The Fifth to Die

by J. D. Barker

  Day 3 • 2:06 p.m.

  “What does it mean? Is that where she’s from?” Sarah Werner asked.

  They were in line at the lockers, waiting their turn to check out of the prison.

  “You can’t go,” Porter said flatly.

  Sarah frowned at him. “I didn’t say I wanted to go. If I did want to, I would.”

  “There’s something brewing behind those eyes of yours, and I don’t like it.”

  “She’s my client. I have just as much a right to go as you do. Whatever is there may give me some insight into this case, something I can use to help her.”

  “Whatever is there is part of the ongoing 4MK investigation.”

  “I want to read that diary too.”

  “That’s evidence.”

  Sarah smirked. “Evidence that is not tagged and you are carrying on your person without gloves or any regard for chain of custody.”

  They reached the front of the line. Porter slipped the key into his locker, opened the small door, and retrieved the contents: his belt, shoelaces, wallet, a disposable cell phone, and a knife—a Ranger Buck knife with collapsing blade.

  Bishop’s knife.

  “Do you want to grab a late lunch?” Sarah asked.

  Porter shoved the various items into his pockets and relaced his shoes. “I need to get to the airport.”

  “We need to talk about this. You can book your flight from the restaurant.” She tilted her head to the side, her dark hair falling over her shoulder. “You can’t run off on an empty stomach, and I don’t think TSA will let you pass once they hear you didn’t try any genuine Creole cooking during your visit to the Big Easy.”

  “You’re a hard girl to say no to,” Porter said, the weight of the knife pressing against his thigh.

  Thirty minutes later they sat at a small table in the corner at Dooky Chase’s on the corner of Orleans Avenue and Miro Street. Porter had three plates in front of him—one with shrimp and lima beans, another with cheesy potatoes, and the third holding a sandwich.

  There was a direct flight from New Orleans to Greenville, South Carolina, leaving in a little less than two hours. He’d have to rent a car and drive from there to Simpsonville, about twenty minutes away.

  “When exactly was the last time you ate?” Sarah asked, staring at the food in front of him. She had a bowl of gumbo and sipped from a tall iced tea.

  Porter had to think about that for a second. “Candy bar yesterday, I think.” He looked down at his plates, his eyes jumping between the various offerings. “Poor boy or shrimp, poor boy or shrimp, poor boy or shrimp . . .”

  “It’s po’ boy, not poor boy. You’re gonna get shunned by the locals before you take your second trip to the buffet.”

  Porter dug into the shrimp and followed with a forkful of the cheesy potatoes. His eyes lit up. “This is amazing.”

  “Leah Chase has been cooking here for seventy years. She’s in her nineties now. Still has the best fare in the city,” Sarah told him. “I’ve seen Ray Charles in here. Martin Luther King, Jr., used to stop by whenever he was in town. Barack Obama is even a fan. You gotta try this gumbo.”

  She held a spoonful out to him. Porter hesitated for a second, a flash of Heather feeding him passing through his mind—their anniversary two years ago at Carl’s Steakhouse.

  “Sam?”

  Porter snapped back, took the spoon, and tried the gumbo. Delicious.

  “Are you okay? I lost you there for a second.”

  The sun streamed in from a window beside their table, the rays glinting in Sarah’s eyes. The thumb of Porter’s left hand passed over the surface of his wedding band. He flexed his fingers, moved his hand to his lap.

  “We had a secondary development back at the prison,” he said, digging back into the potatoes. “I’ve been on the fence about telling you, but I think you should know.”

  “What?”

  He reached into his left pocket, pulled out the burner cell phone, and set it on the table. Then he reached into his right pocket, extracted the knife, and placed it beside the phone. “I didn’t have a knife or a phone with me when I arrived at the prison. Someone put these in my locker while we were talking to your client.”

  Sarah’s eyes went wide. “We should go back, tell the warden.”

  Porter shook his head. “That would be a bad idea. He would probably confiscate the phone, start some kind of investigation. He arrests whoever did it, and I lose an avenue of contact with Bishop.” He flicked the knife with his finger, the blade spinning on the table. “Bishop mentioned a knife like this in his journal. This might be the same one.”

  “You think Bishop gave you those things?”

  “Not personally, but someone working with him, yeah.” Porter looked down at the display. The phone was switched on and fully charged.

  “Can I see it?”

  Porter handed it to her.

  Sarah scrolled through the various menus. “It’s not a smartphone. The call log is empty, no stored contacts, no text messages. I don’t think it’s been used before.” She gave the phone back to him. “So now what? We wait for him to call?”

  Porter bit into his sandwich. “Now you go back to your office, and I head to the airport.”

  “Do you really think I’m going to let you do this on your own?”

  “I don’t recall extending an invitation.”

  “She’s my client. I deserve to know where this leads.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “From your burner phone?” She leaned across the table. “How many cops travel on official business without a gun or a phone of their own? How about you show me your badge? All I’ve seen are business cards. You could have made those down at the QuickCopy.”

  “Lower your voice.”

  She did lower her voice, and yet it cut him harder than when she shouted. “How do I know you’re not some kind of psycho pretending to be a cop?”

  “Let me see your phone,” Sam said calmly.

  “Why?”

  “Sarah, please.”

  She drew in a deep breath, then pulled her iPhone from her purse and handed it to him.

  Porter opened a web browser and typed in his own name. Dozens of articles came up, along with several pictures not only of him but of Anson Bishop and a few of 4MK’s victims. He handed it back to her.

  Sarah glanced down at the display, scanned the headlines, then shut the phone off. “You need to level with me, Sam. You can trust me. I want to help you.”

  So he did.

  He told her everything.

  66

  Poole

  Day 3 • 2:23 p.m.

  Poole’s eyes fluttered. He caught a glimpse of the hallway, tried to stand, and blacked out again.

  He wasn’t sure how long he had been out the first time or when he woke again. When he woke for the second time, he stayed down. He scanned the hallway through watery vision. He tried to listen to the house, but the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears fought him, drowning out nearly everything else.

  He lay there for minutes, perhaps seconds. Time and consciousness weren’t fluid anymore but instead became a rope ladder without a top, without a bottom, something he only tried to cling to.

  The drumming at his ears faded, replaced with the steady tick of a grandfather clock down the hall. He could see the side of it, but the face was turned the other way, the sweeping hands pointing toward something else.

  He freed his right hand and tugged his Glock from the shoulder rig.

  There was no sign of Bishop.

  Poole sat up slowly, first to a crouch, waiting for the dizziness to leave. His left hand found the tender spot on the back of his neck where Bishop had struck him. There was a lump the size of a fist back there. No blood, though. He might have a concussion but couldn’t be sure. Poole found his feet and forced himself to stand. A wave of white washed across his vision, and he steadied himself on the wall to keep from passing out.

  The gun felt heavy and al
most fell from his fingers. He gripped tighter, purposely pressing his finger into the sharp corner of the trigger guard, the bite of pain helping him focus.

  Poole started down the hall, his arms outstretched in a double hold, the gun’s barrel pointing at the ground ahead of him.

  The entrance hallway led to an open-concept dining and living room with a kitchen set into the back corner, all sparsely furnished. He swept all three spaces, then focused his attention on another hallway on the far side of the house, to the left of the living area. Unlike the one at the front door, this hall was narrow. He found a small bathroom at one end and a single bedroom at the other. The sheets atop the double bed were pulled taut. Bishop had made the bed.

  There was a dresser along the far wall. Three of the drawers stood open, all empty. Back in the bathroom, he found a wet sink but none of the typical toiletries.

  He got the feeling Bishop had been here for a little while, that it was some kind of sanctuary. He hadn’t expected a federal agent to show up on his doorstep. He got spooked and cleared out fast.

  Poole reached for his phone. It was gone.

  He returned to the hall, thinking he dropped it during the struggle with Bishop, but it wasn’t there either.

  Diener.

  Poole went to the door, tugged at the knob.

  Locked.

  Bishop had taken the time to lock the deadbolt on his way out.

  Poole fumbled with the thumb latch, his movements still not entirely his own.

  The winter wind rushed inside.

  Across the street, the door to the abandoned house stood open.

  Poole darted across the road, still holding his gun out in front of him, partially aware of the curtain falling back into place at the neighbor’s house, her body highlighted by the large green display behind her as the golf tournament cut to a car commercial.

  He didn’t realize he’d shouted Diener’s name until the sound of his own voice echoed back at him from the otherwise silent house, nor did he spot his body at first, propped up against the corner of the living room wall, his neck, coat, and shirt all soaked with blood.

  67

  Poole

  Day 3 • 2:26 p.m.

  The blood was warm.

  Poole pressed his index finger against Diener’s neck, already knowing what he’d find but compelled to check anyway. One of Diener’s lifeless eyes watched him, staring out from a narrow slit. The left eye had been removed, leaving a black void. Diener’s left ear and tongue were also missing.

  Bishop had punctured the retromandibular just under Diener’s chin, then sliced with a downward motion, opening the vein. Diener’s hand and arm were covered in blood. He’d apparently tried to stem the flow, but the effort proved futile. Most likely, he had bled out in under a minute.

  Poole could see the butt of Diener’s gun still secured in his shoulder holster. Bishop somehow surprised him—no time to retrieve the weapon. Diener probably heard the front door and assumed it was Poole returning.

  There was little blood at the missing ear and eye, suggesting they had been removed post mortem.

  Poole didn’t have much trouble finding these missing appendages.

  Portions of the graffiti had been cut out of the drywall, four squares in all. Bishop had cut out the poems written in black marker and placed Diener’s eye, ear, and tongue in three of the four dark openings.

  Poole’s heart thudded wildly in his chest, and the bump at the back of his neck ached. He bent back over and searched Diener’s body for his phone.

  Gone.

  When he stood back up, the sudden movement caused his balance to falter. He reached for the wall, his fingers feeling the dirty grit of it.

  Ten minutes would pass before he’d find the strength to get to the house next door and call for help.

  68

  Clair

  Day 3 • 2:30 p.m.

  “Why would Bishop be working with Libby McInley?” Clair asked.

  “More importantly, why would Libby McInley work with Bishop? He killed her sister, for Christ’s sake,” Nash replied.

  They were back in the war room.

  The image of Bishop in the truck had been blown up and printed and was now taped to one of the whiteboards at the front of the room.

  “We need to share this with the FBI,” Kloz said from the conference table. “These cases are connected to 4MK. They need to know.”

  Both Clair and Nash stared at him.

  He raised both hands defensively. “What? We can’t hold this back.”

  “Where is Libby McInley now? She’s out of prison, right? Does she have a parole officer or someone keeping tabs on her?” Clair asked.

  Klozowski pulled his laptop close. After a few keystrokes, his face turned white.

  “What?”

  Kloz’s eyes went wide, quickly scanning the text. “This is not good.”

  Clair shook her head, crossed the room, and turned the laptop screen so she could read.

  “Go ahead, I wasn’t reading that,” Kloz said.

  She raised a hand, silencing him.

  Kloz pushed back from the table on his wheeled chair.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Clair finally spat out, turning the display back to him.

  “Yeah,” Kloz said.

  “What is it?” Nash asked, crossing behind them.

  “Libby McInley was found dead last night by Poole and friends. Eyes, ear, and tongue removed. Tortured too,” Clair replied.

  Nash frowned. “If Libby and Bishop were working together, why would he kill her? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Does anything about Bishop make sense?” Clair glanced toward the door, the room across the hall occupied by the FBI. “Why didn’t those guys tells us?”

  Kloz blew out a breath. “Two seconds ago you wanted to withhold what we learned about Bishop, and you’re wondering why the FBI cut us out of the loop?” He spread out both hands. “Their case, our case. Different cases.”

  “Until now,” Nash said.

  “Until now.”

  Clair crossed the room and looked out into the hall. “I haven’t seen those guys since yesterday, have you? Their door is closed.”

  “I haven’t seen any of them since Porter’s apartment,” Nash said.

  Clair turned to him. “We should try Sam again.”

  Nash took out his phone and dialed. A moment later he shook his head. “Still voice mail, no answer.”

  “We need to go over there,” Klozowski said. “Something’s wrong.”

  “I thought you were afraid of getting in trouble. Thought he needs to take his medicine, got to follow orders,” Clair said.

  “That was an hour ago. Now it feels like something is wrong.”

  Nash was still staring at his phone display. “The kid’s right, this feels off. Sam doesn’t just drop off the radar like this. He’d answer for one of us.”

  Clair let out a breath. “All right. We figure out our next move, and we hit his apartment while we’re out.”

  Nash nodded. “Yeah, that works.”

  Clair walked back over to the whiteboards. “Okay, let’s focus here. We need to connect these dots. How does Bishop play into this mess?”

  There was a knock at the door, and all three turned to find Sophie Rodriguez standing there.

  Clair felt her face go slack. “Oh no.”

  Sophie stepped inside. There were bags under her eyes. Her arms hung limp at her sides. “I took the call ten minutes ago. Larissa Biel. About the same age as the others. She was supposed to attend a school dance tonight. Her mother wanted to surprise her, so she bought them a spa day. She went into the office for a few hours this morning, and when she got home, Larissa wasn’t there. She started calling around to her friends. None of them had seen her either. Because of the girls in the news, she got panicked and called Missing Children.” Sophie paused for a second. “I don’t know, this could be premature, but something feels wrong.”

  “When was she last seen?”
Clair asked.

  “Her mother said she was still sleeping this morning when she went to work. That was six thirty. Her father said there is no sign of a break-in and her room looks ‘normal,’ his word. Her boots, coat, and phone are gone.”

  Nash reached for his coat. “We need to secure the parents. If this is Bishop, they could be in danger like the others.”

  Sophie frowned. “What makes you think this is Bishop?”

  “We’ll tell you on the way.” He turned to Klozowski. “Kloz—”

  He was back at his computer. “I’m already on it. Checking all obituaries published in the past two weeks for Biel. What are the parents’ first names?”

  “Darlene and Larry,” Sophie said.

  “Do you have Larissa’s cell phone number? I’ll start a trace on that too.”

  Klozowski’s phone dinged.

  “I texted it to you,” she told him. “Their home address too.”

  “Get uniforms over there—tell them we’re on our way,” Clair shouted over her shoulder as the three of them raced down the hallway.

  69

  Poole

  Day 3 • 5:18 p.m.

  Poole stood in the center of the green house, Bishop’s house, with an ice pack pressed to the back of his neck. Federal agents had taped off this property as well as the abandoned home across the street and now swarmed over both. He watched them take out Diener’s lifeless body on a stretcher about an hour ago, only after all evidence was collected and the scene was properly documented.

  The woman in the pink robe moved a chair to her picture window and watched the activity with a mug in her hand, golf long forgotten. Agents interviewed her upon arrival but got nothing beyond what she had told Poole.

  Special Agent in Charge Foster Hurless stood beside him, his usual scowl etched on his face. “Tell me what happened again.”

  “I didn’t see a car in the driveway. He left on foot. He might still be close. I’m not doing any good standing here,” Poole said.

  “Medical needs to clear you, and we have a dead agent. I’ve got people going door to door. The only footsteps in the snow outside are on the walkway and the driveway. There’s no garage,” Hurless told him. “This place is small.”