by T. R. Ragan
It was difficult to tell what Drew might be thinking. He was pale, his eyes unblinking. The man probably had a million questions. More than likely, he was worried about his wife. And yet he seemed calm—too calm.
Jared didn’t want to put himself in Drew Scott’s shoes, not even for a minute.
Leaving the knife for now, Jared continued on to the main living area at the front of the house. He flipped another switch, lighting up the room. The front door was locked. No sign of a break-in. Four high-back chairs surrounded the dining room table. One of the chairs was knocked over. The table’s centerpiece, a bowl of plastic fruit, had also been moved. He added those two things to his mental what’s-wrong-with-this-room list and continued on, gun loaded and ready.
Next stop was a cherrywood curio cabinet in the dining room. The glass door was partially open. Empty spaces were obvious because of the markings left in the thin layer of dust, though the open door and the missing items were not what had immediately caught his attention. It was two live pine sawyer beetles crawling inside a lidded crystal heart dish.
They had their man.
Lizzy’s face flashed within Jared’s mind. He gave his head a quick shake to clear his vision. She’s fine, he told himself. He had seen her this morning and talked to her less than an hour ago. Something kept niggling in the back of his mind, though, making it difficult to concentrate.
He looked at the beetles. The Lovebird Killer had been here—might still be here. Focused, he continued onward. He checked the guestroom: nobody under the bed, nothing but winter coats and a collection of ski boots in the closet—nothing out of place. Moving on, he exited the bedroom and headed upstairs. At the top of the landing, he stood still. There was a noise—a dripping faucet to his right.
With slow, methodical steps, he entered the master bedroom. The right side of the bed had been disturbed. Another mental note: ask Drew if he had sat on the bed or taken a nap before reporting his wife missing. Jared glanced at the open book, but didn’t touch it.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
An insomniac’s nightmare.
The bathroom was all glass, marble, and titanium fixtures. It was an open layout with nowhere to hide. He shut off the valve that was making the racket. And that’s when he heard a scratching sound coming from the bedroom. Could be a rat in the attic—could be a killer.
On full alert, he stepped out of the bathroom and listened. The door to the closet was shut. As he walked that way, his feet sank into plush carpet. Pushing down on the chrome handle, he opened the door to the closet.
The inside of the closet was dark, nothing but shadows. He reached his left hand inside, brushed his fingertips against the wall until he found the light switch and flipped it on.
The inside of the closet was shaped like a horseshoe and nearly as big as the guestroom downstairs. His gaze went from the disheveled shirts hanging precariously from wood hangers to the carpeted floor beneath. A section of the carpet was tousled and stained. There had been a scuffle, and this, Jared quickly concluded, was where it had all started.
Gun drawn, he took slow steps toward the island in the middle of the walk-in closet where both sides met. A walk around the island gave him a full view of the entire closet. The shelves above his head were covered with shoeboxes and an assortment of accessories like purses and hats.
He stopped to listen again. The scratching noise had stopped.
He would open drawers later. For now he focused on the shirts near the light switch. Heading that way, he bent down and noticed a lone button and what looked like blood smears on the carpet.
John and Rochelle
Sacramento
June 2007
“Oh, God, what have I done?” Rochelle cried out, her hair dirty and stringy around her face.
Both of his hands were unrestricted now, and John worked frantically at the ropes around his ankles. The right leg came loose. One more ankle to go and he’d be free. “Rochelle,” he said. “It’s OK. We’re going to get out of here.”
She appeared to be delirious, her eyes wild as she rambled incoherently, her chains clinking as she paced a small area of the room. She was confused. In all the frenzy she had accidentally stabbed him more than once with the screwdriver, and she couldn’t handle the possibility that she might have hurt him. The pain was intense, but he tried not to alarm her. He used his shirt to stanch the flow of blood.
“You’re going to let me go?”
“I’m going to free us both, if that’s what you mean.”
He had no choice but to ignore her ramblings as he worked at getting loose. If he wanted to get them out of here, he needed to stay focused. He was almost there. Another minute, and he’d be able to work on the chains around Rochelle’s leg.
A siren sounded in the distance.
Rochelle’s head snapped up, her eyes wide, alert, hopeful.
John didn’t have the heart to tell her that nobody could possibly hear them down here. There were no windows, no way for anybody to hear their cries for help.
Rochelle must have sensed this, especially since the sound of the siren was growing fainter instead of louder.
She sank down to her knees, crawled away from him, and huddled in a corner, shivering.
John wanted nothing more than to get upstairs and beat the shit out of the guys who had done this to them, but his left leg was still tied to the chair. Until he could break free, he was defenseless. He grabbed the screwdriver and worked furiously at the rope on his left leg. Gritting his teeth, veins popping, he pulled his foot free.
I did it! For the first time in days, maybe weeks, he was able to push himself to his feet. Unsteadily, he stood there for a moment, his legs bent at the knees while he found balance. He took a step and then another. He wobbled, slipped on blood, and fell to the mattress where Rochelle had been sleeping every night for weeks. The smell of her brought tears to his eyes.
She didn’t move as he tried to remove her chains. Her despondency worried him. She’d been pushed over the edge and seemed to have given up. Each metal link was two inches in diameter. There was no way he could free her without the right tool to cut the metal clamp from her ankle.
He’d heard the men talking earlier, and he knew they could return at any moment.
They were running out of time.
He pushed himself to his feet again, staggered to the area where the tools were kept. There was nothing that could cut through metal. He made his way to the bottom of the steps and crawled his way to the top. His arms and legs felt like noodles. His breathing was shallow, his strength nearly gone. Dread prickled his skin. How was he going to save Rochelle?
The door opened easily. Thank God.
He hung tightly onto the wall and pulled himself to his feet. He looked from left to right. If one of the men returned and saw him, he was a dead man.
He hated leaving Rochelle, but it was the only way he could possibly save them both. Rochelle called out for help. Her cries squeezed at his heart as he staggered through the main room to the front door.
Slowly, quietly, in case someone was sleeping in one of the rooms, he turned the knob and opened the door. Fresh air touched his face. He breathed in.
The neighborhood was quiet; the streets were clear. Everything looked the same except that his car was gone.
Rochelle cried out for help.
He turned toward the main room, thought about trying to find another way to free her, but it was too risky. They would die—that much he knew. Every single one of the men who had done this to them would die by his own two hands—and soon.
But for now, he needed to get help. There was no other way. Stepping outside, he stumbled over leaves and dead branches scattered around the yellowing lawn. The sun was half hidden behind a layer of thick clouds. The neighborhood appeared sad and lifeless. Moving as fast as he could, which didn’t feel all that fast, he limped his way over a cracked, uneven sidewalk. He had no idea what day it was; he didn’t care. He knew only that he needed to find hel
p for Rochelle before darkness descended.
CHAPTER 27
All of the sudden I realized that I had just done something that separated me from the human race and it was something that could never be undone. I realized that from that point on I could never be like normal people. I must have stood there in that state for twenty minutes. I have never felt an emptiness of self like I did right then and I never will forget that feeling. It was like I crossed over into a realm I could never come back from.
—David Gore
Sacramento
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Jared spent most of the night trying to calm Drew down, reminding him that he wouldn’t be able to help his wife if he didn’t find a way to keep his composure. Since much of the evidence that needed to be collected was in Kassie’s and Drew’s bedroom, the upstairs was off-limits and Drew was forced to sleep in the guestroom while Jared took the couch.
Jared hadn’t slept much, but he must have dozed off for an hour because it was 4:00 a.m. when he awoke to the sound of a car door being shut. Jared headed through the kitchen to get to the garage. He found Drew Scott sitting behind the wheel of his car while holding a cell phone to his ear. He clicked his cell shut as soon as he saw Jared.
Jared noticed perspiration on Drew’s forehead.
“He made contact,” Drew said.
“Who made contact?”
“The guy who took my wife.”
Drew’s hands were shaking. His eyes darted from one side of the garage to the other. Something wasn’t right. Jared walked over to the car and peered inside. The backseat was empty. “Open the trunk,” he said.
Drew popped the trunk. It was empty.
“What are you doing?” Drew asked. “The man you’re looking for made contact. Aren’t you going to do something?”
“I’m doing it,” Jared said as he returned to the front of the car. “You need to stay calm.”
Drew snorted and turned on the ignition.
“Turn off the engine and hand me the keys,” Jared told him, his voice firm.
“I’m going to save my wife.”
“Turn off the engine. Now.”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on. What did you find upstairs, and how long are we going to sit here doing nothing?”
Jared needed to calm the man down. To do that, he would need to be honest with him. “There was a struggle upstairs in your bedroom closet.”
Drew’s head fell forward, his chin hitting his chest, his shoulders moving. He was crying.
Jared reached into the car, shut off the engine, and took the keys. “Where did he tell you to meet him?”
“I’m not supposed to tell you.”
“He knows you’re cooperating with the FBI?”
“I didn’t say anything about that,” Drew said, his voice flat, his eyes bloodshot. “He told me that if I made contact with the police or the FBI, the deal was off and Kassie would die.”
“Tell me where you’re supposed to meet him.”
“I can’t. He’ll kill her.”
Jared exhaled. “We’re here to help you and your wife, Drew. Tell me where you’re supposed to meet the man who called.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t live without her.”
“I do understand, Drew. I would never do anything to jeopardize Kassie’s life. You’ve got to let us help you.”
“The Shell station on Madison Avenue,” Drew said in a low voice. He closed his eyes. “He’s going to call again.”
“Did he say when?”
“No.”
“Tell me exactly what the caller said, Drew, so we can help Kassie.”
“There’s a pay phone at the Shell station on Madison,” Drew said, looking at his lap as he spoke, his voice shaky. “I was instructed to wait until the phone at the station rings. I am to go to the gas station alone. If I’m not the one who answers the phone, the deal’s off.”
Jared pulled out his cell phone and called Jimmy Martin. “It appears the unsub made contact with Drew during the night. He’s been instructed to drive to the Shell station on Madison Avenue.”
After relaying the rest of the information, Jared was given the go-ahead: Drew would be allowed to drive to the pay phone and wait for instructions. Jared disconnected his call with Jimmy and returned the car keys to Drew.
It wasn’t until Drew had a hold on the keys that he managed to look Jared square in the eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes tearing, his voice sincere. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“Didn’t have a choice?” Jared asked. But there was no need for Drew to explain, because even before Jared heard the loud static popping or felt the jolt of shocking pain in his neck, he saw movement to his right and realized he’d been duped.
Drew stepped out of the car and hovered over Jared, his face grim. “I had no choice,” he said again. “He’s going to let Kassie go now. It was the only way I could save her.”
The pain was intense. Jared’s body cramped, every muscle contracting. He had zero control over his body.
“Get in the car,” a man ordered, the same man who had hit Jared in the neck with a high-voltage stun gun.
Drew climbed in behind the wheel while the man hovering over Jared readied a needle.
“The effects of the stun gun won’t last long. That’s why I’ll need to inject you with a tranquilizer. It’s the only way I’ll be able to get you from Point A to Point B without being seen.”
Jared focused on the Lovebird Killer.
He’d spent the past nine months profiling the man, trying to get into his head using an in-depth analysis of each crime scene to gain insight into the motives of the man standing before him now. The Lovebird Killer was Caucasian, five foot ten, and bald. Everything about him appeared stretched out: a giraffe neck, long legs, and abnormally long fingers. His eyes were large, hollow, and blue, and appeared much too big for such a narrow face.
The spasms of pain from the Taser were beginning to subside when Jared felt the prick of a needle in his arm. His vision blurred.
“Where’s Kassie?” Drew asked the killer, his voice pleading. “Where can I find her?”
Jared looked at Drew. The man was a fool. He had no idea what he’d done. It was an unwise choice to think he could make a deal with a madman. Sadly, he’d find out soon enough that he might as well have just killed his wife with his own two hands.
“Look at your watch,” Jared heard the killer instruct Drew. “In ten minutes, not a second before, you’re going to open the garage door and drive to the gas station on Madison, exactly as we discussed. Once you arrive, you’ll get a phone call from me telling you where you can find your wife. Now shut the door.”
Jared heard the car door shut.
Right before he lost consciousness, he felt his body being dragged out of the garage, through the kitchen, and out the sliding door leading to the backyard.
Sacramento
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Jimmy Martin was already parked across the street when Drew Scott pulled into the gas station on Madison. Another undercover agent had followed Drew to the premises and was now parked kitty-corner to the station. They used their car radios to acknowledge each other’s presence.
Drew parked to the left of the pay phone and jumped out of his car. Standing by the phone, he continuously raked his fingers through his hair, clearly agitated. After a few minutes, he began to pace.
While Jimmy and his men waited for the killer to make contact, Jimmy called Jared again. Still no answer. He didn’t like the unwelcome thoughts running through his head. Something had gone wrong. He called one of his agents still positioned outside the Scotts’ house. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. No movement. No calls.”
“When did you talk to Jared last?”
“I’ve had zero contact.”
“I want you to move in, see what’s going on. Call me once you’re in.” Jimmy clicked his phone shut, exited his vehicle, and headed across the street
. He showed Drew his badge. “Jimmy Martin, FBI.”
Drew’s face grew pale.
“What’s going on, Drew?”
“What do you mean?”
Jimmy didn’t like the guilty look he saw in Drew’s eyes. “Tell me what’s going on or I won’t have any choice but to cuff you and take you in.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” Drew said. “He’s going to call.”
“What else did the man who took your wife tell you, Drew? Did he make you promises? Did he guarantee you that he would return your wife unharmed if you did exactly as he said?”
“How could you know that?”
Jimmy raked his fingers through his hair again. His phone rang and he picked up his cell.
“I’m inside,” the agent told Jimmy.
“What do you see?”
“It’s apparent that a heavy object, more than likely a body, was dragged through the house, dumped into a wheelbarrow, judging by the tracks in the lawn, and then pushed through a private gate that leads to a greenbelt—twenty acres of trees and tall weeds.”
“No sign of Shayne?”
“Afraid not.”
“Get forensics in there, pronto.”
“Already on it. They’re scouring the grounds, inside and out.”
As soon as Jimmy hung up, his phone rang again. “What’s up?”
“The pay phone is out of order. If Drew Scott has a telephone conversation, it’s not going to take place on the phone next to you.”
Jimmy clicked his phone shut, looked at Drew, and said, “Come on. You’re coming with me.”
“You don’t understand. I can’t leave. When that phone rings, I have to be the one to answer the call or he’ll kill her.”
“Nobody’s going to call.”
“That’s not true.”
