by Jeff Carson
He was no more than a hundred eighty pounds. His arms and legs were thin, carrying most of his weight in his gut.
“Yeah. I was thinking the same thing,” she said. “He either lost a lot of weight or this isn’t our guy.”
They opened the back door of the SUV and wrestled him into a lying position on the back seat.
“Check his pockets,” Rachette said stepping back.
She glared at him. “Like I enjoy digging in strange men’s pants for things? How about you do the honors.”
He rolled his eyes and ducked back into the SUV, rifling the man’s pockets. “Nothing in the front pockets … here.” He produced a wallet and opened it. His eyebrows came together when he looked.
“Who is it?”
Rachette gave her the wallet.
The driver’s license picture looked like a different man altogether. She bent inside and compared it to the man’s face, realizing it was just the lack of hair and beard in the driver’s license that threw her off. “Jim Brewer?”
“Definitely not our guy.”
“Not Fred Wilcox,” she said. “So why was he watching the crime scene?”
Rachette put his hands on his hips. “Jesus. The guy was probably just taking a leak on the side of the road and Wolf saw him.”
She thought about it and shook her head. “Wolf said there were three news vans and this guy was watching them and looking down at the crime scene. Not taking a leak.” She set down the wallet on the seat and eyed the house again. “And why was he driving like that? He was trying to get away from us.”
Rachette shook his head.
“We have to check the house.”
“All right,” Rachette nodded. “Shut the door. Let’s go.”
They climbed back in and drove.
Jim Brewer smelled awful in the back seat, like chopped onions that had been sitting around for a week.
Rolling down the windows all the way, she stuck her face in the wind as they pulled into the man’s driveway and parked.
Music came from inside the house, rattling windows covered from the inside by blankets.
She pulled her gun and Rachette came next to her and did the same.
Stepping up onto a four-foot slab of cracked concrete, she knocked five times with the side of her fist and stepped back.
They waited with guns raised halfway.
The music went silent and a finger appeared at the edge of the blanket, pulling it aside. An eyeball appeared and disappeared, then the blanket dropped back into place.
“Sheriff’s department!” Patterson said. “Please open up!”
For a few seconds nothing happened, and then a voice came from the other side of the door. “Sheriff’s department?”
“Yes ma’am! Please open up!”
The one drawback of being a detective was that sometimes people didn’t recognize them as law enforcement. Their badges were prominent on their belts, but not in a high stress situation like this one. The SUV was dark gray and unmarked. They wore jeans and button up shirts, so for all this woman inside knew, Rachette and Patterson were two crazy people pounding on her door and wielding guns.
It was a real possibility that that was why Jim Brewer had been driving so offensively. Had he seen them as cops or as crazy people attacking him with guns?
The door cracked open. “Please don’t shoot me!”
“We’re not going to shoot,” Rachette said, “as long as you come out with your hands where we can see them above your head.”
Two open hands came out of the doorway first, followed by a skin-and-bones woman in her late thirties. Or forties. She was clearly an addict and the drugs had aged her at an unknown rate.
“What’s going on?” The woman squinted and put a hand over her eyes. “What do you want?”
Rachette gave Patterson a glance, his eyes saying, What now?
Patterson lowered her weapon and stepped forward. “Ma’am, we have probable cause to believe you and your … husband?”
The woman frowned. “Husband?”
“That you and your husband may have kidnapped a woman.”
“Kidnapped?” Her eyes went wide. “We kidnapped a woman?”
Rachette pointed his finger. “You kidnapped a woman?”
“Please step off the porch, ma’am.” Patterson ushered the woman off the concrete onto the dirt.
The woman was barefoot. “Ow. No, we didn’t kidnap anybody. Did not. I didn’t say—”
Rachette grabbed the woman’s arm and led her toward the rear of their SUV. “Please step over here, ma’am.”
Patterson pushed on the front door of the house and aimed her weapon. It took a second for her eyes to adjust from the bright afternoon sun to the cave-like interior. “My God.”
“What?” Rachette ran up and stopped next to her. “Jesus Christ.”
They stood dumbfounded inside the doorway. For years they had entered other peoples’ houses and for years Patterson had been amazed at how far some people could let their houses go without cleaning a lick. She refused to step foot in Rachette’s apartment for that very reason. But this place …
“This is the dirtiest place I’ve ever seen in my life,” Rachette said. He slapped her on the back and walked back into the sunlight. “I searched his pants. Have fun. I’ll be out here with … what was your name, ma’am?”
She took a breath and stepped inside, her Glock leading the way. It was hard to keep her focus forward. She kicked aside a Styrofoam cup, an empty can of Pringles, what looked like a muddy pillowcase—God, she hoped that was mud—and then stepped onto a stack of junk mail, which slid underneath her boot.
There were dozens of black trash bags strewn around the room, all of them looking like a bear had ripped into them and all of them with actual trash spilling out. It was like she was strolling through the county dump.
She took to shuffling forward, kicking aside things as they blocked her progress. Twice she saw mice skitter away in her peripheral vision.
Though she dreaded it, she stepped into the kitchen, and it was worse than she could have imagined. A cloud of flies had taken over the place, dining on the leftover food on the stacks and stacks of dishes that filled the sink and every square inch of the tiny kitchen counter.
She turned and left the kitchen. Entering a hallway, she had to climb around pieces of furniture to reach two bedrooms. One was a nest of dirty sheets on top of a concave mattress surrounded by clothing and more trash, and the other housed a huge pile of boxes and junk.
“Anyone here?”
There was no answer, save the buzzing flies in the kitchen down the hall.
A door at the end of the hallway was blocked by a bag of trash and an ironing board.
She breathed into the sleeve of her shirt a few times and held her breath.
Moving the debris out of the way, she opened the door and found a pitch-black space. It was hot inside. She pulled the flashlight off her belt and flicked it on.
It was a garage with a different category of junk stacked floor to ceiling in it—three washer and dryer sets that were rusty and dented, a wheelbarrow, a car with no tires sitting directly on the ground.
If these two people were kidnappers, they had no place to keep their victims in this house. How they lived here was beyond her.
With eyes watering and her lungs convulsing for air she refused to give them, she zigzagged her way through the hallway, back through the living room and back out the door.
“Anything?” Rachette asked as she exploded out of the house.
She put her hands on her knees and sucked in a deep breath, then coughed. Putting her hands on her head, she walked away and faced the meadow, drinking in the view of the swaying grass and trees. The blue sky.
“That bad, huh?” he asked.
She turned on her heel, searching the property for outlying buildings. There were none.
“This is Sheila Johnson,” Rachette said. “She’s a friend of Jim Brewer.”
Sheila was standing at ease
now, her hands by her side. “You just missed Jim,” she said. “He left to get Cokes a few minutes ago.”
“He went to go get Cokes,” Rachette said.
Patterson turned her head and looked at the still smoking maroon sedan across the meadow. It was tucked in the shade, but clearly visible next to the road. She eyed their SUV and saw no movement inside the rear windows. Jim Brewer was still out cold in the back seat.
“Well.” Rachette stretched his hands over his head. “We appreciate your cooperation. We’re going to be leaving now.”
“Good.” Sheila Johnson stepped gingerly across the ground and disappeared into the house. A second later the door slammed shut.
Patterson put a hand on her forehead.
“I think we’d better move,” Rachette said climbing back into the SUV.
Patterson sucked in a breath through her nose, filling every last bronchiole of her lungs with clean air, then climbed inside the passenger seat.
Chapter 23
Wolf, Luke, and Hannigan left Fred Wilcox’s last known place of residence and drove eleven blocks north to Buntley Mortuary, Fred Wilcox’s last known place of employment.
Buntley Mortuary was a brown and white Victorian house tucked amid old trees. Old bushes and trees trimmed in rounded geometric shapes bulged through a wrought iron fence that surrounded the place. The lawn was dark green and lush, manicured with fresh mow lines.
A man waited for them outside the gate. He was thin and tall, standing ramrod straight with the posture of a younger man, but his face looked like he was pushing seventy years old. His eyes were blue, the corners of them turned down, making him look perpetually concerned. Probably a genetic trait that made his family successful at their chosen profession of undertakers, Wolf thought.
“Mr. Buntley?” Luke asked, shaking his hand.
“Yes, and you must be Special Agent Luke. You’re even lovelier than your voice on the phone.” The man’s voice was quiet, well-oiled machinery.
Wolf and Hannigan stepped up and shook the man’s long hand and let Luke do her thing.
“We need to ask you a few questions about one of your former employees,” Luke said. “A man named Fred Wilcox?”
Terrence’s eyes changed, concern showing a sliver of fear. “What about him?”
“We’re looking for him,” Wolf said. “Have you talked to him?”
“Not for years. Two years.” Terrence turned to the gate. “Listen, can we go inside? I need to check on a few things now that I’m here.”
Great, Wolf thought. If there was one thing creepier than a morgue, it was a funeral home. Twice he’d had to watch his mother shop for a casket to bury his father and brother. Setting foot inside places like these brought him back to a bad place and time.
Terrence inserted a key into a slot in the wall and the gate swung open with an electric buzz.
They followed him up a cobblestone driveway, and then up some concrete stairs to a hand-carved white painted door that opened silently.
Compared to the heat outside it was cold inside. The air had a formalin smell.
The entry room had vacuum-striped green carpet that looked like a golf course fairway. It was silent, as one would expect a funeral home during closing hours would be. Light spilled in a stained glass window, painting a shiny show-casket with color.
“Please, make yourselves comfortable if you like.” The undertaker pointed at a row of cloth and wood seats and went to a computer that perched on a wooden desk.
“Uh, no thanks,” Luke said. “We understand Fred Wilcox worked here full time. Is that correct?”
Terrence studied a piece of mail and ran a finger through his hair, which was so full and gray it drew suspicion. “He was our janitor.”
Wolf took a few steps and got a view into the interior of the home. It was unlike many of the Victorian homes Wolf had seen before. Rather than a choppy design with many rooms, the interior had been blown out, and there was a large room with a vaulted ceiling. There were more caskets on display set at a diagonal, like parked cars at a used lot.
“Those are our caskets for sale,” Terrence said to Wolf, following his eyes. “Around back is where we do the embalming or the cremation, depending on what the deceased next of kin want.”
Nodding politely, Wolf turned to a rack of brochures standing next to the stained glass window and picked one up. It said, “Have You Considered Donating Your Loved One’s Remains to Science and Education?”
“Ah,” Terrence walked around his desk toward Wolf. “That’s an interesting program we do with the university. People can earn credit toward the cost of their funeral services by loaning their remains to science for a short period.”
Wolf put down the brochure like it was diseased. Despite the cool air, Wolf was beginning to sweat.
“Can you tell us about how Fred Wilcox left the job?” Luke asked. “Was it on good terms?”
“Most certainly not.” Terrence snarled his lip. “He just stopped coming one day.”
“Do you know what exact day that was?” Wolf asked.
Mr. Buntley chewed his lower lip. “No.”
“Can’t you check in the computer?” Wolf asked.
“Oh, I wouldn’t know where to begin with that.” He chuckled. “I … remember it was August, though, because I remember we had to hire another driver. It was a big fiasco. I was out of town. The exact date, though? I could get back to you on that tomorrow when my daughter comes in to work. She’s the HR person.”
“You said you had to hire another driver? Was he your driver?” Wolf asked.
“Yes.”
“I thought he was your janitor?” Hannigan asked.
“Yes. He was. He was our van driver as well.”
Hannigan blinked. “What does a van driver do?”
“He was in charge of pickups. Deceased pickups. He brought them from the hospital, county morgue, accident sites, or wherever, to here.”
“Did he work other employees?” Luke asked.
“No. He was solitary most of the time.”
Time alone with dead bodies. Fred Wilcox definitely followed his passion.
Luke looked at nothing in particular and nodded, clearly thinking along the same lines as Wolf. Hannigan had stopped his own reading of a brochure and was looking over his shoulder.
“What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?” Terrence smiled self-consciously.
“Did anyone come speak to you after Fred Wilcox left?” Luke asked. “Like, a police officer?”
He pulled down his lips and looked to the ceiling. “No. Not that I can remember. But I’ll ask my daughter about that, too. If it were August, I would have been fishing for most of the month. That’s my fishing month.”
“Could you please call your daughter and ask her?” Luke asked.
“Right now?”
She nodded.
“Well, yes, I suppose.” Buntley walked to the desk and picked up a phone. Dialing, he waited for a minute and then left a quiet voicemail to his daughter. “She wasn’t there. I’m sorry.”
Luke nodded and handed him a card. “Please, if you could check with your daughter tomorrow and let us know what she says, it would be much appreciated. Please ask her when exactly Fred Wilcox left, and then if someone, a police officer, came and talked to her about him.”
Studying the card in his hand, Terrence nodded, new concern etching his features. “Yes. Of course. Ask when Fred left, and then if a cop came asking about him. I will, special agent.”
Satisfied with his response, Luke looked at Hannigan and Wolf.
Wolf was the first out the door.
When they were outside the gates of the place Hannigan turned to them and raised his sunglasses. “I’m going to say this one more time, then I’m going to start pulling off heads. We need to eat.”
“Don’t have to convince me,” Wolf said. His stomach felt like it was trying to digest itself.
Luke and Hannigan’s phones chimed at the same time.
/> “Message says call immediately …” Luke tapped her phone screen and put it to her ear. “Luke here … yes … what?”
Wolf’s phone started vibrating. It was Patterson.
“I meant it about eating.” Hannigan folded his arms and leaned against the brick wall.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me.” It sounded like Patterson was in the car. “Hey, we found the maroon sedan from your pictures.”
He turned and looked at Luke. She was talking excitedly, clearly getting the same news from her own source.
“Yeah? And what about the guy driving it?”
“It’s not Fred Wilcox.”
He waited for her to continue.
“It’s his cousin, though.”
“His cousin?”
“Yeah. The feds are interrogating him at the hospital right now. Rachette and I just left and are on our way back to the station.”
“Tell him where it was,” Rachette said in the background.
“What? Oh, yeah it was in Cave Creek. We found him in Cave Creek.”
“He’s in the hospital? What happened?”
“We blocked the road and he careened off into a ditch. Hit his head on the windshield. He’s conscious now and talking to the feds.”
“And what’s he saying?” Wolf asked.
“We don’t know. Surprise-surprise, they pushed us out of there.”
Luke was pacing now, eyeing Wolf as she listened to her own phone.
“Okay, nice work. I have to go.” Wolf hung up.
“... all right,” Luke said. “Sounds like it. Okay, see you soon.” She hung up. “That was Todd. I guess you heard your deputies picked up a guy named Jim Brewer, apparently the same man you saw at the crime scene. He’s Fred Wilcox’s cousin.”
“A cousin living outside of Rocky Points?” Hannigan asked. “How the hell did we miss that?”
“Brewer is Wilcox’s second cousin on his mother’s side. What can I say, we missed him.”
“What’s he saying?” Wolf asked.
She shrugged. “They’re still talking to him right now. But apparently he mentioned something about an investigator coming to talk to him a few years ago about his cousin, Freddie.”
Wolf pulled his eyebrows together. “An investigator? Attakai?”
