Snapped: An Agent Jade Monroe FBI Thriller Book 1

by Sutter, C. M.

  I stood and began. “I’ve had a personal experience similar to this one in the past, and in a sense, it actually is a hate crime. The hate is in the eyes of the killer, and they aren’t targeting a particular race, religion, or gender. Since the victims don’t have a personal connection, as in a work relationship, the same friends, or family in common, the only connection would have to come from the killer’s point of view. There’s something these people did that wronged him or her.” I paused while several people took notes, then continued. “Upon the coroner’s initial exam at each scene, he reported two evenly spaced burn marks on everyone’s neck, indicative of a stun gun. This is likely how the unsub disorients the victims before the actual murder takes place. That’s telling me the killer could either be a small person that needs an edge to subdue the victim or they have an accomplice that distracts the victim while the other hits them with the gun. A blitz attack, so to speak.”

  “Good point, Agent Monroe. Go ahead.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Think of road rage as an example. There’s a trigger that sets off the perp. He or she may run a totally unsuspecting driver off the road, they may shoot someone that’s sitting at a red light, or even follow a person to their workplace or home. None of these victims have anything in common with each other, but to the offender, they need to pay because somehow he or she was wronged. The trigger could be something as simple as a driver switching lanes suddenly, turning without using their directional, or even brake checking because the perp rode their bumper.”

  “That’s right, and all of those scenarios have actually happened numerous times throughout the last ten years or so,” J.T. added.

  “Great point, both of you. Let’s put the connection between the victims on the back burner for now and get in the head of the killer. They’re obviously trying to convey a message.” Agent Tam addressed J.T. and me. “Agents Monroe and Harper, I’d like you to follow up with the people the police interviewed. Dave and Bruce can help out with that.”

  “Ma’am, we’d also like to go out to the crime scenes ourselves. There may be critical information remaining that could give us important clues.”

  “Absolutely, Agent Monroe, and there are cars in the lot available for your use. Ask at the reception counter downstairs. Let’s meet back at”—she checked the time—“five o’clock, here in the conference room, and see what we have. That’s it for now.”

  Back downstairs, Dave and Bruce sat with J.T. and me around a table near the building’s entrance as we divided up the names by location. That was the most logical way to approach the follow-up interviews so we wouldn’t spend the day driving all over Houston. We began narrowing down people by phone calls to make sure we knew their whereabouts and whether they were available. That gave us a good number of people that day to speak with face to face. The 9-1-1 operator, Beverly Grant, lived on the outskirts of Houston to the east. Agents Miller and Starks pursued that one together so they could talk to the husband, who worked from home, the neighbors, and the occasional babysitter. They were located within a three-mile radius of each other. J.T. went to speak with the owner of Cornerview Surveying, the company Ted Arneson worked for, and then to the man’s home to talk to the wife. The bricklayer, the second person killed, worked for a large company on the outskirts of Houston called Cemcom. I’d take that one.

  We walked together to the parking lot, where we were told to look for vehicles that had a red sticker on the windshield. Those were the government-issued vehicles that were at our disposal for the time we were there. Agent Tam suggested we check into our rooms, freshen up, then hit the road within the hour. J.T. and I parted ways with Agents Miller and Starks and drove to the Lone Star Suites, only a mile up the road, where two rooms had been reserved in our names.

  We checked in and rode the elevator to the third floor.

  “Looks like our rooms are across the hall from each other,” I said as I slipped the key card into the slot and pushed the door open to room 302.

  J.T. did the same for room 305. “Hungry?”

  “A little. We did miss lunch unless you call a granola bar and coffee on the jet ‘lunch.’”

  “How long is it going to take you to freshen up?”

  I laughed. “I don’t know, I’ve never timed myself. Ten minutes, maybe.”

  “Good. I’ll bang on your door in ten minutes. We’ll grab something at that fast-food restaurant we passed on the way over here then split up after we eat.”

  “Sure, sounds good. I better get at that freshening-up thing. The clock is ticking.”

  A half hour later, we were sitting at an outdoor table, wolfing down our burgers and fries.

  “I’ll admit, brushing my teeth and washing my face does make me feel better. How far is that surveyor’s place of employment?”

  J.T. punched a few keys on his phone. “Twenty minutes from here. That’s doable. And Cemcom?”

  “A little farther. I believe it’s forty minutes away. Why are we interviewing the same people the police already have?”

  He swiped the air with a French fry. “It happens all the time. We need our own reports to go off of too since we’ll probably ask different questions than they did. That way we can combine our information with the police reports, do a lot of brainstorming, and come up with more leads. The more data we have to work with, the sooner we catch this wacko.”

  “I guess the procedure isn’t much different no matter what branch of law enforcement you’re in.” I coated a fry with ketchup and bit into it. “I think I’m going to like being an FBI agent. We aren’t confined to county and state borders, and we can really use our skills to pursue the worst offenders.”

  “That’s what it’s about, Jade, getting the bad guys off the street.”

  J.T. stared at me a little longer than I felt comfortable with. I knew he was reading my thoughts.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get him. Max Sims is far from brilliant. He’ll slip up sooner or later.”

  “I’d prefer sooner.” I wiped my mouth, balled up the wrappers, and tossed them in the nearest trash can. A brisk wind swept across the outdoor patio area. I looked up at the sky. “It looks like the weather is changing. Shall we?”

  Chapter 8

  The increasing wind whipped across the freeway and the memories returned of the storm on the last night of my dad’s life.

  Knock it off and focus on the GPS directions and your driving. You need both hands on the wheel with these wind gusts.

  I wasn’t accustomed to being in a sea of traffic, let alone freeways that were five lanes on each side. The drive needed my full attention, especially when I wasn’t familiar with where I was going. The robot voice on my phone said I was to exit the freeway a half mile up. I clicked my blinker to move over three lanes to my right. That in itself was a challenge. I wasn’t used to big cities, and Houston was nearly four times the size of Milwaukee.

  I took in a deep breath and relaxed my tight shoulders when I made it to the far right lane and exited the freeway. I turned right at the lights. I needed to go up three blocks to the intersection of Forty-Third and Franklin and turn left on Franklin. Franklin would take me out of Houston, and Cemcom was supposed to be at the end of the road. I drove at least five miles before I saw a monolith of a complex straight ahead. Enormous stacks and silos at the end of that dead-end road—along with multiple buildings all covered with a fine gray silt—told me I was at the right place. A sign at the fence had Cemcom written across it. I followed the road in and parked alongside the dust-covered cars, thankful that the wind was coming from the other side of the buildings. Wearing cement dust all afternoon wasn’t part of my fashion plan.

  I shielded my eyes as I walked at a quickened pace toward what looked to be the entrance of the complex. A long sidewalk, shaded by a pergola, led visitors and office employees to a grand foyer with a stained and polished cement floor. It was actually quite beautiful, and there was no shortage of cement at this facility, anyway. I walked up to a reception counter an
d asked the first woman that acknowledged me to direct me to the person that was bricklayer Jerry Fosco’s foreman.

  Her name tag read “Agnes,” and she stared at me as if I were crazy. “Ma’am, Cemcom employs four thousand individuals that are constantly on shift rotations. We have workers on the twelve-hour shifts, around the clock, and also the three eight-hour shifts, around the clock, as well. I need to know the shift Jerry worked and the day in question. This company never shuts down production.”

  I didn’t appreciate her tone and tried to make my point as I leaned forward across the counter with the cockiest grin I could muster. “Would you mind telling me how many of those four thousand employees lay brick at night, in the dark? I imagine that could eliminate half of them right out of the gate.”

  She was dumbstruck and without a smart comeback. “It’s going to take a few minutes. Have a seat”—she pointed—“over there.”

  I pulled out my badge. “Try to put a rush on that.”

  I grabbed a magazine out of the rack and walked to a grouping of comfortable looking upholstered chairs. I plopped down and flipped pages. I was surprised to see the same woman approach me just minutes later.

  “I can lead you to the department you need. Ask for Bob Giles.”

  “Wonderful.” I pulled out my notepad and wrote that name down as I followed her up a flight of stairs.

  She opened a door that had “Payroll” written across it.

  “Are you sure this is where we want to be?”

  “It’s the fastest way to track Jerry Fosco’s most recent foreman. The bricklayers are in a different division than the people that make the cement. Payroll has his name and the department head he worked for. Bob Giles is in charge of payroll. Tell him the name. He’ll track down Jerry’s boss.” She walked away.

  I shook my head with confusion. I’d have thought that in this day and age, a few phone calls could have put me in touch with the proper person. I was sure Agnes had just long hauled me as payback for my earlier comment. I turned around, but she was gone.

  “May I help you?”

  I faced the counter to see a pleasant looking young man smiling at me.

  “Yes, I need to speak to Bob Giles.”

  “Sure, give me one second.” He picked up the phone and paged Bob Giles to the reception counter. “He should be out any second.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bob showed up several minutes later, and I introduced myself. I explained how I needed to speak to the foreman Jerry Fosco had worked for during the last week. What I’d read on the police report showed they spoke only to someone in the personnel department. I wanted to speak to someone that worked directly with the man.

  “Sure, come on back. I’ll pull that information up for you on my computer.”

  We entered a small office with one guest chair. Bob motioned for me to sit, and I did. After a few keystrokes, he had the information I needed.

  “It looks like Jerry worked the eight-hour day shift last week, and Leroy Haines was in charge. Our method may seem complicated to you, but depending on the shift the employee works and whether it’s a day or night shift, the pay is different. We have to keep proper records of that.”

  “So you’re saying I need to speak to Leroy Haines?”

  “Yep, he’s your man.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “Well”—Bob scratched his head—“that might be tough.”

  “Humor me. I like tough.”

  “He’s at a jobsite until four o’clock. Everyone heads back in after that, cleans up, and punches out for the day.”

  “How far away is that jobsite? It’s imperative that I speak with him today.”

  “Let’s see if I can track down the location.” After Bob made a few more keystrokes while I drummed my fingers on my right knee, he had the location. “You’re in luck. It’s only three miles from here. Would you like the address?”

  “I’d love the address.”

  Chapter 9

  Jordan heard the door between the garage and kitchen open and close. She glanced at the wall clock and wondered why Kent was back home. The notepad she had sitting on her lap was quickly slipped under the recliner’s cushion for now. There was nothing she could do about the cigarette smell or the obvious ashtray. She hadn’t expected him back until sometime Sunday. Now, he was going to ruin her plans for later. Jordan fumed as she pulled the lever on the side of the recliner and got up. Her anger was palpable when she approached him as he walked into the kitchen from the garage.

  “What are you doing back home?”

  Kent sneered. “Nice greeting, Jordan. I’ve only been gone a few hours, and you’re sick of me already. Weren’t you supposed to have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon?”

  “No, you must have your dates wrong. Why are you back home?”

  “Haven’t you been outside? The wind is picking up, and a tropical storm is heading into the gulf. It’s supposed to dissipate later tonight, but the farther east I drove, the worse it got. I’m not driving all the way to Louisiana until it’s over.”

  Jordan twisted the wand on the kitchen blinds. She peered out at the sky. “It’s windy. So what?”

  “Well, you aren’t the one that would be driving in it for hours. The wind gusts are already at forty miles an hour. I’ll probably leave later tonight and stop at a motel along the way.”

  “Fine, but for now can you make your sales calls downstairs? I’d hate to interrupt you with my daily activities when you need to concentrate.”

  “I don’t need to make any calls, but it’s always nice to feel wanted. Smoking again? Jesus, it stinks in here.” Kent went to the window and turned the crank then reached across the counter and pulled the whiskey bottle closer. The cabinet above the sink held the rocks glasses, and he reached in for one. His eye caught a glimpse of the bottles of mood stabilizers and antidepressants that had been pushed to the back of the cabinet. “Trying to hide your meds now too?”

  “What are you doing?” Jordan rushed him, but he turned his back to her.

  With a quick twist of the bottle cap, he shook out the mood stabilizers into his open palm and counted them. “You haven’t taken any of these.”

  “Give me those damn pills.” Jordan pulled his hand back, and the pills dropped to the floor, scattering everywhere.

  “I’m calling Dr. Phelps. You haven’t taken a single pill. No wonder you behave like a lunatic.”

  “And that’s the opinion of a drunk?”

  “Either you take the pills or I make the call. I’ll have you committed myself. What’s it going to be?”

  “Fine, give me the pills. If anyone should be committed, it’s you. You’re pathetic.”

  Kent went for his phone. “I’m done.”

  “No. I’ll take the pills.” Jordan crawled on the kitchen floor until she found the fifteen pills and put them back in the bottle.

  She heard the water running at the sink, where Kent filled a glass.

  “Give me the bottle,” he said.

  She handed it to him. He opened it and counted the pills then kept one out. “Here, take it.”

  She slipped it into her mouth and wedged it between her teeth and gums.

  “Drink the water.”

  She did.

  “Open your mouth so I can see.”

  She complied then sneered at him. “Satisfied? What do you intend to do on the days you’re out of town?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Kent turned his back to her and opened the whiskey bottle. He tipped it over the glass and poured. “I’m hungry. How about a late lunch?” he asked as he took a seat on the recliner.

  She spat the pill into the sink and washed it down the drain. “Make it yourself.”

  Chapter 10

  I had to be at the right place. A sign on a construction fence read “Future home of CMS Realtors.” Work trucks lined the curb, and more were parked inside the chain-link fence. Most vehicles wore car door magnets that read Cemcom. It appeared that a
dozen or so workers were laying the cinder block foundation on this new project.

  Walking inside an active construction zone was probably prohibited, but I didn’t have a choice. I needed to speak with Leroy Haines. I pushed through the wind that battered my face with gritty sand and headed into the construction area, but I was stopped before I got my dust-covered right shoe beyond the fence.

  “Hey, lady, nobody is allowed back here without a hard hat and proper footwear.”

  I tried to pinpoint the person who yelled that out, but I couldn’t tell one face from another through the brown haze. I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled back. “I need to speak with Leroy Haines right away.”

  A man nodded, pulled off his hard hat, and wiped his brow. He called out to his crew to wrap things up for the day since the dusty wind impeded their work. He walked toward me with a disgruntled expression on his face. I held out my badge so we could cut to the chase.

  “Mr. Haines?”

  “Yep, that’s me.” He leaned in and studied my badge. “An FBI agent? Now what did I do?” He smirked and pointed at a small construction trailer. “Come on inside. Let’s get out of this wind so we can talk.”

  The interior of the trailer was about what I expected, but at least we were somewhere quiet. I sucked it up and sat on a grime-covered chair. I wasn’t sure if the dark pants I wore helped or not.

  “Mr. Haines, I’d like to ask you a few questions about Jerry Fosco. I understand he worked under your supervision for at least the last week. Am I correct?”

  “Yeah, Jerry worked for me. Sorry to hear about his demise, but I’m not surprised.”

  “Really? Can you expand on that for me?” I opened the folder and pulled out my notepad and pen.

  “Yeah, he had a short fuse. He didn’t work for me often, maybe one week out of every two months, but he always seemed to alienate the other bricklayers. Nobody worked as hard as he did, nobody did as good of a job as he did… it went on and on. He riled up a lot of people, I’ll tell you that. I even wrote him up a few times for his conduct.”