Judged (13 page)

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Then why would you have ordered this?” He reached inside his bag and removed a vial of haloperidol. “Or this?” Tim pulled another vial out.

“Those aren’t mine.”

“Hmm. Well, they were left on your doorstep. They came from a sketchy pharmaceutical company that says that it is in Canada, but the products ship from somewhere in Albania. I did a little research. Now, why would you be having these drugs delivered to your home? That doesn’t seem like something a good doctor would do. And don’t bother trying to deny it. I matched up the invoice that was in the box to your bank statement.”

Jensen said nothing.

Tim unwrapped a syringe, plunged it into the vial of haloperidol, and drew up the fluid. He set the loaded needle down next to him, reached back into the bag, and reached for another syringe.

“What are you going to do with those?” Jensen asked.

“That depends on if you confess or not.” Tim held up a loaded needle and flicked its side. “I can tell you this, though. If you don’t confess, I’ll fill you up with these drugs until you’re overflowing. I’m actually starting to get good with using these things. The last ones were filled with heroin, though.”

“Okay. I confess,” Jensen said.

“Confess to what?”

“I did it. All of it.”

“I’ll need some more details than that.” Tim set the needle down and filled another from another vial in the bag.

“I’d befriend them. Con them into leaving me money.”

“How?” Tim asked.

“I told them that I was a partner in a pharmaceutical company. I told them how we were revolutionizing psychiatric drugs for the elderly but were desperate for funding. I laid it on thick that investors wouldn’t take us on because of our target demographic. A lot of my older patients would offer money, which I would never take. I’d continue telling them every time I saw them how much good we could do if we only had the right people backing us. After that, my patients started leaving me money in their wills. I never asked them to specifically, though.”

“They thought they were helping. The drugs you were giving these people under the table—I assume you said it was something from your so-called pharmaceutical company?” Tim asked.

Jensen nodded.

“And this was all bullshit?”

He nodded again.

“You knew full well what you were giving them and what the adverse effects could be?”

A third nod.

Tim took a small notebook from his bag and walked it to the doctor—he set the notebook on Jensen’s midsection and freed the doctor’s hands from the tape that secured them.

“Write it down. A full confession and sign your name to it.”

“A confession, even on paper, is worthless if under duress,” Jensen said. “It will never stand up.”

“I don’t need it to,” Tim said. “Get to writing.”

We approached Timothy Wendell’s neighborhood. Beth and I drove with Couch while another group of his agents, Rivera and Pottsulo, followed in a car behind us.

My phone call an hour earlier to Harrington had been brief. He said he would be on scene and would make a call to the local department where Wendell lived to secure the area. No one was to approach the home or make contact in any way until we arrived with the warrant, which was in hand. I’d also called Ball and left him a voice mail with an update that we may have had our guy. Beth didn’t find anything matching the last name anywhere on our list of possible suspects. My final bit of phone work was a text to Karen that I would be working late and would call her as soon as I could in the morning—she’d responded right away with the standard message, “Be safe” and “I love you.”

“It’s going to be another block up and around the corner. The address will be on the right-hand side of the street,” Couch said.

We stopped at a four-way intersection. Out my passenger-side window, I saw three marked Miami Dade police cruisers parked with their taillights toward us. Parked on the opposite side of the street were two more Miami Dade cruisers and two unmarked cars parked facing us. The leading unmarked gray Crown Victoria flashed its headlights at us. Couch yanked the wheel right and pulled alongside the car. The window lowered, and I saw Lieutenant Harrington’s face.

“There are lights on in the home,” he said. “Do you guys have the warrant?”

“In hand,” Couch said. “Is this everyone?”

“Yeah. We were just waiting on you and the word to roll up. The house is just about directly through there, one block over.” Harrington pointed at the home directly out his passenger-side window.

“I’ll round the block and come down from the other direction. As soon as you see my headlights, you come. Are all of your guys ready?” Couch asked.

“We’re ready to go,” Harrington said.

“All right. Let’s go serve our warrant and take this son of a bitch into custody,” Couch said.

Harrington nodded.

Couch raised his window and rounded the block, following the street as it bent left one hundred and eighty degrees and straightened out to lead us to Wendell’s home. A string of headlights at the end of the block headed our direction.

Couch threw the truck into park in front of the address. The streetlights lit the light-brown single story with its empty red driveway leading up to a garage facing the street. White arches covered the two front windows to the left of the dark-colored front door. The place didn’t look more than ten years old. Harrington pulled the nose of his Crown Victoria next to the front bumper of Couch’s truck and stepped out. The rest of the squad cars lined the street, and the Miami Dade officers poured out. Some stayed with their vehicles, and some were instructed by Harrington to surround the property, which was fenced. Some officers pulled themselves over the five-foot wooden fence to gain access to the backyard. We drew our service weapons and advanced on the home. Agents Rivera and Pottsulo walked at Couch’s shoulder. Harrington and the officer he was with followed at our backs.

A single light lit the window nearest the door. I put eyes on the window, looking for any movement inside—nothing.

Couch led us to the door and stepped to one side in the covered entryway. “Ready?”

Rivera and Pottsulo confirmed.

I looked back at Beth, who nodded.

Harrington confirmed at Beth’s back.

“I got the door,” Beth said. “Someone call out the warrant.”

Beth pressed her hand against my shoulder to get me out of her way. She took one step back and let out a quick breath.

“FBI! Search warrant!” I shouted.

Beth took lunging steps past me and slammed a front kick into the door, beside the handle. The door flew open, and splinters of the doorjamb scattered across the tile floor inside. Our group funneled in, weapons ready. The house was an open concept. I had a full visual of the living room, dining-room area, and kitchen—all empty. Beth went toward a pair of dual glass doors that led outside off the back of the kitchen.

Harrington and the officer with him went to the right down a hallway, followed by Rivera and Pottsulo. I passed through the living room and went through the French doors on the far left side, leading into an office. My eyes immediately went to a wall filled with photographs and pinned papers. File boxes filled each corner of the room. I checked the closet—more file boxes. I left that room and moved toward the kitchen area, where Beth reentered from the glass doors. Harrington, his other officer, and our backup agents appeared from the hallway they’d gone down.

“We’re clear,” Harrington said.

“The pool area in the back is clear,” Beth said.

“I found our van,” Couch said from somewhere in the house.

I turned to see an open doorway, which I assumed went to the garage because of the layout of the home. I walked through with Beth following.

In the garage, Couch holstered his weapon. “The van is clear.”

Rivera and Pottsulo entered.

“This was the one on the video?” Rivera asked.

“Without a doubt,” I said.

I looked through the windows of the silver Ford van and then pulled open the driver’s door. Seeing nothing that looked off, I put my gun back into my shoulder holster. “So where is our guy?” I asked. “I don’t remember seeing any other vehicles registered for him.”

“Good question,” Couch said. “Rivera, Pottsulo, go visit some neighbors and see if they have any idea where this guy is.”

“Sure,” Pottsulo said.

The pair of agents left the garage.

Couch pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed. From the bit of the conversation I overheard, he was requesting anything that whoever was on the other end of the phone could get regarding a cell phone or GPS coordinates on Wendell. Couch put his phone back in his pocket. “Okay, let’s glove up and have a look around,” he said.

Harrington poked his head into the open doorway of the garage. “What’s our move here, guys?” he asked.

“We’re going to take a look around. That office in the back looks like it could be rather interesting,” I said.

“I was meaning more of what do you want me to do with all of the local guys?”

“Have them patrol the neighborhood for a little bit, pop into local businesses that are open, and make sure our guy isn’t nearby on foot,” Couch said.

“Got it. I’ll stick around here for a bit and lend a hand. Let me go tell the patrol sergeant what we need the guys on. I’ll be back.”

“Thanks, Harrington,” I said.

We walked back into the house, gloved up, and began searching for anything incriminating or anything that could tell us where Timothy Wendell was. I started in the office, where I figured we’d have the best luck—Couch followed, and Beth started on the rest of the house. I stood in front of the wall with photos and papers hanging from it. What was in front of me looked remarkably similar to the police file I’d put together of victims I believed the vigilante killed. Wendell was our guy.

Couch stood off to my left, rummaging around the desk. “Well, this is interesting,” he said.

I stepped over to see what he was looking at.

Couch held an olive-green folder and was paging through the papers inside.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A police file on Quincy Hightower. It’s from Miami Dade.”

He held it out toward me, and I took it. The file contained handwritten documents—nothing was a copy.

“Where or how was this Timothy Wendell getting original Miami Dade police files?” I asked.

“Maybe a question for Harrington,” Couch said.

“I think I found something out here!” Beth shouted.

“Keep rummaging,” I said. “Let me go see what she found.”

Couch went to a file box in the corner of the room and popped off the top.

I found Beth in the kitchen, staring down at something on the long gray granite breakfast bar.

“What did you find?” I asked.

She waved me over and pointed at the calendar in front of her. “This was clipped to the side of the refrigerator. Today’s date says ‘psychiatrist.’ Yesterday’s says ‘drug dealer.’ Last week, it says ‘husband and wife.’”

“Hmm.” I reached down and flipped it to the prior month. A handful of dates were filled though I couldn’t remember offhand if they were also dates of murders. I flipped back another month to see more of the same. I needed to know right then but didn’t have my investigation file with me. “Give me a second,” I said.

I headed back to the office to find Couch.

He looked up at me from a file box. “These are all police files. It looks like our guy may have been cherry picking through these to select his victims. What was going on out there?” Couch asked.

“We have a calendar that may possibly have his murder victims on it—not written by name, but the last week includes ‘husband and wife’ and ‘drug dealer’—our victims. We need two things: one, we need to match up the rest of the dates on the calendar with the victims, and I didn’t bring the investigation file with.”

“I have a copy in my truck,” Couch said. “Let me go and grab it quick.” Couch headed for the door but stopped and turned back. “What’s the second thing?”

“Today’s date says ‘psychiatrist,’ and I have a feeling that it’s not an appointment for himself.”

“Okay. I’ll get the file. We’ll double check and then start digging into these boxes to see if we can find a shrink.”

I stared at the file boxes, stacked in just about every free area of the room. “Grab us some help while you’re out there.”

He nodded.

I went to the wall and searched every pinned-up paper, photo, and sheet. I saw nothing of anyone related to the psychiatry field.

Couch walked back into Wendell’s home office with Lieutenant Harrington and two of his patrol officers in tow. I caught the officers’ name badges as they passed—Nelson and Rey.

“File boxes everywhere,” Couch said. He pointed at the stacks and their various locations. “We’re looking for a psychiatrist.”

Harrington stood in place for a moment, scratching at the dark stubble on his chin, and then he and his officers split up around the room and started popping the tops off boxes.

Couch tossed the file on the office desk, and Beth brought in the calendar. We went date to date, back to the beginning of the year, matching up murders and their respective entries in the calendar—Wendell had apparently been keeping a log of those he killed, yet we saw nothing later than the current date. Among what Wendell had written down, we also found five references to people, apparently murdered, of whom we didn’t have prior knowledge.

“Do you think he’s entering the names after he kills?” Beth asked.

“There isn’t a single thing going forward.” I flipped through the calendar’s pages until the end of the year to double check. “Which means, if that is the case, he’s already killed this psychiatrist.”

Beth put her hands on her hips and stretched her back. “Or is in the process of doing it right now.”

I stared at the calendar, thinking she might have been right.

“We need to find out where the hell this Wendell is,” Couch said. “We’re positive he doesn’t have another vehicle? Maybe something registered to a business? Maybe he has someone living here with him that he’s out with?”