Authors: George Fong
Fragmented (17 page)
28
Wednesday –
Back on
the 5, Jack called Marquez, updating her on his findings.
“That’s great, Jack,” she said. “But we may have stumbled on something better. I think Homer found Cooper online. He’s now going by the name of Faust.”
“I assume you’re referring to the four-hundred-year-old dead guy?”
“Maybe he ran out of friends to kill.”
“Are we going to get a chance at talking to Mr. Faust soon?”
“That would be Dr. Faust, and, yes, I have Homer coming over to the off-site to start scanning the Internet looking for him.”
Jack made a fist and rapped on the top of his steering wheel. “Good. I’ll get a team ready.”
“Meeting us there?”
“You bet.”
“One last thing,” Marquez said. “Ray Sizemore from
Seattle
got in this afternoon. He’s coming out to the site with Harrington.”
Jack was glad to hear Sizemore had made it in. Maybe he’d be able to shed some light on Youngblood’s travels to
Washington
State
. Jack had begun wondering if Cooper wasn’t the only one involved in the Grace Holloway kidnapping case.
Outside the radial tires buzzed. Jack couldn’t say how many times he’d driven down this stretch of highway. As a kid, he remembered sitting in the back of the family station wagon, his father commuting back and forth every weekend from
San Francisco
. Jack’s grandfather, Hank, owned a butcher shop there. A blue-collar man through and through. Jack’s dad, Sean Paris, took a different route, going to college and becoming an engineer. He married Jack’s mother, landed a job in
Sacramento
, which took him away from his parents but never for long. Every weekend, Sean Paris made the drive back to the Bay Area to help out with the butcher shop. Young Jack went with his dad because it was his time with his father. Like Hank Paris, Jack’s father worked long hours and long days. But he was committed to his parents and to his family. Jack didn’t really appreciate why his dad did what he did until late in life after Jack’s mother died of cancer. Hard, honest work was Hank’s discipline, but he knew the real reason for living.
The drive grew quiet giving Jack time to let his mind wander. He looked up and saw the exit for downtown, glanced at his watch and decided to make a quick pit stop, pulling off the freeway and heading toward
Capitol Avenue
. Moments later he was in front of The Waterboy, considered among the best restaurants in
Sacramento
, where his son, Michael worked. Jack found an open meter, squeezed his car between a Mercedes and a Volkswagen and jumped out.
The place was busy so no one really noticed him walking around back. Still he pretended to be on his cell phone so he wouldn’t be bothered. He wanted to peek into the kitchen, to see his son. Jack leaned against the wall and peered through a swinging door, pushed open by a passing waiter. A group of chefs scurried, carrying large metal trays over their heads. Smells of broiling meat and spices rolled out in waves. In the middle of the crowd stood Michael, the sous chef, dressed in a white chef uniform, apron stained. Early on in life, Michael said he wanted to be a chef, not a cop, which was fine with Jack. After high school, he immediately enrolled in the
Culinary
Academy
in
San Francisco
, earning his degree.
Jack stood there and watched as Michael worked. Flames leapt over beautifully carved pieces of meat, sauces drizzling from silver pouring containers. They were Michael’s tools and he had mastered them. Jack saw how focused his son was, how in control of his surroundings. He realized his son had grown up. Michael had become a man. It made Jack proud.
A waiter approached Jack and asked if he needed any help.
Jack held up his cell phone. The waiter smiled and darted into the kitchen.
He took one last look, then turned away.
Marquez watched Sizemore shuffle a stack of papers, tap them straight on the table. An open folder to his right exposed a series of black and white crime scene photos from the Grace Holloway murder in
Renton
,
Washington
, over a decade earlier. Behind him, Homer Landley was scrolling through websites, searching for the kidnapper/killer they now knew as Faust.
“Faust, eh?” Sizemore’s voice was filled with sarcasm. “I didn’t know Cooper was so well educated.”
“You can get college credit in prison,” Marquez quipped.
“The reports don’t seem to have much on his family prior to his arrest.”
“Wasn’t much there. Mom died while Cooper was traveling through
Europe
. He comes back to an empty house, rents a room he finds in the classifieds, gets a job, moves on….”
“Didn’t Jack say he befriended the landlord’s son and that they traveled together?”
“Youngblood,” Marquez said. “Eric Youngblood.”
“Was Youngblood in
Seattle
during the time our victim was found dead?”
“I can’t be certain. You’re going to have to wait and ask Jack.”
Homer groaned loudly and shoved his computer mouse off its pad. “Nothing! Guy’s all over the place, talking to anyone who’ll listen, but I can’t seem to find him anywhere!”
Marquez leaned back in her chair and glanced in Homer’s direction. His eyes looked tired, his whole body a wet shirt on a wire hanger. She actually felt sorry for the guy. “Ease up, I have faith in you.”
Homer sucked in a lungful of air and went back to clacking on the keyboard.
Sizemore turned to Marquez. “What was Youngblood doing with Cooper fifteen years ago when they were hitchhiking up and down the coastline?”
Marquez knew where Sizemore was going with his question. Placing Youngblood with Cooper at the scene of the Holloway murder meant more than identifying a murderer; it meant a possible conspirator, one who could be turned into a witness. Pit one against the other, someone to squeeze. A two-for-one deal. The question was, who was the weaker of the two?
“You get any
“No. Got some unidentified latent smudges. But only Cooper’s
“Then I guess we should look for Youngblood as a material witness.”
“If Youngblood was present during the Grace Holloway kidnapping and murder, it’s possible he knows what’s going on with your current wave of killings, including the Baker abduction.”
Marquez agreed. “There’s too much smoke to ignore. The question is, why now? Why does Cooper risk escape and kidnap a child less than a year before his release? Why not just wait until his time’s up? Draws less suspicion.
”
Sizemore shrugged. “You’re being too logical. Men like that are not guided by rational thought.”
Sizemore was right. Child abductors and murderers rarely allowed logic to dictate their actions. In most cases, it’s an urge that drives them to act, no matter the circumstance.
“Still, it just doesn’t feel quite right,” she said. “I can’t help but think Youngblood is involved in the Baker kidnapping.”
“Anything’s possible,” Sizemore said. “You got evidence showing the two have been in contact since his incarceration?”
She shook her head, recalling a report that Jack had received from
Butte
County
jail. It was Cooper’s visitor’s log and employment records. State of
California
special agents also reached out to Cooper’s coworkers after he went missing and interviewed everyone. There was no evidence Cooper had been meeting with anyone fitting the description of Eric Youngblood.
“To the contrary,” Sizemore continued, “there’s a good reason why I don’t think they’re together.”
Marquez tilted her head and glanced at him sideways. “Let’s hear it.
”
“For starters, why do we only find one dead body every time Cooper changes his identity? Why not two? One for Cooper and one for Youngblood?” Sizemore shook his head and tossed the reports back on the table. “No, if they were together, I would think we would be finding pairs of dead bodies. At least a pair of dead bodies with common M.O.s. One new identity doesn’t help anyone.”
“Make sense,” Marquez replied.
“We haven’t spent that much time looking for him. For all we know, he’s left a trail as wide as
Sherman
’s March to
Atlanta
.”
“Could you check to see if Eric Youngblood has ever drawn the attention of law enforcement in the state of
Washington
?”
Sizemore nodded and pulled his cell phone from his pocket, holding the phone to his head, waiting for the switchboard operator in
Seattle
to answer.
“Find me a parking ticket,” he said, griping out loud. “Anything.”
While he waited on the line, Marquez asked, “Was there a lot of news coverage of the Grace Holloway abduction?”
“Every damn day.”
“I mean, film coverage? Did they film a command post filled with volunteers, the search and rescue teams, things like that?”
“You bet. When a kid comes up missing, the whole world volunteers, and the news is there to capture it. We had people handing out flyers, walking door-to-door, all that.”
“Do you think you can get your office to pull the tapes of the coverage?”
“You think we’ll find Cooper as one of the volunteers?”
“I’m hoping we’ll find one of them. Or if we’re lucky, both. Killers like to find themselves in the middle of the commotion, liking the thrill of it all.”
Sizemore turned back to his phone and started talking. “Get me to Squad 8.” He stood up and walked to a quiet corner, his words now reduced to a murmur.
Marquez looked over at Homer, who was staring at the monitor, screen flipping from one webpage to another. Although Homer was doing everything he could to find Cooper, he wasn’t having much success. Marquez looked down at her hands and noticed they were gripped tightly on the edges of the table. She was feeling as anxious as Sizemore. All she could do right now was hurry up and wait. Cooper’s jail cell had been tossed for clues, and Search and Rescue was out in full force. Hoskins was handling forensics, and earlier that evening the whole world had been put on notice by every television and radio station, including the Spanish, Vietnamese and Russian broadcasts. If someone hadn’t heard of the Baker kidnapping by now, they were either dead or living under a rock.