s already rumors about Vivian’s death being a murder.”
Frank nodded. “That’s not the biggest problem, though. Someone got wind of the existence of the old evidence from the Crawford case. One of the friendlier reporters called for comment before their interview with David Manson scheduled for the eleven o’clock news tonight.”
“Manson?” Mac said. “Who leaked that to him? If it’s Jess Kimball or Mike, I’ll strangle them with my bare hands.”
Helen didn’t believe Jess would reveal confidential information, and certainly not to David Manson, but how well did she know Jess after all? Most likely Manson had either guessed at the existence of the evidence, or pried it out of Vivian Ward before she died. The leak was an issue she’d need to deal with, but it wasn’t the most important thing at the moment. She let Mac and Frank know her opinion, then moved on.
“What’s the status of the testing?”
Mac pulled the toothpick out of his mouth and threw it into the trashcan with the others he’d tossed there this day. “Like we figured, the DNA’s not ready yet. Hopefully not more than another twelve hours. The samples are pretty degraded. They found no follicles on either of the hairs, and not much saliva on the cigarette butt.”
Helen groaned. The absence of hair follicles meant definitive nuclear DNA tests on the hair would be impossible. The lab techs would not be able to say that the two hairs belonged to a specific person. Mitochondrial DNA tests on the hair shafts might help narrow the potential suspects, but it took longer to process and probably wouldn’t be as conclusive. The saliva’s small sample could be definitive, depending on whether it contained enough cells to be multiplied and tested since saliva itself contains no DNA.
All of which meant a worst-case-scenario outcome: the evidence could rule out Taylor as Mattie Crawford’s killer without pointing to anyone else definitively.
Helen wasn’t thinking about her Senate campaign, but when this evidence got out, the party would withdraw its support anyway. Ralph Hayes would be calling shortly after the eleven o’clock news. There were too many other issues at the moment for Helen to consider how she felt about her political career simply ending next week, whether she chose to end it or not.
Mac’s cell phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket to check the caller. “It’s the lab again. We still have a lot of things to cover here, so let me take this quickly and I’ll be right back.” He answered the call and moved into the corner of the room for privacy.
Helen’s legs felt weak. Lack of sustenance and three days of overdosing on caffeine, along with her headache and failure to sleep, had taken its toll. “I’ve got to get something in my stomach. Is there anything to eat?”
“Let me check.” Frank moved quickly into the kitchen and returned with a wrapped Cuban sandwich and a bottle of water for each of them.
Mac reentered in a hurry. “We may have gotten that break we’ve been waiting for.” While Helen and Frank tore into the food like pack animals, Mac said, “One of the lab guys has been working on the ski-mask we found after the arson. It’s full of skin cells, sweat and body oil that we’ve been using for the DNA. But it also had some hairs. He thought the Crawford hairs looked similar, so he compared the two hairs from the Crawford case to the hairs from the ski mask.”
Helen felt her pulse quickening. She took a swig of the water. “And?”
“Consistent,” Mac said. “Which raises more questions than it answers, don’t you think?”
Before Helen could follow up, Jess Kimball walked into the room carrying her own sandwich and glass of water. “What’s consistent?”
Mac’s earlier fancy about Jess leaking information silenced all conversation in the room. Mac even glared at Jess, a scowl of pure annoyance, no doubt born of frustration and the interruption itself.
Helen motioned for Jess to sit, but she couldn’t stop the flow of logical conclusions that cascaded from the fact Mac had discovered:
Oliver’s attacker was the same person who had killed Mattie Crawford.
Since Tommy Taylor was on death row, awaiting execution when Oliver was attacked, he hadn’t worn the mask, and that meant he also had not killed Mattie Crawford after all.
They’d need to get lucky on the saliva DNA to completely close the evidence loop, but her gut confirmed the truth. She’d already formed the gnawing suspicion that whoever attacked Oliver also killed their son Eric. But Mattie Crawford? She hadn’t guessed the killer’s full reach.
But why would someone want to kill Mattie Crawford, Eric, and Oliver? Her prosecutor’s brain turned the question over, poked it around, focused on the victimology. What on earth did the three victims have in common?
A ludicrous epiphany slowly revealed itself: aside from being male, all three victims were also handicapped in some way. Either mentally, physically, or both. Mattie was autistic; Eric was mildly brain damaged; and Oliver had suffered his debilitating stroke.
Could that be it? Was it really the only connection?
Suddenly Helen noticed the silence in the room. Mac and Frank would be turning similar thoughts in their minds; Jess clearly had her own agenda. It was time to hear her out.
Jess spoke first, addressing the group. “Have you found Ben Fleming yet?”
Hearing the name stopped Helen’s attention cold, and completed the picture her mind had partially painted.
In addition to the victims’ vulnerabilities, they had one other thing in common: Ben Fleming, who had known and treated them all.
With queasy certainty, Helen processed the fact that Ben Fleming had killed Mattie Crawford, Eric, Ryan, Todd Dale, and nearly Oliver. She couldn’t imagine his motive, but she believed wi
th every ounce of her experience that the forensics would eventually link all of the crimes.
And one thing more: He would kill again.
Trying to betray none of this yet, she turned the question back on Jess: “Why should we be looking for Ben Fleming?”
Jess stared at her as if Helen had lost her last ounce of intelligence. “Didn’t they tell you? He ran out of the chapel when Vivian Ward’s body was discovered and we haven’t been able to find him since. That’s what took me so long to get back here. I’ve called his home and his office, but no one picks up. We drove by both places, but no luck. I’ve collected more data about him since I last talked with Mac, and I want you to have it.”
She inclined her head toward the two officers. “I’m not sure these two agree with me, but I think he may have killed Vivian Ward.”
“Hold on a minute—” Mac said.
“First, we—” Frank began.
Helen interrupted them both. “Jess is right. We need to find Ben Fleming as soon as humanly possible.”
She reached over to the small drawer on the right side of her desk and pulled out the cell phone. “A few minutes ago I noticed Ben had called but I didn’t think it was important then.”
She pressed the voice mail retrieval button, then the speaker phone feature. She turned up the volume and allowed all four of them to hear his familiar baritone.
“Helen, it’s Ben. I’m so glad to hear that Oliver is well. Jess Kimball told me he’d awakened from his coma. I know you’re relieved about that. I wish I could make it over to see him before my flight, but I’m on my way out of town for the holiday. I’ve had tickets to visit friends in New York City for weeks. I’ll return after the New Year and by that time, I hope Oliver will be back to normal. I’ll try to call you from New York, but I may not have a chance. Merry Christmas, Helen. I know this is the best possible gift you could have received. Please give my best to Oliver, too.”
