HOSPITALS HELD THE SMELL OF DEATH. Even though they should be a place where one feels safe and has a chance to heal, the disinfectant cleaners spoke of covering over the stench of decomposition.
Officers stood outside my room keeping guard over me to make sure I didn’t run off with my three broken ribs, displaced nose, and wounded thigh. They said the knife just missed the femoral artery.
I sank my head heavily into the pillow wondering if they found my family yet. I hurt so badly, not from the physical pain, but from the uncertainty of not knowing they were okay.
“Let me in to see him now!” I heard the woman’s voice firing in the hallway.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to back off.”
“I will beat you with this thing!”
“Ma’am!”
“Hell with it!”
Brenda stormed through the doorway, and Yvonne and Max followed her. She was hooked up to a mobile feeder. An IV tube ran from a bag into her hand.
I wanted to smile, to jump up, and embrace all of them in a group hug. But I held back afraid of how she would react to me, to what I had put our family through.
The three of them came to my bedside and stood there watching me as if I were a stranger. An officer graced the inside of the doorway but stepped back out.
I put a hand to my wife’s cheek first. Tears fell and she smiled at me.
“I thought you were dead.” She spoke through sobs that shook her body.
I pulled her into me and overlooked the pain that singed through me. My family had never looked so good to me. I held Brenda tight and breathed in her hair, her skin. “Are you okay?”
“We’re all fine. My sugars are a little low so they have me hooked up to this thing. Apparently kids bounce back faster.”
Yvonne moved in closer and so did Max. We stood there hugging and crying for minutes. I’m not even sure for how long. I just knew I never wanted to let them go. Never.
Max pulled out of the hug. “Dad.”
“Yeah, Champ.” I put a hand on his head and tousled his hair affectionately.
“I love you, too.” Tears fell from his small eyes. The innocence of a child who had no idea why he was put through what he had been, yet he was willing to forgive. I hoped Brenda would be.
“All right that’s enough.” The Chief walked into the room with another man beside him.
I held my family tighter. These men would be taking me to prison, and not long from now, I’d be wearing an orange jumper at the penitentiary.
“Come on kids, out,” I said.
Yvonne and Max squeezed me tighter. I didn’t want Brenda to witness this. I tightened my grip on her hand and released it. It took everything inside to do so.
“You’re not getting rid of me. I’m staying.” When that level of defiance showed up in those green eyes of hers, there was no option but compliance.
“You might not like what you hear.”
She took my hand back in hers. “We will work through whatever it is—together.”
“Mr. Hunter,” the Chief began, gesturing the man beside him. “This is a Detective Lieutenant Royce with the Michigan State Police. You are being investigated for the murder of Marian Behler, Governor of Michigan.”
My eyes weren’t on him but on Brenda. She licked her lips and looked away from me. Her hand fell limp in mine. I squeezed it, but she didn’t reciprocate.
“You have a connection with the Italian Mafia, and they hired you as a hitman,” Royce said.
I remained silent. All I could think about was losing Brenda and the kids forever. Emotion bottled in my throat.
“You killed Christian Russo with a .22 to the head. The same type of bullet that first went into Behler.”
If the Lieutenant were fishing for a reaction, he wouldn’t get one.
“The second bullet that went into her came from a customized rifle. The barrel’s rifling, land and groove impressions, don’t match anything in our databases.”
He paused as if expecting my conscience to win out and provide him with information. My conscience had been sacrificed years ago. I remained silent.
I also knew they wouldn’t find my customized rifle even if they searched my property. After seeing Pietro Russo, I had put it in a storage rental unit that I had taken out years ago under an assumed identity. It wouldn’t be tied back to me. When things died down, I’d retrieve it and return it to my gun storage room where it belonged.
Royce continued, “We will be conducting a search of your property.” He turned to face Brenda. Her head cocked to the side.
“Your DNA was found on another dead body. Behler’s hired bodyguard.”
I adjusted my position and studied my wife. “How is that even—”
“A hair in one of his wounds.”
It took a moment, but I realized Brenda must have had secrets of her own, otherwise how would they have her DNA to match? I fought back a smile.
“But all of this.” The Lieutenant made a circular motion with his hands. “None of it matters because at the end of the day we cannot prove you are the one who pulled the trigger.” He turned back to Brenda. “And we cannot prove that you are the one who killed her bodyguard.”
Was he saying that I’m free to go?
He must have read the expression on my face. “That’s right.” He pressed his lips and anger and frustration flashed in his eyes. “I can’t charge you with anything. I mean, maybe the murder of Christian Russo, but from what I see you’d have too strong a case for self-defense. Of course, you’ll need to answer a lot of questions about everything. Get some rest and we’ll talk.”
NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK
1:00 PM
WINGHAM SAT BEHIND THE TABLE Clinton and she were directed to. Their announcement to the world would be broadcasting live in five minutes.
Clinton told her about Talbot’s offer and that he shot it down.
“Wow, you do have a heart after all.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“God no, it would ruin your cover as the tough cop.” She laughed.
Clinton was proud of himself. He found out about Hunter’s family, and he knew there was likely more under the surface. Nothing was a coincidence and Christian wouldn’t have gone to him if there wasn’t a past connection. But that didn’t concern him. He had a case to solve—the assassination of a dignitary—and he had. As far as the public would know a man by the name of Christian Russo had her taken out. They would also be informed of how the power struggle among the Mafia families resulted in his death.
There was nothing that could increase his speculation to evidence when it came to Governor Talbot either. If he had done something to warrant bribery to cover his tracks, there was nothing to prove it. They never did find Behler’s cell phone. It’s like it disappeared.
-
Epilogue
ONE WEEK LATER…
DETROIT, MICHIGAN
WHEN ONE HAS A LOT OF TIME TO THINK, the answers usually present themselves. They morph out of images, compilations, and blend with facts. It was only a week ago my family and I escaped from Christian Russo, but in a lot of ways the experience felt like another lifetime.
For me, it sought to be filed in the category of my past and I wished it to be buried there. As for the replica of Behler’s phone chip, I had ensured it would never be found along with my original cell on which I did some Internet searches about her, and the recorder that contained the job offer from Christian. That could be the evidence that would make me see inside the walls of a government prison, not just a makeshift cell of a crazy man with dreams of grandeur.
At this point, I think I had it all figured out. Christian had always wanted the power, the recognition. This entire scheme was nothing more than an elaborate way of accomplishing all that. News reports told how Pietro Russo had been taken down by a bullet t
o the head on private property. The reporter concluded, “It appears as nothing more than an elaborate shift in mafia power.”
They would never hear of the FBI agent or the Governor who pocketed public funds.
But I couldn’t help thinking about the other man who had sat silently in the corner of Pietro’s private quarters in the room at the racetrack bar. Christian couldn’t have the power so he set things up so that his father would be taken out. But what he didn’t count on was the fact Pietro’s right-hand man was just as hungry for the power. When contacted by a New York Italian family, the man would have been more than eager to set matters right. And if that included taking out both father and son, that was a sacrifice for peace he would have been willing to make. FBI Agent Leone hadn’t been sent to save me. He had been sent to kill Christian and realized I was in the way.
I walked down the hallway after my morning shower and joined my family at the breakfast table. “I forgot how great your pancakes were.” I washed a mouthful down with a gulp of milk.
“Mom’s are the best.” Yvonne smiled at her mother.
Max was busy trying to get a slice of bacon and a chunk of pancake loaded onto his fork.
Brenda held eye contact with me, and I knew in that instant there was no other place I’d ever want to be. We had been fortunate, lucky, if one believed in that sort of thing, to be where we were today.
“You sound as if you haven’t eaten them in forever.” Brenda took a swig back on her coffee.
“Well, we missed last week.” I spoke the words and the table went silent.
“We agreed not to ever bring it up again,” Brenda said.
“I don’t know. Dad’s pretty cool.”
Everyone looked at Max, who hadn’t said much all brunch. He was too busy pushing food into his mouth.
“Well, he is. He’s a gunman.” He grinned, syrup running down his chin.
“Gross,” Yvonne moaned.
“Wipe that Max.” Brenda handed him a napkin. “It’s not cool. It’s dangerous.” She passed a glance in my direction. I heard her words yet sensed attraction.
She had accepted my explanation of the murder of the Governor—I did it for the safety of my family—but it was never to be spoken of again. When she found out about how much money our family was really worth, I got a shot in my arm and was told she was quitting her day job.
“You’ll have to teach me how to fire a gun, Dad.”
“Max,” Brenda attempted to correct him again.
“Maybe someday, Champ.”
“Oh.” Brenda’s eyes got large, and she threw a dish towel at me. I caught it and went after her as fast as my injuries would allow. She left the table and ran down the hall toward our bedroom.
“Gross!” Yvonne yelled from the kitchen. “Close the door! We can hear you!”
Brenda fell onto the bed with me on top of her. The force on my ribs made me wince; I would not allow her to see it. We were both laughing but stopped as we looked into each other’s eyes. She would never know about the man who had been murdered in our bed. She never pressed about the hair being found on him either, or discussed the fact police had her DNA on file.
My cell phone rang on the nightstand, and I reached for it.
“Is this Raymond Hunter?” The man’s voice held a thick Italian accent.
My heart beat sped up. I closed my cell phone.
“Who was that?”
“Wrong number.” Maybe it was time to move and get as far away from Detroit and my past as possible. “Brenda.”
“Yes.” Her eyes narrowed to slits.
“I have a question for you.”
“Uh huh.”
“Why is your DNA on record?”
Her smile faded but was reborn. “And what, I can’t have any mystery about me?”
Maybe it was at that moment, or maybe I had known this for a long time, but she was my perfect match. And our children, well, they were the offspring of their parents, so they were okay too. I smiled as I leaned down to kiss her.
-
Note to Readers
If you’ve enjoyed this novel, please tell your friends and family about it. If you have time to write a brief, honest review on the retailer site where you purchased this book that, too, is appreciated.
Carolyn loves to hear from her readers. You can reach her at [email protected].
Upon receipt of your e-mail, you will be added to her newsletter mailing unless you express your desire otherwise.
Keep on reading for a sample of Eleven, book 1 in the Brandon Fisher FBI series.
Do you, or have you, worked in law enforcement?
If so, Carolyn would love to know how you thought she did when it came to the police procedure in this story. Her goal is to provide the most realistic and entertaining police procedural novels in the marketplace. Your feedback would be much appreciated. Please email her at: [email protected].
Connect with CAROLYN ARNOLD Online:
Website
Twitter
Facebook
-
Newsletter
To receive special offers and news about latest releases,
sign up for Carolyn Arnold’s newsletter.
Or visit www.carolynarnold.net/newsletters
For more about this author visit
www.carolynarnold.net
-
Overview of ELEVEN
Eleven Rooms. Ten Bodies. One Empty Grave.
Brandon Fisher never expected this when he signed up as a Special Agent for the FBI. Working in the shadow of Supervisory Special Agent Jack Harper of the Behavioral Analysis Unit his career seemed set. But when the team is called to a small rural town where the remains of ten victims are found in an underground bunker, buried in an unusual way, Brandon knows he’ll never return to his normal life.
With one empty grave, and the case touching close to home, he fears he’s become the target of a psychotic serial killer who wants to make him number eleven. Only thing is, everything Brandon thinks he knows is far from the truth
-
Chapter 1
NOTHING IN THE TWENTY WEEKS at Quantico prepared me for this.
A Crime Scene Investigator, who had identified himself as Earl Royster when we first arrived, came out of a room and addressed FBI Supervisory Special Agent Jack Harper. “All of the victims were buried—” He held up a finger, his eyes squeezed shut, and he sneezed. “Sorry ’bout that. My allergies don’t like it down here. They were all buried the same way.”
This was my first case with the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit, and it took us to Salt Lick, Kentucky. The discovery was made this morning, and we were briefed and flown out from Quantico to the Louisville field office where we picked up a couple of SUVs. We drove from there and got here about four in the afternoon.
We were in a bunker illuminated by portable lights brought in by the local investigative team. A series of four tunnels spread out as a root system beneath a house the size of a mobile trailer and extended under an abandoned cornfield.
A doorway in the cellar of the house led down eleven feet to a main hub from which the tunnels fed off. The walls were packed dirt and an electrical cord ran along the ceiling with pigtail fixtures attached every few feet.
We were standing in the hub which was fifteen and a quarter feet wide and arched out to a depth of seven and half feet. The tunnels were only about three feet wide, and the height clearance was about the same as here, six and a half feet. The bulbs dangled down from the fixtures another eight inches.
I pulled out on the collar of my shirt wishing for a smaller frame than my six foot two. As it was, the three of us could have reached out and touched each other if we were inclined.
“It’s believed each victim had the same cuts inflicted,” Royster said. “Although most of the remains are
skeletal so it’s not as easy to know for sure, but based on burial method this guy obviously had a ritual. The most recent victim is only a few years old and was preserved by the soil. The oldest remains are estimated to date back twenty-five to thirty years. Bingham moved in twenty-six years ago.”
Lance Bingham was the property owner, age sixty-two and was currently serving three to five years in a correctional facility for killing two cows and assaulting a neighbor. If he moved in twenty-six years ago, that would put Bingham at thirty-six. The statistical age for a serial killer to start out is early to mid-thirties.
The CSI continued to relay more information about how the tunnels branched out in various directions and the ends came to a bulbous tip.
“There are eleven rooms and only ten bodies.” Jack rushed the briefing along as he pulled a cigarette out of a shirt pocket. He didn’t light up, but his lips suctioned around it as if it was a life supply.
Royster’s eyes went from the cigarette to Jack’s face. “Yes. There’s one tunnel that leads to a dead end and there’s one empty grave.”
“What do you make of it?” Jack spoke with the cigarette bobbing in his mouth and turned to me.
“Of the empty grave?”
Jack’s smile slanted higher on the right, his eyes pinched, and he removed the cigarette from his mouth. “That and the latest victim.”
Bingham had been in prison for the last three years. The elaborate tunnel system he had going would have taken years to plan and dig, and it would have taken strength, leaning toward Bingham not working alone. “He had help. Someone followed behind him.”
Jack perched the unlit smoke back in his lips. “Hmm.”
“Anyway, you’ll want to see it for yourself. I haven’t seen anything like it,” Royster continued.
Jack’s eyes narrowed, and his brows compressed.
“Come—” The back of a wrist came to his nose in an instant. The spray of sneeze only somewhat diverted. More sniffles. “Sorry ’bout that. Anyway, this way.”
Jack motioned for me to go ahead of him.
Assassination of a Dignitary Page 34
