The Extraction

by Steven F Freeman

  But were the drugs not enough? Did Evan decide to take his thrill seeking to the next level? Perhaps to a criminal level beyond stealing from his parents? If so, he wouldn’t be the first.

  It was a nice theory. All I needed to do was prove it. But how?

  Tracking down the stolen family photos in Evan’s possession would do the trick, not to mention make the legal case against him a lock no matter how well-connected a lawyer his parents hired. But where did he stash the pictures and the rest of the stolen loot?

  With absentee parents, Evan’s movements would be uninhibited by their oversight. Quite possibly, he’d visit his hiding spot regularly. If I followed his movements, he might lead me right to the stolen goods.

  I contacted Judge Wilford of Atlanta’s circuit court, who knew of my previous work. Based on Evan’s BMW matching the description of the car spotted near the fourth robbery, Wilford granted me a warrant to track the seventeen-year-old’s movements via his cellphone—a “find my phone” search, cop style. Normally, this kind of work would be executed by the Atlanta PD. But my professional pride got the best of me. Detective Murphy had already laughed at my suggestion that a gray BMW was involved, so I had no inclination to hand him this case gift-wrapped and let the credit for solving it accrue to him. This was sixteen years ago, before I had cemented my reputation as a top profiler in the southeast region. Truth be told, I liked the idea of cracking the case with a clue Murphy had chosen to ignore.

  I hunkered down for good old surveillance work, seated in the back of an FBI electronics van with the logo of a lawn maintenance company plastered on its side. On a large monitor, the signal of Evan’s cellphone pulsed in the middle of a monochrome map that kept his location centered.

  The first day of my surveillance, Evan drove straight home from school and never left his house. Surely even for parents as disengaged as his, storing the stolen goods—by then amounting to quite a bit—at home represented too great a risk of discovery. He had to be hiding the loot somewhere else, but presumably that day, he felt no need to visit it.

  Things changed the second day. After school, he came home for only an hour or so. Then he left and wound through Buckhead’s tree-lined roads for a quarter hour before arriving at another McMansion. He pulled into a driveway bracketed by masonry walls covered with moss. I parked on the curb across the street and waited for Evan’s cellphone signal to stop moving. In the meantime, I whipped out binoculars and peered through my driver’s-side window.

  Oddly enough, Evan didn’t enter the main house. Instead, he veered to the left. He fished a key from his pocket and let himself into the guest house, a small cottage located just off the circular driveway to the left of the main house.

  It took all of five minutes to confirm this address was the residence of Charles Meir, another Fitzroy student—like Evan a male in his senior year. A friend of his, perhaps? If so, the friend was either already in the guest house or didn’t care that Evan was visiting, for I never caught a glimpse of him.

  When Evan finally emerged hours later, he staggered back to his car. Starting the engine with a roar, he peeled down the driveway, nearly colliding with the ancient wall as he cornered onto the street.

  On instinct, I pulled my “lawn maintenance” van in front of him, cutting him off. He veered to avoid me and smashed into a Mercedes parked against the curb. Steam rose from the BMW’s hood.

  I jogged over. One look in Evan’s bloodshot eyes told me what he’d been up to in the guest house: getting as high as possible. I cuffed the teen, then called Atlanta PD. While waiting, I extracted the keys from his pockets. One of them must fit the guest house.

  A squad car pulled up and bundled away Evan, giving me the opportunity to stroll back to the Meir property.

  Armed with probable cause, I retraced Evan’s steps to the guest house. Sure enough, one of his keys, a small one plated in a dull gold color, fit the lock.

  The dim living room reeked of pot, and a powdery residue, later confirmed to be cocaine, coated a glass coffee table. Ordinary dust covered the rest of the furniture. This place hadn’t been lived in for months, perhaps years—probably why Evan was using it for his drug parlor.

  But was he using it for more? Donning latex gloves, I crept down a central hallway to a pair of back bedrooms. The first one contained nothing unusual, but the second one…

  CHAPTER 10

  Pay dirt! Family photos in expensive frames lined the edge of a long, maple dresser. I recognized the people in three of them as home-invasion victims.

  Two cardboard boxes on a nearby bed contained mounds of jewelry, mostly women’s. It was a cinch Evan’s prints would be all over this stuff; once he deposited his loot in this hiding spot, he’d no longer worry about leaving behind fingerprint evidence.

  Still determined to exclude Murphy from the case, I called my FBI forensic team to come dust for prints.

  While waiting for their arrival, I began examining the dresser’s drawers. A deep one on the bottom right slid open to reveal another piece of evidence: the vendetta mask.

  Minutes later, Doug Reed from the forensics team stepped into the room. I explained the importance of lifting prints from the photos and mask. I watched in satisfaction as Reed made his way through the pile of evidence.

  “There’s tons of prints here,” he said. Some would belong to the original owners, of course, but hopefully others would belong to the home invader.

  Thanks to his short-lived DUI joyride, Evan couldn’t refuse a request to provide fingerprints to the police. They were taken during his in-processing at the jail.

  Before the day’s end, the FBI lab matched Evan’s prints to those covering the photos, mask, and other stolen loot hidden in the Meir guest house.

  I made it a point to witness his questioning from behind the interview room’s one-way mirror. Not just to satisfy my curiosity, but to wrap up the final step of criminal profiling: accuracy assessment. In other words, how accurate was my prediction of his behaviors, and to what extent did it help authorities catch the offender?

  Atlanta PD officers subjected him to hours of questioning. During this interval, he wore a dazed expression, a look of shock that his foolproof scheme had unraveled. I’ve since learned that every criminal has a blind spot, a pattern or characteristic that goes unrecognized. A criminal doesn’t seek to minimize this aspect of himself because he doesn’t realize he has it. A big part of my job was recognizing these blind spots and using them to track down the offenders. Evan’s blind spot was thinking no one would notice the missing photos, that—like him and his family and his friends—everyone would focus only on the stolen items of value. And he was almost right. But “almost” isn’t good enough when you’re trying to evade the law.

  Finally, more to relieve the boredom of the interviews, I think, he confessed to everything. He had answered our “who” question. But for me, learning the “why” behind these crimes was just as important. I had to know if my predictive techniques had succeeded. Detective Murphy thought the perp was targeting the homes of rich people because, in the words of infamous bank robber Willie Sutton, “that’s where the money is.” Turns out Murphy was wrong. For the most part, my forecasts about Evan were spot on. If you wanted to write a book entitled “How to Raise a Sociopath,” the home and school environments you’d describe would look a lot like his. A lack of meaningful relationships had led to boredom, which then snowballed into drug use and thrill-seeking crime. In Evan’s case, stealing from his parents wasn’t enough. In true sociopath fashion, he got off on the thrill of the offense itself, the high of getting away with something. And as an added bonus, he targeted the homes of the rich punks at Fitzroy who made his life a living hell, who told him he’d never be a “baller,” the moniker the private-school crowd gives to a ladies’ man.

  As expected, Evan’s dad hired a top criminal defense attorney. But with multiple counts of grand theft and aggravated armed robbery, there’s only so much any lawyer can do for his client. He nego
tiated a plea deal with the district attorney that put Evan away for twenty years.

  Detective Murphy never called me to apologize for his condescending rebuttal of the theory that turned out to be spot on. You didn’t need to be a psychological profiler to know he wasn’t a big-enough man to admit he’d been wrong. Fine with me. My FBI colleagues learned the value of profiling, and my career received a nice boost.

  I rise from Sampson’s desk, pondering how the details of this case will help me unravel the second note’s clues.

  The Evan Pritchard case certainly has to be the one referenced by “vendetta” in the poem. He’s the only criminal I ever heard of who wore that movie’s mask while committing his crimes. That being the case, who orchestrated Trin’s kidnapping? Since Evan himself is still in lockup, the obvious candidate is his father, Oswald Pritchard. This ordeal could be his way of seeking revenge on me for messing up the plans he had so carefully laid out for his son.

  Snap judgments like this sometimes prove to be correct, but they’re not sufficient to accuse anyone. A bit of deeper analysis is required for that. Besides, unless I can track down the kidnapper directly, following the trail of clues represents my only hope for recovering Trin.

  Speaking of clues, I need figure out how the note’s second one ties in to this case.

  The hallowed grounds beckon you come through their gates

  And see for yourself where history’s bent.

  Given the clue’s potential connection to Fitzroy Academy, my earlier conjecture that “hallowed grounds” could be a cemetery interring one of the criminals I caught seems less likely.

  Fitzroy doesn’t have a cemetery on site. Does “hallowed grounds” mean the academy itself? That place didn’t seem so hallowed to me. But what else could it mean? Is there a cemetery that borders the Fitzroy property?

  The range of possibilities is broad. My best bet is to travel to the academy itself and see what jumps out, especially something that matches the “where history’s bent” description.

  While Sampson remains behind at the HQ building to search online for cemeteries in the Fitzroy area, I accelerate out of the building’s parking lot on my way to the school itself.

  As I race through Buckhead’s streets, a sense of determination competes with panic for rule over my mind. For the moment, determination wins.

  I check my watch. Twenty-one hours remain…

  CHAPTER 11

  Trin awakes with a start. What…?

  “Wake up, Ms. Beasley,” squawks a mechanical voice through a speaker somewhere in the room.

  “Who are you?” yells Trin. “And why the hell did you tie me up?”

  “The prisoner will speak only when given permission, or the prisoner will be punished,” says the deep, synthetic voice—like a male version of Siri. Is the kidnapper directing his phone to read text he’s already typed out?

  Trin begins to speak but stops herself. This guy sounds like some of the marbles have already fallen out of his bag. Best to not antagonize him until she has a better feel for the kind of person she’s dealing with.

  “Better,” says the voice. “The prisoner will avoid punishment when she’s compliant.”

  Trin clears her throat but doesn’t speak.

  “The prisoner wishes to ask a question?”

  “Yes. Why am I here?”

  “To die, Ms. Beasley.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Luckily, Fitzroy Academy lies in the same part of town as the FBI building. In no time, I’m five minutes from the school. But Sampson and Bev Williams, the I.T. guru, still haven’t found a cemetery located near it. The clues must point in a different direction, but where?

  I pull up to Fitzroy’s main gate. While waiting for them to let me through, I ring up Sampson. “It’s me. Still no luck on the cemeteries?”

  “Nope. The closest one is six miles away.”

  I drum nervous fingers on the steering wheel. “What about some kind of chapel? That could be hallowed too, right? Is there one on the school’s grounds or nearby?”

  “Let me have Williams check. I’ll let you know.”

  My phone goes silent. I continue to wait.

  Ironically, my feelings for Trin are the biggest threat to her rescue. Knowing that the clock is ticking, possibly marking off my fiancée’s last twenty-four hours, produces an indescribable, nearly-debilitating angst. I have to fight to maintain my focus.

  My anxiety to pass through the entrance and get started is so intense, I almost miss it. A brass plaque adorns the gate. The green discoloration of decades has rendered its inscription nearly illegible: To all who enter these hallowed grounds of learning, your thirst for knowledge is welcome here.

  Hallowed grounds!

  The good news: we know what this phrase means. The bad news: it refers to an enormous educational complex sprawling across dozens of acres. The box could be anywhere inside.

  I call Sampson. “Hallowed grounds means the whole school. I just saw it on a plaque at the entrance. But that means the box could be anywhere in here.”

  “What about the last line of the poem?” she replies. “What did it say?”

  “See for yourself where history’s bent. Does this mean where young minds are improved to change, or bend, history? It’d fit with a school.” I chew my lip. “But it wouldn’t help narrow down the search. Could it mean something more specific?”

  “Beats me. I guess it could.”

  “I’ll just have to look around.”

  The automatic gate swings open, and I pull through. A white sedan with green lights mounted to the top waves me over. “Riverview Security” is printed in green letters across the side—rent-a-cops.

  A gangly “officer” with cheap sunglasses and a baton on his belt exits the car and saunters over. He motions for me to open my window and leans into the opening. “Name?

  “Decimus Farr. I’m here—”

  “Farr, huh?” he interrupts. “I’ve heard about you. You’re the guy who put Oswald Pritchard’s oldest son away.”

  “He put himself away. Or didn’t you know he robbed five families at gunpoint?”

  The policeman wanna-be straightens up. “You’re not allowed in here unless you have a warrant.”

  “Look, I’m not with the FBI anymore. I’m here because my fiancée has been kidnapped. The person who took her said he left a clue somewhere here, at Fitzroy. If I don’t find these clues, he’ll kill her.”

  “You think I’m seriously going to believe that load of crap? You’d best get your ass off our property before I call the police and have you arrested for trespassing.”

  “Let me help you with that,” I retort. Stepping out of my car, I dial Sampson’s number. “Sampson, it’s Farr. Fitzroy’s security isn’t letting me through. Looks like they have hard feelings about Evan Pritchard doing time. Can you explain to him who you are?” I pass my cellphone over to the guard.

  Mr. Security’s face turns red as he listens in silence. Sampson’s voice is still buzzing through the speaker when the guard interrupts. “Look, lady, I don’t know who you are. So unless you come down here and show me some ID, and a warrant that lets you poke around, you ain’t getting your ass on this property. And neither is your friend.”

  We don’t have time for this. With the fury only a desperate man can muster, I cold cock him square on the jaw.

  He collapses to the ground without a peep. I recover my cellphone. “Looks like the guy had a change of heart,” I tell Sampson. “I’m good.”

  “Farr,” exclaims Sampson in a tone of warning. “What did you—?”

  I disconnect the call. Best if she’s not a party to my assault.

  I’d apologize to the guard, but when your ego is more important than a victim’s life, you’re asking for trouble. Besides, the guy is fast asleep. He won’t be able to hear anything for a while.

  I can’t risk someone entering or exiting the school spotting the prone figure and raising the alarm. Time to move Mr. Mall Cop away from the scho
ol’s entrance. Only seconds are needed to drag the sleeping form into the backseat of his sedan. Might as well take his car for my search. It’s bound to draw less attention than my faded Malibu.

  I began motoring across the school grounds at a snail’s pace, examining any statue or bit of architecture that could meet the “where history’s bent” definition.

  This whole affair has a surreal quality, like it’s not really happening. Why would someone do this? On the surface, it might appear that Trin has made an enemy in her line of work. After all, she is a private investigator. People in those jobs tend to accumulate antagonists over time. But on closer examination, that prospect seems remote. When I retired from the Bureau, I started working for the claims department of Atlas Insurance, in particular looking for signs of potential false claims. Trin is a private investigator my company subcontracts with from time to time when we suspect insurance fraud. Her name is never given to the policyholders we bust, so they wouldn’t know to go after her. Outside of work, the possibilities of someone targeting her diminish to nothing. She’s the most easy-going person I know—loves kids and, inexplicably, loves me…perhaps because she knows enough about the criminal justice system to understand how it can harden a person if they stay in it too long. In the two years we’ve been together, we’ve scarcely argued. It’s hard to imagine anyone having a beef with her. And finally, there’s the notes themselves. Everything in their tone suggests anger directed at me, not her.

  No, someone’s using her to target me. That much is clear. While continuing to search my surroundings, my mind falls back into old habits, working to paint a psychological profile of the person carrying out this crime. The perp must have a lot of anger to put in this much effort. And solid planning skills to be able to pull it off. Angry people like this often use their organizational skills to keep their anger in check. To the world, they come across as low-key. But inside, there’s a constant boil of rage, kept contained by their plan to eventually “seek justice,” whatever that means to them.