Judged (17 page)

“FBI!” I shouted, announcing our presence again.

A female shouted for help from the home’s second level.

I spoke over my shoulder to Beth. “Follow me up.” I looked at Harrington. “Clear this down here.”

His gun drawn, Harrington funneled through the kitchen toward the back patio doors to let the patrol officers in. Beth and I went to the stairwell and headed up to the second story. I heard the woman scream for help again, her shouts still sounding muffled or far away. Beth and I reached the top of the stairs, where the hall turned only left. We started down, cleared a couple of spare bedrooms that were completely empty of furniture, and reached the master bedroom at the end of the hall. We entered but spotted no one. A large still-made king-size bed sat near a pair of windows on the far side of the room—to our right, the open door of a walk-in closet, which we quickly cleared. I pointed toward a dresser covering another doorway. Light was visible inside the room between the cracks of the closed door.

“FBI!” I announced.

“I’m tied up in the bathroom,” a woman responded. “I need help. I’m bleeding.”

Beth and I each took a corner of the dresser and slid it away from the door. I gave her a nod and kept the sights of my weapon pointed toward the door. She pulled it open. Inside, sitting on the white tile floor was a woman in a red dress. A pair of high-heeled shoes lay on the floor near the sink. Her hands looked to be bound behind her back, her head bloodied. The large shower had a glass door, allowing us to see inside and confirm the woman was alone in the bathroom.

“Is there anyone else still in the home?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

Beth went to the woman, helped her to her feet, and unbound her hands, which were secured with tape.

The woman rubbed her wrists. “How did you find me here? Did Doug call the police?” she asked.

“No.” I glanced at her bloody hair. “How bad are you hurt? Do you need medical attention?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll call for an ambulance either way,” Beth said. She raised her chin for a better look at the woman’s injury, which appeared to be from a blow to the back of the head. “You probably need some stitches at minimum.” Beth pulled her cell phone from her pocket and made the call to 9-1-1 and requested paramedics.

“Who are you, and what happened here?” I asked.

The woman put the fingertips of both of her hands to the back of her head, winced, and then looked at the blood on her hands. “I’m Linda Blackwell, and I have no idea what happened. I walked into the house following Doug and woke up tied and locked in this bathroom.”

Beth clicked off from her phone call. “You were attacked?”

“I guess so. I don’t know.”

“Where’s the man you came with, Doug Jensen?” Beth asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see anyone in the home when you entered?” Beth asked.

She shook her head.

I looked at Beth. “How long on the ambulance?”

“Couple minutes.”

I waved the woman from the bathroom.

“I’ll take her outside and wait with her until the EMTs get here,” Beth said. “Go see what, if anything, Harrington found.”

We walked the woman down to the first floor, where the patrol officers were standing at the edge of the dining room, staring into what I figured to be the living room.

“I’ll be back,” Beth said. She walked the woman to the front door.

I headed to the patrol officers. “House clear?” I asked.

I didn’t get a response. I rounded the corner and found Harrington standing in front of a fireplace and looking down at the body of a man taped to a chaise.

Harrington glanced over at me. “It looks like we found our shrink,” he said.

I walked to his shoulder and looked down at the man. The guy looked to be in his forties, with a blue dress shirt tucked into a pair of gray slacks. Duct tape wrapped his shoulders, midsection, thighs, and ankles around the brown leather chaise. Some white foamy spit had begun to dry around the man’s mouth and the side of his face.

“We’ve got a confession letter and a bunch of empty needles,” Harrington said. He ran a hand through his dark hair and let out a breath. “Looks like this guy liked to drug the elderly or some shit. At least, that’s what the confession pertains to.”

I walked around Harrington and knelt next to the notepad on the floor next to the empty syringes. The gist of the confession was that the man had gave elderly people dangerous drugs under the table and then found a way to get himself into their wills. I looked at several empty glass vials beside the needles—I didn’t recognize the names of the drugs on the labels.

“Did we pull a sheet on this Doug Jensen?” I asked.

“I did. Nothing there.”

“So this guy wasn’t listed in the files back at the house, but somehow Wendell knew that this doctor was up to no good. How?” I asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine at this point. We’ll dig into it, see what we get.”

“Do you have anyone coming?”

“I didn’t call anyone yet, no. Figured you’d want your guys on it.”

“Okay.” I got on the phone and dialed Couch.

He picked up right away. “Agent Couch.”

“It’s Hank. We have another over here.”

“The shrink is dead?”

“Correct. Complete with a confession letter and the works. We’re going to need a team out here to collect, process, and everything else.”

“Okay. I’ll have to get some other guys out to you. These guys here are still knee-deep in this. Um, I alerted everyone on our guy: airports, local law enforcement, anyone I could think of. The BOLO for him should be spreading like weeds right now. I don’t want this guy strolling over to the airport and hopping a plane.”

“Right,” I said. “Anything else on scene there?”

“Not really. We’re just sorting through all this and trying to match up every person from the wall with deceased victims. If we find some that haven’t been killed, maybe we can get ahead of this guy. I’m going to keep working with these guys here and then head back to the office with everything we collect from here. Call me when you’re through on the scene there.”

“Will do.” I clicked off.

I fired off a message to Ball that we had another victim and put my phone back in my pocket.

The local police had showed up in force. In front of the house were at least fifteen police cruisers and a handful of unmarked cars that didn’t belong to our group. The five-person forensics team Couch had sent over arrived a half hour prior.

The woman we’d found upstairs, Linda Blackwell, had left in an ambulance a few minutes before the forensics team arrived. The EMTs had said they wanted to check her out at the hospital and her head would definitely need medical attention. I told the woman upon her departure that we wanted her to run through her account of the day and evening prior to being assaulted. She agreed to come in to give an official statement.

While we waited for forensics to arrive, we’d gone over the house, downstairs and up, looking for anything that could tell us where Wendell had gone or planned to go. As at previous scenes, we found nothing other than what he’d wanted us to find. Aside from the ransacked master bedroom, the woman in the bathroom, and our DB in the living room, we saw nothing else.

I rubbed at my eyes and looked at my watch—2:17 a.m. After another couple hours, I would’ve been working around the clock. The three men of the forensics team that weren’t upstairs were walking around the living room in blue clean suits. They’d cut the tape from Jensen and packaged it as evidence. The empty syringes and glass vials were collected and would be taken back to the lab.

I glanced at Beth at my shoulder. “What do you think was with all the money?”

“What do you mean?”

“It kind of ruins his whole good Samaritan–killer routine. Robbing someone doesn’t fit with this guy’s whole process, you know?”

“True,” Beth said. “Though killing people, even if they’ve done wrong, is still killing people.”

“Agreed. Do you think the money came from here?” I asked.

“Could have. I guess no real way to know for sure, other than trying to print the bills.”

“The bank and investment paperwork seem to point toward the fact that Wendell knew about this guy’s finances. I’d have to say the watches belonged to Mr. Jensen here as well.”

“The tan line?” Beth asked.

I stared at the lighter-colored skin around the dead doctor’s wrist, where a watch should have been but wasn’t. “Well, at least one of them did.”

She nodded. “Maybe he knew that Jensen had money here, came to get it, and was going to use it to disappear. You can only kill people for so long. Maybe he thought he’d done enough and was planning on running before the heat caught up to him. He saw us at his house, fled, and well…” Her thought trailed off.

“Then why would you dump that bag?” I asked. “I mean, if that money was his means of escape, you’d think he wouldn’t let it out of his sight, whether you’re being chased or not.”

“True,” Beth said.

Our back-and-forth was interrupted by the lead of the forensics team approaching. The man dropped the hood from his head, exposing his sweaty, thinning hair. He took his mask from his mouth—the guy had introduced himself as Colt Greenway when he arrived and went through what his team was going to do.

“I think we’re just about set with the body here,” Colt said. “The coroner can take him back to the medical examiner’s office. I’m guessing we’ll probably stick around here for another few hours, printing and photographing, but the main things—syringes, vials, tape, confession letter—are going to get sent with my guy Robinson back to the office now. He’s going to get started with the processing right away.”

“Okay,” I said. “Anything out of the ordinary that we should be made aware of?”

“I wish I had something for you, but it’s pretty clean. No prints found yet. It’s looking like the cause of death was an overdose. I heard you guys already know who you’re looking for.”

“Yeah, we have a suspect. We just need to hunt him down,” I said.

“Well, if we come up on anything that can point you in a direction, I’ll make sure it gets to you right away.”

“Appreciate that,” I said.

He nodded, turned back toward the living room, and brought the hood back up over his head. The sound of footsteps thumping on stairs caught my ear.

One of the forensics guys came around the corner into the living room. The man, wearing a blue clean suit like the rest of their team, stood with a black plastic box that looked suitable for carrying some kind of high-end camera or camcorder. “We have a little something here. There’s more upstairs as well.”

Colt walked to his team member. “What did you get?”

“It’s filled with money. There’s two more just like it upstairs. There has to be a hundred thousand plus in here.”

I looked at Beth. “I guess we know where the cash came from.”

“Yup,” she said.

“I’m coming up,” Colt said. “We’re logging every last dollar.” Colt pointed for the man to return upstairs and followed him from the room.

“So this guy just keeps hundreds of thousands of dollars, hell, maybe millions in cash lying around his house?” Harrington asked.

“Looks like it. Sounds to me like the doctor was someone who wanted it nearby. That much cash on hand suggests he was up to no good,” Beth said. “The nature of his confession letter confirms it. My guess: he had the money on hand in case he needed it in a hurry.”

Beth, Harrington, and I stepped to one side so the coroner and the man with him could wheel a gurney into the living room.

Beth let out a long, high-pitched yawn. “Are we about done here? I’m beat.”

“Looks like it. Let’s get back to the hotel. We’ll follow up on everything new in the morning.” I glanced over at Harrington. “I’m guessing you guys could probably shut it down for the night, as well. It looks like the locals have a good handle on the scene, and anything of importance will come back to our office.”

“Sure,” Harrington said.

“Appreciate you shooting over here with us,” I said.

“Yeah, no problem. I’ll give you a call in the morning, and we’ll touch base.”

I left the forensics team with my number and thanked them for coming out. Colt said he’d get as much done overnight as he could and get everything to Couch.

Beth and I left the front of the house, got in Couch’s truck, and weaved our way through squad cars to leave the neighborhood.

I looked over at Beth, who was digging her fingers into her eyes. She covered her mouth as she yawned.

“Are you going to make it?” I asked.

“I should have made you drive. I might fall asleep.”

“Pull over. I’ll drive.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yeah, I don’t mind.”

“Okay. Next place I see, I’ll pull over, and we can switch.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Do you want to call Ball and check in?”

“I’ll give him a ring in the morning. The last time I talked to him, he said they were going to work for another hour or so and take off. That was about two hours ago.” I glanced at my phone and the e-mails I’d received. “He hasn’t sent anything new in over an hour. I’m guessing they’re done for the night.”

“Okay.”

Beth drove for another ten minutes until we neared the interstate. The freeway on-ramp appeared ahead, beyond a Waffle House on the left.

“Waffle House,” she said. “Hungry?”

“Huh?”

She pointed at the lighted yellow sign near the road. “I’ve never been to one. Breakfast sounds good right now.”

“I don’t think they have your kind of food there. Unless you’re making the switch from salad to greasy hash browns with processed cheese slices on top.”

“No, grease and a coffee is exactly what I’m looking for right now.”

“Well, that is going to be your spot, then.”

“Yes or no?” Beth asked.

“Um,” I said.

“That’s a yes.” Beth flipped on her turn signal and yanked the wheel left into the parking lot. She pulled up to a spot off to the side of the main entrance, and we stepped out. Through the restaurant’s windows, I could see about ten people sitting inside.