Jayne and Steelie - 01 - Freezing (23 page)

She nodded and said, ‘I'll catch up with you, Hal.' She motioned for Steelie and Jayne to head for the rear exit doors.

When the three of them reached the bay where two body recovery vans were parked, Steelie leaned into Dr Bodell and whispered, ‘Is there something we should know,
Elizabeth
?'

Dr Bodell smiled but ushered her on. ‘Go on around front. Your clients will be needing you. Jayne, come back to visit again soon. You needn't bring Steelie and her innuendos.'

As Jayne and Steelie rounded the building, Steelie said, ‘That makes me sound like I'm part of a band. Steelie and The Innuendos. But what would we play?'

‘Something heavy-handed,' Jayne said as they took up a position under the mesquite trees casting dappled shade at the front of the building. Only their reflection was visible in the tinted double doors that led into this side of the structure, where relatives of the dead came and went. The reflection showed someone emerging from a car behind them and then a voice called out their names. They turned around to see Scott next to a Suburban one row back in the parking lot.

Going toward him, Jayne said, ‘Scott? What are you doing here?'

His mouth was a grim line. ‘The Alston case.' He looked at Steelie. ‘I got your message. They're in there with the MI now.'

‘Thanks for arranging that,' Steelie replied.

‘I didn't do anything.' His tone was sharp. He wiped a hand over his face. ‘Sorry. Are you escorting them?'

Jayne nodded.

‘Good. Well, I've got to get on the road. Eric's already in LA.' He gave a lopsided smile. ‘It's nice to see you guys.'

As he turned away, Steelie nudged Jayne while calling after Scott. ‘Um, Scott? Do you mind taking Jayne with you?'

He turned back and looked at Jayne. ‘No. Why?'

‘Because I . . .' Jayne looked questioningly at Steelie.

‘Because of the turbulence,' Steelie said. ‘It was a bad flight out and you said you'd prefer to drive back if you could.' She turned to Scott. ‘She was ready to get a rental car, so this would be perfect.'

Scott appeared to accept the explanation and went to move something from the passenger seat of his vehicle.

Steelie murmured to Jayne, ‘He needs back-up, Jayne, if only to keep awake. I'll stay with Ben and Linda.'

Jayne nodded and Steelie gave her a quick hug in parting.

It took seven and a half hours of driving for the essence of the meeting with the Alstons to percolate through Scott's consciousness and then it hit him hard.

It happened in stages. The first stage made him feel like he couldn't breathe. As he gulped air, he hyperventilated. That was the second stage. The third stage made him think he was having a heart attack. His hands tingled where they gripped the steering wheel and his chest was tight. He felt there was a direct electrical current between his heart and his hands.

He veered wildly from the right lane on to the shoulder, spraying loose gravel before steering into the upcoming exit lane, and that's when he became aware of Jayne calling out his name. He automatically read the exit sign as he passed under it:
Calimesa
. Scott had never heard of it and he didn't care. His eyes were watering and he needed to stop the car.

On the exit ramp, he pulled sharply on to the shoulder and put the transmission into park. He didn't turn off the engine because he felt like his breathing was getting easier, even though it was made up of deep breaths he couldn't control. Jayne was gripping the dash and he sensed she was staring at him but he was calming slightly, sure now that he wasn't having a heart attack. He closed his eyes in relief and that's when he saw her: Kate Alston. Preserved in the cold stillness of the freezer. Smiling at him from the autopsy table. Living in her parents' photograph. Her parents. Their devastation.

The sob was dry but shocked him into opening his eyes. He slammed the palms of his hands against the steering wheel and then gripped it tightly. He squeezed his eyes shut and, immediately, the same physical sensations tore through him, followed by an image of Kate Alston's teeth, disembodied, ruthlessly exposed. He didn't realize Jayne had opened a door until hot desert air filled the cabin with the musky scent of creosote. He opened his eyes again and saw the back of Jayne's head, her familiar wavy hair just in front of him as she reached under his arms to turn off the engine. He couldn't speak.

‘Come on,' she said. ‘You need to get out of there.'

He felt like her voice was coming from a great distance away. She reached around him and undid his seatbelt, then pulled his hands from their hold on the steering wheel.

‘It's all right, Scott. Come on.'

Tripper cruised the streets in one of his favorite Atlanta neighborhoods, savoring the familiarity of both the dark stretches and the residential blocks where elderly owners lived in the back at night, the volume on their televisions cranked up because Medicare still didn't cover hearing aids. He'd taken risks in Los Angeles – especially with the surveillance gear – even though it had provided the answers he needed and thereby allowed him to move freely again. But it had still involved risks. He'd mitigated them by retrieving the repeater from outside the brunette's apartment, which ensured that, if anyone ever found the wiretaps, they'd assume a Peeping Tom, not someone at a distance, put them there.

Tripper considered the white hatchback he'd been following, looked at the street they were on, and decided it was time to get started; he did need new dump material. He turned on the red light on his dashboard and the hatchback dutifully pulled over ahead of him.

The only building on the street was an office complex under construction. Its windowless bulk was dark, the workers long since home for the night. As Tripper walked up to the car, he missed his van and the old method. But the van had to go and this new method had potential. He leaned into the driver's open window.

‘License and registration, ma'am.'

The driver handed the two items to him without speaking.

Tripper stood up and perused them. Her name was Pamela Winton. He leaned back down.

‘You sure were in a hurry back there, Mrs Winton.'

‘It's
Ms
Winton.'

‘Step out of the vehicle, ma'am. I require you to complete a sobriety test.'

She sighed and got out of the car. Tripper smiled to himself. The new method had passed its test.
Ms
Winton, on the other hand, has just failed hers. He watched her move to the sidewalk, which was disappearing under sand and gravel seeping out from the construction site, unhindered by the tall chain-link boundary fence.

He directed her in a friendly tone: ‘Put your hands out to either side of your body at shoulder height and walk towards me, one foot in front of the other, with your eyes shut.'

As soon as the woman closed her eyes, Tripper moved behind her, clamping an arm around her body and a hand over her mouth. She raised both hands and tried to pull his hand off her face. He wrenched her to the side so forcefully that her feet left the ground for a moment. But when she came down again, she stamped hard on his right instep. He inhaled sharply, inadvertently relaxing his grip enough for her to get the purchase she needed to pull one of his hands down and she bit the soft skin between his thumb and first finger.

Now he only had one hand firmly on her and she repeatedly jabbed her left elbow behind her in gawky, unplanned movements. He was aware that while the method he'd used had got the mark out of her car, it didn't get her
into
his car. It was always easier, and safer, when they got in themselves instead of him fighting them first. He moved in to control her but this allowed a jab that ordinarily would've only bruised him to hit his solar plexus and he keeled forward, struggling to breathe. The woman seized him by the hair and pulled downwards. As Tripper's face thudded against her right knee he was reminded of how little fat covers a patella once the knee is bent.

Pamela Winton whimpered as she stared down at the police officer. He was lying on the sandy pavement, face down and silent. Then he groaned and she leapt away, crying out. As she stood in the beam of his patrol car's headlights, she could see him slowly pull himself to lie on his side, and then he collapsed on to his back. Blood flowed freely from his nose and across his face, only pausing at his earlobes to pool before the overflow dripped on to the gritty pavement.

Pamela Winton clutched her shirt about herself and trembled. She knew no one would believe that a policeman had attacked her unless she had some proof of her own. She looked up and down the street. It was deserted; not a single car or person visible in the glow of the streetlights. She peered at the policeman. He was breathing but his eyes were closed. His badge reflected the swirling light from the dashboard of his vehicle. Pamela Winton took a deep breath and then lunged at him, screaming in fear as she ripped his badge off along with most of the shirt pocket. She continued to scream even as she sped away in her hatchback. Her distress trailed out her open window only to be trapped by the car's slipstream and stay with her.

TWENTY

I
f Atlanta security guard Troy Purcell had rounded the corner a minute earlier, he might have heard Pamela Winton's tires leaving a rubber deposit as she cornered at the end of the street. But his scheduled perimeter check of the construction site was all out of whack that night, on account of someone throwing eggs at his car while he was inside the security trailer. He knew from experience that egg had to be washed off immediately, preferably with a clear soda. So he'd had to find his boss's stash of Diet Slice, clean the car, and then make a careful note to replace the soda as soon as his shift ended at 6 a.m.

When he saw the prone body by Gate 5, he knew someone was having a worse night than he was. But he was filled with dread when he saw the swirling light making patterns on the dirty rear window of what had to be a police cruiser parked ahead with its headlights on. Troy Purcell pulled into the curb and looked to see if anyone else was around. No one. He got out and locked his own car, noticing the transfer on its door:
Premium Security Corp
. His pride at seeing that renewed his determination and he walked over to the body.

The man was bloodied but breathing. He was wearing a dark uniform with a hole in his left chest pocket; a wounded police officer.

The security guard made two calls on his phone. The first was to the ambulance service and the other was to the local police station, Chesterton.

Before either unit arrived, the officer lying on the ground regained enough consciousness to murmur something and attempt to sit up. But Troy Purcell was not going to have that on his head. He held the officer down, his palms on the wounded man's chest, while he reassured him that the ambulance and his brother officers were on their way. When the sirens were audible, the officer stopped trying to get up and Troy Purcell believed he'd lost consciousness.

Eric was frustrated. The evening was closing in and he hadn't had a single call about Wayne Spicer's vehicle. He had been hoping some fresh patrol officer somewhere would be enthusiastically monitoring APB's and then miraculously catch Tripper on a routine traffic stop. Eric was just getting up from his desk to get a cup of coffee when his supervisor, Craig Turner, walked into the room, holding a single sheet of paper.

Eric had only been working under Turner for a few weeks but they had met a number of times at Quantico where the Bureau veteran regularly ran seminars or flew in to do special trainings. So Eric knew that it was normal for the wrinkles on Turner's forehead to be reaching up into his receding hairline. What wasn't normal was the resigned way Turner indicated that Eric sit back down.

‘Where's your partner, Eric?'

‘En route from Phoenix, sir.'

Turner perched his lean body on the edge of the desk and fixed him with the unblinking stare that had earned him the nickname of ‘Ice' among Quantico newbies – a devolution from ‘IC', which was the acronym for Turner's original nickname, ‘Iron Curtain'.

‘OK. Bring me up to speed on the freeway body parts case. In fact, take it from the top.'

Eric leaned back, marshaled his thoughts, and then recounted the essentials of the investigation up to the eventual discovery of the frozen body of a woman inside the suspect van.

Turner consulted his paper. ‘This is Katherine Alston, missing from California.'

‘Yes, sir. On interview, the suspect confessed to the manslaughter of Alston in nineteen ninety-nine, stated that he has kept her body in a freezer on his premises, first in California and then Arizona. He was in preparation to go mobile with her body in the van, which he had recently acquired from another individual. That individual is who we suspect dropped the body parts on the freeway.'

‘Do you have a name for that suspect?'

‘We only have an alias: Tripper.'

‘What else do you have?'

‘We've got a physical description of the suspect: White, blond and blue, approximately six-four, clean-shaven—'

‘Has that description supported or refuted your theory that this Tripper was driving the van when it was hit on the freeway here?'

Eric paused. Turner's use of the word ‘theory' was setting off alarm bells. ‘It backs up the description given by two witnesses who had contact with the driver of the van after it was hit.'

‘No variation?'

‘Yes, but only in the areas that can be easily disguised.'

‘Hair color, eye color?'

‘We've got a match on hair color. It's the facial hair that varies.'

‘So you're good on race, height, and eye color.'

‘We don't have corroboration on eye color because he's sometimes been seen only in sunglasses.'

Turned nodded and consulted his sheet again. ‘In your last memo you indicated that there was a hold-up on ID'ing the previous owner of the van you located in Arizona because the VIN was mutilated?'