Fragmented (10 page)

14

Tuesday –
10:21 p.m.

Jack retrieved
the
TRAK
flyer of Jessica Baker that came across the Bureau’s fax machine.
TRAK
, which stood for Technology to Recover Abducted Kids, had sent this flyer to every law enforcement agency on the West Coast. The picture showed Jessica’s high school portrait. Based on the hair and Colfax’s description of her build, Jack had little doubt that this was the kidnapped girl from the photo. An uneasy feeling ran through him as he thought about Jessica Baker, the trail of murders, the killer’s need for new identities. There was certainly more to this case than what they knew. Their suspect had taken a child but had not asked for a ransom, and in Jack’s mind that was as bad as it could get. Marquez looked over, watched Jack rubbing his forehead between two fingers, tension surfacing through his temples.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.

Jack glanced over at Marquez. “Four parts to a kidnapping, Lucy.”

Marquez nodded, and held up a single finger. “The abduction, being grabbed. Big mistake.
Go without a fight, won’t live through the night
.”

Jack nodded.

“The transport to another location.” Marquez held up two fingers.

“A very bad one,” Jack replied. “And….”

“Three, the ritual. Rape, molest, hurt.” Three fingers straight up.

“And four?” Jack’s voice grew edgy.

Marquez’s lips thinned as she looked at the
TRAK
flyer photo of Jessica. “Without a ransom—the disposal.” Her hand fell flat on Jack’s desk, and she rubbed a small spot in a slow circular motion
.

Jack tapped a nervous finger on the face of his watch and stood from his chair. “Four hours, that’s the average length of time a kidnapped victim is kept alive. Based on the time and date of the photo image, if she is alive, Jessica Baker’s on borrowed time.
”

No ransom, no demands. Nothing in exchange for her safe return. That only meant whoever had her was not intending on letting her go.

“Let’s see what Jim has put together from the computer.” Jack slipped on a sport coat and reached in his desk drawer for his pistol. Marquez stood and slipped on her jacket. Marquez’s pistol was already on her side.

The two hurried down a long green hallway to the CART examination room, where James Harrington’s back was still to the door. Hunched over an opened computer tower like he was conducting surgery, Harrington straightened up and let out a guttural sigh. Pain was radiating up his back after being bent over for an hour. As he twisted his stocky frame to relieve the tension, he caught sight of Jack and Marquez watching his exercise routine.

“Got something for you,” Harrington said.

They walked over and peered at the monitor on the examination table. Numbers, icons and squiggly lines spanned the length of the monitor. Harrington maneuvered through a maze of computer words and commands until small segments of images appeared. He pasted them together, overlaying parts onto the screen, refreshing and doing it all over again. Finally, Harrington clicked on an icon, a second rolled by before a full screen image materialized. Grainy at first, then the process started to bring the image into focus. A photo of a house, single story, tree-lined street. A large, light-colored sedan parked in the driveway. Jack recognized it as a late model Chrysler. The photo was taken from inside a car parked on the other side of the street, a reflection in the side view mirror. Jack stared sharply.

“You can see an image of the person taking the picture in the side-view,” he said, pointing at the fuzzy mirror.

“Not enough detail for an identification,” replied Harrington, who continued punching at the keyboard, drawing up additional images. “Look at the next set. I think this may answer some questions.”

The second and third images began to appear. Another picture of the house, this time a man making his way to the car. A blurry shot of the vehicle driving past. Another of a woman walking from the front door, garage opened. The next, a woman backing an SUV down the driveway.

“Looks like surveillance photos,” Jack said,

“More like stalking photos,” Marquez replied.

“Here comes the creepy ones,” Harrington said.

The screen scrolled down revealing a blurry, off-centered photo of a house window, as if the photographer was jogging toward it as he shot the digital frame. The next picture was through the window into a bedroom. The next showed the backyard slider.

“We’re watching a break-in,” Marquez said.

Jack turned to Harrington. “How much more were you able to retrieve?”

“There are several missing between this one and the next, but it’s one that will help identify your victim. It’s still a bit fragmented, but I think it serves its purpose.”

A partial photo appeared of a bed with a young girl lying asleep and facing away from the camera. She was unaware that she was being photographed. Her hair partially covered her face, her pajamas bunched at the waist and calves.

“It’s not the best,” Harrington said, “but it’s something to go by.”

15

Tuesday
11:45 p.m.

Jack stood
behind a one-way mirror, observing Paul Baker sitting in the interview room at the Chico Police Department, staring at a blank table. Jack had been here before, five years ago, watching a victim turn suspect. Baker’s eyes moved back and forth, left to right. He was reliving the events of the past five and a half hours in his head like a movie projected on the Formica surface. It was all too familiar but this one felt different.

Detective Mark Colfax walked up behind Jack with a mug bearing the Chico PD logo on its side. He didn’t say a word, just handed the mug of coffee to Jack. He tapped his mug against the side of Jack’s.

“Salud.”

Jack forced a smile.

“We got the initial information, but I’d like to get some details,” Colfax said. “Care to join me?”

Jack pulled the grainy photo of the unidentified girl and stared at it for a moment. “How do I show him this?”

Colfax shook his head. “Don’t have a choice. We’ve got to know.”

The two entered the interview room. Baker quickly looked up. His eyes said it all. The cup of coffee that he was given earlier remained full at his side. Jack sat in front of Baker, Colfax taking a chair to his right.

“Mr. Baker, my name is Jack Paris.” He reached out and gave Baker’s arm a gentle touch to get his attention. “I’m with the FBI. I want to help you.”

Baker looked directly into Jack’s eyes. “Help me? My wife was murdered and my daughter’s gone. How can you help me?”

Jack chose his words carefully. “By bringing your daughter back to you. Help me find her.”

Baker shook his head, flashing both palms forward. “Just tell me how.”

Jack pulled the photo out from a file folder and gave it a moment before sliding it forward on the table. As much as he needed to get confirmation, showing a photo like this to a father was going to hurt.

Baker appeared puzzled at first, then his eyes focused, horrified. Without a word, his face gave away the answer. Baker broke down and sobbed.

“Do you have any idea who may have done this?”

“No!” Baker slammed a fist hard on the table. “Who would do such a thing?”

“Let’s talk about the past several days. Was there was anything you may have noticed that was out of the ordinary?”

He again shook his head, threading his fingers though his hair. “No, I can’t think of anything.”

“How about your daughter, Jessica? Any problem at school, with a boyfriend?”

Baker never stopped shaking his head. “No, nothing.”

Jack worked his way through all the possible scenarios, with the same answer coming from a distraught man.

“You’re a loan officer at the Diamond County Bank in
Chico
. Can you think of any customers that may be upset with you or the bank?”

“I just became the new senior loan officer.”

“Anything out of the ordinary? Something unusual?”

Baker was silent, his eyes closed in concentration. Suddenly, his eyes thrust wide and his mouth fell open. “Carter, Hampton Carter!”

16

Wednesday 1:
02 a.m.

After a dozen
phone calls, Jack was able to locate the
Diamond
County
bank manager, convincing him to meet in the branch lobby. A check on Paul Baker’s loan files could not wait until morning. Jack pulled into the parking lot to find the manager waiting at the front door, keys in hand. He looked as if he was wearing pajamas under a lightweight jacket. Jack pulled up next to the front entry and exited his car.

“Mr. Nelson?” Jack removed his credentials from his jacket pocket and held them up. “Sorry to get you up this late at night.”

“Technically, it’s morning.” The branch manager shrugged his shoulders. “You said this had to do with Mr. Baker? I hope everything is all right.” His voice had the tone of someone annoyed, like maybe Paul Baker had done something wrong and the FBI was there to prove it. He unlocked the bank doors and entered a code on the security keypad.

“Actually, it’s not. Mr. Baker’s wife was murdered last night and his daughter has been kidnapped.”

Nelson froze, then muttered what sounded like a sloppy apology.

“We’re trying to determine who might be involved.”

While Jack talked, Nelson switched on the lights. Florescent bulbs high above flickered before illuminating the dark wood tables and marble counters inside of the branch in a commercial gray tone.

“I spoke to Mr. Baker and he mentioned he had a customer yesterday morning.
Hampton
Carter. Said he was applying for an auto loan. Can we check to see if there’s anything in his file?”

“Paul is extremely organized. If Mr. Carter came to him, there’s documentation of that.” The two walked toward Baker’s desk, which looked like a shrine to anal retentiveness.

“We keep information cards on every customer, contact information.” Nelson bent low, staring at the rows of neatly arranged folders, alphabetized, slotted between chrome metal bands. He reached for the first file. Jack grabbed Nelson’s wrist and waved a scornful finger.

“Let’s not add more prints to the papers if we don’t have to.”

Nelson nodded. Jack removed a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and offered them to Nelson, who strained to get them over his sweaty hands. Jack slid on a pair of his own.

It took only ten minutes for the two to review the files on Baker’s desk, flipping open the covers, checking the names, scanning the applicant’s background. No
Hampton
Carter.

“Maybe Paul got the name wrong,” Nelson said. “I can’t believe he would forget to create a file.”

Jack took one last look around Baker’s desk, then peered under the large, dark redwood table, where he found a separate, free-standing set of stacked bins, papers neatly arranged and stapled. A slim folder lay on the top of the stack with a routing slip paper-clipped to the outside. Jack picked it up and found what he was looking for: Mr. Hampton Carter. Will return with completed application and, 1.) VOE, 2.) W-2s, 3.) Tax Returns.

Flipping open the folder, Jack found a half-completed information card with an address written in the margins. He figured the address was bogus, but made note of it, saying a silent prayer he’d get lucky on this one. It was the best lead he had on Carter.

He placed the folder into a plastic sleeve. Maybe they’d pull latent prints. Out the corner of his eye, Jack caught sight of the gold-framed portrait of Baker’s family on the edge of the desk. During the interview, Baker said Carter had seen the portrait and was asking questions about his daughter. Jack bent over and studied the photograph closely. Several smudges on the covered glass and frame, something he knew would have driven neatnick Paul Baker into a coma. Filthy fingerprints from someone’s curious hands.

Jack said, “We got a winner.”

Thirty minutes later, Jack was back at the office with Special Agent Chris Hoskin, team leader for the Evidence Response Team. He had given Hoskin the picture frame to lift the prints for review. On his way in, Jack called in the address information. Colfax immediately sent two detectives to check it out. If it was legit, they would have an answer within the hour.

Hoskin placed four plastic, pyramid-shaped cones inside a cardboard box. As if on table legs, the glass from the picture frame was balanced at each corner. In the center, Hoskin placed a can of Sterno, heating a small tin of cyanoacrylate ester—a fancy name for superglue.

Hoskin nodded and straightened his glasses. “Cyanoacrylate-developed latent prints really should be allowed to sit overnight before I apply dye stain.”

“We don’t have time,” Jack said.

Hoskin lit the Sterno and seconds later the superglue bubbled into a fizz.

Harrington walked over and watched Hoskin working on the plate glass. He smacked a wad of chewing gum and shook his head waiting for Hoskin to take notice. “How technologically advanced, Chris. Cardboard box, sterno, superglue….”

Hoskin kept his focus. “What works, works.”

Harrington harrumphed. “Not like inventing the Internet.”

“No. This one actually has value.”

Harrington chuckled sarcastically before turning around and walking out the door.

Several minutes passed and the box filled with a toxic fog. It would take about an hour before Hoskin would be able to remove the piece of glass from the cardboard box. Glue takes time to adhere and dry. By then, those invisible prints left behind would turn purple, permanently affixed to the glass, giving Hoskin something to study.

“Call me when you’ve got something,” Jack said.