Fireflies: A Katie Bell Mystery (book 1) (6 page)

Still, she was curious as to why the Southern belle wasn't willing to shed a bit more of what seemed like an open, but bit of a gossipy nature.

O
f the five men
, the federal investigators quickly set their full attention on William Seaborn. As far as they were concerned, he was the
only
suspect. It wasn’t that they were opposed to it being somebody else, but it was Seaborn that checked off a series of standard questions that made him the most likely candidate.

In college, Seaborn had been arrested twice on drug possession and distribution changes while attending North State School. His father had conveniently made the charges go away, though the official reason for dropping the charges was not enough evidence to prosecute. Upon graduation (he majored in business), Seaborn had moved back to the city to be a salesman for his father’s drill parts company. That was in 2001 and his father had died of a heart attack in 2006; since then Seaborn had run the company with a kind of Freudian vengeance, being aggressive and expanding his market share by almost thirty percent in the past six years.

He was thirty-four, with above average intelligence and looks. He had voted Republican in the last three elections, owned three firearms, and had a concealed carry license for his handgun. Most importantly though, two of his ex-girlfriends had restraining orders against him for, in their words, “having a scary temper and in general being kind of a first-class asshole, and the only thing he loved in the entire world was his cat.”

A report from his former secretary stated he was incredibly OCD and had fired her in part because she would not play the proper role.

His version of the proper role included fetching him coffee by crawling to him, as well as considering it perfectly reasonable that any sort of misbehavior deserved a spanking.

She could have sued him, but his compensation package of fifteen thousand dollars plus a direct quote, "I didn't want him mad at me,” was enough for Arthur Bell and his team.

The fact that the other men had alibis for after Tori Watson went missing, whereas William Seaborn had seemingly vanished into the wind, was what pushed the team over the edge, and the usual measures were taken. Search warrants of Seaborn’s apartment and businesses were issued, and they went through their usual law enforcement motions.

They raided his office Friday afternoon and his apartment Friday evening. Seaborn’s place was just as meticulous as his office. Some things were missing from his apartment, including his firearms. His computer was still in there, and after an easy to crack password was breached (thanks to Agent Fields) the cheap Dell laptop revealed a digital diary with several passages detailing his fantasies about “getting even” with his exes. There were also a dozen photos of Tori Watson on the computer, all time stamped for the three weeks prior to her death and taken at a distance with what had to be a telephoto lens. There was also a receipt for a Spyderco pocketknife, purchased in cash in the bottom drawer of his desk, purchased five weeks ago.

There was also evidence of a hastily-packed bag and no passport. The team already knew that Thursday afternoon he had withdrawn fifty thousand dollars in cash from his savings account.

Within an hour of the raid, an APB was put out to local authorities as well as sent to the airport and train stations, but other than that there was nothing for them to do but to sit back and wait.

Shifts ended, current reports were either filed or saved, and everyone involved went home.

E
xcept Arthur Bell
.

H
e stayed
for another few hours reading over all the evidence again. Arthur stared at crime scene photos of Tori’s body for so long that even if the senior agent closed his eyes, he could see them with near eidetic perception. He also went through all of Seaborn's emails on his home computer dating back one year. The information was all copied; the originals were stored on the hard drive of the laptop, which the technicians would go over later.

What mattered to Arthur was painting a clear picture of what William Seaborn was doing in that moment. Details about how to find him via William’s digital footprint was important, but that’s why Arthur had a team. Understanding Seaborn’s motivation, the base of his desires could be just as important in catching him, and
that
was what mattered to Arthur, and why he had a better chance of catching Seaborn before he could hurt anymore innocent lives.

The only problem was, none of the files Arthur was going through was helping cast light on that picture. Arthur felt like he was trying to look through a lens at the picture when it was covered in spray paint.

Y
es
, there were the surveillance photos, and yes there were the diary entries, but that was really
it.
The little details that made it feel real, there was enough to make it clear Seaborn did it, but it felt too much like … broad strokes. Like what somebody would expect the FBI to jump on. Blood was in the water, but who had actually made the cut? The journal he kept on his laptop felt … sloppy. Not like everything else Arthur had seen about the young man. The William Seaborn that he had seen and heard about was many things, but sloppy was not one of them.

Still, that didn’t really matter. What mattered was finding Seaborn, since he really was their only suspect.

So Arthur and his team were hunting him. If he was who it appeared to be, finding him quickly was of the utmost importance. Tori’s murder, the kill site, that was done by a fanatic.

It was well into Saturday morning when wariness finally got the better of him and Arthur succumbed to sleep, his head dropping onto his desk.

Arthur woke to the sound of the cleaning crew in the predawn hours … His nap not even close to sufficient, he headed home, blinking the sleep from his eyes the entire drive back and trying to stay in his lane.

Once home, Arthur collapsed into his bed without taking off his suit jacket, though he did manage to loosen his tie before passing out.

H
e woke
before noon to the horrible taste in his mouth of not having brushed his teeth. Arthur grimaced and headed straight into the bathroom, stripping as he went. Teeth brushed, he turned on the shower and let it start to steam as he inspected himself in the mirror. He looked tired, but the five hours he had gotten would have to be enough.

Arthur showered and, dressed only in a towel, went downstairs to make breakfast. He had a steaming bowl of oatmeal and half a grapefruit and put on a fresh pot of coffee, which was ready around the same time the oatmeal was. He drank one cup with his breakfast and refilled it before heading into his office and turning on his computer to go over the current case files.

T
hey had located
the other men at the nightclub, and had questioned them all extensively. Of the four men other than Seaborn that had interacted with Tori, two of them had hard alibis for later in the evening, and the other two did not have hard alibi’s, but it was clear they had not done it. Everything about them in their interrogations had indicated that were scared shitless about being questioned by the FBI, and in no way fit the profile of a serial killer disciple.

The two bartenders also checked out, so just to be on the safer side of things Arthur did some digging into the waitress, Lacy Person, since aside from the men she had the most interactions with Tori Watson at the club. Arthur had found absolutely nothing of interest about her. She had attended SCU and graduated three years prior with a degree in communications, and was now putting it to good use with her bar job. She had worked as a teller at Third Union Bank for two years at several locations (one before she graduated from Katie’s school and one after), but had switched to the service industry full time thirty months ago. The strangest thing Arthur had found as his eyes scanned over his iMac's screen was she had no Facebook account. At her age, and considering her occupation, that just seemed a tad unusual. Perhaps she had an over-controlling boyfriend, but from the pictures she had been tagged in on her bar's Facebook page it did not appear so.

Arthur made a mental note of it and he continued to think about it as he dressed. He put on a cloud grey suit from Ted Baker. Underneath it he wore a white shirt and a blue tie, and added a brown belt and shoes to match. Arthur selected one of his favorite watches, although not a particular expensive one to wear, a Citizen with a large white face that had a nice weight to it on his wrist with a brown leather band.

He inspected himself in the mirror and found everything to be to his liking.

For a moment the case was not on his mind and his only thought was of appearances and how much he enjoyed dressing the part, or rather, over-dressing the part.

Before his mind could turn back to the case however, his BlackBerry went off.

Margaret.

M
argaret Ruben was
the closest thing Arthur Bell had to a real boss. Technically her title (Special Agent in charge) made that abundantly clear, but in reality, since the job had first been offered to Arthur and he had declined and suggested Ruben, it had created just the kind of relaxed atmosphere he wanted.

Ruben and Bell had been partners for six and half years before he had been given the job offer and when she was promoted instead, he fit into his new role as chief special agent perfectly. Margaret was Arthur's solution to dealing with the ever-intruding levels of bureaucratic bullshit at the FBI.

She was the Scully to his Mulder, always had been, and just being his partner had relieved a great deal of stress from his daily life. She was the perfect person for dealing with the slow monotony and slightly psychotic madness of the workplace politics that inevitably took over a great deal of the time of whoever was actually running the office. Her patience seemed better suited for the politics over him and, in the five and half years since she had taken over, they had continued to work well together in a much more unofficial manner. Margaret had flown out Thursday afternoon because she was supposed to be at a conference for regional managers in DC. It was the kind of four-day event that senior FBI agents always complained about being forced to attend, but secretly loved for the high quality free meals and for the occasional discreet trysts and also massive consumption of taxpayer-paid booze.

A
rthur answered
the phone on the third ring.

"How's the conference?"

"It's … going."

"You're hung over aren't you.”

Margaret laughed. "When the deputy director is at your table and you’re all drinking, you keep up. I just wanted to do a quick check in and see if there’re any updates on William Seaborn. Tapscott forwarded me the arrest warrant last night."

"I was just headed into the office myself, but so far I've received no calls. I'm going to assume that everything is the standard status quo when it comes to this sort of thing until we have further information. Everyone's looking, etc."

"Okay. Well, due to the weather, it looks like I might not be back until late Tuesday.”

"I'll make sure the fort's still standing when you get back."

“The only reason I'm worried is you're the one manning it."

"I should let you get back to learning about whatever new bureaucratic restrictions are being placed on us.”

Margaret scoffed. “Please, don’t talk like one of those counter-terrorist cowboys. Everytime there’s one of these things I feel like they’re getting
worse
. You’d think after we got Osama last year they’d relax, but no. Maybe they are worried we’re going to mess with their precious budget, but it’s not like they don’t get pretty much a blank check for whatever. Sorry, I’ve had a few Old Fashioneds. You know how I get after I’ve had a few.”

Arthur smiled and rubbed his forehead with his thumb and index finger. “Yeah. I remember.”

"Oh yeah, we’ve got a lovely meeting in an hour about the latest cyber security updates. It’s going to be fun when we have an entire office meeting about
that
on Wednesday when we get back.”

“I may have to be out in the field that day."

"It's going to be mandatory, Bell."

He groaned. "Of course it is."

Arthur hung up and looked at himself one more time in the mirror before he added the last items to his outfit. His weapon and his badge, which Arthur slid into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. Arthur clipped his leather holster to his right hip, as he always did. He tapped the butt of his Glock and considered it for a moment. Arthur realized to his horror that he hadn't been to the firing range in over two weeks. Ideally he went at least once a week. It was important to never get complacent, and to always keep his skills sharp. Monsters kept their skills sharp, and he had to always be ready to face them.

Maybe the next day he would give Katie a call and see if she wanted to hit the range with him, but as soon as the thought occurred to him, Arthur waved it away. The day before his baby started classes and he was going to try to distract her into spending time with him? That was not going to help the whole letting her spread her wings and fly thing, nor was it something he expected her to actually want. There was no denying it, his little girl was growing up, and Arthur had to be okay with that and
let
her. Katie was ready for it, and more than capable.

Arthur just wasn’t so sure
he
was ready for it.

T
he police tape
and patrol cars started on the third floor of the parking lot, but waved Arthur through without him needing to pull out his ID. There wasn’t a sea of police when he parked one floor up, just the familiar black SUV’s of his peers.

Fields and Tapscott where already there, waiting for him. Arthur ignored his team and moved past them to the latest victim.

The first thing Arthur noted was her race. She was Latino, and she couldn’t be older than twenty. She was strapped to the hood of a green Subaru Outback, this time with Para-cord. Just like Tori Watson, she was stretched out in the same manner; legs bound together, her arms spread wide. Just like Tori Watson, she was naked. Cut marks were similar as well, and looked like even the same knife could have been used. There was however, one major difference between the two victims. Her neck was slit from ear to ear, and the wound was deep. Blood had stained both her chest and the hood of the Subaru.

Arthur stared at her for a long time before moving around the car. The driver’s door was unlocked and he could see a set of clothes neatly stacked on the passenger seat.

“We have an ID?”

“We have an alias. Goes by Charity. Night watchman knows her. He’s also the one that made the call,” Fields said.

“We have him?”

She pointed at one of the SUV’S.

“He’s in the back. We already questioned him, but I figured…”

“Good. Any official ID?”

“We haven’t run her prints yet, so just the alias. He says he sees her pretty often, couple times a week. This is her area.”

“She’s so damned young,” Tapscott added, his face a cloud.

“That she is. She’s also in the age range,” Arthur said.

“You think it’s the same perp or just someone trying to imitate?” Fields asked.

Arthur paused and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “It’s the same. Now tell me a story. What do we know?”

Tapscott piped up. “The Outback belongs to one Juliet Cruise. She reported it stolen yesterday morning. Lives in suburbs, about thirty minutes from here. Nobody saw them take it, she woke up and it was just gone from her driveway. That’s off of the registration in the glove compartment, plates were switched.”

“What about the cameras in the garage?”

Fields spoke up this time. “Checked the video. At first it appeared like it didn’t capture anything. Simple system that goes right back to the hard drive in the guard’s station, which made me suspicious so I double-checked. Somebody jacked into the system and it’s been playing a loop all night.”

“Somebody online?”

Fields shook her head. “Not possible. Closed system. When I questioned the guard, he said when the change over happened there was an incident which drew both guards away from the box for maybe five minutes.”

“What sort of incident?”

“A drunk guy smashing bottles. He ran away and they called it in. It’s in the logbook and 911 has the phone call, but local patrols didn’t find him. Not sure how hard they looked though, there was a stabbing over on the West side and that drew most of PD’s attention this evening.”

“Okay. So we have something. What else?”

“Uh, guard says she was okay when he saw her earlier tonight. Showed up at 10:45PM, he called it in at just after midnight,” Tapscott said.

“He get a look at her passenger?”

“I showed him all five guys from the nightclub, he identified Seaborn,” Fields said.

“Anything else?”

“Guard doesn’t recall any vehicle leaving after 11:30PM,” Fields replied.

Arthur checked his Citizen. “Okay, but Charity here was killed closer to midnight.”

Tapscott said, “You sure?”

“We can wait for the ME’s report if we feel like wasting time,” Arthur said.

“Why do you think Seaborn killed her so shortly before the guard showed up?” Fields asked.

Arthur pointed at the neck. “He didn’t want to cut her throat. That was rushed work,” Arthur looked up and around, his eyes fluttering. He was seeing what the others did not, could not. Arthur and the killer were almost one in that moment, him stepping as close as he could into the copycat’s shoes.

“This was a good spot for a kill. At a first glance it seems risky. Busy and loud. But the freeway ramps what, four blocks South?”

“Yeah, and the bridge is three East,” Tapscott added.

“Plenty of exits. Only the guard was unpredictable. He thought he had more time with her to enjoy. He didn’t, so he rushed it.”

“So this was what? More impulsive? Less planned?” Fields again.

“No. He didn’t get careless here. He was on a fixed schedule. Now that stopwatch has been started, he has to stick to a routine.”

Arthur looked around and started to shake his head before he finally turned back to the other two agents. “He planned this just as well as he did with Tori Watson, but this time he was interrupted and had to improvise. He did good too. He didn’t kill the guard; he just took her out and bailed, without a trace. Boom. Faded back into the dark.”

The younger agents looked at each other.

“Okay, but you said a timetable. What timetable?” Tapscott asked.

Arthur checked his watch again. “Because nothing important happened on Sept 22
^nd
. But it’s been Sept 23
^rd
for just over two hours now, and that date does have significance.”

Tapscott still looked confused, but realization was dawning on Agent Field’s face. She snapped her fingers after a few seconds. “Wait, that was the date of…”

Arthur nodded. “Yeah. First victim after I was assigned to Martin was killed on September 23
^rd
. We now officially have a pattern, boys and girls.”

“Jesus,” Tapscott muttered.

“So … What’s our next move?”

“You tell me, Agent Fields.”

“Doing what we always do. Standard procedure. We already have a BOLO for Seaborn. We have to find out who she was. Also look at any cameras within a six-block radius, ecetera.”

Arthur gave her a thumbs up. “That is one of most effective ways of hunting a demon. You two know what to do. So do it.”

Tapscott started off, but Fields continued to stand there, looking at the senior agent. “What’s the other way?”

Arthur put a hand in his pocket. He looked oddly regal in the sickly green parking garage, like a British gentleman out of time.

“Of hunting a demon?”

“Yes. What are you going to be doing while we’re off running around doing what we always do?”

“Sometimes to catch a demon you have to talk to one of it’s own. So I’m going to go talk to The Devil.”