“Marines. First Gulf War. He’s a chemical engineer by training, but he ended up in the infantry. Boy can handle a weapon—I taught him young, they buffed him up. Parris Island, then SOI at Camp Geiger.”
“SOI?” Taylor asked.
“School of Infantry. He came home in one piece, but the mind wasn’t all there, if you know what I mean. Gulf War syndrome, they call it. He’s on a full disability discharge and gets regular checkups at the VA hospital. They’ve been doing a nice job keeping up with him, actually. Once his momma died, God rest her soul, it’s just been the two of us. He gets lonely, I know that. I try to keep him busy, but he spends a lot of time on his computer or out in his sheds.”
“You weren’t concerned when he didn’t come home last night?” McKenzie asked.
Johnson poured himself another cup of sludge. “Naw. He likes to carouse, sometimes. He’s got himself a widow woman up near Pleasant View. She was the wife of a friend in his old unit. He goes up there to see her at night, once in a while. She’s a nice girl, churchgoing. Bit soft in the head herself, but they manage. When I came home from the grocery yesterday and he wasn’t here, I just assumed he was up with her. Guess y’all had come to take him away though, huh.”
“That’s right.”
“So are you going to tell me what he’s done, or do I need to guess?”
Taylor hated giving bad news to parents, regardless of the age of the child or their misdeeds. “Sir, your son has claimed that he was involved in the murder of seven teenagers in Green Hills on Halloween night.”
He shook his head. “Nope. Wasn’t my boy. He was here with me on Halloween.” The small mouth shut firmly.
“He also claims that he’s the king of the Vampyre Nation,” McKenzie said.
The old man closed his eyes briefly, shook his head. His voice was soft. “That’s just his sickness. He came back from that war all kinds of messed up in the head, talking about vampires sucking the blood out of his body. Started sleeping all day and roaming around at night. Filed his teeth into them stupid fangs. I never saw no harm in it—he doesn’t do anything. He talks to some of his kind on the computer some. They have themselves a fine old time. But he’d never hurt a flea.”
“Sir, you understand that we will have to execute this warrant regardless. Your son knew details about the crimes that weren’t released to the press. And he was caught on film at several of the crime scenes. So we know he wasn’t home with you.”
“Must’ve left after I went to sleep. I have a scanner in the living room. He likes to listen to it. I’m sure he heard about it from that and decided to go check it out.”
“Sir, I appreciate that, but we’re going to have to search the house anyway. We’d best get on with it.” She stood, plunked her cup in the kitchen sink. “I’ll just go get Simari.”
McKenzie stayed put with the old man. She knew he was going to pump him for more information, left him to it.
Marcus and Simari were ready to get going, both leaning impatiently against Simari’s patrol car. Max was leashed and had his nose to the ground, quivering.
“Marcus, why don’t you start in the house. Mr. Johnson mentioned his son likes to putter in the sheds. I thought Simari and I could take a look at them.”
He nodded and pushed off the car, taking a set of purple nitrile gloves out of his pocket as he left. Taylor watched him go, then turned to Simari.
“So, think Max can do a little snooping for me while we’re here?”
“Of course. Drugs?”
“That’s what I’m hoping. Let’s go look around.”
They took a path that led to the right of the house, curving back toward the hills. The backyard was as tidy as the front—azaleas and hydrangeas and crepe myrtles cut back for the winter, dogwoods and tulip poplars spread across a vast expanse of still-green lawn.
“Man, he must spend hours on this,” Simari said. Max had his nose to the pea-gravel pathway, snuffling.
“I bet it’s beautiful in spring. I love dogwoods.”
“Why, LT. How romantic of you.” They shared a laugh, the gravel crunching beneath their boots as they walked. The sheds were one hundred yards ahead, three of them, low to the ground, painted red with white trim, like the side of a barn.
They passed a small fire pit, the scorched remnants of leaves and twigs gathered at the edges, like someone had stuck a stick into the hole and stirred. Simari held up, let Max smell it. He didn’t hit, so they kept going.
When they were twenty yards from the sheds, Taylor saw Max begin to vibrate. “Something here,” Simari said.
“Yeah, no kidding. Does he have different signs for different kinds of drugs?”
“No, but he’ll bark when he hits something he knows. He’s great with pot and cocaine.”
Taylor could smell the acrid scent of acetone, and stopped. “How’s he do with meth?” she asked, just as Max let out a vicious howl.
“He’s pretty good with that, too,” Simari said, eyebrow raised in a dry salute.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Max had been right on the money.
The three sheds in the back of the Johnsons’ property held a sophisticated methamphetamine lab. After a quick glance inside, Taylor pulled back and got the warrant amended, called in the experts from the Narcotics Unit to come and take the lab apart. Meth labs were tricky, dangerous territory for those who didn’t know what they were doing—and not much better for those who did. She glanced into all three sheds carefully. Two held all the tubes and barrels she recognized, all flammable, with box after empty box of pseudoephedrine thrown into the overflowing trash cans. The last shed was equipped as a chemistry lab. For cooking up batches of dosed Ecstasy, perhaps? She put a priority rush on everything.
Mr. Johnson had said his son was a chemical engineer. He obviously wasn’t too soft in the head if he could still cook meth.
She went back to the house. The commotion had Mr. Johnson upset—McKenzie was trying to get him calmed down. Taylor caught his eye and signaled for him to come join her.
A few moments later, they were standing on the porch of the Johnson house.
“Meth lab in the back,” she said. “Has he given anything more on Barent?”
“Either he’s a twisted old man and a brilliant liar, or he really does turn the other cheek.”
“Probably a bit of both. Marcus find anything?”
“Yeah. You should probably go on up there. I’ll keep Mr. Johnson from getting in the way. We’re going to be late for Ariadne.”
Two large, white vans were pulling into the driveway. The drug boys were here. Taylor hoped they didn’t all get blown up.
“Lincoln can handle her for the time being. I’m willing to bet money that this is the source of our tainted drugs. The third shed looks like a chemistry lab. I’ll bet that’s where the Ecstasy came from.”
“That would be a nice coup, wouldn’t it?” He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
“But why in the world would he turn himself in, knowing we’d come up here and find all this?”
“Honestly, I think the man is in a bad way. From what his father tells me, he’s had a terrible time since he got back from the war. Apparently, he was the sole survivor of a tank explosion—the tank got hit by a SCUD missile. They were providing cover for his unit and it all went to smash. He mustered out after the war, but he’s never been the same since that event. He went steadily downhill from there. Gulf War syndrome is tricky—they don’t know if it’s caused by something that was in the air over there, a bacterial infection, heavy metals, chemical weapons or what. It can manifest physically or emotionally.
“If he was simply unstable to start with, the loss of his comrades could be the precipitating event. He’s so far into the vampire world now that I doubt anything could pull him free. He must have had a fit of conscience, knowing he sold the drugs that killed those kids. He could have wanted to be a part of it all. I don’t know. I’ll have to get his VA records pulled and talk to his t
reatment doctors there to get a full picture.”
“So where is his tie to our suspects?”
“That’s what we have to find out. Juri Edvin got his drugs from somewhere.”
“Possibly Barent? They run in the same crowd, most likely, if they’re both into the vampire scene. It can’t be that expansive here in Nashville.”
“Probably. You’d be surprised at just how pervasive these countercultures are.”
“Okay. I’m going to go see what Marcus has, and then we can start heading back into town.”
She went inside through the kitchen to the foyer. She took the stairs to the second floor two at a time. She could hear Marcus, followed his voice down a long hall to the third bedroom on the right. She turned in and stopped dead.
The room was draped in black-and-red velvet, with photographs of wide, gaping mouths, fangs dripping with blood, throats thrown open in a scream, every few inches. The effect was startling. She felt like she was about to be bitten, eaten, from every corner. A huge canopied tester bed—probably brass once, but painted black—with black sheets and pillows, stood in the center of the maelstrom of mouths. She risked a quick glance under the canopy—yes, more mouths there.
The room smelled like old things, rotting blood and moldy leaves, overlaid with some sort of sickly sweet incense. Taylor breathed through her mouth, looking around.
Marcus was sitting at a desk that was covered in a shaggy black fur throw, the computer on and running.
“This is…interesting,” she said, chills running up and down her spine. “It stinks in here.”
“No kidding. I feel like I need a shower, and I haven’t touched anything but the keyboard. I’ve got the creeps sitting in here. We should just take the computer with us—it’s loaded with information. Looks like Barry is a first-class drug dealer. He keeps transactional analyses of what’s working and what isn’t, listings of buyers and resellers. And lots of vampire shit.”
“Did you see any familiar names on that list?”
“Yep. Juri Edvin’s on there. So’s Susan Norwood, though they both go by their nicknames, Thorn and Ember.”
“Bingo,” Taylor said. “That should be enough to rearrest Susan Norwood, right?”
“We’ll have to prove that Susan Norwood and Ember are one and the same, but yeah, there’s enough here to send her away for a long time.”
“Excellent. That’s easy enough—the Edvins only know her as Ember. They should be able to ID her with no problem. Is Barent making all of his own drugs, or is he buying, too? It would be nice to give the Specialized Investigative Unit a cut of this.”
“I can’t tell that. This is just what he’s selling and to whom. I’ve already called Gerald Sayers—they’re waiting for us. He wanted in.”
“Great. This is right up his alley. Okay, grab the computer. Do we need to amend the warrant to include anything else?”
“No. I’ve already called Tim Davis, asked him to ride on up here and do a search. He can bag and tag anything else that we need. I think we need to get back and get to work on this. We’re awfully close.”
He flashed her a grin, looking younger than his years, and she felt herself grinning back. A good morning, all in all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Quantico
November 2
Baldwin hated fighting with Taylor.
Having to tell her about Fitz over the phone was a catastrophe. He should have called Sam first, had her there. He’d heard the cracks form in Taylor’s otherwise rock-hard shell, and it made his heart break. She was the strongest woman he knew, the bravest. And the most foolhardy when her dander was up. He hoped like hell he’d gotten through to her, that she would actually listen to him and stay in Nashville. She’d promised, but he wasn’t convinced. Knowing her friend was out there in need may prove too hard for her to hold back on.
He needed to get this hearing over with and get back to her before she did something stupid.
He checked his watch. They were due to reconvene in twenty minutes. He needed to get a move on.
*
Reever was waiting for him when he arrived.
“What took you so long? I thought you weren’t going to show.”
“There’s some role reversal for you, Reever. That’s how I felt yesterday.”
“Touché.”
“Listen, how much longer do you think this is going to go on?”
“Depends, Doc. How much more do you have to tell them?”
Baldwin looked at his friend. How much more indeed. He could just sacrifice himself, fall on his sword, give them everything right now and walk away. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d considered leaving the Bureau.
But with the Pretender on the loose, he needed the full force of the FBI behind him. No, he needed to continue to tread delicately, not giving them anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. He still didn’t know what they had hanging over him, though he was starting to get an inkling. And if he was right, he was in more serious trouble than even the disciplinary board realized.
“Baldwin, time to go in. You ready?”
“Yeah.”
They got settled at the table. Tucker entered the room like a judge; Baldwin waited for the cry of “All rise.” Instead, Tucker actually flashed him a smile, which disconcerted Baldwin to no end. It wasn’t friendly, that was for sure.
Tucker made sure his minions were ready, then looked down his long nose at Baldwin.
“You may continue where we left off yesterday, Dr. Baldwin.”
“All right. We executed the search warrant at dawn. We had such hope that we would find Kaylie Fields alive.”
*
Northern Virginia
June 17, 2004
Baldwin
Harold Arlen came to the door outrigged in a terry cloth robe over short blue-striped pajamas, moose hide slippers and a glass of orange juice. Every piece coordinated, he looked like any other suburban guy who’d been startled out of his morning routine.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded.
The Fairfax County detective held up a sheaf of papers. “We have a warrant to search the premises. Please stand back, Mr. Arlen.”
“Search? For what? I haven’t done anything. What the hell is this about?”
“There’ve been a number of little girls gone missing over the past few weeks, and—”
Arlen’s mouth fell open. “You think I’m the Clockwork Killer? Are you daft, man? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
The air crackled, the situation’s intensity ratcheting up. Baldwin and Charlotte stayed back. This was the Fairfax Homicide boys’ show. Goldman was there, overseeing his detectives as they served the warrant. Arlen’s probation officer was there, too. When they pushed into the house, moving Arlen out of the way, his PO grabbed him and held him aside. That didn’t help his temper at all—his fury and indignation continued to explode. He met Baldwin’s eye like he knew who was behind this, and Baldwin felt the implicit threat. He just smiled. They were going to wrap this up today. Maybe, just maybe, little Kaylie would be found before it was too late.
A deep rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. Baldwin couldn’t see very far. They were sandwiched in the cloister of houses, but the weather forecast called for severe storms today. Just what they needed—rain to hamper the search efforts.
Baldwin saw the curtains twitch across the street at the Kilmeades’ house. The door opened a few seconds later. Mr. Kilmeade came out onto the porch, fully dressed despite the early hour, the scowl on his face evident from a distance. He started down the stairs, intent. Baldwin broke away from the group to head him off. He met him at the bottom of the drive. Kilmeade had built up a head of steam, Baldwin actually had to put out an arm to stop him.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. You can’t go over there.”
“What’s happening? Is Harry being arrested?”
“They’re executing a search warrant. Arlen broke his parole when he had contact
with your daughter. They have to look at every angle in this case, and Arlen fits.”
Kilmeade was shaking in fury. “That’s a lot of preconceived bull. I told you, Harry wouldn’t hurt a child. It’s not in his nature. And how dare you use my dead child in this case? What is she, just a means to an end? She’s not alive to defend herself, to explain. How dare you?”
“I’m sorry this upsets you, Mr. Kilmeade. But right now, we need to stay back and let the police do their job. Why don’t we go back into your house and have a cup of coffee?”
Kilmeade shook his head. “No. You’re not welcome in my home. You’ve used me and my family to further your sordid goals. I’m going back in and calling a lawyer. You don’t have the right to come in and railroad Harry just because he fits your idea of what a killer should look like.”
“Mr. Kilmeade,” Baldwin started, but the man ripped his arm away and stormed back into his house. Great. Just what they needed, more lawyers involved.
Baldwin went back across the street. Charlotte met him at the door, a huge grin on her face.
“What is it? Did you find Kaylie?”
“No, we didn’t. But he’s got kiddie porn galore on his computer. It was open—we must have interrupted his morning constitutional. More than just dabbling, it looks like he might be trafficking, as well. And there’s pictures of all of our victims too, including Kaylie, and several other girls we don’t recognize.”
“Then we’ve got him!” Baldwin had to resist sweeping Charlotte into a hug. He settled for squeezing her hand. This was fantastic news.
“But there’s no sign of Kaylie, or where he might be holding her?”
“No. This is going to take a while. They’ve Mirandized Arlen. Goldman is having him transported back to Fairfax County for interrogation.”
“Has he lawyered up?”
“Not yet, though his PO is going insane. He insists he’s innocent. Arlen says he has nothing to do with any of this.”
“Don’t they all. Kilmeade, from across the street? He’s pretty fired up, said he was going to call a lawyer on Arlen’s behalf. So be prepared. Homicide is taking care of the families, right? Do we need to be along for that?”
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2 Page 55
