The Esther Code

by Michael Danneman

  Why these months? Why not December or June? None in the summer. Is it about availability? Is there a seasonal factor? It is quite the enigma.

  Another odd thing Jamie discovers about the murders is that, in all cases, there is no sign of forced entry. Each victim must have let the killer into his home. Checking the file again, Jamie notices that the Jules Henning case is slightly different. He was fifty miles from his home when he was found. How did he end up in Salem, New York? So far, this is Jamie’s best clue—Hennings is the first victim and is different from the rest. And why drive fifty miles and then dump the old guy in a place where he is sure to be found?

  It is time to go to the source. Jamie picks up her cell phone and dials the number for her contact at the County Sheriff’s Office in Salem.

  A man with a thick New York accent answers. “This is Sheriff Foster; how may I help you?”

  “Hi, this is FBI Special Agent Golding. I am calling you regarding the murder of Jules Henning.”

  “So the guys in Schenectady finally called the Feds, huh?”

  “Well, not exactly...”

  Foster clearly apprehends that he should not ask any further. “Okay. So what can I do for you?”

  “Since Henning was found near a post office, I was wondering whether you were able to gather any video surveillance, either from the post office, nearby stores, or gas stations?”

  “Nope. There was nothing to get.” Foster chuckles. “Salem is in the country. Way at the end of Washington County. Population of 2,700. We don’t have much in the way of surveillance in these parts.”

  “Where exactly is Salem?”

  “Let me put it this way, you step out of Salem to the east and you’re in Vermont. Literally.”

  “Must be beautiful.”

  “Oh, it is. You should come see us sometime.”

  “I’m coming next week.”

  ”Really? Well, I’ll be happy to show you where the body was found. Unfortunately there’s not much else to see.”

  “I understand. But, just to double check, there were no tire tracks found? No footprints near the victim?” Jamie again confirms this information with her own files.

  “No, it was raining that morning. I remember it well. We don’t get a lot of abandoned murder victims out here.”

  “If it was raining, I would think it would be more likely to find footprints around the body.”

  “Well, we found two, six-inch impressions right near the body. I have a theory that the killer used a couple of long two-by-sixes and made a ramp from his vehicle. Then he dragged the body down the ramp and pushed it over, so it looked like a guy sleeping against the building. We have pictures in the file. Not much else, though.”

  “Have you found any leads?”

  “Nope. We’ve essentially turned it over to the folks in Schenectady.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll call you next week before I head out there.”

  “That’s fine,” Foster confirms before hanging up.

  Jamie chews on her lip thoughtfully. She is going to be in Chicago in a few hours; it is time to start preparing her questions for them. Pulling out her tablet, she begins to make a list of things to do, ask, and look into while she is there.

  Jamie looks again at the file on Fred Schmidt and to critically examine the information before her. The report shows that there is not much trace evidence being cooked at the lab. Why were there no hairs or DNA evidence found from any of the nursing home staff members? Surely they had had contact with the victim before he died, unless they were negligent. Jamie doubts it. It is a high-end facility, after all. They would have had regular interaction with Fred Schmidt. How is the crime scene so clean?

  In fact, how were all the sites wiped so clean? It would take so much time to clean every surface, time that would increase the killer’s chances of being caught. How did the perp know he had time to sanitize the area? How did he do it so quickly without being seen? It is all so perplexing to Jamie.

  Her phone rings, and Whitehouse notifies her that the taxi has arrived to take her to the airport.

  Jamie takes her bags and exits her office. On her way to the stairs, Jamie stops by Mr. Whitehouse’s desk. “I’m off.”

  Without waiting for a comment from the all-too-grumpy assistant, Jamie heads out the door and down the stairs. Outside the building and across the grounds, a taxi waits. Jamie slides nimbly into the backseat. “Ronald Reagan Airport, please.”

  The driver nods, and the car begins its journey. Jamie directs her attention to the tablet she has already removed from her bag. She pulls up her list of questions and looks them over again.

  Questions:

  -Did Forensics come up with any trace evidence?

  -Any DNA or trace chemicals found in the wound?

  -How often does the staff clean the rooms?

  -Why is there no DNA from staff members?

  -How long was Fred Schmidt living at the nursing home?

  Information Needed:

  -Records of who visited the patient in the last six months.

  -Names and numbers of the people working the day of the murder.

  -Any video surveillance.

  Jamie really hopes being on the scene of the crime and talking with people personally will make a difference. It is not that she does not trust the reports of the local law officers in Chicago, but it never hurts to make your own inquires. By analyzing each scene, she hopes to find a method in the madness.

  “Here we are,” the taxi driver announces as he pulls up to the airport. “Which airline?”

  “Here is fine, thanks.” She hands him the credit card she only uses for reimbursable expenses and requests a receipt. Minutes later she is walking towards the check-in counter. She does not have the luxury of printing her boarding pass and going straight to the gate, not if she wants to board with her weapon. Jamie always travels with her gun. Whitehouse is good about notifying the airline that Law Enforcement Officers (LEO) intend to board with their weapons. An hour’s notice is required. She shows her identification and gets her boarding pass at the counter. The airline has to know where any armed LEO is seated, so she lets them assign her seat.

  Jamie rolls her eyes as she approaches a TSA officer. The TSA guards are highly variable. Some are courteous to agents, while others show their aggravation at having to take a few extra steps. She presents the boarding pass, with the special stamp for those who fly armed, as well as her credentials, her proof of completion of the necessary training program, and the TSA code number sent to Whitehouse when he filed the NLETS. Once on the plane, she will meet the pilot and any air marshal or LEO that happens to be aboard. After jumping through all of the hoops, Jamie is thrilled to get through without any hassles.

  Jamie ponders Fred Schmidt’s name change. Did he want his family to stand out less among society? Maybe he had a grudge against his parents and did not want to carry on their family name? His wife might have hated the name, so they both took her last name? Jamie could not remember Fred Schmidt’s wife’s maiden name. She makes a mental note to look that up later.

  What about the professions of all of these old men? Perhaps they had a business connection that brought them together? Maybe a deal went sour, and someone is out for revenge. Jamie turns over in her mind the various occupations of the victims. One of them had been an accountant, another was a small business owner, one worked in chemical sales, one had a prosthetics business, and one owned a small grocery store. It is possible that an accountant and business owner could have had come into contact through business transactions.

  Once she lands at O’Hare she hails a cab to take her to the Harwood Heights police department. To pass the time, she removes her cell phone to check her email. Seeing herself with Chris on her background gives Jamie a pang of unease. She remembers that she still has to tell him that she will not be there for their special dinner date. Looking at the time, Jamie dials him, hoping to catch him between surgeries.

  No answer. She decides to send h
im a quick text letting him know she will be traveling that day for work and will not be back in time. Jamie waits and watches the buildings of Chicago go by. There is no response. She can only assume that he is in the operating room. The car suddenly stops in front of a brick building. Jamie pockets her cell phone, gathers her things and goes in the police station.

  Detective Matt Ragsdale is in his late fifties. He is a seasoned detective that does not easily show any emotion. He hands her a copy of the file.

  Ragsdale seems happy to bump this case over to some young Quantico hotshot, like Jamie. When his superiors ask about the case, he can refer them to Quantico.

  She indicates the folder in her lap. “Slim pickings, huh?”

  “Yep. I’ve never seen a crime scene that clean. Ever.”

  “What about the report from Forensics? I don’t see it in here.”

  “Yeah, they are overwhelmed at the lab. It is Chicago after all. Lots of crime here. Although, if we hover, we will probably get results sooner,” Ragsdale wagers, checking the old-fashioned clock on his desk.

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Jamie agrees, standing up to encourage Ragsdale.

  “Alright, I’ll take you there,” Ragsdale nods, also standing. He removes his jacket from the back of his chair. “I need to go down there anyway,” Ragsdale responds. “Follow me.”

  In the car, Ragsdale returns to the matter at hand. “So…any other questions about the case?”

  “I can guess the answer to this question already, but I should ask. Do you have any leads?”

  “None. Like the file says, no leads so far and no motive.”

  “Isn’t it strange that there’s no DNA evidence from employees of the nursing home?”

  “I’ve never seen a crime scene so spotless. It’s like the murderer hired a cleaning crew,” Ragsdale remarks with apparent disbelief.

  They head downtown and finally reach the crime lab. Inside, Ragsdale leads the way through security and informs Jamie that they are visiting a friend of his.

  “They actually have pretty good coffee here. You want some?”

  “Sure.”

  Ragsdale leads the way to the employee break room and they each fill a Styrofoam cup with coffee.

  “Hide the coffee under your coat until we get to his office.”

  The lab is filled with different types of analyzers, small and large. There are a few workers moving around, putting samples into tabletop machines, or looking into special microscopes. Jamie thinks the lab does not look much different from Seth’s, except that this one is much smaller.

  Ragsdale walks up to a young man in a lab coat. He has light brown hair and piercing blue eyes. Ragsdale gives the man a glimpse of the coffee and gestures toward the side of the room. The man turns around and leads them to a small office. They pass more employees doing experiments, dropping substances onto the surfaces of slides, and putting blood into centrifuges.

  Ragsdale begins by introducing them. “Special Agent Golding, this is Will Hastings.”

  “Hi,” Jamie responds. She moves her coffee from under her coat and shakes his hand.

  “What case are you working on now?” Will queries, eyeing both agents.

  “Schmidt. D.C. is giving the case to her,” Ragsdale answers, stuffing a hand in one of his coat pockets. He takes another long drink from his coffee.

  “You here for the results?” Will assumes, surveying Jamie, who simply rolls her eyes.

  “You have anything ready or is it all still cooking?” Ragsdale quips as he leans on the desk.

  “Oh, the baking is all done. But you won’t like the results,” Will cautions them.

  He searches through the stacks of files on his desk. “Usually I’m more organized,” he mutters, embarrassed.

  “Believe me, it’s always this way. He just wants to impress you,” Ragsdale whispers to Jamie with a wink.

  “Here it is!” Will proclaims, pulling out a file from under a mug of moldy coffee. “For me, coffee is more like a moving paperweight.” He holds out the file to Jamie.

  Hesitantly she accepts it, slightly disgusted. She opens the folder and looks over the test results.

  “As you can see, we found nothing. We ran the few samples we had, and none of them contained DNA. A fiber that was found at the scene also matches the blanket at the foot of the victim’s bed.”

  “What about the sample from the neck wound?” Jamie interjects.

  “Yes, the sample from the neck wound shows that it had been washed with a bactericidal, ammonium-based agent similar to the chemicals used to wipe down surfaces in hospitals. It’s pretty caustic on skin, though. Especially on an old guy’s thin skin. Check out the photo on the next page.”

  Jamie turns the page over and sees the picture of Fred Schmidt’s neck wound.

  Will moves to stand next to her and continues, “You can see it if you are looking for it. There’s a line of demarcation where the chemical was applied. The skin around it is normal looking. The perp took the time to clean the wound.”

  “Did you find out anything else?” Jamie pursues, vexed by the lack of results.

  “Well, the samples from the skin were very clean and irrigated. I did find a few threads embedded in a fold of the wound itself. Its pattern is that of a hexagonal embossed polypropylene cloth material.”

  “A disinfectant wipe?” Jamie asks.

  “Exactly. Typical in bactericidal wipes.”

  “Is it an easy chemical to get?”

  “Actually, yeah, you can order it online. Comes in a dispenser similar to Clorox wipes that you buy at the grocery store. See, I have some over here.” Will grabs a plastic tube from the corner of his desk. “This is what we use to wipe down the lab. Actually, this shouldn’t be in my office. Never mind that. The one used on the victim is similar but this one is bleach-based. We are trying to trace down the exact manufacturer, but there are several options.”

  “Okay. What else are you running?”

  “Everything is done and in the file.” Will is apologetic, but the lack of evidence is not his fault. “They didn’t bring us much trace.”

  “Great, thanks,” Jamie says, trying to hold back her disappointment.

  “No problem.”

  Jamie turns to Ragsdale. “Can you take me to Crestwood Assisted Living in Harwood Heights?”

  “Sure,” Ragsdale responds.

  Jamie and Ragsdale turn to leave the messy little office.

  “Agent Golding, you wanna have dinner tonight?” Will calls to Jamie.

  “Sure, if you’re paying,” Ragsdale answers, turning to see Will’s bewilderment. Then Ragsdale chortles, his laugh deep and loud, and continues out of the office.

  “How far is it to Harwood Heights?”

  “Not far—twenty minutes, or so. I hate Chicago traffic,” Ragsdale growls. “Better call ahead, so they are ready for us when we get there.”

  “Right.” Jamie finds the number in the file and calls on her cell phone. She alerts the director that they are coming.

  Jamie shuts the phone and looks out the window. Ragsdale enumerates various points of interest as they cross the Chicago River on the Eisenhower Expressway, but nothing particularly impresses Jamie. Her mind is on the case, and she has begun to feel concerned. All she can think is, if an experienced detective like Ragsdale has no evidence and no leads, then what is she supposed to find?

  Soon enough, Ragsdale is pulling into the long driveway of the facility. A white sign with gold lettering tells them that they are at Crestwood Assisted Living. It is a short, brick building, which is clearly well-kept and not very old. They park in a side lot and enter through the main door.

  As she walks through the door with Ragsdale, Jamie becomes aware of the strong smell of vanilla plug-ins. The plants are decorative, and they look nice. A few residents sit in the spacious foyer with visitors. Jamie walks up to the reception desk, which resembles that of a doctor’s office.

  “How can I help you?” a Hispanic girl asks from behi
nd the glass window.

  “I’m Special Agent Golding. I’m here to speak with Ms. Applegate,” Jamie explains, flashing her badge.

  “I will let Ms. Applegate know you are here.”

  “Did you work last Sunday night?” Jamie adds, before the girl can pick up the phone at her desk.

  “Oh no. I don’t work weekends,” the girl replies. “But I bet Terrence was here that night. He only works the weekends because he’s in business school.”

  “Thanks.” Jamie starts checking the case file and sees that it was, in fact, someone named Terrence working that night.

  “Oh, by the way, I need you both to sign in,” the receptionist requests as she picks up the phone.

  Jamie signs her name, then hands the pen to Ragsdale. They wander the reception area. Ragsdale takes a seat, but Jamie continues to move around the area, taking in the details. She tries to imagine the murderer walking through the front doors, signing in, killing an old man, and leaving without a trace. It boggles her mind that someone could get away with murder in an assisted living center, with employees nearby constantly.

  “Hi, I’m Juanita Applegate.” A short black woman comes forward with her hand out to shake Jamie’s. She wears a tight professional black skirt with a lurid blouse in hues of red, orange, and yellow.

  “I’m Special Agent Golding and...”

  “Ah, Detective Ragsdale, I remember you,” Juanita cuts across Jamie, holding out her hand to receive Ragsdales.

  “Before we start, I want to you know we intend to cooperate fully. I’ve already given statements to Detective Ragsdale and the police. The sooner we get this solved, the better for my residents. Some of them are a little nervous right now. I hardly understand how something like this would happen here, in my center. It’s just unbelievable.”