The Rasner Effect (27 page)

Morgan shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. The weariness was catching up with him. “What was his name again?”

“Rasner, Rick Rasner,” Bustos prompted.

“Right, Rasner, and you said the police records on him are all screwy?”

Bustos nodded. “We were able to retrieve employment records from here and a public school in New York where he did not remain long. Beyond that, no work records, no driver’s license. Hell, I even checked for a marriage license and next of kin listed for the name. There was nothing to show this guy even existed past a year ago.”

“How is that possible?”

“His description doesn’t match any of our profiles,” Bustos admitted. “At the very least, we can say he was not from the state of Pennsylvania.”

“The facility’s head of security, Sharon Hefner, informed my people the social worker, Janet Murphy, may be able to give us a personality profile. She spent time with Rasner on the job. He was not close to anyone else here.”

“Yes. Except, Miss Murphy suffered a heart attack shortly after the whole thing went down. She is still recovering at your local hospital.”

“I have one of my deputies over there, ready to speak to Murphy as soon as she’s well enough. I ask again, no records, no past history, how is this possible?”

“You want my theory?” Bustos offered.

“Please.” Morgan wanted any explanation to help make some sense of this unexplained massacre. What prompted someone to go on such a rampage? He realized with dismay—he had his own Columbine on his hands—all over a facility no one wanted in Brookhill to begin with.

“I believe we’re dealing with a phony identity,” Bustos suggested. “I think this was a pre-planned hit. For reasons I haven’t yet ascertained, they needed someone on the inside. This Rasner guy was sent ahead to assimilate himself into the community, or perhaps just this facility.”

Morgan had trouble wrapping his mind around the police captain’s theory. “
If
we’re guessing right, this would explain why he moved into our town recently.” Morgan yawned and then lit up another cigarette. “As long as we’re theorizing, who do we figure was the intended target in all of this?”

“Obenchain would be the most likely choice, except why was Rasner renting an apartment co-signed by the good doctor? You see, that’s the confusing part. Plus, why bring the doctor here to kill him? Why not just off him in the streets or at his home?”

Morgan felt a pain in his head not caused by the fatigue. “So, you’re saying Obenchain wasn’t the target?”

“I’m saying I really don’t know. Perhaps Miller was the target. Perhaps Obenchain brought the group there to assassinate her and they turned on him. Without all the facts…”

“Without all the facts, we basically have nothing.”

“Just a lot of questions. No answers. Like what about the patient they kidnapped from the facility? What’s her name…” Bustos put a finger to his pursed lips, thinking. “It’s in the file.”

Morgan consulted his notepad. “Her name’s Clara Blue. She’s originally from…?”

“My question would be—did they come here for her? Is she possibly the reason for the massacre? Maybe they came to get her and the others got in the way. Is she connected to Rasner somehow?”

“Did you review the child’s file?” Morgan asked in the middle of a yawn.

“Yes, I have her information right here.” Bustos reached into his front shirt pocket and removed a notepad, which was slightly larger than Morgan’s. “Clara Blue is fifteen years old, African-American. She’s from Brooklyn, by the way. She has a criminal record, mostly misdemeanors, street crimes, and one felony. She was charged with the attempted murder of a staff member from the group home where she resided. She was in foster care under the guardianship of her now deceased grandmother prior to her placement in the home. I could find no address or work record on her mother while her father is currently incarcerated on manslaughter charges.”

“Manslaughter. Gang or drug related?” Morgan bitterly stated.

“Both. I’m telling you, Sheriff, this girl has a laundry list of emotional disabilities, psychological disorders…”

“That just means she’s a punk,” Morgan stated. The bitter words left a sour taste in his mouth. He’d known a million like her back in Philly.

“Well,” Bustos said, “that’s why she was put here instead of juvie.”

“I was always against them bringing those kids from New York here. I don’t even like it when their people move into my town. We sure don’t need regular adult problems here, much less their crazy kids. But it’s always about the money, isn’t it?”

“Still, I think it is safe to say the people who did this were not simple street thugs. Honestly, this girl hardly fits the profile of someone involved with such a professional gr—”

A sudden noise from the exhausts of two vehicles driving onto the property made both men spin around. The lead vehicle’s headlights caused him to shield his eyes with his arm. Who the hell was that? As the vehicles came closer, Morgan could make out two pure black cars. They stopped by the front gate where the driver’s window of the lead automobile opened. The driver flashed a badge that glinted in the early morning light. After a moment of conversation, the guard waved them through.

“More of your people?” Morgan asked.

“Not at all, in fact, those license plates look government.” Bustos eyed them also. He didn’t look pleased.

Both cars slid to a stop beside the officers. The front doors of the lead car opened and two men in well-pressed black suits stepped out. The jackets each had bulges at the right side. Most people wouldn’t notice, but Morgan knew they each had holstered guns at their sides. The second followed close on the first man’s immaculately shined shoes. The outfits screamed FBI. The height and weight differences reminded Morgan of those before and after pictures he used to see for diet pill or nautilus training commercials.

The back doors opened. Two identically dressed men stepped out. One was tall, well-built and gray-haired with a demeanor of leadership about him. The other was just as tall, but slightly thinner and younger. He was not as dominating in appearance, but he presented a walk and a demeanor that suggested a high rank among the group.

The two men approached Bustos and Morgan. The other pair remained by the car, joined by three others from the second car. They all wore identical black suits. Three wore dark sunglasses.

“Lieutenant Hoover. FBI,” The gray-haired man said without a hint of personality. Morgan couldn’t help wondering if this was how he talked to his wife—
come to bed now, that’s an order
. “This is Lieutenant Phillips. Which of you is currently in charge of this investigation?”

Morgan glanced over at Bustos. He fixated on the word “currently.”

“I guess you could say we both are, sir. I’m with the state police. Sheriff Morgan is with the local force,” Bustos whipped out a wallet and displayed his identification. Morgan followed Bustos’s lead showing his credentials as well.

“We will be taking over this investigation. Lieutenant Phillips will take whatever information you have already gathered.”

“Now hold on a minute here. What the hell right do you have…” Morgan began, but Bustos stepped in front of him. Morgan didn’t want a confrontation with the Feds, but damn it, the Feds had no right horning in on his investigation.

“This is not a federal or military establishment, Lieutenants,” Bustos said. “Isn’t this out of your area of investigation?”

Hoover gave a nod at his younger partner. Phillips returned the nod, taking a step forward. “Does the name Rick Rasner mean anything to you?” Phillips asked.

“Yes, he was part of all this madness,” Morgan responded, perhaps a bit overzealously. He reined in his emotions by dropping the cigarette on the ground and mashing it under the heel of his shoe.

“We know he was an employee with this facility,” Bustos said, “and he was
allegedly
part of…whatever this was all about. But I have a hunch you know more about him than we do, is that correct?”

“Rasner is a former military convict,” Phillips said.

“What did he do?” Morgan asked.

“I’m afraid that is classified information.”

“Classified information?” Morgan irritably repeated. “People in my town are dead and I’d like to know why this information is classified to a fellow member of the police.”

“I can only imagine what this Rasner person must have been involved in, considering there are so few public records on him,” Bustos remarked. “So, I guess this investigation is now yours.”

Morgan’s eyes shifted toward Bustos. What was wrong with him? Not even fighting for his case. He couldn’t believe that after all the time spent putting together the pieces of an investigation, they were being so haphazardly dismissed from the case. It seemed he wasn’t even going to be entitled to the background information that would help make sense out of his—he tossed a surreptitious glance at his watch—eighteen hour and seventeen minute investigation.

Bustos threw him a shrug and Morgan sighed. Understand the authority from which this order has come, he seemed to be saying. Don’t question, just accept the decision, because it won’t get you anywhere. Of course, it wasn’t Bustos’s town; he could back off the case without feelings of guilt or remorse. It wasn’t his friends and neighbors affected by this mess.

“Are we at least going to be privy to the findings of
your
investigation?” Morgan demanded.

“It will be on a need to know basis,” Lieutenant Hoover answered without looking at him. His attention focused on the building. He wanted to get inside and stir things up. Morgan was going to do his damnedest to slow that process down.

“My apologies,” Hoover said, “but it is a matter of public safety.”

“No shit it’s a matter of public safety.
My
public. I knew those victims. I…” Bustos placed a hand on his shoulder, once again interrupting a tempered tirade. Morgan shut his mouth with an audible snap.

“Lieutenant, with all due respect, I think we deserve better,” Bustos pleaded. “Both of our forces have been on the scene all night. We could be of good use to you.”

Morgan jumped into the fray. “Right, we know the people. We’ve conducted interviews. We can smooth the way for your investigation.”

“We will need all the information you’ve gathered,” Phillips said, ignoring both Bustos’s and Morgan’s requests. “I expect the two of you, as well as your men, to be cooperative in this transition?” Though it was obviously an order, he raised the end of the sentence to sound like a question, and that infuriated Morgan even more. How dare he placate him, treat him like a child?

“Are there any reporters on the scene yet?” Hoover glanced around before either man could respond to his fellow lieutenant.

“We have a local reporter inside with my deputies,” Morgan answered after a long moment of awkward silence. “That’s our policy when there’s an incident in town. Until we know fully what’s going on, we allow the Brookhill Press to send one reporter. Once we give the word, the story is dispatched locally and then nationally.”

“Get your reporter,” Hoover quickly responded. “I want to meet with him and the two of you as soon as you’re done debriefing Lieutenant Philips on your investigation.”

Morgan gave Hoover an infuriated glance. He had spent years moving up the ranks of the police force and holding the top position in both the city of Philadelphia and then, for the sake of his family, in the town of Brookhill. Because of this, he was not accustomed to taking orders. He also was not used to being spoken to or dismissed in such a manner. He clenched his fists behind his back and begrudgingly answered, “Yes sir.”

“Are we to pull our people off the field investigation immediately?” Bustos asked.

“Sooner than that. Send your people home right away. My men will take over where they left off. We will then provide you with the official report so you can close your part of the investigation.”

“Excuse me?” Morgan tossed Bustos another look of shock and surprise.

“We’ll be giving your news reporter the same story for his own use,” Hoover explained. “We’ll need you to make sure the story sticks. Gentlemen, your cooperation in this matter is very much appreciated.”

“Great.” Morgan answered, although he felt the entire situation was anything but.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The master bedroom of the Long Island house was dark except for the light emanating from the sunrise coming through the terrace window. Jen rolled onto her stomach and stretched out her arm. The left side of the bed was empty. She sat up and the covers dropped away, revealing the swell of her breasts beneath the thin pink nightie. Her nipples stiffened in the cold breeze that wafted along her skin. The sliding glass door stood open. She could see Rick standing outside on the terrace. He had his arms out straight, his hands braced on the railing. He stared out beyond the backyard. Jen knew what was out there, a line of trees separating the properties on top of a field of grass and a large oak tree closer to the house. But she didn’t think he gazed at scenery. He appeared to be buried somewhere inside himself.

Jen lay back down to watch him. He wore just his briefs. She could see his ribs etched in the moonlight. His shoulders and back lacked the distinct—and very sexy—musculature he used to have. Of course, years ago, he worked hard keeping in shape, spent hours in the gym at her father’s house, ran two miles morning and night. She didn’t suppose the job at the institution provided for any of that. Rick moved away from the railing and stood erect. He picked up something from the rail in front of him and tapped the banister with it—the gun he took from Derrick earlier that morning.

Part of her wanted to join him out there. Part of her wanted to pummel him with her fists. Seven years apart. Seven years! She thought he’d be all over her, but when they went to bed, he’d fallen asleep and slept like the dead. She’d risen during the night and spent quite some time gazing at herself in the full-length mirror. Sure seven years had passed, but she was still pretty, wasn’t she? Her stomach was still flat, her breasts round and high. No wrinkles.