So Simple, page 8
“Not human children,” Faith agreed, “but I’ll bet you anything each of these three women loved their puppies like children.”
“So our killer is missing love and affection?”
“That’s my guess.”
“Well, he has an odd way of asking for it.”
“He doesn’t feel he has to ask,” Faith replied. “He feels he’s owed it. These killings aren’t cries for help, they’re punishments. He’s angry at the fact that some maternal figure in his life never loved him, and he’s taking it out on innocent people offering love to helpless creatures.”
“Look at you, Miss Profiler,” Michael said, impressed. “You should think about transferring to BAU one of these days.”
“Hell no,” Faith said, “it’s hard enough visiting minds like this guy’s every now and then. I wouldn’t want that to be my job.”
“Well, I’m impressed either way. Please continue.”
Before Faith could reply, they heard Turk bark. They looked up to see him digging furiously at a spot in the backyard while Rusty stood nearby, confused. They jogged out back, and Faith called, "What is it, boy? What do you have?"
A moment later, Turk stuck his nose into the hole and pulled out a length of fabric, the remains of the same kind of leash used by Rebecca Green and Amanda Milleson. He brought the fabric to Faith, who put gloves on and carefully took it from the dog’s hand.
This leash was different from the other two because this leash had a name on it. Not Rusty’s name, and not Trisha Sinclair’s name either.
“Michael,” Faith said, “we have something.”
She showed him the name, and he whistled. “Well, well. Maybe we’ll get lucky and our answer will just fall into our lap.”
“One can always hope,” Faith replied. “In the meantime, let’s figure out who this Brian Johnson is.”
“In the meantime,” Michael said, “I’m going to tell CSI to do a full and thorough sweep of the scene when they arrive.”
“Good idea,” Faith said. “Just in case we happened to miss anything.”
Nothing had come from CSI’s sweep of Rebecca Green’s house, but you never knew. Their killer was escalating. Three months between victim one and victim two, now not quite three days between victim two and victim three. Maybe he had made a mistake in his haste, or maybe whatever veneer of sanity he wore was cracking and causing him to forget some elements of caution. It was worth looking into.
While they waited for animal control and CSI to arrive, Faith sat at Trisha's kitchen table and logged into the FBI database. She felt a bit like a trespasser sitting in Trisha's home looking for a killer, even though she was looking for Trisha's killer so she could receive justice. It just felt strange to be sitting in someone's home, knowing that they would never sit here again.
Faith had visited a lot of crime scenes, but the scenes in this case were more personal because of the trauma the dogs suffered as well. As the database loaded, she looked out the window at Turk, who was once more consoling Rusty.
She couldn’t help but wonder if one day Turk would stand shellshocked over her own body. Or if she would stand shellshocked over his.
Thankfully, the computer finished booting up before she had to dwell on those thoughts. She put in Brian Johnson—Fargo and a moment later, the computer loaded sixty-seven results. Considering the size of the Fargo-Moorhead Metropolitan Area, those were actually fairly light results.
CSI and animal control arrived, and Michael gave CSI instructions while Faith looked through the results. Rusty refused to leave Turk’s side, and the animal control officer resigned himself to waiting.
Most of the names could be dismissed fairly quickly. Few people fit the body type necessary to have committed these crimes. After forty minutes and half the names in the list, she hit on a lead.
A good one.
It turned out that Brian Johnson had a great relationship with both the Fargo Rescue Shelter and the Moorhead Animal Home, having donated three dogs to them over the past six months.
The dogs were a female Husky named Luna, a female Labradoodle named Doris, and a male Border Collie named Rusty.
“Michael,” she called. “I found the previous owner of all three dogs.”
“All three? Same guy?”
“All three, same guy. And, if I’m not mistaken…” she clicked the link to the profile and an image popped up of a tall, muscular, but lean Brian Johnson, forty years old, but apparently in just as good shape as he was when he was the All-State first baseman for Davies High School.
“Well, well, well,” Michael said.
“Well, well, well,” Trammell said.
Faith shivered and pushed the memory away. “Six-foot-four, two hundred twenty pounds. Former athlete with, according to his rap sheet, a nice little anger problem.
Michael leaned closer. “Eight counts of assault, six aggravated and five with a weapon enhancement. One was criminal battery. Yeah, I’d say this guy has a problem. I wonder why he would kill the people who adopted his dogs, though?”
“Maybe he resented them for providing the dogs better homes than he could,” Faith suggested.
“Only one way to find out,” Michael replied.
“Yep.” Faith stood and called to Turk. “Time to go catch a bad guy, buddy.”
Turk dipped his head in acknowledgment but refused to leave the scene until he had coaxed Rusty to go with animal control. The Border Collie cast one last look back at his owner, then howled again as he climbed into the animal control vehicle.
“Don’t worry, Rusty,” Faith said. “We’ll get the person who hurt your mother.”
Turk watched as Rusty rode away. When the truck disappeared around the corner, he lifted his head and howled plaintively. Faith reached down and stroked his fur. “Let’s go get him Turk. For Rusty.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Brian “the Brain” Johnson’s Auto Palace was anything but. A seedy, rundown building in an even seedier, more rundown neighborhood, it looked more like a crack house to Faith than a palace. Three vehicles in various stages of rust and dismemberment rested outside the entrance. The garage itself was little more than a small office attached to a garage protected—in the loosest sense of the term—by a rusty and pitted corrugated steel door.
It looked like the sort of place where people who wore badges were shot. Faith and Michael had recently worked a case in Atlanta where dog fights were held in abandoned warehouses, but as torn apart as those buildings were, this little auto garage somehow looked worse.
“Should we call for backup?” Michael asked.
“Not a bad idea,” Faith replied, “but have them wait for our signal.”
Michael placed the call, keeping his voice low as the three agents approached the building. Turk’s tail switched back and forth nervously as he led the way. As they drew closer, they could hear music playing. Brian had started early today.
Of course, if he was already up from murdering a woman, it made no sense to go back to sleep and get maybe an hour before heading to work.
Turk growled low in his throat, and Faith decided to undo the strap on her pistol, just in case, though she didn’t draw the weapon yet. Michael didn’t feel the same caution, drawing his handgun and hiding it behind his back.
She knocked on the door, and the music stopped a moment later. Turk’s shoulders bunched and his teeth bared as footsteps approached them.
“Easy, boy,” she said softly.
The door opened, and the tall, lean form of Brian Johnson looked down at them. He stared silently at them for a moment before asking, “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Special Agent Faith Bold,” Faith replied. “This is my partner, Special Agent Michael Prince, and my K9 unit, Turk.”
“Why’s Turk growling at me like that?” Brian asked nervously.
“Do you have any weapons on you?” Faith asked. “That could trigger his sense of smell.”
“Yeah, I got weapons, but I ain’t taking them off. It’s my right to have them.”
His manner and stance were already aggressive. Faith feared he was going to be a problem for them. She shifted her weight, putting herself in a fighting stance without revealing it. She also sidestepped slightly to give Michael more room to work if it did come to a fight.
“We’re here investigating the murders of Rebecca Green, Amanda Milleson and Trisha Sinclair,” Faith explained, “and that conversation will be easier if you remove your weapons.”
“Hell, no,” he said, “You remove yours first.”
“This isn’t a negotiation, Mr. Johnson,” Michael said. “You will take your weapons off, and we will talk to you.”
“Nah. I don’t answer questions.”
“Then you don’t answer them from the inside of a jail cell,” Faith replied.
Once more, he looked between them a moment, weighing his decision. “Don’t do anything stupid,” Faith warned.
Brian “the Brain” evidently was not very good at using his brain. He lunged forward, shoving Faith backwards down the step. She tucked and rolled, protecting her head, but she was falling on concrete, not a training mat, and she cried out as she landed hard on her shoulder.
As she got to her feet, she saw Brian boxing with Michael. Michael landed several solid blows, but Brian evidently had a granite chin. He shrugged off all of Michael’s punches and landed a crashing body hook that doubled Michael over in pain.
Then he sprinted toward the only car on his lot that wasn’t junk, looking behind fearfully. A moment later, the reason for his fear became apparent when Turk leapt after him, teeth bared.
“Take him down, boy!” she commanded.
Brian reached the car, but not in time to open the door before Turk leapt at him. He ducked, and Turk sailed over the car, allowing Brian to get up and try to open the door again. Faith rushed to him and grabbed his arm, but he was twice her size and threw her off easily.
The short delay was enough for Michael to reach him, however, and while he was also larger than Michael, it was by a much smaller margin than his advantage over Faith. Michael wrapped his arms around Brian and, with a grunt of effort, lifted the big man off of the ground and pulled backwards. Brian cried out and grabbed the door handle of his car. The door opened, and Michael and Brian engaged in a brief tug-of-war.
Brian won, of course, but by the time he managed to wrestle Michael off of him, Turk was back on him, leaping into the air and snapping at his arm. Brian shrieked and twisted out of the way just before the dog got him, but Turk landed swiftly, and on his second attempt, he managed to sink his teeth into Brian’s opposite shoulder from the back.
Brian cried out and stumbled backward. Michael regained his feet and leveled his weapon at Brian. “You’re under arrest! Stand down!”
“Fuck you!” Brian called back, once more showcasing his big brain.
He leaned forward, and Faith predicted his move just before he executed it.
“Turk, release!” she called.
Turk released, letting go and leaping backwards off of Brian just before Brian threw himself backwards. His intent was to crush Turk underneath him, but since Turk was no longer underneath him, he fell hard onto his back. He gasped as his wind left him in a rush.
“Goddammit,” he wheezed.
Michael approached to cuff him, but as soon as Michael holstered his weapon, Brian leaped to his feet and drove a crashing blow into Michael's temple. Michael saw the punch in time to roll with the blow, but it still staggered him. He collapsed to the ground, and when Faith dove for his hips, he sidestepped and pushed her back to the ground too.
Fortunately for Faith, she managed to get a hand in front of her face so the concrete bruised her palm instead of shattering her nose. She pushed herself back to her knees, and when she heard Brian cry out behind her, she turned to see that Turk had finally caught hold of him. His teeth were buried in Brian's thigh, and with a powerful heave, he yanked Brian toward the ground. The big man managed to keep his feet, but Michael had recovered by then, and he returned the favor Brian had given him earlier by driving his right fist into Brian's temple.
Brian staggered. He didn’t fall, but he sank to his knees and offered no further resistance as Michael handcuffed him. His dazed expression reminded Faith sickeningly of the looks on the dogs’ faces as they coped with the reality of their owners’ deaths.
“Release him, Turk,” Faith said reluctantly. “Brian Johnson, you’re under arrest for the murders of Rebecca Green, Amanda Milleson and Trisha Sinclair.”
“Don’t know those bitches,” he mumbled.
“We’ll see about that,” Faith said.
***
“Like I said,” Brian insisted. “I don’t know those bitches.”
“Will you please refrain from using profanity when describing the victims?” Faith asked.
“Fuck you!”
She looked at Michael, then back at Brian. He sat heavily shackled to the floor and the table, a look of defiant aggression on his face. His left leg was bandaged, his wounds treated immediately upon arrival to the station since he refused first aid at the scene of the arrest.
And by refused, Faith meant tried to escape and kicked at all three of the agents at separate times.
“Brian, let me explain the situation to you,” she said. “There is compelling evidence linking you to the violent murder of three young women. You have a rap sheet as long as your arm, and you resisted arrest by assaulting me, my partner and my K9. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in prison, you need to convince me that you didn’t kill anyone.”
“How the hell am I gonna do that? You already decided I killed them.”
“So prove me wrong,” Faith replied. “Answer my questions, and let the evidence speak for itself.”
“I answered your question! I don’t know those bitches!”
“Call them bitches again,” Michael warned. “See what happens.”
Faith lifted a hand for calm and said, “You haven’t confirmed your whereabouts three nights ago. Let’s start there.”
“I was hanging out,” he said. “Liquor store on Third and Hoosier. My cousin owns it.”
“Can your cousin confirm you were there?”
“No, he’s out of town.”
“Convenient,” Faith said drily.
“Yeah, not really, seeing as how you think I’m a killer.”
“What’s the name of this liquor store?”
“Fargo Fuel Stop,” Brian said. “Ain’t got no fuel, though. They’re talking about the alcohol.”
“I figured,” Michael said. “Tell you what. I’ll go look up the Fargo Fuel Stop. You just sit tight here and have a nice conversation with my partner.”
He left, and Faith said, "All right. Let's talk. You owned these dogs, correct?"
She showed him pictures of Rusty, Luna and Doris. Brian looked down at them and said, “Yeah, I did, but I gave them up like three months ago. No, more than that. Like four or five. Did these dogs kill people?”
“No,” Faith replied, “but they witnessed the murders.”
“Huh. Too bad they can’t speak English and tell you who did it, huh?” He grinned at his joke, but when Faith’s face remained stony, his smile faded.
“Why did you give up your dogs?” Faith asked.
Brian shrugged. “I couldn’t take care of them. Back when I had the homies at the shop, I had time to walk them, play with them, feed them and all that, but I didn’t have that anymore after they all quit on me.”
“Why did they quit?”
Brian shrugged. “You know.”
“I don’t know. Explain it to me.”
He sighed heavily and tapped his feet. “We got into it. Over back pay. They said I owed them money, I said the reason I couldn’t pay them was that the shop wasn’t making money, and that was their fault. Well, my lead mechanic, Gearhead, he got upset with me and we got into a fight.”
“He assaulted you.”
“Yeah, man. He called me a bitch, so I beat his ass.”
Faith sighed. “So you didn’t pay your employees, and when one of them called you a mean name, you assaulted him.”
“Hell yeah. Put his ass in the hospital.”
For a man with several priors for aggravated assault and criminal battery, Brian “The Brain” didn’t seem to have learned his lesson or even to understand that there was a lesson to be learned.
She would deal with the assault charge later, though. For now, she needed to focus on the more important case.
“How did you feel giving up your dogs?”
Brian shrugged. “I mean, you know. It is what it is. I would have kept them if I could, but I couldn’t. I just didn’t have the money to take care of them anymore.”
“How did you feel seeing them in other homes, happy with other owners?”
“I mean, I didn’t know where they went, you know what I’m saying? I took them to the shelter, and that was that. I assumed the shelter people would find them homes, so that’s good, you know. Or well, not good, I guess, since the owners died.”
“No,” Faith said, “Not good.”
“But yeah, like, I didn’t have any animosity toward them,” Brian said. “I couldn’t keep the dogs.” He shrugged and finished with, “It is what it is.”
Faith nodded. “So you played baseball, huh?”
Brian chuckled. “Yeah, in high school. Like twenty-two years ago. Why?”
“The victims were murdered with weapons swung at their heads with violent force. The last two victims were hit with a baseball bat.”
“Oh shit, for real?” Brian’s eyes widened. “Damn. Your boy was angry.”
Faith had had more than enough of Brian’s blasé attitude, but she kept her tone professional anyway. “You seem like a pretty angry guy yourself,” she said, “Eight counts assault, six aggravated, five with a weapon: that is, before we charge you with assaults on our persons and on our K9 unit.”
“Oh man, come on,” Brian said. “Don’t charge me for that. I was just protecting myself.”
_preview.jpg)
