PSYCHOlogical: A Novel, page 11
“It’s embarrassing that I can’t remember shit lately.”
“Don’t tell that bitch, Rhoades,” he said. “I just answer ‘no’ to all her questions. I don’t even listen to them.”
I feigned being drunk and stumbled to his right side. I draped my left arm over his upper back and pulled him close, bringing his right shoulder against my left. “Appreciate it, Brother.”
He chuckled. “You’re fucking drunk, aren’t you?”
Not too drunk to do this…
I stumbled forward, taking him with me in the process. At the same time, I slipped my right hand into my waistband and retrieved the pistol. While he was trying to regain his balance, I pressed the tip of the silencer against his right temple and pulled the trigger.
The .45 caliber slug exited the barrel with a thwack! The left side of his head exploded as the bullet exited his skull. He fell into a pile of lifeless flesh at my feet. At the same time his body hit the floor, pieces of his fragmented skull landed on the countertop beside him.
I gazed down at his crumpled body. Blood began to pool on the floor around him. I needed to act quickly, or the coroner’s reports wouldn’t support my plan. I slipped on the latex gloves I’d been carrying in my right pocket. Using my gloved hands, I grabbed the note, folded it, and placed it in the front pocket of Pike’s jeans.
I removed his phone from the other pocket and texted a message to Wallace’s phone.
Pick me up. Truck’s broke down.
I put his phone in my pocket and turned toward the kitchen counter, being careful not to step in the pooling blood.
Despite what’s shown in the movies, square whiskey bottles are nearly impossible to break over someone’s head. Using the bottom of the bottle would allow me to thoroughly clean his DNA from it without damaging the paper label. Clinging to the hope that my belief held true, I used my folded tee shirt as a buffer and hit him with the bottom of the whiskey bottle hard enough on the crown of his forehead to create what appeared to be a terrible rug burn, right at the scalp.
I unscrewed the lid from the bottle of whiskey and tossed it on the floor at his side. I watched as blood pooled around it. I wiped the bottle clean, then pressed Pike’s fingers against it as if he were gripping it. I carefully carried the bottle to my rental car, grabbed my bag, and went inside.
Leaving Pike’s hair, blood, and the whiskey bottle at the next murder scene would link him to the crime. I plucked a handful of hair from his scalp and placed it in a Ziploc bag, then removed a small down pillow from my bag. Using Pike’s right hand, I fired the pistol into the folded pillow and retrieved the slug. Upon finding the two spent brass shell casings, I placed one in my bag with the lead slug I’d removed from the pillow case.
A good investigator would check the pistol’s shell casings for fingerprints. The bullets in the magazine were currently free of any fingerprints, but that was about to change. I pressed Pike’s thumb and forefinger against the spare brass shell casing and tossed it onto the floor beside him. I removed all the cartridges from the pistol’s magazine and one from my bag. After pressing Pike’s fingerprints into each of them, I loaded the magazine and slid it into the pistol’s magazine well.
I positioned the loaded pistol—less one spent cartridge—loosely in Pike’s right hand.
The crime scene investigator would find cordite on his hand and right arm, confirming he’d shot the pistol. The one spent cartridge casing was left on the kitchen floor with his fingerprints on it. His fingerprints would also be on each of the cartridges in the magazine, which would provide proof that he, in fact, loaded the gun.
Instead of the investigator’s finding the two spent cartridges that were actually fired, they would only find one, indicating one shot was fired in the “suicide”, and that the shot was fatal. Me pressing the barrel to his temple would cause powder burns, which would support him not being shot from across the room by someone else.
The Wallace 1730 note in his pocket would suggest that he had a meeting with Wallace at 1730. The suppressor note would have been a reminder for him to get the suppressor from the armory for the pistol he used to commit suicide, which is exactly where I got it from.
After cleaning my shot glass and placing it in the cabinet, I washed out my beer bottle and dropped it into my bag. I then removed his boots and put them in the bag along with the pillow. Lastly, I suctioned some of his blood into a small syringe and placed it into a Ziploc bag before wiping the kitchen free of any fingerprints.
On my way through the garage, I grabbed his hat from the countertop, the garage door remote from the visor of his truck, and his jacket from on top of the workbench in the garage.
I glanced at my watch. 1715.
I had twenty-two minutes to kill the next member of New Dawn’s soon to be defunct program.
Chapter Eighteen
Val
I found it ironic that my life was cradled in the hands of a man whose resume included manipulation and murder as his most notable skillsets. Working alone, however, I’d likely find myself face up on a stainless-steel slab in a morgue. The coroner would dig a military-issue bullet out of the parietal lobe of my brain and label it the cause of death.
I didn’t like thinking about it, but thoughts of being hunted by one of DNI’s men bounced around in my head like a pachinko ball. Regardless of which scenario I entertained, they all ended the same way.
With my body stuffed into a zippered black bag, drained of all its fluids.
I stared at my burner phone. The $39.00 Kyocera flip phone looked like something from the turn of the century. With 100 minutes of prepaid service, no contract, and no required identification to activate, the phone’s mere existence reeked of criminal activity.
I nearly leaped from my seat when it rang. I flipped it open. “Hello?”
“What time does your phone say right now?” Vincent asked.
“Huh?”
“The time on your phone,” he said. “What time is it?”
I lowered the phone and looked at the screen. “5:21.”
“Exactly?”
I looked at it again. “5:22 and five seconds.”
“At 1737, I need you to pick me up in the 1300 block of River Road. Northbound lane. I’ll be in a silver BMW sedan. You can be a minute or two early but don’t be late. If there’s anyone gathered around or on the road, don’t stop. If the road is clear, pull alongside the BMW, unlock the passenger door, and wait.”
“Where will you be?” I asked. “I’m not familiar with what’s—”
“I’ll be easy to find,” he responded. “It’ll be the only BMW on River Road smashed into a telephone pole.”
Chapter Nineteen
Briggs
After reattaching Wallace’s license plate to his car, I opened the driver’s door and disabled the passenger side airbag with the keyed switch located in the left side of the dash.
To prevent the illuminated “Passenger Side Air Bag Disabled” light on the overhead console from being noticed while we drove to our destination, I affixed a strip of black electrical tape over the light.
Wearing Pike’s oversized boots, USMC embroidered hat, and jacket, I left the garage and walked behind Wallace’s home, to the water’s edge. I pressed my feet deep into the mud and then returned to the garage. Once inside, I left a few muddy footprints before traipsing mud into the floorboard of the Wallace’s car.
With a gloved hand, I slid the open—and now empty—bottle of Jack Daniels in front of the driver’s side seat. I then went inside to retrieve my next victim.
Prior to going to Pike’s, I’d forced Wallace to drink a dozen shots of whiskey. The twelve ounces of alcohol were enough to have his blood-alcohol content at three times the legal limit.
I led the drunken Wallace to the car and loaded him into the passenger seat. His hands were secured behind his back with leather BDSM-style restraints. Using lambswool-lined leather cuffs through the completion of my plan would leave his wrists free of any ligature marks.
I reached across his chest and buckled his seatbelt. “Not a fucking word out of you when we go through the gate. You do nothing but nod your fucking head, understand?”
I’d led him to believe we were going to the office to get a copy of the intel sheet on Shep’s murder. I had another trip in mind for him. It would be the last trip he’d ever take.
He looked at me but didn’t respond. He was too inebriated to resist—verbally, or otherwise.
I opened the garage door with the remote control and backed the car out. After shutting the door, I checked my watch. Where we were headed was a mile from Pike’s home, and eight miles from where Wallace lived. During the drive, I went through the plan in my head.
My sports mouth guard was in my right front pocket. I was wearing Pike’s hat, which would soon become covered in the powdery residue from the airbag deploying. Pike’s hair and blood were in two separate Ziploc bags.
The bottom of Pike’s fingerprint-laden whiskey bottle had been cleaned of his DNA with an oxy-acetylene flame and wiped clean with an alcohol swab. His muddy boots were on my feet.
Val was on her way to pick me up.
To the best of my knowledge, I had everything I needed to fool even the most well-informed investigation team.
We turned onto River Road. I was pleased to see the two-lane trafficway was free of any traffic. I flipped the headlights to bright, illuminating the roadway as far ahead as possible.
In the shallow ditch in the distance, a steel telephone pole was my focus. I double checked my seatbelt, and then glanced at Wallace’s seat belt release button.
Although the route could be used as an alternate to the base at Quantico, it was chosen because of the shallow ditches, steel telephone poles, and minimal weekend traffic.
The telephone pole was dead ahead half a mile. I checked my watch. 1739. I was two minutes late. I glanced in the rearview mirror.
The road behind me was empty.
With the telephone pole a hundred meters in the distance, I reached in my pocket, pulled out my mouthguard, and slipped it into my mouth. As I bit down hard on the black cherry-flavored rubber, Wallace looked at me with drunken eyes.
He had no clue what was happening.
Using my gloved right hand, I pressed the red button on his seatbelt release. It unraveled, quickly retracting into the headliner beside him.
He may have been drunk, but he wasn’t too drunk to realize what was happening. He writhed in his seat, attempting to free his hands from his restraints.
“What the fuck…are you doing!?” he muttered.
At the last instant, I swerved off the road and pointed the car directly for the center of the pole. In accordance with my RECON training on how to prevent injury when intentionally wrecking a car, I folded my forearms across my chest and pressed my back hard against the seat, bracing for impact.
The car careened through the ditch and headed directly for the steel pole. The last image I recalled seeing—short of the horrified look on Wallace’s face—was the speedometer.
64 miles per hour.
The car slammed into the telephone pole with the force of a speeding freight train hitting a brick wall. When I regained consciousness, the acrid smell from the airbag’s accelerant filled the interior, nearly choking me from taking a breath.
I glanced to my right.
Wallace’s mangled body was slumped against the dash. A blood smear, hair, and skin stuck to the shattered windshield gave hint as to how forceful the impact of his skull was against the glass.
I unbuckled my seatbelt and shoved the mouthguard into my pocket. After momentarily removing my glove, I reached to feel for a pulse, wincing from pain in the process.
His pulse was faint.
I slipped on my glove and gripped the base of his skull with one hand and his chin with the other. With one forceful yank, I twisted his head with all my might.
The sound of his neck snapping was enough for me to know his spinal cord was severed. The investigators would assume it happened in the wreck.
I felt for a pulse once again.
Nothing.
I found my bag on the rear floorboard. I removed Wallace’s restraints and placed them in the bag. Using the heel of my palm and Pike’s cap, I pressed an indentation into the sun visor, where his head was likely to hit. In the center of the impact point, I smeared some of Pike’s blood. Then, I pressed the hairs I’d taken from his scalp against the blood, allowing a few to remain in place and the others fall to the floorboard.
I scraped up some of the glass fragments from the passenger side seat and secured them in a Ziploc bag for later use. Turning the passenger airbag switch on and removing the electrical tape from the overhead console were the last two steps.
I placed everything in my bag and exited the car.
Headlights in the distance illuminated the tree-lined ditch. I flattened myself against the grass, hoping to remain out of sight to the passerby.
The vehicle slowed. I lifted my head enough to see the roadway. The passenger door swung open. Val’s profile came into view.
I grabbed my bag and stood.
One more stop, and the first phase of my plan would be complete.
Chapter Twenty
Val
Evil isn’t easy.
The human brain is programmed to feel compassion. Empathy reminds us that the pain we inflict upon others is often felt two-fold by the one inflicting it, through the presence of guilt.
A psychopath’s lack of empathy allows them to kill without feeling guilt, remorse, or compassion. I’d always believed, however, that ordinary people suffered through—and after—the act of killing.
I now knew that wasn’t completely true.
The fight-or-flight response occurs when we’re terrified. The body’s nervous systems stimulate the adrenal glands, triggering the release of catecholamines, which include adrenaline and noradrenaline. The release of hormones prepares us to fight or to seek safety.
Our breathing quickens. Our heartrate increases. Our muscles tense. Our brain, fueled by the hormones released by our adrenal glands, makes the decision to turn and run or take on the threat.
It was obvious I believed I was being threatened by the Office of the DNI. My decision, surprisingly, was to fight. Although I wasn’t the one committing the murderous act, I was playing a part in it—as an accomplice and conspirator—and I was completely satisfied knowing I was a participant.
Justified murder.
As I nervously sat in the parking lot of Buster’s Barbeque waiting for Vincent to return from Pike’s house, I accepted the murder of Wallace and Pike as being a necessary part of my survival.
Vincent nonchalantly walked past the front of the car, around the side, and opened the door.
He climbed inside and buckled his seatbelt. “It’s done.”
I shifted the car in reverse and backed out of the parking spot. “To your rental car?”
He nodded. “The Target in Stafford, off 95.”
I pulled onto the road and headed toward the highway. “Then what?”
“I’ll exchange the car for my truck and meet you at your house.”
On any other occasion, I’d look at Vincent’s presence in my home as a gift. The two dead bodies that lay in our wake led me to believe that our upcoming visit was going to be anything but pleasant.
In the last thirty minutes, I’d driven away from the site of two murders that weren’t committed under the authority of the Office of the DNI. My instincts—and my experience of federal investigations—led me to believe we’d be caught, sooner or later.
The instant Vincent walked through the door, my overactive mind began asking questions. “Do you think the fact that both men were employed on-base together and they died within minutes of one another that the police will look at their deaths as planned and executed murders?”
He lowered his bag to the floor. “Not at all.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he replied. “I’m good at what I do.”
“It doesn’t change the fact that there haven’t been two murders here in the last year. Two in one night is going to make headlines. It’s going to be a big deal.”
He glanced around the room, and then peered over my shoulder, toward the hallway. “Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”
I thought he said he wanted to take a shower. I stared back at him in sheer disbelief. “Huh?”
“A shower,” he said. “I just killed two people. I feel dirty. I need to take a shower. I’ll explain everything when I’m done.”
“Uhhm. Sure,” I stammered. “Towels are in the hall closet. You know where the bathroom is.”
“I’ll just be a minute.” He reached for his bag. “I will bring you up to speed on everything as soon as I get done. Then, do you want to go get something to eat?”
The look of disbelief I was wearing intensified. “You want to…you want to go out to eat?”
“I didn’t figure you’d want to take time to cook anything,” he replied. “I haven’t eaten since this morning.”
I hadn’t eaten anything—other than wine—since Friday at noon. I felt hollow and weak. I involuntarily smiled. “Sure. We can go eat afterward.”
He winked, which was something he’d done often over the last three years. Each time it evoked the same emotion.
“I’ll be right back,” he said as he walked past.
Luckily, he was long gone when my face went flush.
I wondered if he did it to make me feel uneasy. If he got some odd sense of satisfaction knowing he was playing with the mind of the woman who was hired to play with his.
While he showered, I went to the master bath and inspected myself.
My hair looked like a drunken blind woman tried to put it in a messy bun. The faded jeans and decade-old tee shirt I was wearing resembled something a college student would wear to a bar.
