Silent Scream

  “Yeah, but I think I’m too tired to think of his name now.”

  “Preston Moss,” Micki supplied. “I pulled a few articles from Google. Moss grew up here, in the Twin Cities, but during the nineties was a professor in some private college in Oregon. He authored a few books on preserving forest habitats. His first few books were more mainstream, but he got more radical. He’s believed to have founded SPOT—with appropriate Latin grammar, Dr. Donahue. His followers bastardized the name as they formed their own cells across the northwest and east into Wisconsin. Later he came back to teach in Minnesota. The wetlands were one of his causes, and Moss was believed to have been directly involved in that last fire. He dropped out of sight after the woman’s death and hasn’t been seen again.”

  Barlow smiled, but wearily. “You did your homework. Anything else I forgot?”

  “No, you covered it,” Micki said kindly. “You have a good memory.”

  “How did you remember this, Sergeant?” Donahue asked. “This SPOT group was active before you joined the force.”

  Olivia shot a quick look at the shrink, impressed and wary at the same time. That Donahue had known Barlow was on the case and had already checked his personnel file seemed to have floated over the man’s head, because he replied without a blink.

  “During one of my training classes, we had speakers from the FBI and ATF. One of the FBI guys had been chasing Preston Moss for years. Kind of his great white whale, if you know what I mean. Seemed a little too intense for my liking, but he may have more information that isn’t in the files. His name is Special Agent Angus Crawford, and then he was with the Minneapolis field office.”

  “I’ll give him a call,” Abbott said. “Barlow, do you have enough resources? Should we call the Feds in for support?”

  “I’m good for now. We’ve got MFD fire investigators on the scene, and I got some help from one of the firefighters.” Barlow slid a look at Olivia. “The one who found the girl—David Hunter. He’s got a good eye.”

  Olivia felt her cheeks heat. David’s eyes weren’t the only things that were good, she thought as Paige’s words came back to taunt her. Focus. She looked Barlow in the eye. “What did you find?” she asked, relieved her voice was professionally brisk.

  “Hunter and Zell found a backpack in the debris on the first floor, just before I left to come here,” Barlow said. “The backpack was mostly burned. It may have been on the fourth floor when it collapsed and fell through, landing on the first floor before the fire was completely out. Some of the contents had fallen out and melted.” He produced a camera, turned it on, and passed it to Olivia so that she could view the digital display. “Haven’t had time to print my photos. We found this a few feet away.”

  In the screen was a black case that looked like it should have held eyeglasses, but it didn’t. What it did hold, she couldn’t tell, as the contents were misshapen. “What is it?”

  “A hearing aid,” Barlow said. “Hunter ID’d it. That pink part is the earpiece. I’m assuming it belonged to the girl.”

  “If it does, it narrows the search for her a good bit.” Olivia put the photo of the dead girl on the table. “She had gel on her hands, and Hunter said he found the ball near where he found her. She’d held the ball. Maybe she planted it there. Maybe she was with the arsonists and the fire got out of their control and she got trapped.”

  “We can’t ignore the possibility,” Abbott said. “And if she was part of their cell, identifying her could lead us to them.”

  “Or she could have been forced to be one of them.” Kane pointed to the girl’s arm. “Her injuries were real. She’d been slapped around by somebody.”

  “Or she could have been an innocent bystander who found the ball and picked it up,” Olivia finished. “In which case, we’re back to square one.”

  “Did you find any ID in the backpack?” Micki asked.

  Barlow shook his head. “No. The contents were too burned. I told your CSU tech to bag it. We got some charred papers, books. The paper took a lot of water damage, but the lab might be able to piece together the scraps for a name or a lead.”

  “Can we get in the building now?” Kane asked, but Barlow shook his head.

  “Not yet. We’re still checking the fifth and sixth floors, but the damage that made the fourth floor collapse under Hunter goes all the way down. If he hadn’t caught himself, he would have gone all the way down to the basement. The tower truck’s still at the scene, though. Captain Casey said Hunter or Zell could take you up in the bucket, let you look through the windows. I also shot video as we went through the debris. I’ll transfer the files to my PC and e-mail them to you when we’re finished here.”

  Olivia couldn’t stifle the icy shiver that cut through her at the thought of David plunging four stories. She did, however, manage to stifle the mixed dread and anticipation at sharing the close quarters of a bucket with him. She’d do her job, as would he. “We’ll take the videos if that’s all we can get right now, but I want to see the scene. I guess going up in the bucket is our best option at the moment. We should get out there before they leave. They’ve been there for about eight hours now.”

  “They’ve probably got another two hours ahead of them,” Barlow said, “so you don’t have to rush.” He pulled a sooty envelope from his front pocket and handed it to Kane. “You asked for the Rankin and Sons personnel list. I had them run an extra copy for you.”

  “Thanks. We’ll start background checks. Anyone we should be looking at?”

  “As in anyone who’d have access to the guard’s schedule and their camera feeds?” Micki asked sarcastically. “Try anyone on that list and just about any entry-level hacker.”

  Olivia winced. “You snuck into the system that easily, huh?”

  Micki rolled her eyes. “We didn’t have to sneak. Rankin’s IT guy left their server wide open. I’d check the IT guy. If he’s not on the take, he’s the most inept we’ve ever come across.”

  “So anyone could have cut the camera feed,” Kane said glumly.

  “Sorry,” Micki said. “I wish I could give you better news. We are trying to trace where the command to disable the cameras came from. That’ll take a little while. Like Barlow said, that aspect of this job was done very well.”

  Dr. Donahue sat back in her chair. “Sergeant Barlow, could this fire have been set by one individual?”

  Barlow hesitated. “Maybe. But if this really was SPOT, then they probably were a cell of two to four people. If it was arson for hire or some other reason, it could have been one. The job itself could have been accomplished solo, with adequate planning.”

  “So we have one to four people, educated in computer networks but who didn’t do their homework on actually setting the fire,” Donahue said. “At least one of them was capable of shooting a guard in cold blood. They brought at least one gun with them, so they were prepared for violence of some nature—even if it was to protect themselves. Were any warning shots fired that you could see?”

  “No,” Micki said. “We found the slug that killed Weems. Hollow-point, .38. We didn’t see evidence of other shots fired. We’ll keep looking now that it’s daylight.”

  Donahue nodded. “So for now we’ll assume they did not fire warning shots, just the one shot that hit Mr. Weems… where?”

  “Right through the heart,” Kane said grimly and Donahue’s brows rose.

  “Interesting. A more surefire target would have been his head. I mean, Weems could have been wearing a vest. Through the heart is very personal.”

  “Weems represented authority, even if they didn’t know he’d been a cop,” Olivia said. “Most of these groups are anarchists. That they’d despise Weems isn’t unusual.”

  “But apparently to shoot him, is.” Donahue scribbled in a small notebook. “I’ll do some research on SPOT. See if anyone developed profiles back in the nineties.”

  “We’ll keep on the girl’s ID,” Olivia said. “Ian’s supposed to call when he’s done with the girl’s a
utopsy. For now we’ll start checking into Rankin’s personnel.”

  “And I’ll call Special Agent Crawford at the Bureau’s field office,” Abbott said. “We keep the details of the glass globe from the press for as long as we can. Can this firefighter be trusted not to talk to reporters?”

  “Yes,” Olivia said quickly. Too quickly, she thought when everyone looked at her. She shrugged. “He’s an old family friend with no love for reporters. He won’t talk.”

  Abbott nodded. “Good. Barlow, let me know if you need support. I have a few detectives I can pull in from other cases if we need them. Everyone back here at five.”

  Chapter Four

  Monday, September 20, 8:55 a.m.

  Eric could recite the thirty-minute newscast from memory. What am I going to do?

  You’re going to sit here and wait, just like he told you to. Just as he had for the past five hours. The news wasn’t new since disclosing the second victim had died of gunshot wounds. So he’d sat, listening to the same report again and again and watching his cell phone. Waiting for it to buzz, waiting for the next text from his “master.” Sonofabitch.

  And if he makes me wait days? Eventually he’d have to leave his apartment, go to class. Maybe even eat. Although the very thought of food made him want to gag.

  We killed that girl. But they had not shot that guard. Which meant somebody else did. The only other person was the damn blackmailer. He did it. He shot the guard.

  But who would believe them? The texter had them on video. Video, goddamn it.

  How could we have been so stupid? How did he know we’d even be there? He’d racked his brain all night, trying to think of where, when they’d been together, discussing their plan. But so far he’d come up blank. Unless one of them had told.

  He closed his eyes. It was top of the hour. Time for another identical report on the condo arson, word for word. He started to murmur the words along with the anchor, then bolted upright in his chair when the mouth on the tube said, “This just in.”

  The television screen had split. The anchor was on the right, but on the left was a picture of the guard. In a cop’s uniform. Eric’s mouth went bone dry and he stared at the man’s badge as the talking head on the right began to speak.

  “Minneapolis police have confirmed the identity of the guard killed in last night’s arson. The victim is Henry Weems, who retired last year after a twenty-five-year career with the Minneapolis police. His daughter, Brenda Weems, gave this statement.”

  The screen switched to Brenda Weems who stood on the steps of a modest house in a modest suburb, arms tightly crossed over her chest, her face tearstained.

  “My father was a good cop, a good husband and father. He was murdered last night, along with another victim. I know the police will not rest until his killer is brought to justice—not because my father was a cop, but because he was a member of this community. My mother and I ask for privacy so that we may grieve. Thank you.”

  The screen switched back to the anchor and Eric felt numb.

  A cop was dead. So are we. The police wouldn’t rest until they’d hunted them down.

  Joel had said as much last night, when they’d still thought their worst problem was the dead girl. Eric stood abruptly. He had to get to Joel before he found out about this. There was no telling how Joel would respond. He might break, crack, tell everyone.

  And we all go to prison. Not going to happen.

  He’d turned to wash up when his phone buzzed on the table. For a moment he just looked at it, then carefully picked it up, as if it were poisonous. His shoulders sagged. Not a text. It was an incoming call from Albert.

  “Did you see the news? I didn’t kill him. I only hit him. Somebody shot him. Who?”

  “I… I don’t know,” Eric said numbly.

  “He was a cop. If that pussy Joel tells, we’re dead.”

  He thought of the video. The texts. You have no idea how dead we are. “I know.” Eric made a decision. “We have to stop Joel from talking.” And he had to keep the texter from showing the video that would damn them all. “Just don’t hurt him, okay?”

  Albert said, very quietly, “We will not speak of this again.”

  Eric drew a breath, knowing he was sentencing Joel to death. “No, we will not.” He closed his phone, completely unsurprised when a text popped up immediately.

  go to 11th and nicollet. sit on bench at bus stop. find envelope taped to seat. come alone. tell no one. yes or no?

  Suddenly, coolly calm, Eric texted back, yes. He went to his bedroom and grabbed the plastic bag in which he’d stuffed his smoky-smelling clothes. He couldn’t let the maid find them. He’d throw them in a dumpster.

  Then he slid his hand behind the stacks of video games on his closet shelf, finding his gun. He checked the magazine, found it full. He smacked it back into place with the heel of his hand. Just in case the texter actually showed his face, he’d be ready.

  He chuckled on the inside as he closed the disposable phone. Then lifted his gaze to the television mounted on the wall, his pose appropriately somber. The report was ending with old news, but the first few minutes had made his day.

  The guard had been a fucking cop. It just got better. Or worse if you were Eric and the gang. A murdered guard was one thing, but a murdered retired cop? Pure gold.

  He wondered if Eric had told the others. Wondered what Eric’s attempt at countering him would be. It didn’t matter. I hold all the cards. I always do.

  “Excuse me.”

  He dropped his eyes from the television to the slightly impatient face of the next customer. “I’m sorry,” he said soberly. “It’s just the fire. Those poor people. That officer.”

  The customer sighed, her impatience gone. “I know. It’s so disturbing. You take your life in your hands every time you leave your house these days.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” he said sympathetically. “So, how can I help you today?”

  Monday, September 20, 9:20 a.m.

  Olivia tidily folded the paper wrapper as she swallowed the last bit of her breakfast sandwich. Not saying a word, Kane took his hand off the steering wheel long enough to hand her the large coffee in the cup holder between them.

  “Thanks,” she said. “You know I could have driven. It was my day.”

  He slanted her his “bullshit” look. “I slept. You didn’t.”

  “I tried,” she said quietly. “I really did. I went and worked my ass off at the gym so that I’d be tired. Took my dog for a run, took a hot shower, even drank some of that herbal tea you’re so keen on, which is totally nasty, by the way. Nothing worked. So I dropped Mojo off at Brie’s and came in. And you would have done the same.”

  “Well, maybe,” he said grudgingly. “All except taking my dog to doggy day care.”

  Olivia’s friend, Brie Franconi, ran a canine training kennel but had begun letting cops drop off their dogs when they knew they’d be working a long shift. Olivia didn’t care what Brie called the service, she was just grateful for it.

  “Mojo gets to play with the other dogs while I’m working, and I don’t feel so guilty. He keeps me company,” she added a little wistfully. She’d gotten the dog shortly after her fiancé, Doug, left her. “The house gets too quiet sometimes.”

  Kane shot her a look. “Seeing Barlow can’t be easy for you.”

  She shrugged. Seeing David was somehow a hell of a lot worse. “Micah made his choice a long time ago, but I suppose his siding with Doug was for the best. If Doug didn’t want me, I guess it’s better I found out before I tied the knot.” She sipped at her coffee, glad it was strong. “I’ve been thinking about the girl. If she was in business with the arsonists, her purpose for being in the building is straightforward.”

  “I agree. But if she wasn’t,” Kane said, “and if her being there was just very bad timing, we have to wonder what drove her there. To that building.”

  “If she’s not local, how would she know about it? You can’t see it from the road.”


  “But you can see it from different points around the lake,” Kane said.

  “Right again.” She took a sheet of paper from the briefcase at her feet. “I printed a map of the lake, which is primarily residential. Small houses, a lot of vacation cabins.”

  “Good. We can take her photo around, see if anyone’s seen her and ask if anyone noticed any unusual activity last night. It would have been hard to see through the fence, but we might get lucky. We can’t ignore the possibility that it was an inside job.”

  “I did a search on Rankin and Sons this morning. I was hoping to find they were on the verge of bankruptcy or something that would make the motive for the arson clear.”

  “But Rankin’s solid?”

  “Well, they were before last night. A good percentage of the shoreline property has been bought up by a company named KRB, which planned to build six condos in total. It’s supposed to be a planned community and Rankin was hired to build phase one, which were the luxury condos. Phase two will be two more buildings, targeted to upper-middle-class families. Construction is scheduled to begin in the spring.” She studied the map. “A lot of these cabins will be leveled.”

  “Homeowners might be angry about that,” Kane said.

  “Angry enough to set a fire, though?”

  “Maybe. We should see if any of the homeowners have protested the construction project. Is Rankin the builder of the next phase?” Kane asked.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Olivia replied. “The newspaper article I read said that KRB would evaluate Rankin after phase one, to see how well they managed budget.”

  “Barlow said they’d fired a security guard because they were running over budget.”

  “Yeah, he did. So Rankin may have been in a spot. Depending on how badly they were screwing up, arson may have seemed a good idea to somebody at the time. Anyway, phase three would be two buildings for retirees and an assisted-living facility. Future plans show shopping, a medical center, an entire planned community. Last night’s fire took out the first building, so I’m betting the whole schedule is up in the air.”