Chris Carter - An Evil Mind

‘What case is this?’ he asked.

‘Not ours,’ Figueroa replied. ‘I think a call came in from high above in Washington, DC or Quantico. We’re just going to verify the veracity of the address.’

‘Narcs?’ Decker questioned.

Figueroa shrugged and shook his head at the same time. ‘Not sure, but I don’t think so. DEA isn’t involved as far as I know. I wasn’t told much, but I think this is supposed to be victim’s remains.’

Decker’s eyebrows arched. ‘Stashed in a commercial storage unit?’

‘That’s the address we have,’ Figueroa confirmed.

Decker took another right and merged onto the I-5 North, heading toward Vancouver, British Columbia. Traffic was slow, as expected at that time in the morning, but not excessively so.

‘Do they have somebody in custody?’ Decker asked.

‘As far as I understand, yes. And again, I think they’re holding him either in DC or Quantico.’ Another shrug from Figueroa. ‘Like I said, I wasn’t told very much, but I did get the impression that this is something big.’

‘Do we have a warrant, or are we just going to talk our way through this, using our FBI charm?’ Decker joked.

‘We do have a warrant,’ Figueroa said, consulting his watch. ‘A court marshal is meeting us at the address.’

The trip from the FBI office on 3rd Avenue to the independent self-storage building, located on the north side of the city, took them about twenty-five minutes. Just like most self-storage buildings, from the outside this one also looked like a regular warehouse. It was painted all in white, with the self-storage trade name in huge green letters across the front of the building. The large customers’ car park at the front of the unit was practically empty, with only a handful of cars scattered around the lot. A young couple was unloading the contents of a rented white van onto an industrial-size wheeled cart. The van was parked by loading dock number two.

Decker parked the SUV by the side of a small decorative green garden directly in front of the unit’s main office. The ground was still wet from the rain that had stopped about forty minutes earlier, but judging from how dark the sky looked, rain was on its way back.

As both agents stepped out of the car, a woman, probably in her early forties, exited a white Jeep Compass that was parked just a few yards away, four spaces to their right.

‘I’m US Court Marshal Joanna Hughes,’ she said, offering her hand. She didn’t have to ask. She could easily tell that Figueroa and Decker were the two FBI agents she was supposed to meet.

Hughes’ chestnut hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, which made her forehead seem too large for her round face. She wasn’t exactly an attractive woman. Her nose looked a little too pointy, her lips too thin, and her eyes seemed to be constantly squinting, as if trying to read something that was just a touch too far away. She was elegantly dressed in a cream business suit and beige, pointed high-heel shoes. The agents formally introduced themselves and shook hands.

‘Shall we?’ Hughes gestured toward the reception.

An electronic ‘ding-ding’ bell rang as Figueroa pushed the office door open and he, Decker and Hughes stepped into the excessively brightly lit rectangular room. Both FBI agents kept their dark shades on. Hughes just wished she had hers with her.

There was a small seating area to the left of the door. A light brown four-seater sofa and two matching armchairs had been positioned around a round chrome and glass low table. A few magazines and several brochures of the storage facility were neatly arranged on the tabletop. There was also a water cooler in the corner. Sitting behind the wood and acrylic reception counter was a young man who looked to be no older than twenty-five. His eyes were glued to his smartphone. He seemed to be either texting ferociously, or really absorbed in some ridiculously entertaining videogame. It took him at least five seconds to finally look up from the tiny screen.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked, putting the phone down next to the computer monitor in front of him and standing up. He gave the visitors an overenthusiastic smile.

‘Are you the person in charge here?’ Marshal Hughes asked.

‘That would be correct, ma’am.’ The kid nodded once. ‘How can I help you today?’

Hughes stepped closer and displayed her credentials. ‘I’m US Federal Marshal Joanna Hughes,’ she said. ‘These two gentlemen are federal agents with the FBI.’

Figueroa and Decker reached into their suit jacket pockets, producing their IDs.

The kid checked them before taking a step back. He looked a little confused. ‘Is there some sort of a problem?’ His enthusiastic smile had completely vanished.

Hughes handed him a piece of paper with the US government stamp on it.

‘This is a federal search warrant giving us legal permission and right to search storage unit number 325 in this establishment,’ she said calmly but in a very authoritative voice. ‘Would you be so kind as to open it for us?’

The kid looked at the warrant, read a few lines, pulled a face as if it were written in Latin, and hesitated for a second. ‘I. . I think I need to call my boss for this.’

‘What’s your name, kid?’ Decker asked.

‘Billy.’

Billy was about five-foot-eight with short blond hair, which was spiked at places with styling gel. He had a three-day-old stubble and a couple of earrings in each ear.

‘OK, Billy, you can call whoever you like, but we don’t really have time to wait.’ He nodded at the warrant. ‘As Federal Marshal Hughes has explained, that piece of paper, which has been signed by a US federal judge, gives us the legal right to look inside unit 325, with or without your cooperation. Neither you nor we need your boss’s permission to do so. That’s all the permission we need right there. If you don’t open the door for us, unfortunately for you, we’re just going to have to bust it open, using any means necessary.’

‘And we won’t be legally responsible for any damage caused,’ Figueroa added. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

Billy had started to look very uncomfortable. His cellphone beeped on the counter, announcing a new incoming text message, but he didn’t even glance at it.

‘That copy of the warrant stays with you,’ Decker added. ‘So you can show it to your boss, your lawyer, or whoever you please. That guarantees that you’re not breaking the law, or company rules, or doing anything you shouldn’t be doing.’ He paused and checked his watch. ‘We’re on a pretty tight schedule here, Billy. So what’s it going to be? Are you going to let us into the unit, or are we busting it open? You’ve got to make a choice.’

‘You guys aren’t punking me, are you?’ Billy asked, his stare moving to the glass window behind both agents, as if he was trying to spot a candid camera somewhere.

‘This is official, Billy,’ Hughes replied, her tone telling Billy that that was no joke.

‘You guys really FBI?’ Billy now sounded a little thrilled.

‘We really are,’ Decker replied.

‘Look, I’d like to help,’ Billy said. ‘I can let you into the building. No problem. But I can’t open the door to unit 325 because it’s padlocked. None of our doors has an actual key locking mechanism, just a very thick sliding bolt. Our customers can buy a padlock from us.’ He quickly indicated a display just behind him with several padlocks in all different sizes. ‘Or bring their own, but they’re not required to supply us with an extra key, so none do. Once a unit is rented out, we don’t have access to it anymore. It’s a completely private affair.’

Figueroa nodded, and thought about it for a moment. ‘OK. Can you give us the details of that account?’