So Close the Hand of Death (25 page)

Come to Papa. Predesignated spot. Game over.

B
ill Reiser had received the message on the BlackBerry he’d been given just as he crossed into Tennessee an hour ago. He was looking at the Nashville skyline now. He hoped this didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be able to hit his final target.

He took the exit and swung around onto Ellington Parkway. He was surprised at how quickly the turn came; within five minutes he was on Gass Boulevard heading toward the target.

The navigation told him he’d arrived at his destination.

What the fuck was this? The Tennessee Bureau of Investigations offices were on his right. This was wrong. This was a suicide mission. He was supposed to shoot someone at a federal building?

Bull. Shit. Hell, no. He wasn’t crazy enough for that.

He drove past the building. There was one more building on this road, he’d turn around in that parking lot and go regroup. Send Troy Land an email and tell him no way, no how. What did he look like, an idiot?

He turned into the building’s parking lot, saw a white van that said Medical Examiner on it and realized where he was. Jesus, this place was a morgue. Great.

He parked for a moment so he could send Troy the message. He was tapping away when he saw a blur of flashing light behind him, looked in the rearview mirror. Plainclothes cops. Shit. Was this private property maybe?

He used his left foot to shove the gun all the way under the seat.
Play it cool, accept the ticket.
He wasn’t doing anything wrong. At least not right this minute.

He hadn’t done anything wrong in at least fifteen hours.

He watched the big guy approach the car carefully, his left hand on his weapon. He used his right to touch the back of the car palm down. He’d read once that cops do that so their fingerprints were left on the car in case the driver snatches them, or shoots them.

He could shoot him.

He could shoot the cop.

A rush of adrenaline flowed through him. The cop knocked on the window, made the universal sign for “roll it down.”

Think it through. Wait to see what the deal is. He probably just wants you to leave. If it’s just a ticket, don’t be dumb. You still have a game to win. So much money. Erase the past shitty year with one lump sum payment. And you’re so close. Don’t blow it now.

He pressed the down button for the window. The man was at an angle, nearly behind him. A cold wind whipped in his face.

“Sir? Please step out of the vehicle.”

“Why, Officer? What did I do?”

“Step out of the vehicle with your hands up.”

Oh, this wasn’t good at all. He bit his lip. He’d only have one chance at this. He glanced in the side mirror, the other man had sidled to the passenger side. His gun was drawn.

Bill’s heart sank. Troy was right, he was blown. They’d found out. They knew. God, what should he do? There were only two of them. The gun was fully loaded. He would have to be quick.

The cop wasn’t going to wait while he made his decisions.

“Get out of the car, now, sir. Show me your hands. Show me your hands right now.”

The other voice joined in, slightly lower, more demanding. They were getting twitchy. He heard the decibel level rise. He really didn’t have a choice. He didn’t want to go to jail. Maybe he could talk his way out of it. No, probably not. These guys didn’t look like they were in a talking mood.

He raised his hands up, then slowly used his left to open the door. As he started to step out, he let his right trail behind, like he was using it to boost himself. His fingers brushed the metal of the gun.

“Hands, now!”

Now was right. He whipped the gun out from below the seat and stood, aiming at the cop closest to him. He squeezed the trigger. Saw gray sky. What? He squeezed the trigger again but the shot didn’t go off. Shouting, screaming.

Oh.

He felt the pain now, a searing blaze through his chest. The gravel smelled like gasoline. A flock of geese flew overhead, honking. He smiled. He’d always liked geese. His grandfather had them on his farm, up in Northern California. Thought they were a nuisance. He’d always wondered…

L
incoln righted the small boy that Colleen Keck, scratch that, Emma Brighton, had dropped on the hard, cold cement in front of the CJC. Flynn was crying, so in shock at his ignominious plop that it hadn’t registered that his mother was no longer in front of him.

Lincoln patted the boy on the back a few times, then handed him off to a sheriff’s deputy walking nearby. “Take him to the Homicide offices. Now, please. I’ll be back in a minute. I have to go after his mother.”

The deputy glared at Lincoln but went ahead and took Flynn from his arms.

He ran across the street to the parking lot. He didn’t see Colleen, she’d gotten well ahead of him. He had no idea what floor she’d parked on, so he bounded down the first set of stairs and started through the rows. The concrete walls and floor, backlit by powerful beams, glowed in ghostly silence. It was still very early, so there weren’t a lot of cars. Or people. He didn’t hear any engines running.

Something felt all wrong about this. He drew his weapon, focused his senses. He could smell blood. Fresh blood.

He took three steps toward the scent. From his right, a woman rushed toward him, like a quail flushed by a bird dog. There was no extraneous noise, no shouts of warning, just the quickening of her feet on the concrete, a predator. His mind tried to process the scene: not Colleen; the woman had a knife; she was charging him with the blade extended. He stopped thinking, his training took over. His finger squeezed with the precision of years of practice on the range. Center mass, three shots.

The woman crumpled in a heap at his feet, moaning. The knife clattered to the ground. He shook his head, his ears ringing from the shots. All the sounds were tunneled, like he was underwater. Smeary voices, shouts, clanging echoes.

The shots went a bit lower than he expected, adrenaline making the tip of the Glock drop. Or maybe he hadn’t raised it all the way? He’d have to take a look at that on the range, but the truth of the matter was, he’d never fired his service weapon in the line of duty before. There was going to be a shit storm today, that was for sure. Officers didn’t usually kill patrons in the parking lot of the Criminal Justice Center. He felt the sweat break out on the back of his neck.

The woman stopped moaning.

He kicked the knife out of her range and bent to feel for a pulse. Thready, weak. Without medical attention, she was certainly going to die.

He didn’t see Colleen. And he didn’t have his radio, damn it, or his cell phone. He’d rushed out so fast he hadn’t grabbed anything; they were all piled neatly on his desk.

There was an old Honda Civic two rows over, alone, in a spot directly in front of the elevators. A dark trail
of oil lead from the driver’s-side door. The door itself was slightly ajar. Colleen.

Shouting now, clanging steps on the hard, cold concrete, people coming in response to his gunshots.

He circumnavigated as he ran, coming at the car from a direction he hoped would preserve any evidence. Colleen was slumped in the driver’s seat. It wasn’t oil; there was blood everywhere, deep and thick, arterial spray. He was afraid she was gone, the wound in her neck was deep. But as he watched, her chest rose fractionally. He drew as close as he could and took her hand, which was still wrapped around the steering wheel, as if she could drive away from death.

“Colleen?” he asked.

“Tommy? Is that you?”

Her voice was raspy. Lincoln reached past her and got her cell phone from the dashboard sticky pad. Flipped it open, called the desk. Made it official. Told them it was an officer involved shooting. Asked for backup, EMTs, everything they could send, Code Three.

Colleen was talking again.

“Tommy, you shouldn’t…shouldn’t have come. Flynn. We need to take care of Flynn.”

Lincoln ripped off his jacket and pressed the fabric to her throat. He shushed her.

“Don’t talk, Colleen. Just hang on for me.”

Sirens began to blare, he could hear them through the haze. People were close by but he ignored them, focused all his energy on Colleen.

Colleen shook her head, her eyes fixed on Lincoln. “Tommy. I’m glad you’re here. I’ve missed you. You made me so happy. So safe.”

She smiled, her face suffused with a glow.

“Colleen…”

She put her finger to his mouth.

“No, no, Colleen, hold on. Flynn’s across the street, he’s waiting for you. Please, Colleen, don’t do this to me. Don’t you dare die. Help is here.”

“Tommy, I love you.”

Her eyes closed gently, and she was gone. He could feel it, the moment when her body lightened as her spirit fled. He didn’t think he’d ever forget the exact taste and shape of the moment, how the voices drew closer, how Colleen’s eyes were slitted at the bottom, as if her soul needed to be able to see its way out of her body, how the blood was soaked into the dark fabric of his jacket, the dusty scent of concrete mixed with dying blood. Lincoln fought back tears. Fought for a moment as someone pulled on his shoulder, then dropped the jacket and stepped away, let the EMTs go to work. He knew it was too late. It was too late for them all.

T
aylor was about to step out into the parking lot when she heard gunshots. She drew her Glock.

“Lieutenant, did you hear that?” Kris squeaked in alarm.

“I did. Go inside the main offices, shut the door behind you.”

Kris disappeared into the hallway. She’d be safe in there, you needed a key card to get through.

Taylor glanced out the front door and saw her two bodyguards standing over a man. Whatever was happening was over, the threat had obviously been neutralized. She holstered her gun and ran outside.

“What happened?” she yelled. “Who is this?”

Wells turned to her, eyes quiet and cold. “Pretty sure he’s one of the copycats. License plate matches. And he went for a gun. I had no choice.”

She looked at the man spread-eagle on his back, his face arranged in a soft smile, eyes forever focused on a sky only he could see. Felt nothing for him.

“Which one was he?”

Rogers tossed her the man’s wallet. “His license says
William Reiser. I’d assume he’s the Zodiac copycat out of California.”

“What the hell is he doing here? Making a move on me?”

“We don’t know, ma’am. We saw him coming up the road, then stop for a minute in front of the TBI. Then he came up here, parked and took out his BlackBerry.”

He handed that to her as well. She pushed the home button and the screen came to life. He’d been composing an email, to someone named Troy.

She scrolled down and saw the message he’d been responding to, felt her skin crawl.

Come to Papa.

He was answering a direct communiqué from Copeland. Wells was right, this was one of the copycats.

“Well done,” she said to him, then grabbed her cell and got Commander Huston on the horn.

Before she could even say hello the commander launched in, fast and loud. “Jackson, what in the hell is going on? We’ve just had a homicide in the parking facilities. That woman you’ve had Detective Ross babysitting was killed a few minutes ago.”

All the breath went out of her in a rush. Oh, God. Colleen.

“How?” she managed to ask.

“We’re figuring all that out now. She left the building and was ambushed. Detective Ross shot and killed her attacker. You need to come down here, now.”

Lincoln killed a suspect. He must be devastated. He’d never taken a life before. All of her people were getting hurt. Taylor took a deep breath.

“Ma’am, I can’t do that just this minute. I need a crime scene tech at Forensic Medical. We’ve had a breach of security, one of the national copycats got into the parking lot of the building. He was taken down by two of Mitchell Price’s men, who I hired to watch my back.”

“Another shooting? Christ almighty, Lieutenant.”

“I know, ma’am.”

“You sit tight there then. I’ll handle things here. Be careful, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She hit End, then called Kris, who answered on the first ring.

“Kris, everything is fine out here. We need a death investigator. I need to leave. Can you arrange things, come out here and make sure nothing is messed with?”

“Yes. But, Lieutenant, shouldn’t you stay—”

“Kris, I have to find Sam. Please. Do this for me.”

“All right.”

She hung up and looked at Wells. “I need to move.”

“Yes, ma’am. What do you want us to do? Come with? There are more of these fools out there, right?”

“Stay here. Call Price and tell him what went down. Give your statement and tell the truth, Wells. You won’t be held accountable, he drew first. When you get clear, call me and we’ll meet back up.”

“Are you sure, ma’am? You’ll be exposed. These killers are getting close, too close for comfort, if you ask me.” He nudged Reiser with his foot.

“Stay, Wells. Give your statement. That’s an order.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And just like that, she was free. Her guards had served their purpose, for the first stage of the game.

Thank you for the setup, Copeland. Couldn’t have planned it better myself.

B
aldwin’s cell rang as he was leaving his office. He was pleased to see the internal Quantico number, recognized it as Kevin Salt. Baldwin kept walking, answered the phone as he locked his office door.

“Hey, man. You have something for me?”

“I do. And don’t worry, we’ve already gone into overdrive to get this taken care of. Teams have been sent to each house. I’ve brought in some extra computer staff to start running their files. Charlaine’s off to talk to the doctor she told you about. We’ve got everything covered on the national scale, okay?”

Ah, the power of the office. He certainly missed being the one directing the show.

“Okay. How can I argue with that? Shoot.”

“California’s car was rented to a man named William Reiser, we’re assuming he’s the Zodiac copycat. Record is totally clean, he’s run below the radar for years. He’s a computer programmer out in Silicon Valley, got laid off last year. New York’s Son of Sam contestant was Preston Pylant of Long Island—that guy is a nut. He’s got a history of deviant behavior, he might be schizophrenic. He’s got a record, did some time about ten
years ago—assault. His file lists a history of mental illness.

“The Boston Strangler’s car was rented by a Richard Cooper. All of the information for him leads back to a Richard Cooper who works for UPS, so there’s the connection. There’s just one problem with him.”

“What’s that?”

“Richard Cooper who works at UPS is at UPS now, in Florida. He’s been on the job all week, there’s no way it’s the same guy.”

“You’re right, the time doesn’t fit. Probably a case of stolen identity. That’s par for the course with Copeland. He probably just secured the guy new papers so he could work the delivery angle.”

“Maybe. But why wouldn’t he do that for all three?”

“It’s possible that he did, and we just haven’t seen it. Can you explore that further?”

“All right. I’ll go the stolen identity route and see who’s been accessing Richard Cooper’s accounts, plus look at the other two. You know, it’s possible that one of the killers is more sophisticated than the others and is covering his tracks better.”

Just what they needed, another smart killer.

“Make sure, either way.”

“All right. There was a double murder in D.C., in the park just off GW Parkway, just short of Reagan National Airport. You know the one I’m talking about?”

“Oh, the LBJ Memorial Grove? Yeah, I know the one. It’s a mecca for gay men to meet up, right?”

“That’s the one. They’ve cleaned it up, got the drugs out, at least the most visible ones, but the public sex is still a problem. Two men were shot there last night, and it looks just like the New York case.”

“Yeah, I read about it online. So it’s officially been tied in now?” Baldwin asked.

“Yes. Two taps to each forehead with .44 caliber bullets. Ballistics are a match.”

“Great job. Explain this part to me. You said contestant.”

“I did.”

“Like on a game show?”

“Just like it. And there’s a reason.”

“You’re killing me, Kevin. Please.”

Kevin smothered a laugh. “Fine. Take all the fun out of it. I’ve got good news. The Tennessee Highway patrol saw the BOLO for the license plates and spread the word. They grabbed Pylant at a McDonald’s off Interstate 40 just outside of Knoxville, said he was acting twitchy. He’s talking, too.” Bingo.

“What’s he saying?”

“Pylant? Like I said, I think he may be a schizophrenic. But he keeps insisting he’s a part of a larger game, that this is his big chance. He’s a definite spree killer in the making. He was packing more ammunition than the ATF boys take on their training exercises.”

“So he’s in custody in Knoxville?”

“Yeah. Sewn up. I’ll find out what else he’s saying and get that to you as quick as I can. In the meantime, at least we know who was where. And it’s pretty evident where they were all headed.”

“Yeah. Nashville.”

“That’s right.

“You’re the best, Kevin. Let me know if you get anything else.”

“Will do. Everything under control down there?”

“To an extent. Being on the sidelines isn’t exactly easy for me, you know?”

“I do. Hey, Garrett wants to talk to you. He asked that you give him a call.”

“All right. I will. Thanks.”

Baldwin hung up with Kevin and checked his watch. Before he talked to Garrett, he wanted to check in with Taylor.

He speed-dialed her number, relieved when she answered right away.

“Wells just killed the Zodiac copycat in the Forensic Medical parking lot,” she said without preamble. “But now we know what Ewan Copeland looks like. The death investigator Barclay Iles, remember him? He’s our guy. Ewan Copeland has been working at Forensic Medical for almost a year.”

Baldwin mentally flashed to the man’s face. Wrapped his head around the idea. He’d had open access to Taylor for a year, right in her own backyard. Fear turned to rage; he missed what Taylor said next.

“What?”

“He’s been dating Kris. She suggested him to Sam. He’s got a full forensic background, though I couldn’t tell you how much of it was real. I’ve worked with him, Baldwin. Shoulder to shoulder. Shared meals, late nights, laughs. I respected him. Sam’s been working with him for months. He’s been a part of our lives, watching, waiting for the perfect moment.”

There was an edge of panic to her voice, not that he blamed her.

“Calm down. Where are you right now?”

“I just left Sam’s office.”

“Where does Barclay Iles live?”

“With Kris, officially. But you know he has another
place somewhere. She’s not seen him for a few days. He told her his mother was sick and he was going to Florida this week. He disabled Sam’s car and took her out of Forensic Medical under the auspices of doing his performance review. The son of a bitch has her, Baldwin. I have all his information, but without Lincoln to track him down, I can’t go any further.”

“Without Lincoln? What?”

He heard her car engine turn over. “I’m heading downtown now. Lincoln’s been involved in a shooting, and Colleen Keck is dead. I don’t have the details, just that she ran outside and was ambushed.”

Everything was falling apart. He needed to get to Taylor.

“I’ll meet you at the CJC. Drive carefully. Don’t worry, okay? The Boston Strangler copycat is still out there, but the Knoxville police caught another one, looks like Son of Sam. He’s singing like a bird. He may know where Sam is. We’ll find her. I promise.”

“I hope so,” she said, then hung up the phone.

He was in the parking lot now. He unlocked his car and slid behind the wheel, turned the heat on high. He was so rattled that it was only after he put the car in gear and started to leave the parking lot that he realized how short Taylor had been. She never got off the phone without saying she loved him. Nor did he. It was one of their sacred things. They were in a dangerous profession; Taylor had once told him that she never wanted to die without telling her people she loved them. He felt the same way—his parents, dead when he was just sixteen, had expressed their love for him before they left for the evening…he hadn’t returned their words. The guilt racked him for years. Still got under his skin sometimes.

He dialed her back. She didn’t answer.

What in the hell was going on?

Stress. She was just stressed. Her best friend was missing, bait in an obscenely unfair game. Of course she’d be preoccupied.

He left her a message, told her he loved her, then called Garrett.