Lofgren knew that they were wrong. He allowed himself to replay the outcome in his head in a vain attempt to remember anything helpful that he hadn’t given enough attention to before. After several disappearances he would receive a call from someone claiming to be the killer. Lofgren would try to talk to the person on the other line but after the confession it was clear there was no one on the line. They would trace the call to what would become the most gruesome scene many of the agents and local law enforcement had ever seen. Just inside the door would be the caller hanging by their neck with a chair lying on its side below them. Beyond that, they would uncover rooms that had been used to dispose of bodies, like human compost heaps. The victims had all been mostly drained of blood and discarded carelessly. The walls were stained with blood and the same hand drawn symbol could be found throughout the building.
The first time it happened sixty-three corpses were uncovered and a major media sensation was born. All over the country families watched with an unhealthy fervor as bodies were removed from behind a reporter. Photos of the rooms were leaked to national news stations and for a few days every family in America tuned in to learn how to protect their family members from becoming victims of cult killings. In time, the images would be used in several of those chain emails that promised riches in exchange for forwarding them, and death or worse to those who ignored them. It was an easy enough crime to recreate considering the amount of information that was made public. Perhaps that was why the bureau was so quick to write off further cases as anything but imitation. Something about them had intrigued Lofgren and he had no intention of giving up until his questions were answered. It was just how he was.
His search had come to an aggravating halt before he received the letter that brought him to Landsford where he now sat waiting for Kasparov to bring in Ms. Hodge for questioning. He was sure she wasn’t involved, but he also had a feeling she would point him toward someone who was. He finished his e-mail and sent it off before pulling a book from his bag. He carried several to fill his downtime and was always eager to collect more. This book was a biography about Earl Haakon Sigurdsson. He had always been fascinated by his father’s side of the family. It wasn’t that the English didn’t have a rich and rewarding history; it was that the history of Norway interested him more. He hummed to himself as he read.
It was twenty minutes before Kasparov entered with a rather feisty Ms. Hodge. It did not look like she had come easily and the officer sported a large red mark on his cheek that looked to be turning an ugly shade of purple. He had been punched pretty hard but something told Lofgren that he hadn’t reported it and wouldn’t. He worried he had made the wrong choice by having Kasparov’s help on the case. If he knew the woman personally, it could make things difficult. He chastised himself for his poor decision, but he also understood that it could come with an advantage and clung to that as he placed his book in his bag and collected his files.
Kasparov looked to have cleaned up since their initial meeting and now smelled of soap and cigarette smoke. It wasn’t a great combination, but it was better than the odor that had previously clung to the man. Lofgren caught the glare of the detective and decided it must be because he was not happy to have brought in a friend. It made Lofgren uneasy to think that this was the kind of guy that had an interest in keeping certain criminals out of jail for his own gain. He would watch his next action carefully.
“You’re in my seat, Lofgren. I need my desk.” Kasparov addressed the agent in a way that made it clear he was frustrated. Lofgren looked around and found an empty chair at the desk next to theirs and got up to retrieve it. As he went to do so he heard Kasparov yell at his desk. “Son of a bitch! What happened to all my shit? I’m never going to find anything like this. Was this your doing?”
“As a matter of fact it was. It was filthy and now it is organized. If anything, you should be able to find everything better than before.” Lofgren replied as he moved the chair to the side of the desk that they would be sharing. The legs of the chair let out a loud screech that sliced through the air and seemed to only encourage Kasparov’s annoyance. “I don’t know how you got anything done. It was all clutter and noise”
“I prefer to work in organized chaos. I knew where everything was. I had a system. Now I have piles and plastic organizers. Where did you even get this thing?” He asked as he dumped the papers and notebooks from the organizer and waved in in the air.
“It was buried under your myriad of papers in what you call “organized chaos”. I did you a favor.” Lofgren defended his actions and felt that Kasparov was being a bit unreasonable. He had worked hard making the desk workable and the detective had managed to restore most of its clutter in a matter of seconds.
“Whatever, what’s done is done.” Kasparov was feeling exasperated and it showed as he tossed the organizer on to the desk with no care or hostility. He plopped in to his chair and reached in to a drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and an ash tray. He lit one and leaned back in his chair.
“Could you not? As I said I’m trying to quit.” Lofgren requested.
“I could put this out,” began Kasparov as he stared at the tip of his cigarette. “But then again my desk could be in order. I could be asleep right now. Hell, I could be at Marian’s with Gingers big fake titties in my face, but I’m not. Suck it up. Besides, I had to bring in a friend in for you and now she is going to be mad at me, again. So, I’m going to enjoy this whether you like it or not and then we are going to go question a woman who I have already managed to piss off twice today.”
Lofgren didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected Kasparov to be so willful. He figured he must have grown up around here and maybe knew Ms. Hodge as more than just a stripper who may be involved in a crime. His outburst made one thing very clear to Lofgren. Kasparov brought the woman in without regard to their relationship. He was willing to sacrifice his friendship for the good of the case. He sat quietly and studied the detective’s face to try and discern what he must be thinking. After about ten minutes he hadn’t come up with anything and Kasparov stood up and headed toward the interrogation room where Ms. Hodge was being held.
Lofgren already knew that Eliza Renoir had been at the club on the night of her disappearance and that Ms. Hodge had driven her somewhere after the club closed for the night. What he wasn’t sure of was where. If he could get her to admit to where she took the girl, maybe he could discern the location where the bodies were being stored. Even if the location didn’t turn anything up, Eliza may have said something that would provide some direction. When Lofgren entered the interrogation room, Kasparov was already talking to Ms. Hodge.
“-are tied here, Bambi. I can’t help you unless you help me. Don’t fuck me on this kid. For once let’s do this the easy way.” Kasparov was obviously close to the woman and, from the sound of things, this wasn’t the first time he had arrested her. “Hello, Agent Lofgren. Thank you for joining us. Let’s get this over with. I know I would like to put this all behind me. I’m sure Ms. Hodge feels the same way.”
“Fuck you, Scott.” Bambi spat.
“Ma’am could you tell us who is in the picture?” Lofgren asked as he held up a picture of Eliza. Bambi looked at it briefly and replied.
“I don’t know her. Not really. I offered to give her a lift. Is that so terrible? I didn’t kill anyone. And you have no right to hold me. I want my attorney.” She replied.
Lofgren sat back and sighed. He knew what came after those words. First they had to be called, and then they had to show up. After all the time it takes to get a lawyer in the room, they would advise the client against talking and Ms. Hodge would have to be charged or released. He hated wasting time and that’s all this would accomplish. Out of nowhere Kasparov started to laugh. He was beside himself with it. Lofgren worried his new partner had lost it until he stopped laughing and met Ms. Hodge with an amused stare.
“You don’t have one Bambi. Remember? You slept with him for getting those pr
ostitution charges dropped and gave him the clap. His wife left him. Now no lawyer wants anything to do with you. So why not tell us where your little friend lives?” Kasparov seemed to be quite amused as he spoke to her. It had definitely taken Lofgren by surprise and he wondered if it would work. He looked at Ms. Hodge and was met with a look that blended embarrassment and fury all in one. She reminded him of a fire that had just had water thrown on it.
“Oh, fuck you Scott!” She yelled. “You want something to go on, fine. At around three in the morning I dropped her off at her house it was on the way back to my place. It’s a blue house with grey shudders and a red van was in the driveway next door. She lived on Crawford Street. It won’t help you. You already know where she lives don’t you Agent Lavergain?”
“It’s Lofgren ma’am. And I do in fact have Eliza Renoir’s address. Did she mention anyone who had approached her? Anyone new that bothered her?” Lofgren questioned.
“How the hell should I know? She was asking about getting a cab and was afraid to wait at night alone so I offered to take her after she said it was so close. It’s a bad neighborhood, I don’t blame her for feeling anxious about waiting alone.” Ms. Hodge seemed to be telling the truth but Lofgren wasn’t sure it was the whole truth. He needed something more substantial to connect her to the missing people, or to help find the perpetrator. He was carefully considering the next question he would ask when he heard the familiar sound of a lighter. He turned around to find Kasparov lighting up two cigarettes and passing one to the woman. The smoke made it hard to think.
“I will ask the two of you to excuse me a moment. It seems we will be awhile. I am going to go find a cup of coffee. When I get back I hope you will be more helpful. I would hate to have to hold you over the weekend. I understand that’s when you make the bulk of your money.” Lofgren needed to escape the smoke and hoped his comments would loosen Ms. Hodge’s lips.
Lofgren sat at the desk and began to search through his files looking for any indication that a situation like this had happened in the past. There had been one here and there but he couldn’t be sure there was a real connection. After all it could be coincidental and coincidences were inconvenient. They cause a convolution of data that could lead to error and he couldn’t afford to make a mistake here. He knew the people behind the murders were strapped for supplies after fleeing Tampa weeks before and it was unlikely that they would be able to move again. On the other hand, people are very resourceful when in danger of being found by someone who intends to bring them to justice. As he considered his next move the phone on Kasparov’s desk rang. The shrill sound echoed in Lofgren’s ear and with a shaky hand he went to answer the call. He was sure it was another confession. The investigation was over before it began and he had no way of knowing where they could be headed.
“Agent Lofgren, how can I help you?” He answered the phone sure that the call was a suicide confession. “I’m sorry who? Oh, yes, Kasparov. He is away from his desk at the moment. Is this an emergency? What is a liquid emergency? Oh. Right. No, I get it. It just isn’t funny. I don’t think I could get him in trouble for this but you should call his cell phone for personal calls. Yes. Right. Thank you. Goodbye.”
The man on the other end of the phone had been a friend of Kasparov’s who had called to invite him out for an evening of getting drunk. It was an activity that Lofgren had once been quite fond of in his youth, and in some case, still enjoyed. Lofgren returned the phone to its cradle and looked over his files as he tried to figure out what to do next. A few minutes later Kasparov came out of the interrogation room and handed Lofgren a slip of paper with a name on it. “Who is Jared Halivers?” He asked the detective.
“It’s the name of the guy that talked to Eliza most of the night. She said she had seen him around a lot lately and he seemed to talk to everyone. Says he’s a nice guy, but between you and me, anyone who pays top dollar for dances is nice in Bambi’s book. She judges character in cash value.” Kasparov replied.
“Have you run the name through the databases yet?” Lofgren asked thoughtlessly.
“Well,” Kasparov stated bluntly. “I would have, but you’re in my seat and I can’t get to the damned computer.”
“Oh, Yes. I suppose that’s true.” Lofgren turned to the computer and started the search while Kasparov went to make a cup of coffee. The search was as expected, fruitless. He still had next to nothing little to go on. They would have to visit Marian’s and find this guy themselves. He wondered if Ms. Hodge had called any of her friends there to warn them about the investigation. It would make things very difficult if she had.
When Kasparov got back with his coffee Lofgren shared his intentions. “The search didn’t come up with any records of Jared, so I think we should go to Marian’s and find him. Once we have a visual I want to come back and review the tapes to see if he made contact with the other victims.”
“Why don’t we just arrest him right out? I can’t see why we should just leave him be if he’s a dangerous criminal. My job is to arrest those sorts of people ya know?” Kasparov questioned.
“These people aren’t like your regular crooks and killers. They are more organized than that. We have to be very careful about our movements. If anyone tips him off, they all find out, and if he’s apprehended before we are sure, they could flee and I don’t want to lose them again.” Lofgren explained.
“People. Again? What haven’t you told me about this case?” Kasparov demanded. “I can’t help if I don’t know what the fuck I’m looking for.”
“I don’t know much myself. I had one of their men once and I let him slip away because I hadn’t been careful enough. This time I won’t make the same mistake. When we hit the club to canvas, only talk to the people you know you can trust, if any. And try to blend in. Perhaps your friend can come with us so we are less conspicuous.” Lofgren replied.
“What friend?” Kasparov asked with a look of confusion on his face.
“The one from the phone. He called while you were in the interrogation room.” Lofgren answered.
“If I wasn’t here I don’t know who called. Why didn’t you let it go to voicemail?” Kasparov was clearly frustrated.
“He said he had a liquid emergency if that helps” Lofgren added in an attempt to be helpful.
“That’s Randall. I’ll call him on the way. We can take my car. I know the way there.” Kasparov seemed all too eager to get away as he scribbled a few things in his notebook.
“What did you do with Ms. Hodge?” Lofgren inquired.
“I put her in holding. I told her I would try to get her home tonight but that I couldn’t promise anything and she, in typical Bambi fashion, yelled and screamed and tried to punch me. It was all very endearing, let me tell you. Let’s go get a drink.” Kasparov talked while collecting his things, then made his way to the door.
Lofgren stayed behind to send an email to his superiors about what the girl had divulged. He was almost excited about going out to the club with Kasparov and his friend Randall. It had been a long time since he had had social stimulation and he knew he could use a break. He had become so consumed with the case he never had the energy to reach out to his friends when he was home, and his co-workers all thought he was odd and never invited him out. This would be an interesting evening despite Kasparov’s disposition toward him. He also felt the need to remind himself to stay sharp.
As he was finishing up with his correspondence a sound chimed from inside of Lofgren’s pocket. It was his phone again. This time the message was from a number too short to be a real number and he almost wrote it off as a spam message until a word caught his eye. The message read “Thumper and his little friend are getting close to the hunter”. It was talking about Kasparov and Ms. Hodge. He was sure of it and puzzled over what could transpire over the next several hours.
III.
Kasparov leaned against the rusty hood of his car and lit a cigarette. He took a long drag and felt the smoke as it clawed down in to his lungs whe
re it was likely causing irreversible damage. Every inhale was a step closer to the end but he didn’t care. Instead he focused on his next task. The sooner this case was over, the sooner he could get some rest. From his pocket he produced his phone and dialed Randall’s number from memory.
“Hey, you called? I’m on the job right now. Yeah I finished that case. No, this is a new one. I have to go check out a suspicious person at Marian’s. Want to come?” Kasparov spoke easily in to the phone. He had no secrets from Randall. “All right. See you there then.” He ended the call and shoved the phone back in to his pocket. At least now he wouldn’t have to be alone with Lofgren. There was something about that man that weighed on his mind.
He considered his new partner carefully as he tried to develop an idea of how the night was going to go. The possibilities played through his mind like a movie and he quickly became bored and tuned them out. For several moments he stared blankly in to the distance. When he found his focus his cigarette was nearly burnt to the filter. He took a final drag and flicked it. The cherry flew of and landed only a few inches from Kasparov’s foot and the filter found the asphalt several feet away before bouncing in to the grass.
It was about that time that Lofgren stepped outside and made his way to the car. He looked to stern, too serious. It made Kasparov uneasy and he worried it would make the girls uncomfortable. It then occurred to him that as long as he tipped well, they wouldn’t care if he showed up with a badge or with a bag of his personal cocaine. Drug dealers and Feds were received the same if the money was right.
The men got in to the car without sharing so much as a glance. Kasparov pulled out of the parking lot and navigated to the club. In route Lofgren began to hum the tune that appeared to be habitual.
“What is that song you keep humming?” Kasparov asked in masked frustration. He was trying to be kind but the humming was starting to get on his nerves and he hoped talking would ease the tension.
Yearling Investigation Archives (Book 1): Sanguine Page 3
