“This is now officially a crime scene,” the sergeant said tightly. “Call it in.” He turned toward Sabello. “And then,” he added, his eyes turning to John, “take this man into custody for questioning.”
John’s eyes went wide. He opened his mouth to protest, but the sergeant cut him off.
“You have the right to remain silent . . .” he warned John.
John closed his mouth. It was not as if he had anything potentially incriminating to say; he knew that he was innocent of anything but being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Shit, he thought silently. Not even that. I’m supposed to be here. It’s my job!
“Called in, sir,” Sabello said. “Team’s on their way.”
The sergeant nodded and then gestured toward John. “Take him down to the car,” he said. “I‘ll be right there.”
Sabello reached toward her cuffs, but hesitated. She looked questioningly toward the sergeant. The sergeant looked at John with a fiercely pointed expression. John lifted his hands slowly away from the vicinity of his belt, but made no move to place them behind him.
The sergeant shook his head slightly the Sabello. Her hand moved away from her cuffs and gestured John toward the front door. John glanced at the sergeant, who returned his look with an iron stare, and headed for the door.
He tried to look casual as he made his way down the stairs.
After all, he told himself, there’s nothing all that unusual about a security officer being seen with a police officer.
He was, however, uncomfortably aware of the female officer close at his back. He also knew that the charade would only last until they shut him into the backseat of the patrol car. Someone might think that they were just giving him a lift somewhere, but it was unlikely that was the conclusion that most people would come to.
I could lose my fucking job for this, he realized. And I didn’t do anything!
He tried to imagine explaining it to his supervisor.
Shit, he realized. I should call it in.
Waiting next to the patrol car for Sabello to open the door for him, he wondered whether he should dare ask her for permission to report in. He partly hoped that, if he did, she would not grant it, for he could not figure out any way to explain it that sounded even remotely rational.
“Um,” John said. Sabello turned to him, questioningly. “My car,” he said, nodding in the direction where it was illegally parked in front of the trash dumpster. “My supervisor will get pretty pissed if it gets towed.”
The female officer’s face broke into a smile. John saw that she was even prettier than he had originally thought.
“I’ll take care of it,” she told him. “You have the keys?”
John nodded.
He waited, for some reason expecting her to remove them from his belt herself. The prospect of having her be that close to him was definitely appealing. Instead, she held out her hand. Masking his disappointment, he reached down and unfastened the keys from his belt. He dropped them carefully onto her open palm.
#
Neither officer spoke to him during the drive to the main police station. John noticed that they did not say much to each other, either. He wondered if that was typical, or the result of him being in the backseat. John suspected, though, the sergeant was probably not particularly chatty even on the best of days.
After parking the patrol car near the entrance—a perk, John guessed, of bringing in a passenger. They escorted him into the building, earning him a few curious glances. Had he been cuffed and not in uniform, John wondered whether he would have been the subject of more or fewer looks.
“Run his records,” the sergeant told Sabello. John wondered why they had not requested that while they were en route, so that they would be waiting when they arrived. “I’ll join you shortly.”
Sabello gestured down a hallway to their left. John saw a series of enclosed booths on each side. The doors to most of them were closed, but light leaked out from only a few.
“Eight,” Sabello said.
John checked the signs mounted next to each doorway. With white letters etched into plastic wood grain surface, many of them were cracked or chipped. John suspected that they had probably been installed when the building was first completed. Room Eight was the second booth from the end of the corridor on the right.
Sabello reached inside it and checked the lights. They flickered on. At least one of the tubes continued to pulse erratically even after it had warmed up. Sabello paused in the doorway, preventing John from entering it.
“Are you sure you don’t want an attorney present?”
John hesitated. He knew that he had done nothing wrong—and that he was in no way involved in these strange murders. Being completely innocent of any wrongdoing here, he could not see how he could say anything that might incriminate him. That thought, though, brought forth a not wholly unexpected wave of resentment toward the sergeant.
Why didn’t he just ask me there? John wondered angrily. Why go through all this official crap?
“We’ll see,” he told Sabello.
Sabello nodded. “I understand.”
John knew that he could stop at any time during the questioning and ask for one. It would probably annoy the sergeant, he knew, but he suspected that the older officer was a stickler for protocol. As it was, John could only think of two attorneys that he knew—and neither of them came cheap. He was not even sure that one of them had not finally retired. The last he had heard, his daughter had taken over his business—and was charging even more.
Sabello allowed him to pass and gestured toward the table. It looked to be about the same original vintage as the door signs. Four metal, mismatched chairs were also present in the small room. Two of them were positioned on one side of the table, with a single one on the opposite side. The fourth chair was shoved into a corner. The room was cold and smelled faintly of lightly oiled metal.
John entered and moved to the single chair at the table. He pulled it out and sat down, but did not slide it back so that he was actually seated at the table. Sabello remained at the doorway, occasionally glancing up and down the corridor, apparently looking for signs of the sergeant’s return. John could see the change in her expression when she spied him. Her dark eyes lost a little of their shine and her expression transformed into something more guarded.
The sergeant appeared in the doorway carrying a short stack of folders and loose papers. He entered, placed the stack on the table, and then sat down. Sabello closed the door, but, to John’s surprise, remained standing, positioned next to it.
“It looks like you have a little bit of a history, Mr. Reiter,” the sergeant said, opening one of the folders. “Illegal possession of a firearm . . . illegal possession of a controlled substance . . .”
John’s cheeks begin to burn. His stomach twisted into a knot tight enough that he nearly winced. He felt a drained, leaving him suddenly hollow inside. He knew about the charges, of course, but they were years in the past—one when he was still a minor. Still, he could see that it would not help redeem him in the eyes of the sergeant. He began to reconsider the option of having an attorney present . . .
“That was—” he began.
“Some time ago,” the sergeant interrupted him. “Yes.”
John had to look away from the older officer’s piercing gaze. Looking to Sabello, he found not comfort there. She refused to meet his eyes.
So much for any chance of a date there now.
The movement of the sergeant’s chair brought John back to the moment. He sat up straight up in the chair, staring hard to John.
“I have reports here that place you at the scenes of four other unusual deaths,” he tapped the stack of folders on the table in front of him.
John looked down at the folders, finding it hard to swallow.
“I had nothing to do with it!” he protested, his voice rising more loudly than he intended. Taking a quick breath, he tried again. “I don’t make my schedule,” he explained. “My supervisor does.”
The sergeant eyed him skeptically.
“Honest!”
The sergeant exchanged a glance with Sabello.
“Check it out,” he told her.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, and quickly left out of the room.
The sergeant turned back to stare at John. He felt suddenly very vulnerable alone in the small room with officer. He did not believe that the sergeant would deliberately rough him up; the veteran officer seemed too honorable for that. Yet, John had seen that dark anger in the man’s eyes back at the apartment after he had opened the gym bag.
And accidents happen . . .
“There’s a certain amount of truth,” the sergeant began, “to the saying that criminals return to the scene of their crimes.”
He spoke carefully, almost like he was presenting a preamble to a classroom lecture. John watched him warily. He had heard the saying, of course. Some of the textbooks from his Administration of Justice courses even suggested that it might be true—although there was much debate on the matter, depending on the type of crime involved. Serial killers, for example, were among those who often did.
“So you can see how I might be more than just a tad suspicious that you have been on the scene of, according the records now, five of these deaths.”
“Those can’t be the only deaths in the entire county,” John argued.
This outburst earned him a sardonic look from the sergeant that clearly said, “Thou doth clearly protest too much”.
“I didn’t even know those people,” he offered weakly.
It was true. Even now, he did know the name of the dead woman in the parking garage or the man in the expensive house. Their names were probably in the official records, but he had never bothered to learn them.
The sergeant said nothing, but continued to stare at her.
Great, John thought. He thinks I’m some kind of random serial killer.
John shut up. Not because he had anything to hide, but because he could not think of a damned thing to say that might convince the sergeant of his innocence. He just stared in the direction of the sergeant, but avoided looking at him directly. The sergeant read through the folders again, his eyes occasionally glancing up at John. Something in his expression, though, told John that the sergeant was not finding what he was looking for in the files.
The silence between them was interrupted by Sabello’s return. John did not know how long she had been gone, but he was certain that it was much less time than it had felt like. She entered the room and handed the sergeant a short stack of printouts. He read through them quickly and then looked up at Sabello for an explanation.
“He’s telling the truth,” she said. “As far as I can tell.”
She closed the door and leaned against the frame. Her gaze, when it went to John, had lost some of its earlier harshness.
“Their system is semi-automated,” she went on. “Officers without regular assignments are automatically assigned to open patrols based on seniority and a few other factors. The supervisors can manually override it, but I don’t see any of those for his recent assignments.”
The sergeant read over the report again. His expression told John that he was forced to believe Sabello’s explanation.
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he responded tightly. “Not this many of them.”
He rose from the table, paced for a moment along the far wall of the room, and then turned back to John.
“And you swear that you knew none of the victims?”
“None of them,” John replied. “I’d never even been to some of those sites before.”
“A frame up?” Sabello offered. “Could someone be trying to set you up?”
John looked up at up, startled by the idea. Before he could reason it out, though, the sergeant interrupted him.
“It’s too complex,” the sergeant said. “And there’s nothing other than his presence to implicate him in any of the deaths.”
He turned and studied John again. He was silent for several long moments. It went on long enough that both John and Sabello began to grow uneasy.
“There’s got to be a connection here,” he said, “between you and these deaths.”
He had that look, John thought, of someone who has the word they want on the tip of their tongue, but cannot quite remember it.
Sabello looked dubious, but apparently had enough respect for the sergeant not to voice her opinion aloud.
Or least, John decided, not in front of a civilian.
While he wore a uniform, John knew that he was not truly part of that community. He saw in the sergeant’s eyes a mixture of frustration and determination. How much of it was directed at him, John was not sure.
The sergeant dropped the sheets on top of the folders already stacked on the table.
“Release him,” he told Sabello. “Give him a ride back to his car. Clear him with his company.”
“Yes, sir.”
She looked relieved, John thought. Stepping back, she opened the door and waited for him to get up from behind the table. As he stood, John became aware of heavily he had been perspiring, despite the relative chill of the small room. He flashed Sabello a grateful smile as he passed her on his way through the doorway. She either did not notice it, or chose to ignore it.
John took a quick glance back at the sergeant. He remained standing there, his fingers tapping slowly against the stack of folders. He did not look up as John and Sabello left.
The drive back to his car was nearly as silent as his trip to the station had been. Sabello did not seem interested in having a conversation, and John did not know how to start one. There was one key difference this time, though. He was seated in the front passenger seat rather than in the back. That, at least, allowed him to distract himself by studying the various controls and devices mounted inside the vehicle. He was sorely tempted to touch one or two of them, but had a strong mental image of Sabello slapping his hand back if he tried to.
He pulled out his phone, chiefly to verify the time, to discover more than a dozen messages waiting for him. Most were from personal contacts; a few were some his supervisor and co-workers wanting to know just what the hell was going on.
I wish I knew.
The sergeant had not told him that he could not discuss the cases with anyone, but he suspected that he probably should not—particularly if there was still the possibility that someone was trying to implicate him in them. It gave him a strange chill to consider that. His days of dealing with anyone who might adopt a serious vendetta against him were over—as far as he knew.
Besides, he considered. It makes no sense. I don’t know any of those people. They’re just . . . random.
That, he knew, was often the sign of a seriously disturbed serial killer. But, like the sergeant, he had trouble completely dismissing as pure coincidence that he had been present at five different sites where mysterious deaths had taken place.
Well, he corrected himself wryly. Maybe not mysterious . . ., he decided, but definitely unusual.
There was not, as far as he knew, any obvious connections between the victims. Each had died in an entirely different way. (He was still not convinced that the woman in the office complex construction zone was not some kind of freak accident.) Granted, he had not had access to the police reports, but he doubted that their investigation had gotten that far.
Not if that sergeant felt the need to haul my ass in for questioning . . .
The patrol car lurched slightly and came to a stop. John looked out the window to discover that they were back in the apartment complex. His patrol car was still parked where he had left it. He was relieved to see that it had not been ticketed or, worse yet, towed.
Of course not, he chided himself. She wouldn’t have brought me back otherwise. Would she?
He reached over and opened the door. Starting to climb out of the car, he paused and turned to Sabello.
“Thank you.”
She smiled at him. Something fluttered inside his John’s stomach.
“No problem,” she told him. “I told your supervisor we needed you to come down to the station to file an official report on what you saw here. They’re paying out the O.T.”
John blinked in surprise. He glanced at the dashboard clock and realized just how much time had passed since he had first pulled into the parking lot to check out a bunch of flashing emergency lights.
“Thanks,” he said, realizing that he was probably grinning like an idiot.
She kept watching him and John had the absurd notion that she was waiting for a good-bye kiss or something.
“Stay out of trouble. Okay?” she told him, still smiling. Her eyes twinkled in the reflected light.
“I’ll . . . try,” he managed to get out.
Turning, he closed the car door. He stepped back and, after a moment, she pulled away. He could not tell for certain, but he thought he saw her watching him from the rear view. Even if she was not, he decided, what difference did it make?
He approached his car, checkly surveying it for any signs of tampering, but found none. Starting to reach for the door, he froze.
Oh, shit.
He had given the keys to Sabello so that she could move it into an actual parking space. The sergeant had interrupted her before she could so, but . . . she still had the keys.
Great. Just . . . great.
Now he was going to have to call Dispatch and have someone bring him an extra set of keys.
“As if today hadn’t sucked enough,” he murmured, reaching for the volume control on his radio.
He did so without looking, so was surprised when his hand brushed against something that jingled. Looking down, he saw his keys hanging from their clip on his belt.
When the hell did she do that?
Checking his memory, he could find no moment she had returned his keys to him. Reflexively, he checked for his wallet. It was still in his back pocket. Laughing softly, he shook his head and lifted off the keys. Only once he had unlocked the door and seated once again in the driver’s seat did he relax. In that instant, the events of the day caught up with him.
He sat, his hands poised on the wheel, nearly shaking with exhaustion, anger, and confusion. If he had been home, he was sure that he would have crawled into bed and slept for most of a day. He really wanted to do that, but needed to return the patrol car first before he could head home.
Taking several deeps breaths, he managed to regain most of his control. He looked at the steering wheel and willed his hands to stop shaking. They obeyed him, but then he wondered how long it had been since he had eaten.
Way too long, he decided, remembering that he had eaten a light dinner before the start of his shift, with plans for something more substantial during his break—that break that would have happened had he not returned to the apartment complex to see what all of the excitement was about.
All of the excitement . . . he mused sourly. Oh yeah. Right.
He put the car into gear and drove forward, turning onto the street. There was a decent burger place on the way to the dispatch office. He could stop there on his way. The car was already hours late in being returned; they could wait a little longer.
#
Sabrina stared at her computer screen and then at her phone. It had been three days since anyone had heard from him. He had not returned any of her messages nor, as far as she could tell, had he even received them. Somehow, so far, he had managed to remain off the grid. Or, at least, he had from all of the simplest and easiest means of detection. That he had done so both frustrated and, secretly, delighted her.
I thought him about those tricks.
Frankly, she did not know how much she should worry. Working with Samantha, their list of possible victims was remarkably short. This either meant, she suspected, that he had no intention of using all thirteen of the gym bags or, more likely, they were gravely ignorant about the criteria he might use to select his possible victims.
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