Rausch & Donlon - Can Be Murder 02 - Love Can Be Murder (29 page)

The man chuckled, but it contained no mirth. “No, not a patient. He was part of a case that you were working on. You and the FBI.”

John’s head spun. He had lent his expertise to the Bureau on several cases over the years. However, he still couldn’t place the man’s face. “I don’t understand. Maybe it’s the whack on the head or the drugs you’ve been giving me …” John stopped abruptly and horror dawned on him. “You are talking about the NeuroDynamics case, aren’t you? It’s the only one I worked on with Jo. Is that what this is all about? It has to be. That’s why you were bugging Jo’s house, why you took me from there …”

“Now you’re finally catching on.”

“But you weren’t a part of that case. All those people … they are all dead or in prison.”

“Ah, but you are mistaken. As you can see, I’m a living testament to the brilliance of Dr. Candleworth.”

John’s eyes widened when the answer hit him. “You’re Dennis Farley. The last of the test victims.” He felt sick to his stomach. John realized he was in the hands of a man without a conscience. A man who had been molded to be the perfect assassin.
But why hasn’t he killed Jo or me yet
?

Dennis Farley pulled to the side of the road and slammed on his brakes, coming to a halt. He turned in his seat once again, this time releasing the seatbelt. He poked his head through the window and spat out his next words. “Victim … you dare call me a victim? I am Dr. Candleworth’s greatest triumph.”

John tried to calm his galloping heart. He realized antagonizing this man would surely result in his death.
I need to stay alive. For as long as I can.
“I stand corrected. I read all of Candleworth’s research. His strides in microchip and nanochip neurological usage were nothing short of groundbreaking.”

Dennis rubbed his head and muttered, “Damn headaches.” He put the van into drive. John heard the gravel spin beneath the tires as he pulled back out onto the road. Finally Farley responded, “I know when someone’s blowing smoke up my ass, Dr. Goodman, although generally it’s not so eloquently done. In this case, however, you are quite right.”

John let out a silent puff of air. He was relieved Farley sounded much more reasonable again. The miles rolled beneath them as John’s mind wandered from question to question. He wondered if Farley had already contacted Jo to set up a meeting place.
Why are we going so far away? Maybe he’s headed somewhere remote; somewhere it would be easy to spot if Jo has back-up.

John always circled back to the same question. Why haven’t we been killed already, if Farley only wants revenge? And, more importantly, what is he saving us for?

* * *

The sky was smudged gray and purple by the time Jo and Frisco walked out to his car in front of the coffee shop. Jo rubbed her burning, tired eyes. It seemed a lifetime ago they had first parked here. Before they had discovered so many of the answers that had eluded them until this point.

They climbed into the car and Frisco twisted in his seat to face Jo. “So, all those disguises we found: the hard hat, the construction overalls, and the cleaning crew equipment. That’s what she used to get into secured areas without anyone noticing?”

“I presume so. We’ll know for sure once the BCA techs compare the blood samples on the bins to the state rep. and the columnist.”

Jo fastened her seat belt. “Pretty clever, really. Forensics proves she killed both victims here, in this old music studio. Another smart move. With all the sound insulation in that place, no one would have heard the gunshots.”

Frisco rubbed his chin and Jo could hear the rasp of the stubble. “So, I guess she must’ve loaded the bodies in one of the bins and then took the service elevator down into the parking garage. Putting them into the van we found would have been easy with a ramp.”

Jo nodded and said, “With all the remodeling going on at the State Capital building, who would notice the comings and goings of yet another construction worker hauling a cart full of equipment around? And as we know from my undercover work at NeuroDynamics’ headquarters last winter, no one thinks twice about a cleaning person pushing around a garbage can. I’m guessing it will be Anne McDonald’s blood in that one.”

The detective was silent for a moment and then he said, “So, why do you think she bothered moving them at all?”

Jo shrugged. “Maybe she thought it was important to put them in the institutions that showcased their beliefs.”

Frisco tugged on his own seatbelt and then started up the car. As they drove through the city streets, Jo thought again about John and wondered if he was still alive. She pulled out her cell phone, checking for missed messages.
Why hasn’t the bastard who kidnapped him been in contact yet?

The detective looked over at the phone in Jo’s hand and said, “No word yet, huh?”

Jo stared out the windshield at the sky that had now turned nearly pitch black. “None.”

Frisco cleared his throat and said, “You know, you should stay at our house tonight. We’ve got an extra bedroom that my in-laws use when they are in town.”

Jo turned to Frisco and said, “That’s very kind of you, Frisco. But I need to be home, in my own house. He’s got to be able to contact me. That’s the game.”

The detective let out a puff of air. “I have to say, I’m not crazy about you being in that house alone. Not with a kidnapper-slash-stalker with his sights set on you.” He paused, and then said, “But I guess you’re right. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

Jo’s lips curled upward. “I appreciate that, Frisco.” She straightened out the wry smile a moment later. “Why hasn’t he contacted me yet?”

Jo could see the frown between his brows in the glow of the dashboard lights. “Beats the hell out of me. But one thing we know about this guy is that he’s a methodical son-of-a-bitch. Putting those cameras in place, the tracker on your car and taking John – all that took a lot of prep time. He’s putting some crazy-assed scheme into motion.”

* * *

Jo entered her cubicle at the FBI headquarters and flicked on her desk lamp. She knew her night was far from over. Besides filling out the mountains of paperwork that came with wrapping up the Freemont/McDonald cases, she had to testify in court tomorrow for the wrongful death civil case brought against the Bureau by Charles Candleworth’s widow.

She walked over to the break room and grabbed a bottle of juice from the refrigerator. She knew she should eat something, but the thought of eating anything made her throat close up.

Settling into her desk chair, Jo fired up her laptop. She retrieved the file she needed to fill out about Marjorie Payne’s death, but all she could do was stare at the blank form. When she read the question of cause of death, the only phrase that came to mind was: “screwed-up family.” She shook her head at her cynicism.

With a sigh, she set aside her laptop and reached for the files from the NeuroDynamics case. She needed to review them for court tomorrow, to make sure all the details were fresh in her memory.

The file on the bottom slipped from her hands. “I can’t even hang onto a damned case file.”

She crouched over to gather up all the loose papers that had slipped out. A photograph had slid across the carpet and when she flipped it over, she took a minute to study it. Something about the man in the photo looked very familiar, but she couldn’t place him. She turned the photo over and read the label:
Dennis Farley, test victim. Current whereabouts unknown.

As Jo stared at the photo again, she recalled all the hours they had put into finding this man. John was especially anxious to locate him, wanting to try to reverse the damage from the microchip and nanochips that had been implanted into him. When they finally closed the case, they had assumed he had gone off somewhere and died. That certainly had happened with all the other test cases.

But Jo couldn’t shake off the feeling that she had seen these eyes more recently. She wracked her brain, searching through all the faces she had encountered over the last month.

Then it hit her. “Oh, my God … I’ve been so friggin’ blind!” She stood up and grabbed her cell. She cursed when she saw her phone was dead. She had used it so much in the last twenty four hours that it had run out of battery power.

“Shit! He could have been trying to reach me, all this time.” She plugged in her phone and saw that she had several voice mails, all from Agent Daniels’ number. She swallowed her disappointment that none were from the kidnapper, but she entered her password and listened to the messages.

All the messages said the same thing, “Call me, I have some updates for you.” But each message sounded more and more urgent. The last message included an additional comment, “Jo, where the hell are you?”

Jo quickly called Daniels. He answered on the first ring. Before Jo could say a word, he launched into his speech. “Where have you been? We’ve got all these new developments and I can’t reach you when I need to. Where are you now?”

Jo rubbed her head. “I’m still at the office. My phone ran out of juice and I didn’t realize it until just now.”

“Don’t go near your house.”

“Whoa. Back up. Tell me what’s going on … why shouldn’t I go to my house?”

“We received a call from one of your neighbors tonight. I had left my calling card, just in case anyone saw Stephen Paulson return to his house. Well, she called and said that she hadn’t seen Paulson per se, but his dog was barking like mad and howling. She called me thinking that meant he had returned,” Daniels said.

Jo’s heart began to pound. She was about to tell Daniels about the photo she had discovered when he continued. “We checked the house for any sign of Paulson, with no luck. So we went out back where the dog was fenced in. That damn dog was yowling and digging frantically. And Jo, he dug up a hand. A human hand.”

Jo thought her heart would seize up. “Not … tell me it wasn’t John’s hand that the dog found?”

“No. Oh, sorry. Lord, no. The hand belongs to your elderly neighbor who lived in the house before Paulson. Further excavations revealed she had been buried in the garden with her son. Based on decomposition, the ME is thinking they’ve been there for quite some time.”

“So you think Paulson killed the poor old woman and her son, just to get into the house?”

“Yes. But why
that
house?”

Jo’s voice sounded dead to her when she replied. “Because Stephen Paulson is actually Dennis Farley and he is stalking me.”

“Who is Dennis Farley?”

“He was the last missing victim of the NeuroDynamics mess.” She filled him in on the photograph and the details of the case.

When she had finished, she heard Daniels’ sharp intake of breath. “And he’s tying up loose ends. Like you and John?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I’ll track down any other properties that might be leased or owned in either name. We need to find the warehouse where John was filmed.”

“Even if you find the warehouse, I think it’s going to be empty. He’s taking awhile to contact me for a reason. I think they are on the move,” Jo said.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Turners Bend

Early April

Chip sat in his kitchen, staring at his screen saver, unable to think of what to write next. Some call it “writer’s block,” but Chip knew it for what it was—lack of discipline, avoidance behavior, laziness. He just didn’t feel like writing. Callie was no help. She jumped onto his lap and then walked across the keyboard, spelling out her own cryptic message.

“Okay, okay. I’ll feed you.”

He went into the kitchen and opened a can of tuna. Callie wound herself around his legs, weaving in and out. Chip had started out feeding her dry cat food. After a week, the cat had refused to eat it. He moved up to canned food, progressing from generic to a gourmet brand, until Callie had conditioned him to her preferred meals: tuna, cooked chicken and cheese and an occasional lick from a cereal or ice cream bowl. He was whipped and by a cat no less.

Out the kitchen window he saw a flashing red light and then the police cruiser driving up his road. Deputy Anderson was at the wheel and Fredrickson was riding shotgun. The chief stepped out of the car, rolled his eyes and shook his head as he approached Chip’s back door. Chip opened the door to admit Turners Bend’s finest and only police officers.

“Why the flashing lights? Is there an emergency?” asked Chip.

“Nah, Jim just likes to play with the lights and sirens.”

“I haven’t used them in a week,” said Jim. “I think they should be tested every once in a while to make sure they’re in good working order.”

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” said Chip.

“You watched the news this morning?”

“No, I’ve been working, or trying to. What’s up?”

The two policemen took the chairs Chip offered. The minute Jim sat down, Callie jumped in his lap, startling him. Jim pushed her down. Callie had a knack for knowing who didn’t like cats, and she always chose to pester them.

“CNN announced this morning that the FBI detained a person of interest named Elizabeth Brown aka Karen Buttler in the Iowa serial killer case, and they are holding her for identity theft charges for now. I called Masterson in Sioux City to see what in the hell was going on,” said the Chief.

“Karen Buttler? Was she using an assumed name?

“She stole the identity of a deceased woman, got a fake Social Security card, driver’s license, the whole bit. Here’s the weird part. Brown is psycho, she really thinks she is Karen Buttler, denies any knowledge of Brown or her past life. They’re scheduling her for a psych evaluation.

“They searched her house and car … nothing … no evidence to link her to the killings. Masterson is frustrated as hell.”

“Have they found the fifth woman?”

“Negative,” chimed in Jim.

“Is the suspect a milk truck driver?”

“No, she’s a customer service rep in a call center, but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t have gotten a hold of some delivery forms,” said Fredrickson.

“Does Masterson think we have been chasing the wrong killer this whole time? Who else could it be?” Chip asked.