by Jette Harris
Clouds of dust betrayed their maker: Tall was about two hundred yards from the shack. Lifting the rifle, Roc found the dark figure among the dun of the desert. Tall’s biggest mistake was following a straight path. Roc centered him in the sights and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked his shoulder, but he saw the dark figure drop.
Huffing, Roc broke into a sprint. He could feel the sweat steaming off his skin. Just these few minutes of exposure burned his bare shoulders. When he found the dark form on the ground, he slowed to catch his breath, dry in his throat. Tall wasn’t moving. Roc’s initial panic subsided. Tall wasn’t dead; His limbs lay limp by his sides, his chest heaving for air. Blood glistened on his cheek, speckled with the sand kicked up by his labored breathing. A large hole bubbled on the right side of his chest.
“Huh.”
Roc knelt. Tall’s eyes fixed on him, wide with panic, but he did not move. Roc smiled as he guessed the reason for his stillness. He grabbed Tall’s shoulder and heaved his body up. A hole, much smaller, oozed in the middle of his back, about three inches down from his neck. Tall was paralyzed.
“Bulls-eye!” Roc laughed. “Fuck, Tall, you’ve got the shittiest luck. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time!”
Tall huffed, but could not reply. Roc patted his shoulder and let him fall back again. Grunting, he stood and swung the rifle strap over his shoulder.
“Do you wanna know how you’re gonna die, Tall?” He grabbed Tall’s ankles and began to drag him back toward the shack. He could feel the sun on his shoulders like tongues of flame, but did not want to pass up this opportunity, especially now that Tall was emitting a high, breathy sound, like a dog whining with fear. “Well, depending on exactly what the bullet hit on its way through your chest, you could bleed to death. Not a horrible way to die. You could aspirate, which is a bit worse: You’ll experience the sensation of drowning, because… well… you are. I should know, I’m a doctor now.
“If you don’t exsanguinate and you don’t aspirate, well, then, two things could happen: You could die of thirst, or you’ll be eaten by coyotes.”
They reached the shack. Roc dropped Tall’s legs and stood in the shade of the structure, bent double to catch his breath.
“Personally, I think it would be interesting to be eaten by coyotes. Not pleasant by any means, but… interesting.”
Grabbing Tall under his arms, Roc backed him closer to the shack and propped him against the wall, blocking the hole he had made. Tears were streaming down Tall’s face, leaving furrows in the dust and blood. His mouth moved wordlessly, beseeching.
“Oh, don’t worry, Tall,” Roc said in a sympathetic tone. “You won’t feel much…” He wiped the tears away with the back of his hand. “Not until they start to eat your face.” He patted Tall’s cheek and smiled. “I guess in your case, the most painful death would be thirst. Are you thirsty, Tall?”
Tall bared his teeth and turned his face away. He nodded.
“Well, then—” Roc tapped Tall’s nose. “—You shouldn’t have run.” He stood and headed back toward the door. “Pray for exsanguination, Tall.”
15
May, 2006
Atlanta
Speaking with Aneta Vlasov tapped into a well of compassion Remington had kept buried deep in order to help women just like her: Eastern European and Asian women who had been kidnapped or convinced they could make a better living working in the US as a slave or a wife, or both. For her—and all those like her he had failed—an iron determination formed: Failure was not an option.
The Witts lived in a neighborhood in the middle of Cheatham Hill, the serpentine streets lined with large houses, pristine yards, with expensive cars sitting in the driveways. The Witts’ house was no different. It was the opposite of the Vlasovs’ red clay slope of a yard.
Mr. and Mrs. Witt certainly did not work at Waffle House.
Frank Witt answered the door. He was a tall, stout, red-haired and red-faced man. Like Steyer, Frank looked as if he felt uncomfortable wearing anything but business attire. He shook their hands with conspicuous firmness.
“Now, y’all look like you know what you’re doing,” he said. His voice was deep, with a thick Southern accent lacking the warmth Kondorf’s drawl had. “Nothin’ against Tommy and Chief Collins, of course, but that little girl they got working there has no business investigating my son’s disappearance. She’s got an attitude on her.”
Remington gave a tight smile. “That little girl,” Sergeant Young, was around his age, if not slightly older.
“We’re only assisting at this juncture.” Steyer had a crisp pointedness to his tone.
Frank studied them more carefully. “Where’re you boys from?”
Steyer’s eyebrows arched high on his forehead. He gave Frank a moment to correct himself, but he didn’t take the opportunity. “Boston,” he finally answered.
“Brooklyn.” Remington usually felt self-conscious saying it, since he had trouble hiding his accent, but he let it out stronger this time.
“Huh.” Frank’s confident expression slipped. “Well, welcome to Cheatham Hill. Come on in. Cathy! Kids! Come down here!”
Remington winced at the booming voice. After a few seconds, a girl in her early teens with brown hair bounded down the stairs. She jumped the bottom step and bounced, but her enthusiasm faded when she saw them. She bit her lip and looked them over. A woman with an undeniable resemblance descended after her.
Frank sighed. “These are my girls: My wife, Cathy…” He held out a hand to present her, and she took her place by his side with a pleasant smile.
“It’s so nice to meet you.”
“And this is my daughter—my youngest—Carly.” He held his hand out to the young lady. She nodded coyly. Frank pointed to Steyer. “These boys are with the FBI.”
Carly’s eyes grew wide. Cathy’s placid expression slipped, but she recovered quickly.
“This is Special Agent Richard St…” He narrowed his eyes.
“Steyer.”
“Steyer—and Special Agent Remington…” His tongue worked around the names as he noted their connection. “Are these code names or something?”
Steyer pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nope.”
“Huh.”
“Please, come into the kitchen and sit.” Cathy gestured to the threshold on their right. “Can I make you gentlemen anything? Coffee? Tea? Water?”
“No, thank you.” Steyer gave her a pleasant smile and placed a hand over his belly. “We just had some.”
Cathy’s smile grew a little more relaxed. They moved into the kitchen and sat around a white oak table. Cathy sat next to her husband. Carly hesitated before taking the seat between her mother and Remington.
“My son—my younger son—should be down shortly,” Frank said. “I don’t know what’s taking him so long.”
“That’s fine,” Remington replied. “At this time, we don’t have many questions the police haven’t already asked. We just wanted to introduce ourselves.”
“Perhaps also take a look around at Chuck’s bedroom while we’re here,” Steyer added. “And the yard, if it’s not too much.”
“Of course,” Cathy said.
“And if you don’t mind, do you think we could speak with Chuck’s brother and sister privately?” Remington asked.
Frank’s face soured. He chewed on his words before replying, “They’ve already told the cops everything they know, and they wouldn’t have anything to say they can’t say with us here.”
Steyer spread his arms in an uncharacteristically large gesture. “We understand. Our questions are not specific to them, however. It’s common for students to withhold information or delay telling for fear of incriminating their peers. A friend may have told them something after they spoke with the officers that they are reluctant to say in front of adults who know their parents.”
Steps thundered down the stairs and a tall, brown-haired young man stepped into the doorway, a gym bag over his shoulder.
“Ah! Finally! This is my other son, Dean.” Frank gestured to the chair between him and Steyer. “Dean, take a seat.”
Dean glanced over them nervously. “I was about to head to practice.”
“These men are with the FBI.”
Dean’s face fell. He entered the kitchen hesitantly. “So… what? Like, kidnapping? Alien abduction? I thought Chuck ran away.”
“He did, sweetie,” Cathy said with a nod.
Steyer and Remington turned slowly to stare at her. She continued to smile at Dean, blinking too much.
Frank shook his hand to wave off whatever ideas they may have had. “Whatever trouble those girls’ve gotten themselves into, that’s got nothing to do with my boy.”
Remington and Steyer turned their stares upon Frank. “I’m afraid there is evidence… that does not support that theory,” Steyer said.
“My son was a decent young man, but spineless. He probably buckled under the pressure of graduating, getting out on his own, and going to college. But he knows better than to have dealings with those whores.”
Cathy wilted. Carly covered her face and sighed.
Dean stood, his chair scraping across the floor. “I gotta go to practice.”
“I’ll lock up after you,” Carly said, pushing her chair back as well.
“Before you go…” Remington pulled his card holder out of his breast pocket. He handed each of them two cards. “If your friends, your teammates think of anything that may be relevant, don’t hesitate to give them our number or swing by the station.”
“Thanks,” Dean said. They left the kitchen. As soon as the door was closed and locked, Carly disappeared into the living room across the way.
Steyer laced his fingers together and leaned forward across the table. He spoke in a low, quiet tone. “Mr. and Mrs. Witt, we were called here to investigate whether or not your eldest son has been abducted by a pattern killer known as the Phoenix.”
Cathy paled. She stared at them open-mouthed. Frank’s eyes widened. The red in his face faded.
“And this is… is based on your evidence?” he asked.
“The circumstances are similar.”
“Like hell they are!” Frank slammed his fist on the table.
Remington recoiled. Cathy also jumped in her seat.
“There is nothing—”
Steyer appeared unruffled. He raised his voice only slightly. “The exact same blood splatter patters appear at both scenes.”
“Blood splatter—your son’s blood,” Remington added, “also indicates he did not ‘run away’.”
“We were…” Cathy cleared her throat. “We were just telling the children that… to…”
“We don’t recommend lying to your children,” Steyer said. “It causes a sense of betrayal and distrust in addition to grief when… when the truth is revealed.”
The color returned to Frank’s face, surpassing its enraged redness to turn a livid puce. His mouth worked around his words before he spoke. “Gentlemen, I believe it’s time for you to leave now.”
Cathy jerked her head toward him. “They… they need to see his bedroom.”
Frank continued to stare at the agents. “Make it quick.”
****
Remington stepped into Chuck Witt’s bedroom and felt an uneasiness for which couldn’t place the cause. Steyer stood next to him with a placid expression, hands in his pockets.
The walls were bare and painted taupe. The bed was a full-sized mattress on a plain steel frame. There was a simple desk with a keyboard, mouse, a mousepad arranged around a gap where a laptop would sit. The laptop itself was at the lab with the truck. The shelves under the desk contained binders and old textbooks. The bottom shelf was lined with yearbooks.
A low bookshelf next to the door contained football trophies, team photos, and the bottom shelf was lined with a few classic novels, almost exclusively about pirates and cowboys. Slid in between the novels and the edge of the bookshelf, as if hiding, were books on early childhood education.
“Chuck was nineteen, right?” Steyer asked, his eyes roaming around the walls.
“Yes, his birthday is Valentine’s Day,” Cathy said from the doorway.
Steyer glanced at Remington. “Does this look anything like your room when you were nineteen?”
Remington frowned. “No, not at all. When I was nineteen, you couldn’t see my walls. They were covered in posters of girls and heavy metal bands and movies...” That was it: the room was so impersonal. They could determine very little based on his room beyond that its resident was an athlete, a student, vaguely literate, with narrow interests, and a bashful interest in becoming a school teacher.
Cathy’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Chuck was not allowed to put pins or tape on his paint. Not only does it damage the walls, but he had trouble selecting appropriate material.”
“Girls?” Remington asked.
Cathy pursed her lips and shook her head.
“Do you mind if we… poke around?” Steyer asked, pointing to the bed.
After a moment’s consideration, she nodded. Remington went to the desk while Steyer slid his hands under the mattress and peered into the bedside table. A radio alarm clock sat on top, with a half-completed Rubik’s Cube and a football-player figurine that looked hand-made. The drawer rattled with tubes of chap stick, a mini-flashlight, toenail clippers, a rabbit’s foot, and a small collection of pebbles with no distinguishable value.
Steyer pulled several envelopes out of the bedside table and shuffled through them. He raised his eyebrows, impressed. Spreading them out like a hand of cards, he displayed them for Remington. “Acceptance letters.”
“Makes me wish I had played ball.”
“You didn’t end up too shabby.”
“Thanks, boss.”
The desk drawer contained pens, pencils, and other various office supplies, a handheld video game console, a rubber band ball, a deck of Star Wars playing cards, college brochures and military recruitment booklets.
A window separated the bed from the desk. Without any serious intent, Remington nudged it. It squeaked up. Steyer and Cathy jerked their heads toward the sound. Remington raised the window all the way. The screen was open about half an inch, enough to slip a few fingers through.
“That… that was locked after the police left,” Cathy breathed.
They stared at her, then inspected the window. There were not any scratches or signs of forced entry. Steyer knelt down and studied the floor. There was a fan of carpeting that had been swiped in the opposite direction of the rest. Steyer twisted his body and waved his hand over it to imitate the motion that had created it.
“He came in some other way, climbed out through the window, then leaned back in and wiped his shoeprints away.” He scanned the carpet around the discoloration. Among the other trails around the room, the one leading from the window ran directly to the door. Steyer and Remington followed it and peered out the door. Cathy, still in shock, stepped aside. Steyer gazed at the hardwood floor of the hallway and sighed.
“Is anything missing from the bedroom?” Remington asked. Cathy shook her head numbly. “What about the rest of the house? His bathroom?”
“I… I don’t know…” she said. “Dean would know; They… they share…”
Steyer nodded. “You mind if we speak to him in private some time?”
She rose her hand to her mouth to think. With a flicker of her eyes toward them, she gave a small nod.
“Thank you, Mrs. Witt.” Remington nodded. “We’ll have Chief Collins send a team to check for fingerprints and other trace evidence.”
16
Byron felt foolish as he returned to the coffee shop at a quarter to six and ordered four coffees. Less that he was ordering four coffees and more that he had eavesdropped on Steyer and Remington earlier as they placed their orders. He justified this by telling himself he memorized the orders of everyone he worked with, because, as the rookie, fetching coffee was his job.
The tiny s
ubstation Cheatham Hill Police Department shared with Cobb County Sheriff’s Department was crawling with deputies and officers, but no suits. Byron sighed. Kondorf sat at his desk with a phone to his ear. Byron placed his coffee—plain black medium roast—on his desk. With an affirmative grunt, Kondorf hung up the phone and stood.
“We’re goin’ back to Tex’s.”
“Oh! OK.” Byron reached to put the coffee back in the holder, but Kondorf smacked his hand and snatched it up.
Kondorf drove with his cup up to his mouth or between his teeth. Byron shot him side-long glances, tempted to tap it once it got empty enough. He resisted, however, considering he had a lap full of ammunition in the form of three full, piping-hot coffees.
“Agent Steyer said he was going to try to interview all the parents today,” Kondorf said as he turned onto the street where Tex and Heather lived next door to the Shatterthwaith family. “How about I run over and see if Sean’s home and feeling up to a chat, and you check in on Tex?”
Byron glanced at Tex’s house anxiously. “Why don’t we just go together?”
“The feds’re on the way now. I wanta give them some kind of head’s up.” Kondorf pulled up to the curb and gave him a look. “Do you really want strange men showing up on an old man’s doorstep and breaking his heart with news of a serial killer?”
“That poor, poor old man,” Byron said flatly.
Kondorf sighed. “Do it for Heather.”
“You’re not right,” Byron breathed as he popped the door open and climbed out. He shook his head and made faces the entire way to the front porch.
“You look like you got the palsy, boy.”
Byron scowled up at the old man in the doorway. “Don’t call me ‘boy.’”
Tex looked taken aback, then smirked. “Sorry, old man’s habit. Lucky Heather isn’t here; I never would’ve heard the end of it.”
