Authors: George Fong
Fragmented (24 page)
41
Thursday –
Jack closed
his cell phone as he pulled into Homer’s apartment complex. He had left three messages for Marquez and gotten no response. Youngblood was reaching for the handle of the car when Jack turned.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Jack said, then turned to Colfax. “Cuff him.”
Colfax took out a pair of cuffs and secured it to Youngblood’s right wrist, the other side to a steel bar bolted to the back seat that’s used for prisoner transport.
“Am I under arrest?”
Jack shot Youngblood a quick glance. “I’ll let you know when I get back.”
With Youngblood restrained, the pair exited the car and moved forward together, side by side, scanning for any signs of Marquez or Sizemore. In front of Homer’s apartment, a man stood by the front door. Dangling from his right hand was a gun.
Both Jack and Colfax crouched down and drew their weapons
.
“Freeze!” Jack yelled. Colfax sidestepped to his right, trying to get another angle in case it turned into a firefight. Jack continued to advance slowly. He didn’t want the man diving into the apartment and gaining the advantage of cover. The man’s eyes bulged out, glaring at Jack and Colfax.
“FBI! Drop your weapon now!”
The man’s hands started to rise. Jack slid his finger into the trigger housing and leveled his sights squarely on the man’s chest.
The man’s hand started up but the gun, a shiny chrome revolver, fell to the ground. It bounced before settling into the shrubs by entryway path. He raised his hands high over his head. “Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.”
Jack shuffled forward, covered by Colfax. He spun the man around, grabbed him by the back of his T-shirt and pushed him against the wall. He holstered his weapon and pulled out his handcuffs, securing the man from behind.
“I got him,” Jack said to Colfax, as he dragged his prisoner backward and away from the front door, forcing the man to his haunches before he drew his weapon again, pointing toward the entrance. Colfax dropped low, skidding up to the frame. He clicked on his flashlight and shined it into the apartment.
“I got movement inside.” Colfax’s voice was low and authoritative. Jack dragged his prisoner backward to a metal bench situated near the path, and with another set of cuffs latched him to the sturdy steel frame.
“Stay here,” Jack commanded.
Colfax aimed his weapon into the dark. “Show me your hands.”
A moment of silence, then rustling.
“Hold your fire. It’s me, Marquez. I’m coming out.”
Jack lowered the muzzle of his gun and Colfax did the same.
Marquez stumbled to the doorway, bleeding from the left side of her head, her hair tossed and the sleeve of her blouse torn loose. Jack holstered his weapon and ran to her side. She fell against the door jamb, her whole body shaking. Jack tapped Colfax on the back as he ran past to let him know he was clearing his right side, and Colfax followed to provide cover.
“What the hell happened? Are you all right?” Jack tried to be calm but his voice was tense. He slid Marquez’s right arm around his neck and guided her out toward the bench where the suspect was handcuffed. Marquez sat beside him and sighed.
“Shit! He almost killed us, Jack.” She rubbed the sides of her temples with both hands, keeping her stare toward the pavement.
“Can you cut me loose now?”
Marquez looked over at the man on the ground. “Oh God, cut him loose.”
Jack looked at Marquez, then down at his prisoner.
Marquez waved a hand. “He’s the neighbor.”
“I’m Carl,” the man said. “I heard screaming so I ran over to see what was going on. It was over by the time I got here.”
Jack bent down and peered into Marquez’s eyes. “Are you okay?”
Marquez grabbed his arm and she squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t say anything.
“Where’s Ray?” Jack asked.
Marquez pointed at the apartment. “I think he’s hurt.”
Jack uncuffed Carl and dusted him off with a quick apology, then ran back to the apartment. By this time, Colfax had turned the lights on and cleared the living room. The place had been ransacked. Furniture busted, pieces scattered throughout the room. Crimson ran up and down the hallway wall in bold streaks, blood from someone being jacked up and violently tossed around. Colfax stood over Sizemore, who was lying on his back in the living room, his right arm over his chest, covering a hole oozing bright red, his white shirt soaked in blood. Sizemore had taken a round through his shoulder, and was trying to stay focused through the pain.
“I called for an ambulance and back up,” Colfax said. “He’s lost a lot of blood but I think he’ll be all right.” Then he pointed up toward the table. “I can’t say the same for your informant.”
Homer lay face down on the table, blood dripping from the edge of the chair, a large circle pooled around his feet.
Colfax studied the blade protruding from the back of Homer’s neck, and shook his head. “Looks like a leather punch stuck right through.”
“This guy likes to make his killings up close and personal,” Jack said.
Colfax knelt down, studied Homer’s body, his placement. He peered under the table. “I got something.”
Jack slipped on a pair of latex gloves and knelt next to Colfax. Wedged under the table was a small booklet. A notebook. Jack reached for it, careful to avoid the blood still dripping from Homer’s neck.
42
Thursday –
It took
seven minutes for the ambulance to arrive but another five before the medics approached the apartment. The fire department’s protocol was to wait until the area was cleared of any danger. Colfax told them that the attacker had left but the shift captain insisted on waiting until a patrol unit met with Jack and gave the all clear. The medics started Sizemore on a large bore IV but he refused any meds for the pain. Marquez suffered several lacerations and a hard blow to the head. The medics suggested the ER for a PET scan. She refused. Homer didn’t have an option. He was placed in a body bag and transported to the county morgue. Hoskin and nine ERT agents arrived to conduct a crime scene examination, briefed by Marquez while the medics examined her.
Although physically sound, it was visible to Jack that Marquez was mentally shaken. She kept on repeating she should have listened to her gut instincts, knowing something wasn’t right. Periodically, Marquez would slam her fist against the bench, exploding in anger before shifting into a well of grief and tears. Her anxiousness to track down Cooper almost got her and Sizemore killed.
A medic knelt beside her, stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck. He rubbed her arm softly. “You’re going to be all right and so is your partner,” he said. But she refused to look up, tears falling to her lap.
Squeaky wheels and rattling metal drew Jack’s attention back to the apartment, where EMTs maneuvered a gurney down the narrow pathway, Sizemore lying on top, his upper torso covered in a white blanket. Jack tried to catch Marquez’s eyes. They were closed, her head resting in her palms.
“I’m going to go check on Ray,” Jack told her.
She nodded.
Jack made a b-line to Sizemore, who was strapped down on the gurney, his eyes closed. Cables from a portable three lead ECG were taped in place and a liter bag of saline was held high by an attending medic. A nasal cannula crowded under his nose, the clear fluoropolymer tubing hissing from an O2 tank cranked high up. Jack trailed as the medics wheeled him to a waiting ambulance.
Jack tapped the gurney railing, and his wedding ring clanged against the chrome bar. “Doc says you’ll be okay.”
Sizemore opened an eye, rolled his head toward Jack. “I know he’s hurt.”
“You think you hit him?”
Sizemore nodded. “Got off several rounds. I think so, but I can’t be sure.”
“Any idea what happened?”
“We got here before he had a chance to leave.”
Cooper was probably waylaid looking for his lost notebook. Somehow Homer must have gotten it from him and wedged it under the table to hide it. Good plan. Bad timing.
If Sizemore was right, Cooper would be bleeding heavily and in need of medical attention. Cooper would never go to an emergency room; all gunshot wounds were reported to the police. He thought for a moment before placing a call to Frank Porter, asking him to have the surrounding drug and liquor stores canvassed for anyone matching Cooper’s description. If they got lucky, Cooper would need a lot of alcohol to numb the pain and supplies to bandage his wounds. Patrol officers were instructed to keep a close eye out for any abandoned vehicles, as well.
Back at Jack’s car, Youngblood was leaning out the rear passenger window, his right wrist still secured to the metal bar. He blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke before flicking the butt to the ground. Youngblood gave a nod as Jack approached.
Jack glanced at the parking lot filled with lights glowing bright red on their windshields. The morning sun had risen above the horizon and the heat was already pushing the mercury far above comfortable. He was starting to wonder if the summer heat would ever break.
A handful of agents shuffled through the maze of bodies and vehicles, sweating in their all-white Tyvek coveralls. Another group in dark blue windbreakers, FBI – Evidence Response Team in bold yellow lettering, stood talking and pointing in every direction. The scene bordered on chaos.
“He knows you’re on to him,” Youngblood said. “You know what he’s going to do?” He squinted into the bright morning sun and spat out the rear window.
“He’s going to change his identity again, isn’t he?”
“Agent
Paris
, I’m not telling you how to do your job, but no one knows Alvie better than me.”
“What’s your point?”
“You got one option to stop this guy.”
Jack remained silent.
43
Thursday –
Marquez sat
in Jack’s car, looking out the window, remaining quiet. Colfax took Youngblood in tow, following Jack back to the off-site in Marquez’s Tahoe. Jack reached out and gave her a gentle touch, just to remind her he was there. She looked up with an appreciative nod before turning away to lean her head against the side window. The glass fogged each time she exhaled.
Jack turned around with his right arm over the front seat as he maneuvered in reverse. He considered taking Marquez to the office and leaving her with another agent, not wanting to add any undue stress.
“Why don’t I take you—” he started to say,
Marquez’s hand shot in front of his face.
He took the hint and kicked the air conditioner on high, accelerating back to the off-site.
Fifteen minutes put them around the corner, Jack’s Crown Vic in the lead, Colfax in the Tahoe directly behind him. Jack slowed, pulled out his cell phone and called Colfax.
“What’s up?”
Jack rolled down his window and pointed out to his left. “Take a spin around the back side. I’ll go the opposite direction and meet you there.”
“What am I looking for?” Colfax asked.
“Someone who may want to kill us.”
It was clear Cooper didn’t have any problem hunting down Homer or going after FBI agents and cops. He’d drawn a line in the sand the minute he tried to kill Marquez and Sizemore. Now it was time for Jack to cross it.
The two vehicles cruised the block but spotted nothing out of the ordinary. Porter had sent three agents to secure the perimeter in case Cooper was planning on coming later. Other cars were starting to fill the parking lot, employees from businesses within the complex. Jack eyed each suspiciously, and entered the office, the air conditioner whirring loudly.
Colfax held a hand up to the vent on the wall that divided the front reception area from the back, wiggling his fingers, feeling the cool air filter through them. “Man, it’s hot here,” he said.
Jack pinned the thermostat as far to the left as it would go, then walked over to his desk and dropped a full evidence bag on the table. Marquez, across the way, sat staring at the package.
“Is that the notebook?” she asked.
“Found it under the table next to Homer’s lap.”
“Why didn’t Cooper take the book?”
“I’m guessing he dropped it when he first attacked Homer, realized it was missing and tried to beat it out of him.”
“Only Homer didn’t give it up.”
“He must’ve hid it under the table. You and Sizemore got there before Cooper could find it.”
“If Homer just gave him back the book, maybe he would be alive to tell us what happened.”
Jack shook his head. “Cooper wouldn’t have been that generous.”
Jack slid on a pair of gloves and took the notebook from the plastic bag, filtering through the pages. Colfax stood next to him. The room stayed quiet, the only sound coming from the grind of the air conditioner and the turning of each page. Near the end of the notebook, Jack encountered a single message that appeared different from the rest. It read “Rabbit Hole,” with an arrow pointing to a crude drawing of an envelope. The words were worn, as though written first. Jack stared at the entry, tapping a pencil on a separate notebook.
“Rabbit hole,” he repeated. “Like a hiding place.”
Colfax glanced at Youngblood, who was leaning against a dividing wall, not paying attention. He appeared startled when Colfax called his name.
“You know anything about any . . . rabbit hole?”
Youngblood’s jaw dropped.
Colfax curved an eyebrow.
Youngblood hesitated. “Yeah, I know about a rabbit hole.”
He walked over to where Jack sat, bent at the waist and gazed down at the notebook. Without touching it, his finger glided above the page. “I haven’t used it since before the time Alvie went to jail.”
Jack cocked his head toward Youngblood. “What is it?”
“It’s an old e-mail account,” Youngblood replied. “Not the one he recently contacted me from. I thought he stopped using this one after he went to prison.” Youngblood rolled back an empty office chair and sat down. “Before Alvie got arrested for the murder of his wife and kid, he started communicating with me by writing messages in his e-mail account.”
Jack responded, “You mean from his e-mail account.”
“No. The thing was, Alvie was scared the police were monitoring his e-mail. Like a wiretap. He was so paranoid, he told me never to write or call him. Just use the rabbit hole.”
“You just said he didn’t want you to communicate with him. Wouldn’t that include e-mailing?”
“That would include
sending
an e-mail. Alvie said if there was something important that I needed to talk to him about, I should access his e-mail account, write an e-mail and save it in his draft folder. He created the Rabbit Hole just for our contacts. They were never sent.
”
Colfax tapped a finger on his forehead. “I don’t get it.”
Marquez chimed in. “There is a difference. By not sending the e-mail, the message never makes its way over Internet where it may be intercepted. By writing a message and saving it in the draft folder, the message never leaves the Internet provider’s server. Kind of like being parked. Youngblood simply draws up the message left in the draft file, reads it, then writes his own message back, leaving that one in the draft file for Alvin Cooper to read. No e-mails floating in cyberspace, no lost messages hanging in other people’s e-mails to be read. And deleting them would prevent the message from ever being retrieved.”
Youngblood nodded. “It was his way of keeping contact with his close friends hidden and private.”
“Hence the reference ‘The Rabbit Hole,’” Jack interjected.
“Do you think you can still access his account?” Colfax asked.
Jack was thinking the same thing. Bait. Better than a phone call.
“That was over five years ago,” Youngblood said. “I have no idea if he still has the same account.”