Текст книги "Fear the Dark"
Автор книги: Chris Mooney
Соавторы: Chris Mooney
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
When I turn left on to Sidewinder Road, I’m relieved to find it freshly ploughed. I had my doubts: the town’s four snowploughs, which have been out working since eight or so, might’ve skipped this street, since no one lives here any more.
There is the long trailer, still attached to the semi; both are parked near the kerb outside the Downes home, looking as small as toys from my driver’s seat. I kill my headlights and then creep forward slowly. Light glows from the trailer’s tiny side windows.
I pull against a ridge of freshly ploughed snow, put the car in park and leave the engine running. If everything goes right, I’ll be back here in only a few minutes.
I step out of the car with the backpack gripped in my hand. I’m wearing a fleece hat underneath the hood of my coat, but even under all those layers I can still hear the deep, rumbling throb of the semi’s big diesel engine, which is providing power for the lights and whatever other equipment is being used in there.
I cross the street and start running towards the trailer with the backpack hugged against my chest to keep its contents from accidentally breaking. By the time I reach the trailer’s back doors, the sound of the diesel has become near-deafening, and I can feel the ground vibrating beneath the soles of my boots.
I know the trailer belongs to the FBI: the FBI insignia, lettering and words MOBILE FORENSICS UNIT were prominently displayed in big, bold lettering on its side. It was parked here late yesterday afternoon. Yesterday a ramp descended from the back to allow the agents to come and go as they pleased.
Tonight the ramp is gone, rolled back underneath the trailer. But the side door has a short set of metal steps, all of which are covered in snow. After I lay the backpack on the ground, near one of the rear tyres, I unzip my coat, remove the .44 Magnum tucked in the front waistband of my jeans and make my way across the length of the trailer to the side door, ducking underneath the small windows. My hands, protected by only a thin layer of latex, are already cold, and my knuckles and joints ache.
I want to take them by surprise, if possible, so I mount the steps slowly and carefully. The handle feels ice-cold as I slowly turn it. I don’t encounter any resistance, and when I hear the lock click back I throw open the door; as it swings to my right I raise my Magnum and dart inside the trailer.
For the next few seconds time seems to slow, as if what I’m seeing has been captured inside a tableau: a big man with a shaved head sitting with his back to me and hunched over a counter; a second man who is much smaller and wearing ear-bud headphones attached to the iPod clipped to his belt. I immediately aim at the short man. He sees me and is reaching for the side-arm clipped to his belt when I pull the trigger.
The Magnum kicks; the roar of the gunshot explodes inside my head as the round hits the man square in the chest, spraying the doors behind him with a bright red mist. The bald guy is stumbling to his feet when I turn the gun on him and fire.
The wind slams the door shut behind me and my eardrums are ringing as I move to the bald guy. He’s writhing on the floor, blood pouring out of his mouth and nose. He looks up at me questioningly, about to speak, when I shoot him in the head. I’m ducking around the counter and forensics equipment, when I notice a can of liquid nitrogen, which may prove very useful. I walk over to the small guy and examine the exit wound in his back: it’s the size of a basketball but he’s still moving, trembling, his arm reaching out for the Glock lying on the floor. I fire another round into his back and then I use the remaining rounds to shoot out the windows.
The refrigerator in the corner isn’t locked. I open it and find all the blood samples collected from the hardwood floor sitting on the shelves. I remove everything, throwing it against the floor and then smashing the glass vials with my boots. I head to the back doors, open them and jump out.
Backpack in my hand, I jog next to the side of the trailer and mount the stairs again. My hands are shaking when I place the backpack on the counter and work the zipper – not out of fear but from the cold. I’m no longer afraid. The tables have turned. I have a way out of this.
Gasoline fumes rise from the backpack as I remove the BIC lighter from my jacket pocket. I remove the first Molotov cocktail, ignite the gasoline-soaked wick and toss it against the crushed glass and blood smeared across the floor. The glass bottle explodes in flames, and I can feel heat as strong as a fist punching me. I remove the second Molotov, ignite it and throw it against the counter where the bald man had been sitting, doing DNA testing. I throw the third towards the back and the fourth and last one against the floor in the middle of the trailer. The heat is stifling as I grab the backpack and exit through the side door.
The trailer is burning nicely. I could wait for the flames to ignite the liquid nitrogen and all the other chemicals stored in there, which would blow everything to kingdom come; or I could use the last item stored inside my backpack, a long piece of gasoline-soaked cloth and make quick work of it.
It takes me a moment to find the cap for the gas tank. I remove it and then stuff the wet cloth into the hole. I can feel the heat from the flames rocketing out of the windows when I light the last wick and run across the street, heading for my car and thinking about my next and, God willing, last stop.
45
Darby entered the Wagon Wheel Saloon at quarter past ten. Last night’s Bible Belt crowd had been replaced with the kind of people she’d grown up with in Boston, blue-collar types and roughnecks who passed around bottles and pitchers of beer, everyone drinking, eating and laughing in an atmosphere that reminded her of a Roman banquet. The dining-room was at full capacity and the pool-room was packed with young guys in their twenties, the juke playing The Who’s ‘Pinball Wizard’.
For the next half hour, in the uncomfortably close atmosphere reeking of spilled beer, testosterone and sweat, deodorant and cologne, she interviewed the bartender and waitresses about any customer or local who may have smelled like fish or garbage. Coming up empty-handed, she moved to the pool-room and put the same question to a group of college-aged guys who had the collective IQ of a balloon. Most didn’t listen to her, their gazes listless and their attention elsewhere, as they wondered what she looked like naked, she supposed, or how she’d be in the sack.
When she struck out with them, she went to tackle the dining crowd and found Coop standing by the corner of the bar, his chest rising and falling as he sucked in air. His nostrils were wide and white around the edges, and as she drew closer she could see his eyes glowing with the atavistic intensity of a boxer who was about to step into the ring and unload all of his dark energies.
Darby cleared her throat several times. She felt like a rock was lodged there.
‘I was going to tell you, Coop.’
Coop said nothing. Darby couldn’t meet his eyes. She turned her head, folded her arms on the bar and pretended to read the labels on a row of vodka bottles.
‘Well? ’
‘Lancaster knew the autopsies had been rescheduled for this morning,’ Darby said. ‘He –’
‘You had no proof of that when you cold-cocked him – in an autopsy room.’
‘Guys like Lancaster lose a piece of their brain every time they sit on a toilet. You want a guy like that spearheading an investigation like this?’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Sometimes you’ve got to stick their dicks into a socket to rewire their thinking.’
Coop’s head looked like it was about to explode.
‘He’s been screwing with us ever since we got here,’ Darby said. ‘The autopsies were the cherry on the sundae.’
Coop leaned sideways against the bar. ‘The guy’s an asshole. Everyone knows he’s an asshole; it’s an established fact. You’ve dealt with your fair share of career-climbing dicks who use cases as political leverage, pencil-pushers and bureaucratic cocksuckers who get off on napalming your work. But not once have you ever clocked one in public – at least not that I’m aware of. Then again, I’m learning all sorts of new and interesting things about your behaviour.’
‘Like Williams says, Teddy Lancaster brings out the best in people.’
Coop dug his tongue hard into one of his back molars and took a deep breath through his nose. ‘Lancaster decided not to press criminal charges, obviously, or we’d be having this conversation inside a holding cell,’ he said. ‘A civil case, well, that’s another matter. He’ll go after you first. He’ll go after the Bureau, because we hired you and because we’ve got the deeper pockets. Lancaster will get a nice little payout to keep his mouth shut, and then the Bureau will need to make an example of someone, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be Terry Hoder. Before you went all Mike Tyson on him, did you once stop to consider how poorly this would reflect on me?’
‘I lost my cool.’
‘No shit. Why? What happened?’
‘He said something to me privately.’
‘What? What did he say?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘You just tossed a Molotov on to my career, and you’re not going to tell me why?’
Darby swallowed. Cleared her throat.
‘It’s done, Coop.’ And I don’t regret it either, she added to herself.
Darby could feel his eyes burrowing into the side of her face. When he spoke again, his voice vacillated between rage and disbelief.
‘I went to the station looking for you. To give you this.’ Coop placed a satellite phone on the bar. ‘Hoder said you were at the station. After he filled me in on what was going on, knowing you, I figured you’d come here to ask around about this Timmy character. Little did we know you were at a Rite Aid. So you can imagine my surprise when that 911 call came through. The kid working the cash register called it in, in case you’re wondering.’
‘I showed him and the pharmacist my ID,’ Darby said. ‘After it was all over, I told them they had nothing to worry about.’
‘That’s not the point. You sneaked out of the station and tried to put the screws on the pharmacist.’
‘I was following up on our lead.’
‘You went alone. You’re not supposed to go anywhere alone and, worse, after what went down you didn’t call it in. The guy you spoke to, was he the same one who called you last night at the hotel?’
‘I’m pretty sure. Voice was altered.’
‘So why didn’t you call it in?’
‘Do you think he was standing around waiting after he left the rope in my car?’
‘What rope?’ Coop asked.
Darby realized that, in her exhausted state, she hadn’t told anyone about it. She had gone straight to the Wagon Wheel after leaving the Rite Aid.
‘While I was inside the pharmacy, he was inside my car. He left the door hanging open, and when I went outside I found two pieces of rope tied into a surgeon’s knot lying on my car seat.’
Coop looked away, blinking. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’
‘It’s in an evidence bag in the trunk of my car – not that we’re going to find anything on it.’
‘There’s a thing called procedure, remember? You follow procedure in order to build a case, and you have to build a case in order to –’
‘IT’S A WASTE OF TIME.’
Darby had drawn the attention of nearby people. She scooped up her new satphone, stuffed it inside her jacket pocket, inched closer to him and, leaning forward, crossed her arms against the bar, their shoulders touching.
‘Don’t you see what he’s doing, Coop? The bullshit with the photos, tracing the cell signal, calling the pharmacy, leaving the rope – the second this guy does something, we all jump. He wants us to keep spinning our wheels until we fall over exhausted or until we’re forced to leave, whichever happens first. Finally we’ve got a lead on this guy, and you want to waste time turning my rental into a crime scene?’
Coop saw her point. His face softened a bit, but the anger was still in his eyes.
‘Look, I’m sorry for what happened with Lancaster,’ she said. ‘And maybe I should have called after what went down at the pharmacy.’
‘Maybe? Are you serious?’
‘While I was driving, I kept checking my mirrors to see if I was being followed. There’s no way he tailed me.’
‘Maybe you couldn’t see him through the snow.’
Darby shook her head. ‘That’s what I thought at first,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t see a single car light behind me during the entire ride – and he had to have had his lights on because almost every road I took was pitch-black, not a single street light on anywhere. And I passed hardly any cars.’
‘So how did he know you were at the pharmacy?’
‘I asked myself the same question,’ Darby said. ‘What’s the best way to follow someone in today’s high-tech world without being seen?’
‘He put a GPS tracker on your car?’ Coop asked.
Darby nodded. ‘I immediately checked my car after I left the pharmacy. Found it wired in right near the engine block. It’s one of those hundred-dollar units that send out their location every couple of minutes to a smartphone or laptop. He didn’t have to tail me because he knew where I was going.’
‘I love it when the pervs go high-tech.’ Coop sighed. ‘This tracker, where is it?’
‘Still there. I don’t want him to know I found it. If we can get its frequency, we might be able to lock on to it and track him down. Hoder told me you brought the equipment from Denver.’
Coop nodded. ‘He swept our rooms for bugs and didn’t find any, by the way. Yours was the only one.’
‘Where’s Hayes now?’
‘Back at the MoFo working on the computer traces for Hoder. Nothing yet.’
‘We should check all of our other vehicles, see if anyone else has been tagged with a tracker.’
‘Sure.’ Coop pinched his temples and then rubbed the corners of his eyes. He stared down at the bar top for a moment, his anger seemingly abated. He looked hollow-eyed and sullen. ‘Anyone here know anything about this Timmy guy?’
‘No. If he doesn’t live in Red Hill, he’s got to be living somewhere nearby. Someone knows him. A person with a metabolic disorder or skin condition or whatever it is that makes him smell like a walking dumpster – a guy like that is going to stand out like a turd in a punch bowl.’
‘You always knew how to turn a phrase.’
‘There’s something else, Coop.’
‘What?’
‘Nobody in this town wants to talk about the Red Hill Ripper.’
‘And that surprises you? It’s a small town. They’re wary of outsiders.’
Maybe, Darby thought, picking up a plastic drinking straw and twirling it between her fingers.
‘Look at where I grew up,’ Coop said. ‘In Charlestown, when you saw someone doing something illegal, stealing, mugging, shooting – whatever was going down, you never called the cops, and you kept your mouth shut when they came round asking questions.’
‘The whole “code of silence” bullshit.’
‘I’m not saying it’s right; I’m saying how it was. Charlestown, East Boston, Southie – they all had that small town, tribal mentality. That’s why a gangster and serial killer like Whitey Bulger was able to get away with all that shit for so long.’
And it certainly didn’t hurt that the FBI had been watching his back the entire time, Darby thought. For two decades – while Whitey and his gang flooded cocaine into Boston’s neighbourhoods, murdered their competition and smuggled guns across the sea to the IRA – he and his long-time business partner, Stephen ‘The Rifleman’ Flemmi, also worked as federal informants for the FBI’s Boston field office. In exchange for information about the Italian Mafia operating in Boston and Rhode Island, their federal handlers gave them tips about wiretaps – and about criminal rivals, who were later killed by Whitey’s gang. A witness who had come forward with information on Whitey’s illegal activities was brutally murdered. Others mysteriously vanished, never to be heard from again. The corruption grew, the bodies piled up; yet, when sealed indictments were about to come down, Bulger’s handlers ensured that he had plenty of time in which to leave town. For the next sixteen years, twelve of which were spent on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted List, he and his common-law wife lived as fugitives, until a call on a tip line revealed that the octogenarian couple were in an apartment complex in Santa Monica, California. The whole sordid affair read like a thriller – except that it was true.
She didn’t need to tell any of this to Coop. Not only had he grown up during the Bulger era, he had barely survived it.
‘Your people,’ Darby said, catching how Coop bristled at the words, ‘the people living in Southie and East Boston – they didn’t protect Whitey because he was keeping the streets safe and free of drugs.’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Evil doesn’t operate in a vacuum.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning nobody in this town is afraid of the Red Hill Ripper.’ Darby tossed the straw back down on the bar top, then turned her head to him. He looked as exhausted as she felt. ‘What if we’re approaching this the wrong way? What if there’s another component at work here? Something that isn’t sexual?’
‘You saying this guy isn’t a sexual sadist? Because what we saw inside the bedroom yesterday says otherwise.’
‘No. This guy’s a textbook sadist. But not one of the female vics was raped. If we take away sex, what are we left with for motives?’
‘Money and power. Revenge.’
Darby nodded. ‘Here’s another question: why is the killer only targeting families living in Red Hill?’
A cell phone trilled. ‘That’s me,’ he said, and straightened. He reached inside his jacket pocket, came back with the satphone and flatted a palm against his other ear. ‘Cooper.’
She saw him swallow, saw the alarmed expression on his face when his gaze cut sideways to her; then, with his head, he motioned to the front door and quickly headed towards it. Darby followed behind him, walking through the space Coop left in his wake, the pulse racing in her neck. Another family is dead, she thought as she stepped outside, on to the enclosed porch. The son of a bitch watched that interview I did and he decided to kill another family.
‘Right around the corner,’ he said into the phone as he moved down the steps. A blast of wind howled past them, temporarily blinding her.
Coop hung up. ‘He called looking for you,’ he said, fishing the car key out of his jacket pocket. ‘Said he’ll call back in ten. We’ll take my car.’
‘What does he want?’
‘Don’t know yet. He told the dispatcher – this is a direct quote – he said, “Tell her fifteen minutes or I’ll kill them all.” ’
She buckled herself into the passenger’s seat and set the stopwatch function on her digital watch.
46
Darby entered the lobby of the police station expecting to find cops gathered in anxious crowds, pacing and drinking coffee and talking among themselves, wondering aloud and privately if the Red Hill Ripper was just minutes away from butchering another family. That had been her experience back in Boston. Instead, she found the lobby peacefully quiet and most of the nearby offices dark. A phone rang from somewhere down the hall.
She glanced at her wrist as she followed Coop into the squad room and saw that she had a little over twelve minutes until the Red Hill Ripper called back.
Hoder sat on the edge of his desk, rubbing the sleep from his face. His tie was gone, but he was wearing the same clothes she had seen earlier. Police Chief Robinson was with him, dressed in a pair of badly wrinkled khakis and a grey sweatshirt with frayed cuffs. His boots were damp, flecked with melting snow.
The chief eyed her coldly. Hoder too seemed to be looking at her differently now, not with contempt but with disappointment and, she thought, sadness.
‘He called 911 from a payphone in downtown Red Hill,’ Hoder said. ‘Chief Robinson sent a couple of cruisers. They’re still there, dusting it for prints. When this guy calls back – if he calls back – the chief’s got all his people standing by. Most of ’em got vehicles with four-wheel drive, so hopefully that will help their response time.
‘The woman who spoke to him, Betty, said his voice seemed altered. He identified himself as the Red Hill Ripper and asked to speak to you. When she said she’d have to put him on hold, he replied, “Tell her or I’ll kill them all.” Then he hung up.’
‘Where’s the call centre?’ Darby asked.
‘Right down the hall. We may have a lead on this Timmy person.’ Hoder turned his attention to the police chief.
Robinson said, ‘Like every other station, we hire a cleaning crew to come in during the night and empty the trash and clean up our holding cells. Outfit called RBG Cleaning, operates out of Brewster. Services them, us and a good number of the surrounding towns. Until about two years ago, they used to come in every night. Now we’ve only got ’em twice a week.’
Darby glanced at her watch again. Just under ten minutes left. The snow on her head had melted, making her scalp itch, and she felt sweat gathering along the small of her back.
‘Reason I bring it up,’ Robinson said, ‘is because a year ago, maybe a year and a half, the people working the night shifts complained about the halls stinking like rotten food. Couple of ’em said it smelled like fish. This was during the summer, so we thought that maybe someone dropped food somewhere or left it in a trashcan and it spoiled. We were bleaching all of our buckets. This went on for about a month or so and then it stopped.
‘Terry told me about the interview you two had with the hooker, escort, whatever she is, how this Timmy guy smelled, and it got me thinking, so I talked to Ray about it. He’s on his way to Brewster to talk to Ron Gondek, the guy who owns the cleaning company, to see if he employed someone matching Timmy’s description.’
‘If he did, it means Timmy was in here before the killings started. Do the janitors have access to the offices?’
Robinson nodded, knowing where she was heading. ‘All the cabinets and desks are locked up every night – at least mine are,’ he said.
‘Computers?’
‘Password protected, every last one of them – and not with those rinky-dink passwords you can guess, shit like your birthday or your pet’s name.’
Darby’s attention had drifted to the pictures of the dead women on the whiteboards. For a moment the only sound she heard was Robinson jingling his change and car keys in his pockets.
Hoder said, ‘The guy from our facial-imaging lab finished up with the Tuttle woman about half an hour ago. He should be emailing the sketch to us any minute now.’
She nodded absently, still looking at the pictures. ‘You said he called the call centre’s emergency number?’
‘That’s right.’
‘That number in the phone book? On the internet?’
‘No, it’s a private line used only by cops.’
‘So somehow he got that number. And we know he got all of our cell phone numbers, because he sent out those pictures of me earlier today.’
Darby glanced at her watch. Six and a half minutes left. Plenty of time, she thought, and moved to the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Coop asked.
‘To check Williams’s office. Be right back.’
His light was still on. The computer was a tower unit; it stood on the floor, underneath the desk. She took out her penlight, got down on the linoleum and examined its back. It took her a only moment to find what she was looking for.
When she returned to her feet, she found Coop standing in the doorway, looking at her expectantly. She moved into the hall, motioning for him to follow, and checked her watch again. Three minutes and forty seconds left.
‘There’s a small USB key installed in the back of the tower,’ Darby said as they walked. ‘Those things have PC-monitoring software on them. You plug them into someone’s computer and bingo, you have access to emails, contacts, every single thing on their computer – and you can do it all remotely.’
‘You got all of that from looking at a USB stick?’
‘The words “Spy Cobra Delux” are printed along the side.’
‘Well, that’s a clue, sure.’
‘How he got his hands on everyone’s cell phone numbers has been nagging at me all day. Using a device like that makes sense since our man likes computers.’
‘And bugged your phone,’ Coop added. ‘That USB spy device, I wonder why he left it there.’
‘Maybe it does double-duty as an audio bug. We’ll run the name through Google and find out what it does.’
Coop took her to the call centre, a warm, boxy room with long counters along the walls that served as desks. The dispatcher, Betty, a mountain of a woman poured into a tight-fitting black fleece sweatshirt, sat in front of a bank of three computer monitors. She kept shifting in her seat and swallowing nervously, like someone waiting for a bomb to go off.
The woman gave Darby a headset; everyone else had headphones so they could listen in when the Ripper called.
While they waited, Darby explained what she had found to Hoder and Chief Robinson.
Darby was checking her watch when a 911 call came through.
