Chapter 19
“Fucking useless.”
Vaughn couldn’t argue with his partner. But he also knew that they were coming at this from a different angle—in hindsight.
They knew the crime, were working backwards.
A few missing tanks that were rarely used. A keycard belonging to an ex-employee that was supposed to have been deactivated. An overwritten video file. Separately, none of these amounted to much.
Together, however . . .
“Speaking of useless,” Darnell continued unprompted, “I’m gonna call Delaney again.”
Vaughn was still wrapped up in the four missing gas canisters. The elaborate setup. The Squid Game or whatever the fuck it was.
Couldn’t help but think: one down, three to go.
He shuddered involuntarily.
“Delaney!” Darnell barked. “Any update on an address for Aaron Treadman?” Pause. “No? Why not?” Pause. “Get ‘em printed already. Upload them. We need to move—”
“Darnell, ask him if he has a copy of the 911 call.”
Darnell relayed Vaughn’s question.
“Send it. And get the other vics printed already!”
They were running out of leads. Aaron Treadman’s security card had been used to gain access to the gas.
Someone—probably also using Treadman’s still active credentials—had overwritten the security footage.
Darnell had implied that building the rooms within the barn was an easy task.
Could be done in an evening or two by a non-skilled laborer.
No one noticed cars coming or going last night. No vehicles left at the scene.
It was possible that Aaron himself was behind all of this and had just lost at his own game, but Vaughn didn’t put much stock in this half-brained theory.
Whoever put all this together had to have a modicum of intelligence, foresight, and planning.
Locking yourself in a room filling with hydrogen sulfide gas didn’t fit this truncated profile. Nor did prime numbers. What the hell is with the prime numbers?
“Take a listen.”
Darnell played the recording.
The voice on the line was clearly altered, distorted. The highs and lows condensed.
“Gas leak. Ten dead.” The voice—probably male, but that too could have been changed—spat the address next. Then the call abruptly ended.
“When was the call made?”
“This morning. 1:32 a.m.”
“And Dr. Button said that the victims died at 1:30,” Vaughn noted.
“Plus/minus thirty minutes,” Darnell said, imitating the ME’s nasal voice.
“Still, the person called either right before, right after, or during the gas leak.”
No, it couldn’t have been Aaron Treadman. No cell phones were found at the scene.
“Let me guess, the 911 call came from a burner phone?”
“Burner phone,” Darnell confirmed, staring at his screen.
Unlike their depiction in popular TV shows, burner phones could be tracked.
Each phone was equipped with a unique IMEI number.
Calls made from a particular cell, irrespective of a SIM card or lack thereof, could be traced back to the device.
Moreover, the location of a device that dials 911 was also automatically tracked to the nearest cell phone tower and the position triangulated in case the person was in distress and unable to tell the operator their address.
“You have the data on where the 911 call was made from?”
“Delaney.”
“When we find out where, we should do a drive by. I doubt—”
“Delaney.”
“What about canvassing local hardware stores? See if anyone loaded up on drywall and lumb—”
“Delaney.”
“Trying to find the victims’ cars?”
“Delaney.”
“Looking at the victims’ shoes?”
“Delaney.”
Vaughn sighed. Took a page out of Darnell’s book.
“What about giving me a hand job?”
“Delaney.”
“Good, he’s got softer skin than you.”
Darnell laughed. Vaughn didn’t.
“What’s your problem with Delaney, anyway?”
“I don’t have a problem.”
“Really? You’ve been on his ass all day.”
All month. All year, actually.
Darnell shrugged, slumped deeper into the passenger seat. No chuckling now. The man’s dramatic mood changes were something to be studied.
“You know why.”
Yeah, I do.
Two years ago, Darnell had been on a stakeout with a different partner; Vaughn was just a rookie detective back then.
Trying to bait a child predator. Working a sting operation, pretended to be an eleven-year-old girl. Text messages were exchanged. A meet-up arranged.
The man never showed. Brass called the sting off when the suspect failed to respond to subsequent texts. He’d smelled something was up; either that or he’d never been serious in the first place. They’d been dismissed, but Darnell had decided to stick around.
The pedo never appeared.
Darnell went home.
Was confronted by an unspeakable tragedy.
Vaughn’s partner was put on mandatory three-month administrative leave. Was forced to perform fitness and psych evals before returning to work.
Probably cheated on both.
Darnell hated Delaney because during his mandated leave, Delaney had overtly expressed interest in becoming a detective. As far as Vaughn knew, Delaney just assumed, like many in the PPD, that Darnell would never return, leaving a position that needed to be occupied.
It wasn’t Delaney’s fault, and he’d done nothing wrong. But Darnell saw things differently.
Took it as a personal affront, projecting his fury over his family’s tragedy on the ambitious puppy dog cop.
“What do you wanna do then, Darnell?”
“Go home.” There was no humor in Darnell’s voice.
Vaughn took his partner home.
“Take it easy tonight.”
“I will.”
He wouldn’t.
Unlike Darnell, Vaughn wasn’t ready to end his shift just yet.
He contacted dispatch himself, got the cell phone data from the anonymous 911 call.
The phone pinged three towers in Hopewell. Two in the city, one northeast in the farmlands. Not far from the barn.
Vaughn spent the next two hours driving around, not really sure what he was looking for. Maybe someone holding a sign saying, “Hey, look at me! I’m the Gasman!”
He spent about half of this time on Snydertown Road. Even visited a place called Stonybrook Meadows Farm.
Vaughn eventually decided that Darnell was right: it was time to go home.
Hell, he might even have a drink.
Unlike his partner, he deserved at least one.