Already dead, p.3
Already Dead, page 3
Terrence pursed his lips and raised both eyebrows.
“No, I think his name was Jeremy.”
“Ah, Stitts. No, he’s—” she was about to say that he’s not with the FBI either, but then she remembered what Floyd had told her about seeing Stitts’s teaching at Quantico. “Yeah, he’s still there but working a desk job now.”
Terrence grunted an affirmative, and she suddenly felt bad for the man. They might not be friends, but he had gone out of his way to help her out. The man was practically begging for answers, and as much as it pained her, a little small talk was warranted.
“I left,” Chase said quietly. “I left the FBI shortly after my sister was killed.”
Chase went on to tell Terrence, in far greater detail than she ever thought she’d be capable of, what happened to Georgina after they both fled Tennessee. She spoke about Stitts too, about how he’d been shot in New Mexico and then resigned to teaching profiling at Quantico. Chase glossed over what happened in New York with Father David and Cerebrum and concluded the rather long-winded tale by describing her new life looking after her niece.
She made no mention of Brad or Felix, and for a long while after she’d finished her story, Terrence remained respectfully quiet.
“I’m sorry about what happened to your sister, Chase,” the man said at last.
“Thank you.”
Social graces decree that it was Chase’s turn to ask about him now, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Not only did she fear that her interest would come off as disingenuous, but it might also be construed as insulting.
Terrence didn’t press her, though, and in less than ten minutes Franklin County Jail loomed large before them.
The building was a flat structure, blue-gray in appearance, and segmented into pods reserved for different types of inmates. The entire area was surrounded by massive stretches of concrete walls broken by short sections of chain-link fence. The front gate was guarded by two booths, one on each side, and Terrence slowed as he approached.
“Terrence Conway, Tennessee Bureau of Investigation,” he said, flashing his badge.
The guard took note of it, then looked over at Chase in the passenger seat.
“That’s FBI Agent Chase Adams,” Terrence offered.
“ID?”
Chase silently thanked Floyd for getting her badge—she still didn’t know how he’d done that—and she held it out to the guard. The man jotted something on a clipboard and then gestured at his partner to lift the gate.
“You can park over there,” he said, indicating a small secondary lot reserved for law enforcement. “Head’s up, you’re going to have to give up your service weapons, though, so feel free to leave them in your vehicle, if you prefer.”
Terrence thanked the man and then parked the car. Chase remained seated, even after the man had gotten out.
Her breath was coming in shallow bursts, and her hands had started to tremble.
With everything that had happened over the past year, year and a half, Brian Jalston had been the furthest thing from her mind.
And being back here was the last place she thought she would find herself—back in Franklin, Tennessee, close to where she grew up and close to where the lives of everyone in her family had been destroyed.
“You’re okay, Chase?” Terrence asked in his smooth, even tone.
Chase swallowed hard and forced herself out of the car.
She’d come all this way, and Chase was damned if she was going to let someone like Brian Jalston dictate where she went or what she did.
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
But Chase’s heart was beating so fast in her chest that her body was rocking back and forth, and they both knew that she was lying.
Chapter 5
The similarities between the crimes in Columbus, Ohio and Charleston, West Virginia were uncanny. It didn’t take an FBI Agent to see that.
Two affluent men are out for a night on the town when they are confronted by a vagrant. The vagrant promptly murders them with a knife before slitting their own throats. Not only were the manners and causes of death identical, but even the knives used were similar.
Both crimes were vicious, violent, and seemingly random.
“Wow,” Floyd muttered as he stared at the photograph of the second vagrant. She—he assumed it was a she—was even more decrepit than the first.
“Wow? That’s all you have to say? Huh. Anyway, the ME couldn’t even come close to getting prints off of her—said her skin was too, uhh, macerated. Slipped right off like fleshy gloves.”
Floyd cringed.
“Really?”
Tate nodded.
“Yep, just sinew and bone beneath.”
“That’s horrible,” Floyd remarked, to which Tate shrugged.
“I mean, I don’t feel that bad for her. She is a murderer, after all.”
Floyd flipped the photograph of the woman around and pointed at her ragged neck.
“She was sick, really sick.”
Tate pursed his lips.
“She’s dead, really dead.”
Now Floyd rolled his eyes.
He liked Tate—they had a good back and forth relationship. It wasn’t just that, though. It was also the fact that while Tate had years of experience, he didn’t make Floyd feel like an idiot when he said something wrong. Well, he did, but in a fun-loving sort of way.
But sometimes, the man could act like a child rather than a man. Floyd supposed that this was Tate’s coping mechanism, which, while it could be annoying at times, was better than the way he dealt with things: deer-in-the-headlights-style freezing.
“The thing I still don’t understand is why the FBI is getting involved? I mean, we have two unrelated murders—similar yes, but no concrete links. Now, I’m no veteran here, but to me, that doesn’t warrant the FBI’s involvement.”
Tate didn’t hesitate.
“Two reasons: one, we’ve already deduced Wayne Griffith has some important friends; and two, the brass wants to make sure these aren’t the start of a series of murders across the Midwest.”
As he said this last part, Tate put his arms out to his sides as if to say I don’t get it either.
“Strange,” Floyd muttered.
“Sure is, but guess who’s going on a road trip. This guy,” he pointed at his chest with one hand and Floyd with the other, “and this guy.”
Floyd sipped his coffee.
He’d just gotten back from a case in South Florida involving a man who was raising crocodiles in his backyard with the intent to—get this—militarize them, and the last thing he wanted to do now was travel again.
“The real question is, where to first, Floyd?”
Floyd thought about it for a moment and then mumbled, “Wherever’s closest, Tate. Whatever’s closest.”
***
Unfortunately, ‘the brass’ as Tate referred to Director Hampton and his inner circle, had decided that Dr. Wayne Griffith III was a more important victim than no prefix Roger Evans.
Charleston was out, Columbus was in. Upon touchdown in Columbus, Floyd wished he’d spent a little more time researching the weather. He’d assumed that it was warm based on the fact that Dr. Griffith hadn’t been wearing a jacket at the time of his murder, but this was not the case. The weather was dreary, windy, and cold. Floyd was used to cold—it was nearly always cold in Alaska—but this was different.
Columbus was wet and soggy, and more uncomfortable than the dry subzero temperatures of Alaska.
Floyd wrapped himself tightly in his overcoat, tucked his chin, and hurried across the street toward the mass of waiting taxis. He didn’t look to see if Tate was following, he didn’t have to. Tate was like Stitts in this regard, he liked to hang back, watch things unfold in front of them. That’s where their similarities ended, however; whereas Stitts liked to keep his mouth shut and let others fill the void, Tate was the complete opposite.
“Yo, Floyd! Over here!” Tate shouted and Floyd turned. His partner was indicating a pickup spot in front of the taxis. “Lieutenant Lehner is going to grab us here.”
“Lieutenant?” Floyd asked as he joined Tate. It seemed odd for a man that high up in the organization structure to be on a case that is, or most likely will soon be, marked as closed.
“Yep—Lieutenant Lehner of Homicide division. As I said, the good doctor had some important friends.”
“Hmm.”
Floyd shivered for a full minute before an unmarked car slowed as it neared. There was no doubting who the man driving it was. If you were to look up Columbus Police Lieutenant in the dictionary, you would see this man. Big, red cheeks, gray goatee, and a thick torso, but he wasn’t obese. More like an ex-college football player who would let himself go a little bit, and with age and neglect came a layer of fat.
Floyd raised his hand, but Tate was stepping in front of him, waving wildly. The car pulled over and the big man behind the wheel got out.
“Lieutenant Lehner,” Tate said, his tone suddenly proper. “Tate Abernathy and this is my partner, Floyd Montgomery.”
Lieutenant Lehner thrust his meaty hand out, which engulfed Tate Abernathy’s, even though Tate wasn’t a small man himself. When the lieutenant went to shake Floyd’s hand next, Floyd prepared himself by flexing his fingers to avoid them being crushed. Nevertheless, each digit ached as soon as Lehner released his hold.
“Get in,” Lehner said. “I assume you want to see the bodies first?”
Floyd was about to recommend they go to the station beforehand, maybe for a coffee or something equivalent to help warm him up, but as usual, Tate chimed in first.
“Yeah, let’s go see the bodies,” he said, casting a tentative look over his shoulder at Floyd. “Both of them.”
Chapter 6
“Weapons in this box,” the security guard instructed. “All other metal belongings in this one.”
Chase and Terrence did as they were instructed, and the latter passed through the metal detector first.
It remained silent.
As luck would have it, when Chase stepped through, it started beeping.
“God damn it, what is it now?” she grumbled.
“Ma’am, can you please—”
His eyes shot up.
“Don’t call me ma’am,” she snapped.
“I’m just—”
“Chase, your belt,” Terrence said, intervening before things got out of hand.
Chase looked down, cursed again, then tore off her belt and put it in one of the boxes before striding through the metal detector a second time.
It didn’t dare beep again.
“Satisfied?”
Terrence put his hand on Chase’s shoulder and guided her down the narrow hallway leading to the non-contact visit rooms. They reached a simple chain-link fence manned by a thin guard standing behind a computer terminal.
“Do you have an appointment?” the man asked, never raising his eyes from the monitor.
“No appointment, but we’re here to see—”
“Brian Jalston,” Chase interrupted Terrence. She suddenly had an uncanny urge to spit on the floor. Just moving her lips in the way necessary to form those two words caused a foul taste to develop in her mouth.
The man typed something and then finally looked up. His eyes were the lightest shade of gray Chase had ever seen.
“Brian Jalston is eligible for visitors, but he has made it clear that he doesn’t want to see anyone.”
“I know, it’s just—”
Once again, Chase cut Terrence off mid-sentence.
“Why is that?”
The thin man frowned.
“Don’t know. But he’s stated several times that he is not interested in seeing anyone until he’s released. Even turned back a couple of his regulars.”
“Regulars?”
The man typed something as he said, “Regular visitors.”
Chase sucked in the corner of her lip.
“I know what it means,” she spat. “Who are his regular visitors?”
Chase was confident she knew who these people were, but she wanted names and addresses.
“You have ID?”
Chase produced her badge and set it on the counter. While most people are impressed by the presence of such a badge—thank you, cheesy prime time television—but the man with the gray eyes seemed unfazed. Given his profession, he’d probably seen every badge imaginable, and even some that weren’t.
“Normally, it takes a while to compile a visitor list, but given the fact that Mr. Jalston is due to be released, I’ll try to get it to you as fast as possible.” The man typed furiously on the keyboard, then added, “I’ll also pass your name,” he glanced quickly at her ID, “Chase Adams onto Mr. Jalston concerning your request for a visit, but as I’ve already stated, it is highly unlikely that he will agree to see you. Now, if this is related to a crime, I can contact the warden and we can work on—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Terrence piped in.
Chase looked at him for a moment, her frown now etched. She understood the man’s position, but if left to her own devices, she would have traipsed back there and dragged the fat bastard out by the collar.
“Okay, then I’ll put the request in.”
“Wait,” Chase said. A thought had suddenly occurred to her, something that might help increase her chances of getting Brian to agree to the visit.
The man’s fingers rose from the keyboard like a bank teller had been instructed not to touch anything else he be shot by a potential robber.
“Change your mind?”
She shook her head.
“No, just don’t put in the request from Chase Adams.”
“All names have to be—”
“Yeah, I get that, but could you please put the request in from Georgina Adams?”
The man looked at her then Terrence.
“Mrs. Adams, I’m required to use the name from your identification.”
“Please—he’s leaving in a week… what does it matter if you accidentally misspell Chase?”
She could feel Terrence tense behind her and figured that the only time that the man had broken or even bent the rules was when he was with her.
Well, Chase thought, you’re back with me now, Terrence Conway, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal.
“Misspell Chase as… Georgina?” The man asked.
“What can I say, sometimes the C and the G… you know, get mixed up.”
Chase wasn’t used to putting on the charm, and it wasn’t her strong suit—wasn’t even close.
Pale gray eyes bored into her, and Chase expected the next series of questions, if there were any, to be concerning the reason for her visit.
The guard surprised her.
“You know what? I’ve never been good at spelling,” he said under his breath, then he hammered the backspace and typed what Chase suspected was Georgina. When he was done, the man sighed and leaned forward. “Now, would you two please take a seat, and I’ll call you as soon as Brian Jalston rejects your visit.”
Terrence said thank you and then started to walk back towards the area where they’d dropped off the weapons. He made about five paces before Chase stopped him.
“You know what? I think I’ll wait right here,” she said. Before the guard could suggest otherwise, Chase leaned up against the wall.
Terrence joined her.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said in her ear.
“So do I,” Chase replied. She hesitated, then added, “Terrence, I know you’re not comfortable with this. I’ll tell you one thing, though; I will see Brian today. Beyond that? Who knows? But it’s probably better if you aren’t around when I do. I can just get a cab back to the airport when I’m done.”
Terrence looked at her as if he were constipated.
“Chase, after what you told me, after what you and your sister went through… I can’t even imagine—”
Chase wasn’t in the mood for more placation or condescension or whatever this was devolving into.
“To be honest, I’d rather go in alone.”
Terrence’s expression did not change.
“What you prefer, and what’s best for you, are rarely the same thing,” he retorted. “I’m coming with you, Chase.”
“I really don’t—”
“Agent Adams? Agent Conway?”
Chase pushed herself off the wall and looked at the security guard.
“Yeah?”
The man was shaking his head a little and had an odd look on his face.
“I just got word that Brian agreed to your visit… Georgina. Now, please, come with me.”
Chapter 7
“I’m glad you guys could make it down,” Lieutenant Lehner said as the three men walked toward the morgue. “It’s a sad day when a piece of shit vagrant takes the life of a good man. A doctor no less.”
“I hear you,” Tate remarked. “It’s definitely not fair.”
Floyd lagged behind as the lieutenant and Tate discussed Dr. Wayne Griffith III as if they’d both been best friends with the deceased. Floyd’s decision to hang back wasn’t just because the two other men had much in common, including their upbringing, color, and age, but he liked to watch his partner at work. While Chase had her special talents, so did Tate Abernathy. He might not have her insight into the dead, but he was infinitely better with people than she ever was. In short, Tate was a chameleon. Within seconds of meeting someone, he would know exactly how to speak to them in order to make them comfortable. It went even beyond words and extended to mannerisms and figures of speech. Anything to disarm the suspect, victim, or, as in this case, law enforcement.
To Floyd, watching this happen was like observing a method actor seamlessly fall into a new role.
And he made it look so easy, too. On a few occasions, when Tate was conveniently indisposed, Floyd had tried to mimic his partner.
The results had been disastrous. Floyd’s attempts came off so disingenuous that the suspect had called him out. He’d tried to stay cool, keep up with the act, but a second challenge, this time riddled with curses, and Floyd broke down into a stuttering mess.
