David Baldacci - Zero Day

“No. He was a lot thinner and was clean-shaven,” conceded Lou a bit lamely.

“Give us a full description of him.”

Lou did so.

Puller said, “We’ll have to check for ID here.”

Cole spoke up. “And this guy was obviously already dead when that guy was pulling a slick one on you, Lou. Get his description to dispatch and put out a BOLO. Go do it now, although the guy’s probably long gone.”

Lou left and she turned to Puller. “Now we’ve got two crime scenes to work. This is going to drain my resources fast. Think the Army can spare some more people?”

“Don’t know,” said Puller, who thought, They could only spare me initially. Does that change now or not?

“Well, they have to be connected. At least we know that. Way too big a coincidence to have two murders on the same street at the same time by two different sets of killers.”

When he didn’t respond to this she said again, “They have to be connected, right?”

“Nothing has to be anything. It has to be proven.”

“But you got any early theories as to why they might be tied together?”

Puller eyed the window. “That looks directly across to the Reynolds place.”

Cole went to stand by the window and looked out. “So you’re thinking these folks saw something over there and had to be silenced?”

“But if you reverse it the Reynoldses’ front window looks right back at this place.”

Cole nodded, seeing where this line of reasoning was going. “So it’s chicken and egg? Who saw what first?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, it really has to be one or the other.”

“No it doesn’t,” said Puller.

The bodies yielded few clues.

The basement was far more interesting.

Puller and Cole had searched the lower level and come to a door that was locked. With Cole’s okay, Puller opened the door using a tire iron he found in an old storage bin set against one wall. The revealed room was ten feet wide and twelve feet deep.

On a long folding table were propane tanks, bottles of paint thinner, a can of camp stove fuel, Mason jars, rolls of tubing, gas cylinders, pill bottles and rock salt, funnels and clamps, coffee filters, pillowcases, coolers, and thermos bottles.

“You got a biohazard team?” asked Puller, putting a hand over his mouth and nose to shield his lungs from the smell of solvents and chemicals.

“Meth lab,” said Cole.

“Meth lab,” repeated Puller. “You got a biohazard team?” he asked again. “This thing could blow up. And take the crime scene upstairs with it.”

“We don’t have a biohazard team, Puller.”

“Then I’ll make one.”

Twenty minutes later, with the neighbors and Cole and her deputies watching, Puller reentered the house dressed in a hooded green biohazard suit with an air filter, red shoe coverings, and green gloves, all of which he kept packed in his rucksack. Puller methodically pored over the site, dusting for and lifting prints, separating potentially volatile substances from each other, and photographing and tagging all of it. Two hours later he stepped outside and noted the sun was nearly down. He took off his hood. His body was drenched with sweat. The house had been hot. Inside the suit added at least another twenty degrees.

Cole saw the beads of sweat on his face, the flattened wet hair. She handed him a bottle of cold water. “You okay? You look whipped.”

He drank down half the liquid. “I’m good. Lot of stuff in there. I worked a bunch of drug lab cases in the Army. That lab was pretty rudimentary but effective. They could turn out some decent product, just not that much.”

“While you were working that I found a place to take the bodies.”

“Where?”

“Local funeral home. They have refrigeration facilities.”

“It needs to be secure.”

“I’m posting two deputies here and one there. Rotate 24/7.”

Puller stretched out his back.

“You hungry?” she said.

“Yeah.”

“There’s a good restaurant in town. It’s open late.”

“Late enough for me to grab a shower and change my clothes?”

“Yes. I plan on doing the same. Try to get the stench out.”

“Tell me how to get there.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Annie’s Motel.”

“Restaurant’s only three minutes from there, two blocks to the east. Hang a right on Cyrus Street. Can’t miss it. Hell, everything here is only three minutes from each other. That kind of town.”

“Forty minutes to the hotel. Ten minutes to shower and dress. Five minutes there. I’ll see you in sixty minutes.”

“But the minutes only add up to fifty-five.”

“I need five minutes to communicate with my boss. I should’ve done it before now, but things got a little busy.”

“A little busy? You have high standards, then. I’ve got my stopwatch. Don’t disappoint me.”

He drove back to the motel, passing the restaurant where they would be eating, showered, and changed into fresh jeans and a T-shirt. He pulled out his mini laptop, plugged in his communication fob, and sent an encrypted email back to Quantico. Then he spent two minutes on his secure phone filling in the SAC on what he had discovered and his progress so far. Don White wanted detailed reports sent out the next day by email with more formal ones in the snail mail shortly thereafter.

“Lot of eyes on this, Puller.”

“Yes, sir. You made that very clear.”

“Any theories yet?” White asked.

“As soon as I have them, so will you. The colonel’s laptop and briefcase are secure. I’ll try to get them released from police custody and drop them off at the DHS site.”

“Have you readied anything to be sent to USACIL yet?”

“In the process, sir. Should go out tomorrow. At least the first batch. There’s a lot to process. Two crime scenes instead of one.” He paused to allow the SAC to offer more manpower to assist him. The offer never came.

“Lines of communication open, Puller,” the man said instead.

“Yes, sir.”

Puller closed his phone and slipped his mini laptop into an inner pocket of his jacket. He didn’t like leaving things like that behind in a motel room that anyone could break into with a jackknife or credit card. He gunned up, one front, one back.

He passed his car on the way out and double-checked that it was locked. He decided it would be faster to walk to the place than drive.

So Puller walked. He’d get a better lay of the land that way. And he might just see the person who had wiped out two households. He had a feeling this killing was local. But not necessarily in all respects.

The place was like a million others Puller had eaten at in rural towns. Plate glass windows overlooking the street with the name “The Crib Room” stenciled on the main window in letters that looked older than Puller. Another smaller sign promised breakfast all day. Inside there was a long counter with swivel seats topped in cracked red vinyl. Behind the counter were rows of coffee pots that, despite the late-night heat, were in continuous use-although Puller saw many bottles and drafts of cold beer circulated to the thirsty patrons too.

Through a serving window connecting the front to the kitchen, Puller could see columns of ancient Fry Daddies, racks of wire cook baskets ready to be dropped into vats of hot, bubbly oil. And there were big blackened pots over flaming burners. There were two short-order cooks with little white hats, stained T-shirts, and weary faces manning the kitchen. Throughout, the place smelled of decades-old grease.

Past the counter stools were four-person booths in the same checkered vinyl set in an L pattern against two walls, and tables with checkered tablecloths perched between the counter and the booths. The place was three-quarters full. Sixty-forty men to women. Many of the men were lean, almost gaunt. They were mostly dressed in jeans and work shirts, steel-toed boots, hair slicked back probably from a recent shower. Maybe mining employees, Puller thought, just off their shift. Cole had said they didn’t dig here for the coal. They blew it out of the mountain and then hauled it away over treacherous roads. It was still dangerous, hard work. And these men looked it.