Chapter Thirty-Four
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
By 3 p.m. eastern time, Deputy Director Poulton had arrived by helicopter at the Jacksonville office. We prepped him on what we had found on Mad Dog and on our strategy to draw him out.
By three thirty, the parking lot was crowded with news vans, the lobby full of reporters. Poulton and I spoke in a waiting room that Human Resources used. The walls were covered in flyers about employee benefits and discounts to area theme parks.
“That agent at the Houston bookstore who did research for Banning,” Poulton said. “Her name is Lisa Yang. She’s out of the D.C. office.”
“I’ll need to speak with her,” I said.
“She’ll be made available,” Poulton replied. “In the meantime, I emailed you her file.”
“We’ll study it.”
“Per the director, you’ll study lightly, Camden,” Poulton said. “She’s highly decorated.”
I nodded in understanding, and side by side, we moved out toward the ground floor’s atrium.
“You asked me to come here, and I’m giving you an hour,” Poulton said. “But I want to see action, Camden. Arrests, not analysis.”
“Of course,” I said.
We walked up onto a small dais then, with a blue curtained backdrop covered in tiny repeating FBI shield icons.
“Thank you for gathering on such short notice,” Poulton said as the reporters quieted. “I’d like to introduce Special Agent Gardner Camden, who is going to review the details of our ongoing investigation.”
He moved aside, and I stepped forward.
“Good afternoon,” I said, introducing myself and spelling my first and last name.
Fourteen men and women with recording equipment focused on me.
“Twenty-four hours ago, we released a brief statement about the murders of Ross Tignon, Barry Fisher, and Ronald Lazarian. And as much as we regret the loss of any life, one of the advantages of a national law enforcement agency is our ability to make connections. I’m here to announce that, in the last day, we’ve linked three new victims to the same man that killed Tignon, Fisher, and Lazarian. And we have a strong description of the suspect in all six murders.”
The FBI is not known for its transparency. Murmurs moved through the small group of reporters.
“We’ve built a profile of the man we’re searching for,” I continued, “and we’re seeking the public’s help in locating him.”
I produced the digital composite supplied by Marly’s team. Our production department had enlarged it onto poster-size foam core.
“Locating this man is a top priority of the Bureau, as we believe he’s linked to several other cold cases. We know that he drives a white recreational vehicle and is most likely from Houston or the surrounding area.”
Camerapersons elbowed each other, trying to get close-ups of the sketch, and hands went up in the reporters’ pool.
“When will you release more information on these new victims?” a reporter asked.
“By the end of this week,” I said.
“Is there a vigilante on the loose?” a different reporter hollered.
“No,” I said, “these are murders. There’s a murderer on the loose.”
“Would you categorize the suspect as a monster, Agent Camden?”
“I don’t think of criminals in those terms,” I said. “And I don’t use language like that.”
“If you don’t call him a monster,” the reporter continued, “how would you describe him?”
This was the moment I’d been waiting for.
“Isolated,” I said. “Ignorant. Frightened. Reckless. Angry.”
“So a dangerous idiot?” the reporter asked.
The crowd chuckled, and I considered how Mad Dog would react to these words. Then I said, “In plain speech, yes.”
Poulton stepped up to the mic, knowing the goals were twofold: one, get the public calling into our tip line; and two, upset Mad Dog. The deputy director thanked the media for coming and reminded them that the goal was to get the sketch out immediately, so the public could provide help in getting a suspect off the streets. He dodged questions, circled back to our 1-800 tip line, and closed down the conference.
I waited sixteen minutes in the break room for the first news channel to go live. A plastic cereal bowl filled with M… your ‘why now.’”
“Something happened between the two,” Frank said.
“Pfft.” Mad Dog made a noise. “What am I—on hold? Is the genius brainstorming?”
“Then, it’s 101,” Poulton said. “Force a wedge between them.”
I looked to Frank. There was nothing 101 about this killer. I took the phone off mute, thinking of the right words to use.
One of the drawbacks of my personality is I struggle with nuance. Fail at sarcasm. But I would try.
“You want to know what the worst part of this case is?” I said to Mad Dog.
“What’s that?”
I searched for the sort of terminology that Shooter or Frank would use.
“Hunting someone as unoriginal as you.” The words came out flatly. Without tone. But they were the right words.
“What did you say to me?”
“At least with the bow and arrow murders, there was some creativity,” I continued. “These new ones… you’re just copying old crimes.”
Mad Dog was breathing more heavily now, and his voice shook as he spoke.
“There are words for the type of animal you are, Camden,” he said. “You feign weakness, but advance in the dark.”
Frank stood up from behind his laptop. He wrote “Lake Ashland” on a piece of paper in red marker. We had Mad Dog’s location.
“This has always been about business,” Mad Dog said. “Me, getting rid of scum. You people, fumbling along behind like you do. But now you’ve become disrespectful. You’ve made this personal.”
I thought about Richie’s notion of a program. Of Mad Dog being disrupted off it. And what he might do.
“I just want to understand,” I said, “what you’re after.”
“You,” he said. “That’s what I’m after now.”
Frank’s eyes settled on me, and I felt the muscles in my forearm tense up.
“I’m gonna show you two more magic tricks, Camden,” Mad Dog continued. “You liked LA? You enjoyed Rawlings? I’ll go one better.”
“Why don’t we talk about—”
“I’ll prove I can get to anyone anywhere. Out in the world. On trial. Man. Woman. Even someone locked behind bars.”
The line went dead, and I looked up. The sun had dropped behind a building, and the room was darker.
“He’s in a cabin in Ashland,” Frank said. “West side of the lake.”
“One road in, one road out,” Poulton added, looking at Frank’s map.
“We got a boat on the water and six deputies blocking the road, Gardner,” Frank said. “Good job.”
My hands were below the table, but my fists were in balls. Unusual for me.
Cassie came back into the room.
“Did you find out what he was looking at?” I asked. “When he logged in?”
“Personnel files,” Cassie said. “Not case files.”
“What’s it matter?” Poulton said. “He took the bait. We’re circling him.”
But Cassie’s forehead was crisscrossed with lines.
“ Your personnel file this time, Gardner,” she clarified.
I turned to the far window and stared out toward the south.
“What is it?” Cassie asked.
“His questions about me not going to LA,” I said. “How did he know I was lying?”
“Did you tell anyone?” Frank asked.
“Just you,” I said. “He also said that he could get to any man or woman . ‘Even behind bars.’”
Frank paused before shaking his head. “No way,” he said.
“Anything’s possible,” I told him.
“I don’t understand.” Poulton squinted. “What’s going on?”
“Gardner’s ex,” Frank said. “Anna Camden may be his next target.”
“We could get a release,” I said. “I could drive down there.”
“You’re the lead. You’re not going anywhere,” Poulton said. “We got this guy!”
“And if he’s working with someone? A partner?”
“We’ll get her into solitary for now,” Poulton said. “Get a release into custody by end of day.”
“Thank you.”
Over the next ten minutes, Frank got on the phone and made it happen. Favors were called in, and my ex was moved to solitary confinement.
As Frank got off the phone, Cassie came over, her lips still thin, but her voice steadier now. “They got a guy in cuffs,” she said. “In Lake Ashland.”
I exhaled, nodding. “Thanks, Cass. I needed that.”
I got up and walked out of the conference room. Took the elevator down and stepped outside, my body tight in a way I was not familiar with.
I needed to hear my daughter’s voice, so I called up Mitchell Hannick and asked him to put Camila on.
“Oh Daddy, I’m having so much fun,” she said when she came on the line a minute later. “I’m learning to ride a horse. And there’s an alpaca named Flaca, because he’s so skinny.”
Breathe, Gardy.
Camila went on about the bunny-feeding area, how Hannick’s son had given her a riding hat, and how she was learning on a pony named Boba.
“Like the drink, Daddy,” she said. “She has pink circles down her side.”
I knew I had to get back upstairs. “Daddy’s gotta go,” I told her. “But I’m glad you’re having fun.”
I hung up and walked back into the building. As I got off on our floor, I saw Frank standing beside Poulton in the conference room. I’d thought the deputy director had left for D.C., but he hadn’t.
“Wasn’t Mad Dog,” Poulton said.
“What?”
“In the cabin. Kid we cuffed was a teenager. His parents showed up. Dad’s a cop. Vouched for the kid’s whereabouts at the time of the murders.”
“Mad Dog must have used a virtual location app,” Frank said.
There were four different third-party phone apps that cost less than ten dollars and allowed everyday citizens to “choose” the location their phone identified as.
Mad Dog was in the wind.
Poulton’s nostrils flared. “I’m heading back to D.C.,” he said, clearly frustrated. “Find this guy.”
Frank and I nodded, and Poulton began walking away. Then he turned.
“Incidentally, this thing with your ex-wife,” he said. “I signed the release, and we’ll hold her for a week. But it was a public matter, her getting sent away. I don’t know how you figure this guy would need access to your personnel files to get at it.”
My head was spinning. “He said he can get to any man or woman. ‘Even behind bars.’ Not sure if you were there—”
“No, I heard that,” Poulton said. “But we got a lotta serials behind bars, and she’s not one of them. So…”
Poulton looked more closely at me. I hadn’t responded.
“You okay, Camden?” he asked.
My mind was chasing something. Something in my personnel file that wasn’t anywhere else.
“He said ‘behind bars,’” I said.
“Yeah, we all heard that, buddy,” Poulton said.
“Not all bars are physical,” I mumbled. “Some are in the mind.”
Poulton squinted at Frank, confused.
I leaned over and hit the speaker button. Called Marly. “The GPS data can be fooled,” I said, “but there’s a CSLI that’s generated for whatever app he’s using to disguise his identity.”
“Yeah, we tracked it down, but the cell went offline,” she said. “Also it’s not as accurate. It pinged off one cell tower, then went dead.”
“Where?” I asked.
“West of Dallas,” she said. “Woodrell, Texas.”
I hit the button to hang up without saying anything. Grabbed my phone and dialed the number of my mother’s cell.
It went to voicemail.
I called the front desk at her retirement home, but it rang endlessly.
My mother had no connection to me that could be found anywhere. Her anonymity was why I hadn’t worried about hiding her when I’d placed Camila and Rosa at the ranch.
Except for one thing. Her married name and current address were in my personnel file, where she was listed as a beneficiary.
I tried the number again and was cycled back to hold music.
“What’s going on, Gardner?” Frank asked.
I hung up and dialed Richie’s cell.
“Richie, I’m texting you an address in Woodrell,” I said. “Go there, stat.”
“Woodrell?” he repeated. “Sure. What am I looking for?”
Mad Dog was never in Florida. He had no intention of going after my ex-wife.
He used WiFi in that café in Dallas. Then left the burner phone in the cab. Drove nearby, but not to Ashland.
“My mother,” I said to Richie, my mouth suddenly dry. “You’re looking to see if Mad Dog murdered her.”
Poulton’s face went gray, and Richie listened as I read off the address.
I hung up. Stumbled across the office toward my cube.
Didn’t I already know what Richie was going to find? That the one person who supported me was gone. The woman who taught me how to channel everything that was strange about me. The endless facts. The stored memories. The odd logic… all transformed into something valuable. Something useful.
In nine minutes, I called Richie back.
“I’m in the parking lot,” he said. “There are firefighters here. Some sort of grease fire in the kitchen.”
A diversion.
“Ignore it,” I said. “Third floor. Room 302.”
I waited sixty seconds, then hit the button to switch to video. Richie accepted, and I saw him moving up a stairwell.
“Agent Camden,” he said, breathing heavy. “Why don’t I call you once I’m inside her roo—”
“Faster, Richie,” I said, my voice hoarse.
He took two steps at a time. Rounded the corner near my mom’s room.
I saw the door open.
“Mrs. Camden?” he called out.
“Maher,” I said, using her married name.
The room was dark. My mother was turned on her side, away from Richie. A comforter covered her body, and Richie pulled it back.
“Mrs. Maher?”
I saw an injection mark on her neck. A drizzle of dried blood below her right ear.
“Mrs. Maher?” Richie repeated.
I waited.
“Come on, wake up, please,” he hollered.
I squinted into the darkness of my phone. “What is it?” I said. “I can’t see.”
The phone shifted, and I saw the vague, unfocused look in my mother’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, Agent Camden,” Richie said. “She’s been injected with something. She’s not responding.”