Already dead, p.15
Already Dead, page 15
Floyd waved her off.
“I’m fine, seriously. But I will need Martin’s address.”
“That’s easy. He lives here.”
“What?”
Margaret nodded.
“Volunteers can stay over if they want—and they always get a bunk. Martin spends most of his time here.”
Margaret thought she was being helpful, but this was bad news for Floyd. There was no way Martin was coming back.
“Hey, who's that?” Steve asked. He was pointing at the pile of stuff that Floyd had pulled out of his pocket.
“What?”
“That photograph—” Steve began but Margaret interrupted him.
“Is that Henry?” she asked.
Floyd grabbed the photo. It was the one that Chase had taken from the frame at Roger’s house. He must have grabbed them from her at the hospital, even though he didn’t remember doing so.
“You know this guy?”
“Of course,” Margaret said. “I know them both—Roger and Henry.” She squinted and leaned closer. “You know what? I think I know her, too.”
Floyd was flabbergasted.
He’d come here looking for someone who knew the woman who had attacked Chase, not the girl in Roger’s and Henry’s photo.
“Sure, Henry and Roger volunteer here, and I'm pretty sure—yeah, she was here, too.”
Floyd rubbed his brow.
“What do you mean by here? She was also a volunteer?”
“No, she was a guest.”
Guest.
It took Floyd a second to understand; the girl in the photo was using the shelter.
“Wait—both Henry and Roger volunteer here?”
“Yeah. Mostly Henry because Roger is looking after the store.”
“The electronics store?” Floyd asked.
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Any idea why they would be in a photo together? Were they friends, or…?”
“No clue,” Steve replied, and Floyd looked to Margaret.
“I don’t know. Like I said before, I’m usually in the office most days. Oh, but because they volunteer, I have their addresses if you want to go talk to them.”
Floyd made a face.
“Except one is—” he stopped cold. She didn’t know. Neither Steve nor Margaret knew that Roger was dead.
“Hmm?” Margaret asked.
“N-n-nothing.” Floyd was suddenly having difficulty swallowing. “I c-c-c-can f-find their addresses. Th-thanks.”
Margaret stepped toward him and once again touched his arm.
“Floyd, let me look at your arm in the office. Just to make sure.”
Floyd pulled his arm free.
What would Tate do? Tate would double down. He wouldn’t let this bother him. Most of all, he’d do his fucking job.
“I said, I’m fine. If M-Martin stays here, does he have any be-belongings?”
“I’ll go get them,” Steve offered.
Margaret and Floyd waited silently for Steve to return. He felt bad for her—she seemed like a nice woman who wanted to help—but Floyd was concerned that if he said anything not directly related to the case, he would break down again.
Steve came shambling back with a garbage bag in one hand.
No wonder Martin got away. The man has two left feet and emphysema.
“This is—”
Floyd grabbed the bag and immediately dumped the contents right there on the ground. There was an opened pack of cigarettes, a toothbrush, a novel—Tell Me Where She’s Buried—a few articles of dirty clothes, and a bottle of pills.
No hunting knife. No photos.
Floyd picked up the bottle of pills.
“Valacyclovir?” he read out loud.
“That’s herpes meds,” Steve blurted and then he started to blush. “I-I get cold sores.”
That sounded like a lie.
Floyd wasn’t sure why, but he had an inkling to keep the pills.
“I’m going to hold on to these.” In case Margaret had a mind to complain, he added, “If Martin comes looking for them, just let me know.”
“I would but I need your number.”
Floyd passed her one of his business cards.
“If Martin comes back, please call me. And th-thank you.”
He was surprised to discover that his hand wasn’t shaking. That all changed when he got back to his car.
Chapter 35
“Where are you going?”
Chase, who was in the process of slipping on her jacket, turned around. She was surprised, and a little annoyed, to see Floyd standing in the doorway of her hospital room.
“I’m—” she noticed two large stains, one on either thigh. “What happened to you?”
“Long story, which I thought I’d have time to tell you because you’re supposed to be here for another three days.”
Chase grimaced.
“I’m not sticking around here.”
“Chase, you can't—”
“I swear, if one more person tells me what I can or cannot do, I’m going to blow a fucking gasket.”
Chase took one step then winced and grabbed her collarbone.
Floyd reached for her, but she waved him away.
“I’m fine.”
Floyd looked as if he was going to argue, but then he shook his head.
“I heard,” he sighed deeply, “I heard she woke up.”
Chase nodded.
“She woke up all right. She woke up and then tried to kill herself again.”
“You can't be serious.”
“You know me, always with the jokes.”
Chase zipped her coat and searched the room to make sure she had all of her belongings.
“You said tried? Is she still—”
The door behind Floyd opened. Chase expected either Audrey or Dr. Heinlin, but it was neither.
“Tate?” Floyd said.
Special Agent Tate Abernathy looked at Chase, then Floyd, and then back at Chase.
“What in the fuck is goin’ on here?” he asked. And now Chase and Floyd were exchanging glances. “Lucy, you've got some 'splaining to do!”
Neither Chase nor Floyd so much as smiled and Tate dropped the accent.
“Let’s go have a drink,” he suggested.
Floyd scoffed and Chase knew what her partner was thinking: that it was a ludicrous idea given what she’d been through. But Chase thought differently.
She thought it was a splendid idea.
“Sounds good. Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
***
It took three pints and forty minutes for Floyd and Chase to share their stories. For the most part, Tate remained silent, only interjecting on a handful of occasions. When it became his turn to speak, Tate took a long haul of his beer and licked the foam from his mustache.
“Well, well, well… I wish my tale was half as exciting as yours, but it ain’t. I did get to break up a fight at a funeral, spoke to a public servant who spent hours cleaning the smell out of their bus, which, by the way, carried Dr. Griffith’s murderer from Charleston to Columbus. Then I—”
“Wait, the girl who killed Dr. Griffith came from here?” Chase cut in. “From Charleston?”
“That is correct,” Tate confirmed. “But wait, I’m not done yet.” He drank some more beer before continuing. “I drove to Portsmouth and met an officer there who told me about a case. A case involving a dumbass drug dealer and a particularly odoriferous woman who killed him and then killed herself. Maybe.”
“Drug dealer?” Chase asked, trying to understand how this was relevant to their current investigation.
“Yeah, illiterate drug dealer. Tried to steal Vicodin and got Valacyclovir—herpes meds—instead.”
Floyd suddenly sat bolt upright. His knee jostled the table and Chase’s beer wobbled.
“Sorry—what did he steal?”
“Val-acy-clo-vir,” Tate said, pronouncing every syllable.
Floyd reached into his pocket and pulled out a prescription bottle and placed it on the table.
“Coincidence?”
Chase leaned forward and read the label.
“Where did you get this from?” she asked.
“The cook who burned my legs and ran away as soon as he saw the picture of the girl who had attacked you, Chase. This was in his belongings.”
“Well, I'm not much for coincidences,” Tate offered. “But if this—” he indicated the pill bottle, “—is connected, I would like to know how.”
“Henry Saburra,” Chase said without hesitation. “That’s the connection.”
“What do you mean?” Floyd asked.
“Henry worked at the homeless shelter, his partner was murdered, and I was attacked outside his store. And I wouldn’t be surprised if the DNA comes back, and we find out the girl in the picture with Roger and Henry is the same one in the morgue.”
As this comment hung in the air, they all sipped their respective drinks.
“Why were you attacked, Chase?” Tate asked. “What makes you so special?”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
Despite her reply, Tate had raised a good point. Chase’s attack didn’t jive with the Henry connection, aside from the location. A more glaring inconsistency, however, was the white dress and its link to Brian Jalston.
Chase elected to keep this last part to herself. Once she figured out how that all fit in with things, then she would share.
Maybe.
“Speaking of lucky,” Tate began, “my old partner Con told me once that when people were being killed all around you, it didn’t make you lucky. It made you—”
“The culprit,” Chase finished for him.
Tate grinned.
“You got it. So, let’s finish our beers and visit the culprit, then, shall we?”
Chapter 36
“You want to do the talking?” Tate asked as the three of them stood in front of Henry Saburra’s home.
“Yeah, I'll do the talking.”
Chase glanced at Floyd who appeared nervous but was keeping it together. She gave him an encouraging nod before knocking on the door. When she heard nothing from inside, she tried the bell.
“Maybe he’s at E-Tronics?” Floyd offered.
The mention of the electronics store made Chase frown.
“When’s Roger’s funeral?”
“Two days,” Tate said.
“Well, if we can't find Henry before that, I’m sure—”
Chase was cut off by the sound of her phone buzzing. She took it out of her pocket, looked at it, and then held up a finger.
“I'll be right back. Tate, try the bell again.”
Chase walked halfway to her car and answered the call.
“Terrence? Do you have the list of Brian’s visitors?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
“Yeah,” Terrence replied.
“And? Can you send it?”
“I'll send it,” he said after clearing his throat. “But that's not why I called.”
Chase's eyes narrowed.
“He didn’t get out early, did he? That bastard—”
“No, he's not out. But…”
Chase didn’t have the patience nor the time for this.
“But what, Terrence? Please, I'm busy.”
“But you're going to get a subpoena.”
“A subpoena? For what? For what happened in the visitor room? I barely—”
“For Georgina,” Terrence said.
What?
Chase could feel an uncomfortable throbbing in her neck in the area where she’d been stabbed.
“What do you mean, Georgina?” she demanded, fighting a sudden dizzy spell. Chase wasn’t sure if this was a result of her injuries or if it was all in her head.
“Chase, I’m sorry, but Brian is seeking custody of Georgina.”
Chase's vision went dark. She stumbled and was about to go down when Floyd caught her.
“Chase, what’s happening? You okay?”
Chase shook free of Floyd and forced her body straight, grinding her jaw to keep the darkness at bay.
“Chase?” It was Terrence calling her name this time.
“I'm here,” she whispered, gesturing for Floyd to leave her alone. “I'm here.”
“Right, and did you hear what I said? A friend in family court gave me the head’s up that Brian is seeking full custody of your niece.”
Chase couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“This is a joke, right?”
“No, it's not a joke.”
“How is this possible?” Chase snapped. “How is this fucking possible? Brian kidnapped and raped my sister. And now he wants the baby?”
“Chase, take it easy,” Floyd said, trying to comfort her. She shot him a look and he backed off.
“I'm just the messenger, Chase.”
“He's in prison for raping and kidnapping those women!” Her voice faltered. “Don’t tell me he has a shot at this. Terrence, don’t tell me that there’s any chance Brian can get my Georgina!”
There was a short pause before Terrence said, “I'm no lawyer, Chase—I don't know what kind of chance he's got. But he is the biological father, and even though he did kidnap those girls and probably raped them, that's not what he was in prison for.”
Chase threw her head skyward as she remembered what Terrence had said in Tennessee. About Brian’s plea deal, about how none of the women would testify against him. And about how they continued to visit him in prison.
Chase’s frantic mind then settled on another idea. The notion that if she hadn’t gone to see Brian, none of this would have happened. That her visiting him, using her sister and niece’s name, had inspired the man to go after Georgina.
“Fuck,” she said.
Tears threatened to spill over, but she forced them away with a hard swallow and a severe blink.
“I'll send you the list of visitors, Chase. I feel like I keep saying this, but I'm sorry.”
“I'm sorry, too,” she said and then hung up the phone. “I’m sorry I didn’t fucking kill the bastard when I had the chance.”
Chase closed her eyes and tried to stretch her neck. Not only was her wound throbbing but it was cramping up, as well.
She opened her eyes and discovered that her two colleagues were staring at her.
If either Floyd or Tate had spoken at that moment, Chase might have lost it. It wouldn’t matter if they said something like, what happened or are you okay, if they’d said anything at all, she would have either collapsed into a puddle or become violent. Either option was equally as likely.
But they didn't.
They just stared and Chase stared back.
Until the phone in her hand rang again.
She quickly answered it.
“Terrence?”
“I'm sorry, is this Agent Adams?”
It wasn't Terrence, it was a voice she didn't recognize.
“Who is this?” Her first thought was that it was a lawyer, trying to get a hold of her to tell her that her niece, the one whom she’d legally adopted, was about to be reclaimed by her serial rapist and pedophile father.
“It's Dr. Woodley.”
“Who?” Chase thought she’d misheard. “Dr. Heinlin?”
“No,” the man on the other end of the line said hesitantly. “Dr. Woodley. The Medical Examiner. You came in a few days ago with the… vagrant?”
Chase understood now.
“Did the DNA results come back?”
“That’s what I’m calling you about. The results came back, but no match. Whoever the person who donated the hairbrush is, it’s not the same one as the girl in the morgue.”
“Shit.” There goes that theory. “What about toxicology?”
“That came back, too.”
“And?”
“I doubt this is relevant, but—”
“But what? What did you find?”
Dr. Woodley cleared his throat.
“Very high levels of acyclovir and L-valine. Abnormally high.”
“Did you say, valacyclovir?”
“No—acyclovir. It’s the active metabolite of valacyclovir. So is L-valine. It’s used to treat herpes, but I see no evidence of an outbreak.”
Chase scratched the back of her neck, and this time her eyes met Tate’s.
“Thanks.”
“Wait, one more thing,” Dr. Woodley said quickly.
“What?”
“The Horvath clock test results also came in.”
“The what?”
“The methylation of the DNA… to determine her age?”
Chase closed her eyes.
“How old is she?”
Chase cringed in anticipation of the answer.
“Between fifteen and eight years of age.”
Fuck.
“Okay. Thanks again.”
She hung up.
“That was the ME,” Chase said. “Our murderer had high levels of the herpes drug in her system when she died. And she was a teenager.”
Tate opened his mouth, then closed it again without speaking. Chase was certain that he wanted to ask about the first call but was either dissuaded by her stern expression or frightened by it.
Floyd spoke up instead.
“Another connection,” he said absently. “But what does it mean? Please, can anyone tell this ju-ju-junior agent what any of this shit means?”
Chapter 37
Tate hung up the phone and looked at Chase.
“Confirmed. The murderer in Columbus also had valacyclovir metabolites in her system.”
Chase wasn't surprised.
“What about the girl who killed the drug dealer?”
Tate made a face.
“I don't know, and I doubt that Officer Connors in Portsmouth would be willing to pay for toxicology.”
Based on Tate’s tone, Chase got the impression that Officer Connors, whoever that was, would be unwilling to speak to Tate again, as well, but it didn’t matter.
“First order of business, find Henry. We can’t wait two days for the funeral.”
I can’t wait.
“I can go back to the electronics store, see if he’s working,” Floyd suggested.
Chase didn’t like the idea of leaving Floyd alone, especially to go searching for a man who just lost his partner, but they had to divide and conquer. The only other option was—
