Eleven (Brandon Fisher FBI Series)

by Arnold, Carolyn

  “Well, two reasons that I see. One, to gather enough evidence to bring him in—”

  “He had that. Remember the picture of the grave,” I interrupted Zachery.

  “Bingham convinced him it wasn’t anything, or threatened him in some way. It doesn’t mean he saw any victims. Maybe Bingham didn’t know that Royster was onto his little operation. Or possibly Royster was planning on taking revenge himself but was waiting for the perfect time.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Paige pushed Zachery closer to me, pretty much checking him with her shoulder.

  “No reason to be so pushy.”

  She ignored his protest and moved the mouse on the screen. “There is another folder that I haven’t been able to get into—” Her words hung out there as she found the folder, hovered the mouse over it, and then double-clicked. A window came up prompting for a password. She matched eyes with me. “I can’t break it.”

  “Why are you looking at him,” Zachery intercepted.

  “You seriously have to ask. You might be a genius when it comes to what you’ve read in a textbook from twenty years ago, but you don’t know your way around a computer.”

  I shoved between the two of them. “Can I?”

  Paige let go of the mouse.

  I entered into the source code for the folder and found the password. Seconds later, the folder was open.

  “Impressive, Pending.” Zachery smiled at Jack. “He knows what he’s doing. Sometimes. How did you know how to do that any—” Zachery’s words died on his lips as the first picture filled the screen.

  A young girl we all knew as Sally Windermere was tied to the stretcher in the kill room. Her eyes were blindfolded, but the shape of her jaw and the upward turn on her nose made her identity unmistakable.

  “He was there,” Paige said.

  Zachery leaned in toward the monitor. “Forget that he was there, he was the one who killed her. Bingham was in prison.”

  I stepped to the side, and Paige brought up the next photo. It was a picture of the ground and the tips of two boots. It was a lower resolution when compared to the other photos. “Taken with a cell phone? And why a picture of his feet?”

  I glanced over at Jack to get an idea where he was in all of this. He had retracted into the far corner of the room. When I glanced at him, he directed my attention back to the screen with a pointed finger. At first, I didn’t know what he was trying to communicate, but as I studied the picture, it became clear. The toe showing on the left was a right foot, the one on the right, a left.

  “So Bingham has two followers who kill for him?” The realization caused internal panic. If Bingham wanted me dead, he still had someone else to carry out that wish.

  “Someone else was definitely there with him, and he took a picture of the feet to prove it. So was Royster involved with the torture and killing, or did he just get in too deep? Maybe it was keep Bingham’s secrets or become victim number eleven,” Paige offered.

  “At this point hard to know,” Zachery said. “It is possible that Bingham had that much power and influence. And as for two followers it wouldn’t be the first time a serial killer had that much control. Look at Robin Gecht. He led three other men in the brutal murders of at least seventeen women.” He passed at glance to Paige. “I won’t go into the details of the mutilation. But they were known as the Ripper Crew or Chicago Rippers.”

  “I know it has to be bad when you don’t go into details.” Paige’s eyes made the daring request for Zachery to continue.

  “Not getting into it. But the thing is when it comes to killings involving more than one accomplice they feed off each other. What one might not do if they were alone, they’re not afraid to do with an audience. Both the participant in the murder and the spectator experience power and excitement.”

  “I know we keep mentioning that maybe Royster kept quiet because Bingham threatened him, myself included, but if Bingham wanted to he would have killed him,” Paige said.

  “Not necessarily.”

  “I know that serial killers normally have a certain type of person they go after. And maybe Royster didn’t fit that bill. But, still a narcissist isn’t going to have their plans ruined or exposed by anyone. They would do anything to stop that from happening.”

  Jack pulled out a cigarette and perched it in his lips. “Also at the time Bingham’s next victim was slated to be a woman. Based on this pattern, he wouldn’t deviate from that.”

  Zachery straightened out. “Bingham demonstrates compulsive traits, such as his fascination with the number eleven. Once something is set in his mind that is the path he follows. One extremely organized and controlled killer.”

  “We know that Bingham assaulted his neighbor, but who ratted him out for killing cows?” Jack took the cigarette out of his mouth, pointed it towards Paige and Zachery, before placing it back.

  “We’ll get right on that.” Paige left the room with Zachery.

  Jack and I worked our way through about fifty photographs. Some of them were out of focus, blurred as if taken while moving. Others were too dark to distinguish anything. But one thing was certain, there were no more of any victims. Most of them focused on Bingham or his property.

  Jack stepped forward, closer to the monitor. The cigarette from at least thirty minutes ago remained pressed in his lips. I imagined the tip must have been soggy. “Stop there. Enlarge it.”

  It was a photo of Bingham dumping the contents of a white plastic bag into a pig’s feeding trough. “That doesn’t look like it came from any feed store.” My stating the obvious earned me a glance from Jack and a Hmm. Somehow his exhalation reinforced the dark reality. “He fed the intestines of his victims to livestock.”

  Jack didn’t say anything. His eyes were fixed on the screen.

  “He’d grind them up.” Saying this made my stomach tighten and toss further. “And put them in the freezer until he could feed them to the animals. The freezer would keep the smell down.”

  Paige walked into the office, Zachery trailing behind her. She spoke, “Royster reported the dead cows. The call came in on a tip line—”

  “For murdered livestock.” Jack’s sarcasm got a smile from Zachery.

  “For crimes in the county. Anyway, the call came in as anonymous, but the operator knew Royster. Rumor got around he was the one who squealed on Bingham.”

  “And no doubt that got back to Bingham. It couldn’t have made him very happy, but it would have reestablished control,” Zachery offered.

  “Reestablished control?” I asked.

  Zachery gave me a look that said, I don’t have time to elaborate on everything I say. “Yeah, his power over Royster slipped, but this gave Bingham an opportunity to remind him of what he was capable of. A realigning if you would.”

  “We need to find out a connection between the victims, establish a time line.” Jack matched eyes with Paige. “We need you to get access to the records from that crime stoppers line. Maybe dead cattle weren’t the only thing Royster called in about. But before you go, take a look at this. Either of you recognize it from speaking with the neighbors?” Jack directed their attention to the monitor.

  Both Paige and Zachery shook their heads.

  A knock on the doorframe had us all looking up. It was the younger CSI, Charlie. His face was pale. “You guys are going to want to see this.”

  He led us downstairs to the laundry room. Dirty clothes were strewn on the floor, and clean ones overfilled a basket on the dryer. The dryer was pulled out and the CSI, named Kevin, the one I had hit in the jaw, was hunched behind it.

  “You told us to search the entire place. Still never expected to find something like this. I find it hard to believe that Royster was involved.”

  Eleven photographs were taped to the cinder blocks of the basement wall. They were laid out in order of mutilation. The first picture showed one slice in the torso, the next one to the right, two and so on. The victim was Sally Windermere.

  “How could someone be pressu
red into doing this?” Paige’s voice was near a whisper.

  Jack flicked his lighter, but never lit his cigarette. Instead, he tucked it into his shirt pocket. “We’re going to need to give notification to Sally’s mother.” He paused and glanced at me, “And since you made the promise, you can do the job.”

  The academy had trained me for situations like that, but I never looked forward to putting that knowledge to use. I nodded.

  “What’s going on down here?” Sheriff Harris came into the room.

  “Nice of you to show up,” Jack said.

  Deputy White had come by when Jones was here, but had left in search of coffee. He said something about not sleeping much at all after witnessing what he had yesterday.

  We filled the Sheriff in on what we’d learned up to this point. On our way in from Quantico Jack went over how important it was to cooperate with local law enforcement, but added the stipulation, if it would benefit the investigation. Jack didn’t share the fact we believed another unsub was roaming free.

  Harris rubbed his jaw, and placed his other hand on his rounded belly where he moved it in a circular motion. “I find all this hard to believe. Earl took it real hard when his brother went missin’. I just don’t see him being this kind of person.”

  “Usually the ones we’d least expect are the really sick ones.”

  Harris shrugged in response to Jack’s statement. “It’s just you think you know somebody. Do you think he took part out of fear for his own life?”

  “Hard to say, but what might have started off as finding justice for his brother turned hellish quickly. We do believe that he suspected Bingham of killing his brother—”

  “Oh yeah, that’s not a real surprise. Earl talked about Bingham all the time.”

  “All the time? And you only think to mention this now?”

  “Honestly never thought anything of it. But yeah, we’d have drinks sometimes down at the Pig Sty.” He must have noticed our expression. “Just a small bar. Anyway, he’d say that something wasn’t right with the man. But then, after a while, he stopped saying things like that. He started praisin’ the man, saying that he was a hard worker, focused. Guess you guys will be headed out now seeing as you know your unsub is dead.”

  “Not yet. There are still questions we need answers to. There are also numerous photos on Royster’s computer. One I’d like you to see.”

  I wondered if Jack was going to show him the one of the two work boots, and the fact we suspected another killer. Instead, he showed him the one of the pig trough.

  “That’s old Gord’s place. I only know cause of the marking on the trough.”

  There was painted lettering that had worn from exposure to weather but it looked like it read Maggie.

  “That’s the name the missus gives all their sows. Anyways, Gord lives a couple miles down the road from Bi-Bingham’s property. He’s the largest pig farmer in the area. He sells the meat to some big fancy food producer.”

  “And Bingham worked for him?” I asked.

  “Yeah at least a couple o’ seasons.”

  Jack pulled out his cigarette and lit up.

  Sheriff Harris’s eyes went from the amber butt upward to meet with Jack’s eyes. “Guess I better git on over to Nancy’s to let her know about Sally.” He stopped in the doorway and turned around. “Do y’all know if one of the victims was Robert?”

  Paige and Zachery stayed behind to ensure that the evidence was collected and handled properly. With such a small community and their connections, Jack thought it best not to leave things in the hands of Royster’s friends. I agreed with him. After all, we didn’t know who else was in the photograph with Royster.

  Jack and I loaded into the SUV and headed for old Gord’s place. The man’s last name was Coleman and the farm had been in the family for generations.

  I studied Jack’s profile which appeared somewhat void because he didn’t have a cigarette dangling from his mouth. I thought about how investigations were like a poker, deciding what to expose, what to conceal and when to do either.

  Jack must have sensed me watching him and glanced over. “I want to know why you asked Royster about his wife. You knew from the file he wasn’t married.”

  “I thought it would distract him enough to gain control of the situation.”

  “Risky.”

  “But it worked.”

  “Hmm.”

  This time I could swear he was impressed. Maybe I should keep a logbook. At least I’d know if I was coming out ahead or falling behind.

  The Coleman farm although two miles from Bingham’s property could probably be smelled from there if the wind were right. The summer breeze was ripe with the heavy stench of pig manure.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror at the forensic investigation van following us. We had one of the CSIs come with us to collect trace evidence from the pig trough. Jack said for speed’s sake we’d have to trust one of the locals for this.

  I knew Jack didn’t like questions that pulled on hypotheses. He preferred calculated facts built upon evidence, but I asked the question I was thinking anyway. “Think we’re going to find anything?”

  “Guess we’ll find out.”

  My question really only served as a brief filler for the awkward silence that kept resurfacing. Even though my confronting the CSIs had been addressed with a threat to my job, Jack hadn’t put it behind him. “You’re still mad at me.”

  Jack pulled into the graveled driveway with a red mailbox at the road that read Coleman Family Farm. The farmhouse and barn were set back from the road. The fields stretched to the left and right borders of the property.

  “You’re not going to answer me.”

  He parked beside a John Deer tractor and behind a beat-up Ford pick-up. “You’ve got to move forward, Kid.”

  “So, it’s behind us? I don’t think it is.”

  “Well, then Kid that’s your issue.” Jack got out of the SUV. The door closed heavy behind him.

  Stepping out in the evening air this close to the source of the natural pollution made my stomach heave. If I were anywhere else, the evening would actually be a pleasant one, perhaps even a slightly sleepy one. Here the smell served as strong espresso.

  The CSI got out of the van behind us, seemingly impervious to the quality of the air. He didn’t even appear to take shallow breaths.

  “Go in ahead of us. We’ll be there soon.” Jack directed the CSI toward the barn and tapped a hand on the box of the pick-up.

  The CSI stopped walking and held his evidence collection kit with both hands. “Shouldn’t we wait until we have permission?”

  I gave the CSI merit for courage as he matched eyes with Jack trying to appeal to his sense of right and wrong.

  “You let me worry about that.”

  “What the heck are you people doing?” The voice came from a woman in the direction of the farmhouse, but I couldn’t see her.

  Jack and I moved towards the house. My cell phone rang with the personalized tune I had picked to identify Debbie. Jack didn’t say anything, but looked from it to me. There was no way for me to win in this situation. It was either enrage Jack, or upset my wife. But seeing as my current company was Jack that made the decision easy. I unclipped the cell and chose ignore.

  “You have a warrant?”

  As we rounded the truck, we saw her. A woman of about five-two with a petite build stood on a mound of grass, an apron wrapped around her small frame. She watched the CSI heading toward the barn. “What are you doing back here? You people were already here—”

  The CSI swung the barn door open, and it made a deep moaning sound. “What the heck.” She went after him. “You better be happy Gord’s gone to visit a neighbor tonight.”

  “Mrs. Coleman,” Jack said.

  “You would be right.” She stopped quickly enough that I imagined one leg poised mid-stride. She turned around and came toward us.

  “Lance Bingham worked for you.”

  “Yes. I told all this t
o some lady. She’s with you. FBI.” The way the three letters came out they were tainted with disdain. City folk, especially feds, interfered with her peaceful life.

  “What did he do for you exactly?”

  “Like I told her, he fed ’em, cleaned stalls, did some fixin’ of things.”

  “Did he feed the pigs?”

  “Course.” Her brows pinched downward as if to say, what are you getting at?

  “What did he feed them?”

  “Oh no, I’m not sayin’, but it’s dang expensive stuff. To sell ’em for food, we don’t have a choice. The industry has high standards, but they pay good too.”

  I was going to be sick between the smell and the likely possibility people consumed pigs that had eaten human intestines.

  “Did this food come in white plastic bags?”

  “Course not.” Her hips swayed to the right, both arms crossed over her chest. “Why are you askin’?”

  “We suspect that Bingham was feeding them something else.”

  A raised finger came out, removed only a few inches from Jack’s nose. From there it changed direction and pointed at me. “You’re here to shut me down. Some big fancy wig has a baby brother or family member wantin’ to get into the farmin’ business.”

  “I assure you we’re not—”

  “Don’t lie to me agent. I know your types. Ruthless. You care nothing about other people’s welfare.” She turned toward the barn. “Git that man outta there before I call the Sheriff.”

  “The Sheriff sent us.”

  “Like hell he did.” Mrs. Coleman stormed off towards the house, the strings from her apron gaining hang time from the gusts of air formed in her wake.

  “Come on, Kid. Let’s go to the barn.”

  “Are you sure we—”

  Jack kept walking. I looked back at the house expecting the screen door to open with Mrs. Coleman coming out riding on a broomstick. She might have been a little woman, but she had a wild look in her eyes.