Blood of Others (29 page)

Eugene Vryke
sat in a right-side window seat,
of the wide-body Eagle coach as it rolled south out of Vancouver along British
Columbia’s Highway 99 to the border at Blaine, Washington, some twenty-five
miles away.

The forty-seven-seat charter bus
was filled with sports fans bound for Seattle’s Safeco Field where the Mariners
were playing the L.A. Dodgers.

A boy about 16 was in the seat
next to him, part of a father-and-two-son delegation. The younger sibling
across the narrow aisle was about twelve, well-behaved and well supplied with
red hair and freckles like the snoring dad. The teen was reading
Sports
Illustrated.

Vryke gazed upon the flowers of
Peace Arch Provincial Park, knowing that as his time drew near, he had become
sloppy. More vulnerable. It had almost ended for him when the traffic cop
stopped him in the mountains. But it didn’t. If he could return safely to the
United States and complete the critical details for his final meeting, he would
succeed.

He must succeed. He could not
afford to fail. Time was running out.

Traffic was congesting. Lanes
choked with southbound big rigs, RVs, cars, vans. The Blaine crossing was one
of the busiest between the two countries. The bus’s big Detroit engine growled
and its Jake brakes hissed as they began inching their way to the U.S. border,
now less than a quarter of a mile away.

Vryke finished filling out a U.S.
Customs declaration form then eased his tension by drumming his fingers on the
canvas bag carrying his laptops. He glimpsed the freckle-faced teen turning
another page.
Remember this day, kid, it guarantees you a place in history
as the guy who sat next to Eugene Vryke.

At that moment in Washington,
D.C., a short distance from the White House, an urgent call came from the RCMP
to the Office of Enforcement at U.S. Customs headquarters on Pennsylvania
Avenue.

The alert concerned an extremely
dangerous murder suspect, believed to be preparing to enter the United States
from Canada at Washington State. It was immediately sent to the coordinator of
the U.S. Customs Northern Border Office for processing.

In British Columbia, near the
Peace Arch, traffic was gridlocked on the southbound lanes awaiting clearance
for entry by U.S. border officials.

Turn signals blinking, the
Seattle-bound Eagle charter belched a black diesel cloud as it
maneuvered
into the dedicated bus lanes. Flags of the United
States and Washington State flapped above the U.S. port buildings. Roof-top and
driver-level security cameras eyed traffic, sentry cameras recorded rear
license plates. As the bus crept closer to the U.S. checkpoint, the driver
popped open the door. A U.S. Customs officer wearing dark glasses and an
all-business attitude boarded.

“Everyone please disembark with
your luggage and we’ll process you as quickly as we can in this building behind
me. When you get inside, U.S. citizens to the right, others to the left. Please
have identification and completed declaration forms handy. Be prepared to have
your belongings inspected and declare the nature of your visit to the United
States.”

In Washington, at the U.S.
Customs Northern Border Office, staff members were processing the details of
the alert, containing criminal intelligence supplied by the FBI, SFPD, Toronto
Police Service, and the RCMP.

It was flagged urgent for the
immediate arrest of Eugene Vryke, a suspect sought for murders in the U.S. and
Canada. The alert’s history showed that Vryke, believed to be a U.S. resident
of Maryland, was traveling in the Vancouver area and bound for the U.S. It
listed his DOB, race, height, weight, eye and hair color. It included the
aliases Foster Dean and Harlan Wells and two photographs. One from a Maryland
driver’s license and one from the United Coast car rental security camera at
San Francisco International.

“Let’s get this out to Blaine
preclearance at Vancouver International, and Amtrak,” a supervisor said.

Struggling with bags, griping
about the delay, the charter’s passengers lumbered into the processing
building, lining up as instructed. They passed the wait discussing baseball.

When his turn came, Vryke placed
his small luggage bag and canvas computer bag on one of the large tables as
requested by a female Customs officer.

“Mind opening this one for me,
sir?” About thirty. Short-cropped blond hair. Small gold rings in her pierced
ears. “Can you please turn on your computers for me?”

Vryke complied and the machines
beeped to life. Each screen displayed a high-definition, action, animated video
of major league baseball.

“What’s this, sir?” She touched
his satellite phone and collapsed dish.

“Satellite phone. I’m a freelance
journalist. I was filing travel stories from the Rockies to U.S. clients. Want
to see one?”

“No, thanks. You can close it up
and go to the officer at the desk. He’ll want to see your ID. Give him your
form.”

Vryke took his place in the line
before a U.S. border officer, sitting on a high stool at a podium desk behind a
computer terminal. Behind the officer, Vryke could see his bus and passengers
returning. He was third in line. The officer was examining IDs, asking short
questions. Through the building’s windows Vryke saw two RCMP patrol cars, two
Mounties talking to several U.S. officers. He tried to make out the cars. INS
maybe? County? Customs?

“Next.”

It was Vryke’s turn.

The officer was a balding man in
his forties. Frameless glasses, pencil-thin moustache and dark blue eyes that
were quick as he accepted Vryke’s U.S. identification and Customs form.
Studying it, he keyed his computer. It beeped a response when he entered the
name of Dennis Delmarcario.

“Returning from vacation?”

The computer continued beeping.

“Yes.”

Vryke could see his bus less than
twenty yards behind the officer who was scrutinizing his computer screen. He
glanced at Delmarcario’s photograph, then at Vryke, looking him in the eye.
Same person. The officer started passing the documents back when his terminal
beeped. A small icon flashed indicating an incoming hot alert. The records
snapped back.

“One minute, sir.”

Vryke’s pulse quickened. Through
the window he saw the small police posse, bulked with kevlar, holstered pistol
handles protruding, the computer beeping. The border officer at the desk
reaching for his phone.

Vryke swallowed.

“Yeah, Cal, it’s me. The darn
thing’s seized on an incoming --”

“Excuse me! But we’re going to
miss our game!” someone complained from the line behind Vryke. The officer was
deaf to it. “…Yeah, Cal. You have to reset it now. Right. We’re backed up
good.”

The officer hung up and gave
Vryke his papers. “Welcome back to the U.S., sir.”

In Seattle, Vryke found a cheap
motel, paid cash for one night after registering with a new alias.

He had to hurry. The previous
night in his Vancouver hotel, he had felt the onset of a seizure but managed to
suppress it with an injection before it overwhelmed him with convulsions.

The room reeked of beer and
cigarettes. The walls vibrated with loud music from the downstairs bar. Vryke
tossed his bag on the bed. No time to lose. He switched on his computers, made
the necessary adjustments to go on-line. As his systems fired up, Vryke leafed
through the Seattle yellow pages; then his keyboard began clicking, a small
grin cutting into his face, as he found exactly what he needed. Making some
notes on the motel’s take-out menu. On-line, he checked the schedules for the
next day’s flights on Five Star Skyways to Baltimore. There was one in the
morning. There were seats available. Good. He’d buy a ticket at the counter at
the last minute. Vryke then made a few phone calls.

He sensed the police were getting
close. He was tempted to enter their systems but he had to refrain. If he kept
ahead of them he could succeed. He just had to be smart, avoid being sloppy. He
checked the news wires and local newspapers, especially for Toronto and San
Francisco, see if they were gaining on him. Nothing so far. He went to a hidden
compartment in the liner of one of his bags, removing his kit for the morning.
The wig, dye kit, the contact lenses to change his eye color. New glasses. He
rubbed his upper lip. The moustache was filling in. Vryke went to the washroom,
shaved his head, trimmed his eyebrows.

Before he went to sleep that
night, he sat alone in his darkened room, the scars of his face bathed in the
glow of his computer screen as he comforted himself on-line with her words to
him after he asked if there was anyone who could truly forgive the sins of a
past life.

She responded:
I am the one.

Tears spilled from his eyes as he
wrote to her.

Now I have the courage. I’ll
never be alone again. Thank you, livinsf.

Twenty-four hours.

We’re only a day behind you.
Sydowski grimaced at Vryke’s face.
Soon, everyone will know you.

In a few days, once they
confirmed more vital information and obtained arrest warrants, police in San
Francisco and Toronto would go public with short news conferences identifying
Vryke as a dangerous fugitive wanted for homicides in both cities. They would
release his photos, aliases, a brief summary, and little else. Vital hold-back
wouldn’t be released. They were at a critical point in their pursuit now,
Sydowski thought, crunching on Tums tablets and rubbing his tired eyes. He had
slept less than four hours since yesterday’s VICAP break in the case. He had
polished off a takeout order of a BLT, fries, gravy, and a large milk at his
desk. Now he was dealing with his heartburn, files, notes, calls and hunches.

Vancouver city had put a team of
detectives on it. Their forensic people were scouring the rental for latents.
Checking the aliases with hotels and motels. The Mounties were doing the same
throughout British Columbia’s Lower Mainland. So far, no homicides with his
signature in metro Vancouver. Sydowski saw that Toronto had not discovered any
trace or prints in the Palace Arms hotel. Clean.

In Alberta, the RCMP dispatched
investigators from Major Crimes South to the Banff hotel where he had
registered under an alias. The hotel staff reported that guests had complained
of
“a loud disturbance in the middle of the night”
coming from the room.
The Mounties immediately secured the room, roused a judge for a warrant, then
paged the IDENT section out of Calgary subdivision.

Was he at work there?

Sydowski had heard nothing new so
far. Nothing from U.S. Customs, who had flashed the bulletin from Blaine to
Maine, alerting U.S. border officials at the nearly 150 northern points of entry,
all airports, train stations, crossings and ferry terminals. Nothing from the
FBI. Nothing new on any of the known credit cards. All we have is that he had
returned a rental in Vancouver and vanished.

In the East, the FBI was working
the names and addresses in the metro D.C. area, shaking down all the District,
Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, and Pennsylvania possibilities. As expected they
were dead ends. The feds were also running the aliases and details against
Social Security numbers, trying to lock on to true information. So far nothing.

Turgeon put down her phone. “The
techs from Crime Scene and Horace are finished with his United Coast Taurus.
They’ve faxed a report over from Hunter’s Point. Here it is.”

Turgeon retrieved it from the
machine, shaking her head as it dispensed the last page. “Looks like nothing
that could be his. Hold on, Walt.”  She lifted a page, then another,
before passing it to Sydowski.

The report said the arches,
whorls and loops of the latents showed more than fourteen minutiae points
similar to the fingerprints of Iris May Wood, resulting in a match. A faxed B/W
crime scene photo showed her prints in the dark, silvery fingerprint powder
smeared on the door handle, window, armrest, wall, indicating the moment of
terror and her futile struggle. Sydowski looked long and hard at the photo.

In Canada, in the Banff hotel
room where Vryke had battled death, an RCMP forensic expert was looking for any
evidence of a crime. Housekeeping staff had checked their files. Nothing
unusual about the room after the suspect left. It was actually very tidy,
according to the woman who had remade it. That made the detectives suspicious.
The room appeared spotless and had a pleasant smell as the Mountie prepared a
two-gallon jug of water, sodium perborate, sodium carbonate, and luminol. She
attached a small sprayer, pulled the curtains, switched off the lights,
darkening the room before she began applying the solution to the clean walls,
glistening tub, and sink. The process, known as chemical luminescence, would
detect any blood a suspect may have wiped clean, invisible to the naked eye.
Once the solution contacts blood, it reacts, glowing blue in the dark,
as it
did now, in huge large smears on the bathroom wall, ghostly twelve-inch letters
rising in the dark as the Mountie continued spraying, her face hidden behind a
surgical mask, her eyes behind her goggles reading the words scrawled on the
wall in blood:

I WILL SHOW YOU PAIN

At that moment in Baltimore, the
FBI Special Agent coordinating the Vryke investigation in the area telephoned
Sydowski directly.

“Inspector, we just heard from
our Seattle field office, Foster Dean purchased a last-minute one-way ticket at
the Five Star Skyways counter at Sea-Tac International this morning.”

“Where to?”

“Baltimore. Landed approximately
four hours ago.”

“He was on the flight?”

“Five Star Skyways confirms. The
ticket was used.”

Sydowski hung up.

Four hours behind you now.