Robert Walker - Grave Instinct

“ We kinda tiptoed into the house carefully from the rear. Went in and got out quickly when we located an active credit card number,” Owens said.

“ Didn't trip over any bodies?” asked J.T.

“ Found nothing extreme except the filth. Place is a pigsty, so we decided we'd leave it until you experts arrived. Our guys wanted him apprehended. We thought he might just be down the block at a bar or store. Then we got word you were on your way, so we waited.”

“ And you drew straws to pull this return duty, Sam?” she asked.

His face told her it was true. No one wanted to revisit this horrible place. “Like I said, after we located the credit card number, we got out, hoping to surprise him on his return. When we got news he was picked up in another town, we ceased the stake out, had the lock repaired, gave the landlord a key and kept one for you.”

She squinted, wondering what Owens and the earlier team had accomplished here. He must have read the question in her face.

Owens added, “Sorry, but we found no smoking gun to link him to the Digger killings.”

“ So, what you're saying is you were in and out. No evidence techs or high-tech searches done?” asked Jessica.

“ That's about it. We didn't confiscate any of his belongings, nor did we disturb anything.”

“ Understood,” replied Jessica, her hand out. “I'll take the key, Agent Owens.”

“ Back door,” he repeated, handing her the shiny new key. They followed a narrow and cluttered passageway alongside dirtied basement windows to the rear of the house. As Jessica turned the key in the lock, she wondered if this could indeed be the home of the Digger and/or an accomplice. Could Daryl be the Digger or a coconspirator?

Easing the door open, Jessica held back as the odors from inside assailed her. She steadied herself and pulled the door wide. It creaked and complained-groaned animal-like-as it came to a stop, fully open now to the outside world. A fetid odor combining vermin, stale air, pent-up mildew and rotting fruit wafted past her to attack Strand and J.T., while the young Morristown field agent coughed and covered his nose.

“ Terrible in there,” he muttered. “I warn you all again… watch your step. It's a rat's hole.”

“ We'll be careful,” J.T. replied as he struggled with a pair of rubber gloves. Jessica had already slipped her gloves on, and she offered a pair from her valise to both Strand and the junior agent who had reluctantly entered behind the group.

“ Somebody find a light switch,” suggested Jessica.

J.T. did so, but the switch didn't work. “No lights. Sorry.”

“ We were here during daylight hours. Light wasn't a problem,” said Owens. “Electric company must've shut it down.”

“ But the fridge is operating,” replied Jessica, hearing the hum.

“ Maybe on a generator,” suggested Strand.

A single shaft of light from a streetlamp outside somehow penetrated the kitchen area they walked through. Jessica located her high-intensity penlight, and the others did likewise. The bungalow's floors were completely covered in newspapers, magazines, books and clothing, scattered food containers-pizza and Chinese food boxes everywhere along with filthy towels and linens. Jessica's light explored the kitchen to the humming sound coming from the refrigerator. The small kitchenette reeked of stale odors. Food stains discolored every surface, including walls and ceiling, along with something the color of gray, the color of brain matter, making Jessica gasp. “Owens, your team didn't see this?”

Everyone stared at the end of her beam. “Looks like brain matter,” said J.T.

“ It's only clay,” explained Owens.

“ This some sort of sick departmental joke, Owens, meant to frighten us?” Jessica touched it with her gloved finger, found it sticky to the touch, clinging to her. Sniffing it, she decided Owens was telling the truth. “Clay,” she repeated.

“ This a joke, Owens?” repeated J.T.

“ No, Dr. Thorpe, no. None of us in the bureau put the clay here. It's all over the place. He makes these weird-assed clay models of the brain, and he stuffs them with noodles. And look here.” He opened a kitchen cabinet and his light revealed it stuffed with bags of green-gray noodles.

“ He sells this shit on his Internet website,” explained Max Strand. “Gets the noodles from a gourmet shop downtown.”

Jessica ripped open one of the bags. The pasta was shaped in the form of crosses. “Deitze warned us about all this, but seeing it up close is something else.”

They moved on toward the interior of the house.

Their lights revealed no furniture in the living room area, only a small TV and VCR, along with a makeshift chair of blankets where one might prop against a wall amid the squalor and stench.

“ I don't get it,” said Strand. “If he's got the fridge on a generator, why aren't the lights hooked up to it?”

They ventured forward.

“ Damn sure stinks in here,” said J.T.

“ Coming from a coroner, Dr. Thorpe,” said Owens, “it must be true.”

The few videocassettes Cahil had were copies of TV programs if the labels could be believed-The Learning Channel: Brain Matters. Another was entitled This Is Joe's Brain, and a third read Realms of the Mind.

Owens looked the titles over as well and muttered, “Looks like our boy is still fixated on one thing.”

“ Put these in an evidence bag for me, will you, Owens?”

“ Sure thing, Dr. Coran.”

As Owens alternately protected himself with a handkerchief over the nose and stuffed the cassettes into a large evidence bag, Strand returned. “No generator in the basement. Maybe a fuse blew, but I couldn't find any problems in the box.”

“ He must have the fridge on a generator located somewhere here,” said Owens.

J.T. had wandered off alone, and suddenly he called out from deep in the house, shouting, “In here, Jess!”

The others instantly located J.T.'s flashlight. He had gone exploring through a hallway that led deeper into the nightmare. Along with streetlights that pierced the transparent newspaper-covered windows, the flashlights created an eerie ghostly glow flooding through the house, even as their eyes became accustomed. Careful of every step over the litter-strewn floor, they inched their way toward J.T.'s light, which led them toward a bedroom.

Strand slipped, almost lost his footing but righted himself. “Shit,” he complained. “I think I slipped on some damn clay. I found maybe fifty of those clay brains in the basement workshop.” They reached J.T.'s location, and Jessica saw what had so excited him. In the bedroom with a makeshift tent of blankets, a green glowing light filtering through the tent. Cahil had covered over some furniture against the far wall. J.T. stood pointing at the light, saying, “Look, electricity.”

The others now saw the green light filtering through the weave of the blanket. Removing the blanket, J.T. displayed a chair, a wooden desk and a state-of-the-art computer.

J.T. sat at the computer and said, “Here's his nerve center you were telling us about, Strand.”

“ Wait a minute, this thing's got juice,” said Owens.

“ Selective electricity,” said Jessica. “Food and communication. From the fridge to the computer. It has to be a generator.”

“ Your earlier search didn't uncover the computer?” asked Strand of Owens.

“ I guess it was missed. I didn't know it was in here.”

“ Don't tell me… you didn't get this far.”

“ Agent Donaldson found the credit card bill, and we got out. I just follow orders, and I wasn't in charge.”

J.T. examined the computer hookup. “This is no wireless. He's got electricity in here from some source.”