by J. C. Fields
Their home was in a newer subdivision of the city. The terrain was hilly, which allowed for a walk-out basement configuration. The large deck was off the upper floor, accessed through the kitchen, supported by tall eight-by-eight posts. The only sounds to be heard were tree frogs and crickets. Kruger relished opportunities to watch a storm approach. Growing up in this part of the country, approaching storms fascinated him when he was young. They still did.
Stephanie was quiet as well. Her attitude about approaching storms diametrically opposite of her husband’s. “How long before it gets here?”
Kruger consulted his cell phone and pulled up a local weather radar site. “The leading edge is just passing through Joplin, maybe an hour.”
“You should have been a meteorologist.”
Chuckling, he smiled. “I thought about it as an undergrad. But if I had, I never would’ve met you.”
“Good point.” She sipped her tea. “What are you going to do about Bishop?”
“Find him.”
“How?”
“Don’t know yet.” He was quiet for a long time. “What I need to know first is how his last two victims knew him. Was it random? If it was, it will be almost impossible to get a lead on him. If he knew them, maybe, just maybe, we can get closer to where he is.”
The first notes of thunder could faintly be heard as he watched the clouds grow closer, clearly visible with the constant flashing of lightening.
Their conversation changed as they watched the clouds grow closer. They discussed Kristin’s upcoming year of pre-school and Stephanie’s pending volunteer work at a nearby elementary school. When the first drops of rain fell to the deck, they stood and went inside.
***
Jimmy Gibbs stood in front of Bassel Safar’s front door and pushed the button for the doorbell. He stood back, like most door-to-door salesmen and waited. Fifteen seconds later, Safar opened his front door, but not the glass storm door. “Yes.”
“Are you Bassel Safar?” Gibbs asked with a large smile. He was dressed in an open collar blue oxford shirt, navy blazer, tan slacks and dress shoes.
Warily, Safar nodded.
Gibb’s smile remained in place. “My name is Phillip Griffith. I’m with Mid-West Theaters.” He held out a business card. “I was asked to come by and confirm your participation in our pre-opening gala event at the Metro Cinema 16.”
Safar’s concerned look faded, he smiled and opened the storm door. “Cool. Come on in.”
Sandy Knoll was standing against the wall on the front porch, out of sight when Safar opened the door. As the glass storm door opened, he rushed in, followed by Gibbs. With the practiced ease of many years of subduing opponents, Safar was thrown to the floor on his stomach while both hands and feet were roughly secured with flex cuffs. Knoll dragged the bound man away from the front door as Gibb’s closed it.
Safar spat blood and then demanded, “What the hell is this about? Let me go. I’ll sue your ass off.”
Knoll ignored the complaints and looked around. Seeing nothing, he walked back to the kitchen and found the Beretta ARX 160 in pieces on a table. Pages of a newspaper were spread out with gun oil, solvent and cleaning rods scattered next to the disassembled weapon. Next to the Beretta was an object he had not seen during his earlier search of Safar’s secret room. Smiling, Knoll went back into the sitting area where Safar was cursing in Arabic. Knoll kicked him in the ribs. “Shut up.”
Safar gasped, but shut up.
Knoll turned to Gibbs. “Beretta’s on the kitchen table, and we got a bonus.”
Gibbs smiled. “What?”
“Our friend here just screwed himself. Looks like a Russian-made grenade. Where’d you get it, Safar?”
“Who are you? I want a lawyer.”
“We’re not cops, Safar. Too bad for you.”
Realizing his situation was not as it first appeared, Safar’s eyes grew wide, and he put his head down on the floor.
“Yeah, I’d say a prayer or two, Safar. You’re going to need them.”
***
Kruger stood once again on the back deck. It was early morning, and his cell phone was pressed to his ear. Moisture from the previous night’s storm still dripped from the trees.
“Where is he?”
Sandy Knoll had spent the night taking inventory in Safar’s secret room. “He’s in a hot-sheet hotel room near Joliet.” He gave Kruger the address. “He’s under sedation until we know what you want to do with him.”
“How many people know he’s there?”
“Just my team.”
“Good.”
“What have you found in his house?”
“Enough to classify him as a terrorist.”
Kruger smiled. “Email the pictures to me, and I’ll pass them on to a higher authority.”
“Why can’t we just make him disappear, Sean?”
“I wish it was that simple, Sandy.” Kruger glanced at his wristwatch. “There’ll be a van heading toward the hotel as soon as they have the address. There will be two very discreet and competent FBI agents who will take control of Safar. All your men need to do is check their ID’s and walk out. Do not identify yourselves; they’ve been instructed not to ask.”
“Wish we could follow it through.”
“Not part of our job description. We’re tasked to ascertain and prevent. We did both.”
“What about his house?”
“Are you done?”
“Yeah.”
“Go back to your car and wait. There will be an FBI swat team take it down at the same time they take control of Safar at the hotel. Once you’re sure they’ve found the weapons, head to the airport.”
“Got it.”
“And, Sandy?”
“Yeah.”
“Nicely done.”
Chapter 17
West of Atlanta, GA
The passage of time was meaningless for Stephen Blair. Day and night were the same. Only the occasional visit by the intruder broke the monotony. His sleeping patterns were also unknown to him. He didn’t know if he slept a minute or several days. His mental state continued to deteriorate, as he had no access to his normal medications. Meals remained untouched, and his weight declined. His only mental activity was writing computer code. Perception of the real world slowly slipped from Stephen’s grasp.
Randolph Bishop observed Stephen’s decline. On many visits he simply stood in the door of Stephen’s prison and observed. Most of the time, Stephen would be curled into a fetal position on the mattress. Other times he would find him sitting on the toilet in the small bathroom off the room, his head down, his arms resting on his knees. Verbal communication stopped after Stephen learned of Camila’s death.
During one of Stephen’s more lucid moments, he heard the door to his room being unlocked. He was sitting on the mattress, his back against the wall. The intruder opened the door and smiled.
“Well, you’re awake for a change. Good.” The intruder used his foot to slide a box sitting on the floor just outside the door into Stephen’s room.
“I’m going away for a few days. I went to a Costco this morning and bought food. It will have to last you while I’m gone. There’s a bag of apples, two loafs of bread and a large jar of peanut butter. I was gracious and provided a spoon for your peanut butter. I didn’t feel scooping it out with your fingers would be dignified.” Bishop chuckled.
Blair stared at the intruder, but remained quiet.
“I forgot to tell you about this past week. It seems, if you have the right documents, you can get a legitimate driver’s license in anyone’s name.” Bishop reached into his pocket and withdrew a laminated card. He held it so Stephen could see it. “It seems you haven’t had a driver’s license in a while. I had to take a test, but that wasn’t too hard. Now I’m officially Stephen Blair. Not sure who that makes you.” Bishop smiled, and his eyes bore into Blair.
“One other piece of news. A private equity company purchased your shares of the company. The funds w
ere transferred to an account I set up specifically to receive them. Did you know your buddy Thomas Zimmerman was plotting to have you declared incompetent and steal your company?”
Blair did not respond.
“I didn’t think so. Thomas has paid for his treachery with his life. Isn’t that the punishment for treason, Stephen? Death. I find it a fitting punishment. Don’t you, Stephen?”
Blair continued to stare blankly at Bishop. He heard the words, but their meaning eluded him. The coding didn’t stop as he listened to the man standing in the door of his room.
Bishop walked over to look closer at Blair. He bent down, stared into the blank eyes of his captive.
“Are you in there Stephen? Knock, knock.”
The man’s expression didn’t change. Bishop straightened, snorted and walked out of the room.
After the door closed and the lock engaged, Blair continued to stare at it. After an hour, he slowly focused on the box containing the apples and bread. He made no effort to reach for an apple; he did not have the strength or desire to eat. After several hours, he lost the ability to focus. As his eyes remained on the food, the coding stopped in his head and his heart beat for the last time. His now lifeless body did not move, his unseeing eyes still pointed at the fruit.
***
Only Kruger and JR occupied the conference room on the second floor of JR’s building. It was late morning, and Sandy Knoll and his team were now in the air, flying to their home base in Dallas. On the numerous flat screen TVs, in the computer room, various cable news stations were discussing the recent discovery, by an FBI swat team, of a trove of weaponry at a junior accountant’s home. The talking heads were telling their audience a fictional account of how the young accountant’s plans to attack a movie theater were discovered.
Kruger ignored the TV screens and concentrated on what JR was telling him.
JR studied his laptop, his fingers dancing over the keys like a maestro on a piano. He stopped typing and looked up at Kruger. “Found something.”
“What?”
“Thomas Zimmerman was a vice president at a software company founded by an old college acquaintance of mine, Stephen Blair.”
Kruger remained silent, knowing JR loved to stretch out his explanations.
“I met Stephen my sophomore year. We had numerous classes together but were never, what I would call, close friends.”
“Why?”
“Stephen had an issue with being around people. I’m not even sure he knew who I was. He always sat in the back of the room and was never very vocal. I later found out he took meds to cope with the stress he was feeling. But he wrote eloquent code. I remember one routine he wrote for routers that was so concise and tight, it made me look like an amateur.”
“Are you saying he was better than you?”
“Definitely better.” JR nodded rapidly. “Coding was his passion. I was more interested in the practical side, concentrating on how to make code better and how to keep others out. Stephen didn’t care about security; he just loved to write code. After college, he started a software company with his father. Last I knew, he had a mental breakdown and turned the day to day operations of the company over to his dad. I haven’t heard anything about him since then.”
Kruger frowned. “What does this have to do with Thomas Zimmerman?”
“According to the company website, Thomas Zimmerman took over the company as COO when Stephen’s father passed away five years ago.”
“Is this Stephen Blair active in the business?”
“Not sure, the website lists him as CEO and majority stock holder, but doesn’t mention involvement.” JR’s fingers started typing again. He frowned. “Uh oh.”
“What? What?”
“The day before Thomas Zimmerman’s death, all of Blair’s stock was sold to a private equity company. You know how I feel about those guys.”
“I share your feelings,” Kruger nodded. “What does the sale have to do with Zimmerman’s death and Randolph Bishop?”
Shaking his head, JR remained quiet.
Kruger stood and started pacing. “We’re missing something, JR. I spoke to Tom Stark earlier. Their investigation is leaning toward the attack being against Judith Day. Zimmerman may have been collateral damage. Sort of in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was a clinical psychologist, and they feel she ran into Bishop because of her occupation.”
“At least that makes sense. But I can’t get past the timing of the stock sale and Zimmerman’s death.”
“It bothers me too, JR. Can you find any references to Stephen’s mental health?”
JR held up an index finger. “Hold on.”
Several minutes pasted as Kruger paced and JR typed. Finally, JR stopped and sat back. “I found the Facebook page of a vice president at Blair’s company. She references Stephen’s sudden appearance at the firm after fifteen years of absence. He announced the sale of his shares to a hastily arranged meeting in a conference room and then promptly left. No explanation or reason. This woman described Stephen as cold and aloof, and he refused to even discuss the matter with them.”
Kruger sat down and stared at JR. “I know Zimmerman and Judith Day were killed by Bishop. There are too many similarities. Stark said he doesn’t have the results back from the DNA analysis and would call when they do. But, if it wasn’t Bishop, we have to consider Blair a person of interest.”
“I would agree with you.”
“There is only one issue with it, Blair has an alibi.”
JR looked up from the computer. “How so.”
“Seems he flew to Miami the afternoon before the murders.”
“Who told you that?”
“Stark. They wanted to question Blair, but no one was home at his estate. They found a ticket and boarding pass in his name on a 2 p.m. Delta flight into Miami.”
JR frowned. “Convenient.”
Kruger didn’t say anything for a moment. “Is there a way to find Blair?”
“No. He doesn’t have an internet presence. Hasn’t for at least fifteen years.”
“What do you mean, doesn’t have an internet presence?
“I mean what I said. No email, no social media, no website, nothing. He doesn’t exist on the web and from what I can tell, he doesn’t own a cell phone. At least not one I can find. But that’s a meaningless statement since there are lots of ways to have a cell phone without using a major carrier.”
Kruger sighed. “We aren’t going to find him that way, are we?
JR shook his head. “Not at the moment.”
“Keep looking. What else do you have?”
Sliding a thumb drive across the table, JR said, “Look these over.”
Nodding, Kruger palmed the drive and placed it in his jeans pocket.
Chapter 18
Springfield, MO
Kruger’s cell phone chirped. After glancing at the caller ID, he swiped the screen and answered the call. “Kruger.”
“Sean, it’s Tom Stark.”
“Sorry about the phone tag. You called earlier.”
“Yeah, I wanted give you an up-to-date on the Zimmerman and Day murders.”
“Did you get the DNA back?”
“Yeah.”
“Bishop?”
“Positive match with the DNA found at the St. Louis murders. The same guy did Judith Day.” Kruger didn’t respond. Currently at his desk in his home office, he stood and started pacing while listening. Tom Stark continued, “Before we knew it was Bishop, we were looking at Stephen Blair.”
“Anything unusual?”
“We met him at the gate on his return flight from Miami. Funny thing, he didn’t get indignant or seemed surprised to see us. After giving us a summary of his activities in Miami, we followed up.”
“And?”
“He said he was meeting with investors.”
“Was he?”
“Miami field office dispatched a couple of agents to interview several of the ones he told us about and confirmed he w
as there. But…”
“What?”
“Before we let him go, we checked with the hotel to confirm he there. There’s a twelve-hour gap from when the plane landed and he checked into the hotel.”
“Did he give you an explanation?”
“Kind of. Apparently, he was picked up at the airport and wined and dined until 3 in the morning. The hotel shows he checked in at 4 a.m.”
“Huh.”
“Now with the DNA confirming Bishop did the murders, we’ve cleared Blair.”
“Only thing you can do, Tom. Good work on this. One other thing, how was Blair’s demeanor?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know, was he nervous?”
“No, not really. Like I said earlier, he didn’t seem surprised to see us. Almost like he was expecting something. He answered our questions, joked around a little, but he wasn’t nervous. Why?”
“Nothing, just curious. Keep me up to speed, Tom.”
“Will do, Sean.”
Kruger ended the call and stopped pacing. There was nothing unusual about the twelve-hour gap and it wasn’t a crime to check into a hotel at 4 a.m. But something about it gnawed at the back of Kruger’s conscious. He sat down at his computer and pulled up Google Maps.
***
“It takes ten hours to drive from Atlanta to South Beach in Miami. Zimmerman and Day were killed between four and six in the afternoon. Blair checks into the hotel at 4 a.m. the next day. Bishop’s DNA is found at the scene of the murders, clearing Blair of the crime. So, why does the ten-hour gap bother me, JR?” Kruger was standing on his back deck with the cell phone pressed to his ear and a beer in his other hand.
“It could be a coincidence.” JR’s reply was without enthusiasm.
“Right.”
“Or, like he told the FBI in Atlanta, he was partying.”
“I’m not buying it.” Kruger shook his head. “You told me Blair had a mental breakdown and isolated himself from the world for almost fifteen years. Now, all of a sudden, he’s making trips to South Beach to party and find investors. What’s wrong with this picture, JR?”
