The Rabbit's Hole Read online

  Cavanaugh was not a man to play games. The fact that he didn’t want to talk about the scene was an indicator of bad things to come.

  “Address?” Jones asked with an exasperated sigh, part exertion and part due to the foreboding of the unknown.

  “The Stagecoach Inn.”

  “Why does that sound familiar?” Jones asked.

  “Your big case,” Cavanaugh said.

  “Shit. Yup, you’re right,” Jones said kicking himself for not recalling it immediately. “You know how it goes, close the file and tuck it deep.”

  “Well you might want to open that file again,” Cavanaugh said in a deep voice that conveyed the underlying seriousness of his statement.

  Jones rubbed his temples with his thick, meaty fingers and closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Room?”

  “204.”

  “Double shit. I’m on the way.”

  Jones pulled up to the yellow police tape draped between two cruisers and a staircase railing, the hallmark of any bad scene. Guests and passerby foot traffic stopped in interest. The peering eyes of civilian onlookers always annoyed him. Would knowing what lay inside the police boundary provide meaning to their lives? If they knew, they’d never look. Maybe his anger stemmed from jealousy. He wished he could unsee many a scene. Man’s ability to find new ways to inflict harm never ceased to amaze the seasoned detective.

  Crowds sometimes gave an advantage to an investigator. In the sea of people, a potential doer occasionally returned to watch the madness of their crimes unfold. It was hard for them to let go of the perverse bond with the victim. Some had a deranged fascination with police investigations.

  The heavyset detective scanned the crowd, looking for that set of eyes that was out of place. He searched the faces for a person who was absorbing the actions of the police.

  Jones stretched as he exited the car. He pretended not to look at the group of people as he ducked under the tape. His incognito assessment of the crowd didn’t trip any of his investigative alerts. Besides he knew one of the officers or crime scene techs would be tasked with photographing the group of onlookers for reference later.

  It was cold by Austin standards but Jones’s midriff bulk made the coat uncomfortably tight. He unzipped it and left it open, allowing for the icy wind to pass through. The effect was immediate and caused him to shiver slightly as he approached one of the patrol officers holding position on the perimeter.

  “Cavanaugh?” Jones asked.

  The young officer shrugged his shoulders and then pointed up to the second floor of the motel. “I’m guessing he’d be up there.”

  Jones nodded and walked toward the rust coated stairs of the rundown motel. The stairwell was outside and divided the complex down the middle.

  He took each step deliberately, pacing his ascent. Jones didn’t want to hit the second floor out of breath. He advanced toward a young female officer who stood frozen, staring wide-eyed into the motel room. Jones saw the lines of curiosity spiral across her supple skin. He guessed that this was probably one of the first big scenes she’d worked.

  “Can you let Cavanaugh know that Jones is here?”

  The young officer jumped at the sound of his voice. She flushed and tried to recover, looking down at the logbook tightly gripped in her cold hands.

  She peeked her head into room 204. “Detective Cavanaugh, Detective Jones is here to see you.”

  “Well put him in the book and tell him to come in and join the party,” Cavanaugh boomed from inside.

  Jones initialed next to his entry time on the log and entered the all-too-familiar room. Cavanaugh was squatting awkwardly as he looked at the floor space between the two beds. His massive frame teetered like a boulder on a pebble.

  The homicide detective stood as Jones entered. Cavanaugh’s frame seemed even larger in the confined space of the cheap motel room. A former second round draft pick for the Dallas Cowboys, Cavanaugh had maintained his linebacker physique even though it’d been several years since he had stepped onto the gridiron.

  “Been a while my friend,” Cavanaugh said.

  “That’s because when our two worlds collide, it usually turns into a shitshow.”

  The large hand of Cavanaugh swallowed Jones’s when he shook it.

  “Let’s get to it then.”

  Jones liked the point of fact method of communication from Cavanaugh. Cutting right to the chase was a good way to do business.

  “A little ripe in here. Ever hear of fabreeze?” Jones asked, laughing at his own joke.

  Cavanaugh chuckled.

  “The call came in this morning. The room was paid in full for two nights. The maid came by after checkout to clean and that’s when she noticed sleeping beauty over here.”

  Jones cracked a smile at the macabre reference. The sanity achieved through the dark humor of death investigators was often misunderstood.

  “So why am I here? Seems like this case is outside of my wheelhouse. What am I missing?” Jones asked.

  “Recognize the guy on the bed?”

  “Not particularly.” Jones looked at the body bound spread eagle on the bed. “If I met him before I don’t recognize him. But then again I’m sure he didn’t have hole in his head before either.”

  Cavanaugh laughed. “Richard Pentlow.”

  “Son of a bitch. I thought he was locked up awaiting trial on the rape of that eleven-year-old?” Jones asked, squinting his eyes at the dead man trying hard to remember what he looked like before the gunshot lobotomy.

  “Nope. Released on bail three days ago.”

  “Looks like karma’s a real bitch.” Jones looked around the room, morbidly reminiscing about his last time in it. “This is the same room he abused that little girl in. Looks like someone didn’t like it very much. In my humble opinion the world’s a better place without him among the living.”

  “Couldn’t agree more.”

  “I hope you don’t break your back trying to find the killer. I would rather shake the guy’s hand than slap the cuffs on him.” Jones laid a thick west Texas drawl in this statement.

  “That’s the thing. Maybe you already have.”

  “Huh?” Jones asked, cocking a weary eyebrow.

  Cavanaugh thumbed over his shoulder in the direction of the bathroom. The same bathroom where they’d rescued the group of young girls almost a year ago.

  “Look at the mirror.”

  “Where the system fails I prevail.” Jones read the big sloppy writing on the mirror hung between the bathroom and the open closet. Then along the bottom edge of the mirror Jones read silently, Nick, what stands up tall but reaches low?

  “What kind of mumbo jumbo is that?” Jones asked.

  “I thought maybe you could shed some light. Does the Nick reference mean anything to you?”

  “It’s gotta be Nick Lawrence. He and I partnered up on the case. Bureau guy.”

  “It’s obvious the guy who did this knew about Pentlow’s arrest, but more importantly knew about him being released on bail. The message at the bottom is also very concerning.”

  “That’s a pretty big net you’re casting. Maybe his wife? Or maybe the traffickers tying up loose ends?” Jones questioned.

  “Yeah, could be.”

  “Seems like you don’t much like my thoughts on the matter. Care to enlighten me?”

  “It feels more like vigilante justice than an angry wife or organized crime hit.” Cavanaugh said.

  Cavanaugh was standing next to Jones. Through the smudged reflection of the mirror, the broad shoulders and slim waistline of the homicide detective made Jones feel even more portly than usual. As if on cue, his stomach made an audible rumble. His internal lunch whistle was blowing hard.

  “Blood?” Jones asked, pointing at the writing on the mirror.

  “Yup. It looks like he used Pentlow’s to pen his poetry. We won’t be certain until we hear back from the lab, but it’s a good guess.”

  “So who’s our vigilante?”

&
nbsp; “That’s the reason I wanted you to come down here. Maybe you could shed some light on this.”

  “Me? Why?” Jones asked.

  “Well you worked the case. Maybe you got a feel for someone that took the investigation a little too personally.”

  Jones leaned in. His voice was intense but he kept his volume low so that the other investigator and crime scene techs didn’t hear. “Hold up, you’re asking me if I think a cop did this?”

  “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying we’ve got to look at all the possibilities. That is one theory that’s been kicked around, and one that I need to examine.”

  “Be careful throwing that around. The wrong person catches wind and we’ll have a media shit storm,” Jones said.

  “I know. I’m keeping that one close.” Cavanaugh paused, raising his eyebrows. “So what do you think?”

  “I guess anything is possible. I’d be hard pressed to name anyone who was angered to the point of taking the law into their own hands. It was a bad case, but Pentlow was at the bottom rung of a much bigger problem.”

  “Okay let me ask it a different way. Do you think that anyone investigating the case seemed more affected?”

  “It’s a child rape case. Those hit everyone hard. Another girl was stabbed and left to die alone at the Hope Graffiti Park.” Jones stopped talking. The memory of the little girl still woke him from sleep. Some deaths haunt, and that one had more than most. He shook off the thought. “But like I said, Pentlow was a pedophile but the group that trafficked those girls ranked much higher if you’re prioritizing a hit list.”

  “Maybe the others were too hard to get? Or maybe whoever did this is planning to work their way up the proverbial food chain? I don’t have any idea where this thing may lead.” Cavanaugh tapped a notepad rhythmically against his thigh. “So no one comes to mind?”

  “Nobody fits the bill.”

  Jones stood silently contemplating the implication of Cavanaugh’s line of questioning.

  “There is another piece to this. And what I’m about to tell you now stays within the confines of this room,” Cavanaugh said. “Too early to let it out.”

  “Understood.”

  Jones watched as Cavanaugh walked over to Pentlow’s corpse, still bound to the bed. The large latex gloved hand of the football-star-turned-detective withdrew a pen from his breast pocket and he bent low, hovering over the face of the dead man. Jones heard a minor cracking sound as Cavanaugh used the pen to pry Pentlow’s mouth open. The dead man’s jaw creaked like a rusty hinge. Cavanaugh moved back and gestured with his head for Jones to come closer.

  “If this is one of you Homicide guys’ idea of a sick joke, I’m not interested.”

  “Just look,” Cavanaugh said.

  Cavanaugh stepped out of the way and Jones moved closer, looking in to the now-open mouth. Taking a small flashlight from his pocket, Jones illuminated Pentlow’s oral cavity. Something glimmered from within, bouncing the light back at him. Jones squinted hard to make out the object.

  “Is that a coin?” Jones asked.

  “Yup. A nickel to be exact.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Our doer left a calling card,” Cavanaugh said.

  “You’re thinking this might be a serial case?” Jones asked.

  “Tokens aren’t common and so I’m leaning in that direction. That’s a game changer for us in Homicide. Don’t get too many of those. I already put a call into the Bureau. They’ve got an impressive database. If this guy’s done it before, they might be able to shed some light.”

  “You start by asking me if I think a cop could be the doer and you top it with the fact that it could be a serial murder. When you put that together you’ve got a really bad headline. Serial Killer Cop will be every reporter’s wet dream,” Jones said as he stood erect, distancing himself from the dead man.

  “I’m not saying it’s a cop. I just want my initial theories flushed out before someone from the Bureau arrives.”

  “Was he tortured?” Jones asked.

  “It doesn’t look that way. Autopsy will give us more, but it looks like he was bound and then shot once in the forehead at close range.”

  “Why a nickel?” Jones asked.

  “It’s not just any nickel. It’s a Buffalo Nickel,” a female’s voice said loudly from the doorway.

  Jones almost jumped at the introduction of the loud comment to their whispered conversation.

  Both he and Cavanaugh spun in unison like two oversized ballerinas to address the new arrival. Jones blinked twice, shocked to see an attractive redhead in her mid-to-late thirties standing at the threshold of the room.

  “And you are?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “Agent Cheryl Simmons, FBI.”

  “Wow that was quick. I didn’t expect them to send someone out. I figured maybe a returned phone call or follow-up email,” Cavanaugh said.

  “Well this is my case. I was in town visiting a friend when my supervisor called me.” She looked past Jones and Cavanaugh at the supine body of Pentlow. “I guess it’s safe to say that my mini-vacation to Austin has been cut short.”

  “Wait. Did you just say this was your case? I haven’t even finished processing the scene,” Cavanaugh said taking a step in the direction of the female agent.

  Jones watched as Cavanaugh’s jovial demeanor shifted and the big man folded his arms in quiet protest. Jones also noticed the smaller framed Simmons didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. If anything, it looked like she enjoyed the challenge. Her lip line began to crack into a smile.

  “Pump your brakes big boy. I’m the best thing that could’ve walked into your life. This case would sit unsolved on your desk for years.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. I’ve got a solid track record and my solvability rating is higher than most,” Cavanaugh said.

  “Listen I’m not here to get into a pissing contest with you on this. I’ve been working the Ferryman case for almost four years.”

  “Ferryman?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “His signature is the nickel in the mouth. Let me guess—was this guy homeless?” Simmons asked.

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “Strange,” Simmons responded running her index finger along the lower line of her lip. “I’m stepping in to check out my scene.”

  Jones noticed that the agent never answered Cavanaugh’s question. She moved around the room and then stopped at the mirror.

  “My boss has already placed the call to your lieutenant,” Simmons said dismissively.

  “Don’t go touching anything. This ain’t your scene as far as I’m concerned. I’m going to step out and make a call,” Cavanaugh said as he brushed past Simmons in the small space. “Jones, keep an eye on our visitor.”

  Jones stood awkwardly next to the dead man. He threw his hands up in mock surrender and smiled. “I’m just a visitor.”

  “Homicide?” Simmons asked.

  Jones shook his head. “Sex Crimes.”

  “Why’d you get the call?”

  “The dead guy was involved in a case I worked a short while back,” Jones said.

  “And?”

  “And now he’s dead, so I guess they figured I might be able to point them in the right direction.”

  “Can you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Jones said.

  “I’m going to need a full list of people that worked that case with you,” Simmons said.

  “Okay. Might I ask why?” Jones asked looking out toward the open door of the room where Cavanaugh was red-faced and deeply involved in an intense phone conversation.

  “I’ve been hunting this guy for years. I’m good at what I do, and I’ve never been able to close the gap.”

  “So you’re thinking that because this killer is one step ahead of you, he’s one of us?”

  “It’s definitely on the table as a very short list of possibilities.”

  Jones stared at the woman in a light-turquois button-down shirt and navy-b
lue slacks. The green hue of her shirt accentuated the fiery red of her shoulder-length hair. She moved deeper into the room and closer to Jones. A hint of cinnamon wafted as she closed the gap. The smell was a welcome distraction to the stink of death.

  “Well it’s all yours,” Cavanaugh boomed reentering the room, exasperated.

  “I thought you’d see it my way,” Simmons said with a cocky smile.

  “I’ve been told to assist you in any way that I can.”

  “Since your team has already begun processing the scene, it doesn’t make sense for me to waste time calling in our techs. Finish up and send me the full case file. If you’d be so kind as to attend the autopsy for me and forward that as well?”

  “So, you pretty much want me and my team to do all the grunt work while you take all the credit?” Cavanaugh asked through gritted teeth.

  The others in the room stopped their work, pausing to watch the feud unfolding between the two. It looked like a rematch of David and Goliath, and just like the epic biblical battle, the smaller statured combatant was victorious.

  “To put it bluntly, that grunt work you’re referring to would be a complete waste of my time, but it needs to be done. I work on seeing the bigger picture. If you feel that you’re not up to that task, then I will happily make arrangements to have someone else assigned.”

  Jones looked on as Cavanaugh’s cheeks flushed. If this were a cartoon, a kettle would whistle and steam would explode from his ears.

  Cavanaugh exhaled long and slow. “I’ll take care of it. No worries.”

  With a momentary truce achieved, everyone in the room returned to their tasks, and Jones looked for his opportunity to slip out. He edged by Simmons and made his way toward his towering friend.

  “Who’s Nick?” Simmons asked, looking at the mirror.

  Jones turned to face the redheaded agent, whose back was to him as she stared at the bloody message. “I’m guessing it’s Nick Lawrence.”

  “Is he out of your office?” Simmons asked.

  “Nope. He’s out of yours.”

  “Mine? Nick’s with the Bureau?”

  “I thought you guys all knew each other,” Jones teased.

  “Do you have a number for him?”

  Jones scribbled Nick’s contact info on the back of a crinkled business card that he pulled from his overstuffed wallet and handed it to the agent.