The first thing that struck Megan was the amount of blood. She looked around the room, saw blood soaked into the neutral beige carpet, spreading several feet across. Blood spatter radiated across the floor, indicating that someone had been shot while laying on the carpet. She said as much.
“Correct,” Dr. Clark said. “General Hackett was attacked three feet from the door—hamstrung. You can see the spatter on the bathroom door. He fell to the ground, and it appears he pulled himself toward the doors at the rear of the room. He moved six feet before he was shot—twice, a head shot and once to his back. From the amount of blood, a bullet pierced a major artery. There’s also brain matter and bone embedded in the carpet. We’ll be cutting out the carpet for further blood analysis.”
“Where was Rosemont found?” Hans asked.
Dr. Clark stood in the center of the room. “He was close to Hackett’s body and fell across his legs. He was shot in the chest twice.”
“Detective Holden said there was no knife found.”
“Correct. We’ve broadened the search, but so far nothing. We’ve also received a limited warrant to search every hotel room, occupied and unoccupied, in the resort.”
Holden said, “My officers are in the middle of that search. So far, nothing.”
Clark continued. “Though I will need confirmation from the autopsy, it appears that Rosemont attacked Hackett as soon as the door closed. I inspected Rosemont’s hands and he was wearing gloves. The gloves had small nicks in them, consistent with brushing against a sharp blade. We also found a medical-type bag with restraint materials and more than two hundred acupuncture needles. The needles tested positive for blood and there is multiple biological matter on them. He may have rinsed them off, but he never sterilized them.”
“Prints?” Megan asked.
Clark shook his head. “Far too slender to retain enough fingerprint information for a possible I.D.”
“What about prints in the room?” she clarified.
“We found several of Rosemont’s prints on the main door and the sliding glass door, in the bathroom, and on the desk. There are several sets and the hotel is providing us with prints of all its employees to compare to. But the only recent prints belong to Rosemont and Hackett. Hackett touched the doorjamb, the knob, and he had a key for this room in his pocket.”
“But I thought the room was registered to Rosemont under the name Ethan Rose,” Hans said.
“Correct. But Hackett had a key.”
Meg turned to Holden. “You said that Hackett was seen with a woman in the bar.”
“Yes.”
“Rosemont’s partner.”
Hans turned to her. “We don’t know that.”
“Why else would Hackett have a key to this room? Females are great lures.”
Holden said, “One of the housekeeping staff said she saw Rosemont and a woman on the beach earlier yesterday, but she couldn’t provide a description, only a blond Caucasian.” His phone beeped and he excused himself.
Megan looked at the two body bags, then at the door. “Did Rosemont shoot Hackett or was it Rosemont’s partner?” she asked, almost to herself. “What I don’t get is why such a public place. The general must have caused a raucous when he was hamstrung. He wasn’t gagged, correct?”
“No.”
Hans said, “Test his blood for all barbiturates. If he was drugged before he came in, he may not have been able to call for help.”
“And the killer escaped through the back door,” Megan said as she crossed over to the sliding glass doors. The beach spread out in front of her, the ocean rolling up only a hundred feet beyond.
“Look here.” Clark led them to the door. “See those prints?”
“Prints?”
“Shoe impressions.”
Megan squatted and looked carefully at a triangle pattern. “These are shoes?”
“High heels. There are no identifying marks, but we can see the impression of the spikes in a couple places— mostly by the main door. I think the killer tried to run on her toes and not put the spike part of the heel down, but sometimes she couldn’t avoid it.”
“You think the killer is a woman.”
“I think the killer is very likely a woman,” Clark said. “Hackett had lipstick on his face and neck.”
“And she ran across the beach?” Megan looked out. Crime scene tape divided the beach in half.
“Yes, south. But we were only able to track her footfalls for about thirty feet before they became too integrated with the other prints.”
“Heels in the sand?”
“No, she took her shoes off. Come here.” He opened the door and they walked to the small patio that fronted the sand. “No prints, so she probably had gloves on—”
“Wait,” Megan said. “If this is the same woman Hackett was getting cozy with in the bar, how could he have not noticed she was wearing gloves?”
“Maybe she drugged him,” Hans suggested. “Or used a towel or cloth to touch anything.”
“Regardless, she didn’t leave prints, but there is blood on the back of this chair, and a few droplets of blood that has me thinking she stood in the sand, took off the heels, and carried them with her. We’re scouring the garbage cans and beach between here and the pier, and so far nothing. No shoes, no knife, no evidence.”
Holden came out to the patio. “The bartender who served Hackett and the woman last night is here.”
“Let’s talk to him,” Hans said. “Do you have a sketch artist available?”
“Already on site,” Holden said. “We also have a witness. He sounds legit, swears that he saw Rosemont at a diner outside Blythe yesterday morning. He and his family are in San Luis Obispo and I was going to send an officer up there for a formal statement, but maybe one of you would like to go?”
“Agent Elliott will accompany your officer,” Hans said.
Before Megan could protest, Holden said, “Terrific. I’ll call Officer Dodge and have her swing by and pick you up. It’s only an hour and a half away. You’ll be back before dinner.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
Jack couldn’t find Megan anywhere in the hotel. He was about to try her cell phone again when he saw Hans Vigo walk into the main lobby with the same plain-clothes cop who had picked Hans and Megan up at the airport earlier that morning.
“Where’s Megan?” Jack asked as Hans approached.
Jack had been worried about Megan, unable to reach her, her cell phone busy or going directly to voice mail.
Hans Vigo looked at Jack oddly, then walked past him and said, “She’s on her way to interview a potential witness.”
“Witness? Who?”
“A family. They saw Rosemont in a diner only a few miles from where the Hoffmans were killed. They said a woman was with him. It’s a solid lead, so I sent her to follow it.”
Jack glanced at Holden. He didn’t need to say anything, but the cop understood and excused himself with a vague comment about checking on the canvass for witnesses.
“Where did she go?” Jack asked.
“San Luis Obispo. It’s an hour or two north.”
“On her own?”
“With an SBPD uniformed officer. What’s the problem, Jack? I didn’t realize I had to clear my orders with you.”
The tension wasn’t lost on Jack. “What does that mean, Vigo?”
“I don’t have to explain myself.”
“Right. Because you’re the senior agent.”
The federal agent’s face hardened. “What do you care? Your friend’s killer is dead. You can go back to Hidalgo and fight somebody else’s wars for them. I’m sure you’re in demand.”
“And I don’t have to explain myself to you.” Why hadn’t Megan called him? Jack pushed the thought aside. She was doing her job. He’d have liked to have known she was leaving town for the day, but she’d be back in a few hours. Still, Hans Vigo’s animosity was palatable. What was his problem? Did he know that Jack had slept with Megan? Was it poss
ible that this agent, who was almost old enough to be Megan’s father, was jealous? Or was it something else? Jack didn’t know Vigo well enough to decide, though Megan had said he’d been acting unlike himself recently.
“You can wait for her in—”
“No,” Jack interrupted. “There’s still a killer on the loose. What’s going on with the search for Rosemont’s partner?”
“You’re not a cop, Jack.”
“You can’t just use me when it’s convenient.” Jack turned to leave, not wanting any more of a confrontation. He would keep trying Megan, to confirm she was safe, then he’d follow up with Padre and see what was taking him so long with the police artist. They needed something to go on, and right now Jack hated not having anything to do. The waiting would kill him.
Vigo asked quietly, “What’s your interest in Agent Elliott, Jack?”
Slowly, Jack faced Vigo and assessed him. He couldn’t tell if the question was because Vigo was jealous or protective. Or both.
He simply said, “I like her.”
Vigo relaxed and nodded. “I’m about to interview the bartender who served Hackett and the woman. You can join me if you like.”
Megan got the call from the Orlando field office ten minutes before reaching the San Luis Obispo city limits.
“Agent Elliott, this is ASAC Todd Zarian. Assistant Director Stockton asked me to contact you regarding the Ken Russo homicide.”
“Thank you. Stockton explained the situation?”
“Yes. We spoke to the local detective in charge and he opened up the files to us. I have them here in my office. Looks pretty open and shut to me. Guy comes home and surprises a burglar.”
“Do you know what was taken?”
“Nothing big—television and stereo were still there. But according to friends and neighbors, a high-end camera was missing; the guy had receipts for an iPod and some other small electronics that were never found. Possibly money—his wallet was found in a Dumpster several blocks away, no money or credit cards. The cards were used once, two hours after the murder, where the killer withdrew the daily maximum.”
“Any security cameras at those sites?”
“Yeah, but the killer wore a mask and there were no identifying features or clothing. The police note that there was a lock-box in the bedroom that was busted open. It was empty and may have contained cash. We have no way of knowing.”
On the surface, classic signs of a robbery. But Russo was also part of the Delta team targeted by a killer and the same individual who had possession of the George Price dog tags. If those tags weren’t an obvious red flag, Megan wouldn’t even be asking these questions. “Evidence?”
“None that has led anywhere. No prints. No one saw anything suspicious, but this happened between midnight and twelve-thirty. Russo arrived home at twelve-thirty and shortly thereafter gunshots were reported.”
“How many times was he shot?”
“Three. Twice in the chest and once in the head.”
“Three? That sounds like overkill.”
“Maybe the robber didn’t have a mask on when he was in the house. Didn’t want to be identified. It happens a lot. We have the bullets from the autopsy and found three nine-millimeter bullet casings that match, but so far nothing has hit. They’ve been logged into the AFIS database, so if the gun turns up in any other investigation, it’ll pop.”
Zarian continued. “There are a bunch of reports, witness statements that don’t seem to mean much of anything. Neighbor said she saw him leave alone at six while she was walking her dog. Another neighbor—”
“She said alone? Was she prompted?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t do the interview.”
“Is there anything in there about a girlfriend? Wife? Friends?”
“Single, never married. Dated, but I don’t have any names. Maybe he was between relationships. No one identified as a girlfriend was interviewed.”
“Can you contact that witness and ask her if she knew whether Russo dated, and the name of his most recent girlfriend? Anything else she might know about such a person?”
“Sure, but—”
Megan interrupted. “It would probably be easier if I made the call.”
“I’ll send you the name and number.”
Megan wasn’t sure it would lead anywhere, but the recent seduction of General Hackett had her wondering if Rosemont’s partner was truly a woman. At first, she’d been more concerned about the woman’s safety—if Rosemont and his partner were surprised by two people, the UNSUB could have kidnapped General Hackett’s female drinking companion, and possibly dumped her body elsewhere. But then Megan realized that wasn’t possible. The cabin had been rented to Ethan Rose. The woman who brought Hackett to the cabin had been part of the conspiracy to murder. Was it possible that this woman was even colder and more calculating than Barry Rosemont himself?
Megan asked, “One more thing. Do you have a ballistics report handy?”
“There’s one in here somewhere. It’s in the log. Why?”
“This is a big favor, I know, but the murders I’m currently working aren’t yet logged in AFIS.” Not one hundred percent true—Johnson and Perry were in AFIS, but they only matched each other, not any other ballistics in the system. But Megan was convinced that Russo was connected to these murders, if only by the thin thread of AWOL soldier George Price’s statement, which said he had left his dog tags with Russo. “I’d like to get the crime techs something to compare with ASAP. Can you fax or e-mail the reports to a couple different counties?”
“I’ll do it,” Zarian said. “Where?”
“Texas Rangers based in McAllen, attention Ranger Hern; Riverside County Sheriff’s Department, attention Deputy Sheriff Warren; Santa Barbara County Forensics Unit, attention Dr. Ian Clark.”
“That it?” He sounded irritated. It was grunt work, but it had to be done.
She was about to say yes, but then realized that Sacramento wouldn’t have had time to run ballistics since CID returned John Doe’s body. “Sacramento Crime Lab, attention Simone Charles. I’ll e-mail you the contact numbers.”
“Thanks. I’ll get on this now. We’re short-staffed right now. How can I reach you later? This number?”
“I’m on my way to interview a witness, but you can leave a message or e-mail me.” She was still angry with Hans about this assignment. There was no reason she should be spending three hours on the road—ninety minutes each way—to interview a witness when it would have been easier to send a lower-ranking agent or to call the SLO sheriff and ask him to send a deputy over. Megan would have been happy to brief the officer. It was more than obvious Hans didn’t want her around, and it both pissed her off and upset her. That he had gone to Rick Stockton—her boss’s boss!—made her stomach queasy, and the fact that he refused to even discuss the matter made it worse.
Zarian said, “I just sent you the contact information for the neighbor, Mrs. Anne Lyons.”
“Thank you, I really appreciate your help.” She hung up and asked her driver, Officer Barbara Dodge, how long before they arrived. “We’re in the city limits. Five, ten minutes probably.”
“Thanks,” Megan said and dialed Mrs. Anne Lyons. She wasn’t holding out hope that Mrs. Lyons would be home, so was pleasantly surprised when an elderly female voice identifying herself as Anne Lyons answered.
“Mrs. Lyons, my name is Megan Elliott. I’m an FBI agent in Sacramento, California. I have some questions regarding your neighbor, Kenneth Russo.”
“Kenny? What a nice man. A tragedy. We’ve always had a safe neighborhood. And then, well, many of my friends moved after that horrible incident.”
“Yes, ma’am. I—”
She interrupted. “Have you found the person who killed him?”
“Not yet, but—”
“The police were very nice, very diligent, but they don’t come by anymore.”
A cold case robbery/homicide after nearly ten months wasn’t going to keep the police on their toes
, Megan knew. There were plenty of crimes to solve.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m following up on a lead—”
“All the way from California?”
“Yes.” Before the witness could interrupt again, Megan spoke quickly. “My colleague in Orlando reviewed your statement and you mentioned that you saw Ken Russo come home alone the night he was murdered. Did he normally bring someone home with him? A girlfriend?”
“Kenny was a handsome retired military officer. Always helped me take my garbage out, fixed my fence when it fell down in that awful storm three years ago. Of course there were always women who wanted to go out with him. He was a confirmed bachelor, though. Enjoyed the ladies, of course, but he liked to ‘play the field,’ as you kids say now.”
Megan wasn’t sure she’d use that phrase. She asked, “Did he have a regular girlfriend? Or do you remember who he was seeing when he was killed?”
“You aren’t suggesting that one of his girlfriends had something to do with his murder! It was a burglary. They took his computer, his camera, his money—”
“You knew he had money in the house?”
“That’s what the police said. They asked me about it, so I assumed he had some money.”
“And his girlfriends?”
“Well, all the ladies here wanted to date him, but he was too young.”
“Excuse me,” Megan asked, “what type of community do you live in?”
“It’s a private, gated community. Active Fifty. No minors. Joe and Liz have a college-aged daughter living with them, but—”
The community was gated? Why hadn’t Zarian mentioned that fact?
“Were there any other burglaries in your community around the time Mr. Russo was robbed and killed?”
“Goodness no. This is one of the safest areas of Orlando. Well, there was Sergio Roper. He’s senile. He used to go into houses at random and make himself lunch. Walked in one afternoon while I was napping. I woke up and found him eating a ham and cheese sandwich in my kitchen—”
“Mrs. Lyons, you’re saying that Mr. Russo’s was the only major robbery in the community?”
“Yes, dear.”
“And his girlfriend?”
“Poor thing, his girlfriend broke up with him right before. They had a rather public argument, and she left crying.”
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