Eleven (Brandon Fisher FBI Series)

by Arnold, Carolyn

  CHAPTER 20

  The forensic investigation vehicles had left from in front of Royster’s house. Deputy White’s cruiser was parked at the road, and Sheriff Harris was standing in front of the chain link fence talking to Paige. Her hands were dug into her pockets, her arms fully extended. She rocked so slightly, one might not even notice, heel-toe, toe-heel. She did that when she was tired, and ready to move on. She paused mid-tilt when we pulled up.

  Jack walked between Harris and Paige and headed to the house. “We’ve got to talk.”

  “Excuse me,” Paige said to Harris, putting a hand to his elbow.

  I glanced over at him, and in the casting from the streetlights the man appeared to have aged over the last five hours.

  Paige must have noticed my assessment. She leaned into me. “He had a hard time at the Windermere’s. Sally was their only child. Nancy couldn’t have kids after her.”

  “Hmm.” The noise came from me, and I wished I had swallowed it.

  Paige held an arm out in front of my chest and stopped walking.

  “What?” I turned to face her. Maybe if I played it dumb, like I hadn’t realized it, she would move on.

  She was smiling. “You’re starting to sound like him now.”

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Please don’t say that.”

  “It’s bound to happen. You spend that much time around someone.”

  “Stop there.” I was smiling now.

  “Well.” She held the door open for me.

  I put an arm over her and got the door. “Ladies first.”

  “Thanks.” She ducked to fit under me, and watched me as she passed through.

  Being so close to her I smelled her perfume, sweet and lightly floral. I remembered our nights together. And her laugh, not the fake one she put on to be flirtatious or seductive, but her sincere laughter that came out when she was vulnerable. “No problem.”

  I turned back and looked at Harris. The toe of his shoe stubbed at the pavement, and his head faced downward watching it. I couldn’t help but think if a seasoned man like the Sheriff found notifications hard would it ever get easier?

  My mind went to Quinton’s face, how it fell as his eyes filled with tears of denial. In that moment I had taken everything away from him.

  “You coming, Kid?”

  I watched Harris for one more second before closing the front door. “I’m here.”

  The rest of team was gathered in the dining room. Deputy White came out of a side hallway, the rush of water from a toilet filtered in the background. He tipped his hat to us. “I’ll be outside. Give you folks some privacy.”

  Zachery spoke when the front door latched shut. “I contacted the supervisor in charge over at the crime tip line. They pulled their records, and searched for anything that matched Royster’s voice using the tip about the cows as the sample reel.”

  “Surprised they have that technology,” Jack said.

  “The centre was donated to the county by a rich man. Nothing but the best they say. Anyway, just got the call a few minutes ago and nothing came back.”

  Jack turned to Paige. “Any further progress on the computer files?”

  “I’ve made copies of the files to forward to Nadia to see if there’s any more encrypted files.”

  “She’s got a lot on her plate. Slingshot, maybe you can study them too?”

  “Sure.” I dragged out the word a little too long. Jack noticed.

  “You can or you can’t?”

  I matched eyes with Paige. Normally a field job was just that—away from computers. It felt like a demotion. I turned to Jack. “Can.”

  “Alright then.”

  “I’ll make another copy,” Paige said.

  “Anything else you have to tell me?”

  Paige and Zachery shared a look, shook their heads.

  “Alright then. We saw Quinton Davis. His background file seemed to match up with the man himself. He lives under the radar, keeps to himself, reads a lot. Really wouldn’t peg him as Royster’s killing partner.”

  “It’s quite common for couples to kill together. Typically, when you’re talking romantic involvement as well, the couple consists of one man, one woman. But the dynamics are based on one dominant, one submissive,” Zachery said.

  “Obviously the male being submissive.” Paige arched her brows to accompany her sarcasm.

  “Yeah, that’s it.” A small smile showed on Zachery’s lips.

  I cut the joviality short. “We believe that Quinton was the submissive one in their romantic relationship, making Royster the dominant.”

  “That right there tells us the unsub we’re looking for isn’t Quinton,” Zachery filled in the obvious. “We already know Royster had a submissive personality when it came to his involvement with Bingham.”

  “Very good.” Jack’s sardonic statement was accompanied by an upward turn of his mouth for only an instant. “Because we know all of this started with Royster’s need for answers, he became vulnerable, a follower. That means whoever was with him during the torture and murder was stronger than he was.”

  “But that’s not all,” I started. “Royster abused Quinton.”

  “Abused him. How?” Paige asked.

  “Cut him, just like the victims.” My statement sank in the air as if it were a tangible element susceptible to gravity.

  “Quinton was his practice?”

  I held out my phone to show them the picture Quinton had allowed us to take of his torso.

  “Oh my god.” Paige’s eyes dragged from the small image to align with my eyes.

  “And if you think that’s bad wait until you hear what Royster would say afterwards.” I waited until they were all watching me. “Ssh baby, don’t cry.”

  “Creepy.” Paige shivered.

  “Yeah and he’d say it while caressing Quinton’s forehead with the back of his hand.”

  “Royster was one sick shit.” The statement came from Zachery.

  “Seems that way. Do you think maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way—” My cell rang, and Jack looked at it. Even he recognized the ringtone as belonging to Debbie. I hit ignore. “We assume that Royster was the weaker of the two followers, but what if the other person was weaker?”

  “No.” The one-worded response came from Jack.

  “No?” Sometimes I wondered if he chose to disagree with me simply for being able to do so.

  “No. Royster was the follower to whoever else was in that picture.” Jack took out a cigarette and lit up. A puff of white smoke accompanied his next words. “Quinton said Royster complained about the knife not being the right one.”

  “That shows Royster was trying to imitate what he saw,” Zachery finished Jack’s thought.

  Jack nodded as he took another drag.

  Somehow watching him do this made everything fill in for me. “We know Royster had a submissive personality. Therefore, we know the other person in that picture wasn’t put in place by him. He was recruited directly by Bingham. With Bingham in prison this follower took over in every way including leading Royster.”

  “Quite likely. The man was relatively weak.”

  “He kept his relationship with Quinton secret for years.” For some reason I came to Royster’s defense.

  “Weakness. He shouldn’t have been ashamed of what they had.”

  “So it was weak for him to hold back because he didn’t want unnecessary public backlash including the potential loss of his job?”

  “You think he’d be fired over what he had goin’ on with that man?” The Sheriff came into the dining room.

  All of us turned to him. I asked the obvious. “You knew about it?”

  “Course I did. Most of us did. Small place, or haven’t y’all picked up on that yet? The only ones who thought it was a secret were Earl and Quinton.”

  “And nobody cared?”

  “Nobody but Earl’s brother.”

  “Robert knew about it.”

  “Listen
, Kid, if you’re gonna parrot everything I say, it’ll be a long night.”

  I noticed Zachery’s smile at my expense.

  “What did Rob think of his brother being homosexual?” Paige asked.

  The Sheriff put one hand on his holster, the other to his hip. “He didn’t like it. Said it was wrong. Said the Bible said it was wrong.”

  Maybe that’s why Royster had been easily malleable by Bingham? Bingham was an advocate of scripture, a preacher of confess, repent and be forgiven. If that man accepted him for who he was, who was his brother to condemn him? That could have turned his mission of finding justice for his brother to one relating with Bingham’s mission. But we still didn’t know for certain Robert was a victim of Bingham, and if he was what the motive would have been for killing him. “How did Earl handle that?”

  “Robert was still his brother. That’s why he took it so hard when he went missing.”

  The sound of a ticking clock made its way from the direction of the kitchen.

  “Well, people time to go.” Jack sucked in on the cigarette and headed to the front door. The pile of ash built up on the end no doubt proving as a motivator to get outside.

  “Night Sheriff,” Paige said.

  “Oh I doubt that. We’ll be watching the place, making sure there’s no looters.” He pointed at the broken front window. “In the morning, we’ll get it boarded up.”

  The ride back to the hotel seemed never-ending for only being about a twenty-minute drive from Royster’s. But my head pounded. I blamed it on the stench of second-hand smoke that had saturated my clothes and no doubt seeped into my flesh. I could barely wait for a hot shower to melt it away.

  Zachery had called shotgun like a child, yet he was the genius, leaving me in the backseat with Paige. At least relief from the smell of cigarette came in subtle waves of her perfume.

  Zachery dropped his head back on the headrest. “We’re definitely looking for someone close to Bingham. Someone loyal.”

  Maybe if I focused on the case, the headache would subside. “He doesn’t have any living relatives. He never had children, so it’s safe to rule out those.”

  “The farmers he worked for valued him, said he was hard working, but I don’t think it went beyond that,” Paige offered.

  “He attended the Lakeview Community Church but wasn’t a member. No one’s mentioned him being close to anyone else we haven’t already spoken to.” My cell phone rang. It was Debbie again. I glanced at the clock on the front dash. Just after eleven. As far as I was concerned this was my time. I answered.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ve been ignoring my calls.”

  I shifted my position to face the door. I held my cell in my left hand and sheltered my face hoping it would dilute my voice. “I’m working.” I heard Paige say something about visiting more members of the church.

  “All day and night?”

  “It’s part of the job.”

  “It’s late. You’re still working?”

  “I’ve got to go.”

  “Brandon.”

  “Yes.”

  “Take care out there.”

  I hung up without saying another word to her. And the awkwardness of doing so transferred to Paige who paused in the middle of speaking.

  “You were talking about visiting more members of the church to see if anyone else was close with Bingham,” I prompted her to continue.

  “Yes.” She studied my eyes, and somehow managed to penetrate them in the glow of the dashboard lights that filtered to the back seat. “Maybe some of them would know more about who he was close to, if he mentioned anyone specifically.”

  “Good idea.” Jack pulled into the parking lot of Betty’s Place for Paige and Zachery to pick up their SUV.

  And somehow, it took until now for me to realize my other reason for a headache—lack of food. Just seeing the lights off in the restaurant made my stomach growl.

  “You and Zachery visit those on the congregation list tomorrow. Slingshot and I will pay our new friend another visit.”

  Paige and Zachery got out of the vehicle and I couldn’t help but think why did I always have to talk with Bingham?

  All I had wanted to do was peel myself out of my clothes and take a hot shower, but the lights of the hotel lobby summoned me in the search of a vending machine.

  The night clerk sat behind the front counter, feet up on the desk, watching Criminal Minds. He didn’t look much older than twenty. The door chimed notifying him he had a customer; he nodded absent-mindedly.

  “Just looking for something to eat.”

  “Over there.” He pointed to a vending machine.

  I studied my options which weren’t plentiful. A few types of chocolate bars, small bags of peanuts and packages of microwave popcorn, which had me wondering how that would sell seeing as the rooms didn’t have microwaves. Along with that was a couple varieties of chips—plain and nacho. Any other time, if I wasn’t so hungry, I’d take a pass on all of it. I reached into my pocket for some change, selected the peanuts and a Snickers bar.

  “You’re one of the FBI Agents, ain’t ya?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I have mail for one of ya.” The guy walked to the counter. “Brandon Fisher.”

  “That’s me.”

  He extended a card-sized envelope, the same as the one sent to Bingham at the prison—the envelope that had contained my picture. I put the food on the counter and turned the envelope over. No return address. I looked at the front. No postmark. “Someone dropped this off?”

  The guy shrugged, glanced back at his program.

  “Do you know when?”

  He shook his head.

  “Do you have cameras in here?”

  He gestured behind me toward a large one mounted in the corner of the room.

  “I’ll need to see the footage.”

  “You’ll have to speak to the manager in the morning.”

  “Right now. Call them; wake them up. Now.”

  The guy held up both hands in surrender. “K.”

  His statement returned my eyes to the envelope I held in my hand. Even though I held it, and its contents were unknown, I knew whatever was inside wasn’t going to be good. Call it a hunch. “Call them. Now.”

  He picked up the phone, pecked the buttons with his bony fingers. “He’s not going to be—” He stopped talking to me and spoke into the phone. “It’s Kyle…”

  I heard him speaking but his words blurred. Everything from the last three days merged. Eleven rooms, ten bodies, one empty grave. Confess your sins, and be forgiven. Don’t, and be punished. The Redeemer was a new follower on Twitter but he had reached out from cyber space and became my stalker in the real world.

  I worked a thumb under the seal of the envelope and tore open its length.

  The hotel employee hung up. “He said it doesn’t work.”

  “Great! Just great!” I grabbed the peanuts and bar from the counter, walked a few steps and spun around. “Who was working today?”

  “Ellen, I think.”

  “When’s her next shift?”

  “She’ll be in at six.”

  He spoke to my back and the chimes of the door. My heart beat rapidly. I stopped in front of the lobby, tucked the food under one arm and slipped the contents out of the envelope. Two pictures. When I realized of what, the food fell to the concrete.

  Like kindergarten children, they were to be all tucked in and accounted for by eight. Lights went out at eleven. Bingham despised life behind bars. He lay on the top bunk but he didn’t sleep.

  His cellmate snored beneath him loud and deep enough to send vibrations through the metal frame. The inconsistent rhythm jackhammered into Bingham’s head, interrupting his thoughts at the peak of enlightenment.

  Three years in this hell hole to date, two with this hog beneath him. Every night it was the same noise. The man seemed to fall asleep at the directing snap of fingers.
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br />   Bingham had never been that obedient. He didn’t see the merit in following the leading of another man. After all who were they to guide him when they were imperfect sinners without recompense?

  He had found a way to repentance through reconciling for others’ sins. His cellmate let out another loud snore. The man should fear sucking in his entire face with the depth of his inhalations.

  Bingham took his arms out from under the cotton blanket that covered him. The fabric had gotten coarse from too many washing cycles.

  He lifted his arms, intertwined his fingers and cracked all his knuckles at once. As each of them shifted into tighter alignment he thought of those he had saved and those who were loyal to him despite adversity. He smiled.

  I ran through the hotel parking lot. And as if I were in a nightmare the more I willed my legs to move the heavier they became. I reached Jack’s door and slammed the side of a balled fist repeatedly against it.

  I heard him swear but I didn’t think I woke him up. As I continued to knock, more voices came from inside and I assumed he was watching TV. He opened the door three quarters of the way. No glow came from the TV.

  He stepped around the door wearing a white t-shirt and grey boxers. He held his Glock 22 ready to fire if he didn’t like his late night visitor. “What the hell are you doing at my door?” The gun didn’t move.

  I extended the photos along with the envelope. “This was dropped off today.”

  He looked from my eyes to what I held out to him and lowered his gun.

  “This is a picture of my house back in Woodbridge. And that—,” I rearranged the photos to place the other one on top, “—is my wife. I tried calling her, but she’s not answering.” I brushed past him into the room. “I need to get back there now.”