A bllind eye, p.3
A Bllind Eye, page 3
“Bellows know about this?” I asked.
Porter shrugged, raising his reading glasses to the top of his head. “Don’t know. It just came through from Park Service. Thought we should know.”
Porter handed me a stack of reports that looked as if they came over a fax machine. I filtered through them, unsure of what I would find.
“How could this be related to my case?” I said. “Two vics, with one being an adult . . .”
Porter held steady, blank stare.
“My investigation involves only young girls.” I shook my head. “Help me understand this.”
“Whatever may be the case,” Porter interjected, “they have two missing and you have three dead.” He stood from his desk, walked in front of it and leaned on the edge, arms folded across his chest. This time, he wasn’t smiling. I knew Porter didn’t believe in coincidences but he didn’t draw conclusions without all the facts either. “Right now, let’s do a forensic examination of the hotel room and support the search efforts throughout the area. My guess is they’re fine, maybe lost, somewhere. In the end, everyone comes home safe.”
I heard his words but they didn’t sound reassuring.
“Since you’re already there,” Porter said, “I need you to take lead on the search.
“I have a serial murder investigation, Frank.”
“I’ll get you help. Two, maybe three days, tops.”
I nodded, understanding this wasn’t a request. “Right.”
I headed out of his office. The bullpen was empty, everyone was out covering leads. Beatriz shuffled between cubicles, tossing file folders and electronic communications on desks. Reports that need to be corrected, new cases being assigned, old ones being closed, or maybe just reminders to update their timecards.
I stepped up to my desk. Boxes of evidence, notes, and case files were stacked four high to my right. My area consisted of light blue walls, light blue book shelves and a light blue chair. Matching and modular. Stamped on the side of every piece of furniture were the words, Made in Leavenworth, Kansas. How appropriate. The modern-day work prison.
Slumping into my chair, all fingers intertwined, I sat in my cubby feeling uneasy. I rarely found myself here, opting to be out in the field where the real work existed. A thin layer of dust covered my desk with the exception of a spot where papers had once been stacked, looking like the chalk outline around a body. My eyes focused out the glass window that looked out onto the front gate thinking about Jenkins and now, another new case. Funny, I thought. It was a beautiful day.
Someone spoke, a woman’s voice. Special Agent Heather Geonetta was leaning against my cubicle wall. She tossed a two-finger salute. “What’s going on, gunslinger?”
She always had a way with words.
I tipped my head, threw her back a similar salute. “Same as always. Laundry, mowing, crossword puzzles . . . hunting serial killers.”
Geonetta nodded matter-of-factly. “Yeah, me too.”
I liked she had a sense of humor.
Special Agent Geonetta was fairly new, both to the bureau and the Sacramento Division. In her mid-twenties, five-five and a half (but always saying, five-six when asked), thick blonde hair brushed against the shoulders of a black sport jacket. She had an athletic build. Young, attractive, in great shape. Probably could run a mile in under six minutes. I hated her for that. Aggressive—but in a good way—Geonetta had helped me in past cases and I could tell that’s why she was here now. The first time we worked together was in response to a bank robbery in downtown Sacramento. She was on the job less than a year and in need of validation from us old guys. She was the FNG (Fucking New Guy). And like all FNGs, it was a tradition; to gain respect, you got to earn it. Geonetta was no exception. She came screaming up in her Crown Vic, lights flashing, sirens blaring. Just like on TV. Terry Keenan was the PD detective on scene. I’d worked a lot of cases over the years with Keenan, a good guy, quick-witted and a real ball buster. He started chuckling under his breath, the feds again trying to corner the market on drama. Geonetta jumped out of her ride, held up her badge high and commanded, “FBI, we got this!” More laughs from the responding uniforms. A shit-eating grin from Keenan.
“Fuckin’ feds,” Keenan whispered loud enough for my ears only.
I pulled her aside, a little annoyed, a lot embarrassed. “You know the robbery’s over,” I said.
She held onto a lost expression for as long as she could before a tight-lipped grin overtook her face, one that said, Gotcha!
I looked over at Keenan, his shoulders rolling from laughter, barely able to breathe. The uniforms gathered around Geonetta and took her by the shoulders, like she was part of theirs, not one of mine. She crossed her arms, leaned against the group and held a smile.
“Dude,” Keenan said. “Hook, line and sinker.”
I had to admit; they got me good. And she did, too.
After we finished at the crime scene, I took her, Keenan, and a couple of the straight-legged uniforms out after for drinks, my penance for being a sucker. From that moment on, Geonetta proved herself worthy and no longer the FNG.
“So, I hear you have another victim.”
“Victims.” I shrugged, holding up three fingers. “Plural.”
“Related?”
I shrugged again.
“Bet you could use some help.”
“Was that a question?”
Geonetta smiled, rolled a chair to my side of the cubicle and sat. “Frank assigned me as your co-case agent on the missing tourists.”
He could have told me when I was in his office.
“Media is already reporting on it, saying it looks suspicious,” she added.
It was becoming apparent the case was taking on legs. This was more than just an assist to the local authority. If this case was going to be O&A’d, meaning opened and assigned, Porter was going to want more than a forensic exam. He’s going to want a significant amount of time focused on it to see if there is a link between the two investigations. If that were the case, I could use the help.
“Welcome aboard,” I said.
“Let me deal with the missing tourists, give you time to focus on your serial-murderer. If there’s a connection, I’ll find it.”
Connection. I didn’t want it to be true. But I couldn’t discount it.
Geonetta reached around the cubicle wall and retrieved a file folder, a couple of inches thick. She pulled a few notes from the top and started reading.
“I already called Mariposa County Sheriff’s,” she said.
I craned back toward Porter’s office and saw him watching the two of us, seeing how I’d react to my new partner. Porter sharpened his stare, which made it clear: It’s a done deal. Now get to work.
“Spoke to the responding deputy,” Geonetta continued, ignoring my momentary distraction. “Said they interviewed the janitorial staff at the Mountain View lodge and took photos of the room.” Her fingers sped down the page until she hit the bottom. “He did say their luggage was still there, including the daughter’s medication, something she needs daily.”
Strange. Why leave without your meds, especially if you’re planning on being gone for an extended period of time? Unless it was unplanned . . .
“The weather is pretty bad up there,” I suggested. “Accident, maybe?”
Geonetta pursed her lips. Instincts assumed differently. “They found blood in the bathroom.”
That changed everything. I sat up in my chair, collected the paperwork from her hands and pored over the notes. “Where’s Hoskin?”
“I called him,” she replied. Said to meet us at the Mariposa Sheriff’s.” Geonetta took back the notes and returned them to her file. “I’m not saying this is related to your killings but don’t you think it’s a bit coincidental?”
“I don’t believe in coincidences.” I didn’t want to admit it, even if I agreed.
“Neither do I,” she said, “but I wouldn’t bet against it, either.” Geonetta stood. “I’m going home to pack. Should be in Yosemite by nightfall.”
I said I’d meet her there. She shoved the folder under her arm before heading out. I fell back into my chair, thinking about Amanda Jenkins, the two before her, and how a newly reported missing persons case might have more in common than I wanted. The worst thing that can happen in a murder investigation is to have more victims. Today, things got worse. As I always did in the past, I picked up the phone to let Emily know I wouldn’t be coming home.
But then I remembered: there wasn’t anyone to call.
Chapter 5
Tuesday February 19th – 12:15 p.m.
Mariposa County Sheriff’s Department –
Detective Bellows’ Office
Hal Bellows
Bellows stood inside a cramped office, staring at a wall covered in glossy snapshots. Half were high school portraits, the other half a stark contrast of crime scene photos. Innocent eyes staring back before tragedy crossed their paths. It was the only reason why their faces hung on the murder board.
He had just returned from the Jenkins’ crime scene, finishing up what he had left pending the day prior. Bellows opened a well-worn black leather satchel, pulled out a stack of papers and began to read. He jotted notes on a stack of Post-it stickers and slapped them onto his montage of related murders, his morbid mural of once-living faces. He stepped back, gaze held steady on the large corkboard with dozens of Polaroids, dog-eared and marked, pinned in sequential order, depicting a chronology of events that ended with a body recovery. It was frustrating to know that the photos, when placed together, completed a puzzle, revealing possible clues to a person who hungered for young girls. Just not enough to see the killer’s face.
Bellows rubbed the weathered skin along his jaw line. The stubble on his face scuffed like sandpaper. He cleared his throat with a growl sounding like a Harley stuck in low gear. Trying to make sense of this mess, he turned away, tried clear his mind. His gaze caught sight of a new folder lying on his desk.
They arrive like uninvited guests.
It was placed on top of the stacks of other files left unaddressed because of the current crisis. His secretary had typed a label, which was neatly affixed to the edge of the folder. SAMUELS, Maria—Missing Person 1. He tilted his head a little more and caught sight of the other one: SAMUELS, Judith (Juvenile)—Missing Person 2. Bellows sharpened his focus before pushing his chair away and shutting his eyes.
They keep coming, don’t they?
He took another deep breath, forced himself to return his attention to his most recent murder. Again, he reached into his satchel and removed a few pictures stuffed in a small white envelope and began sorting them in order of importance. He began pinning them on the murder board next to a 3 x 5 card with the name of his last victim, thick black lettering which read, “Amanda Jenkins—Victim 3.”
Graphic shots of Amanda’s body in every angle, laid out and posted like a clinical examination at med school. As they were hung, Bellows analyzed each one, hoping to discover some tiny detail that went undetected during the initial search. There was a thin folder that contained close-ups of two notes recovered from his victims. He tacked these too on the board, beneath each body where they were found. He knew better than to post the notes permanently. Too many people came and went from his office; he’d rather not share sensitive evidence like this with just anyone. Not even with other law enforcement officers. But he needed to see them with their victims. Removing the one found on Amanda’s body, he compared it with the other two. Bellows aligned the words with each note, illustrating a near-perfect match. Every letter written in the same style, same size, same words. Nothing unusual about the paper, which appeared to be from a medium stock, recycled pulp, similar to high-volume notepads sold to commercial businesses or government offices. Maybe even a public school. Three sides of the note retrieved from Amanda’s body had been folded and torn, leaving a straight but rough edge. One side cut clean, indicating it was from the bottom or edge of the sheet.
Bellows stepped back from the board, trying to absorb all the facts in front of him, never taking his eyes off the pictorial of bodies. One by one, he noted the similarities: all filthy, smudged with dirt and grease; loose hay embedded in their clothing. Malnourished. Killed by a blow to the head. Blunt force trauma. He sat down in his office chair and the spring squealed, the supports straining under Bellows’ weight. He pushed off with one foot; the metal wheels slowly inched their way backward across the aged linoleum floor before coming to a stop, three feet from his original starting point. It allowed for an expanded view of the entire wall. Bellows rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, hands cupped in front of his mouth. He studied them in silence.
Then he read the names out loud, penned under each portrait. “Rene Walker—Victim 1, Anna Marie Taylor—Victim 2, Amanda Jenkins—Victim 3.”
Bellows turned, looked at the missing persons folders again then back at the murder board, wondering if he was investigating one case or two. He felt the rush of a cold draft roll past his neck like cascading ice water. The window was closed. Bellows turned his attention back toward the murder board, squinted and whispered to the passing chill, “All right. Tell me . . . who’s next?”
Chapter 6
Tuesday February 18th – 10:07 p.m.
By the time I made it to Mariposa, the sun had dipped behind the tree line. It didn’t take long to locate the only motel chain in town: Best Western. Their bright sign shared a pole with the local Chevron gas station. The whole city center was about the size of a small strip mall.
I parked in the vacant lot and pushed through the front glass door. A bell chimed. The lobby was dimly lit, the manager watching a game show on TV. Five minutes and I was registered, handed a keycard to a room in the building around back. The manager returned to his game show and I left to call Geonetta, who told me she had already checked in and was on her way to the Mountain View lodge to meet Hoskin and the ERT crew. I told her I’d be there shortly.
“Room 233,” I said to myself. Staring at the brass numbers pinned at eye level, I fumbled for the key card to unlock the door.
I stepped in, kicked on the lights and got my first glimpse of the accommodations. The room was decorated with a vintage ’60s table lamp, what you’d expect to find in a small quaint town. Basically, a small box with a double bed and two wooden nightstands. The off-white walls, dark furniture, and muted yellow light bathed the space in a golden Las Vegas tint. There was a coffee maker and three packs of pre-measured pouches neatly arranged on the counter top, TV the size of a mini-fridge. No Ritz-Carlton but it was clean. Most likely, this going to be my home for the foreseeable future. I felt exhausted.
I tossed my suitcase on the bed and dug out a pair of boots and my winter jacket, took my Glock from my briefcase and holstered the sidearm before heading to the car. It had been raining hard most of the drive in. The rain had stopped and the air had started to freeze, feeling like crystalline needles prickling at my face. I slid the key into the ignition and the vehicle barked back to life. The wipers scraped slush off the windshield.
“Two missing tourists and three murdered kids.” I needed to hear the words.
I drove out of the parking lot, turned up a path of glassy, white ice surrounded by black air. I was about twenty minutes from the Mountain View Lodge. I took in my surroundings and imagined the Samuels right here, at this spot, in the same weather conditions. Gloomy and unfamiliar. On a cold and dark winter night along a deserted road, anything could happen. A truck could veer across the dividing line for a head-on, a deer could jump out from a fog bank. A tree could fall in my path. Maybe Maria Samuels and her daughter would miraculously stumble out from a clearing. Wouldn’t that be something?
Like I said, anything could happen.
Chapter 7
Tuesday February 18th - 10:59 p.m.
Mountain View Lodge
It took thirty minutes.
The lodge was sprawling. Rows of buildings stacked neatly along a tree-studded hillside. Lights twinkled in a neat row. The place possessed a rustic look that made it resemble a hunting lodge. Clusters of tall redwoods framed the entire complex and a mountain stream snaked parallel to the road. The air roared with the sound of rushing icy waters from high above to the valley floor. Snowmelt on a massive scale. Whitewater pounded against granite, and a cold hazy mist hung heavy in the night air. Most of the complex was dark but aluminum pole floodlights lit up an area around an opened door. I nosed the Crown Vic forward, heading toward the light. Out front, I could clearly see six FBI agents erecting equipment and draping tarps. The numbers “309” appeared prominently outside the room where the agents stood. Yellow tape separated the area from the rest of the lodge, a command to keep the general public far away. I pulled up to a stall about twenty-five yards away, where three black Suburban SUVs were already parked. It was obvious they were Bureau vehicles—lots of antennas, darkened windows and a large white number embossed on the back lift gate. I recognized Geonetta’s car next to the SUVs. On the other side of the parking lot were two sheriff’s vehicles. A deputy stood talking on a cell phone.
I stepped out of my car, threw an FBI plaque on the dash, and headed over to an agent by the name of Dave Minacci, who was guarding the perimeter. He was part of the Evidence Response Team. I didn’t know him but knew about him. Dave was new to the team but not to devastation. Before joining the bureau, he was a Marine, did two tours in Afghanistan, another in Syria with the Kurds.
