CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The VA clinic in Capitol Heights was part of a medical center attached to the University of Maryland.
The seven-story building housed specialist offices for the University and the Veterans Association along with numerous independent medical specialists in practices ranging from dental to sports medicine to mental health treatment.
The VA clinic occupied eight spaces on the first floor with the physical therapist’s office being the one nearest the lobby.
The receptionist at the clinic, like Angelique at the Art Academy and Dr. Paulson at the VA, was reluctant to cooperate.
“Without a warrant, I can’t provide you information on our patients.”
“You can tell us if he’s still here, though,” Faith said. “That’s not too much to ask.”
The receptionist, a heavyset woman with dyed red hair and dark brown eyes ringed by a liberal cake of makeup, pursed her lips. “Ma’am, you understand how the law works. If you want to receive information from our office, you need to file a court injunction to—”
Turk barked, and Faith followed his gaze to see a tall, slender man in his early forties step out of the physical therapist’s office. A beaming doctor smiled and waved at him as he exited. “See you next week, Thomas!”
The receptionist stared daggers at Faith, who couldn’t resist a slightly smug smile. “Thank you for your help.”
The agents approached Thomas, but before Faith could introduce herself, the receptionist called sternly, “Not here. If you have to do this, go somewhere else. We’re trying to help people here.”
Faith was trying to be patient, but she was nearing her limit. She looked at the receptionist, and her eyes must have shown her frustration because the woman paled slightly. “So am I.”
“What’s this about?” Thomas asked, blinking at Faith and Jessica. He looked down at Turk. “Is this a drug thing? ‘Cause I got a card for the weed.”
“It’s not a drug thing,” Faith replied, “It’s a murder thing.”
“Oh my God, outside!” the receptionist snapped.
The blood drained from Thomas’s face a little bit. “What?”
“We’ll talk,” Faith said. “Let’s step outside so your friend doesn’t feel a need to obstruct any further.”
The receptionist muttered something under her breath as Faith and Jessica led Thomas from the office. Turk followed, tail switching from side to side, alert as he usually was when in the presence of a suspect.
“Food court’s that way,” Thomas offered, gesturing to a dining room in the center of the building. “I usually grab a hoagie before I head home. We can talk there. Nobody pays attention to a damned thing anyone else says when they’re eating.”
He started toward the food court without waiting for the agents to agree.
He walked stiffly, limbs bending as little as possible.
Faith and Jessica shared a look. Chief hadn’t mentioned anything about a physical disability.
Their killer had to be at least a little physically fit.
Thomas’s movements hadn’t yet suggested he couldn’t handle the murders, but it was concerning that he was so clearly impaired.
Doesn’t take much effort to sneak up on someone with a wire and throttle them.
Turk stayed within a yard of Thomas at all times, ready to drag him to the ground the instant he tried to run. Faith had a feeling that wasn’t going to be a problem.
“You guys want something?” Thomas asked with a touch of sarcasm.
He was being nonchalant, almost flippant despite his clear frustration. He could just be hiding his rage, but if so, he was hiding it very well.
Faith’s concerns that they were talking to the wrong guy grew.
“That’s fine,” Jessica replied drily.
Thomas chuckled and ordered his sandwich. Despite the name Sammie’s Subs clearly written on the facade of the kitchen making the sandwiches, Thomas stubbornly referred to the sandwich as a hoagie. Faith recognized the Philadelphia accent and tried to build some rapport. “You from Philly?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yep. Most of my life. I moved down here a little over a year ago for work.”
“Hmm. How you like it?”
“Kinda miss the winters.”
Thomas chuckled. “Yeah, it doesn’t snow the same here as it does in Philly. And people drive like freaking morons too. It’s like they forget how cars work the moment the weather changes.”
“Good thing the traffic makes speeds over twenty impossibles.”
Thomas laughed again. He didn’t appear any more relaxed as he grabbed his completed order and shuffled to a table, but Faith wasn’t sure if that was tension in his mind or his muscles.
He grimaced and grabbed the edge of the table, then slowly lowered himself into the seat. Faith’s confidence ebbed. He could be faking this, but if he really was in this much pain, then the chances of him accomplishing these murders were very thin.
“Ooh,” he groaned. “Dr. Forrest is a peach, but she works my ass off.” He glanced at Turk and held up his sandwich. “Want some?”
Turk tilted his head, confused.
“He’s fine,” Faith said. She took the seat across from Thomas and folded her hands on the table.
“I’ll get straight to the point, Mr. Garrett.
We’re investigating the murders of two chaplains over the past two days: Richard Hayes and Daniel Cruz.
Both were strangled with a garrote, injected with an epoxy, and left in a prayer position with twenty dog tags hung around their necks. ”
“Jesus. No pun intended.” He took a bite of his sandwich, and despite the exclamation, didn’t seem all that shocked or concerned by the deaths of those chaplains.
“You’ve written letters to chaplains in the past,” Faith said. “I’d be willing to bet that two of those letters went to our victims.”
Thomas swallowed and met Faith’s eyes. “Yep. Wrote to both of them. Bunch of others too. Stupid stuff. I expected answers, but there are none. Got some responses praying for me, got another with links to some commentary that was supposed to help me understand the Bible better, got one response imploring me to pray to Allah for guidance and a few telling me to please stop writing them. Got a chuckle out of those. Didn’t even pretend to give a shit. ”
“You also searched for all forty names on the dog tags found with the victims,” Jessica said.
Thomas stopped with his hand halfway to his mouth. “What?”
“Yep,” Jessica said. “Within the past three weeks too. Apparently, those were the only names you searched for. Care to talk to us about that?”
Thomas set his sandwich down. His hands were trembling again. “Um… Hmm…”
Faith waited patiently. Turk switched his tail back and forth, watching Thomas closely.
“Well… shit. I didn’t know the killer was putting those tags on the victims.”
Faith raised an eyebrow. “But you knew he was putting dog tags around their necks?”
“Sure. It’s all over the news.”
Goddamn the press, Faith thought. “And they just happen to be names you searched for?”
Thomas blinked and swallowed. “Well, I… Shit. I don’t know if I can tell you why that is. I can tell you I didn’t kill them, but I have no idea how those people ended up on the dog tags.”
“Can you tell us who requested the tags?”
“I mean… Forty different people. More if you consider some of the requestors as spokespeople for their families. They were just ordinary requests. One at a time. Not some bulk draw.”
“Even the older ones?”
“Yeah, people ask for old tags a lot. Grandkids or schoolkids doing a Memorial Day project for their town, usually. It’s not as uncommon as you might think.
Faith could feel this lead slipping away and tried to keep the desperation out of his voice. “Can you give us an alibi for this morning and yesterday morning?”
“I got here around ten a.m.,” he said hopefully.
Faith shook her head. “Before that.”
He slumped. “Well… Damn it. You’re sure it’s those dog tags?”
“Very sure.”
He swallowed and lifted his hands above the table. He tried to interlace his fingers, winced, then pressed them together in a Gable grip. They shook badly, and he finally lowered them to the table palms down.
Faith suppressed a frown. It was one thing if he walked stiffly, but if his hands were weak, then there was no way he could have strangled their victims, especially not with the exceptional force their killer showed.
“I don’t know what to say,” he told the agents.
“Why were you looking up those records?” Jessica asked.
He swallowed again. “I was gathering evidence.”
Jessica’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of evidence?”
“That God doesn’t exist.”
Faith folded her arms across her chest. “Talk to me about that. Why are you trying to prove that God doesn’t exist.”
Thomas’s entire body was shaking now. His face alternated between fear and anger. “I was a medic in Afghanistan during the Battle of Tarinkot. 75th Ranger Regiment. I watched twenty-seven people die in my arms while chaplains fucking prayed over them.” He said the word like a curse.
The fear was gone from his expression. Grief now twisted his face.
“They looked me in the eyes and asked me if they were gonna die. And those assholes said all the same bullshit. ‘You’re going to Heaven.’ ‘God is taking you into his arms.’ ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Goddamned death.’ Bullshit. ”
“I can only imagine how upset that must make you,” Faith replied.
Thomas scoffed. “Yeah. That’s a hell of an understatement. Pun fucking intended.”
Faith wasn’t sure what the pun was, but it was easy to see how Thomas could have been angry enough to murder the victims. Maybe his anger was enough to temporarily overcome his suffering. “You said that you wanted the chaplains punished. Is that correct?”
“I said they deserved to be punished by their gods,” he replied. “Like I said, it was stupid stuff. I realize now that I wasn’t making anything better. I was just so damned angry. Still am.”
“And you’re taking an art class to help with that, right?” Jessica asked.
He laughed. “Yeah. That. That’s bullshit too.”
Faith raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
He grinned at her and lifted his hands. The tremors were extreme now. “What am I supposed to make with these? Can’t even draw a goddamned stick figure.”
“How are you with a caulking gun?”
“A what?”
“Or maybe a needle? Heavy gauge, something that could inject a thick, viscous fluid.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The victims were injected with an expanding epoxy that’s commonly used to make models for sculptors. Sometimes it’s used as a sealant for marine engines or a filler for certain structures.”
He blinked. “Like modeling clay?”
“Are you familiar with HydroFill?”
He shook his head. “No.”
Faith frowned. He seemed honest. Liars usually showed small tells that gave away their deception: a tic, a repetitive movement, a slight tightening of the muscles around the eyes.
Even the best pathological liars rarely were able to perfectly project honesty.
Faith was very good at picking up on those tells.
It was part of what made her such an effective investigator.
Of course, there were exceptions. Franklin West had posed as her own damned therapist for months, and she was none the wiser.
“May I ask about your illness?” Faith replied. “How does it affect you in your daily life?”
Thomas threw his head back and laughed. The loud noise attracted looks from other tables. Faith folded her arms over her chest and waited.
“Oh, man,” Thomas said. “Just ask me the real question. Could you kill someone with your bare hands?” He met Faith’s eyes.
“No. I couldn’t. I have MS. Multiple Sclerosis.
Primary Progressive variant. With treatment and management, I can support myself for probably another…
Ten, fifteen years? I doubt like hell I’ll be able to walk in twenty.
There’s another big reason, though, why I couldn’t kill anyone. ”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not a killer. I save lives.” He leaned forward, eyes flashing.
“When I was in the Army, I became a medic because I refused to take a life. I didn’t even carry a gun.
You can look on my service record. CO. Conscientious Objector.
Part of the rare breed of human that thinks killing other humans is bad.
Do I think those chaplains deserved to die?
Hell yes. Do I think I have the right to do it?
Hell no. Look me up, agent. Look at my service records, my medical records, hell, my driving record. I’m not your man.”
Faith exchanged a look with Jessica. Since he had no alibi, they would have to follow up on his medical history to confirm his inability to commit the crime, but Faith was having a hard time holding onto her suspicion of him. Everything she could observe suggested he really wasn’t their guy.
“I remember those faces,” Thomas said. “That’s why I don’t believe.
Chief invites me to his church sometimes.
He’s a good guy, and I sometimes think that hey, maybe I want to check it out; see what it’s all about.
But I look at the records of people who died in combat, and I remember.
I remember the death. I remember everyone who bled out in my arms.” Tears leaked from his eyes.
“I remember those faces, and I remember that there is no god. Not one who gives a shit about us, anyway.”
He fell silent. The four of them remained there for a long moment before Faith got to her feet. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Garrett. If we need anything else, we’ll reach out. For the time being, you should remain in the Washington area.”
Thomas laughed. “Where am I gonna go? It’s not like I can run.”
The FBI agents shared a look, then left him there. Memories flitted across Faith’s mind, screaming, gore, the earthy-sweet odor of blood spilling into the dirt.
She could understand his anger. Killer or no, it was misplaced, and Thomas needed to find a way to let it go if he was ever truly going to heal.
But she understood. When those images were seared into your head, you had little patience for the promise of a mansion in Heaven or the love of a benevolent God.
And you looked with disdain and anger at those who preached His name.