“Awwwww fuck!” Ben spat under his breath as he motioned quickly to Deckert with one hand and simultaneously withdrew his sidearm from its shoulder holster with the other. With a swift quarter turn of his torso my friend planted his hand on my chest and drove me toward the stairs. All the while he kept his eyes fixed on the doorway and his large frame between any possible threat and me. “Get outta here, Row! Get behind the van! Now!”
I stumbled back, grabbing the railing for support while I struggled to maintain my balance. I could see that Constance was already gripping her weapon stiff-armed before herself at eye level and was glaring down the sights as Ben yanked the outer door wide.
“STOP! Federal Officer!” she bellowed in a crisp, commanding voice as she proceeded through the opening with Ben glued to her heels.
Deckert hopped a short distance down to a snow covered patio area and hustled around the corner of the house, his hand also filled with a nine-millimeter equalizer. I caught only a quick glimpse of the portly detective’s fedora adorned head as he disappeared behind the brick wall.
I continued to twist as I back peddled down the short set of stairs, fighting to turn backward motion into forward as I came to face the street. I had no real clue as to why Allen Roberts had reacted this way to the sight of Agent Mandalay’s badge. My senses detected only fear, and I felt none of the calculated malice that had been present at each of the crime scenes. I could only assume that if he was in fact responsible for the threatening e- mail, he realized that such harassment over the internet was considered a hate crime and was at this very moment regretting the action.
However, I was still firmly convinced that the vile piece of electronic detritus that had been delivered to Kendra Miller’s online address was no more than a coincidence. It was an accidental event that was leading us farther from, rather than closer to, the actual killer.
I pumped my legs hard, pounding my feet against the curved concrete walkway, striving to obey my friend’s order to remove myself from the near proximity. Adrenalin was just taking over as I reached the end of the driveway and hooked myself around the back of his van.
A white Crown Victoria, its door emblazoned with the brown, red, and gold seal of the Saint Louis County Police department screeched to a halt in front of me, light bar flickering madly. The officer Ben had stationed on the side street across from Allen Roberts’ home hit the pavement while the vehicle was still coming to a complete halt. Before I could process the overwhelming abundance of visual information assaulting me, the uniformed cop had grabbed my collar and dragged me down behind the open door of the car.
“Dispatch, this is Unit Nineteen,” the officer spoke rapidly into a hand mic. “Detective Storm and the FBI agent are inside. Detective Deckert has moved his position to the back of the house. Over.”
The radio crackled with static and the faint voices of overlapping channels, then blared the feminine voice of the dispatcher into the frosty air, “Affirmative, Nineteen. Backup is rolling on your location. What is your status?”
“I am in a secure position in front of the residence,” he answered. “Everything’s quiet at the moment. Over.”
Hissing static returned for a brief second.
“Nineteen, be advised, Detective Deckert informed us earlier that there would be a civilian consultant on the scene. One Mister Rowan Gant. Do you know his status? Over.”
“Affirmative,” he spoke as he keyed the microphone. “Mister Gant is safe. I have him right here.”
The dispatcher’s businesslike voice filtered from the speaker once again, “Affirmative, Nineteen.”
The muted crackle of the cross-talking radio traffic filled the thickness around us as we waited for any indication of what was happening inside the walls of the home. Less than three minutes had elapsed since Ben had muscled me off the porch and ordered me out of what he perceived as harm’s way.
My legs were already starting to cramp as I knelt on the cold asphalt next to the county police cruiser. I watched the still open entrance to the house intently, peering past the stocky officer in front of me, straining to detect any movement or noise that might indicate what was happening inside those walls.
That self-conscious, “I don’t belong here” feeling was once again wrapping me in its prickly embrace- threatening to smother me with its special brand of anxiety. It was all but forgotten when a large, familiar figure appeared in the doorway.
The rush of excitement died a lingering, but painless, death, as Ben Storm exited the residence and lethargically ambled down the stairs. He was already strolling down the driveway when a pair of County squad cars joined us on the street. My friend was slowly shaking his head and a dull frown affected a deep crease in his chiseled features. He held his badge out in plain view for the newly arrived officers to see before slipping the attached cord over his head and hanging the shield about his neck. Detective Deckert reappeared around the corner and was soon trundling alongside, quickening his pace in order to match the long strides of the tall Native American cop.
All around us, drapes were being pulled back and blinds parted. Front doors stood open with families of onlookers crowded into the small spaces, peering out from behind panes of breath-fogged glass as they chattered with one another about the unfolding scene. Glancing across the street, I noticed the round-cheeked impression of a child’s face pressed against the lower section of a storm door, staring at us in wide-eyed amazement. Momentarily, the youngster was whisked away by protective adults intent on keeping her from harm, but giving no consideration to their own safety as they themselves continued to gawk.
As short and sweet as the burst of action was, this was probably the most excitement this small community had seen for ages. I didn’t have to hear what the spectators were theorizing to know that the speculations were growing wilder with each spoken word. One could be sure that exhilarated phone calls were already being traded among neighbors, friends, and relatives.
“All clear,” Ben told the officer as he approached us. “Agent Mandalay’s got Roberts in custody.”
The officer nodded and keyed his microphone, “Dispatch, this is Nineteen. House is secure and subject detained. Over.”
“Affirmative, Nineteen,” the dispatcher’s voice crackled in reply.
“Do me a favor, Golden,” Deckert addressed the uniformed cop. “Have Dispatch get a van from the Crime Scene Unit out here just in case.”
“You wanna go ahead and coordinate out here while I take Rowan in?” Ben asked Deckert.
“Yeah, go ahead,” Carl, answered with an animated nod. “I got it covered.”
“C’mon, Kemosabe,” my friend said as he clapped me on the shoulder and jerked his head in the direction of the house. “Need ya’ ta’ look at this.”
“What?” I queried as we started back up the driveway. “Did you find something?”
“Maybe, I dunno. Asshole ran straight for a room full of computer shit. Stopped ‘im just as he was tryin’ ta’ type somethin’ on a keyboard.” He sighed. “There’re wires and crap runnin’ all over the place. Looks like fuckin’ NORAD in there or somethin’. I need you ta’ tell me just what the hell we’re lookin’ at.”
CHAPTER 19
In reality, Allen Roberts had actually managed to type something into the keyboard. He’d even managed to hit ENTER. Truth be known, he’d succeeded in typing the “something” three separate times before Ben and Agent Mandalay had stopped him. Our only saving grace was apparently his haste-induced clumsiness. At each glowing prompt on the screen was a short string of characters that in another situation would appear to be the daily jumble from the feature section of the newspaper. In this particular case, however, it was obvious to anyone with a basic knowledge of computers that the unintentional anagram “KLLIFLIE” was supposed to have spelled out the command “KILLFILE.” Had he been successful in executing the utility, Roberts would have effectively erased all of the data from the machine.
Ben hadn’t really exaggerated about the wires and other gadgetry in the room, although what appeared to him as an intimidating monstrosity of electronics was to me simply a computer technician’s playroom. Of course, I was in the business, and my own home office wasn’t much different in appearance from this one. My friend, on the other hand, disdained the thought of using a computer and did so only when it was an absolute necessity. Taking
