The Murder That Never Was

  “So how is this going to tell us who Mr. Anonymous is?” Marc interrupted to ask.

  Ryan raised a hand. “I’m getting to that part. Yoda will be able to triangulate a geographic ‘red zone’ from the cell tower data. You see, when a cell phone places a call, it contacts cell towers in the area. The idea is to use the one with the best signal strength. Usually, it’s the closest one to the subscriber. Sometimes it’s not, because of some natural or man-made obstacles—like a hill or a building that impacts the signal strength. By doing a ‘mashup’ of the cell tower locations—Google Earth for the terrain assessment and signal strength data on the TracPhone calls—Yoda should be able to narrow the location of the distributor to within a block or so.”

  He took a belt of coffee. “People are creatures of habit. They place the bulk of their cell phone calls from home, their office, or their favorite Starbucks. When the same tower handles cell phone calls at the same time of day, that can give us a clue as to where this guy hangs out. For example, if Yoda comes up with a location during the day in a business district, then we can guess that the distributor has an office in the area. At night, especially late at night, he’s probably home. I suspect this guy will be doing business out of his car and his apartment.”

  “Okay,” Marc said, processing all this information. “So we know that this scumbag lives within a block or two of some address. We can’t go door to door interviewing people. I don’t have my FBI credentials anymore, remember?”

  “No worries on that score,” Ryan assured him. “We won’t have to. Once Yoda figures out the area we’re interested in, Otter will switch gears and head in the opposite direction. He’ll focus on calls made using the same geographic pattern of cell towers but from another cell phone. In my experience analyzing communications in criminal networks, bad guys will protect themselves from discovery by using a burner phone to talk to people on the street. In this case, that’s what the distributor did with Jim. So if Jim were arrested, the cops would only have a disposable cell phone number and no leads back to the distributor.”

  “Dead end.”

  “Yup. But a distributor has multiple business relationships and, at some point, would be talking to someone higher up in the food chain. That person wouldn’t want the hassle of dealing with revolving phone numbers for all his distributors. He might have thirty people he needs to talk to on a regular basis, spread out all over the US. Imagine the chaos. The person above the distributor would only accept phone calls from known phone numbers.”

  “Got it.”

  “So, in a long-winded way, we’ll use the burner phone to find a location. We’ll use that location to find a regular cell phone number that is being used by the same person. Then we’ll go on to use that info to find who the distributor called. My hope is that someone at the top is not concerned about cell phone anonymity, but if they are, we can track them to within another block or two radius. Otter will keep plying the digital rivers of cell phone data and, with Yoda’s help and computation resources, build a map of the criminal network using their communications to uncover the players.”

  Marc snorted. “Between the government listening in to our cell phone conversations, surveillance cameras everywhere, people capturing conversations, pictures, and videos using smartphones, and tech prodigies like you designing, integrating, and hacking all this, there really is no place to hide any longer.”

  “That’s right. If you’ve got any secrets I don’t know about, I will soon.”

  Marc chuckled. “No such luck. You’ll have to play spy somewhere else. I’m as clean as a whistle—other than my work at FI, which is no secret to you. But it does sound like I underestimated Otter.”

  “You did. But I don’t expect you to get my level of genius.”

  “Just drive, Ryan,” Marc said and turned up the radio. “The sooner we get there, the better.”

  “Casey?” Claire poked her head around the conference room door. Even though Casey had her own office, the whole team knew that this was her favorite place to work.

  Sure enough, she was sitting at the oval table, typing information into her laptop, Hero relaxing at her feet.

  She and Hero both looked up at the sound of Claire’s voice. Hero wagged his tail, and Casey beckoned Claire in, a hopeful glint in her eyes. She knew that look on Claire’s face—and what it usually yielded.

  “You made some kind of sensory connection?”

  “More than one,” Claire replied. “You have time?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m losing my mind because of how slowly we’re moving forward. Sit.”

  Claire complied. “By the way, where’s Ryan? He’s not in his lair. And I need his input on a couple of drawings I made.” She indicated the pieces of paper in her hand, which she now placed on the desk in front of her.

  “He and Marc are on their way to Chicago. They’re going to be there for a few days. Ryan’s got a new gadget that he says will yield detailed call information all stemming from Jim Robbins’ burner phone.” Casey gave Claire a wry grin. “As usual, I only half understood Ryan’s explanation, but you and I both know that he and Marc will come back with something significant.”

  Claire nodded. “Fine. Then we’ll muddle through my stuff without him.”

  She spread out the three sheets of paper, angling them toward Casey. “These are fairly accurate depictions of Julie’s killer’s tattoos. It took me a while to be able to visualize them, but I finally did. This one”—she pointed at the first sheet, which was a sketch of a bull—“is etched on the killer’s upper right arm. Next”—she pointed at the second drawing, which was birds flying over the horizon—“is on his upper left arm. And the last one”—she pushed the third drawing, a sketch of a sailing ship, toward Casey—“is on his right forearm.”

  “Wow.” Casey studied each drawing carefully, marveling at Claire’s detail. “Wow. That was quite a connection you made. And obviously, these particular symbols stand for specific things. I wish we knew what nationality we’re dealing with. That might narrow down our research.”

  “The killers are Russian. The symbols are, too. I was hoping Ryan could dig up a tie between whatever basic information we come up with to an actual gang or sect who wore this combination.” Claire blew out a breath, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “On the other hand, it could be a random combination of symbols, not tied to any one group.”

  “We’ve got to find out.” Casey was picking up her burner phone. “Only I’m not sure Ryan is our best source on this one. I’ll let him know what you picked up on when he checks in, but we need inside info—crime families, gangs.”

  “Hutch?” Claire guessed.

  “Yup.” Casey punched in a number. “I’m calling Lisa and getting her permission to bring Hutch in, at least on this peripheral level. He doesn’t need to know the case details. He just needs to offer us his expertise. And Hutch has seen everything.”

  She paused as Lisa answered, and then tersely explained that they had an FBI contact who might be able help them out without knowing names or case specifics. Sure enough, Lisa agreed.

  Casey hung up and used her own cell to call Hutch. She knew she’d probably get his voice mail, since he was busy orienting himself to his new job.

  “Hey,” he surprised her by answering, although his head was definitely elsewhere. “Everything okay?”

  “Fine. Sorry to bother you,” Casey replied. “Can I borrow you for a few minutes after work?”

  This time, he chuckled. “Sweetheart, you can borrow me for a lot longer than a few minutes.”

  Casey’s lips tugged into a smile. “Get your mind out of the gutter, SSA Hutchinson. What I need you for is work related.”

  An exaggerated sigh. “You sure know how to hurt a man’s ego.”

  “Your ego and your libido are in excellent shape. No worries on either score. And
I do promise to give you as much time to address the latter as you—we—want. But first…”

  “I know. Help on a case. I’ll come by the brownstone around six thirty.”

  “Thank you,” she said gratefully. “Now go back to work. Make them wonder how they ever lived without you.”

  She hung up and turned to Claire. “He’ll be here. And he’ll zero in on what we need fast.”

  Quietly, Claire added, “I can also give you descriptions of the killer and the guy driving the car. The descriptions aren’t as detailed as the drawings, but I jotted down every physical characteristic that came to me.”

  Hearing the shaky note in her teammate’s voice, Casey looked up.

  “There’s something else,” Claire stated.

  It wasn’t a question. She could tell that some revelation had profoundly affected Claire.

  “It’s Julie,” Claire managed, her throat clogged with unshed tears. “I was inside her head. It’s like I was her. I know what she was thinking, what she did, and where she did it. And then…I felt her die. Every second of it.”

  “Oh, Claire, I’m sorry.” Casey covered Claire’s hand with hers. She knew how traumatic these kinds of connections were to her claircognizant teammate, how severely they impacted her. And how could they not? She’d lived inside other victims while they were being brutally raped, assaulted, or murdered. Casey couldn’t imagine the emotional toll that would take on a person, especially one as gentle as Claire.

  “Thank you,” Claire replied, swallowing hard and then shoving back her emotions in lieu of the facts. She told Casey about Julie’s distress over Shannon’s condition, her rage at Jim, and her determination to get evidence on him—leading to what she’d done.

  “So she was at Apex,” Casey murmured thoughtfully.

  A nod. “She easily got through security, since they’d seen her there before and they knew she was also Shannon’s trainer. She broke into Jim’s office and found the evidence she needed—a bunch of papers that she photocopied and took with her.”

  “The bag she was carrying when she got shot,” Casey said. “The one that Lisa said the killers took. The papers were inside there. That makes sense. Could you see exactly what the papers were? What was on them?”

  Claire pursed her lips in frustration. “Only glimpses. Athletes’ records. I keep getting flashes of dates and columns of information. Nothing I can bring into clear focus—yet. I need something of Jim Robbins’. That might help crystalize things for me.”

  “I know just the person to get that for us.” Casey was already pressing Marc’s number on her cell phone. “Hey,” she said a moment later. “As long as you’re en route to Chicago, can you make a brief stop at Robbins’ place and collect a couple of personal items for Claire to use?” A pause. “Yes, I know it’s a potential crime scene. You’ve got my go-ahead to do whatever’s necessary to get around that. Uh-huh. Great. Thanks.”

  Casey hung up, frowning when she saw the downcast expression on Claire’s face. “What’s wrong? I thought that having possessions belonging to Jim was your goal. Now you’ll have them.”

  Claire gave an offhanded shrug. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I appreciate what Marc’s doing. It’s just that my connections to the people involved seem to be strong today. I wish I had what I need now. I’m afraid that by the time Marc and Ryan get back, the visions will be gone.”

  “What about Shannon’s timer? Can you try again to get something off of that?”

  Claire reached into her pocket and extracted the timer. “I keep it with me. I haven’t tried connecting with it today, because I’ve been caught up with my images of Julie and my work on the tattoos. But, believe me, I’ve held this a dozen times. I just sense coldness. Stillness. My instincts tell me Jim Robbins is dead. But that’s my reasoning talking, not my sensory awareness. If I actually saw something, felt something… It’s like there’s something blocking me from him. I know there’s a wealth of information tied to the bastard, but I just can’t get at it.”

  “Don’t force it.” Casey spoke from the experience of having worked with Claire through several big cases. “Let it go for now. You’re exhausted as it is. Maybe your psyche needs a break.”

  “What it needs is immediate gratification.” Sighing, Claire pushed the timer deep into her pocket. Her fingers lingered, and her breath caught in her throat. Inhaling and exhaling became nearly impossible. Sweat beaded up on her forehead, slid down her face.

  “What is it?” Casey asked in alarm.

  “Jim. Dead. Buried deep underground. Mounds of dirt separating us. He’s in a ditch. On the outskirts of some large piece of property. I can’t see him. Feel him. Black spots. I…can’t…breathe.” Claire swayed in her chair, falling back against it.

  Leaping up, Casey reached into Claire’s pocket and pulled out her hand, snatching the timer from her perspiring fingers. She then bolted for the fridge and grabbed an ice-cold bottle of water. She uncapped it as she ran back and then pressed it to Claire’s lips.

  “Drink.”

  By this time, Claire’s shallow breathing was starting to return to normal. She gripped the bottled water and took a few thirsty gulps. She then put it down on the table and leaned back in her seat again, trying to regain her equilibrium.

  “Are you okay?” Casey was gripping Claire’s hands, anxiety etched on her face.

  Claire nodded, squeezing her eyes shut and then opening them. “I’ll be fine. That was…very intense.” She reached for a nearby box of tissues and plucked one out. Pouring a bit of water on it, she pressed the tissue to her forehead, then dabbed at the rest of her face.

  Exhaling, she drank some more water, feeling as if she’d run a marathon.

  “Now I know why I couldn’t get past that barrier,” she said weakly. “Whoever killed Jim buried him so deep underground that I couldn’t penetrate it. And there was no human being to connect with, since all that’s under there is a dead body.” An agonized pause. “My God, I was connecting with a dead body.”

  “You visualized it?”

  “I was inside it. It was soulless. But if you mean the scene—yes, I visualized it. A bottomless grave. Acres of land. A big house—a manor.”

  “Do you know where this manor is?”

  Slowly, Claire shook her head. “It was very rural. I could hear water nearby—a lake or another small body of water. There’s probably more. But I’m not getting it now.”

  “That’s enough anyway.” Casey was shaking her head. “You came close to passing out. You’re done for today. Go home. Take a bath. Do some yoga. Drink tea and go to bed.”

  “It’s the middle of the day,” Claire protested.

  “That’s irrelevant.” Casey pressed the intercom button. “Emma, could you get Claire an Uber? She’s not feeling well. She’s going home.”

  “Of course.” Emma didn’t ask any questions, not when she heard the anxious note in Casey’s voice.

  “Casey,” Claire murmured, “I can take the subway.”

  “And pass out on the floor of it? I don’t think so.” Casey came around to help Claire to her feet. “We’ll finish this tomorrow. And I’ll check up on you later. No work—rest.”

  As she guided Claire to the door, Casey glanced back at the table, where the three drawings were sitting.

  Claire had done her job.

  Now Casey had her work cut out for her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was after nine p.m., and darkness enveloped the greater Chicago area.

  Dressed as a janitor, Marc calmly lit a cigarette and leaned back against the outer brick wall of the U.S. Cellular office building. He appeared to be taking a long-awaited smoke break.

  Twenty minutes later, the steel door opened, revealing a disinterested-looking man pushing a large plastic cart filled with garbage b
ags. Marc glanced over and nodded at him, as if acknowledging the janitorial plight. The real janitor didn’t nod back. He steered his cart over to a large trash compactor and began to lazily empty bags of garbage into it.

  Marc waited until he had clear access and the other man’s back was to him. Then, he extinguished his cigarette and moved slowly forward, not making the slightest sound. Pulling on his gloves, Marc reached into his pocket for the chloroform-soaked rag that he’d placed inside a gallon-size Ziploc.

  In a heartbeat, he clasped the rag over the man’s mouth and nose, rendering him unconscious before the poor guy even knew what hit him. Rag secured back in the Ziploc, Marc dragged the limp janitor along, depositing him behind the trash compactor. He then reached inside his own jacket pocket and pulled out a flask. He opened the cap and spilled a small amount of booze on the man’s clothing.

  The odor of cheap whiskey permeated the air. Marc shoved the flask inside the guy’s pocket to complete the setup. If someone found him sleeping, they would smell the whiskey, find the flask, and never suspect an intrusion—just an intoxicated employee.

  Still in motion, Marc finished emptying the cart and then grabbed the ID card attached to the janitor’s breast pocket. He glanced down at the name. Okay, for the next thirty minutes, Marc would be Bill Hubert, janitor.

  With that, Marc pushed the trash cart over to the building entrance and retrieved the small gym bag he’d jammed against the building. He tossed it into the cart. He then held the ID card near the sensor and waited for the telltale click as the door unlocked, permitting him to enter the secure facility.

  Ryan’s instructions were clear. It didn’t matter where Otter was placed. The little drone just needed to have access to power and to the computer network. The ideal spot would be behind some heavy desk or credenza that no one would ever want to move.

  Marc pushed his cart from floor to floor and from office to office, looking for the perfect spot, stopping only to fill his cart with trash.