The Killing Chase (Beach & Riley Book 2) (3 page)

The first thing he saw was the famous two-foot-tall wooden carving of an anonymous fist, middle finger upraised. It was positioned directly under a large, brass ship’s bell, as if daring someone to ring it - at the cost, Jake knew, of a round of drinks for everyone in the bar. Jake reached out for the bell’s handle and gave it several hard yanks back and forth. The bell pealed loudly above Led Zeppelin’s “When the Levee Breaks,” causing everyone to look up, wondering who would disturb their conversations with a round of free drinks so early in the night.

Those who remembered Jake from his long post-surgical recovery raised their glasses and whooped hearty greetings. Those who didn’t took in the impressive size and appearance of their new sponsor, some nodding in appreciation at his generous gesture. The din of the heavy brass bell and cheers subsiding, Jake made his way along the right-hand side of the long rectangular bar. Familiar faces smiled in greeting and vigorous handshakes were exchanged; a ritual faithfully observed for decades now in the intimate expatriate bar. Jake joked with men he knew relatively well, and struggled to recall the names of those he didn’t. There were engineers, lawyers, pilots, accountants and other corporate types, jewelers from the gemstone district a couple of miles away, and still others of less conspicuous pedigrees.

Among a group of dangerous-looking but relaxed men, whose backgrounds were politely disregarded by Goldfinger regulars, stood Mike Lee, Jake’s friend and former colleague. Mike was a few inches shorter than Jake, of medium build, with short-cropped, sandy hair and a friendly face framing bright, intelligent green eyes. His features and demeanor made him appear much younger than his sixty-one years. Beaming a mischievous smile, he nodded at Jake, and broke from the group, raising his right hand to meet Jake’s in an up-high handshake. Their left arms reached around each other’s shoulders in a tight, brotherly embrace. Their bond obviously ran deeper than the average friendship. 

Grabbing Jake’s upper arms, Mike studied his face as a long-lost father would. “Damn, boy, you sure make a flashy entrance!”

“Hey, I’m on holiday - in Thailand. Time to celebrate!”

Mike gave a brief look of concern but quickly flashed back to a smile. Jake noted the look but knew better than to query his friend in open company. He would wait until they were alone for an explanation. Jake and Mike had become highly attuned to each other’s signals over the years, so intentions were easily understood, and verbal communication was often unnecessary.

“Hell yeah, let’s get this party started, Jake, my boy!” Mike said loudly, mostly for the benefit of others.

Mike introduced Jake to the members of his group who he didn’t already know, then the night’s drinking, story-telling and joking began in earnest. Two of the men were brothers Jake knew, and had liked, from previous missions. Former Australian SAS soldiers turned private operators; they were used by Mike as freelancers on select missions.

At the top of the food chain in their murky world, the Aussies maintained strict training regimens and full mission readiness, so Mike kept them in reserve, in case their particular capabilities were required. Somewhat regally named Charles and Harry Phillips, they went exclusively by their nicknames of Dozer and Priest. When Jake had first met them, he hadn’t needed to ask where the massive Charles “Dozer” Phillips got his apt moniker, but was curious as to the origins of the elder and slightly less imposing brother, Harry’s, handle of “Priest.”

“You don’t wanna know, mate,” Dozer had cut in, answering for his brother.

With an exaggerated wink, Dozer had held out his beer for Priest to clunk with his own, and both downed their mason jars in one gulp. Jake had been amused at the brothers’ obliviousness to his own murky past and formidable skills, but chest-puffing with these two would have been futile, so he’d simply downed his own beer and ordered another round. Since then, they’d worked on three missions together, and while mutual trust had been established, Jake was no closer to knowing the origins of Priest’s nickname. 

As the night wore on, Jake caught Mike Lee glancing at him from time to time. Assuming his friend was trying to decide when to tell him the reason for their meeting, Jake finally sidled up to the bar beside him. He leaned in to speak just loudly enough for Mike to hear above the music: “Something on your mind, old buddy?”

“Who you calling old?” Mike feigned offense before turning serious. “I could do with a lungful of air that hasn’t been farted out by a battery of fat Cuban cigars.”

He started toward the front door, and Jake followed a couple steps behind.  Outside, in the din of the street markets, Mike leaned his back against the marble wall, hanging his head in deep thought. 

“I’m getting a bad signal here,” Jake said. ”How serious is this?”

Mike looked deep into Jake’s eyes as though searching for something. “I’m sorry to leave you hanging like that. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you until we had a chance to loosen up. This conversation is about to change the face of the night and your whole trip.”

“Just say what you’ve got to say, Mike. You know I don’t like bullshit.”

“Yeah, I know. It wasn’t for you, it was for me. I needed a bit of time with my friend before he transforms into the Surgeon.” Mike’s demeanor had now changed into the business-mode Jake knew so well from past missions. “I know we said there was no hope, but I got a lead, and I’ve been following the trail in secret for months now. There’s no other way to tell you this, Jake. I found the guy who killed your brother… and he’s in Thailand right now.”

Chapter 3

Alan Beach sat in somber silence, his partner guiding their rented car to Bluegrass Airport in Lexington, about forty-five miles away from The Test. Foxx desperately wanted to know what their Special Agent in Charge could have said to evoke such profound gloom in his partner, but could see Alan needed some time to process. 

Foxx didn’t have to wait long. About a minute later Beach, staring straight ahead through the windscreen, spoke in monotone: “Sorry, partner, I needed some time to work through this.  There’s been a double homicide in Poughkeepsie - New York State. The M.O. is exactly the same as the Orphan Maker’s.”

“You mean Bryan Adler? But that psycho freak has been dead - what, a year?”

“A little more than nine months. That’s the problem. SAC Talbot says there are specific indicators at the crime scene that match Adler’s M.O. to a tee. These are details that were never released to the press, so the killer knows way more than he should. The only outside contacts Adler had while he was incarcerated were psychiatrists, doctors, and law enforcement professionals. He didn’t correspond with anyone, so there’s nothing and no one from his personal past to look into. And since Adler was never publicly tried, there are no public transcripts either.”

“Why the hell didn’t it go to trial?”

“It was a three-way compromise. He got life without the possibility of release in order to avoid the death penalty, the USDA got a win without the risk of an insanity plea, and the taxpayers saved millions on a long trial.” 

“He got off way too easy! Maybe they saved money on the trial, but imagine how much it would have cost to keep that little prick alive and locked down for the rest of his life. Should have just put one in his brain and be done with it. I’m glad he was crushed and burnt alive in that prisoner transport accident.”

Alan was more circumspect. “I would agree with you, except for two things: They’ve learned a lot from studying him, and twenty-five unsolved, double homicides were put to bed as part of his plea bargain. Anyway, I’ve been thinking it through, over and over. I can see only two possibilities. Either he had an accomplice during the original crimes, or some other nutjob with access to the case file has taken up his torch. Knowing Adler, there was no accomplice, so -”

“You saying the copycat’s in law enforcement?”

“I’m saying it’s got to be someone who had, or has, access to Adler’s full case file. That file was open and ongoing for years. Anyone from Adler’s lawyers to evidence clerks could have had looked at it. Not only that, local law enforcement officers were first on site at every one of his crime scenes. We’re looking at the proverbial needle in a haystack.”

“Damn! So, where the hell do we start?”

“We start with the crime scene. I have to see this for myself. Are we going to make the flight to New York?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll get us there in time.”

Foxx pressed harder on the accelerator, surging onward to eighty miles per hour. They didn’t have flashing lights or sirens, but there was no way they were going to miss that flight.

*****

As much as Alan wanted to go straight to the crime scene from the airport, SAC Judd Talbot had demanded they first go to the FBI field office at Federal Plaza in New York City. This placed the normally mild-mannered Beach in a direct confrontation with his immediate superior in the SAC’s office. 

“You forget yourself, Beach!” Talbot raised his voice to remind Alan of his authority.  “You’re a new agent. What makes you think you’re qualified to lead such an investigation? Don’t bother answering, that was purely rhetorical. I’ll be assigning the case to more senior agents.”

“Why did you bother calling to tell me then?” Beach countered, trying to keep his anger in check.

“It was a courtesy because of your involvement in the Devlin case. Now get back to -” Talbot stopped mid-sentence and cleared his throat. “Afternoon, sir,” he said, snapping to attention upon seeing FBI Deputy Director Iain Whyley round the corner into his office.

Talbot was obviously taken aback by the appearance, in his little corner of the world, of the second-in-command of the Bureau. Whyley gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry to take this out of your hands, Judd, but Director Jamison has specifically requested Beach on this case.”

Despite the deference due his boss’ boss, Talbot bristled at the interference. “With all due respect, sir, there are far more experienced -” 

“I’ve learned not to question the Director,” Whyley interrupted. “I’m sure you can too.”

“Of course, sir. Excuse me.”

“It’s all right, I appreciate your position, but the Director obviously has his reasons. Besides, I think we sometimes forget Senior Special Agent Beach’s distinguished record as a veteran homicide detective.”

Was Whyley being sarcastic? Beach searched for signs of this and didn’t see any. It seemed the Deputy Director’s comment was a genuine attempt to smooth over the situation by offering Talbot a graceful way out. Wisely, the SAC took the opportunity. 

“I suppose I do sometimes forget your experience, Agent Beach. One of the hazards of being the new guy, I guess. I’m sure you and Foxx are up to the task. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, sir. I fully understand your position.”

As if on cue, Foxx jumped in, “We’ll keep you up to date, and don’t worry, we won’t let you down, sir - or sirs, I mean.”

Whyley smiled thinly and left the office. Talbot had lost the battle and knew it, but he’d managed to salvage some dignity. He held out his hand to Beach. “This has the potential to be a huge win for the Bureau, Agent Beach - or a massive loss. I meant what I said. If you need anything, let me know. I know you had direct interaction with Bryan Adler when he was still alive, so you’re familiar with his history and psychological profile. But remember, Adler is long gone. We’re potentially looking at either a copycat or a former killing partner. You’re going to need the Bureau’s full resources, so push everything through me, and I’ll make sure you get priority on lab tests, profiling, whatever comes up.”

Alan accepted the handshake. “Thank you, sir, and I apologize for my earlier outburst. Adler had a significant effect on me. If someone’s out there perpetuating his legacy, I need to stop them.”

“We
need to stop them.”  Foxx chimed in.

“Sorry, partner. Of course,
we’ll
get this done. If it is a copycat, my knowledge of Adler’s history and M.O. will help us to distinguish any disparities in this case - and Foxx’s skills speak for themselves. Don’t worry, sir - we’ve got this.”

With the mood lightened, Talbot sat down at his desk. “Well, what are you waiting for? Keep me posted.”

Foxx and Beach glanced at each other then left without further words. Within fifteen minutes, they were in their standard FBI-issue black SUV heading out of the city toward Poughkeepsie, about eighty-five miles north of the Big Apple. With Foxx at his usual place behind the wheel, Alan explained as much as he could about Bryan Adler and his infamous crimes. He discussed the killer’s childhood on a remote farm in Arkansas, the extreme physical and emotional abuse he’d suffered at the hands of both parents, and the trigger which had ultimately transformed him into one of the most notorious serial killers in American history. 

Not yet fourteen, his body toughened and scarred from a lifetime of hard physical labor and terrible abuse, young Bryan Adler had been enduring one of his religious zealot father’s regular, merciless whippings. Between lashes from the thick leather belt, Bryan had looked up through streaming tears to see a fencing hammer within his reach on the workbench. Something inside him, stretched beyond breaking point, had snapped. Seizing the opportunity, he’d turned and smashed the hammer into his father’s head, stunning the bigger man. Then with years of built-up rage, Bryan had used his fists to beat Curtis Adler’s face into a jellied pulp. Finally, he’d grabbed a rusted cut-throat razor from the bench and slit his father’s throat ear-to-ear.

Bryan’s mother, Ruth, the illegitimate daughter of two first cousins, had come upon the scene. Seeing her beloved husband lying dead in a pool of blood, she’d snatched the razor from the floor and cut a large diagonal swath across her own forearm. Bryan had watched, mesmerized by the river of blood flowing from his mother’s wound as it converged and pooled with his father’s. As each pulse of life force flowed from his mother’s arm, the boy had felt his own pain and anguish flow out of him. It was this gruesome but liberating scene that Adler sought to relive through each double homicide he carefully planned and committed, beginning years after the original event. 

Following several months living and learning the cunning ways of the hobo, Bryan had been discovered by social services authorities and put into the foster-care system until he came of age. Prior to that, the budding serial-killer had had no schooling other than daily enforced reading of the
Old Testament
. However, once his formal education began, he’d proven an extremely intelligent, fast-learning pupil with a genius level IQ.

His uncanny intelligence along with seemingly unnatural physical strength had made him an extremely formidable killer. A clever, methodical approach, combined with unremarkable victim choices, and random locations throughout the country had prevented his horrific crimes from being linked for several years after his murder spree started. When he was finally caught, it had been by pure, dumb luck, and during his interrogations and closed legal proceedings, Adler had made certain that every law enforcement agency was reminded of that fact at every possible opportunity. 

With each crime and successful elusion of capture, a macabre vanity and arrogance had grown within Adler. Once he was convicted and securely incarcerated at the Sherbourne Institute for the Criminally Insane, Adler’s only amusement was demonstrating his intellectual superiority over people he felt worthy of his attentions. Persons of lesser intellect were either ignored or disdainfully tolerated, as he schemed to amuse himself at the expense of his doctors, therapists, and other more intellectual probers.

Absorbing Alan’s history lesson on Adler, Foxx could only shake his head. “Man. this guy was seriously twisted!”

“Beyond belief. Then again, only he knew the misery he suffered at the hands of his own parents for all those years.”

“Okay, but all those innocent couples he brutally murdered, what the hell did they ever do to him?”

“Don’t try to understand the acts. Whatever horrors he endured obviously drove him quite mad. There doesn’t need to be a valid reason for someone like him to kill, only a primal drive to relive the day he escaped his own private hell.”

“I guess I’ll never get psychos. Think I’ll leave that to you, and just do the grunt work.”

“I can’t say I get them either, but I have to use every shred of information I have to help us catch whoever is responsible for this new nightmare. Anyway, you need to know the details of Adler’s M.O. so you can fully participate in the investigation by looking for any disparities between his crimes and the new one. Because I can tell you one thing for sure - this is only the first of many to come until we stop it.”

Alan described how Adler had stalked his victims; waiting and watching for the unfortunate young couples to demonstrate the tiniest hint of what he could perceive as abuse toward their children. Anything would do - from minor corporal punishment to a harsh word. Even harmless discipline, by normal societal standards, was enough to trigger Adler’s ultraviolent response and set his gruesome game in play. 

He would take his time to closely observe his victims’ daily routines, associations with outsiders, security measures, and individual behaviors, until he was familiar with all aspects of their lives. When he was confident he could complete his scenario and safely escape, he’d gain access to the family’s home by disguising himself as a delivery man using a stolen uniform. Holding an empty box in front of him, he’d create a scenario believable to anyone looking through a peephole or a window. When the husband or wife answered, he’d calmly step forward to block the door from being closed, pull the pistol from its concealment in the box, order the first victim backward into the house, and lock the door behind him. 

He would then force the wife to bind her husband to a chair using plastic zip ties he’d brought with him. The wife would then be tied to a chair facing her husband so Adler could silently savor the fear in his victims’ eyes for several moments before bringing their child into the room. He would force the mother to admit all their faults as parents, no matter how petty, by holding the child on his lap, causing the mother to fear for her offspring’s life. Once satisfied with her confessions, he would gag the mother and beat the father senseless with his bare fists. While the mother whimpered in horror, he would slit the father’s throat from ear to ear with his cutthroat razor, watching him bleed to death. 

With any physical threat from the father neutralized, Adler would begin a methodical psychological assault on the mother, asking tonelessly and devoid of emotion why she was such a bad mother; how she could be so neglectful, cruel, and uncaring toward her child - and so unworthy of the blessing God had given her.

Having been forced to witness her husband’s brutal murder, and observing the madman’s menacing glances at her child, the mother would eventually break and comply with his demand that she take her own life. He would then release her right hand and pass her the cutthroat razor, hypnotically goading her to release her child from the grip of its evil parents. Finally, to save her child, the mother would follow his instruction to slit her own inner forearm, diagonally from the base of her wrist, almost to the crease of her elbow. With the length and angle of the wound, there was no hope of stemming the blood flow from two major arteries. Adler would watch as the life drained from the woman’s eyes, just as he’d watched his own mother’s dying eyes in a rickety tool shed on a remote Arkansas farm years before. Adler would then put the child in its bedroom, remove all his tools and evidence, and calmly disappear into the night.