Fragmented (20 page)
Authors: George Fong
Jack agreed. “Let’s get them both.”
The Bureau radio lit up with traffic from the Special Operations Group as Jack cranked the engine. Several locations, called in to the command post, were staked out. Colfax swiped his hand across his face; beads of sweat had formed in the short time it took to get to the car.
“It’s
and it’s still so fucking hot out here.”
33
Thursday –
Jack waited
in the jail’s interview room for the guards to bring Burke in for questioning. Colfax leaned against a stark white wall, tapping his knuckles to the beat playing in his head. Jack leaned back in his chair, rocking slowly.
“You think he’s going to play stupid?” Colfax asked.
Jack shook him off. “Burke can’t play stupid. He
is
stupid. But I think he’ll do anything we ask to get out of jail. Even if that means giving up
Monroe
.”
Moments later, a latch clicked and the door swung wide. Burke entered wearing an orange jumpsuit, his head hung low. He looked miserable, hands cuffed in front, led by a hulking deputy the size of a small Buick sedan.
Burke peered at Jack. “You said I could go home. What the fuck?”
Jack put up a hand. “Cool your jets, Burke. I had no idea you were still in lock-up.”
Burke held his hands straight out in front of him, the shiny chrome cuffs secured on his wrists refracting fluorescents. “You think I want to be here?”
“No. I don’t. So sit down and shut up. Maybe we can work something out.”
“You mean to get me out?”
“Yeah, Burke, get you out.”
“Tonight?”
“For Christ’s sake. Sit down.”
Burke fell into the hard plastic seat at the table in front of him.
Jack stuck a finger in Burke’s face. “If you want my help getting out, listen carefully and answer my questions, okay?”
“Are you going to get me out?”
“You’re not listening.”
Burke sucked in a deep breath, letting it out like a pool toy with a pinhole. He nodded.
“Good.” Jack planted his hands on the table and leaned toward Burke. “You know a guy by the name of Klaus Monroe? His phone records show a number of calls between you two.”
“I got no idea who you’re talking about.”
Colfax jumped in. “You better come clean or you’ll be a pin cushion for some lonely inmate.”
Perspiration dotted Burke’s face as he locked on Colfax. “I swear! You got to believe me.”
Jack waved a hand, redirecting Burke’s attention his way. He spread out the telephone records on the table and pointed at the calls between Burke and Monroe. “Take a look at these calls. Is this your number?”
Burke looked down, eyes scanning the pages. “Yeah, that’s my number, but I don’t know who that is.”
“Check the dates and time. That help?”
The room grew quiet, only the sound of Burke’s steel handcuffs could be heard scratching across the metal table.
“They were at night, Burke, late at night.” Jack flipped a couple of the pages around to get a better look, running a finger before stopping halfway down page two. “I just counted twelve calls with your number listed. Eleven of those calls are
Monroe
calling you. Pretty close in time, like he was desperate in getting in touch with you.
”
Burke reached over with his cuffed hands and twisted the pages back in his direction. He studied the pages for a moment before something clicked.
“Holy shit, that’s Carlos.”
“Could you mean Klaus?” Colfax said, less threateningly.
“Yes. Klaus, Klaus Monroe. That’s the guy who I met a couple of months back.” Burke’s pitch dropped an octave and his body slackened low in his chair. “That asshole called me over and over.
”
“Okay, I get the picture,” Jack said. “Now tell me how you know this guy.”
Burke sat up straight in his chair and pitched forward. “See, I meet this guy on the Internet, says he likes to trade pictures.” He paused and gave both Colfax and Jack a hard stare. “Am I going to get into more trouble over this?”
“No. Continue.”
“So this guy wants pictures, which I send him. We start talking some more. He wants to meet, have a couple of beers.”
“And?”
“I don’t usually go out because I got other things to do, so I say ‘thanks but no thanks.’”
“How’d he get your phone number?”
“When we spoke over the Internet, we kept on getting interrupted by others joining in on the chat. He dogs me to give him my number so we can talk more in private, so I give it. After a while, he kept calling me, leaving me voicemails, so I call him back and meet him for a couple of drinks. That’s it. I met him that one time.”
“Where’d you meet him at?”
Burke rubbed his chin and thought for a moment. “A bar in a town called
Paradise
. Real close to
Chico
. I think the name of the bar was O’Reilly’s or O’Rourke’s. Off Clark Street.”
Colfax spoke. “I know the place. O’Rourke’s.
Clark Road
, just north of Elliott.”
“Thanks, Burke.” Jack stood as he gathered up the papers. Colfax hammered at the interview room door with two sharp cracks from his fist. The door opened and Colfax made his way out. Jack reached down and shoved the papers into his briefcase, right on his heels.
“Hey,” Burke yelled. “What about me? When can I go?”
Jack stopped and turned back. “I’ll talk to the desk sergeant and see if we can get you cut by morning.”
Burke dropped his head onto the table between his folded arms, rocking side to side, his response low and muffled.
34
Thursday –
Colfax walked
into the bar first while Jack checked out the parking lot looking for the pickup truck he saw Cooper speeding off in two days ago. Already way past
, the lot was still half full. Most of the cars were compacts, American made, couple of Toyotas, a new Lexus with paper plates. Jack entered and made his way to the counter where Colfax stood alone, looking toward the bartender, who was waiting on a customer. The bar area was compact, dark wood edged in a black vinyl cushion dotted with brass studs, which stretched down the right side of the room, curving back toward a darkened alcove. The wall behind the bar was lit from underneath, low wattage casting elongating shadows upward, giving each bottle a glistening appearance. The rest of the place was covered in a blanket of darkness, each shadowy figure shrouded in anonymity and privacy. From what Jack could tell, there were about half a dozen patrons seated at various tables. Only one customer sat alone, however, a long neck bottle balanced between the tips of his fingers. Jack gave each a good look. None of them matched his subjects.
“You talk to the bartender yet?” Jack asked.
Colfax dipped his head and glanced to the right. “Not yet.”
They stared over at the bartender until he sensed their presence and glanced their way. He pitched his chin sharply, indicating he’d be over. The bartender finished a tall pilsner from the draught spout and slid it toward the customer, before dragging a towel across the counter. He took in a short breath, walked down and gave them both an exasperated look. “What can I get you?”
Colfax flashed his badge and leaned forward, resting his left hand on the bar as he spoke in a low tone. “I’m looking for one of your customers.” Colfax reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a picture of
Monroe
. He slid it low on the counter, tapping the top edge twice. “You seen him?”
The bartender tipped his head down slightly, studied the photo briefly before looking back at Colfax. “Yeah. But not for some time now.”
“When was the last time he was in?”
“A week, maybe two, three. Why you looking for him?
“He’s been killing bartenders,” Colfax said.
“We’re trying to find a sixteen-year-old who’s been kidnapped,” Jack said.
The bartender pointed toward the lone patron cradling the beer bottle. “You see that guy over there?”
Neither Jack nor Colfax turned to look. “Yeah,” Jack said, “I see him.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s friends with your guy.”
“What makes you say that?”
“They sit together at that same table. Otherwise, that dude sits alone.”
“You know his name?”
“Paul something. Not all that talkative.”
Jack turned and gave the customer, Paul LNU, as in Last Name Unknown, a passing glance. “How much longer are you open?”
The bartender checked his watch. “Another half an hour unless you tell me differently.”
“A half hour is fine.”
“Anything else?”
Jack shook his head and stuck out a hand. “Thanks for the help.” The bartender took it, and then walked back toward the other end of the bar.
Colfax turned to Jack. “What do you think?”
“I think we don’t have a whole lot of time. I say we go talk to Paul LNU.”
The two turned and made for Paul, who was in his own world, before turning his gaze as they approached.
Jack presented his credentials. Then he and Colfax took up the empty chairs, sandwiching Paul LNU between them.
Paul scooted back, head swiveling between the two.
“I already spoke to you guys.”
“About what?”
“That missing girl.”
Jack looked over at Colfax. The only people talking about the Baker kidnapping were the officers following up on tips.
“They came to my house already,” Paul said, tapping the beer bottle on the wooden table. “Said they were checking all registrants in the area.”
Colfax pointed a finger at Paul. “You a Two-ninety?”
Paul’s face tightened. “Not voluntarily.”
Two-ninety is public code for the registration of all convicted sex offenders. In
California
, anyone convicted of a sexual crime must register with the local police department. Failure to do so could land them back in jail.
Jack placed a hand on the beer bottle, stopping Paul’s nervous tapping habit. “What’s your full name?”
“Paul Ulysses Blunt.”
“Mr. Blunt, what did you tell the officers when they spoke to you?
”
“I said I don’t know nothing about any missing girl. I don’t kidnap kids and I am not a sexual deviant.”
Colfax pulled out the photo of
Monroe
. “You know this guy.”
Blunt barely glanced. “Don’t know him.”
“Look again,” he said.
“I said I don’t know him. Now leave me alone.”
Colfax rubbed his chin with his left hand, his other still on the photo. “Blunt . . . Blunt…. I remember you. Aren’t you still on probation?”
Blunt squirmed in his chair then dropped his head like a turtle trying to retreat inside his shell. “My last year.”
“Last I checked, you still have to cooperate with law enforcement, one year or one day.”
Blunt remained silent, staring down at the table but not at
Monroe
’s photo.
“I don’t think your probation allows you to be in a bar either. Am I right?”
Blunt blew out a noisy breath laced with profanity as he slapped a palm on the photo. “Okay, maybe I know this guy. He comes in for drinks every once in a while. He knows I’m a registrant so he sits with me because we have something in common.”
“You know his name and where he lives?” Jack asked.
“Klaus. I’ve been to his house, but only once.” Blunt made his point, knowing that as a sex registrant, he was not allowed to associate with other sex registrants. “I drove him home one night because he was wasted and I was afraid he was going to end up killing somebody in that truck of his.”
“You know he has a truck?”
“Yeah, white, a beater with a camper shell.”
“You have any way of calling Klaus?”
“No. Just know where he lives.”
Jack and Colfax stood from the table as Blunt’s eyes followed them. “Why don’t you take us there?” Jack said, pointing toward the door.
Blunt didn’t budge, lower jaw hung open. “Now?”
Colfax answered, “That wasn’t a request.”
Blunt pulled out a wadded bill from his pocket and tossed it on the table. He pushed back his chair and marched toward the door. “You’re not going to give me up, are you?”
Colfax said, “You gonna leave a better tip?”
Jack jumped in. “No, Paul. Help us out and we’ll forget you’re associating with a known sex offender at a prohibitive establishment to trade porn.”
“I never said I was trading porn.”
“Should I search your residence?”
Blunt turned away and shook his head.
Monroe