Taking Liberty (32 page)

Woods banged a fist against the wood. “FBI! Open up!”

We waited. No sounds of movement coming from inside. She banged again. Still no answer.

“What are you expecting to find here?” she asked as she slid the keycard into the lock.

“A reason,” I said. “But I’m not holding my breath.”

As usual, I’d spoken too soon. The air inside room eleven of the Imperial Motor Lodge in Springfield smelled bad, bad enough to wrinkle the nose and close up the airway.

___________________________

My Glock went in first and I went in ahead of Woods.

“FBI!” we both warned.

It was dark inside.

Woods threw on the lights and we scanned the lackluster room. It was a standard motel setup: tired twin beds with brown throws and faded linens, both made; cheap prints in even cheaper plastic frames, blending in against jazzy wallpaper last sold in the 70s; a wooden dresser with an old portable TV on the top, dusty; beaten carpet tiles trying unsuccessfully to hide a lifetime of abuse.

Woods’ face was pulled in on itself. “What the heck is that smell? It’s like a sewer in here.”

I could see why.

The bathroom door was partly open. No lights on inside, but a slice of illumination from the bedroom revealing a bathtub and what looked like a dangling arm and half a torso. Skin grayed by death and fingers piped full of purple blood.

 “Dead body,” I said, holstering the Glock. “In the bathroom.”

I walked over. Pushed the door fully open. Winced at the overpowering odor.

“Oh my gosh,” Woods breathed over my shoulder. “That is seriously screwed up.”

Sadly, I had to agree.

Someone had taken their own life in the bathroom.

The arm and torso belonged to a middle-aged man. He was completely naked and suspended in a semi-standing position by a nylon cord garroted around his neck and anchored to the shower head. Arms dangling loosely at his sides, knees bent, legs crossed. The cord was pulled taut as a guitar string, slicing into the flesh and cutting off the blood supply to his brain. Face dark purple and bloated. Bloodshot, bulging eyes, staring lifelessly into the tub.

I switched on the bathroom light and the gruesome scene came alive in all its terrible detail.

“OMG,” Woods gasped.

Sometimes death knows no dignity. In the last few moments of life, the decedent’s bowels had emptied. Flushed by fear. Stress had liquefied the feces, spraying them down the backs of his legs and all over the insides of the bathtub. I could see scuff marks where his feet had grappled for grip, slipping and sliding with no hope of a purchase.

Woods was gagging on the putrid stench. “I’ll go see if I can find a wallet.”

“No rush,” I said. “I know who this is.”

___________________________

Two hotel rooms and two apparent suicides, both in two days. The first had turned out to be a homicide. No surprise if this turned out to be one too.

We regrouped outside the motel room and sucked on some fresher air for a while. Dusk had descended and icy rain was falling. A vertical veil of wannabe sleet, tapping on the wooden roof covering the wraparound walkway and making nearby power lines hum.

Woods cleared her throat. “So who is it?”

“His name is Gentry O’Dell. He’s the general doctor over at the Fed Med.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s the last thing you expected.”

“Doctor O’Dell?”

“Finding a suicide.”

I nodded. “That’s just it, Woods. I’m not convinced it is. I’m here on the back of another homicide in LA. That victim – a guy called Frank Bridges – had a keycard for this room in his hand, which means either he was here or the killer was.”

“Or both.”

“Or both.” I thought about that: Cornsilk being here, at this motel, tracking down Bridges and taking the keycard with him. Seemed like a big ask. “Here’s the rub: Bridges also worked at the Fed Med, together with Doctor O’Dell. It’s no coincidence they’re both connected to this room.”

“So you’re thinking the same killer killed both victims?”

“No.”

“But . . . ?”

“Bridges was killed and then burned. That’s the killer’s MO. This is someone else’s work.”

“Assuming you’re right about it not being a suicide.”

“Woods, you’re a hard nut to crack.”

“Thank you.” She flashed a smile.

“But there’s no way this is a suicide. I don’t know if you noticed, but there are soap suds still in the bottom of that tub, mixed in with the diarrhea.”

“Nicely spotted.”

“Thank you.” I flashed a smile back.

“So he showered before pulling the plug.”

I let her see my smile fade.

“Sorry, Quinn. Humor is a kneejerk reaction with me.”

“Whatever gets you through it, Woods. Soaping the tub makes traction impossible against the porcelain. Even if this was a suicide and he changed his mind halfway through, he wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.”

“Which means he was deadly serious about killing himself.”

“Or he was murdered and the killer wanted to make it look like a suicide. Besides, how many suicides have you seen who hanged themselves buck naked?”

“None. But then again this is my first hanging.”

I made a pout. “Trust me, Woods, I’ve seen enough to know premeditated and determined suicides like to check out looking their Sunday best. The last time I saw anything remotely like this it turned out to be a homicide, and right now this has all the same hallmarks.”

“Okay. I’m happy to go along with your assessment. Let me get my stuff and we’ll go over the room ourselves, before I call Forensics in.” Woods disappeared behind the Enclave.

I signaled to the uniform still seated in his squad car. He put down his coffee, got out and came over.

“We have a four-nineteen in here. You need to call this in. Get your homicide detectives down here ASAP. This is now a crime scene. Until we get more agents on site, make sure nobody comes near.”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded and returned to his vehicle.

Woods reappeared with Latex gloves and Maglites. We ventured back inside. The stench wasn’t as bad the second time around, diluted by the influx of damp air. Woods went for the dresser. I headed for the closet. Inside I found O’Dell’s clothes, all neatly hung, with socks stowed in shone shoes. I heard Woods opening and closing drawers behind me. I slipped gloved hands into pants’ pockets: all empty. Checked the jacket: same thing. I pulled out the socks and tipped up the shoes: nothing.

 “We have a suicide note over here,” Woods announced. “And a wallet.”

She was standing by the nightstand between the twin beds. I padded over. There was a folded sheet of paper propped up against the lamp base, together with a black leather billfold. Hard to notice either of them from the other side of the room.

I picked up the note and opened it. Sure enough, it was a typed letter, addressed to no one in particular. It consisted of a single paragraph containing unimaginative phrases such as
I can’t take it anymore
and
God forgive me
, finished at the bottom with the doctor’s signature, handwritten.

“See,” Woods winked.

“Ye of little faith.” I swapped the note for the wallet and peeked inside. Saw several credit cards issued by Louisiana banks, all with the doctor’s name embossed on them. About a hundred dollars in assorted denominations, a few business cards for local companies, a driver’s license behind a plastic window, and a solitary coin wedged in, next to O’Dell’s photo.

I shook it out into my palm. Shone the Maglite over it.

Woods leaned in close. “What is it?”

“A nickel.” I turned it over, curious. “Any more loose change anywhere else?”

“None that I’ve found.”

“So why did he have a single five-cent coin in his wallet?”

“Perhaps it’s a keepsake. It looks like one of the newer commemorative designs. You can’t be thinking it’s significant.”

“Woods, the devil is always in the details. Never overlook anything at a crime scene.”

I looked more closely at the nickel, turning it round in the beam of the Maglite, wishing I’d brought my readers with me to Missouri.

“Use your phone,” Woods said. “You can zoom in with the camera function.”

I nodded. “I knew that.”

She smiled. No fooling her.

I did as suggested. Studied the enlarged image on the phone’s smart screen.

The coin had been issued in 2006. It had an image of Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello residence on the reverse and a forward-facing image of the third president himself on the obverse. The universal US motto
In God We Trust
curved along the upper edge and another stylized word appeared below – one which ignited hot fire in my belly.

“What is it?” Woods asked.

“If I’m right about this, I think I know who killed O’Dell. We have to go.”

___________________________

We left the uniform guarding the crime scene and set off in Woods’ Enclave. Headlight beams illuminating drizzle. Wipers cleared slush off the windshield.

“So where are we going?”

I was squinting at my cell phone, using the FBI app to find an address. I brought up a map and showed it to Woods. The phone’s glow lit up her frown. She pulled out into rush hour traffic, and we headed east on Sunshine. A steady stream of red-and-white lights, made fuzzy by the incessant rain.

“Are you always this impulsive?” she asked.

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Next question: who’s your suspect?”

“It’s complicated,” I answered. “A couple of days ago I was an inmate at the Fed Med.” I saw her mystified glance and tried to explain. “It’s not what you think. I was there undercover, since the summer.”

“You were inside for four months?”

It sounded unbelievable. No one would willingly do time in a federal penitentiary for the criminally insane without being a little bit crazy themselves.

“I was there to extract information from an inmate. The Los Angeles Field Office is currently investigating a human trafficking racket bringing sexual slaves into the country. This other inmate was locked up for tax evasion, plus mental issues which were probably the reason he forgot to pay his taxes in the first place. I guess it took a little longer than planned.”

“Was it ultimately successful?”

“Unfortunately, no. Someone shanked him to death on Christmas Eve.”

“Ouch. I bet you were gutted, but not as gutted as him.”

I looked at her, flatly.

“Funereal humor,” she smiled. “Keeps me sane. Say hi to your old home.”

I turned to the passenger window. The Medical Center for Federal Prisoners was on our right, separated from the road by about three hundred yards of grassland and trees. Hardly any lights anywhere. Hard to make it out in the deepening twilight. I didn’t feel a pang of nostalgia.

“His name was Trenton Fillmore. He was an oddball. He didn’t open up easily, and when he did he spoke in riddles.”

“I have a two-year-old niece just like that.”

“I’d spent months winning his trust and cultivating his confidence. Come Christmas Eve, I had him on the brink of telling me everything I needed to know.”

“Can I be nosy and ask what that was?”

“First off, Fillmore was an accountant.”

“Who didn’t pay his own taxes.”

“Apparently.” Just like home decorators who never get around to doing their own. “Our investigation had linked him to the human trafficking ring. As far as the Bureau could establish, he acted as their accountant. Don’t ask me how the connection was made, because that happened before I came onboard. What I do know is the Bureau had no idea who were the brains behind the racket.”

“And this Fillmore character was your only link to the top dogs. So how did the investigation get its legs?”

“A dozen dead bodies in various stages of decomposition showed up near a hiking trail in the Santa Ana Mountains in California. Mostly teenage girls, maybe one or two in their early twenties. They all had sustained sexual trauma in common and all had signs of repeat beatings. What’s more, they each had the same Cyrillic tattoo on the inside of the right elbow.”

“Russian prostitutes.”

I nodded. “At least, that’s how it looked at first. Access roads into that part of the Saddlebacks were put under twenty-four-hour surveillance and photos of the victims were shown around the known red light areas across the LA Metro and the Inland Empire. Over a three week period, no one returned to the dump site, and the word on the street was that no one had ever seen those girls before.”

We came to the intersection with Glenstone Ave. Woods took the right feeder lane onto Route 65. It was fully dark now. Unrelenting sleet. Wipers working overtime. Woods saw my face and cranked up the heater.

I wiped condensation from the passenger window. “The high levels of sexual abuse pointed to sexual slaves rather than forced prostitution. According to the State Department, there’s upward of fifty thousand females trafficked into the country each year. The private sex slave trade accounts for a small percentage of that. It’s almost impossible to police. There are no pimps or places of employment. The girls are sold to the highest bidder and are never heard from again.”

“Until they show up dead.”

“We don’t know what the setup is with the dead girls yet. It looked like the dump site has been used for at least a year.” Some of the bodies had taken root, while others had been ravaged by wild animals. “We’re thinking they’re the disposables.”

“Thrown out with the trash?”

“We live in a throwaway world, Woods. Humans are no exception. If you have enough money and the right connections you can just about buy anything.”

We came to the busy intersection with Battlefield Road and sat in one of the left-turn lanes for long minutes while everyone had their turn.

Absently, I checked my watch. Thought about Rae. Felt panicked and utterly useless. I had no idea how close Stone and the rest of the task force were to securing her location. Probably not at all – otherwise I would have heard something by now. The radio silence also meant that Cornsilk hadn’t been in touch with any demands.

What was he doing with Rae?

I drew an unsteady breath as the signals changed.

Not far along Battlefield, Woods took a right and then a left. It was a quiet neighborhood of individual homes set back from the street behind trimmed lawns and leafless trees. No sidewalks. Ordinary Pleasantville. More neon reindeer and chubby snowmen casting cheerful glows within the cheerless sleet.

Woods pulled up outside one of the residences. “Here we are; this is the place. I take it this is your suspect’s home?”

“We’ll see.” I looked the house over.

The street level was taken up by a double garage and a brick entrance. The upper floor had a wood fascia and slits for windows. Looked like a regular family home in a regular neighborhood.

Unlike the other properties hereabouts, there were no Christmas ornaments in the yard. No lights visible in the house. But there was a silver-colored Nissan Sentra in the driveway. Both the trunk and the driver’s door were open. Through the rain I could see someone leaning into the car. Looked like a big guy.

We got out and walked up the driveway. Peppered by rain. I had the Maglite in hand, shone it in the open trunk as I neared. The beam played over a bulging suitcase and a lumpy duffel bag, together with packets of various foodstuffs and bottles of soda.

“Going someplace?” I shouted.

The big guy twisted out of the car like he’d been stung on the rump. He straightened to his full height. A tall African American with an eight-ball afro. He squinted in the beam of the Maglite, one hand lifting to shield his eyes. “Quinn ?”