“Negative, boss. Called her office direct. They said she phoned in late yesterday afternoon to say that she was taking an impromptu long weekend trip across the island to go winter storm watching. She’s due back Monday.”
“Find someone else, then.” Maddocks killed the call and strode westward down the sterile-smelling corridor, his brain churning. None of the surviving five girls were speaking, as expected—wouldn’t even look a female officer in the eye. They were terrified and in medical distress from the trauma.
His phone rang as he neared the security office, which he could see up ahead—glass walls, banks of monitors showing closed-circuit surveillance footage. Maddocks connected the call, put his phone to his ear as he walked.
“Maddocks,” he said.
“It’s Flint. We’ve got a problem. You need to stand down.”
Maddocks stopped dead in his tracks. “What?”
“The integrated task force, which includes the RCMP, has asserted jurisdiction over the Tarasov murder and the surviving barcodes.”
“They have the authority?”
“They do. The order just came down. They’re sending RCMP members from the island division to temporarily secure and take over the scene. They’ll be bringing in their own crime scene techs and will take possession of the decedent’s body to conduct their own postmortem. You need to stop everything you’re doing, Sergeant. Pull everyone back. Stat.”
Fuck.
“I want you and Holgersen back at the station this afternoon for that meeting we still have scheduled with two members of the task force. They’ll be wanting a full debrief.”
Heart pumping, Maddocks killed Flint’s call and entered the security room, where Holgersen was sitting with two uniformed members of the hospital security team. They were watching grainy grayscale footage on the banks of monitors. Holgersen glanced up as Maddocks entered. He pointed to one screen. “Take a look.”
Maddocks leaned forward, watching over Holgersen’s shoulder. A male in a white lab coat. Walking toward the hospital entrance from the parking lot. The time stamp showed 12:45 a.m. Adrenaline thumped into his veins, burning the image of the man into his brain—his stride, the way he held his head, the angle of his neck, the roll of his shoulders, the swing of his arms. As the uniformed officer had said—average. Not remarkably thin nor overly built. Neither tall nor short. He kept his face turned away from cameras as he entered the hospital. Sure, direct. Like he belonged. Like he knew where the cameras were located.
“Stop. Stop right there. Back it up,” said Maddocks.
The security guy did as he asked.
“There.” Maddocks pointed. “Watch carefully—see how he walks.”
Holgersen stuck his nose up close to the monitor. He gave a soft whistle. “He’s gots a slight limp . . . like his left leg is maybe a tiny bit shorter than the right?”
Maddocks rubbed his jaw as he watched. “Something,” he said. “Something is just off-center with his gait.”
“Figure that’s a wig he’s wearing?” Holgersen said, hunched over and peering at the image like a cat watches a mouse.
“Could be,” Maddocks said quietly. “So far no wigs have been found in the dumpster, but if he’s a professional, he took that with him. We’d stand a good chance of getting DNA off that. Still could get some off the coat.”
“There!” A security guard pointed to another camera. “1:25 a.m. He’s exiting out the back of the building. He’s carrying the lab coat.”
They watched in silence as their suspect opened the dumpster and tossed the coat inside. He kept his face turned from cameras.
“Why?” said Maddocks. “Why not just take it with him? We could still get something off it . . .” His voice trailed as it really hit him. This was not their case. Not anymore.
“Because he’s not hiding,” said Holgersen. “He knows there’s cameras on him. Maybe he thinks any DNA trace on the coat will be compromised because it’s gonna be mixed with the owner of the coat’s DNA and the blood from Tarasov? Or he doesn’t care. He’s sending a message not only to the girls but also maybe to us, and he’s staying just this side of safe, ’cause look how he keeps his head turned away from the camera at all times. He sure as hell knows exactly where them cameras are.”
Maddocks said nothing, just watched, absorbing everything he could as the man walked away from the camera toward the back parking lot where the light grew dim. There was definitely a very slight lilt to his stride. It’s one thing people in disguise had a tough time hiding—the way they walk. The man disappeared into shadow.
“He come up on any other cameras?” Holgersen said.
“We need to stop right there,” Maddocks said quietly. He turned to the security guys. “We’re going to need all that footage. There’ll be an RCMP team in shortly to take possession.”
“What?” Holgersen came to his feet. “What you mean, boss?”
Maddocks jerked his head toward the door, indicating that Holgersen should step out. Once outside in the corridor, he lowered his voice and said, “That integrated task force is taking over. It’s no longer ours. We’ve been ordered to stand down, stat.”
“You’re kidding me, right? I . . . shit . . . this . . . they needs us—we needs to work together on this. We’ve done all the groundwork all the ways back to the Amanda Rose takedown, the Zaedeen Camus plea bargain, Sophia Tarasov’s statement. Like what about all that shit now? We just sits down and they interrogate us, takes all our files? No, no fucking way.” He pointed his finger at Maddocks. “What I tell you? Huh? They’s assholes. Dickheads. Fucking feds.”
“Go outside, Holgersen, have a smoke. Take a nice deep breath of tobacco and cool off. I’ll meet you at the vehicle.”
“What you going to do?”
“Wrap up here.”
CHAPTER 30
“It’s all in there,” Angie told Officer Pietrikowski as he stood in the MVPD reception area holding her boxes one atop the other. “I had to retrieve them from a private lab. I’d started having my own tests run on the old evidence.”
He opened his mouth, but her hand shot up, palm facing him.
“Before you go telling me I’ve compromised anything, those boxes came out of home storage where they’d been opened and reopened. The lab I used is experienced in forensics. If there is anything compromised, it did not come from the lab or me. And you have my DNA profile should you need to rule me out. Or in.”
Pietrikowski was not impressed. “We’ll be in touch,” he said, mouth grim as he left the reception area and shouldered open the exit door. As soon as he’d vacated the building, Angie hurried back to her desk and picked up her phone. It was lunch hour, and the public affairs office was empty. She hit the extension for Stacey Warrington, the ViCLAS—Violent Crime Linkage Analysis System—tech in sex crimes. She’d always been Angie’s go-to person for anything database oriented.
“Stacey, I’m sending some files to your computer—prints. Can you do me a favor and have them run them for me?”