Blood of Others (31 page)

They were coming
up on two days since Foster
Dean’s jet had landed in Maryland.

Sydowski tossed his bifocals atop
the files on Eugene Vryke blanketing his desk in the homicide detail. The squad
room was humming with ringing phones and conversation of detectives working
leads, scanning reports.

They were so close. Almost on top
of him but they delayed the news conferences because of complications. The
Star
was splayed on Turgeon’s desk. So far, not a word had been reported on Vryke’s
case but no one knew how long Reed would hold off.

Damn, he practically knew the
entire file. How did he know what he knew about Carla Purcell and Belinda
Holcomb? Is someone leaking to him at this critical point? Who would jeopardize
everything? Who could be that stupid?

It was then that Sydowski
considered Ben Wyatt, working in the far corner at Schrader’s old desk, where
Leo had parked him.

“I’ll assign him to screen nut
calls and you can keep an eye on him. Happy, dear?”

Sydowski looked at the big-case
corkboard that had been wheeled to the center of the room. Photographs of Vryke
were pinned to it, along with large detailed full-sized sketches of his shoe
impressions. Absent were the critical VICAP details of hold-back, like the BWI
tag and how the victims had been posed.
That
evidence had only been
shared among primaries. It hadn’t been released to anyone.

But summaries of the San
Francisco, Las Vegas, Toronto, and a few other cases were posted. A lot of
confidential data was in plain view of a lot of detectives in the room.
Including Wyatt. And Wyatt knew Reed.

Sydowski stared at him, grinding
on the remnants of his antacid tablets, thinking, watching Wyatt on the phone,
taking notes.

Sydowski stood at Wyatt’s desk,
waiting until he finished on the phone.

“Where did you go the other day,
Wyatt?”

“What?”

“The other day. You disappeared
for about an hour. Told no one. Where did you go?”

“I went to the library to check
on something.”

“Because not long after you got
back, I got a visit from Tom Reed, who recited to me practically every detail
on the board here.”

“Are you accusing me of
something, Walt?”

“None of this information’s been
released yet.”

“Well, he didn’t get it from me.”

“I want a straight answer,
Wyatt.” Sydowski’s voice grew louder. “Have you been discussing this case with
Tom Reed?”

“What’s the problem here?”
Lieutenant Gonzales appeared.

“Tom Reed came to me with inside
information about the case a few hours after Wyatt stepped out. He’s
threatening to run a story.”

Gonzales stared at Wyatt.

“I think Wyatt’s his source, Leo.
Reed was practically reading the board to me. Funny it all happened right after
Wyatt disappeared for a bit.”

Wyatt’s eyes went to Gonzales,
then Sydowski. “I don’t leak information to the press, Walt.”

“I want you off the case and out
of here.”

“Walt.”

Sydowski noticed Wyatt’s notepad
then, hidden under a file folder. He saw what looked like a sketch of the
Michelangelo statue with teardrops of blood under its eyes. He seized it.

“Christ, where did you get this
stuff? It’s from Las Vegas. What the hell?”

“I can explain. I met Reed.
He
had data from --”

“Leo, I want him off this case
now!”

“Walt, you don’t understand. This
is critical and we should pass it to the FBI, it’s computer stuff and I think
--”

“You should be charged --”

“Lieutenant.” The homicide detail
receptionist hurried into the room. “FBI in Baltimore for you.”

“Hold it, Leo. Before you take
that, get him outta here. Now!”

“Walt, just let’s all calm down
here.”

“Leo, he’s a damned liability. He
drew his weapon on a member of the detail.”

The room fell silent. A paper
clip dropped to the floor.

“He drew his weapon? Why hasn’t
it been reported, then?”

“Lieutenant, FBI says it’s
urgent”

Gonzales raised his hand like a
cop stopping traffic.

“It’s under investigation,”
Sydowski said.

“I’ve had it up to here with this
crap, Walt. I want you to take a walk, then sit at your desk and go back to
work. Ben, I want you to take the rest of the day off. Get out of here. I gotta
separate you two.”

“But, Lieutenant, this data I
have will help us --”

“Lieutenant, the FBI --”

“Yes. One second. Ben. Everyone’s
going flat-out. We’re all on edge. But we’re close to him. We’re beyond the
on-line aspects of the case now. Far beyond it. We’ve got our act together and
we’ll go public ASAP before the bad guy goes to work again. So, Ben, please,
just do as I ask. Go. I’ll call you.”

Wyatt had to pass Sydowski’s desk
on his way out. He stopped, stuck his face within an inch of Sydowski’s. “I did
not leak to Reed. And there was a kid taken hostage when Reggie got shot.”

“Just keep walking, Wyatt.”

Thirty seconds later, Gonzales
stepped from his office.

“Everyone, FBI’s just linked
Vryke to four, possibly five more homicides.”

No one said a word.

“The reason they asked us to
delay the news conference is the upside. They’ve locked on to a good address
for Vryke. Near Hyattsville, Maryland. They have visual confirmation on him.
FBI SWAT and locals will be operational on it within forty-five minutes.”

Muted cheers and a few high fives
rippled through the detail.

Sydowski looked at Iris Wood’s
face smiling at him.

Almost over.

The widow
of the late Professor Milford, who
had taught philosophy at the University of Maryland, lived in a sixteen-room
brick and frame home on four acres tucked in a wooded section of the
Hyattsville area, northeast of Washington, D.C.

Invisible from public view was
the Milford’s stone guest house, hidden deep in the southwest corner of the
property, protected by dense stands of maples, azaleas, and oaks. Mrs. Milford
rented it to quiet academic types.

“Like Eugene, who always keeps
to himself, never is a bother, travels quite often to computer conferences.”

That was the information Mike
Sergersen, commander of the FBI’s D.C. SWAT team, was digesting, along with
blueprints, property plans and other notes, as his unit marshaled with locals
at a vacant county warehouse.

Vryke’s data was still
classified. Nothing had been made public yet. Much of the newest information
Sergersen was reading had been culled hastily from fresh NCIC, SFPD, Interpol,
and RCMP hot sheets being used to prepare Vryke’s fugitive file. He was about
to top the ten-most-wanted list becoming the target of the nation’s largest
manhunt.

“…suspect is sought in five
homicides in the U.S.A., one in Canada, one in the United Kingdom, one in
France, one in Japan. Should be considered extremely dangerous and approached
with extreme caution…”

NCIC I.O., 5346-6-12-02. Vryke
had some forty-one aliases, used nine Social Security Numbers. So far they had
locked onto twenty-three different addresses, in the Washington, D.C.,
Baltimore, Virginia area, the majority of which were mail drops, nonexistent or
just plain wrong. All of the names were checked against criminal and civil
fingerprint databanks. But they had the current United Coast security rental
picture and the picture used in the Maryland driver’s license. It ultimately led
to the true recent address on the Milford property.

Just two hours earlier, two FBI
Agents in a landscaper’s van arrived at Mrs. Milford’s door, showing their FBI
credentials, explaining that they needed Mr. Vryke’s confidential help on an
urgent security matter. Could she identify him and confirm if he is on the
property? They showed her the rental security camera picture from United Coast.

“Yes, that’s Eugene. He’s
home. His car’s there and I saw him only a short time ago. Doing some yard
work.”

They surprised her by requesting
she come with them right away, allowing her to bring her pills.

The FBI had used a Prince
George’s County maintenance crew truck to search for a water power line problem
in the lane leading to the guest house, keeping it under surveillance. The tag
and vehicle owner registration was valid for Eugene Vryke.

“Movement in the house. Male
fitting the suspect’s description,” surveillance had radioed to Sergersen’s
command post.

As night fell, the cottage
spilled light into the thick forested edge of the property. Occasionally, the
windows were darkened by the shadow of someone walking inside. The Hyattsville
ten-member HEAT team set up an outer perimeter. No registered weapons. No
complaint history on the address, Hyattsville police informed Sergersen, as his
heavily armed team members moved swiftly and silently, forming the inner
perimeter. Birds chirped night-song from treetops while FBI snipers whispered
reports through their headsets.

Sergersen was preparing to “make
the call” when an explosion of sound blew from the cottage. Every member on the
operation flinched. Loud rock music shattered the serenity. Led Zeppelin.
Sergersen caught his breath and checked with everyone, as the strains of “Rock
and Roll” ripped into the night.

“When the song ends, I’ll make
the call,” he alerted his team.

From the outer perimeter, the
HEAT team wondered if the FBI was deploying the old loud-music strategy. The
FBI’s snipers lay in the darkness, the suspect flitting in and out of their
crosshairs.

The song ended. Sergersen placed
the call. It was picked up on ring two.

“Hello.”

“Sir, this is Mike Sergersen,
special agent with the FBI. We’d like to talk to you about an important matter.
For your own safety would you exit through the front door with your hands
outstretched and palms open please.”

A long moment of silence passed.

“Are you drunk, mister?”

“We’ll sound a siren now.”

A police siren yelped.

“Man, I think you got the wrong
place.”

“Sir, please exit the building.”

“No.”

“Would you please step outside
and we’ll clear everything up.”

“Screw you. I know my rights.”

Sergersen whispered a command
into his radio. Four tear gas canisters crashed through the windows.

“What the hell. Hey.” The suspect
was coughing. “All right. Man, don’t shoot me.”

The instant he emerged on the
doorstep Sergersen used a bullhorn.

“Hands high above your head,
palms open please.”

An intense spotlight illuminated
the doorway and a squinting white male, about five-nine, 170 pounds, early
forties, white T-shirt, jeans. Clean-cut.

Three agents materialized,
handcuffing him.

A lead agent on Vryke’s file from
Baltimore approached him, looking at clear photographs of Vryke on a clipboard,
then at the suspect. “May I see your shoe size, please? The agent checked,
shaking his head.
Size nine. His build is different. No way is this the
suspect.
The FBI’s SWAT team completed a quick sweep of the cottage. No
other occupants. No weapons. A lot of computers.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Paul Francis. What’s going on?”

Agents were checking his identification
from his wallet, radioing requests of NCIC checks.

“Eugene Vryke rents this place.”

“Yes. Where is Mr. Vryke?”

“What’s this about? He in
trouble?”

“Please answer the question,
sir.”

“Out of town on business.”

“Where?”

“I dunno. I think I might want my
lawyer.”

“Why?”

“I’m getting a divorce and I’m
already paying the bastard too much.”

“What are you doing on this
property, Mr. Francis?”

“I’m a guest. Eugene gave me his
keys. He’s letting me use his place and his car because my old lady kicked me out.
I met him at a computer science show in Alexandria.”

Inside the cottage, an agent
studied mail spread over the kitchen table. Mostly statements from credit card
companies. He unfolded the list of aliases. Nearly all were on the list. Except
one new one. The name X’d out in pen,
return to sender
scrawled on it.

“Hey,” he said to the Baltimore
agent, “Better run this one: Neil Chattersly, CiceroComputrex.”

Within fifteen minutes a call
came back.

“Chartered a flight to Seattle.
Checked into a hotel in San Francisco. Still there.”

The Baltimore agent hit the
speed-dial button on his cell phone for his office to alert San Francisco.