Once Shadows Fall (4 page)

F
rom his window, Jack Kale watched Beth head toward the parking lot. Even her walk was mad. She was a beautiful woman with a sharp mind, and he’d been enjoying her company, a luxury he hadn’t allowed himself for a long time. Funny how chemistry works. One minute it’s there, and the next someone says, “I’m really into astrology,” and it’s gone.

Her news about the killing in Jordan had rocked him, though he managed to conceal it well. He was good at that. When you’re in law enforcement, you learn to put on a cop face.

Sooner or later, he knew they would come. But he was in no position to help anyone anymore. He reached into his desk, took two pills from a bottle, and swallowed them dry. Jack turned away from the window and looked at the picture of his daughter for several seconds. Protecting her was paramount.

When Morgan and her mother moved to California, it nearly killed him. After hearing the news, he’d gotten drunk and stayed that way for two days. The void of their absence made him feel like his insides had been torn out. But there was no choice. They talked on the phone frequently, and a couple of times a year, he flew out to visit. It was a poor substitute for having a family close by. The telephone company likes to say long distance is the next best thing to being there. It’s not. If everything went well, she would spend the summer with him. He was still nervous about that. Nevertheless, it was a start.

Disturbed by his conversation with Beth, Jack let his mind wander. In time, his eye came to rest on the stack of test booklets on his couch. Next to them was the crime scene report Ms. Sturgis had “accidentally” left. Nice touch. With a sigh, he picked up both, stuffed them in his briefcase, and headed for the door.

S
pecial Agent Paul Hilderbrand made his way through the restaurant to where Beth Sturgis was sitting. She was wearing a green dress that ended well above her knees. Two businessmen at the next table, nursing their after-work drinks, were checking out her legs. Not surprising. The tall brunette had been an associate editor on a popular travel magazine before going into police work. It was an odd career change and one that Hilderbrand never fully understood.

Kaleidoscope was an upscale bistro in Brookhaven that didn’t get crowded until after eight at night. Until then, it was mostly neighborhood families. When the families drifted back to their homes, they were replaced by young women in little black dresses and young men in designer jeans with labels on the back pockets. Conversations took place at the bar and around a long common table that ran down the center of the room. Hilderbrand, thirty-eight years old, had come straight from work and was wearing charcoal-gray slacks and a blue blazer. His shirt was white and his tie was a maroon stripe.

Beth looked up from her drink, spotted him, and waved. A little more than two years had passed since their relationship ended. It had been by mutual consent, prompted by Hilderbrand’s transfer to the FBI’s field office in Phoenix, Arizona. He’d recently returned to Atlanta and they’d run into each other several times, mostly at law enforcement functions. Though the magic was gone, they’d remained friends.

Hilderbrand bent down and gave Beth a quick kiss before taking a chair opposite her.

“You look great,” he said.

“So do you.”

“I was surprised to get your call. Pleasantly surprised. It’s been a while.”

“It has. Thanks for coming, Paul. I need to pick your brain about a few things.”

“What about the rest of me?”

“I’m trying to be strong,” Beth said. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Hilderbrand sighed. “I suppose,” he said, throwing a hard look at the businessman at the next table who was staring again. The man returned to his conversation.

“I’ll have a beer. They sell twenty different kinds here, you know.”

“I didn’t,” Beth said. “Ever try Blue Moon Ale?”

“Not really.”

Beth caught the waitress’s attention and ordered him a beer. It arrived in a tall frosted glass a minute later, complete with an orange slice.

“What’s this?” Hilderbrand asked.

“An orange slice,” she said.

“I can see that. What’s it doing in my drink?”

“That’s the way it’s served,” Beth said.

Hilderbrand made a face. “Seems a little gay,” he grumbled.

“If any guys make a move on you, I’ll protect you,” Beth said.

Hilderbrand shrugged, took a sip, and nodded his approval. “Everything still the same?”

“I’m still single if that’s what you mean,” Beth said.

“You still have Peekaboo?”

“Peekachu,” Beth said, referring to her cat. “And yes, we’re still together.”

“That’s great,” he said. “Give him my regards.”

“I will,” Beth said. “Nobody really owns a cat. It’s more like they have staff.”

“I remember.”

In point of fact, he hated the stupid beast. And as far as he could tell, the feeling was mutual. He still had scars on his hand from its claws. Under the best of circumstances, it was an ill-tempered monster that only let Beth hold it.

“So, why the call?” he asked.

“Like I said, I need some information.”

“On what?”

“More like on who,” Beth said. “Do you remember Jackson Kale?”

“Sure,” Hilderbrand said. “Jack left the Bureau a few years ago. I heard he’s still in Atlanta, teaching someplace.”

“Georgia Tech,” Beth said. “I met him today.”

“Did you? Casual or business?”

“Business.”

“What sort of business?”

“Earlier this morning, a man was found murdered in the town of Jordan. Whoever did it dressed him up as a scarecrow and hung his body up in the middle of a field.”

Hilderbrand’s glass paused halfway to his lips. He slowly put it back down, his expression suddenly full of interest.

Beth continued. “Obviously, the first thing that came to my mind was, copycat. The whole situation’s pretty creepy.”

“Sounds like it.”

“You were part of the task force who worked the Scarecrow case.”

Hilderbrand nodded. “Not a fun assignment.”

“And Jack Kale was, too.”

“That’s right. He was our profiler.”

“From everything in the file, it looks like he took over,” Beth said.

“I wouldn’t argue with that. We were at a complete dead end. Bodies were piling up. The newspapers were going nuts. Christ, even the governor and director were calling daily.”

“Tell me about him,” Beth said. “As soon as I mentioned the Scarecrow, he shut down on me. His reaction didn’t make sense.”

“Not so odd if you know the case.”

“Explain.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because the bosses won’t like it.”

“What?”

“Seven years ago, they announced the case was closed and the killer was caught. People got promoted. Careers were made. Everybody was happy the monster was safely tucked away in a mental asylum. But there were whispers.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something wasn’t kosher. Word came down from above to leave matters rest and not to talk about it. Nothing’s changed.”

“That’s crazy.”

“There are just some subjects that are off limits,” Hilderbrand said. “Better to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“I can’t, Paul. I’m working a murder case.”

Hilderbrand nodded and took a sip of his drink.

For the first time she could remember, he looked uncomfortable. Whatever else he was, he was a good cop and a straight shooter. This was the second time she was being stonewalled, and she didn’t like it. Eventually, the silence grew awkward.

“This is a completely new case,” Beth said. “Pell is still in Mayfield. I checked.”

“Good. He can stay there and rot.”

“There’s no question we’re dealing with an imitator. If some nut’s out there modeling his career after a serial killer, I need all the details I can get to stop him.”

“You said Kale refused to help you?”

“I said he shut down. One minute he was friendly and pleasant, the next he practically tossed me out of his office. I don’t get it.”

“Everything about that freakin’ case was ugly,” Hilderbrand said, lowering his voice. “Beyond ugly. Absolutely the worst I’ve ever seen.”

“That still doesn’t explain Jack’s reaction,” Beth said.

“He had a partner.”

“Right. I saw that in the file. Pell killed a female agent—Constance somebody.”

“Connie Belasco,” Paul said after a pause. “Nine months out of Quantico.”

“What happened to her?”

“Dr. Pell caught her at home one night and amputated her arms and legs. When he was through torturing her, he put a bullet in her head.”

Beth gasped. None of this had been in the file. The only mention she’d seen regarding Belasco’s injuries was that an agent had been shot to death and her body mutilated. Losing a partner was nearly the equivalent of losing a spouse. She could see why no one wanted to talk about it. She wondered whether the notation about Jack’s
medical reason
for leaving was somehow related. Confused, she raised the question to Hilderbrand.

He shrugged. “Medical . . . emotional. What’s the difference? Sometimes one size fits all. If you were in charge, would you want to advertise one of your agents went to pieces?”

“No, but—”

“Jack Kale was a helluva cop. Something inside him went south after it happened. That’s all I’m gonna say. His separation was best for everyone concerned.”

“I don’t understand,” Beth said.

“I know you don’t. I’m not sure anyone does except Jack Kale.”

“C’mon. This is important. I can’t be stumbling around in the dark on this.”

“I’m not saying don’t investigate,” Hilderbrand said. “Go out and catch the bastard who killed that man. If he’s a copycat, great. Just tread lightly before you start drawing comparisons. And don’t expect a lot of help from the Bureau.”

“Why?”

Hilderbrand lapsed into silence again. He seemed to be struggling to find the right words. The silence grew longer. The din of conversations in the room began to blend together into white noise.

“Paul?”

Hilderbrand finished his drink and stood. “Thanks for the drink, Beth. It was good to see you again.”

Beth Sturgis watched him walk out of the restaurant and into the street. “I’ll be damned,” she said shaking her head.

W
hen she returned home, Beth hung her dress in the closet, changed into a pair of worn sweats and a T-shirt, and climbed into bed with the Scarecrow file. She was still shaken by what Paul had told her. Imitator or not, they were dealing with an extremely dangerous individual who had to be caught before more people died. As much as she didn’t want to, in the morning, she would approach Penny Fancher and request additional help.

While she was musing over what to say, Peekachu jumped lightly onto the bed and joined her. Beth kept reading. Tired of being ignored, the cat butted her with his head to get her attention. She responded by scratching him behind the ears. The large tabby began to purr and stretched out in the middle of the bed, closing his eyes. Beth moved closer to the edge to give herself more room.

Outside her bedroom window, the accent lights came on in her small patio garden. They were a minor extravagance she’d installed shortly after buying the house. The town house was a major extravagance and a stretch to manage each month on her salary. After moving out of her boyfriend’s home nine months earlier, she couldn’t see returning to an apartment. So she gathered her financial papers and approached a bank without much hope of success. To her surprise, they gave her a loan. Now she was a homeowner with all the headaches that entailed. But it was all hers, and that made a difference.

In the corner of the patio was a standing fountain with a lion’s head. It was nearly six feet tall and looked like an old friend. She’d run across it one day while wandering through Scott’s Antique Market in nearby Jonesboro and bought it on the spot. Water poured from the lion’s mouth into a deep bowl. At the bottom of the bowl, a small light projected
shadows created by the moving water upward onto a vine-covered pergola. When the weather was nice, she’d leave the windows open and let the sound of the water and the scent from her gardenias lull her to sleep.

The Scarecrow file contained a photo of Howard Lincoln Pell. Nothing about the man seemed extraordinary except his eyes. They reminded her of dark, fathomless marbles, lacking in pity, remorse, or regard for human life. Maybe she was projecting, making him fit her preconceptions as Jack Kale had told his class.

Pell had actually consulted with the detectives early on in the case. According to neighbors interviewed after his arrest, he’d led a quiet life, something newspapers always seemed to point out. Psychologists at Meadowbrook Hospital for the Criminally Insane tested him and found his IQ was at genius level. Try as they might, they could never get Pell to offer any reason for his actions.

According to D. H. Felton, the detective who wrote the case summary, Pell’s assistance turned out to be bogus. The clues he planted at the various murder scenes were designed to mislead. His plan was working quite well, until Jackson Kale entered the picture. As she read further, Beth was astounded by Kale’s leaps of insight, which seemed to defy logic.

In the end, a two-day chase took place across the state of Georgia ending at Cloudland Canyon, a picturesque gorge in the northern part of the state. Locked in a death struggle with each other, Jack Kale and Howard Pell went over the cliff together. Somehow, both men had survived.

The report only made vague references to their injuries. Kale’s had been serious but not life threatening, making his medical discharge all the more puzzling. Those sustained by Pell were apparently extensive. At least that’s what the report’s author implied. Police reports had a funny way of ending up in court, so cops were cautious about what they wrote down. All the narrative said was, “Subject’s injuries prevented this investigator from speaking with him for sixteen weeks while he was in the hospital. After that, access to him was restricted by his legal counsel.”

Internal Affairs from both the APD and the FBI followed up and concluded there was no wrongdoing on Kale’s part. They found Howard Pell’s injuries “were suffered during an assault on the arresting officer.”

Predictably, a lawsuit followed in which the APD, Kale, and the FBI were all sued. The file included a newspaper clipping where Pell’s lawyer claimed Kale had “eviscerated his client.” Beth blinked and read that part again. A search party had found Pell with his intestines sitting
on top of his chest. The image caused her shoulders to tighten. Somehow, she couldn’t connect the man she’d met earlier with that type of violence. Neither could the jury, who had little sympathy for Pell. They found for the defendants and dismissed the case.

Other photographs followed, horrific, dark images that projected the unspeakable anguish Pell’s victims had suffered. Edward Chastain, the third victim, age forty-one, and a father of four, had been abducted and brutally murdered. The ME was uncertain whether the skin had been stripped off his hand before or after he was dead. Little by little, the crime scene photos showed earth being removed from the grave where Chastain’s body was recovered. Like Jerome Haffner, one of his fingers was missing, and burst capillaries indicated the man had been buried alive. Beth fought down her revulsion and kept reading. Kale was right. There were monsters in the world, and some of them walked on two legs.

It was nearly one o’clock in the morning when she finished, and for the first time since she’d moved into the house, Beth got up, shut and locked the windows, and turned on her burglar alarm before returning to bed.