Fireflies: A Katie Bell Mystery (book 1) (10 page)

Luke pulled back.

"Okay. I'll see you later I guess. Good luck with school."

She looked at him sadly, feeling like someone had kicked her in the stomach and then feeling even worse realizing she had been the one to do it.

"Do you want to talk about it for a little bit? Maybe take a walk or something?"

He looked at her coldly and shook his head.

"If I'm going to take a walk, it's going to be alone. Just like we are born into this world, and just like how we are going to leave this world. Thank you for reminding me of that, Katie, really. Goodbye."

He didn't say another word and left the table, storming out of the restaurant without looking back.

Katie stood, considering going after him but stopped herself, sitting back down.

After a few minutes she cleared the plates and ordered another taco and a coke in a tall glass bottle made with real cane sugar. Katie sat there alone and ate her food while watching a baseball game on the restaurant's tiny flat screen TV with the sound off.

A
rthur drove
his Lexus at fifteen over the speed limit the entire way to the crime scene, and for the duration of the drive he was able to just enjoy the handling of his luxury automobile and not think about what was ahead of him. He had gotten it new, and Catherine had always thought it was ridiculous and a sign of his midlife crisis. She had only voiced her opinion in slight snide commits, most of them while Katie was around, who always giggled when her mother made jokes, and hearing his daughter’s laughter always made Arthur smile and the annoyance he felt at his wife melted away. She had always been good at that. Poking, but rarely to the point where it felt like prodding. It was one of the many things that he had fallen in love with about her all those years ago, even though in his mind it felt like it was last month. It may have been a good memory of them around the table; him, her, and Katie, but even in that image she was twenty-five like when they had first met, in a park by the river, her reading a book and him running by every day at the same time.

The level of psychic armor Arthur wore came with the territory of his job. It was inevitable, an occupational hazard, and was one of the many reasons why so many career agents ended up with two, three, or four divorces on their resume when all was said and done.

That was never the case with Arthur and Catherine. It had simply been an alien idea to both of them, and whenever Arthur tried to put that psychic armor on around her, she had done a very good job of stripping it away from him without any real effort.

The hardest part about her extremely untimely death was how much he missed her. When she had been taken from him, he was far more in love with her than when they had first gotten married. The so-called “fire” never died with them. It had grown healthy and strong.

Until it had been snuffed out with a sea of blood.

T
he drive
from Arthur’s house to the motel took thirty minutes (he hit traffic crossing the bridge) and when he pulled into the dirty parking lot the yellow tape roping off the second story room was visible from his car.

The motel was cheap and dirty, with fading yellows and browns everywhere. It was the kind of place that management had decided it was cheaper to pay off the heath inspector instead of actually meeting the minimum standard. The vacancy sign’s second A and second C’s bulbs had both gone out. A possibly high homeless man sat on the corner outside mumbling to himself and shaking a soup cup with loose change in it.

There were two squad cars in the parking lot as well as Tapscott’s Ford Explorer, and Arthur headed upstairs this time without being stopped by the patrolman at the bottom of the stairs, who greeted Arthur with a polite nod, which the senior FBI agent returned.

Agent Tapscott was waiting for him in the doorway.

“I know it’s late, but I figured you would want to see it for yourself."

“Correct.”

The room was grimy and smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap tequila. There was a handle of liquor half-empty on the bedside table, and nothing of quality; real rot-gut booze, amber in color, matching the cheap shade of wall paint.

Arthur wrinkled his nose and stepped further into the room, finding Agent Fields in the bathroom, standing over the late William Seaborn.

Seaborn was in the bathtub. The bathroom floor was still wet from where the water had spilled over. The water was stained red with his blood, as was the back of the bathtub wall, which was also coated in air-stained-brown-matter of his brains. Seaborn’s Sig Sauer hung loosely from his limp hand out of the tub.

H
is clothes were neatly folded
and set on the toilet seat.

"Take a look at this," Tapscott said, handing Arthur a legal pad that had been lying on the desk.

On it in neatly scrawled letters was a letter.

I cannot continue. I am nothing like him, no matter how hard I tried. May God have mercy on my soul.

WS

A
rthur looked
up from the note at Agent Tapscott.

"What do you think?"

“That he should have done this two bodies ago.”

“Right. Get the lab to match his handwriting, etcetera. I want forensics to go over every fiber of this place. I want every love stain, every trace of cigarette ash, every
hair
sorted, categorized, and bagged.”

"Of course."

Arthur turned back to dead man in the tub and shook his head before glancing over at the female agent in the tiny bathroom.

"What do you think, Agent Fields?”

"About the scene?"

"Yes."

“Tapscott said it. It’s a shame he didn’t eat a bullet two victims ago. Before he decided to play Snow. Guess we got lucky that he stopped before he really got going.

"Uh-huh."

Fields tilted her head towards her mentor.

“You're not convinced."

"Are you?"

She thought about it for a second. Her general demeanor appeared calm, but her shoulders tightened a little, like she wanted to say something but was nervous. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

“That’s generally what somebody means when they ask you what you think.”

“Not always the case.”

“Always with my case.”

“Well, frankly, this all just seems a little too … easy doesn't it?"

Arthur looked down at the body of William Seaborn again and then left bathroom.

Agent Tapscott was by the side of the bed and held up a familiar black and red journal.

“Look at this,” he said.

Arthur went over to him and looked at the journal. There were over a dozen handwritten pages, all with the familiar handwriting of William Seaborn. The senior FBI agent only glanced at the journal and read two entries. Both pertained to him stalking Tori, and how close he was to “doing it.” A kill journal.

W
hen Martin Snow was captured
, it took the DA’s office along with a coordinated effort from the FBI six weeks to find a cabin he had rented under an alias that had been his staging area. Along with several later DNA confirmed kill weapons, they had found a half-burned red and black journal in the wood stove. Enough of the pages were left undamaged to still paint a clear picture. It had been Martin Snow’s kill journal, and told a truly horrifying story.

Only Arthur, and to a degree Margaret Ruben, believed Snow had actually left the journal for them to find. The pages that were legible only talked about those victims they had already confirmed had fallen to the hands of Martin Snow, and revealed no real insights to his way of thinking. The same with the knives that had DNA evidence on them. Of the dozen weapons found in the cabin (including a crossbow, half a dozen knives of various lengths and two razor sharp machete’s) the three that were “dirty” were from confirmed kills, as opposed to the rest of the weapons, which had been cleaned with bleach.

Arthur was certain that Snow had left everything for them as a kind of congratulation package, and while they helped put the crucifix killer in a padded cell, they gave no true or “real” insight into his demeanor. It was just a show of theatrics, something for the media to write more about him. It was also very helpful for Snow’s lawyers, and the journal specifically was largely attributed to helping him avoid getting the needle.

Just as much as the senior FBI agent had not liked the journal when they had found it in the wood stove, he didn’t like it any more when they had found it in the bedside table.

“Looks like a slam dunk,” Arthur said to the younger agent before heading outside.

He tried not to walk too fast, but he was suddenly feeling claustrophobic, a sensation he was not used to. Nothing about the crime scene felt right to him.

O
utside in the parking lot
, Arthur noticed a young patrolman was interviewing the homeless man. The patrolman was very fit unlike the majority of the rest of the police at the scene, and had a short haircut, though it was not buzzed in the typical former military fashion. The officer was Latino with jet-black hair and had fading scars on his cheek that indicated he had been plagued with bad acne when he was a teenager.

Arthur walked over to him and the homeless man, who seemed happy to be talking to the law enforcement officer.

“So you’re saying you heard the gunshot?” the officer asked, scribbling something down in his notepad.

The homeless man nodded, rubbing his fingerless gloved hands together. He looked like he was in his fifties, which meant he was probably in his early forties. He had a short white beard that looked recently trimmed and had on dirty jeans and a fading grey sweatshirt with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on the front. The sleeves of the sweatshirt were thin, like the man had been wearing it for a long time. His hands shook a little as he rubbed them together, and Arthur guessed he hadn’t had a drink in close to twenty-four hours.

Probably not by choice, just a lack of funds.

“Yeah, I heard the gunshot, it was early.” The frail man closed his eyes and thought about it hard. He knew this was important, and he wanted to help. “No, sorry, it was late. After midnight cause Trixie had just gone for lunch.”

The officer arched an eyebrow.

“Trixie?”

The man suddenly looks confused, and his cheeks went a little red.

“Sorry nobody.”

“Is Trixie a friend of yours?”

“I … I don’t know.”

The officer sighed and closed his notebook, folding his arms across his chest. Arthur considered stepping in, but he wanted to see how the officer would handle it.

“Look, man, we aren’t here to bust your friend if she’s walking the streets. I know times are hard and everybody is just trying to get by. Somebody was killed upstairs, that’s why there are so many officers here, and do you see the man right over there, watching us? He’s FBI. That’s right, a federal agent. Now anything you can tell us would be a huge help. If your friend Trixie could help us, or confirm what you’re saying, that would be extremely useful.”

The homeless man glanced at Arthur Bell suspiciously before he looked back at the young patrolman and nodded his head. He still wasn’t sure about the fed, but he liked the officer.

“Trixie, she and I look out for each other okay? Nothing … bad. Just look out for each other. She always gets breakfast for lunch at the diner over on Fifth, same time every night, around three. She had just gone when I heard the gunshot. I know the difference between the gunshot and a car backfiring too. I’ve been in a war.”

Arthur stepped closer to the two men, and smiled at the homeless man.

“Did you see anyone leave the room?”

The homeless man looked puzzled for a moment and shook his head slowly. “No. I was watching too. Being careful though. I knew the shot came from the motel, even if it sounded a bit muffled….” He thought about it for a moment and then suddenly snapped his fingers. “Wait a second. There was something strange, just a little peculiar, if you know what I’m saying, good sirs. Old black pickup truck, an eighty something Toyota pulled into the parking lot a bit after the gunshot.”

The officer asked, “how long?”

“Maybe ten minutes, sir.”

“You see anyone get in the car?” Arthur asked.

The bearded man frowned and shook his head. “Trixie came back at that point and I wanted to tell her about the gunshot, tell her to maybe hang out somewhere else for the rest of her shift.”

“Anything else?”

He shook his head. “I, I kinda took a nap.”

The officer nodded. “Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.”

Arthur had one more question though. “What’s your name?”

The bearded man thought about it for a second. “I go by Turtle, sir.”

“Turtle, you’ve been helpful.”

Turtle smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

Arthur reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet and handed Turtle a twenty.

“Turtle, would you do me a favor? Would you get yourself a hot meal before you go and pick up a bottle?”

Turtle looked at the twenty like it was a pot of gold he had just found at the end of the rainbow and he looked Arthur right in the eye and nodded. “Sir, that’s a promise.”

Arthur and the officer walked away from Turtle and when they were out of earshot the younger man gave the FBI agent a sidelong glance.

“Sorry if I was messing with your investigation.”

“From what I gathered you were helping, Officer…”

“Antonio Santos,” the younger man said, offering his hand.

Arthur shook it. “Well, Officer Santos, I’m Agent…”

“I know who you are. Listen, I know you guys are going to be taking over, I was just the first on the scene and I figured I’d finish what I’d started. I’m happy to send you my report if you want.”

Arthur thought about it for a second. “You were first on the scene?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you make of it?”

“Standard 10-56.”

“Right. So why were you asking Turtle what he saw?”

“Look, Agent Bell, if your annoyed that I was still doing my job I’m sorry, but--”

Arthur raised his hand, cutting him off.

“I’m not ball busting, I’m just asking.”

Santos regarded the special agent, judging. “I’ve seen more suicides than I’d care to talk about. I’m no detective, but this one didn’t sit right with me.”

“What exactly?”

“I … I don’t know. But I figured before you fancy feds showed up I’d ask a few questions.”

Arthur considered the young police officer for a moment before he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his card. He handed it to the officer.

“I have an assignment for you if you want it. Find me this cat,” he said, holding up his phone with the picture of William Seaborn’s cat.

“Two mile radius from this location should be your search radius.”

Officer Santos took the card and looked up at Arthur. “You want me to go dumpster diving for a dead cat?”

Arthur smiled. “Yes, and I’ll tell you why you’re going to.”

“Why, you going to try to Jedi mind trick me or something?”