by Jette Harris
“They caught him and he escaped?”
He shook his head. “Feingold found some evidence, a cigarette butt. Perp must have been watching, because he stole it back, stabbing Feingold in the process. Fucker’s fast. I had my own run-in with him in San Fran.” He reached up to stroke a scar on his forehead. “Fast. Reckless. Creepy as fuck, too. Sometimes it feels like he’s everywhere.”
“Professionalism,” Steyer chided as he crossed to them.
“Sorry,” Remington murmured into his coffee.
Steyer stood next to his partner and studied Byron, who drew himself up under the scrutiny. If Steyer developed any opinions, his face did not betray them. “I wanted to ask why you are out of uniform, Officer Byron?”
“Oh.” Byron involuntarily tugged at the front of his shirt. “Our shift hasn’t started yet. We came in to…” He swallowed, not wanted to say he came in just to meet the FBI. “Because Aly called… Detective Young called us.”
“How long have you been with the force?”
“A little over a year, sir.”
Steyer nodded. “Are you going to be able to cope assisting us with this case, officer?”
Byron’s throat tightened. He nodded. “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
“Let us know if you begin to feel differently, or any misgiving whatsoever. As you were discussing…” He shot Remington a look. “…it’s a high-risk case.” He eyed the coffee in Remington’s hand, then reached for a cup.
“You don’t want that,” Remington warned. Steyer dropped his hand and resumed his place as if nothing had happened. Remington stared into his coffee, then dropped it into the trashcan. “You said officers get their coffee at the same location Charles Witt and Zachariah Vlasov disappeared?”
“Yea—Yes, sir.”
“Would you mind showing us where it is?”
Byron’s face broke into a grin. “Aight.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, no, of course. I can… Kondorf and I can lead you there. We carpool.”
Steyer raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Let’s go kill some birds.”
12
The FBI agents climbed into their fleet vehicle to follow Kondorf’s faded and rusting Ford pick-up to the coffee shop. As they drove, Byron drew a sloppy map of how to get back on a napkin pressed against his knee, just in case. He told himself it was because he wanted to be accommodating to make a good impression on the FBI, not because he wanted to stand out to one of the agents.
Nevertheless, when they climbed out of the truck, he leaned back in before Kondorf could close his door. “Mind if I show them around? Solo?”
“Leavin’ us so soon?” Kondorf chuckled. “You go right on ahead.”
Licking his lips nervously, Byron tucked in his shirt and tightened his belt before closing the door and crossing the parking lot to where the agents had parked. The corner where Chuck’s truck had been parked was cordoned off with yellow caution tape. Byron hesitated and steeled himself, eyeing the neon lines and circles on the asphalt. To his relief, the blood was no longer visible. Knowing it could be his former teammate’s made him feel an uneasiness he didn’t usually feel at the sight of blood.
Steyer stood by the car, only one thin folder in his hand this time, the one labeled ATL. It was open, and he was sorting through 8x10 glossy photos. Byron eyed them enviously. Cheatham Hill PD’s printer was often out of ink, and they had to sneak over to use the one on the other side of the office, property of Cobb County Sheriff’s Department.
Remington sat in the car, his feet out the door. He had the little notebook on his knee and was spiraling a pen around the paper, the cap between his teeth. Declaring the pen dead, he tossed it on the floorboard, spit the cap out, and dug a fresh pen out of the center console. He breathed with palpable relief when it worked on the first swipe. He slammed the door and stood on the curb, scribbling a note.
Steyer found a photo of the truck in situ and took two large steps to the right to stand where the photographer had been standing. He lined the photo up, put it back down, and looked at Byron expectantly. His time to shine.
“As you can see,” Byron began, “this is where Witt—where Chuck’s truck was parked. When we responded, his truck and the manager’s car were the only vehicles here. She—the manager—was parked up by the front door.” He twisted to point, but realized that was irrelevant. He glanced around and indicated the neon circles. “This is where they found notable amounts of blood.”
Steyer flicked through his photos and pulled out two: one of the puddles and one of the streaks where a body had been dragged. Byron choked and had to clear his throat
“Th-they were able to determine using blood type the big circle is… the large puddle belonged… was from Chuck. The smaller circle, and the least amount of blood, was from Z. They also found Witt’s blood on the inside of the back driver’s side door of his truck.” Byron waved his hand to show the pattern the blood had splattered. He faltered and frowned as he realized he had seen the same pattern elsewhere…
Remington furrowed his brown. He imitated the wave. “Fanned like that?”
“Yeah.” Byron pointed to the stack of photos. “If there’s a photo in there of the passenger side of Heather’s car…” Steyer pulled out a picture of Heather’s car, then shuffled through and found a picture of the interior of Chuck’s truck. The three tilted their heads to study them side-by-side. “It looks exactly—It… it looked very… similar…”
Steyer glanced at him, then tucked the photos back in and snapped the folder shut without comment. Remington raised an eyebrow.
“When do you get on duty, Officer Byron?” Steyer asked without looking at him.
“Six o’clock.”
“Thank you, officer. We will continue this at six.”
Byron gave a hesitant nod. “No problem. See you then.”
Byron retreated inside feeling like he was walking out of an exam without knowing if he passed with flying colors or failed epically. As the door scraped closed behind him, he shoved his hands in his pockets and hung his head. Kondorf held a coffee under his nose—black with two sugars, just the way he liked it.
“Thanks, man.” Byron accepted it with a grateful smile.
“C’mon.” Kondorf nodded toward the window in the back. “I got us front-row seats. You’re about to see how the FBI really works.”
Kondorf led him across the shop to the back corner. From there, they could see the side and rear parking lot from the comfort of the air conditioned building. Byron sipped his coffee with growing contentment.
“This is exactly how it’s gonna go,” Kondorf said, gesturing to the agents. “Those two’ll walk around with their hands in their pockets, kicking stuff on the ground, maybe inspecting a… a cigarette butt or a piece of paper. Once they get familiar with the area, they’ll start pointing and gesturing, and re-enactin’ what they think might’ve happened. After a while, one’ll declare it’s too damn hot; They’ll know more when they hear back from the lab, and they’ll come in for some coffee.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” Kondorf nodded and sipped his coffee. They turned back to the FBI agents. Both were inspecting the ground with their hands in their pockets.
****
Despite the heat and humidity, the sky was overcast and there was a fair breeze. Steyer, hands in his pockets, perused the ground around the corner spot where Charles Witt had parked his Nissan Titan. The truck itself had been transported to the crime lab the day before to be disassembled. There was a variety of cigarette butts crushed into the mulch, all peeling and in various states of decomposition. He toed them.
“What brand?” Remington joined him on the curb.
“Looks like Camels… that one is definitely a Virginia Slim.”
“What did Phoenix smoke?”
“American Spirits, but that was in ’97. There weren’t any signs of smoking in San Francisco.”
“He may have been policing his butts.”
“He may hav
e quit.” Steyer searched the overcast sky. Conditions had been similar when he and Feingold had arrived in Detroit. “It would be an interesting change for such a creature of habit.”
Remington didn’t reply. He knelt to nudge a soggy piece of paper with his pen. It had been a receipt, but the ink had washed away in the rain, rendering it useless. Steyer stood in the middle of the parking space and studied the coffee shop. Byron, Kondorf, and another man who stood with the posture of a cop were watching them and chatting.
“Let’s walk through this.” Steyer pointed to the door of the coffee shop. “This place closes at ten. Zachariah Vlasov begins his closing duties at half-past nine, after Heather and Monica leave. Charles Witt walks out about a quarter to ten, the last to leave, according to the manager.”
Remington craned his neck and searched the sky. “Sun would have been setting over there, so these windows might still have been covered.”
“Correct, so neither the manager nor Zachariah could have seen this end of the parking lot.” Steyer nudged Remington so he could take his place on the curb. “The back door of the truck was here,” he said, holding his hands up to indicate a door. “There was a jump kit on the floor of the back seat, so the Phoenix must have asked for a jump, and his vehicle must have been nearby—close enough Chuck did not have to move his truck.” He pointed to the next space over.
“Or Chuck was getting the kit out and didn’t have a chance to move,” Remington countered, pointing to the adjacent spaces on their left.
Steyer nodded. “Charles Witt is five-foot-four. The blood spray is high on the door, so he had stood back up. We know the Phoenix is right-handed, so he hits him with something—” He gestured a swing of his right hand. “—not too hard, but causing a moderate spray of blood.” Steyer stepped off the curb and stood in front of the space, pointing to a neon circle painted into the asphalt. “The Phoenix drags him and leaves him here, where anyone could see him.”
“But no one else was around,” Remington picked up the narrative, “except Zachariah Vlasov and the manager. Manager said she heard the back door open just after ten—she said it was loud. He made it to the dumpster and dumped the trash, but never went back in; The door only opened and closed once. He must have seen Charles Witt and gone to help him.”
“Now, in comes our Good Samaritan...”
“Not so good at all. He calls 9-1-1 and reports two injured boys. Dispatcher’s recording has Zach’s voice in the background, so he was conscious at ten-twelve. He sounds alarmed; the attack would’ve occurred immediately after hanging up. Charles Witt is here.” He points to the neon circle, then moves to another, seven feet farther from the space. “Zach ends up here.” Remington ground his teeth, looking at the two adjoining spaces. “I’d bet my paycheck the Phoenix parked here,” he said, pointing to the adjacent space. “He may have even already had the trunk open. Otherwise he would’ve moved Charles Witt to the opposite side, more visible from the dumpster, closer to his vehicle.”
They moved to the space. Part of a tire track had been dug out of some silt during the initial investigation. There had been no such accumulation in the parking spot next to the truck.
“How much would you be willing to bet,” Steyer asked, “that he’s driving a Jeep Cherokee?”
“Creature of habit…”
****
“That’s a nice suit he’s wearing.”
Byron turned to find the speaker, a tall, rugged-looking man with a cup of coffee held against his bottom lip. He shot Byron a glance that made him feel the irritating stirring all over again–except this time, it was inspired by someone closer. And addressing him.
“Which one?” Kondorf asked.
“Remington,” Byron said. It was obvious; Steyer’s suit was comparatively plain. “It is a nice suit.”
“Could you tell whose it is?” The stranger looked askance at Byron with a raised eyebrow.
What is it about today and tall, dark, and handsome? Byron took a deep breath, wanting to ask the man why he assumed he would know anything about suits. Byron didn’t want to admit he had noticed how perfectly Remington’s suit was tailored. He glanced the stranger over. A glint in his eye and the smirk playing on his lips implied an interest in more than suits.
“Nah,” Byron replied instead. “Up close, it looks custom.”
“Custom! Naw, not on their salary.” He pointed with his coffee. “They don’t make much more than we do. Still…I bet it’s Dolce & Gabbana. They feature those colors often.”
Kondorf snorted. “I tell you what, the only suits I own are from Sears.”
The stranger chuckled. “That suit is definitely not from Sears.”
They watched in silence for a few minutes as the agents gesticulated and shuffled about.
“Y’all respond to that mess the other night?”
“Yep,” Kondorf replied. “We got the call.”
“That musta been somethin’. I heard all about it when I got on duty yesterday morning. Y’all don’t usually get that much excitement out here.”
Byron snorted. “That’s one word for it.”
Steyer and Remington turned and headed toward the door, wiping their faces and the backs of their necks.
“Let me know what you find out,” the man said to Byron. “About the suit, I mean. I’ll see y’all around.” He headed for the door, holding it open for the agents. They grunted their thanks without looking at him. Before he exited, he caught Byron looking. Byron’s face burned. Did he just wink?
“You know him?” Byron asked, trying to sound casual.
“Not a clue,” Kondorf replied. “Walks like a cop, though.”
“A gay cop,” Byron snorted. But his eyes followed the man as he crossed the parking lot to his Jeep.
13
Steyer had a system for everything, including multi-casualty incidents: Go in order. If chronological order cannot be established, go alphabetically. Therefore, their visits would start with the Vlasov residence and end with Heather Stokes’s residence.
Zachariah Vlasov’s father lived in New Jersey. His only listed phone number was disconnected. The young man’s mother, Aneta Vlasov, lived outside the Cheatham Hill city limits, but had found a sliver of land on the edge of the school district. Remington was unable to reach her on the phone, and she did not answer the door of the duplex listed as their address. The woman in the adjoining unit directed the agents to the Waffle House where she worked.
When Remington pushed the door open, he wasn’t sure if the aroma that met him was pleasant or offensive. Waffle House was clearing out from breakfast and still not over-crowded for lunch. Remington identified Aneta Vlasov immediately: She sat in the last chair at the counter, slumped against the wall. An untouched plate of food sat in front of her, next to a discarded black apron. Despite the circles under her eyes and the gray shooting through her chestnut hair, she had the beautiful features common to Eastern Europe: high, wide cheekbones, and large, bright eyes.
Steyer did not question Remington’s judgment, but followed where he led.
“Aneta Vlasov?” He showed his badge. “I’m Agent Steyer, with the FBI’s Violent Crimes division. This is my partner, Agent Remington. We’re investigating your son’s disappearance. May we sit?”
“Yes, please.” She sat up as if her body ached and pulled her apron into her lap.
“I’ll box that up for you, sugar,” a server said, sweeping her plate away.
“Thank you.” She gave him a tired but gracious smile and turned back to the investigators. “I apologize; I have not slept. I don’t know how much help I will be.” Her Eastern European accent was softened by years in the US, but still audible.
“That’s OK,” Steyer assured her. “We’re here to introduce ourselves and arrange an appointment at a time more convenient for you.”
Her eyes flickered to the clock over the office door.
“For now, we just wanted you to see our faces, and know we are doing everything in our power to find y
our son and bring him home.”
“I appreciate that very much. When he did not come home, and the police came, I think, He has helped his friend run away. But when the girls disappear, the young ladies, I knew it was more. He would not disappear like this, not without saying something. Do you think you know what happened?”
Frowning, Steyer shook his head. “We have our suspicions, but it’s still too early in the investigation to pin anything down.”
“Oh, God.” She covered her mouth. “Could it… could it be traffickers?”
Remington narrowed his eyes with a dangerous and determined glint. “No, Ms. Vlasov, we don’t suspect trafficking. We actually…” he turned to Steyer. The senior agent nodded. “We suspect it might be a bit worse.”
“Worse than slavery?” Aneta looked from one agent to the other, slipping her hands between her knees.
Remington had trouble committing to a nod. “More… time-sensitive than slavery. We believe we have about a month to find them. It could be less, but… not more.”
“A month?”
“Yes.”
Turning her head, she became animated, sitting up straighter. She unbundled the apron and folded it. She sniffled and wiped her eyes, ensuring no tears had fallen.
“A lot can happen in a month.” She placed the apron back in her lap and smoothed the creases. “You could find him. He could escape.” She sniffed again and shrugged. “The world could end.”
Remington frowned, nodding. “Anything could happen.”
14
1993
Phoenix (“Roc Prousa”)
“Fuck.”
Tall’s cage was empty. The wires at the back were mangled and sunlight flooded through a hole in the wall where it met the floor.
“Fuck!” Roc rolled off the bed. Dust was still settling outside. He shot into the back and grabbed his rifle. Growling as he unlocked the door, he ran outside with the rocks biting and the sand burning his bare feet. He blinked furiously as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness.
