To Catch a Killer

by Kimberly Van Meter

  Matthew lapsed into stony silence, which didn’t seem to faze Oren at all. He continued, saying matter-of-factly, “I never did understand that woman’s fascination with Neal. I know he was your best friend and all, but the kid was like an egg with a hairline crack. Eventually, that egg was going to bust open or go bad. That’s just the way of things.”

  “Neal wasn’t a bad guy,” Matthew protested, mildly confused at Oren’s statement and the direction of the conversation.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Who’s to say at this point? The boy died before we ever got the chance to know. I’d say that’s a blessing. Wouldn’t you?”

  Matthew shrugged, Oren’s words hitting an un comfortable chord. Matthew and Neal had been friends from the moment they met—something inside the two boys had connected and held fast. Matthew didn’t think he’d ever be able to see past their bond to what was perhaps a bad seed deep down. The knowledge bothered him more than a little.

  Finally, he answered Oren’s question. “I don’t know. But I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t miss him. Having Kara around reminds me of everything in the past, both good and bad. Not quite sure what to think about that.”

  “Kara’s the one who made something of herself when the chips were down. I can’t imagine being pregnant and alone in a strange town with a new job is a situation many women could handle. Neal gave up—cracked under the pressure—with less to deal with other than his wounded pride.”

  “Did you know that Neal applied to the FBI?” Matthew asked, so startled at the possibility that he stopped and turned to look at Oren. He was shocked by Oren’s answer. “Yes.”

  Was he the only one who’d been left in the dark? His bitterness leached through to his tone as he said, “Glad to know I was low on everyone else’s need-to-know list. How’d you find out?”

  “He needed a recommendation from a superior. At the time I was his captain. Don’t let it eat at you, son. Neal had secrets that had nothing to do with you. But I’ll tell you this…you didn’t know Neal as well as you thought. Neal let you see as much as he wanted you to see because I think deep down he loved you and didn’t want to see you get hurt.”

  Matthew felt sick. “Is there something I should know, Oren?”

  Oren’s mouth tightened, as if he was fighting a battle with himself, and he finally let loose a short exhalation when he’d reached his decision. “No sense in dragging out the secrets of a dead man when he’s not around to defend himself. Just suffice to say that Neal would’ve never made it into the FBI, even if he had passed the psych test.”

  “What are you talking about?” Matthew asked quietly, suddenly needing to know what had been going on in Neal’s life that he’d been totally oblivious to.

  “Ah, hell, I should’ve kept my trap shut,” Oren muttered, glancing away. “It ain’t my place.” Frustration marked the older man’s face, deepening the lines around his eyes as his gaze roamed the wild terrain. “I’m just tired of watching you give up your own life because of guilt you feel for a man who really wasn’t even in your league.”

  “I slept with his fiancée,” Matthew said. “That’s not exactly something I’m proud of and certainly not something that puts me in some shiny, clean place. We’ve all made mistakes.”

  “Neal was about to get fired,” Oren stated, turning to look Matthew square in the eyes. “Bad egg. That’s what he was behind that shit-eating grin of his. Stop wasting your time feeling anything for that boy. You hear? Kara deserved better. God has a way of sorting things out. By my way of thinking, that’s exactly what happened when Neal went out James Dean style. End of story.” Oren pushed past Matthew, leaving him to sort out his stunned feelings. He was a few yards ahead of him before he turned and stared in annoyance. “You coming? Or you going to stand there wasting more time?”

  Matthew stared after the stocky figure of Oren as he picked his way, surefooted and strong, through the forest ground cover creeping across the path.

  Neal? Fired? How could he have missed something like that?

  Shaking free of the direction of his thoughts—compelling and disturbing as they were—Matthew hurried to catch up to his partner.

  When they finally got to Bernie’s house, it was just as empty and deserted as the last time Matthew was there and that sense of foreboding returned. He exchanged a look with Oren.

  Oren pulled his weapon and gestured with a short jerk of his head as he whispered, “I’ll go check ’round back.”

  Matthew pulled out his own piece and nodded. Prickles danced along his nape and a discomforting tickle made his guts spasm. He knocked on the front door. “Bernie? It’s me, Chief Beauchamp. I need to speak with you. Bernie? You in there?”

  No answer. Matthew shook his head—so much for doing this the easy way—and kicked the door open. It swung free and slammed into the wall, the sound loud and jarring. Still no sign of life. He did a quick check of the two rooms in the shack, and finding them empty, returned outside to find Oren.

  He was just clearing the threshold when Oren hollered, “Over here!”

  Matthew broke into a sprint in the direction of Oren’s voice. He skidded around the corner to see Oren hunkered down beside the dead and mottled body of Bernie Poff.

  “Ah, shit,” Matthew cursed, holstering his gun and pull ing his radio to his mouth to get dispatch on the line. “We’ve got an 11-44 at Bernie Poff’s property. Get Humboldt County Coroner out here ASAP.”

  “10-4.”

  Matthew bent down, same as Oren, on the other side of Bernie’s body. He swore again. “Looks like he’s been out here at least overnight, which means he was likely dead when Kara and I came out here the other day.”

  Oren agreed, then looked at Matthew, his expression grim. “I think we’ve got ourselves a problem. This was personal,” he said.

  “I think you’re right. Something tells me Bernie knew more than he should’ve. Damn old bugger.” Regret tasted bitter on his tongue. He was hoping Bernie had nothing to do with this mess. But it would seem at least Bernie wasn’t the killer. That was something. Only…the killer had to be someone Bernie knew.

  “Whatcha got?” Kara asked, leaning down to peer at D’Marcus’s computer screen.

  “An architecture student at George Washington University, named Bernice Walz. I saw her name come up on the search but honestly, I looked right past her because she was put away in prison seven years ago for attempting to blow up the Smithsonian when she was just a freshman.”

  “Talk about ambitious,” Zane muttered.

  “More like, talk about crazy. Apparently, this chick joined some kind of cult right about the time she got to the college. You know they recruit from the campuses, best way to snag fresh meat.”

  “Away from home for the first time, needing a friend, they’re ripe for the picking, especially someone who has a borderline personality disorder, which I suspect our killer does,” Kara murmured, a frown creasing her forehead as memory asserted itself. “Hey, I remember that case. It was pretty big at the time. I was just a field agent but I got lucky and the senior agent pulled me in on some of the action. Mostly just the grunt work—paperwork, gopher activities—but I got to work with some of the best in the bureau. It was quite a coup for a young agent.”

  “I bet,” Zane agreed. “So what do you remember about this Bernice woman?”

  Kara searched her memory, that incident nearly forgotten after so much time. “Well, she was certainly bonkers. We never actually caught the mastermind of the plan and she wouldn’t turn on whoever was pulling her strings. In fact, it turned out to be pretty anticlimactic. Not that I wanted things to go down in a hail of gunfire but I remember being disappointed on how uneventful her capture was.”

  “How’d you find her?” Dillon asked.

  “Pure luck. We found out that she used to hang out at this café near the Smithsonian. The clerk recognized her picture. Said she was the ‘weird chick who stared at the museum for hours.’ I think she was waiting for a signal or a sign or some
thing, who knows? We were never really able to unlock that brain of hers. Suffice to say when we caught her inside the museum, she had a bag full of explosives and a note inside her jacket.”

  “Was it a suicide note?” Dillon asked.

  “I don’t know. It mostly railed against the establishment, ‘the man’ and how greed and the love of money can only be eradicated by extreme action.”

  “So why a museum? Why not a bank?”

  “Because this cult believed that the nation’s antiquities shouldn’t be in the hands of the government. Plus, there was something about the evils of the past being doomed to repeat, yadda yadda…the courts deemed she was nuts and put her into protective custody. I don’t think she actually did any time but I thought she’d be locked up for the rest of her life.”

  D’Marcus looked grim. “Apparently, good behavior goes a lot further than it used to.”

  A frisson of alarm followed D’Marcus’s statement. “What?” she asked.

  D’Marcus turned the screen so Kara could read it.

  Bernice Walz had been released from St. Elizabeth’s Hospital three months ago.

  About the same time the first victim went missing.

  “Pull the old file on the Smithsonian case. I want to know everything there is to know about Bernice Walz…and find out if there’s a connection between her and Bernie Poff.”

  In the meantime, Kara needed to make a few calls.

  Chapter 17

  While Kara waited for the right connection to the doctor who had treated and subsequently petitioned for Bernice Walz’s release, her thoughts went to Matthew. She wondered what luck he was having at the Poff residence. She hoped he was getting the old codger to come peacefully for questioning. There was no glory in dragging an old man around. Before she could think further on that score, the doctor came on the line.

  “This is Dr. Yunez. Can I help you?” Dr. Louis Yunez’s voice was thick with an accent and age but not so much that he seemed addled or hard to understand.

  “Dr. Yunez, this is Special Agent Kara Thistle with the FBI CARD Team. We’re investigating the Babysitter serial murder case and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Yes. I saw that case on the news. Terrible business. Anything to help, Agent Thistle.”

  So far so good. Kara decided the best way to do this was to jump right in. “We have reason to believe a former patient of yours at St. Elizabeth’s may be involved with the case.”

  “Oh? Which patient?”

  “Bernice Walz. Do you recall the details of her case?”

  The doctor’s long exhalation told her he did. “Of course. Troubled girl at first. Complete mental breakdown after an unfortunate incident that happened shortly after she arrived. For weeks she did nothing but rock herself and sing one of those old nursery songs. Sad story.”

  “Let me guess…‘Pop Goes the Weasel’?” she offered, another piece sliding into place of the mental case that was Bernice.

  “Yes, that was the one. I think it was something her mother used to sing to her, perhaps as a child, but well, as I said…sad story.”

  “Sad how?” She didn’t realize being part of a cult was considered fodder for a sob story. “She tried to blow up the Smithsonian.”

  “Yes. An unfortunate incident. When she came to St. Elizabeth, she was very confused and we often had to restrain her for her own good. Quite violent outbursts at times but after a while she changed and became eager to make amends for what she’d done. You have to remember she was so young when it all happened and she was brainwashed.”

  Kara didn’t believe that for a moment. She’d seen the young woman in action. That chick had had crazy eyes back then; Kara could only imagine what was going through her mind now after spending time in a mental institution. If Bernice turned out to be their suspect, Kara hoped her time spent in St. Elizabeth had been full of electroshock therapy sessions. Pulling her thoughts back from the brink of being unprofessional, she returned to her questioning. “Be that as it may…why was she released? It was my understanding that she’d be in the care of St. Elizabeth’s for the rest of her life. I distinctly remember the judge saying she was a danger to herself and others.”

  “Rehabilitation success.” Dr. Yunez sounded dry, as if he didn’t actually believe in what he was saying.

  “You’re telling me that Bernice Walz was somehow cured of her mental illness?” Try as she might, Kara couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice. She tried again, this time with less snap in her tone. “Please explain. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Well, she was very young…sometimes, there’s a level of success—”

  Kara cut in. “Please, doctor. We don’t have time for this. There’s a child out there, the fourth victim of the Babysitter, who will die if we do not find her before the suspect snuffs out her life. I don’t want to hear about statistical data. I want the truth. Why was Bernice Walz discharged?” The long silence was weighted with tension. Kara griped the phone tighter. She was close to screaming. “Dr. Yunez…”

  “Budget cuts.”

  “Excuse me?” That she hadn’t been expecting. “How does that affect inmates in state custody?”

  “We just don’t have the room to house them any longer. We keep the ones deemed psychotic, but those with mild to moderate personality disorders or who haven’t exhibited any signs of previous behavior—and I must say Bernice was a model patient—well, the state has authorized the director to rehabilitate and reinstate them into society.”

  “You just turn these people onto the street?” Her tone was incredulous. Her head was reeling at the ramifications.

  Dr. Yunez regained some spirit and he sputtered indignantly. “Of course not. We have several homes purchased as group homes for this very purpose. It’s really quite ingenious and forward thinking. We have a very high success rate of positive integration.”

  “Do you keep a log of these rehabbed people?” Kara tried not to grit her teeth. Damn red tape bullshit. Those people were put there for a reason. Rehab my ass. “Please tell me the hospital keeps track of their comings and goings.”

  “Well, for a time, yes. But…we don’t always manage to catch them all. Some slip through the cracks and we assume they’ve gone to find themselves a better life.”

  “Or they go on a killing spree,” she muttered. “When was the last time Bernice Walz checked in?”

  “Oh, let me see here…” The sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard sounded, then Dr. Yunez came back. His tone was moderately flustered. “It seems…”

  “She slipped through the cracks?” Kara finished for the doctor.

  She heard him swallow. “Yes…it would seem that way,” he finished lamely.

  “I’ll need her complete case file e-mailed to me immediately,” she said, and he protested.

  “I can’t do that without a warrant, you know that Agent Thistle. Patient confidentiality.”

  Kara didn’t have time for this crap. “Are you aware that one of the Babysitter’s victims was none other than Senator Nobles’s son? This is high profile and people higher up on the food chain want this case closed. There isn’t a judge in the state who wouldn’t give me a warrant for that information. Have it ready. The warrant will be ready within the hour. Thank you for your help, Dr. Yunez. The federal government appreciates your assistance.”

  And she hung up. Technically, she shouldn’t have been the one making the call. As acting team leader at this point, it should have been Dillon but Kara couldn’t stop herself. She felt close. The tension in her gut pushed her to keep going. There was no way she could sit on the sidelines when there was so much at stake. Hopefully, the good doctor didn’t start poking around too much. It would be awfully embarrassing if Director Colfax caught wind of her involvement. At that she actually smiled. There was so little joy in her life at this moment…the thought of making that man’s head explode was a sweet one and she savored it, even if it was a brief pleasure.

  “I’ve got a bad f
eeling about this,” Matthew said, looking to Oren as the coroner loaded Bernie’s body into the rig. It was a miracle the coroner’s vehicle was able to maneuver up the mountainside; it wasn’t exactly built for off-roading. “Who’d want to kill Bernie Poff? He’s got no enemies that I know of. He was basically a harmless old fart.”

  “Who had a sizable marijuana crop,” Oren pointed out.

  Sure, there was that, but hell, who didn’t in this area? Matthew didn’t think his crop had anything to do with his death. No, he was willing to bet his pension that whoever killed Bernie had something to do with the case they were working.

  “Bernie got any next of kin?” Matthew asked, rubbing his chin in thought. “I know he doesn’t have many friends. Poor old bastard.”

  Oren shook his head. “Damn shame to die all alone like that. No family that I’m aware…although…” Oren stopped, his face scrunching in thought. His next train of thought came out slowly, as if he weren’t entirely sure if his memory could be trusted. “You know…he was married once. Long, long time ago. Damn, I can’t even remember her name anymore. Completely forgot about that. Want me to check the county records?”

  “Yeah. He owns this property. He’s gotta have someone listed as the next of kin.”

  Briana stiffened. The woman was coming back. She tried to remain still as a mouse, and possibly as small. If she could melt into the wall of the house, she would. Her arms ached from being pulled behind her at an awkward angle for too long and her fingers were numb. She tried wiggling them but it hurt too much to keep at it. Her stomach growled loudly but the woman had stopped feeding her. At this point, Briana would gladly eat that runny oatmeal if only to stop the gnawing pain at the center of her stomach. It felt as if there were a giant rat chomping away at her insides. And she was so thirsty. She’d been given a glass of water early that morning but that’d been all she’d had all day. It was nearly night. Even though Briana was still blindfolded, she could tell by the deepening chill in the air that the sun was going down. The ratty, coarse blanket that smelled like wet dog was all she had against the cold but she didn’t dare complain. Briana had a terrible feeling this woman didn’t like complainers. Or criers.