CHAPTER SIX
“Trevor?” Wilma said. “Yeah, I know him. Trevor Walsh. He adopted a Chow this, for his nephew, but the dog bit his hand. He tried to return it, and we rejected him because he lied on his initial application. Well, we took the dog back, but we wouldn’t let him adopt another one.”
“Yeah, I remember now,” Luke said. “He wanted Hunter, right?”
“That’s right. We ended up giving that dog to the Doghouse as a therapy animal.”
“What’s the Doghouse?” Faith asked.
“It’s a private facility in Dallas. Much nicer than this place. They can actually do nice things for their animals because they’re not a county facility. Do me a favor and tell the county supervisor I said that. He needs to know.”
“I’ll bring it up,” Faith replied. “In the meantime, I need the address you have on file for Trevor Walsh.”
Wilma shrugged. “I’ll give it to you, but I can’t promise he’s telling the truth about it.”
“We have to start somewhere,” Faith replied. Still, she turned to Jessica. “Call Dallas PD and have them look up a Trevor Walsh. Just in case.”
Jessica reached for her phone, but Faith’s buzzed before she could pull it from her pocket. Faith looked at her own phone, and her blood chilled. “Scratch that. Dallas PD is calling me.”
Jessica’s eyes widened. She knew what that meant.
“Uh oh,” Wilma said. “Everything okay?”
"Doubt it," Faith answered. "Special Agent Bold, FBI."
“Bold? This is Detective Buckley from the Dallas Police Department. I was referred to you by Sergeant Hansen of the Plano Police Department.”
Shit. “Yes? What is it?”
“We have a dead body at a private animal shelter. We called Plano because we know they just had a murder last night. Looks like this might be the same guy.”
Faith’s head dropped. “I understand. What’s the animal shelter?”
“The Dallas Doghouse. It’s right around the corner from police headquarters.”
This time, Faith cursed out loud. “Shit. Okay. We’re on our way.
I need you guys to look for a Trevor Walsh, age…
” She glanced at Wilma’s office computer, and Wilma turned it so Faith could see.
“Thirty-five. Six-one, two hundred pounds, dark brown hair, gray eyes. He reported his address as twelve-fifty-three Avocado Street, Dallas.”
“Wait, you have a suspect already?”
“Yes, and according to Google Maps, he lives about a mile away from the Doghouse.”
“Yeah, I know Avocado Street. We’ll get units there right away.”
“Thank you.”
She hung up and pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose until it started to hurt. “Shit!”
"It's not even eight o'clock," Jessica observed. "He killed both of these women within twelve hours of each other."
“Yep,” Faith said tersely. “God damn it. Let’s get moving.”
“Oh, God,” Wilma said. “What has gotten into the world?”
Faith didn’t have an answer to that question, so she didn’t offer one.
***
It was just after eight o'clock when the three agents arrived at the Dallas Doghouse.
A small crowd of staff members was standing behind a police cordon that roped off the rear of the property.
Faith noted that this part of the shelter wasn't visible from the police station.
At least Dallas PD wasn't completely incompetent.
Take it easy, Faith. Don’t take your frustration out on them.
She quelled her irritation when she approached a man in plainclothes—probably Detective Buckley—flanked by two uniforms. A third uniform chatted with a gaggle of crime scene investigators.
That officer stepped in front of the scene to block Turk’s entry, but Buckley glanced up at the two human agents and waved for the uniform to let Turk pass.
He backed off and tipped his hat to Turk, who dipped his head in acknowledgment as he sniffed around, staying a polite distance from the CSIs.
Buckley was questioning an older man in a security uniform. The gray-haired, heavyset security officer leaned against a trash can with his hands on his knees, his head hanging. No doubt he blamed himself for the death of whoever was obscured by the CSIs.
Buckley patted the old man on the shoulder and approached Faith. “Special Agent Bold?”
“That’s me.” Faith hooked a thumb at Jessica. “This is Special Agent Jessica Torres. Do you mind if she talks to your suspect?”
"Not a suspect, but sure," Buckley replied.
"That's Carl, the night guard. Matthew usually sends him home about seven-thirty.
When the other employees started showing up, and Matthew hadn't arrived, Carl got worried.
Called his cell phone, didn't get an answer.
I guess one of the other staff members had found a phone. They traced it here."
“Matthew is the victim?” Faith guessed.
“Yeah. Matthew Brooks, forty. Worked here for eight years. Always showed up early so he could clean up the outdoor rehabilitation area before the dogs came out to use it. This is what Carl told me.”
Faith nodded at Jessica. “Go talk to him. See if you can get some background info on Matthew. See if he had any interactions with Trevor Walsh.”
“Oh yeah, speaking of that,” Buckley said.
“We have officers there now. We’re detaining him on suspicion of drug possession because we caught him with a weed pipe, but we can only hold him for an hour, so if you want to talk to him, you might want to wrap it up quickly here.
Unless we find enough pot to justify an intent to distribute charge, he’s just gonna get a citation and let loose. ”
“We’ll be quick,” Faith replied.
She stepped onto the grass toward the cluster of CSIs. Turk had finished checking the scene out and was trotting along the high fence surrounding the outdoor rehabilitation area. Faith kept an ear out for any barking that might alert her to a clue.
In the meantime, she wanted to see the body. “Excuse me,” she said to the CSIs. “Mind if I take a quick look?”
They shared a grim look with each other, then stepped away. Faith’s stomach twisted. “Holy shit.”
She no longer wanted to see the body. She was rarely squeamish, but the charred tongue, burnt eyes, and the spiderweb of burns across Matthew’s face, hands, and neck twisted her stomach.
He lay in a pool of thick, congealing blood that he appeared to have vomited up either just before or during death.
“What the hell could do something like that?” she asked.
“A sufficiently powerful electric current could,” the lead CSI replied. “Probably between one and two amps at thirty to fifty thousand volts. Not hard to get out of a modified taser.” She turned to one of her fellows and said, “This is why tasers need to be illegal to civilians.”
Faith saw the crispy holes in Matthew’s neck where the probes had struck him. “So, the shock killed him.”
“Technically speaking, and for the record, we have to wait until the coroner confirms, but his cause of death was a violent rupture of the cardiac muscle. The electric shock caused that rupture, though, along with a host of other problems that would have killed him if it hadn’t burst his heart.”
“Jesus,” Faith said. She turned to Buckley. “This is bad, and clearly someone had it in for Matthew, but this isn’t the same MO as our previous crime.”
“That’s what Hansen told me. Until I told him about this.”
He lifted a baggie containing a scrap of paper. On that paper, scrawled in heavy ink handwriting, was the word MURDERER.
Faith’s jaw tightened. She looked back at the lead CSI, carefully avoiding the sight of Matthew’s ruined body below. “Any sign of the killer in the area? Footprints, tire tracks, fabric?”
“No footprints or tire tracks,” the CSI replied.
The dirt’s hardpacked here where it isn’t grass, and…
Well, there are tire tracks, but hundreds of vehicles pass through every day.
It’s impossible to tell which one might belong to our killer.
As for other clues, we got some partial fingerprints off of Matthew’s neck, probably from when the killer removed the taser probes, but I’m not sure if there’s enough to come back. ”
Faith nodded. “Got it. What about security footage?”
Buckley glanced over Faith’s shoulder. “Maybe your partner got that answer from Carl.”
Faith turned to Jessica, who was walking over while the two uniforms escorted a downcast Carl away from the scene. “He’s clean?” Faith asked.
“Oh yeah. I suppose to be sure, I need to look at the security footage first, but it’s definitely not him. Anyway, those officers are going to drive him to the hospital, so if something comes up, we’ll call them.”
“Let’s go look at the footage,” Faith said. “I’ll trust your judgment about Carl, but I want to see if we caught anything on camera that can tell us who we’re looking for.”
“You don’t think it’s Trevor Walsh?”
“I think it might be, but it wouldn’t hurt to have evidence.”
Buckley joined the two women as they headed inside the building to review security footage. Faith left Turk outside to keep looking for clues.
"The security room is the second door on the left, according to Carl," Jessica said. "He usually spends the night in there reading."
“Not watching the cameras?”
“No. He’s pretty broken up about that.”
Faith’s lips thinned, but before she judged Carl, she would see if the cameras revealed anything.
They didn’t. Faith saw Michael pull his Ford Explorer into the parking lot, park near the outdoor lot, and get out.
They saw him walk around the corner, and then they saw nothing until Carl walked out, flanked by two concerned staff members.
The three of them looked around the corner, and Faith saw the two other staff members jump back, screaming.
A second later, Carl staggered backwards, his hand over his mouth.
Faith stopped the footage. “Okay, so we have a good view of the front of the place but not of the side.”
Jessica thrust her chin toward the other cameras. “We have the back doors and the interior too. I was watching the lobby camera and the hallway. I don’t see Carl leaving before Matthew’s death or returning after, so I think we can rule him out.”
“Not to be that guy,” Buckley interrupted, “but tick tock on the Walsh thing. Why don’t you let my guys look through the footage and let you know if we find anything while you go talk to our suspect?” “That’s a good idea,” Faith said. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
The two women started out of the door, and Buckley asked, “Hey, what do you think the deal with the note is? I mean, besides the fact that he hated the guy.”
“He’s still trying to justify his actions,” Faith answered. “He wants people to know that he’s doing a good thing. These people deserved to die.”
“You think maybe he feels guilty? This is how he justifies it to himself?”
Faith shook her head. “He shocked this guy to death in broad daylight a few yards away from being in full view of a police station. He doesn’t feel guilty. He’s showing off.”
“You think that’s why he switched to the taser instead of the spike? He wanted something more shocking?”
“It’s possible,” Faith said. “I think he’s also getting angrier, or letting more of his anger show. Killing Garrett made him feel good. It made him feel powerful. Now he’s enjoying that power and letting himself use a little more of it.”
Buckley shook his head. “Well, I sure hope he doesn’t decide to escalate even further. Good luck, agents.”
“You too.”
They headed back outside. Turk met them at the door, head lowered in frustration. Faith reached down and scratched him behind his ear, then headed for their rental.
“He probably didn’t suffer,” Jessica said as Faith put the car in gear. “That much current, he was probably gone before he realized what was happening.”
Faith glanced at her partner. Her face was pale and tinged with green. It occurred to Faith that this was probably the worst dead body Jessica had ever seen, even worse than the killer who slit his victim’s throats and exsanguinated them.
“He probably didn’t,” Faith replied.
That might be true in the physical sense, but Faith had a feeling Matthew had suffered emotionally before he died. A killer who hated his victims as much as this one did would want them to suffer.
What had gone through Matthew’s mind when he saw the killer? Did he know that this was going to be the moment he died, or did the killer warn him what was about to happen? Had he listened to Matthew beg, or was that instant of realization enough for him?
And who was the note for? That was the pertinent question.
The killer was talking to someone. Law enforcement, yes, the world in general, maybe, but not just that.
Someone specific was supposed to see it.
This was a message intended for someone.
If they figured out who he was talking to, then they might figure out who was talking.
Unless it was Walsh after all. Maybe they’d get lucky. Maybe they could put the bastard away before he marked someone else.