By Any Means (25 page)

“Is she breathing?” asked Ash.

“Barely,” he said. “We're going to need that ambulance quickly. I think she's OD'd on something.”

Ash walked toward the bed, noticing a syringe and burned spoon on the floor. He wouldn't be able to tell until forensic technicians ran some tests, but the girl and her boyfriend had probably been mainlining heroin. As he stepped closer to the bed, he felt his stomach contort. He recognized the girl as soon as he saw her face. She had been in the Dandelion Inn.

“Damn.”

Officers from several agencies, including the FBI, descended on the house in short order. Separate ambulances took the runner Ash had chased down and the girl from the Dandelion Inn to the hospital for evaluation and treatment. He wanted to talk to them both about Kara and Daniel Elliot, but the FBI would get first crack, and even then only after their doctors cleared them. Ash stood by his cruiser, watching and trying to stay out of everyone's way. Eventually, an FBI agent asked him how he found the place, information that Ash relayed as quickly as he could.

Truth be told, aside from the initial report he had given to the FBI and Avon police officers, no one at the scene needed a liaison officer from Indianapolis. Detectives from the Hendricks County Sheriff's Department secured a search warrant, and the FBI's forensic technicians moved through the house bagging potential evidence. No one mentioned the murder of Kate or Daniel Elliot, nor did Ash think they'd find anything pertaining to the Elliots' murder there. He had already done everything his job required by sharing the information he had; staying around merely wasted his limited time and he had better things to do. Nathan Ross, the counterfeiter at Pendleton, had told him the truth about the house. He needed to use that while he still could.

He got back in his car. Marvin Spencer, the bouncer at the Dandelion Inn, had been moved from the Hancock County jail to the Marion County jail in downtown Indianapolis to facilitate communication and future interrogations. Ash called a deputy he knew who worked for the Marion County Sheriff's Department, the agency that ran the jail, and asked him to set up a meeting with Spencer and his lawyer in half an hour. That gave Ash just enough time to drive across town, park, and get through security.

Spencer and his lawyer sat conversing in the interrogation room when Ash arrived. Spencer wore a jail-issued pair of orange pants and a white T-shirt. Ash didn't recognize his lawyer, but he knew the type. He wore a black pinstripe suit, a bright red tie, and matte black leather shoes. No expression crossed his face once Ash walked into the room, but he did lean back, his arms crossed.

“I sincerely hope you're here to inform us that you will be dropping all charges against my client.”

Ash closed the heavy steel door behind him, locking them into the room. The jail deputies had given them one of the nicer interrogation rooms in the building. Thin gray carpet covered the walls and floor, reducing echoes, while a vent high overhead pumped in copious amounts of cool air. Ash couldn't see any surveillance equipment, but they might have had something hidden. Unlike many rooms in the jail, it didn't smell like body odor, either. That was a plus. He pulled out a folding chair from the table in the center of the floor and sat down before looking at the lawyer and smiling.

“It's very nice to meet you. I understand that you drove all the way down from Chicago. I assume you're licensed to practice in Indiana as well as Illinois.”

The lawyer tilted his head to the side. He hadn't introduced himself, but Ash assumed he had a pretentious name. Rutherford Amadeus Johnson III. Or at least something like that.

“Of course I'm licensed in Indiana.”

Ash put up his hands defensively. “You don't have to get snappy. I'm just trying to save your client a headache later on,” he said. “I'm here to help.”

Rutherford scoffed. “Any offer you're about to extend to us had better be accompanied by a signed letter from the U.S. Attorney's Office.”

Ash waved him off. “I'm not authorized to make any offer,” he said. “I'm just here to talk.”

Rutherford clenched his jaw hard enough that muscles beneath his cheeks flexed outward. He stood and put his hand on Spencer's arm.

“Then you're wasting our time.”

“I don't think I am,” said Ash, looking at Spencer. “Nathan Ross says hello.”

Spencer glared. “Whatever Ross told you is bull.”

“Everything Ross told me has panned out so far. I'm starting to believe him. He told me a couple of things about you, too, and I think we should clear them up.”

Ross hadn't actually told Ash much about anything, but Spencer didn't need to know that. As long as he didn't compel a confession, Ash could lie to him all day with impunity.

“Get up, Marvin,” said Rutherford, physically trying to pull his client out of his chair. Spencer's arms were so large that it looked like a child trying to pull an adult away from the dinner table. Spencer shrugged his lawyer's hand away and stood up on his own. He leaned forward and rested against the table, causing it to groan under his weight.

“Ross is a liar.”

“Don't say anything else,” said Rutherford. He looked at Ash. “And don't waste our time like this again, Sergeant.”

Ash pushed his chair back. “Don't blame me when you get screwed at trial,” he said. “I came here to help you. I did my part.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Spencer.

Rutherford exhaled loudly. “Stop speaking, Marvin.”

Ash glanced from one to the other before finally settling on Marvin. “Who's paying your legal bills?”

Rutherford turned his glare on Ash. “That's out of line, Sergeant. We're done. Call for the guard.”

Ash didn't take his eyes from Marvin. “I'm just watching out for you. I like my boss and all, but if my ass were on the line, I think I'd want to hire a lawyer myself. That way, I know who he's actually working for.”

Marvin's eyes flicked from Ash to his lawyer and back. “What'd Ross tell you?”

“For starters, he told me about the house in Avon.”

Rutherford ignored his client for a moment and knocked on the door for the guard. He looked over his shoulder. “Don't say a word, Marvin.”

“I'll say whatever I want to and listen to whoever I want to.”

“Sergeant Rashid is paid to lie to you. We gain nothing by talking to him.”

“I get the same feeling about you,” said Marvin.

Rutherford took a step toward the center of the room. He partially turned so his back faced Ash.

“Marvin, we can talk about this in private. I took an oath to put your interests ahead of anyone else's, and I'm not lying to you now. We shouldn't talk to him. Trust me.”

“That's what you've been telling me all along, and I'm still in here and you're still out there. I think I'm going to start trusting myself.”

Marvin's friends had taken seven girls from the hospital, at least one of whom—the girl from the Avon house—had a high probability of being dead already. Purposefully driving a wedge between an attorney and his client skirted on being unethical, but Marvin's victims didn't have time for Ash to worry about right and wrong.

“We found a girl at the house in Avon,” said Ash. He nodded toward Rutherford. “You think this guy's going to protect you against her once she gets on the stand? It's time to get in front of this and start talking.”

“Don't say anything,” said Rutherford. “He's trying to turn us against each other.”

“I'm not dying to save Lukas's ass,” said Marvin. Ash hadn't heard Lukas's name before, but he tried not to let his surprise show. “It's time to start looking for a deal. You can start making some calls, or you can get the hell out of here.”

Rutherford pointed toward Ash. “He's just a cop. He can't do anything on his own.”

Marvin looked at Ash.

He shrugged. “I can't make a deal, but I know the people who can. Right now, they're visiting Nathan Ross at Pendleton and talking to some whacked-out asshole we just picked up in Avon. Whoever talks first walks home a winner. If you tell me who Lukas is and where he might be, that winner could be you.”

Rutherford sighed and looked at Ash. “If we're going to make a deal, I want it in writing from the U.S. Attorney's Office. And we want transactional immunity.”

“You want complete immunity from all crimes?” asked Ash, narrowing his gaze. “If you're shouting out things that you know aren't going to happen, why not ask for world peace while you're at it?”

“That's our price,” said Rutherford. “Take it or leave it.”

Ash shook his head. “I've got at least one girl still in the hospital who said two employees at the Dandelion Inn drugged and raped her. I'm guessing she'll point the figure at Marvin here, and I'm guessing more girls will step forward. No one's going to walk. Give me a realistic request and I'll take it to my superiors.”

“What's realistic?” asked Marvin.

Ash doubted Marvin had just asked for a definition, so he had to think for a moment.

“If you give us good intel, I bet I could convince the prosecutors to let you plea to the rapes. You'll get life without the possibility of parole. We might even be able to send you to the facility of your choice.”

“And what if I don't do the deal?”

Ash shrugged again. “We're still building a case against you, but we've already got quite a few bodies. If we can tie you to any of them, I'm willing to bet the good people of Indiana will sentence you to death.”

“That doesn't sound like much of a deal,” said Marvin. “You've got to do better than that.”

“You want me to be honest?” asked Ash. “Or are you looking for a lie that will make you feel better?”

“Honest.”

“If you go to trial for trafficking and raping multiple girls, it's going to make the papers. Let's say you beat most of the charges and get a couple of years for criminal confinement. The inmates in your future facility will know exactly who you are and exactly what you've done. They don't take kindly to rapists in jail. My guess is that you'll last a year or two before someone murders you. Jail is a dangerous place. The guards can't protect everybody twenty-four hours a day. In your case, I don't think they'd want to.”

“And if I make a deal, that won't happen?”

“Protective custody can be part of your deal. You'll have to work on that with your lawyer and the prosecutor.”

Marvin took a deep breath. “I don't like either option.”

Ash tilted his head to the side. “You give up enough information, you might be able to get something better than that. I don't know. You've got to give me something right now, though, before I even begin to consider taking your request outside this room.”

“What do you want?” asked Rutherford.

“I believe we already established what I want. If Marvin tells me about Lukas, we might be able to work something out. Who is he?”

“He's more valuable than we're willing to give up without a written guarantee of a deal,” said Rutherford. “Try again.”

“Palmer. Who is he?”

Marvin looked at his lawyer. Rutherford nodded.

“His name is Alistair Hines,” said Marvin. “The FBI should know who he is.”

“Why would they know him?” asked Ash.

“Give me a good enough deal, and I'll tell you.”

Marvin had caught on quickly. Ash nodded and wrote the name down.

“I'll call Special Agent Havelock and run the name by him. I'll also call Susan Mercer, Marion County's prosecutor, and tell her you're looking for a deal. She and the U.S. attorney will work things out. You should probably keep your lawyer, too. He's not completely full of it.”

“Thank you for your endorsement,” said Rutherford. “Now if you'll excuse us, I'd like to talk to my client alone.”

“Good luck. I bet you guys have a lot to talk about.”

A
s soon as Ash got outside, he called Susan Mercer to tell her that Spencer had cooperated and was looking to make a deal. The legal wrangling would get complicated quickly because Spencer had likely committed crimes at both the state and federal level, which meant any deals struck would have to satisfy both the federal and state courts. Susan and the other lawyers would get it done, but Ash felt grateful to stay out of it. He didn't need those kinds of problems.

With that call made, Ash walked to the parking lot in which he had left his cruiser and called Special Agent Havelock.

“What have you got, Sergeant?”

“I might have Palmer's name. Alistair Hines. Is that familiar?”

Havelock paused for a moment. “Not that I can recall. Should I know him?”

“I got the name from Marvin Spencer, the guy Hancock County picked up at the Dandelion Inn. He said the FBI would know the name. What do you think that means?”

“Nothing probably. He's trying to make himself sound important.”

“So he's not some famous undercover agent who went rogue? Because that would make this case sound like a cheesy direct-to-video movie.”

Havelock made a noise that came somewhere between a chuckle and a deep breath.

“I guarantee he's not a rogue agent. Contrary to what the movies portray, it's very, very rare to see one of our agents go bad. I'll look into it and see what we've got.”

“Thank you,” said Ash. “Did your teams find anything interesting at that house in Avon?”

“I'm at the office, but they're still working the scene. I got a call earlier that said they found some cots in the basement just like they found at the Dandelion Inn.”

“How many girls did these people have?”

Ash said it under his breath, so he didn't know if Havelock heard him or not.

“Traffickers bring fifteen to seventeen thousand people into the United States each year. It's as prevalent as homicide.”

Ash swore without realizing it. “We average almost a hundred homicides a year. Is that how many girls we're looking for?”

“Probably not. Some cities get more than their fair share, while medium-sized cities like Indianapolis get a little less. It's everywhere, though.”

Ash swallowed. “If you find anything on Hines, let me know.”

“Will do.”

Havelock hung up. Seventeen thousand people a year, enough bodies to fill a midsized college campus. The things people did to each other made him think sometimes the world would be better if humanity never existed. Eventually, he took out his cell phone and called his wife.

“Hey, hon. I'm on my way home. Can you do me a favor and make sure the doors are locked before I get there?”

Ash drove home and had evening prayer with his wife and then dinner. Kaden went to bed shortly after they ate, but Megan stayed up for another hour. They played a board game, but Ash's mind kept slipping back to his case. As he sat in the living room with his wife and daughter, seventeen thousand families somewhere in the world were without their daughters, their sons, their mothers, their fathers. He couldn't think about that.

After half an hour of playing, Ash slipped away from the living room and went to the kitchen to make some calls to the other detectives on the team. Neither Detective Doran nor Detective Smith had been able to find a safe deposit box registered to the Elliots or their company. Ash filled them in on what he had found and then used Hannah's aging laptop to write a memo that would go out to the department heads about the investigation. It made him feel useful, and that, in turn, kept him from thinking about what happened to the girls in the Dandelion Inn.

Ash and Hannah tucked Megan into bed shortly afterward, and he went into the backyard. Insects chirped around him, and he could smell a faint whiff of burned charcoal and lighter fluid from a neighbor's barbecue grill. The leaves on nearby trees swayed in a warm, evening breeze. Ash sat on the hammock he had strewn between two cedar posts of the pergola over his patio. Hannah joined him a few minutes later.

“You okay?” she asked.

“It's been a long day.”

“Are you thinking about having a drink?”

He hesitated before answering.

“I'd be lying if I said no.”

She nodded but didn't say anything for a few minutes.

“We can talk about it if you want.”

“How about we talk about your day instead?”

They talked for maybe fifteen more minutes before they both lay back on the hammock and stared at the sky. Neither of them said anything, but for the first time that day, he felt normal. It was nice.

It still felt like the middle of the night when Ash's alarm rang the next morning. He rolled over and found his wife's half of the bed empty. Hannah liked mornings; Ash didn't know how she did it. He kicked off the covers and threw some water on his face in the bathroom before throwing a robe over his pajamas. The sun would rise in another half hour. Ash normally looked forward to Ramadan every year. It helped him focus on his family and his faith, the two things he cherished most in the world. This year had been difficult, though. Every day felt longer than the one previous, and every day came with new burdens for his already overburdened self to carry. Maybe today would be better.

When he walked into the kitchen, Megan immediately scooted her chair from beneath the table and ran toward him with her arms extended. Ash knelt down and caught her in a hug that lifted her from her feet.

“Good morning, honey,” he said, smiling.

“Hi, Bob,” she said. “
Ummi
said you needed a hug.”

“I always need a hug,” he said. He kissed her forehead and put her down so she could finish her breakfast. She joined her mother at the breakfast table. Ash mouthed,
Thank you
and then picked up Kaden. The morning went as well as he could have asked for. They had
suhoor
and then dawn prayer, followed by a few minutes watching cartoons in the living room. By the time he left at half after seven, he felt better than he had since starting his case a few days earlier.

When he arrived at work, Ash went to the conference room and immediately started making phone calls. The Tippecanoe County coroner's office had conducted an autopsy of Rebecca Cook late the night before. The gunshot wound killed her, but a deputy coroner found bruises all over her body; residue from tape along her mouth, wrists, and ankles; skin cells from beneath her fingertips; and hairline fractures in her knuckles. An acid phosphatase test for seminal fluid reacted positively on swabs taken from various parts of her body. She had been assaulted, but Rebecca fought with everything she had before dying.

Ash took a couple of breaths and sat back before thanking the coroner for his time and hanging up. When his initial revulsion passed a minute or two later, he called Captain Bowers with the news. Someone would need to talk to Rebecca's family, and since the case kept Ash glued to his phone, Bowers said he'd track down the department's nondenominational chaplain and go over with him that morning before the news hit the papers.

Ash wished him luck before hanging up the phone. He thought they needed it. He tried calling Agent Havelock last to ask about Alistair Hines, the name Marvin Spencer had given him last night, but the phone rang four times before going to voice mail. Ash left a message asking for a return call but didn't expect to receive one anytime soon. If Havelock had become too busy to answer his phone first thing in the morning, he'd probably be too busy for a while.

With the current state of the investigation in mind, Ash needed to start thinking about how to move forward. One course of action stuck out more than any others, though; they still had two parties to the case that, as far as he knew, no one had talked to yet. The man and woman who had been picked up at the trafficker's home in Avon. Ash called Captain Bowers for the second time that morning.

“Mike, you got a number for anybody in the Hendricks County Sheriff's Department?”

“I know the chief deputy. Why?”

“I can't get in touch with Agent Havelock, and I want to find out where they took the man and woman from the house in Avon yesterday.”

“Indiana University Hospital. Havelock told me last night. No one's going to be able to talk to them anytime soon, though. The girl is in a coma. They're watching her and hoping she pulls through. The guy is going through withdrawal pretty bad.”

“They know what he was on?”

“Heroin. He was a real winner.”

“Is he physically able to talk?”

“I guess. From what I hear, he mostly just screams a lot.”

“I'm going to visit anyway and see if I can have a conversation with him.”

“If you want to waste your time, go right ahead. I won't stop you.”

“I appreciate and value your words of encouragement, Mike. I truly do.”

Bowers grunted before hanging up. Opiate withdrawal hurt like hell, and it might make someone want to die, but it alone wouldn't kill somebody. Ash thought he could use that. He used his cell phone to find the grocery store nearest the hospital and drove over. He purchased a bag of the darkest brown sugar he could find, cling wrap, rubber bands, and a package of metal spoons. When he got to his car again, Ash broke open the bag of sugar and poured a couple of grams into the cling wrap. He then used the rubber band to close it up. He did that two more times and then laid the bags on his seat to gauge his results. It looked close enough to brown street heroin that it could fool Ash at a glance, and he saw bags of it once or twice a month. It ought to look close enough to the real thing to fool a user hurting for a shot. He also grabbed a spoon from the package he purchased and put it in his pocket.

He slipped his packages inside his jacket and drove to the hospital and felt a sense of déjà vu as he walked through the front doors. About eight months ago, he had driven himself to that hospital in the middle of the night after a car accident. Before he could explain what had happened to him and why he had driven there, a pair of security guards saw him reaching into his jacket and tackled him, thinking he meant to grab the firearm clearly visible against his chest. In fact, he had been reaching for his ID. It hadn't been a fun trip.

He kept his head low as he walked into the lobby, half-expecting to see burly men in blue careen around the security desk and pin him to the ground. That didn't happen, thankfully. Men and women, both hospital staff and not, walked around him without saying a word. Even in the public space where few patients strode, the building smelled like antiseptic. The porcelain tile floors gleamed and the oak receptionist's desk appeared large and imposing in front of him. Ash waited in line and then showed his badge to the first available receptionist. As soon as she saw that, she called the hospital's chief of security, a heavyset older man, who escorted Ash to the small section of the hospital where they held inmates needing medical care.

Neither he nor the security chief said anything until they reached the inmate's private room at the end of a long hallway. Thin carpet muffled sounds around them. The white walls appeared sterile and clean. The prisoner's door had been propped open, and Ash thought he could hear panting from inside.

“I'm going to need to talk to him alone for a few minutes,” said Ash. “Is it okay if I close the door?”

“As long as you're in there, I don't see why not,” said the security chief. “He's secured to his bed, so he shouldn't be a problem.”

“Good. Thank you.”

Ash waited for the security chief to walk partway down the hallway before going inside the room. The stark white walls and gray carpet continued inside. A thin man in a hospital gown lay on the bed, a grimace on his face. Brown leather straps on both wrists and ankles immobilized him and kept him from ripping the IV needle out of his arm. Machinery monitored his heart rate. Ash closed the door behind him and partially opened the blinds covering the room's only window, allowing in sunlight. The prisoner recoiled.

“Get out. I'm not talking.”

Ash ignored him and picked up the medical history report from the receptacle built into his bed. Francis Hayes. He probably went by Frank. The attending physician had declined to put him on methadone maintenance treatment, one of the standard treatments to help heroin users detox, after learning that Frank had abused it in the past. A nurse noted on his chart that he had marked muscle cramping and diarrhea overnight, so, under the supervision of a physician, she gave him over-the-counter drugs to relieve those symptoms.

Ash put the chart back on the bed and pulled a rolling stool to a stop near the bed.

“You go by Frank or Francis?”

He clenched his teeth. “Fuck you.”

“You and your buddies must read from the same script because Marvin Spencer told me the same thing.”

“Fuck Spence.”

“At least that's new,” said Ash, nodding. “How'd you meet that girl we found you with?” Frank clenched his jaw and closed his eyes but didn't answer. “I get the feeling something is bothering you.”

“It fucking hurts, man. They won't give me anything.”

“That's because you broke into a methadone clinic the last time doctors tried to help you. Don't worry, though, because this time, you'll be in prison. It's much harder to break into their clinic. That should keep you on the straight and narrow.”

Frank tried to sit up, but the restraints held him down. “What do you want?”

“I'm here to talk. Where'd you get the girl we found you with?”

“She's my girlfriend.”

“No, she's not,” said Ash. “Where'd you find her?”

He didn't say anything.

“She's in a coma. If she dies, I'm pretty sure you're not going to like the next needle put in your arm. You talk to me now, we might be able to work something out.”