CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Munroe barely spoke to Black during the hour drive into the countryside surrounding Annapolis. He didn
’
t want to be bothered with idle chitchat while focusing on the case. Black, to his credit, didn
’
t attempt any kind of small talk to fill the silence. Joey called to inform them that the techs had finished processing the crime scene but the local detective was waiting there for them.
When they pulled up, Munroe stopped Black from exiting the vehicle and said, “Describe the scene to me.”
“What do you want to know?”
“What does the house look like? Neighbors around? Just paint me a picture.”
“Okay, it
’
s a small bluish-colored house, probably two bedrooms tops. It looks like one of those modular homes. We
’
re at the end of a long lane. No neighbors that I can see, but the place is surrounded by trees. Two cars in the driveway. A one-car detached garage.”
“That
’
s enough. Anything else that stands out beyond the obvious?”
Black paused for a long moment. “
I don’
t know. I don
’
t think so.”
“Okay, let
’
s go meet the detective.”
The local cop stepped slowly and reluctantly out of his still-running vehicle. Munroe heard the car
’
s air-conditioner churning at full blast. With a yawn, the man introduced himself as Hank Cullins. Munroe shook Cullins
’
s hand with both of his, feeling the wrist and forearm to guess at overall body shape, and instinctively leaned forward enough to catch the man
’
s scent. He could tell that Cullins was heavyset but not overly so and smelled of baby powder. The cop likely had a young child at home. Maybe the baby had been keeping him up at night.
Once inside, Cullins said, “We found him in the bathtub.”
“Cause of death?”
“ME
’
s initial thought is that he drowned.”
“Were there signs of a struggle? Did someone hold him under the water?”
“Nothing. And he was fully clothed. It
’
s like he just laid there and let it happen.”
“But someone called it in and even gave you his name. So you know that there was another person involved.”
“Right, but we don
’
t know how they were involved. I have my doubts that someone could hold themselves under the water like that. So my guess is that he was drugged. But whether or not he and a friend were getting high and it went bad or somebody did this on purpose, I don
’
t know.”
“Did you find any drugs or anything else at the scene?”
“No, but they would have had time to clean that up. There
’
s barely anything in the fridge and only a couple changes of clothes. We spoke to the owner of the property, and the victim
’
s the one that rented the place. He paid cash and has only been here a couple of days.”
“Prints?”
“Just the vic
’
s. We did find a shoe print that doesn
’
t match and some tire tracks outside that we
’
re testing for a make. We also pulled some trace from the shoe print. The full tests aren
’
t back yet, but our guys thought it looked like plaster, fiberglass insulation, and clay. Like maybe from a construction site.”
“Marine clay?”
“Don
’
t know. Is that important?”
“Not yet. Thank you, Detective. You
’
ve done good work.”
“Do you want to tell me how this guy relates to national security?”
“Soon. Let
’
s see the bathroom.”
By the cop
’
s hesitation, he knew that Cullins had stumbled over Munroe
’
s use of the word
see
, but the man recovered quickly and led them to the bathroom. Once inside the small space, Munroe groped for the toilet and sat down. The bathtub was to his immediate right. He tried to connect the dots of what had happened here. If this was the correct Wyatt Randall, and there was no reason to assume otherwise, then why had he been killed and how? He suspected that Randall had been tortured for information, but then why would the killer report the crime and even give the police the man
’
s name. Judging by Black
’
s description of the property, it could have taken weeks for the crime to be discovered. The obvious conclusion was that someone wanted the body to be found. But why? Was it a message? And if so, a message for who?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
As they continued down the cream-colored corridor and passed the turn toward his cell block, John Corrigan stopped and turned to the guard. The man was in his early twenties with freckles and youthful features. “Where are you taking me?”
The guard responded by shoving Corrigan forward. He stumbled and tripped over his shackled feet, the restraints barely giving him room to move, but the guard caught him by the back of his dark blue jumpsuit and dragged him down the hall to the prison laundry.
Silence filled the large space. The machines were quiet. The only light came from two windows in the double doors leading back into the corridor. Three of his fellow prisoners stepped from the shadows. Each brandished a metal pipe as a club.
Corrigan
’
s heart throbbed against his rib cage. He clenched and unclenched his fists. He had known this day would come, but that knowledge still hadn
’
t prepared him for the sudden realization that he was about to leave this world.
The guard said, “Okay, make it look good, but not
too
good.” The guard bent forward, gritted his teeth, and clamped his eyes shut. Then one of the inmates, a wiry black man who had been an Army Ranger in a former life, stepped forward and struck the side of the guard
’
s face with the pipe. The guard cursed, blood running down his face, and told the inmate to hit him again. The former Ranger complied, and the guard dropped to the concrete with the second blow.
The former Ranger then turned to Corrigan. “I
’
m sorry,” he said. “You deserve better than this.”
Corrigan shook his head and closed his eyes. “
No, I don’
t. Let
’
s get it over with.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Joey Helgeson placed the last of his new action figures on the shelf. He already had the entire carded set of the Kenner Super Powers collection, but he had only recently acquired these special figures that came on smaller cards and were part of a promotion offered by Shell gas stations in Canada. He admired the entire set of eight heroes which included Superman, Batman, Robin, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, Firestorm, Red Tornado, and Martian Manhunter. They weren
’
t terribly rare or expensive, but Joey found it too easy and convenient to purchase new additions to his collection on sites like eBay. He preferred to scour the convention scene and antique shops. After all, the hunt and the story was a big part of the fun in collecting. And he was a collector at heart with tastes that ranged from superhero memorabilia to restoring vintage muscle cars. His current project was a black 1969 GTO Judge convertible.
As a young boy, he suffered from Gorham
’
s disease, an affliction also known as phantom bone disease, which was characterized by gradual bone loss. The condition affected his pelvis, and although he had gone into spontaneous remission—a common occurrence with the rare disorder—he still walked with a limp and lived in fear that the disease would come back and this time affect his chest or upper spine, which could prove fatal.
His action figures rested inside antique barrister bookcases that surrounded his apartment inside the historic James G. Blaine mansion. The cases had been included with the rental, a remnant from the previous inhabitant, and it was easier for him to leave the heavy shelves and adapt them to his purposes than to cart them out. The dark hardwood floors made from heart pine, the antique wrought iron light fixtures, and the intricate woodwork weren
’
t really his style, but he loved the location and the beautiful view overlooking DuPont Circle. He spent almost all of his time inside this apartment, and so a window with a view was a necessity.
Gazing out his window, he tried to see over the top of the local branch of PNC Bank to the building that housed the closest Starbucks. He had become infatuated with one of the baristas there and had been trying to work up the nerve to ask her out. He still wasn
’
t sure why he was so reluctant to do so. There was another Starbucks only a block away in the opposite direction. Worst case scenario was that he would be forced to walk a bit farther to get his coffee. Glancing back at the faces of his heroes as they watched him through the glass of the barristers, he tried to absorb some strength from them. After all, when he had been bedridden as a boy, these heroes and their stories of overcoming adversity were what had given him the strength to get better. Maybe they could come through for him again.
A muffled thud sounded from the front room, and he thought that he heard the sound of his front door closing.
“
Hello?
”
Surely he was imagining things. This was a decent neighborhood. People didn
’
t just walk in and rob you. But maybe a homeless person or a drug addict…
Had he locked the front door? He was sure that he had.
He grabbed a stapler from his desk and held it up like a weapon. “I
’
m armed,” he said to the silence of the apartment.
He waited, listened. His pounding heart and labored breathing were the only sounds beyond the ambient bustle of the city outside the window. Trying to convince himself that he was being paranoid, he sat back down at his desk. But a strange sensation of being watched crawled over him. He wouldn
’
t be able to get any work done until he checked.
Opting for a better weapon than a stapler, he hefted a metal bust of the Green Lantern from his desktop and went to search the apartment.
The front room was empty, the door still shut and locked. Nothing had fallen off a shelf or been knocked over. Nothing out of the ordinary. He continued on to the bathroom and bedroom. The bed was still unmade, but he pulled off the covers and looked beneath it from a distance. No one was hiding underneath. No one inside the shower stall. No one in the closet.
It was just his imagination.
He moved back toward his office by way of the kitchen in order to pick up a drink and a snack. But when he entered the room, he cried out and dropped the bust of the Green Lantern to the floor. It struck the hardwood with a clang.
A large man sat at his kitchen table. The intruder wore a dark pin-striped suit. Shiny black hair swept back from a dark bronze face. A black pistol with a long suppressor attached to its barrel rested in his right hand.
The bronze man gestured toward another chair at the table. “Please, forgive the intrusion, Mr. Helgeson.”
Joey opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His brain told his legs to run for the front door, but they refused to listen.
The man raised the gun higher and said, “Have a seat, and I
’
ll explain. Don
’
t force me to hurt you.”
Joey fought to maintain control of his faculties, but he had never been so terrified in his life. Could he make it out of the room before the man shot him? Stay or go. Run or surrender. What would his heroes do?
The bronze man fired once into the wall beside Joey, and he immediately shuffled to one of the chairs as he fought to maintain control of his bladder.
“What do you want with me?”
The man
’
s bronze features were completely placid. No sign of anger or malice. “You work for a man named Deacon Munroe, handling his technical operations. He
’
s currently investigating the death of the Commandant of the Marine Corps. I want you to tell me everything you know about this investigation. I want to know what Munroe knows.”
The thought of resisting or lying entered Joey
’
s mind for a split second, but it vanished almost as quickly. He wasn
’
t some kind of trained soldier or operative. If this guy pushed him with violence, he would topple like a house of cards. Might as well save himself some pain and skip the torture part. He opened his mouth, and the information flooded out in a tidal wave of words. He told the bronze man about the flash drive, John Corrigan, Wyatt Randall, and everything else that he knew. When the flood was over, he just sat there, shaking and breathing hard.
The bronze man smiled and said, “Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Helgeson. I truly appreciate you being so forthcoming without forcing me to resort to certain unpleasantries. Where is the flash drive now?”
“
I don’
t know. Munroe took it back. I assume that he has it with him.”
The bronze man slid a phone across the table. Joey recognized it as his own. “Please call him and find out for sure. Try to make it seem natural and use the speaker function so that I can hear.”
Joey complied and tapped the favorite item with Munroe
’
s name. Munroe answered on the second ring, his Southern baritone made tinny by the phone
’
s speaker. “What do you have for me, Joey?”
“Umm, nothing yet. But I have another idea about that flash drive. Where is it?”
“I have it with me. Should I bring it to you or is it something you can do remotely?”
“I
’
ll need—”
The bronze man hung up the phone and ended the conversation. Then he produced his own phone and made a call. “He has the drive with him. Eliminate them, but make sure that you retrieve it intact.”
On the word
eliminate
, Joey knew that he was going to die and decided that he had to do something. In that split second, he summoned all the courage from every comic book that he had ever read and dove toward the door.
But the bronze man was quick. He kicked Joey
’
s legs out from beneath him.
Joey toppled forward, and his head slammed against the corner of his stainless steel refrigerator. The pain lanced through his skull, but he pressed on, crawling toward the front door on his hands and knees.
The bronze man placed the heel of his shoe in the center of Joey
’
s back and pressed him to the floor. The black abyss of the gun barrel loomed over the back of Joey
’
s head.
The bronze man said, “Our business is now concluded, Mr. Helgeson.”