Precipice (6 page)

Dominic watched Shannon cross the lot and head down the sidewalk toward the café. She turned into the small patio outside the restaurant and passed within feet of the elderly lookout, who neither glanced up, nor showed any sign he noticed her presence.

She disappeared inside and after a couple minutes, re-emerged with two bottles in hand. She again passed the old man, this time pausing at the table. She said something he couldn’t make out over the earpiece and after a second, continued toward the car, this time with the man’s eyes admiring her in the same way Dominic had minutes earlier.

She slid smoothly into the passenger seat and handed one of the Coke bottles to Dominic. “Here,” she tipped her bottle toward his. “It’s gonna be a long day.”

“What’d you find out?”

“It’s a nice little mom and pop establishment. Very charming. The man who got our drinks even gave me a discount.” She paused. “Though I assume that wasn’t what you were asking?” She grinned and winked. The sullen attitude from earlier seemed to have vanished with her little field trip. Shrugging, she replied, “Very little. I couldn’t get a good look at the papers.”

“What’d you say to him? The mic didn’t pick it up.”

“Just a ‘hello,’ nothing else. He barely even responded. I believe he sort of grunted.” Her imitation of the guttural utterance made Dominic chuckle.

“I doubt he gets much attention from girls like you.” This remark earned him a slight glare, but a slight smile as she turned away told him she appreciated the compliment. “He watched you all the way to the car though. We need to take it for a spin around the block and find a new parking spot, so he doesn’t get suspicious as to why you never leave.”

“Sounds good.” She reached over and flicked on the radio. Dominic’s oldies station came alive as a classic from the Beach Boys blared from his car’s speakers. She shook her hair, slipped on a pair of sunglasses, and leaned back, smiling as they edged out of the lot.

***

Krieger sat quietly in his living room, shades drawn and lights off, making it seem much later in the day. He’d been right about that museum director, Braxton; the obituary appeared in that day’s paper. The man was dim-witted and naïve. Krieger tried to warn him and encourage a trip out of town, but the man failed to heed his advice.

Death had never been an issue for Krieger and taking the lives of others hadn’t bothered him since his first tour overseas. It was, after all, his job for many years. Desensitization came with the territory.

Yet, this death felt different. Krieger had witnessed war casualties, executions, deaths where the victims wholeheartedly deserved to lose their lives. But this death, it wasn’t part of the pattern. Braxton was an innocent bystander, caught in over his head. Ian Braxton’s death never should have happened. He wasn’t meant to be there that night.

But Ian stayed late before heading home to say hello to his former employee. The man probably died long ago at the hands of the perps, his identity stolen to gain Braxton’s trust. And poor Ian bit hard, swallowing their fable hook, line, and sinker.

The man’s naivety resulted in the premature ending of two lives, his janitor and ultimately himself. Though positive Ian’s death was out of his control, Michael still shouldered the responsibility for not offering more assistance. Throughout his long military career, only once before had an innocent died because of him.

It was a young child, maybe 5 or 6. The boy’s father became involved in a resistance movement in the remote regions of a third-world country and got himself killed. The boy’s mother raised him until she passed away from disease. The orphan, Manuel, was left in the care of Michael’s unit until they could get him to an orphanage where he’d be adopted. One night, Michael let down his guard while playing cards with the guys. He lost sight of little Manny, who wandered outside alone.

While playing in the field, he came across a strange object embedded in the grass. The huge boom and shockwave from a partially buried landmine knocked the card players out of their chairs. Devastated, Krieger never forgave himself. Since retirement, he’d succeeded in blocking most of the bleak memory from his consciousness, but an intertwined vein of guilt and anger persisted in the deepest halls and recesses of his mind.

The death of Braxton hit harder than expected. In many ways, Ian resembled this little child and Krieger couldn’t help but feel those sensations of guilt arise once again.

Braxton had been naïve and innocent, caught in games beyond his understanding. He made the mistake of playing with deadly explosives and they blew up in his face. Taking a sizeable gulp from the glass of Scotch whisky that sat in front of him, Krieger swore. Loudly.

Krieger grimaced at the burning sensation of another swig. “No way I’m gonna let this happen to me again,” he muttered. Another death on his conscience might be the final straw to drive him to an early grave. He growled, vowing to avenge Braxton’s death, hoping it would help atone for both. It would be the act of penance which allowed him rest.

He threw back the final gulp, emptying the glass and swearing again as the alcohol singed his throat. Hoisting himself to his feet, Krieger staggered toward the bedroom.

Silently wishing for more liquor, he swore one last time, this time barely above a whisper. No amount of alcohol would help. But maybe something else could.

***

Mornings were not Jacob Sloan’s favorite things. In fact, he downright despised them. It typically required a minimum of three cups of coffee to get going in the morning, and today just might be a four cup day. Some days, it was a struggle simply getting out of bed. Today was Randal and Faye’s second day on the Sasori stakeout. Despite their relative inexperience and tendency to make rash decisions, he trusted them to do a solid job and with any luck, they’d unearth something invaluable.

Lighting his first cigar of the day, he sifted through the mail that what’s-his-name intern had dropped off earlier. He felt bad that he kept forgetting the poor kid’s name, but interns always had a short shelf life at the Agency; it was hardly worth the brain power to remember who was who. This particular one did a good job though and wasn’t too big of a pain.

Junk mail, more junk mail, official notices he’d never read from HQ on new office policy, and the monthly appeal from his ex-wife to remember to pay the alimony and child support this month. Just a bunch of trash. Nothing that required any precious time or attention right now.

He started to throw the papers to the side when a small envelope fell out and caught his attention. It slid out from between two of the junk letters his eyes had so quickly skimmed over. Small and handwritten in a light, airy script, it contained no return address or stamp. Just his name. This didn’t come through the mail system. It was hand-delivered. Turning the envelope over in his hands, his confusion dissipated and he smiled. This must be those complimentary baseball tickets, sent down from upstairs.

Every year about this time, all higher-ups in the agency received a set of tickets to the local minor league team. The Greenlake Fightin’ Hornets were named for the local swarms of pests that attacked with a military-like precision and ferocity whenever a human wandered too close to their hives. In previous years, this game had been the one occasion each year he was able to spend real bonding time with his daughter, a budding high school volleyball star. He never seemed able to find quality opportunities to spend time with his son, who hated sports, but he cherished the few moments his children tolerated spending with him. Yes, this had to be those tickets. Someone decided it was easier to drop it in the mail slot rather than walk down two flights of stairs to his office. Typical lazy buggards.

He slipped a fat finger under one corner of the flap and tore open the envelope, shaking it until something dropped out. But it wasn’t two box seat tickets to see his team. Rather, it appeared to be a newspaper clipping and a photograph. Frowning, he began to read…

Greenlake Tribune

Wednesday, July 24

Police officials suspect murder in the death of a prominent member of the Greenlake community. Museum director, Ian Braxton, was discovered in his home late Tuesday night, the victim of a shooting. He was found in his living room with multiple bullet wounds. Thanks to the victim’s home security cameras, police were able to gain invaluable information on the perpetrator. They are looking for one man, about six feet, four inches tall and approximately 260 pounds. At the time of the crime, he was dressed in blue jeans, a dark baseball cap and a light blue sweatshirt. If you have any information relating to this crime, please contact the authorities.

Handling it with care so as not to disturb any potential fingerprints or other trace evidence, Sloan took the newspaper clipping and set it aside. The photograph had fallen from the envelope facing the other direction, but it was equally confusing from the correct angle. In the upper left corner was a limp, lifeless hand.

Sloan’s blood pressure began to rise. A half dozen pieces of broken glass dominated the rest of the picture. Despite the fractured nature of the pieces, he could still to make out the original form. A dolphin. Sloan slowly flipped the photograph to reveal a small poetic verse inscribed on the reverse side.

Out of the deepest depths, you’ll see

Raging battles, soldiers, war

Brother engaging brother

The Antichrist conquers the shore

The radio station moved through the Beach Boys, past Pearl Jam and Janis Joplin, and cruised past a whole litany of musicians Shannon never knew existed. Finally, she became fed up with oldies and reached over to spin the dial and find a new frequency. Dominic’s preset stations were no help. He apparently only listened to oldies and random news stations. It took a minute or two to search through the various frequencies before settling on a popular rock station.

Several hours had passed since they pulled into a different parking lot down the road to keep an eye on their target and the noontime sun beat down. It was supposed to storm that evening, but the midday warmth was stifling, even with the windows cranked all the way down. Shannon watched their target as Dominic slept on the seat beside her. The day crept by, the heat wearing her down. She was glad Dominic could rest. He desperately needed it. He looked peaceful, curled up in his seat.

Nothing exciting or interesting had occurred on their stakeout since the appearance of that old man. He got up a couple times to relieve himself, or get a coffee, but the door to Sasori remained firmly shut.

Shannon entertained herself people-watching as she waited, a favorite pastime of hers. A mother struggling to run errands with three young kids. Two Asian men arguing, complete with hand gestures and yelling in a tongue that sounded like Japanese. A couple businessmen. A runner or two, immersed in their headphones as they jogged past. College students from the local university used the café as a study locale. And her personal favorite, a teenage punk with a spiked, blue Mohawk and skateboard. Keeping herself amused by snapping candid photos of these passers-by, she managed to stave off the boredom for a while. But the streets had quieted. Anyone with any brains disappeared inside to avoid the heat. And with Dominic dozing beside her, she was having more trouble focusing.

The jangle of Dominic’s phone interrupted the music from the radio and yanked him out of a familiar dream. Startled awake, he scrambled to find the device. It lay on the carpeted floor, between the seat and the door. It was his secure work cell.

“Probably Sloan,” he muttered. Grimacing as he yawned, Dominic typed in the personal five-digit answering code, a confirmation of his identity. The device emitted one quick beep to approve the connection as he held it to his ear.

Shannon was unable to hear the other end of the conversation, but judging from Dominic’s facial expressions and curt replies, it wasn’t good news. She refocused her attention down the street. The man had disappeared again, probably headed inside for another drink.

Dominic hung up the cell as the line went dead and grabbed his keys. He was silent, another bad sign. “Was there another one?” Shannon spoke in low tones, barely above a whisper.

Nodding, he reversed out of the spot and pulled onto the street. She wanted to ask more, to make him give details, but instead she frowned and fell quiet, listening to the silence broken only by the radio.

***

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Shannon had been patient the entire ride to the office, but now that they’d arrived and parked in the underground garage, she wanted to be read into the situation before talking to Sloan.

He ignored her for a moment longer, taking the lead as they headed in the direction of the elevator, in the corner of the parking structure.

“Dominic! What happened?” She came to a halt in the middle of the garage, causing him to stop as well.

Dominic glanced over his shoulder at her and sighed. “There’s another body.” A pause. “A young museum director, discovered yesterday morning.”

“Yesterday? Why did it take us so long to be notified?”

“I’m not sure. Police ineptitude, maybe. Sloan mentioned some unusual evidence. He didn’t clarify over the phone.” The elevator opened right as they reached it, letting a handful of people spill into the garage. Their discussion paused to let the passersby get out of earshot.

The elevator doors closed, isolating the two once again, and Shannon rounded on Dominic. “Well, what did he say then?”

“Just what I told you. He wanted to fill in the rest in person. Said he had something we needed to see. Wouldn’t say what it was, but it sounded important.” The elevator dinged and the doors slid open.

“Randal! Faye! Get in here right now!” The elevator doors hadn’t even begun to close before the boss’s booming voice rumbled through the office. Both cringed as they hurried down the hallway and into his office. “What took you two so long?”

“Sorry boss, got here as soon as we…” Dominic mumbled.

“Sit down.” Sloan interrupted, that one vein in his forehead throbbing and bulging to epic proportions. His words were sharp and his movements quick and jerky as he stomped around the room. He chewed on his cigar with a fury that would turn a man-eating lion into a scared kitten. He strode back to his desk and grabbed a small envelope. “I received
this
in my mail today.”

“What is it?” Dominic stepped forward, hand extended. Sloan ignored it.

“Actually, it wasn’t in the mail. It was hand delivered. And those pinheads out there who masquerade as being competent didn’t see a damn thing.” His growl rose louder and louder. Dominic and Shannon didn’t dare turn around, but the entire office behind them fell still and quiet. Not a soul wanted to be the one to move and draw Sloan’s fury.

Throwing the envelope onto the desktop again, he tramped over to the door and slammed it with a loud bang, causing everyone to jump. He paced back to his desk and plunked down in the chair. He put his head in his hands and stared down at the envelope lying in front of him. The two agents took seats across from him. A full minute passed before Dominic gathered the courage to break the silence.

“Boss?”

SLAM! Sloan’s fists pounded the desktop, causing papers to scatter. He took a deep breath.

“Tell us what happened.” Shannon’s face wrinkled in confusion.

“What happened?! I’ll tell you what happened. You see that envelope?” They both nodded. “Inside was a newspaper article about a local murder and a photograph of the victim.” He slid both across the desk and turned them so Dominic and Shannon could see. “Well, technically just the victim’s hand…there also appears to be a shattered dolphin figurine in the photo, though I don’t know what that means. On the back is some sort of cryptic poem.”

“And you’re sure it’s the same group?” Dominic reached for the photo to get a better look.

“I’d bet on it. I did some looking while waiting for you. I got the local police case file emailed over from the precinct. Turns out we have a connection. Care to guess which museum this man here, Braxton, owns?”

“The same one?” Shannon responded. “On 5
th
? With the janitor?”

He nodded. “You think that’s a coincidence?”

Dominic responded softly, his brain firing out of instinct. “There are no coincidences with murder.” His father’s saying.
How many times had he heard that before?

“Exactly right, Randal.”

“We need to get that photo and envelope examined for latent prints…”

“I already had one of Cliff’s guys take a look,” he grunted. “He dusted the whole thing with black powder, but couldn’t find a single print to process and scan through AFIS. There did lift a hair that may belong to our guy, but unless our man is a convicted felon, running the DNA through CODIS isn’t going to be much help. Whoever did this was careful.”

“Maybe Forensics can run the sample against DNA found at those past crime scenes. If we can link the perpetrator of those crimes to the person who sent this envelope, it may open a few doors.”

“It won’t do much good without a suspect in custody to run a comparison. And running a full profile like that could take a while. But it won’t hurt to secure proof these are all part of the same case. I’ll ask Cliff to take care of it.”

Shannon stood and walked over to the window, case file in hand. “But why wasn’t this guy positioned like the others? The rest were calculated and organized, methodical. Posing the body, with hands crossed like they’re about to be buried. Not a single sign of a struggle. But this guy?” She paced as she read through the report. “This attack was disorganized and messy. They left him splayed across the floor…the room trashed…spatter pattern indicates multiple bullet wounds too…” She trailed off, but Dominic finished her thought.

“If this is the same people, why the sudden change in M.O.?”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Sloan chimed in. Dominic grabbed the contents from the envelope to examine as Sloan continued. “Killers don’t fluctuate from organized to disorganized overnight…not without some emotional trigger. Why the change?”

“Maybe this wasn’t restaging…” Dominic interjected.

“What do you mean?” Shannon asked.

“Well, restaging is designed to throw off law enforcement. It’s not part of the killing routine, but more of an afterthought. But posing a body execution style doesn’t do that. They wanted to draw attention to those deaths.”

“So…” Sloan hesitated. “Maybe the posing is part of their inherent signature. Maybe
that
is part of their ‘routine.’”

“Precisely,” answered Dominic. “Which means Braxton was actually the restaging, designed to look different from their typical kill.”

“Then why go through the trouble of sending us the photo? Trying to throw us off and then admitting guilt seems counterproductive…”

“Maybe to avoid media attention. They don’t want the public associating the two, but they still want to challenge the brains at SISA. Whoever’s behind this thinks he—or she—is highly intelligent and is trying to prove it.”

Shannon chimed in. “So with the note, they’re admitting responsibility for Braxton, while at the same time, making sure we know he shouldn’t be considered the same way as the rest.”

“So why was Braxton killed if he’s not part of the overall pattern?” Sloan spoke slowly, “Maybe it was never intended. An opportunistic accident. We need to figure out why they targeted Braxton…”

He grabbed the case file, “Ian Braxton, a wealthy museum director, young for his position. His friends described him as naïve and gullible, but sweet and an all-around good guy. Nothing noteworthy there.” He paused to clear his throat and take a swig from his coffee mug, “But once you get past the first couple pages, it starts to get interesting. Apparently, the police discovered a suspicious connection between him and the first murder, but had yet to pick him up.”

“Right…it says here…” Shannon picked up the file and located the notes. “Mr. Braxton was suspected of leaving a back door unlocked the night of the janitor’s murder. Says they caught it on security footage, but it wasn’t conclusive. If he aided a breaking and entering, he’d be roped in on deeper charges. The cops were at the house to bring him in for questioning on a conspiracy charge when they discovered his body.” She looked up and asked, “Did we get a copy of that tape? It’d be nice to see for ourselves.”

“You’re reading my mind, Faye. It should be on its way over. Talk to that intern kid about it. He’s supposed to set it up in the conference room down the hall.”

“Craig. Great. Dominic and I will get right on that.”

“I should hope so.” He stopped and spun toward Dominic, who was still staring intently at the photograph and news article. “Randal! You still with us?”

With a heavy sigh, Dominic responded, his words barely audible. “Yeah, I’m here boss. Sorry…just thinking…”

“Care to share those thoughts with the rest of the class?” Sloan snapped.

“It’s nothing.”

“Well, snap out of it. I want to know what that poem means ASAP.” Sloan barked. “Have the behavioral analysis boys take a look at it too. Maybe they can work up a psychological profile for this freak.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Good. Now you two get on that videotape. I want to know if the local cops were right about their suspicions.” He strode over to the door and opened it. They both took the not-so-subtle hint and hurried toward the exit. “And while you’re at it, see if you can figure out how they got this envelope into my inbox without any of those numbskulls out there noticing sh-!” He slammed the door behind them, cutting off his last word and causing Dominic to flinch.

“Let’s go find Craig and take a look at those tapes.” Dominic rubbed his temple with a thumb and nodded in the direction of the conference room. “If we can tie the director to the janitor’s death, maybe we’ll be able to discover a motive.”

Shannon nodded agreement. If they managed to learn anything from this videotape, it could be a significant break in this case. And if they determined a motive for the director’s actions, they might start making a little headway.