Drained, page 12
“Yeah, I would think that’d be enough to persuade someone to give us the rest,” she said. “Okay, I’ll let Hank know. We’ll talk in the morning. Thanks for the call.” Beth hung up.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Andrews. He just wrapped up a call with one of Rebecca Wright’s friends. Rebecca met the guy she was going to get coffee with on Classified OD.”
“Well, that takes care of that. It has to be our connection.”
“It looks like it. He’s going to meet this woman, Amy Meadows, now and get a sworn statement from her.”
“He’s meeting her this late?” I asked.
“He said she works at a bar or something and could take a break to meet with him.”
“Okay, and then what?”
“As soon as he gets that, he’ll be able to get a subpoena for her transcripts from the website,” she said. “With her statement and the one we get for Jasmine Thomas, it should be enough probable cause for us to secure subpoenas for all of the women, I would think.”
“Perfect. About time we’re getting somewhere.”
“This is actually moving along a hell of a lot faster than normal. Usually, things don’t go this way. Leads in these investigations are few and far between for the most part. I’m thinking we’re going to get this guy.”
“Hopefully before he kills anyone else,” I said.
Beth nodded.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Brett drove Rebecca’s couple-year-old Honda toward Aurora, a city forty-five minutes northwest of his house. He wore dark clothes, a baseball cap, and thin black leather gloves. Beneath him, covering the seat was plastic sheeting that he would take with him when he left the car. He had a reason for choosing that town, something he’d stumbled upon when he was going through Monica’s correspondences from the website just before he deleted them. Brett had spotted a user name that looked familiar—it was a user name he’d seen while looking into everyone Rebecca had chatted with. He reinstated both women’s accounts to confirm.
Monica and Becca had apparently both been speaking with another man—the same man. He went by the handle of Ladykiller75. His real name was Jeff Mercer. Brett had gotten his IP address and found him. The user name couldn’t have been more perfect.
If the feds were in fact sniffing into the women and had figured out that they’d all used his site, they would have a number-one suspect in Mr. Mercer. Furthermore, when they found the body of one woman he’d spoken with—along with the vehicle of another—near his home, that would really tip the scales. Brett had reinstated each woman’s messages through the website, all except the ones he’d sent and received.
Brett exited the highway and traveled the city streets, looking for the perfect place to be rid of her. Once he left Becca’s car and Monica’s body, he would walk a mile or two until he found a bar. From there, he’d call a number of taxis with his prepaid phone to get back home. He had a pocket full of cash to pay the drivers and a number of random addresses he would have them drop him off at.
The clock on the dash read a few minutes after midnight. The area was quiet, as it should have been. He spotted an old church next to what looked like a small single-story factory on his right—that would make a suitable place to leave her.
Brett slowed and made the turn onto the small road that split the church and the business. A dead end sign stood on the right-hand side of the street between the road and the factory’s parking lot. Brett glanced left to see a small building and a single light on a pole behind the church. To his right, a handful of cars were parked in the well-lit factory parking lot, and beyond the cars were more parking spots and a row of green Dumpsters. Brett didn’t plan on removing Monica from the trunk—he assumed that within a day or two, the car would be called in and the plates would be run and would lead back to Becca, who they knew was murdered. The police would search the car and find Monica’s body.
Brett pulled past both the church and the factory and killed the car’s headlights as he approached the end of the street. Then he pulled the car to the right side of the road and stopped at the metal barrier and dead end sign that wouldn’t allow him to go any further. Brett left the keys in the ignition, opened the door, stepped out, and pulled the plastic from the driver’s seat. He closed the door and looked around, spotting no one.
Brett balled up the plastic sheeting and headed for the row of Dumpsters by the factory to toss it. He kept a watchful eye on his surroundings as he entered the factory’s lighted parking lot. He spotted the business name on a sign on the side of the building: Penn’s Tool and Die. Brett walked to the second Dumpster and lifted the lid just enough to toss the plastic inside. He let the lid fall and took a step back toward the street.
“What did you just toss in there?” a voice asked.
Brett froze. He slowly turned his head to the right to look at the back of the factory. He saw the glow of fire from the end of a cigarette and the silhouette of a man behind it, leaning against the back of the building.
“Some garbage from the car,” Brett said.
“You know that’s illegal, right?” the man asked. “What are you doing back here anyway?”
“Just had to take a piss,” Brett said. He continued walking.
“Also illegal,” the voice said.
Brett didn’t turn back to look at the guy. “Yeah, just mind your own business, buddy.” He walked back toward the car—he needed to look elsewhere for a place to dump it and the girl.
“Kind of warm for gloves isn’t it?” the guy asked. “What are you up to?”
He stopped walking and turned toward the guy, who was standing at the Dumpster, peering under the lid to see what Brett had tossed.
Brett figured he’d try a story to defuse the situation. “Look, man, I was at the bar. Some girl gave me her address to come over. I’m not from around here and am lost. Sorry—I stopped, took a piss, and tossed something in your Dumpster. Geez. I’m not out here hurting anybody, man.”
The guy let out a breath. “Where are you trying to go? Do you have the address?”
This guy isn’t going to let up.
“Yeah, I have it on a piece of paper.” Brett fished around in his pocket and started walking toward the guy, who was still standing at the Dumpster. The lights from the parking lot lit the guy up. He wore a green oil-stained T-shirt and a pair of dirty jeans. The man looked to be in his fifties, with stringy chin-length hair. Brett had him by a good thirty pounds. The cigarette the man smoked hung from his mouth.
When Brett was within a few feet, the guy held out his hand for Brett to hand him the address. Brett took another step toward the man, swatted his hand away and delivered a walking forearm to the guy’s face. Sparks from the cigarette’s cherry filled the air. The guy reached for his nose. Brett delivered another forearm, connecting with the tip of his elbow to the man’s temple over his raised arms. The man dropped to a knee. Brett grabbed him by the back of the hair, lifted him back to his feet, and smashed his face into the top edge of the Dumpster. He pulled the man’s head back and slammed it into the metal edge again—and again. Finally, Brett let go. The man collapsed to the ground, not moving. Brett couldn’t take a chance that the man would live and be able to identify him, so he pulled the man to the back side of the Dumpsters, knelt next to him, and wrapped his gloved hands around the guy’s throat. Then Brett squeezed as hard as he could and held the position for minutes. He eventually let go. The man was dead. Brett popped his head up over the top of the Dumpster and looked back toward the factory—he saw no one outside.
Brett casually walked into the darkness beyond the dead end sign at the end of the street.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I woke to rapid pounding on the door of my hotel room. I squinted hard and cracked my eyes open. The red LED time on the alarm clock sitting on the nightstand next to the bed blurred and then came into focus—5:57 a.m. The person knocking had to be Beth.
“One second,” I yelled.
I flipped the sheets back and climbed from bed. I pulled on my pants, lying at the side of the bed, and tossed on my shirt from the day prior. I walked to the door, looked through the peephole, and pulled the room door open. I rubbed my eyes with my thumb and index finger. Beth stood before me in the hall, wearing her same pajama pants and T-shirt from the night before.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Come on, get ready. We have to go.”
“For what? It’s six in the morning.”
“You didn’t hear your phone ringing?”
“No,” I said.
“Okay, well, rise and shine, and get your ass ready. We have multiple bodies.”
“Multiple bodies?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you on the way. We’re leaving in fifteen.”
I nodded and closed the door. I walked to my phone and removed it from the charger—it showed three missed calls and three voice mails. I clicked the button to hear them. All three were from Andrews and within the last twenty minutes. The first said he’d gotten a call from his field office that they’d found a murdered man and Rebecca Wright’s car in Aurora. The second message confirmed the first and added that they’d also found a deceased woman. The third message said he was en route to the scene and we should meet him there as soon as possible. I deleted the messages and headed for the bathroom to get ready.
I started the shower and brushed my teeth, staring at myself in the mirror. My eyes were puffed up from lack of sleep, and black stubble, with a little silver mixed in, filled my cheeks and chin. I didn’t have time for a shave. I quickly showered and dressed in the last clean suit hanging in the closet. Beth was once again banging on my door within a minute of me getting ready. I pulled the room door open. She stepped in, dressed, her brown hair tied back, and ready to go to work.
“I just called for the car. Are you ready?” she asked.
“Think so,” I said.
“Well, grab whatever you’ll need for the day, I’m not sure if we’ll be back before tonight.”
I nodded, rubbed my eyes again, and walked to my desk. I grabbed everything I saw. My brain was still a little slow at functioning to remember what my exact schedule for the day was and precisely what I’d need.
I tucked the files under my arm and followed Beth from the room toward the elevators. She thumbed the button to take us down.
“Where is Aurora?” I asked.
“An hour drive west.”
“I listened to Andrew’s messages. They found Rebecca Wright’s car, another woman, and a man?”
The elevator doors opened. We stepped inside and hit the button for the lobby.
“I talked to him briefly,” she said. “That’s the gist of what he told me.”
“Do we have an ID on either of the deceased?” I asked.
“He didn’t say. The local PD was leaving the scene as is until the FBI arrived. Andrews should be getting there soon. He said forty-five minutes when I talked to him twenty minutes or so ago.”
I nodded.
The elevator doors opened, letting us into the lobby. We walked through and outside. Beth’s car hadn’t arrived.
She jerked her head toward a woman leaning out the door of the coffee shop next to where we stood. “Looks like they are just opening. Why don’t you grab us two coffees and something that would qualify as breakfast. Muffin or something.”
I wouldn’t argue. A coffee was a necessity after the four hours of sleep I’d had.
“What do you want in it?” I asked.
“Lots of sugar. Lots of cream,” she said.
“Right, so chocolate milk?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes.
I headed into the coffee shop, grabbed two tall cups and a couple of muffins, and headed back outside. Beth was waiting in front of the hotel in her car. I walked over, set what I was carrying on the roof and opened the door. I handed Beth’s coffee to her, grabbed the rest of the stuff from the roof, and got in. She pulled away from the curb.
“So the local PD there called the FBI?” I asked.
“I didn’t get the whole story of how it went down or what exactly is going on out there,” Beth said. “Andrews just said they found the car, we had another, and then mentioned there was a deceased man as well. I asked what was up with the deceased man, but he said he didn’t know.”
“I guess we’ll see shortly,” I said.
“How late did you stay up?” Beth asked.
“Until around two. Once I finished up with the bank records, I moved on to the phone records.”
“Anything?”
I shook my head. “Nothing that stood out. Did you grab the schedule we put together for today?”
“Um, yeah, it’s in the bag back there.” Beth pointed over her shoulder to a leather business bag in the back seat. “What do you need to know?”
“What we have for today. I was half awake when we were leaving. I’m thinking maybe we should have taken two cars.”
“I thought about it. We should be fine unless this takes more than two hours. We’ll probably have to leave Aurora by nine to meet with Andrea Fradet at ten. We need her sworn statement. That’s the most important thing right now. After that, we’ll need to go to the local FBI field office. We should be able to get everything filed in order to get a subpoena, as well as check in with the tech-department guys to see if they came up with anything from the computer or tablet. Who knows, maybe they just weren’t able to get to it yet.”
“You never heard anything back from them?”
“Nope.”
“I would imagine you would have, one way or the other, if they got to them. Did we still plan to go out to Skokie, look around, and have some talks with the coworkers of Rebecca Wright?” I asked.
“I think we should.”
I pulled out my notepad and started jotting a few things down.
“What are you writing?” Beth asked.
“We haven’t met with anyone regarding Rebecca Wright. I’m just making myself a note to see what exactly Andrews got and to get a copy of everything he’s collected on her. I think we should introduce ourselves to her family and let them know we are working with Andrews on it,” I said.
“It’s a good idea.”
She reached out and powered on the car stereo. The volume was faint, yet it sounded like some early-morning talk radio. I caught the words “women” and “bodies” almost immediately, so I reached out and turned the volume up. The host of the radio show was talking about our investigation. He said something along the lines of “How many bodies have to turn up before law enforcement connects the dots?” He went on to say that he wasn’t a detective, and he was sure that the authorities were trying, but the body count was rising with no end in sight. I turned the volume back down.
“Sounds like the same things the local news is saying,” Beth said.
“I haven’t been watching,” I said. “No time.”
“Well, it’s been getting pretty bad. I had the news on before I went to sleep last night. When word hits of this new victim, things are only going to get worse.”
“What are the local stations saying?”
“They are doing their best to make everyone in the city scared, splashing the words ‘serial killer’ all over,” Beth said. “Things like local law enforcement has no answers, authorities at a loss, no suspects, and stuff like that. It makes relations with the families worse when the media spins everyone up. Plus, I’m sure the local branch of the FBI is being pressured from all the attention the investigation is getting. I’m guessing that was why Agent Andrews was making midnight statement runs last night.”
I nodded. “You’re probably right. Okay, well, we’re going to need to get all of our information in order today or tonight. We’ll talk with Andrews, contact each family, and try to get something together for some kind of a press conference,” I said. “We need to let the public know that this is being taken seriously and we are doing all we can.”
“I’m not good on camera,” Beth said. “I freeze up and stumble. Fear of speaking in public, I think it’s called.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Beth and I arrived on the scene around a quarter after seven. A black Aurora patrol car with a single white door and insignia was blocking the entrance to a dead-end street. An officer stood near the trunk. Beth turned the nose of the car toward the police cruiser and stopped. The officer approached.
“Street is closed, ma’am,” he said.
Beyond him and his car were more patrol cars and a black government-issue Crown Victoria sedan parked in the lot of a tool-and-die factory to the right.
Beth showed the patrol officer her credentials. “We’re with the other FBI agent here.”
He nodded and moved his car so we could pull through.
To our left was a small church looking as if it had been built in the early nineteen hundreds. A small home matching the style of the church stood behind it. Straight ahead of us, at the end of the dead-end street, was a maroon Honda Accord with the trunk open. A few officers stood at the back of it. A coroner’s van was parked to the Accord’s left.
Beth drove the short street to the end and turned right into the factory’s entrance. A row of green Dumpsters lined the back of the parking lot to our left, with more police officers standing nearby. We spotted Agent Andrews resting his arms on the roof of his car, speaking on his telephone. Beth parked next to his black Crown Victoria, and we stepped out. I took a minute to look at the factory—it was a small flat-roofed single-story cinderblock building. Above the single entrance door was a rectangular metal sign reading Penn’s Tool and Die.
Andrews clicked off from his phone call and slipped his phone into his pocket. “This is bad,” he said.
We walked to him.
“What do we have?” I asked.
He waved over his shoulder for Beth and me to follow him. “It’s ugly. The man is over here behind the Dumpsters.”
Neither Beth nor I said anything as we followed Andrews. He walked to the front side of the row of Dumpsters, stopped a few feet short, and pointed down at what looked like a large blood pool and drag marks. “This is where it started,” he said.
