Fragmented (7 page)

She continued typing.
how far north?

A message broke in from another listener in the chat room.
what r u? a cop?

“Great, just what I need.” Marquez slapped the keyboard and said, “I should have moved to a private chat room so we could have conversed without others nosing in.” She sat for a moment, contemplating whether to send out a response message or wait for a response from Jure Petroski. Then, just as the opportunity had come, it vanished. On the corner of the screen, Jpetroski disappeared. He left the chat room, gone from Marquez’s reach.

“Dammit!” Marquez screamed and slammed her fist on the table.

A CART examiner called out. “I think I got ’em. I’m online with the server. We were tracing back while you were chatting. He’s close by all right. Couple towns away.
Chico
.” He provided the address and the crew started tossing gear into bags. They could be out of
Modesto
in five minutes.

Jack looked over at Marquez. “Pack it up, Lucy. On the drive up, call and educate Chris as to what we’ve got here and have him pound out a warrant for Petroski’s house in
Chico
. By the time we get there, he should have it signed by a judge.” Jack glanced back at Marquez and confessed, “Warrant or not, we’re going in.”

Marquez nodded. She was busy lifting Burke up by his armpit and handing him off to another agent for transport.

“Your lucky day, Burke. You get an all-expense paid vacation in
Sacramento
County
lock-up. Tomorrow, if everything goes well tonight, I’ll make sure your bail is low enough for you to post,” she said.

Burke’s jaw fell. “What do you mean low enough? Can’t I just stay here for the night?”

9

Tuesday –
4:30 p.m.

The highway
reader board flashed between the afternoon sun and Jack’s eyes for a microsecond, like a single frame from a running motion picture. He gunned the gas and cranked the wheel right, speeding toward the
Woodbridge
exit, a small street that he had marked in his Thomas Guide, where Jure Petroski had sat and chatted with Marquez less than two hours prior. The area northeast of
Chico
was extremely rural, older bungalow style homes scattered between large clumps of trees, dirt roads the only connection between neighbors. Orange plastic mailboxes sprouted from bushes along the main streets.

Sergeant Doug Blackwell from the Chico Police Department met Jack at the start of a long dirt path. He leaned on Jack’s driver’s side window and pointed toward a three-bedroom house with a detached garage one hundred yards away.

“I’ve sent two officers around to an adjacent lot to get a better look at the property. They reported back there’s a light on inside but can’t see if anyone’s home. No dogs or other people in the area. Your call if you want us to go ahead and enter.”

Jack shook his head. “Let’s give it a minute.” He worried if Petroski was not in there, entering would show their hand, giving Petroski the opportunity to run. Jack had sent three agents of his own around the back and over a graveled levy, where a creek ran behind the residence, keeping an eye out for any movement.

Thirty minutes passed, everyone getting antsy. Dusk had settled, making it increasingly difficult to see very far. The sergeant was fidgeting and checking his watch, wondering why they needed to wait. Marquez drove up and came to an abrupt stop next to Jack’s car
.

“Got the warrant.” She stuck her head out the car window and pointed her chin toward the house. “You think he’s in there?”

Jack shook his head. “Don’t know, haven’t seen any movement since we’ve been here. There’s a small light on inside but no telling if anyone’s home. I don’t think we can wait much longer, Marquez. If there’s a kid in there, we got to move.”

“Let’s kick in the door and see how many cockroaches fall out.”

Jack waved the sergeant over. Within a minute, they rallied the team together and Jack led four FBI agents and six
Chico
officers to the front of the house. The two officers bringing up the rear peeled away to the right, raising their rifles toward the side windows. A third continued around the edge, knelt down and covered the back porch.

The rest of the team slid across the front porch, cloaked under the shade of dusk. The agent behind Jack placed a heavy metal crowbar known as the pick between the frame of the house and the flimsy door, and the second agent wedged a battering ram—the key. Jack signaled with a pump of his arm and then speared forward. No knocking this time. Marquez had requested a no-knock warrant because of the possible victim held inside. Judges hate to see children hurt. Authority granted
.

The agent swung the large black cylinder back like a pendulum before ramming it forward, slamming it squarely on the head of the pick. A huge clang echoed as the doorframe splintered into kindling. The handle shattered and the door flew wide open, allowing the stream of agents and officers to pour into a dark living room.

They flared side to side inside the cramped quarters, flashlight beams searching the area. The forward team quickly advanced through the front room, pushing down a narrow hallway. Doors kicked open, the entry repeated. Penetrate, clear, move on. Penetrate, clear, move on.

Five minutes later, the house was thoroughly swept and declared secure. Jack flipped on the light switches as he walked from room to room, studying the layout and scouring for any indication of a kidnap victim. Trash cluttered everywhere but nothing overt to indicate there was a hostage held here.

The officers holstered their weapons. Photographs were taken to document the condition of the rooms. The house, a single story bungalow, included three bedrooms, one bath, with a detached single car garage. Whoever lived here must have liked beige because that was the color of the entire house. Cheap, seventies-style carpeting covered the floors and hallways. The swamp cooler on the roof strained against the stifling heat from outside. The entire house was stuffy and smelled heavily of mildew.

“No one inside, Jack,” the sergeant called out.

Jack nodded, unable to hide his disappointment. He pointed down the hall with his Maglite. “Let’s start searching the back. That one looks like our guy’s room.”

Two agents and a
Chico
detective proceeded down the hall carrying large evidence bags and latent print kits.

Jack headed into the kitchen. White walls, yellowing from age and bordered in a black and white porcelain tile countertop. The Formica dinette table was small with a gray and white marble swirl pattern. Leftover Chinese food containers sat opened on the counter next to the sink. He walked over to the table and studied a paper plate with a slop of mixed vegetables and rice. There was no steam rising but the plate was still warm. A Styrofoam cup sweated droplets into a puddle beside it. Jack peered into the cup. Half-filled with fizzless soda, a small chunk of ice bobbing in the center like a drifting iceberg. It was well above eighty degrees inside the house. In this heat, the ice should have been history.

“Marquez, keep an eye out. Petroski’s been here recently.”

Marquez looked around the room then pushed back one of the thin sheers on the front window, scanning the wooded area outside.

In the living room, Jack spotted a laptop computer propped open on a dark green sofa, whose cover was well worn and stank of body odor, the couch most likely doubling for his suspect’s bed. Summer heat and sweat. Jack opted against sitting and instead slid on a pair of latex gloves. He picked up the laptop and carried it to the kitchen table, craning and looking for any detectable fingerprints on the keyboard or screen. He peered over the monitor and hooked a thumb to one of the evidence technicians.

“Scan this for prints.”

A technician dressed in a blue one-piece coverall placed a large black plastic case next to the kitchen table. He popped the locks and removed a small periscope with an attached pistol grip. This was the Reflected Ultraviolet Imaging System, or RUVIS, designed to detect latent prints on surfaces without the use of powder or ninhydrate. Peering through the periscope while shining a florescent light bar onto the keyboard, the technician scanned the area for any possible prints.

The technician groaned like a doctor peering down a patient’s throat. He stood straight, pursed his lips and shook his head. “Got nothing.”

Jack scoffed. “A million dollars in high-tech equipment and I can’t get shit.”

The technician shrugged.

Marquez followed Jack
 
down the hallway toward the bedroom door. A heavy wooden bed sat directly under a large picture window covered by a dark green, heavy curtain. The agents who entered first had drawn open the curtains to let in the evening light, and a stream of moonlit dust floated aimlessly about. A cheap wood paneled highboy and chest of drawers boxed the room, the smell of musty clothes wafting from the half opened closet. The place was a shit-hole, Jack thought, even by
Modesto
standards.

Jack walked over to the bed, careful not to touch anything. He knelt low to the front posts and studied the straps securely tied around the legs. The ends were bunched and frayed, obviously used. Jack stood slowly, keeping his hands pressed against his thighs. By the time his eyes fell level with the bed sheets, Jack could smell the odor of urine. Small dark stains of dried blood spotted the linen
.

Marquez stared at the bed from over Jack’s right side. “Looks like he may have had a guest.”

Jack grunted an acknowledgement.

The sound of the front door slamming against the outside wall yanked Jack out of his concentration. A police officer shouted “halt” outside and Jack’s instinct took over as he bolted for the front door.

Before Jack could make it there, Marquez had already drawn her weapon and rounded the front entryway. An agent screamed, “He’s into the trees! He’s getting away!” Then the agent called out the word that sent everyone’s pulse racing.

“Gun!”

Jack drew his pistol, bounding out the front door. His focus narrowed on agents and uniformed officers darting toward an opening through a row of tall trees twenty feet from the side of the garage. An FBI agent standing in the driveway stabbed a finger toward a thicket of trees and tall bushes. “He cut right. That way.
”

Jack pushed off to the right, bolting down a dirt path that cut through a thick overgrowth of hedges. Dust swirled wildly in the air. He didn’t know the direction or the exact description of the person he was chasing. Right now, it didn’t matter. The first person he came across running away would be the target of a hard tackle and a hit to the head.

Deeper into the woods, Jack slowed, straining to hear crunching leaves or breaking branches. Footsteps sounded to his right. Jack crouched, raised his pistol and pointed it in the direction of the noise. The sound grew near. Jack watched the thick branches along the row of hedges start to rustle. The hot summer evening provided no breeze, no noise. The movement was from something other than wind. Someone was fast approaching, cutting from inside. Jack took a bead with his front sights, aimed at the heart of the shuddering branches. He focused on the spot where he calculated the exit point for his approaching suspect to be. The limbs shook and the sound of stomping feet grew louder. Jack placed his finger on the trigger and began to apply pressure. From the edge of the forest, his target leaped in his direction. A frightened deer, escaping the commotion of a police manhunt. Jack blew out a tense breath and lowered his weapon. He stood up and tried to shake out the tension. Then came the concussion of a gunshot. Then another.

Quickly, he moved in the direction of the firefight. Two deputies appeared to his left rushing forward. Jack followed. The sharp crack of more rounds exploded in the air but he couldn’t determine the direction of the gunfire. He cut again hard to the right, caught sight of a dirt path. He took off up the trail, dust kicking up from every stride. Suddenly, he heard the staccato thud of running boots. Not his agents. Not another deer. He quickened his pace. It was dark, too dark to get a clear view of anything other than the slashing branches that banged against his face while he raced in full sprint. As Jack climbed a high ridge, the moonlight illuminated a levy road ahead. Thirty yards downwind, Jack spotted a pickup canted at an angle along the road, rumbling a low idle from the other side of the embankment. A footbridge forged the narrow waterway to the other side. Early model Chevy, light color, short bed with a camper shell. Jack squinted, trying to make out the license plate.

“Four, Lincoln, six. Maybe eight.” He struggled to read but the license plate was too far away, the night too dark to make out the rest.

A blurred figure jumped into the driver’s seat and the engine roared. The tires squealed and the truck disappeared in a thick cloud of dust as it slid from side to side in an attempt to find traction. The truck chirped into high gear and faded away down the trail, out of sight. Jack could only stand and watch as his suspect elude capture. Jack kicked the ground, growling like an angry dog, a blanket of dirt rising above his head.

This close, only to lose him.

“Fuck!”

Sergeant Blackwell paced by the kitchen table with his cell phone pressed to his head. He had put out an APB but, so far, no luck finding the truck or their runner. Helicopters hovered overhead with their spotlights searching along the levy road. They spotted lots of trucks but not the one they were looking for.

Jack stood in the doorway to the living room watching two agents turn over furniture and pull out vent hoods. The sergeant made his way into the room, his face flushed and twisted. He glared at one of his officers standing in the background, watching the agents tossing the living room furniture. He pointed a finger. “Get in there and find out everything about this son-of-a-bitch!” Then he turned to Jack. “I’ve issued an all-western-states BOLO for this guy Petroski.”