Fragmented (4 page)

Memories rushed back. “I remember Cooper. I worked the case with Chico PD.”

“Then you know what happened to him.”

“No, not really. I was just assisting with our evidence response team, did the follow-up interview when the fire call came in. After the initial interrogation, I was done.” Jack paused for a second. “I was never called to testify. I think he took a plea deal.”

“He did. To manslaughter.”

“That doesn’t seem right.”

“I was told the DA made an offer and Cooper’s attorney jumped on it.”

Jack asked, “Does he know you’re on to him?”

“Not yet. His record shows he’s incarcerated at the Butte County Jail under a work furlough program.”

Jack couldn’t believe what he had just heard. “Work furlough? He murdered his entire family?”

“Apparently, part of the plea deal was that Cooper was deemed mentally unstable when he killed his family. He was ordered to County treatment. I spoke to a friend of mine at the California Department of Corrections who found out Cooper was going to therapy and has been a model prisoner ever since.”

Jack tapped his pencil hard on his notepad, breaking the tip. “I had no idea.”

“I need to learn more about Cooper to lock him down on this murder. I need a hold placed on him immediately. Get him off work furlough and in segregation.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

“Could use your help interviewing him if you got the time.” Sizemore’s voice hardened, expressing the harsh realities of life. “I’ve been working these kind of guys for decades. You know just as well as I do, their stripes don’t change. I’d check your unsolved files. From what I know about Cooper, I’ll bet you a steak dinner and a cold beer at Morton’s he’s good for more.”

Jack winced at Sizemore’s contention and his stomach started to knot. “Get down here. I’ll make sure our Mr. Cooper is safely tucked away until your arrival.”

When the conversation ended, Jack looked up the number for his contact at the Butte County Jail. The call went through to Sergeant Dennis Warfield, the daytime watch commander. Over the years, Jack had dealt with Warfield on a number of homicide cases. Common acquaintances, Jack would always say.

“Tell me, Jack, which offender are you looking for?”

“Alvin Franklin Cooper.”

There was a pause before Dennis responded. “I guess the Feds really are watching everything you do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Alvin Cooper, model prisoner of the State for nearly five years, granted work furlough status for the past three months with no problems?”

Jack had a bad feeling where this was going.

“Three days ago, Mr. Cooper failed to return from work furlough. Between you and me, the guard gave Cooper the evening to report back, trying not to get him in trouble. Thought he was just running late. That evening’s bed count came up one short and the guard knew he was screwed. Cooper’s on the lam.”

Jack slouched down in his chair and shook his head. “Just my luck.”

“I don’t get it. Cooper had less than a couple years left. He lucked into a work furlough program. He was low maintenance here.”

“What are you doing to find him?”

“I got the state fugitive team out looking for him. It’s not that unusual; we get walkaways like this. In the end they usually get caught.”

Jack sighed.

“Why you looking for him anyway?” Dennis asked.

4

Tuesday –
7:32 a.m.

The man
in the blue-gray windbreaker sat low in the driver’s seat of his car as he watched Paul Baker unlock and enter a Chrysler 300 sedan parked in the driveway. The man had been watching the Baker house from a few houses down the street since yesterday evening when he followed Paul Baker home from the bank. From where he was parked, he could see anyone coming and going. That morning, Paul Baker was the first to leave.

He reached for his binoculars and leveled them up to his eyes, watching the Chrysler back down the driveway. A small digital camera rested next to his leg. He one-handed the camera, aimed it out the window, pointing it in Paul Baker’s direction and snapped off a few shots. His gazed followed the Chrysler as it coasted to a stop, then lurched forward accelerating past him. When the car crested the top of the street and fell out of sight, the man let out a deep sigh and stretched.

After following him home, the man had contemplated all night how he was going to get in and get out of the house without any trouble.

He lifted the binoculars back to his eyes. The house fell into focus but the windows were nothing more than black squares. He couldn’t see what was going on inside. He wished Mrs. Baker would leave. Maybe run some errands, go grocery shopping. Go to the store to get her sick daughter cough medicine. By his calculations, he needed ten minutes—fifteen tops—to get in and do what he needed to do.

The early morning sun crawled high into the sky. The inside of the car was starting to heat up. His body was pressed snuggly against his vinyl seats, causing beads of sweat to form and roll down his back, dripping around his waistline. The mixture of heat and perspiration made the interior of his vehicle feel like a sauna. The man cracked the window, felt a puff of air gently slap him across the face; it wasn’t any cooler than inside his car. He dragged a shirtsleeve across his face to clear the sweat from his eyes, then forced himself to find a comfortable position. This was not the first time he had sat in front of a house, watching, observing, stalking. It was the waiting part he disliked the most. But in the end, it always paid off.

By ten in the morning, he saw the front door open. Mrs. Baker stepped out of the house with a purse swinging from her arm and a set of car keys rattling in her hand. He recognized her from the photo. A tiny woman, slender. He instinctively raised the camera again and clicked off another series of shots. She was in a hurry. Mrs. Baker glanced momentarily toward the man’s car, shading her eyes from the bright summer sun, then turned her attention back toward her own car. He watched Mrs. Baker point her keys like a laser gun. The car chirped and the brake lights blinked. She pulled on the car door, tossed her purse inside, and settled herself in behind the steering wheel. With a quick look over her shoulder, Mrs. Baker backed the car down the driveway and drove out along the quiet, empty street. The man’s stare returned to the house. The girl was alone.

Exiting the car, he was careful not to make any noise that might draw the attention of a neighbor. He meandered toward the side of the residence, like he was an expected guest, crossing over the well-manicured lawn. He ran his fingers through his short, bristly hair, clearing the salty sweat that dripped into his eyes. He crept along the edge of the house, peering into windows, looking for a glimpse of the young, sick daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Baker. He cleared a row of Italian Cypresses and stepped into a walkway between the tall, thin trunks and the stucco wall. An opened window behind the row of cypresses led to a bedroom with painted yellow walls and a floral print chair positioned against the corner and covered in stuffed animals. A large mirror hung on the wall facing the window. He could see himself in its reflection, a stranger looking into the room of a young girl. He craned his neck, trying to see as deep into the room as possible. He pressed his head slightly on the nylon screen and caught a glimpse of the ruffled bed skirt. He pressed just a little harder and the screen bowed inward. His heart started to run at a higher speed, thumping in his chest after each breath. Then he heard a moan. Jessica.

He made his way around the side of the house and found the backyard gate. He turned the corner to neatly arranged terracotta pots with colorful flower arrangements dotting an
Arizona
flagstone patio that ran to the edge of a free-formed swimming pool. The dark blue color of the pool gave him a sense of cool even though the outside temperature felt hot enough to melt steel. He pulled on the sliding glass door and found it locked, but the latch was old, something he had no issues overcoming. He pulled out a screwdriver from his back pocket, forced it between the lock and the frame. The latch popped.

He stepped inside to a dark living room. The shade from the trees and the patio cover kept the air in the living room cool until the late afternoon sun had a chance to bake through the back windows. Quietly he stepped down the hallway, gauging which room was Jessica’s. The walls were lined with framed photos of the family. Annual portraits, each one aging Jessica one year at a time. It was as if he had the opportunity of watching her grow up before his eyes.

He paused at a closed door to his left, gently placing a hand on it.

This one.

He pressed his ear against the white cathedral-style design, straining to hear any signs of breathing or movement. With a gentle twist, he turned the doorknob and slowly pushed the door until he caught sight of a young girl asleep on the bed. He stared, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkened room. Finally he could see her face clearly. It was her. Just like in the portrait on her father’s desk.

The comforter and sheets were kicked down to the end of the bed. Her pajama top was bunched high above her waist, exposing her belly. The legs of her pants were pushed above her calves. Her skin silky white and arms soft. Her hair splayed across her pillow, moistened from a night of fighting a fever. The man was stunned for a moment, caught in an overwhelming wave of astonishment at Jessica’s youthfulness. Unspoiled beauty. For just a moment, the man wanted to reach out and touch her soft skin, but he knew that would not serve him well. Not yet.

It would only be a matter of time before Mrs. Baker would return from running her errands. Timing was everything. If she showed up before he had a chance to finish what he started, he would have no choice but to take drastic measures. He would not go back to prison. He wouldn’t allow Mrs. Baker to be responsible for sending him back to green walls and steel bars, bad food and the smell of urine. No lights off at nine and wake up calls at five. The man pulled his hand back and re-focused on what he came here to do.

He reached into his pocket and retrieved a syringe. He popped off the plastic safety cap with a flick of his thumb and carefully squeezed out all the air in the tube until a small amount of clear fluid spat from the end of the needle. His head slowly rotated, focusing his stare at Jessica.

“You belong to me now,” he said.

5

Tuesday –
9:50 a.m.

Jack tried
not to make too much noise as Special Agent Lucille Marquez steadily rocked in a cushy office chair and stared at a flat screen monitor. She had been doing this for the past two hours. Jack waited patiently, hoping to spot a break in her concentration so he could ask for help in tracking Cooper. Help was scarce. Jack had worked with Marquez in the past and he knew she was good. More importantly, she owed him.

Marquez had been hunched over the computer in her covert warehouse space in an unincorporated area of
Sacramento
, strolling through a maze of chat rooms and transient websites in search of child pornography. Commercial-grade or homegrown—your basic smut. The front window of the undercover location was blacked-out with a sign displaying the business name: “Captain America Garage Doors – Installations and Repairs.” The door was perpetually locked and there was no receptionist to answer the phones.

Jack stared quietly at Marquez, watching her eyes shift from left to right, scanning the monitor inches from her nose. Marquez was assigned to the Bureau’s Cyber Squad as an undercover agent in search of child predators and purveyors of kiddie porn, the cyber version of a street corner prostitution sting. The only difference being the Internet was a street corner that circled the globe. Dubbed Operation Viewing Glass, this program was tailor-made for Marquez. Posing as a twelve-year-old girl or boy, whichever worked for the occasion, Marquez would helplessly fall prey to someone wanting to trade pictures of child pornography or, worse, meet at a motel for a quick romp in bed. The cesspool that she angled from was filled with society’s bottom feeders as well as the community’s big fish. It was a fine line determining if the chat was purely fantasy or one of intent. Marquez was good at making those determinations.

Just north of thirty, Marquez was trim, athletic, and still ran a 5K every other day. A lot of agents—male agents to be specific—would describe Marquez as having
natural beauty
. That’s what guys always say when they can’t think of another way to describe a woman like Marquez. She kept her blonde hair pulled back in a scrunchie, and she looked stunning in a pair of jeans. Jack knew more about Marquez than most. She had more than just looks. He thought of her as the total package but preferred describing her as simply a great agent. One who just happened to look stunning in a pair of jeans.

Marquez also had a Master’s in clinical psychology. The first time Jack’s seventeen-year old-son met Marquez, he later told Jack she was a hot chick with a gun. Kids.

“I can tell you’re onto something,” Jack said. “You’re starting to talk to the monitor.”

Marquez didn’t turn her attention away from the screen, just cracked a half smile.

Jack scooted his chair next to hers and watched as she clicked through a series of webpages filled with .JPEGs and .GIFs ready for download if you had the password and the stomach. She had both. Colorful pictures flashed on her 42-inch flat-screen, raunchy, offensive images reflecting off her rimless glasses.

“I just got this set of kiddie porn pictures.” Marquez pointed at the screen. Photos of young girls. “The guy I got them from goes by the moniker of Horny John.”

“No hidden agenda there,” Jack replied.

“Homer got me this guy.”

Homer was Marquez’s informant. Previously arrested for distribution of child porn, Homer sat behind them, smiling. He had become—albeit with the threat of ten years in a federal prison—a member of the FBI’s intelligence base in the area of child exploitation. Or as Jack liked to call him: a cyber snitch.

“Okay, Homer, you sure he’s the right guy?” Marquez didn’t bother turning around when she asked the question.

“I told you, that’s him. A real A-hole.”

A week ago, Homer was dutiful in advising Marquez of a clandestine website where individuals were trading kiddie porn. His attention had been piqued when one of the members spoke about plans to seduce young girls. The person never told Homer that he had had sex with a child, but the conversation certainly alluded to his involvement with children. Homer decided that Agent Marquez would be interested in this one.

“I know you got a lot to do,” Marquez said, “but if Homer is right and this guy is molesting little kids, I think we need to put the clamps on him right away.”

Jack nodded as he lifted a consoling hand. “I’m fine with it. After this one, I’m calling in a favor anyway. That’s why I’m here.”

“Fair enough, tell me what you need.”

“Got a guy ID’d on a cold case murder up in
Washington
State
. I helped do the guy five years ago for killing his wife and kid. Took a plea and got a sweetheart deal. Come to find out, he’s done this before.” Jack blew out an exasperated breath. “Wish we would have known that before he was offered a plea. Maybe instead of manslaughter, he’d be convicted on murder charges. Anyway, he was housed here in
Butte
County
.”

Marquez paused, waiting for Jack to finish. “What do you mean was?”

“He escaped.”

Marquez shook her head. “Figures.”

“Three days have already gone by. Trail’s cold. Chasing him right now or later isn’t going to make a difference. I got Dools working with Cal DOJ’s fugitive unit. Hopefully, they’ll have something by the time we’re ready to join them.

“If you say so.”

“So, you’ll help me after we’re through here?”

Marquez raised her right hand and smiled. “Promise.”

Jack returned his attention to Marquez’s case, swung around to another computer and pounded out an administrative subpoena on the Internet Service Provider—the ISP—used by Horny John to locate his address. After getting a response, it only took Jack thirty minutes to draft a search warrant on the residence of Horny John, an apartment located in
Modesto
.

“The apartment’s rented to an Andre Burke,” Jack said. “Who knows if that’s his real name or not.”

Marquez leaned back in her chair, holding onto the affidavit in one hand while tapping a pencil to her head with the other. “Ah, yes, the lovely town of
Molest-o
.”

Jack nodded. Too often, Jack found the home of another child predator in the
Central Valley
town. “Homer, you’ve done your duty for God and Director and earned a day’s pay. Go home and we’ll call you tomorrow.”

Homer beamed a wide grin. He threw a short wave, grabbed his Member’s Only jacket and headed out the door, his polyester pants sounding like a cat on a scratching post.

An hour later, Lucy Marquez walked the warrant through the system. The two left the magistrate’s office and were heading out the door to their cars.

“You ready?” Marquez sounded anxious.

Jack nodded. “Couldn’t be more ready.”

“Let’s go get Mr. Burke and see if he’s having sex with little kids.”