Chapter Twenty-Three
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
At thirty-four years old, Marly Dureaux is the youngest executive assistant director of Tech in FBI history, something the Bureau desperately needed at a time when disrupting ransomware, digitally countering domestic terrorism, and breaking down online networks run by child predators were top goals.
Craig Poulton walked us over to Tech and let Marly know that the case had bumped to the top of her priority list.
“Can we set up shop here?” Frank asked. “Camp out in your conference room?”
“Like you own it,” Marly said. She threw her long black hair over her right shoulder and led the way.
I didn’t follow. Instead, I walked over to Lanie Bernal, the tech who had helped me track the call from Mad Dog to the burner phone in LA.
“Thanks for keeping us so busy,” she said. Lanie had a dry delivery, but I suspected her comment was sarcastic.
“You’re welcome,” I said. “What’s the latest?”
“Your guy Mad Dog didn’t just access case files. He looked at personnel records, too.”
“Of whom?” I asked.
“Director Banning,” Lanie said.
I contemplated the contents of those records. Retirement documents. Time-off requests. Health and medical information. Write-ups of employees.
Frank and Marly walked over with Poulton, and I shared this new intel with them.
“When we were in New Mexico,” I said to Frank, “you told me the director was forgetful. What was that based on?”
Frank’s eyes got huge.
“I’m sorry, Frank.” I glanced at Poulton. “I don’t have time to wait until the deputy director is not present or in some other room.”
Frank exhaled, exasperated. “A retired colleague,” he said. “He went to Banning’s book tour stop in Houston.”
In the nine months that Banning was gone from the Bureau, the director had written a book about his time at the FBI.
“There was a Q and A,” Frank explained. “My buddy told me Banning struggled to answer questions about book details, but was informative about case details. It was a subtle difference, but he thought it was odd.”
“Have you noticed a similar issue?” I asked Poulton.
“Not at all,” he said. “Bill’s as sharp as ever. I’m working overtime to keep up with him.”
I turned to Lanie, holding up Banning’s schedule for the past two months, which we’d just procured from his assistant Olivia.
“How fast can your team go through IP addresses for every time the director logged in?” I asked. “Correspond with the local provider and get us a physical location for where each login occurred?”
Lanie stared at the paperwork. “Director Banning moves around the country, from office to office. Each ISP is going to require a formal request. Some a subpoena.” She looked to Marly.
“Tell us what you need,” the EAD said.
“Two days,” Lanie said. “And four additional bodies.” She flicked her eyebrows. “And Gardner Camden not standing behind me. Why don’t you leave me the schedule and go find another piece of paper in some dead guy’s mouth?”
Marly chuckled, but I cocked my head, thinking about Lanie’s comment.
“What is it?” Frank asked.
“We have a video conference in an hour with the ME in LA,” I said. “Lazarian’s autopsy.”
“You think there’s some clue on that body?” Poulton asked. “Like in Texas?”
I stared across the row of twenty-two cubes that filled the workspace, picturing the strip of paper in Tignon’s mouth.
“The five to zero was carved onto Tignon’s skin,” I said. “The paper was hidden inside.”
Could that be part of the killer’s game? One clue on the body. Another one in it? In New Mexico, Mad Dog had left us a finger to print, neatly bagged and left atop the other organs. That could be the outside detail.
“Where is Richie Brancato right now?” I asked.
“Still in New Mexico,” Frank said. “Cassie had him set up in the Albuquerque office. Fisher’s body parts are there, and she knew a guy who could keep an eye on him.”
I rang Richie’s cell. “Find me an ME,” I said when he picked up. “Tell them to drop what they’re doing.”
“Okay,” Richie said. “What am I looking for?”
The photo that Mad Dog had leaked out.
“Find the bag with Fisher’s heart in it,” I said.
This was the organ that Fisher himself had left in bags on the counters of his victim’s houses in the 1980s.
“Okay,” Richie said. “Then what?”
“Cut it open and call me back when you’re looking inside. There’s something in there.”