Zombies in the Delta (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 1) Page 11

  “What are you suggesting, Tank?”

  “We need to know if someone threatened the Harwoods at any time in the past or present.”

  “You and Bambi search the databases for a complaint of any kind. Get me anything you can about Old Man Harwood’s life. I’d also like a copy of his death certificate.” She gave Peyton a hard stare. “Just to make sure he’s really dead.”

  Peyton sighed and broke another coffee stir, adding to her pile.

  Radar grabbed his phone off the table and glanced at the display. “Igor wants to see me,” he said, pushing himself to his feet.

  “Take Brooks.”

  Radar made a face. “Sarge.”

  “Take her. She needs the experience.”

  “She’s also in the room and can hear you,” offered Peyton.

  “Let’s go, Sparky,” said Radar with about as much enthusiasm as a corpse.

  Peyton followed him out of the conference room, jogging to catch up to his longer stride. “You know I understand I haven’t exactly impressed you yet, but you haven’t really given me a chance. I’ve only been here a week.”

  He stopped walking and turned to face her. “What?”

  “I know you don’t want to go see Igor with me, but you don’t have to make it so obvious that you dislike me, especially in front of Rosa.”

  “Sarge,” he corrected. “And whether I like or dislike you has no bearing on this case, Sparky. What are you – insecure?”

  “No.” She realized she was bristling. “I just think people work together better if they have mutual respect for each other.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Well, all I’m asking for is a little time to prove to you that I belong here.”

  “Fine.”

  “So, don’t act like you’ve been asked to clean toilets when Sarge tells you to take me somewhere.”

  “I protested taking you with me because you get squeamish about dead bodies, not because I don’t respect you.”

  “Oh.” That set Peyton back. “I didn’t realize.”

  “Well, next time, instead of getting all prickly as a hedgehog, just ask me. Okay?”

  “Yeah. Same goes for you. All you gotta do is ask if you want to know something.”

  “I’ll remember that.” He turned and started walking again.

  Peyton jogged to his side. “So, Tank was pretty amazing back there. I mean, I didn’t really hear him speak at all last week and then here he goes, spouting off about voodoo and all that jazz.”

  Radar stopped before the elevators and punched the up arrow. Glancing over at her, he frowned. “Tank only speaks when necessary. Remember it. And listen when he does. He doesn’t speak unless it’s important.”

  “Got it.” She rocked on her heels. “It’s just…”

  The elevator door opened and Radar stepped inside, pushing the button for Igor’s floor. “It’s just?”

  “Doug didn’t mean he thought Old Man Harwood was being threatened for hiring Hmong. He meant he thought he was the actual zombie killer.”

  Radar drew a deep breath and exhaled. “Think about it, Sparky, okay? Which of those two scenarios seem more likely? That Old Man Harwood is undead, or that he was being threatened by racists who might have wanted his land.”

  Peyton dropped her eyes. “Being threatened by racists.”

  “Glad you’re on-board.”

  They rode the elevator in silence and got out on Igor’s floor. Peyton followed behind Radar as he slid his badge across the reader and wandered down the nondescript hallway to the lab. He pressed the button and leaned close to the speaker.

  “Igor, it’s Radar.”

  “And Peyton,” she called over his shoulder.

  He gave her an aggravated look, but she simply beamed a smile at him. She was going to win this guy over one way or another.

  The door buzzed and Radar shoved it open. Peyton stepped in behind him. Igor was standing in a far corner of the room, looking at a slide under a microscope. His bald scalp gleamed in the overhead lights. He turned as they entered, adjusting his glasses and pulling off his gloves, tossing them into a flip top garbage can.

  “Special Agent Brooks, so nice to see you again.”

  “You too, Igor.”

  “What did you want to see me about?” asked Radar. Apparently he didn’t believe in social niceties when they were on a case.

  “Come with me.” Igor moved to the door, pushing the button to open it, then he turned left and led them down to the end of the hall. A large, heavily reinforced door blocked the end, but Igor swiped a card against a reader and the door opened on hydraulics. As they stepped into the large, cavernous room, the temperature dropped significantly.

  A cement floor led to a drain in the middle of the room and around the perimeter were stainless steel drawers with labels on the outside. Igor walked over to one and pulled it open, stepping backward as it extended into the room.

  Peyton hesitated. She could see a body bag lying on a tray inside the drawer and she knew what it contained.

  “Do you remember when I told you I was waiting on the other two bodies from your zombie case?” Igor asked Radar.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, there’s something very interesting about them.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out another pair of gloves, sliding them on his hands. Then he reached for the zipper and drew it down. Peyton could just make out a desiccated head, the facial features unrecognizable, the skull open, the brains partially exposed. The remaining skin had a shrunken, grey cast to it. “This is our first unidentified body. He was killed six months ago.”

  “Right.”

  “As you can see, his injuries are very similar to the third body found in Locke. Smashed skull, partially devoured brains.”

  “Yeah, I can see that.” Radar was impatient today.

  “This isn’t what killed him.”

  Radar lifted his head. “Come again.”

  Igor drew the zipper down further, sliding it past the feet, then he pulled aside the two halves of the bag. “Look at this injury.” He pointed to the dead man’s thigh.

  Peyton eased closer, rising on her tiptoes to see for herself. A curved, jagged wound flayed open the thigh muscle from kneecap to groin.

  “He died from a stab wound to the thigh, not the massive head injury.”

  “It ripped apart the femoral artery. He would have bled out in three or four minutes,” she said, giving a shudder.

  Radar and Igor looked over at her. Igor smiled. “Very good, Agent Brooks. She’s exactly right.”

  “What about the second victim?”

  “He had the exact same injury.”

  “But the third one didn’t?”

  “No, and here’s something else interesting. Which direction would you guess a thigh wound would originate from?”

  “What?”

  “How would you go about stabbing someone in the thigh?”

  Radar made a downward striking motion.

  “Exactly. This wound didn’t happen that way. The entrance…”

  “...was at the knee,” said Peyton, moving to the end of the drawer and looking over the edge. “You can see the knife went in at the knee and exited at the groin.”

  “Again, very good, Agent Brooks.”

  Peyton met his gaze. “Was it a curved blade?”

  Igor’s smile was brilliant. “As a matter of fact it was. How did you know?”

  “You can tell by the edges of the wound. The center of the cut is deeper than the entrance or exit. He tore the thigh apart as he wrenched the knife through.”

  Igor motioned at Radar. “Exactly.”

  Radar shook his head. “So what are we looking for and how the hell did he make the killing blow? Was he lying on his back beneath the victims when he stabbed them?”

  Igor held out his empty hands. “That’s why you’re the detective and I’m not, Radar.”

  When they left Igor’s lab, Radar stopped her in the hallway. “How did you know that
stuff about the femoral artery?”

  Peyton drew a deep breath. She really didn’t want to talk about it, but she figured she owed Radar some sort of explanation. “My best friend’s an M.E.”

  “So?”

  “He talks. I listen.”

  “I call bull shit on that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you had some pretty specific information in there about femoral arteries and I’d like to know how you got it.”

  “Can’t we just leave it alone?”

  “There might be a time when we have to rely on each other for our lives. I’d like to know exactly what’s going on in that head of yours.” He gave her a narrowed look. “Didn’t you just tell me to ask if I had a question?”

  Peyton sighed. “On my last case, we were looking for a serial killer we named the Janitor.”

  Radar nodded.

  “He got the drop on me, gun pointed at my head. He wanted a murder/suicide pact.” Peyton shivered. She could still feel the press of his gun against her forehead. “My partner volunteered himself, so the Janitor shot him in the thigh.” Good. Keep it short, clinical, without emotion.

  “That’s how you almost lost him?”

  “Right. The bullet clipped the femoral artery and he was bleeding out on the floor. I…” Peyton’s voice trailed away. She looked down the hall. Here’s where it was no longer clinical. “I thought he was going to die.”

  “There’s something more you’re not telling me.”

  Peyton met his gaze. “I told you all you need to know. I emptied my gun into the Janitor’s body and I tied a tourniquet around the leg to stop the blood loss. Then I pleaded with God not to take my partner away from me. It was the most empty moment of my life.”

  Radar exhaled. “I know the feeling, Brooks.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve felt it twice and that’s just twice too much, so if you don’t mind, I’d like not to dwell on it. We’ve got an undead farmer to catch.”

  She didn’t wait for Radar’s response, but she felt sure his mouth ticked up at the corners.

  * * *

  Marco sidestepped Cho and Simons as they headed for the front door of the precinct. “You get anything on the Head Shop case?” he asked.

  “We’re on our way to talk to the business owners on either side of it. One’s a tea shop and the other’s a used bookstore,” offered Cho.

  “They didn’t suffer damage in the fire?”

  “Minimal.”

  “We talked to the wife yesterday. She had an alibi and she couldn’t give us any reason why someone would want to torch her husband. Everyone loved him,” said Simons.

  “I’ll bet they did. It was also a medical marijuana dispensary, wasn’t it?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s the angle I’d pursue. Do we know if anything was stolen from the store?”

  “Inventory records burnt up in the fire, but we’ve got a subpoena into the state for their records.”

  “Which we’ll probably get around next Christmas,” grumbled Cho.

  “You’re probably right,” answered Marco. “Keep me posted, okay?”

  “Yep.”

  They headed out the door and down the stairs into the parking lot. Moving through the half door, Marco found Carly’s desk empty. He glanced at the clock over the conference room and frowned. He was going to have to talk to her about punctuality.

  He caught sight of Jake coming out of the break room, eating a piece of coffee cake. He gave Marco a thumb’s up. “I like this new assistant. She bakes. Homemade.”

  “Is she in the break room?”

  “Yep, setting up our breakfast.”

  Marco started toward the doorway. “You told her she doesn’t need to bring breakfast, right?”

  “Now why would I do a silly thing like that, Adonis?”

  “Captain.”

  “Captain Adonis.”

  Marco glared at him as he passed. Inside the break room, Carly bustled around, setting out coffee cake and Danishes on the counter. Holmes and Tag were dishing up plates and Smith, a veteran patrol officer, sat at a table, shoveling food in his mouth.

  “Carly?”

  She whipped around, a broad smile lighting up her face. “Yes, Captain D’Angelo?”

  “You don’t need to bring food. That’s not part of your job.”

  “I don’t mind. I love to bake.” Carly held up the plate of Danishes. “Would you like one?”

  “No. I’d like you at your desk to answer calls.”

  Tag’s brows rose and she strolled over to the table, sitting down next to Smith. Smith gave Marco a curious look.

  Carly set the plate on the counter and hurried to the door, slipping out without making eye contact with him. Immediately he felt guilty. Glancing around, he found them all staring at him.

  “How was your inspector test?” he asked Holmes.

  Holmes blinked at him. “I think I passed, but I won’t know for about a month.”

  “Fine, but until then don’t you people have something to do?”

  “Nope,” said Tag, shoving a piece of coffee cake in her mouth. “No cases. Nothing to do. You want us to help Simons and Cho on their case?”

  “Yeah, they went to talk to the neighbors. Call the Department of Health and find out if any complaints have been issued against our head shop owner in the past six months.”

  Tag picked up her plate and her coffee. “On it. Let’s go, Holmes.”

  They exited, sliding past him.

  Smith lounged back in his chair. “Anything you want me to do?”

  Smith was a stocky man, but it was mostly muscle, with a full head of dark hair and a thick moustache. He especially favored Peyton when she worked here, but he’d always treated Marco with respect.

  Marco shook his head and turned, heading toward Stan’s office. Damn they needed another case, and quick. He couldn’t believe how lost they were if people weren’t killing one another on a regular basis.

  One thing Marco could count on was Stan in his lair. He blinked up at Marco when he appeared on the other side of the table. “Hey, Captain. How was your weekend?”

  “Fine.” Marco glanced longingly over his shoulder. He should have at least gotten coffee before he came here. “Were you able to find anything on Carissa Phelps?”

  Stan’s expression grew grim. “Yeah. It’s bad.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad.”

  Marco swallowed hard, tightening his grip on his cane. “Show me.” He pushed his way into the tight quarters, easing past the table. Stan hooked a chair for him.

  “She tried to delete all of her social networking accounts, but I was able to recover them.” He began clicking on the computer.

  Marco positioned himself on the swivel chair, grimacing as he bent down. “If she deleted them, how were you able to get them back?”

  “Nowadays everything’s saved in the cloud. Nothing’s ever really gone. That’s the problem. Once something appears on-line, you’re never getting it off again.”

  Marco sighed. “So all these kids taking naked pictures of themselves…”

  “Or worse.”

  “Or worse,” Marco allowed, “will never be able to get away from it?”

  “More than that, with every phone and electronic device having a camera inside of it, you never know when you’re being recorded. Anytime you’re in an intimate situation with someone, someone else might be filming it.” He shifted to look at Marco. “It’s something that’s never far from my mind when I’m with a woman, I can tell you.”

  Marco started to respond, then stopped himself. “Right,” he said.

  Stan with his converse sneakers, button up shirts, and myopic glasses might not seem like a lady’s man, but he’d gotten Peyton to go on a few dates with him, so who was Marco to judge what women liked.

  “I feel uncomfortable showing this to you,” Stan said, fiddling with his mouse.

  “This girl committed suicide because of this video, Stan. We ne
ed to know if we’ve got a case against the boyfriend or not, so we’ve got no choice.”

  “Okay, but I’m warning you, it’s unpleasant.”

  “Play it.”

  Stan clicked on the screen. A young, dark haired man stood in front of a bed, no shirt on, his jeans open at his waist. Off-screen they could hear a feminine voice, but they couldn’t make out the words. Then Carissa Phelps came into view. Her back was to the camera, but she was easily distinguishable from the profile she presented. She wore a lace teddy, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. As Marco shifted uncomfortably, she went down on her knees before the young man.

  Marco looked away. “Okay, turn it off, Stan.”

  Stan reached for the mouse.

  Marco caught the lifting of the boy’s head from the corner of his eyes and motioned Stan to stop. “Hold on.”

  The boy looked straight into the camera.

  “Stop it there.”

  Stan clicked the mouse.

  Marco studied the boy’s half-smile, the smug look on his face. “He knew the camera was there.”

  “It gets better. Watch.” Stan clicked the mouse again.

  Slowly the boy lifted his hand and gave a thumb’s up.

  “Son of a bitch,” hissed Marco.

  “She never acts like she knows the camera’s there.”

  “You’ve seen the rest?”

  Stan chewed on his lower lip and nodded.

  “Can you print me out that screen shot right there?”

  “Yeah.” Stan reduced the window.

  “Can you trace who posted the video?”

  “It links back to a revenge porn site. They fiercely protect their clients, but I’m trying to punch my way through and get an IP address.” He reached over and picked up a stack of papers. “I also printed out all of the comments on her wall. There’s some really nasty stuff here.” He passed it to Marco.

  Marco leafed through the pages. “Die, whore, die. Suck this. Shit, this girl was hounded to death.”

  Stan pointed to a spot on the second page. “Then her professor messaged her, asking to talk to her. It looks like everyone who was on her contact list got the link.”

  Marco lowered the papers. “How am I going to prove Ryan Addison caused her to kill herself if everyone was attacking her at the same time?”