Consumed Page 17

  She looked up and adjusted the glasses resting on her nose.

  “Agents Rawlings and Harper.” I pulled out my bifold with my credentials and flipped it open. “We need to speak with Chief Deputy Whissell.”

  “I haven’t seen him this morning yet. Give me one minute. I’ll check his office.” She picked up the phone next to her and punched in three numbers. She held it to her ear for a moment and then hung up. “He’s not in his office. Sometimes he comes in a bit later on Mondays.”

  “So you do expect him today, though?” Beth asked.

  “Well, I’d think so, especially with all that’s going on out at the country house with the bodies and all. Did you want me to try his mobile number?”

  “Ye—”

  “No. We’ll try back later,” I said, cutting Beth off. I motioned for her to follow me back outside. We left through the front doors.

  “Didn’t want her to give him a ring, I take it?” Beth asked.

  I shook my head. “He doesn’t need a heads-up that we are looking for him or want to talk to him. He lied to us a couple of times already and hasn’t returned one of my calls. Let’s find where he lives and stop in. I have a feeling that something is up.”

  “Like what?” Beth asked.

  “I don’t know. Something, though.”

  We walked back toward the car.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I sat in the passenger seat and dialed Ball back in Manassas. He picked up right away.

  “Ball,” he said.

  “It’s Hank. I need a home address on an August Whissell.”

  “Okay, just give me a second here. I’m just walking from the lunch room. Who is this guy, now?” he asked.

  “The chief deputy of the sheriff’s department out here.”

  “Okay. What do you need his address for?”

  I gave him the short version of finding Whissell’s prints inside the home, that he was never inside during our presence, his nature toward the investigation, and him avoiding my calls.

  “All right. I’m back in my office at my desk,” Ball said. “Give me that name again.”

  I gave it to him and spelled out the last name.

  “Um, got it,” he said. Ball spouted off the address.

  I cupped the mouthpiece of my phone and read the address off to Beth.

  She plugged it into the navigation on her phone and told me, “Fifteen minutes.”

  I motioned for her to drive. Beth started the car and pulled from the sheriff’s department.

  I brought my phone back to my mouth. “Do you have any registered vehicles for him?” I asked.

  “One second, let me see what we have,” Ball said and clicked away on a keyboard.

  “Twenty-thirteen Ford Explorer, white, and an eighty-seven Buick, black.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  “What do you think we have going on with this guy?” Ball asked.

  “I’m not sure yet, but we need to find out what the hell is going on here.”

  “You don’t think it may be him, do you?”

  “I don’t think so. The guy I saw picking up the hooker was bigger, bearded, and had long hair.” I let out a long breath. “Hell, I can’t be a hundred percent with that, though. I mean, I saw a girl talking with a guy. She was dressed like the woman we found dismembered from my recollection. I just know how witnesses are with identifying things like that, especially at night. I’d like to think that I’m a little better than your average witness ID, but who knows.”

  “Okay. Are you planning on taking this guy somewhere for questioning or…?”

  “We’ll see how he acts when we catch up with him. Unless he has the best damn excuse I’ve ever heard, probably. I’m sure we can bring him back to the resident agency and have a few words with him there. Speaking of that, I should probably call Agent Clifford and give him the heads-up.”

  “Yeah, you do that. Call me if you need anything. Actually, call me when you’re done with the guy, either way.”

  “Will do,” I clicked off and then dialed Tom. The phone rang and rang. I got his voice mail and left him a message that we might be bringing the chief deputy to his office for some questioning. I clicked End on the call and slid my phone back into my pocket.

  “What the hell could Whissell have been doing in those houses?” Beth asked. The robotic voice on her navigation told her to make a left at the next road.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Did they say where exactly they found his prints?” She signaled, slowed, and made the turn.

  “Nah, they didn’t say. But they were there.”

  “Do you think he went in and had himself a look around before we got there? I mean, I didn’t see what the smaller house looked like before everything was removed, but from the way you described it and the old house… I just can’t believe anyone could walk into those scenes and not say anything.”

  I thought about it further—specifically, how Whissell acted when I’d told him what we’d found up at the old house. He was quiet at first then apologized for being wrong and then made up an excuse to leave shortly after. Thinking back, I found that a bit odd. I would think a more natural reaction would have been disbelief, followed by doing whatever the hell you could to right your wrong. The fact that he’d been in the house and had been avoiding me since ate at me. Another thought bubbled in my head. “He had to know that we would find his prints in there,” I said.

  “Could be why he left the scene and has been out of contact,” Beth said.

  The navigation on Beth’s phone told us Whissell’s address was a half mile up the country road we were on. The house was going to be on our left.

  “Which would make him guilty of something,” I said. “If his only crime was going in before us, he would have just said, ‘You’ll find my prints inside because I cleared the house prior to you guys getting here.’ But that brings us back to the point that he didn’t say anything after what he had to have seen inside.”

  “Well, maybe we’ll get those answers. This looks like this is us, up here,” Beth said. She pointed out through the windshield at a driveway coming ahead. The big galvanized steel mailbox at the end of the drive confirmed it with its black sticker numbers. The perimeter of the lot was lined with a white picket fence, extending back acres into the distance. Beth slowed and pulled in. We crept up the gravel driveway toward the big white tin-roofed two-story farmhouse with black shutters. A covered porch wrapped the outside of the home. The landscaping and yard decorations all appeared to be well kept. I looked up the driveway past the house to the three-car detached garage—all the doors were closed. The house stood directly outside my passenger window on the right as we slowed to stop. Just beyond the home, the driveway curled to the right, and I saw the back of the sheriff’s SUV.

  “Looks like he’s here,” I said.

  “Well, let’s go see what he has to say,” Beth said.

  We stepped from the car and went to the back door of the property nearest the sheriff’s SUV, climbed the back stairs, and went to the door. I thumbed the doorbell, hearing it chime inside. We waited, but no one came. I pressed it in again and followed up by banging once on the door with my fist—still nothing.

  “What do you think?” Beth asked.

  “Hold on.” I pulled out my phone, dialed his cell phone number, and listened for it ringing in the house. The call went straight to his voice mail. “Looks like his phone is turned off now.” I crouched a bit and tried to look through the window of the door. A pair of curtains hung over the glass, partially blocking my view—all I could see was a wall to the left. “Maybe he’s working on the property here somewhere. Let’s take a quick look around,” I said.

  Beth followed me from the porch over toward the shed. Each garage door had a line of four windows allowing us to see inside. I walked to the first and peeked in—I could see a television on a workbench, a couple of toolboxes, and an old car under a tarp in the center garage stall. There looked to be some kind
of vehicle in the third stall as well. I walked to the last garage door and cupped my hands around my eyes to look in.

  “Son of a bitch!” I spun back toward the house and pulled my service weapon. My eyes went to the home’s windows, searching to see if we were being watched. I spotted no one.

  “What?” Beth asked. She pulled her weapon but looked unsure as to why.

  “Datsun pickup.”

  “You’re shitting me,” Beth said.

  “No,” I said. I looked toward where our car was parked—behind it was nothing but a field, so we could use it for cover. “Back to the far side of the car—call for backup.”

  I crouched and moved quickly. Beth followed.

  I kept my gun sights on the house, my eyes darting from window to window.

  “You don’t want to go in?” Beth asked.

  “We don’t know what we’re dealing with in there and just alerted anyone inside to our presence. If Whissell is in there, we know he’s armed, and we don’t know if he’s alone. Try Tom at his office, give him the address, and have him bring everyone he’s got.” Something else occurred to me. “Shit.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “We don’t know if there is a door on that far side of the home. Someone could have already made their way out. I need to go and check. Just make that call and keep eyes on this place,” I said.

  “Okay.”

  Beth ducked along the side of the car and made the call.

  I heard her talking, so she must have gotten him on the line.

  I left the cover of the car on the side of the house and made my way to the front yard. The covered patio took up the entire front of the home. A four-step stairway led to the patio and then the front door—to the side of the entry were wicker love seats with floral-printed cushions. I kept my gun on the house, looking for any movement, but I saw nothing. I rounded the corner of the home to the left and looked down its side—no doors and, thankfully, no first-floor windows. If someone was leaving from that side, they would be jumping from one of the two second-story windows. My eyes went to the right, looking for anyone running. The area, like the other side of the house, where Beth was, was about as flat as it could get, and I saw no one running. I continued on and made a left to the back of the house and the door where Beth and I had rung the bell. Like the front, it had a covered patio that spanned the entire back. I watched the door and windows as I walked past and made my way back to Beth, crouched at the far side of her rental car.

  Beth jammed her phone back into her pocket and brought her gun back up over the roof of the car, pointed at the house. “He said he was just about to call you back. He’ll be here in twenty minutes,” she said. “He’s bringing every agent from his office.”

  “So, what, five or six guys?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “You see anything?”

  “Nothing. No entrance at the side we can’t see. Just two second-story windows. I don’t see Whissell, if he is inside, making that jump. Our only points of entry are the front door and back door. We’re parked far enough from the side of the house to see both from here.”

  “Okay. What the hell would that truck be doing in his garage? It wasn’t Whissell that you saw with the hooker, was it?”

  “No. The guy was bigger,” I said. “Long hair and beard. Must be Kirkwood.”

  “What’s the connection between the two, though? Why would Whissell be hiding him?”

  “Don’t care,” I said. “The truck is here. Whissell is damn sure guilty of something.”

  The next few minutes were silent. My eyes were fixed on the house, aside from the couple times I glanced over my shoulder to make sure we had no one in the field at our back.

  “Window!” Beth said. She brought the barrel of her gun to the first floor, far right window.

  I’d missed whatever she had seen, but the blinds that hung in the window swayed left to right. “What did you see?”

  “Someone looked out. It was real quick, just an opening of the blinds with their fingers, a shadow of whoever did it, and then they were gone. We definitely have someone inside, and they know we’re here.”

  “Be ready,” I said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Richard pulled the two-gallon Ziploc bag from the refrigerator with his right hand and brought it to the sink. He pulled the zipper on the bag back and poured down the drain the brine that the meat inside had soaked in. Then he lifted the bag from the sink and shook the meat—what he figured to be an eight-pound chunk—from the bag to a cooking tray waiting on the counter. He tossed the empty Ziploc bag back in the sink and grabbed a handful of paper towels to pat the meat dry.

  Richard turned and scooped up a bowl of his spiced brown-sugar dry rub that he’d put together to flavor the meat. He patted the rub into the flesh, making sure to get every nook and cranny between the skin and meat covered.

  Richard went to the oven and pressed the button to bake. He set the temperature to two hundred seventy-five and set the timer for fourteen hours. He had learned over the years that an hour and a half per pound at two seventy-five produced meat that would literally fall off the bone. After pulling the oven door open, he realized he would need to use both hands to load the meat inside. He braced himself for the pain that would come from his injured arm and completed the transfer from countertop to oven as quickly as he could. Then he closed the oven door and walked back to the living room.

  After taking a seat, Richard went back to staring at the soap opera playing on the television. Not more than a minute later, he heard the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway outside. A car driving past the living room window caught his eye. Richard craned his neck to the side. It looked as though the car had parked. He didn’t get up to look to see who it was.

  Richard heard the doorbell chime.

  “Who is here?” he heard his mother ask.

  Richard shrugged. “I don’t care. They aren’t here for me.”

  “Are you going to go and see who it is?”

  “No,” Richard said.

  He heard the door chime again, followed by a knock. Richard still didn’t get up from his chair.

  “What if it’s the cops?” he heard.

  Richard paused his show and looked over at his mother. “Who cares? If they want me, they can come in and get me,” Richard said.

  “I told you we should have left.”

  “If this is the way it’s supposed to be, then so be it,” Richard said.

  “I still want to go,” he heard.

  “Just be quiet. I just want to watch my show in peace. Whatever is going on outside is probably nothing important—a neighbor wanting to borrow something or someone trying to sell something. I’m sure they’ll go away in a minute,” Richard said. He thumbed the Play button on the remote control. Richard’s eyes were glued to the screen until the next set of commercials. He hit the button on the remote to fast-forward through them.

  “Just go look and see who they are,” he heard.

  “I’m not getting up. I’m right in the middle of this show.”

  When Richard noticed the soap opera come back on from commercial, he hit Play.

  “You should look.”

  “Geez!” Richard said. “You ain’t going to stop nagging at me until I look. Fine!” Richard rocked forward in the chair, paused the show again, and went to the window. He stuck his fingers between the blinds and spread them to look out. He saw a man and woman crouched on the driver’s side of the car they must have arrived in. Both had weapons drawn and aimed at the house. Richard walked back to the chair and took his seat.

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know—a guy and a girl,” Richard said.

  “Were they cops?”

  “They aren’t in a cop car,” Richard said. He picked the remote back up and clicked Play. “Might be feds, though.”

  “What?” he heard. “If they’re feds, they’re here for you.”

  Richard shrugged. He wiggled in the chair a bit to get
more comfortable and crossed one leg over the other. The sounds of his mother’s nagging continued. Richard turned the volume louder and did whatever he could to tune her out. His show went to commercial again. Richard went to fast-forward, but the show had caught up. “Dammit,” he said. He clicked Mute to silence the woman on the screen pitching some anti-aging cream.

  “FBI! Whoever is in the property, come on out! Hands where we can see them!” Richard heard.

  He leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes, and unsnapped the button of his knife’s sheath.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  My head shot to the right to see four dark-gray Crown Victoria sedans turn from the road into the driveway of the property—Tom and his other agents. The cars stopped single file behind Beth’s rental. The driver’s door opened on the first car, and Tom stepped out—someone crawled across from the passenger seat and exited the driver’s side of the car a moment later. Tom crouched, using his car for cover, and went to his trunk. He, like the rest of his men exiting from the vehicles behind his, wore blue body armor with FBI patches on the chest and back.

  The men from the two cars behind Tom’s also crouched, moved quickly, and went to the trunks of their cars, from which they removed rifles. I watched as the men took shooting positions at their vehicles.

  Tom closed his trunk, stayed crouched, and came toward us. The guy that had driven with him did the same. Tom carried two vests and held them out when he got to Beth and me. “Didn’t know if you were wearing body armor.”

  “Always are in the field,” Beth said. “But we appreciate it.”

  Tom set the vests down and ran his hand through his brown-and-gray buzzcut. “What are we looking at here?” he asked.