Judged (16 page)

On my phone, I pulled up a map of the current area to get my exact position from Wendell’s home. I glanced up to see a patrol car making a left and continuing away from me with his spotlight.

“Let me check in,” I mumbled.

I reached back, took the radio from my pocket and clicked it on. Immediately, someone called my name over the radio.

“Rawlings,” the voice said again.

I held the transmit button down. “Rawlings here, repeat.”

A short blip of static came from the radio. “Hank, this is Couch. We got a bag back here where the foot pursuit began. I’m guessing it belonged to our suspect. We’re going to need to get into it.”

I saw another patrol car head toward me, checking yards.

“Okay. Where’s Beth?” I asked.

“She’s already back here,” Couch said.

“No sighting of our guy?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

“Okay. If you and Beth can handle whatever is going on with the bag that was found, I’m going to keep searching on foot.”

“You’re going to want to head back and take a look at this bag with us. Take my word for it. I think we found our shrink.”

“All right. I’m on my way.”

I started west back toward Wendell’s house, opting for the neighborhood streets rather than the fence line. Residents that had been rustled up by our spotlights, our searching, and the helicopter stood at the bases of their driveways. As I passed a couple groups, I asked if they’d seen anyone on foot running through the yards. A couple people responded that they’d seen law enforcement on foot searching, but no one reported seeing anyone suspicious. I asked each group to return to their homes—none did. I flashed my light through the yards as I wound my way back toward the block before the road bent to the right and led to Wendell’s house. Beth, Couch, Harrington and a couple others stood near the hood of a police cruiser—on the hood sat a large black duffel bag.

I walked up to the group and jerked my chin at the bag. “This is what was found, I take it?”

“Yeah, and I’m guessing that it belonged to Wendell, and it was him that fled,” Couch said.

“We called in another helicopter and more patrol units,” Harrington said. “We’re going to have to start going door to door.”

“What’s in the bag?” I asked.

Couch waved me over and pointed inside. “Take a look.”

I walked to him, noticing that his hands were covered in white latex gloves.

I looked into the bag, which was filled with stacks and stacks of money. “Whoa.”

Each stack was bundled in yellow-and-white wraps signaling the denomination—ten thousand dollars each. I didn’t need to count to tell I was looking at hundreds of thousands of dollars inside.

“Some sight, huh?” Couch asked. He stuck his gloved hand in and moved some of the stacks of money to the side, revealing a couple of long aluminum rods.

“What the hell are those?” I asked.

“Couldn’t tell you,” Couch said. “Looks like there’s a watch case with some watches in here, too.” He moved more money around so I could see the watches.

“What, did this guy rob someone?” I asked. “Where would he get that much cash? What the hell are we looking at here?”

“No clue, but we got this as well,” Couch tapped his finger on an envelope sitting on the hood next to the bag. He picked it up and slid some of the papers from inside. “They look like investment and bank statements from some guy, a Douglas Jensen. Address is Miami Beach. About a forty-five-minute drive.”

“Did you get anything on a cell phone or a GPS location for Wendell?” I asked.

“The number from the van goes to his house phone, and we couldn’t find a cell phone number for him,” Couch said. “He could be forwarding all his calls from the house to a prepaid. We’re trying to get something going with the phone company, but if he knows we’re after him, I’m betting he already ditched the phone,”

“All right. This address in Miami Beach—are we going?” I asked.

“You and Beth go. Take my truck. I’m going to need to stick around here, get this bag back to the forensics guys in the house, and make sure everything gets back to the office as is, if you know what I’m saying,” Couch said.

I figured he was talking about all the money being accounted for when it arrived back at the bureau office. “Are you sure you won’t need your truck? We can probably just hitch a ride with Harrington and grab a cab back if we have to.”

Couch dug through his pocket and tossed his truck keys to me. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get a ride back with someone from the forensics team or Rivera and Pottsulo. Just leave my truck at the office.”

“Sure,” I said.

“I’ll join you guys with a patrol car or two,” Harrington said.

I looked at Beth, who was staring at the money. “Ready, driver?” I held out Couch’s truck keys toward her.

“Yeah, let’s go,” she said. She took the keys from my hand.

Tim stared out through a back patio door at the helicopter in the air almost a mile away from him. He caught a bit of his reflection looking back in the glass—his brown hair was wet and matted to his head and had some kind of scum in it. Tim ran his hand through the slime clinging to his hair and wiped it on his jeans.

“They’re looking for you?” a man asked.

Tim looked at the thirty-some-year-old man seated, unbound, in the kitchen before him. “They are,” he said. His gun, still dripping canal water, was pointed at the man. Tim glanced back out the patio door at the helicopter, which appeared to still be searching the subdivisions near his house.

As soon as he’d seen the police giving chase, he looped through the neighborhood, swam across the canal, and ran through backyards as fast as his feet allowed. When an opportunity—in the form of the seated man relaxing on his back patio, smoking a cigarette—presented itself, Tim had decided to act.

He checked his wet pockets again. The money he’d jammed in them at the doctor’s house remained. Tim caught the time on the kitchen stove. Ridley’s house was a twenty-minute drive away and the bar Ridley normally frequented a few minutes from there. Tim calculated the time involved for everything he needed to complete at Ridley’s house and shook his head. Tim’s best course of action was to hole up for the night and possibly the next day before dealing with Ridley. Nothing in Tim’s house would give the police a clue of the next target. He figured if he could evade the police for another day and night, he’d be able to complete his plan.

Tim brought his attention back to the man and sized him up. “I’m going to need some of your clothes,” Tim said.

“Take whatever you want,” the man said.

“What size shoes do you wear?”

“Eleven.”

“Okay. I’ll need those too.”

The man said nothing.

“What’s your name?” Tim asked.

“Tony,” the guy said.

“Well, Tony, you’ve been real good about all of this. Let’s keep it that way. You stick with the same attitude, and you’ll be fine. You try anything, and we’re going to be dealing with something else. Those cops out there—they’re looking for me because I killed a lot of people. Keep that in mind, but like I said, you be cool, and I’ll be cool. Do we have a deal?”

Tony nodded.

“Clothes and shoes,” Tim said. “Let’s go.”

He motioned the man to stand with his gun and followed him to a bedroom.

The man flipped on the light, walked into the room and turned to face Tim. “What kind of clothes do you want?”

“I don’t care. A sweatshirt with a hood, undershirt, some pants, socks, and shoes,” Tim said.

The man opened both sides of the folding closet doors and pulled a shirt and sweatshirt from hangers. He tossed them onto the bed near Tim and took a step toward the dresser in the room. He reached out for the dresser’s small round handles to pull the top drawer open.

“Wait,” Tim said.

“I thought you said you wanted a pair of socks. This is my sock drawer.” The man slid the drawer open.

“You reach into that drawer or make one more move, and I’m putting a bullet in the back of your head,” Tim said.

The man stopped and then held his hands out to his sides.

“Step away from the dresser. Get back over by the closet,” Tim said.

The man did as instructed.

Tim walked to the dresser and looked into the open drawer. It was filled side to side with T-shirts.

“I wasn’t going to do anything,” the man said.

Tim moved some shirts around. Beneath the shirts, his hand came to rest on something cool to the touch and metal. He reached inside and pulled a revolver out. “You weren’t going to do anything, huh?” He jammed the gun into his wet pocket.

“I didn’t even remember that was in there,” Tony said.

Tim glanced back into the drawer. “What were you going in here for, then? I thought this was supposed to be your sock drawer. Nothing but T-shirts and a revolver in here. That seems kind of weird to me.”

“I don’t know. I’m a little rattled here. It was an honest mistake.”

“Right,” Tim said. “Face the wall.”

“Look, it was a mistake.”

Tim advanced on him holding his gun out before him. “I said face the wall!”

Tony did as instructed.

“On your knees,” Tim said.

Tony obeyed.

“Don’t move.”

Tim jammed the pistol into his waistline and picked up the alarm clock on the nightstand. He yanked it until the cord pulled from the wall and dangled from the clock’s base. Tim took the cord in hand and ripped it from the back of the clock. “Put your hands behind your back.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“Shut your ass up and do what I say. The other option is I kill you.” Tim pulled the gun from his pants and pressed the barrel to the back of Tony’s head.

Tony put his hands behind his back, and Tim stuck his gun back in his pants. He tied Tony’s wrists together as tightly as he could. Tim took Tony by the shoulders, assisted him to his feet, and shoved him into the walk-in closet. Tony’s head cracked off the shelf, and he fell backward into a suitcase and a pile of what looked like dirty clothes.

Stay put,” Tim said. “I’ll be here for the night. I don’t want to hear you trying to get out or calling for help.”

Tony didn’t respond.

With a hand on each of the folding closet door’s handles, Tim closed the doors and searched the room for something to tie the doors shut with—then he quickly dismissed the idea. The cheap, inch-and-a-half-thick doors wouldn’t stop from opening or breaking with any kind of force. Tim grabbed what he needed from the dresser, took the dresser by the side, and swung it in front of the closet doors to block Tony inside. Still doubting that would hold him in, he slid the man’s bed over and butted the foot of it up against the dresser. The blockade would hold, and if Tim decided to take a little nap on the bed, he’d be awakened if the man tried to get out.

I spoke with Ball twice during the drive. He’d begun to e-mail me information on Wendell and the sister, Carrie Baker. He said the guys back in Manassas would put in another hour or two before calling it a night and continue in the morning. I filled him in on the foot pursuit and said we were en route to another possible scene.

Beth and I neared the address we’d found on the paperwork. Harrington had run the name prior to us heading out. The man, Douglas Jensen, was a doctor in the psychiatric field. We’d taken four cars. Harrington led, followed by us, with two patrol cars following.

Harrington pulled to the side of the road half a block ahead.

While I wasn’t all that familiar with the homes of Miami Beach, the neighborhood we found ourselves in looked older and upscale—most of the houses we’d been passing were large, 1920s, and Mediterranean styled.

“That’s going to be our spot.” I clicked the screen to kill the navigation running on my phone.

Beth pulled up along the side of the road and parked behind Harrington, who was stepping from his car. Beth and I closed the car doors at our backs and walked to Harrington.

“This one here.” Harrington pointed across the street from where we stood. Through a break in the lush landscaping at the street’s edge, my eyes followed the narrow red-brick driveway up to what I could see of a garage. To the right of the driveway, separated by more thick landscaping and a couple of palm trees, was a brick path that went under an ivy-wrapped arbor.

The four officers that had followed behind us approached.

“We called the local precinct,” one of the officers said. “They should be here within a few minutes. Are we waiting or going in?”

“We’re going in,” I said. “I believe this could be a crime scene, and there’s a chance that someone might be injured inside. Medical attention could save a life.”

I started across the street toward the path that led up to the house, and the group followed. The brick path weaved back toward the house after we passed the arbor. A motion light illuminated the area. Directly before me was a large garbage container blocking my path along the side of the home. We walked toward the front door, pressed the doorbell and waited. No one came, and I didn’t hear anything from inside. I tried to get a look into the home through the nearest window. The curtains blocked my view, but lights were on inside. I returned to Beth, who pressed the doorbell again. I didn’t hear it chime in the house.

“I don’t think that’s working.” I banged my fist on the big old white front door. “FBI!” I called.

I heard something faint inside—a yelled response, maybe. I pulled my service weapon from my shoulder holster and banged again, listening closely for a response. A woman screamed.

“Someone get the back of the house,” I instructed.

Harrington ordered the patrol officers to the back of the property. I tried the front doorknob, which was locked, took two steps back, and planted a foot into the door. The door didn’t budge. I gave it two more kicks until the sill cracked in, and another two allowed us entry. We entered into a small foyer. The kitchen was ahead and to our right, a dining area beyond that. Left of the dining room was the corner of an end table and lamp, which I assumed was the living room. The patrol officers were standing at the back of the home outside large glass doors leading to a patio area. Directly to my left shoulder was another door that probably led to the garage—just beyond that door was a stairway leading up to the home’s second level.