CHAPTER FIVE

Detective Janet Garvey seemed just as reluctant as Michael to be involved with this case. Her eyes sported dark circles, and her hair didn't look like it had been touched in at least twenty-four hours. She greeted the agents tersely, and her demeanor didn't change as she drove them from an airport to the first crime scene.

"There's not much left there," she warned them. "We have to move quickly whenever we get called to Hansen Street. Your dog bite?"

"If he needs to," Faith replied.

"Good. He might need to. It doesn't happen often, but I know of a few officers who had to be treated for dog bites when the owners ‘accidentally' lost control of their animals. Having a dog to protect us might deter some of those accidents."

"Not many PD fans on Hansen Street, huh?" Michael asked.

"No," Garvey said, "that's an understatement."

Faith kept an eye on the scenery passing them by as they navigated through the streets of Atlanta. The buildings near the airport were the typical mix of late-build luxury and old working-class high-rises in varying states of decay and disarray. Past the airport, things settled to a fairly steady progression from well-to-do to middle class to working class and, when they reached downtown, to poor.

Hansen Street was somehow worse. It reminded Faith of Skid Row in Los Angeles, but Skid Row as it had been in the eighties and early nineties before reforms and city projects had worked to (somewhat) clean up the area.

No such projects appeared to have taken place here. The buildings were covered in graffiti, and the street itself was littered with trash. Most of the windows were broken, and the cars that actually ran were old beat-up sedans with mountains of junk visible through the windows.

The locals—as Garvey predicted—were not happy to see law enforcement. They cast stony faces at the officers and made only a token attempt to hide their drugs and their weapons when Garvey put her lights on and led the three agents from the vehicle.

A few of them did have dogs—Rottweilers, Dobermanns, and Pit Bulls. They all growled and barked as the agents passed. Turk bristled but kept his cool otherwise. Recently, the three of them had a case in Arizona where a crazed former vet tech had used chemical pheromones to manipulate a pack of dogs into murdering people. Turk had nearly fallen victim to that chemical and, prior to that, had been cornered by a pack of actual guard dogs while investigating a junkyard.

"Easy boy," Faith said, reaching down to ruffle his fur. "We're okay."

Michael glanced furtively around at the stone-faced locals and said, "Christ, should we have brought backup?"

"Nah," Garvey—the only one among them who was calm—replied. "They're all bark and no bite."

"I thought you said that some of them sicced their dogs on officers before."

"Yes, but we're here investigating the murder of one of their own, you two are feds, and you brought a dog. As long as we don't try to punk anyone, they'll leave us alone."

"I will endeavor not to punk anyone," Michael replied.

Garvey led them into one of the less rundown buildings and into the leasing office. The manager and the security guard present glared at the four of them. "We need the apartment again," she said without introducing the agents. "Feds want to take a look at it."

"What the hell are feds doing here?" the guard asked, glowering at them.

"They're investigating H-Bomb's murder," Garvey replied, "and we need the keys."

"You took all the shit away already," the manager said, "why do you need to go back?"

"Because I said so," Garvey replied shortly, "and you don't want me to follow up on everyone you're renting to who doesn't have a social security number or a credit score."

The manager met Garvey's eyes, her lip curling in contempt. She reached into a drawer and shoved a set of keys at Garvey, who caught them and smiled frostily. "Pleasure doing business with you."

She led the agents out the sliding glass door and into the complex. On their way out, the guard said, "You better keep that dog off my grass."

Faith didn't bother to respond.

The residents gave the agents the same stare those on the street had. Faith decided they would get little help from witnesses, if there were any. This was the kind of neighborhood where people turned up the tv and looked the other way when things happened.

The complex was really just a single building with a rectangular central courtyard. Faith counted thirty units, not including the office and the maintenance room. Considering the size of the building, Faith decided the apartments must be very small.

Garvey led them to a first-floor apartment and opened the door. She led them inside, and Faith was shocked to see the apartment almost bare. There was the ubiquitous sea of trash and dust, but the furniture and appliances were gone. Even the cabinets had been emptied.

Turk started sniffing around to see what he could make of the place. Judging by the emptiness of the place, that was probably their best chance at finding anything useful.

"Christ, how much stuff did you take?" Michael asked.

"Anything illegal or illegally gotten," Garvey replied, "that we knew of, anyway. The rest the neighbors probably took."

That explained why the manager didn't want them in the apartment. "So why are we here? If there's no evidence left, why not just take us to the station."

"I wanted you to get a sense of the neighborhood," Garvey replied, "and I thought it might be helpful to see the apartment while looking at the photos of the evidence. You get a better understanding of things that way."

Faith had to admit she had a point.

"Speaking of," Garvey continued, "Here are the photos. I made copies for each of you."

She handed a small stack of photos to each agent. Faith looked at the first one, and her eyes widened. There was furniture in this picture, but it was all overturned. Blood spatter could be seen all over the room, as though their victim had pirouetted as he was bleeding out.

Harvey Harris had been found on the couch, the only piece of furniture not overturned. He sat slumped forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, his chin planted on his chest. Blood seeped from wounds on his abdomen and shoulders.

"Looks like he put up a fight," Michael said.

"Oh yeah. We believe it took the killer some time to subdue him."

"This seems silly to ask given the photographs," Faith asked, "but what was the cause of death?"

"Not silly to ask at all," Garvey reassured her. "Check the last photo."

Faith flipped to the last photo and gasped. The photo was a closeup of Harvey Harris's neck. A blackened and blistered mark ran all the way around as though he had been strangled by a noose of fire.

"Jesus," Michael whispered. "What am I looking at?"

"Electrical burn," Garvey replied, "a really bad one. That is the cause of death for both victims."

"Both victims?"

"Yes. It looks like a very large shock collar was slipped over their heads, and they were shocked to death with it."

"I didn't think they made shock collars that powerful," Faith replied.

"They don't." Garvey confirmed. "This would have to have been modified by the killer to push through far more amps than legally allowed. It wouldn't take all that much, to be honest. He'd just have to pull out the electrodes from the collar and shove in something more powerful, like a cattle prod magnet or something. Either way, the coroner thinks we're looking at anywhere from a quarter-amp to a full-amp of current at at least a thousand volts but probably more."

Michael whistled. "This wasn't a murder," he said, "this was a message."

"That's what we believe," Garvey said seriously. "We're looking into other criminal gangs."

"Top suspects?" Faith replied.

Garvey chuckled. "For something like this? I wish I could say this narrows the list down, but even the least powerful street gangs get creative when they're sending a message. It could be anything from the Hansen Hellraisers to the Sinaloa Cartel."

"Besides the body and the blood spatter," Faith asked, "what evidence have you uncovered?"

"That's it so far. The killer entered through the bedroom window, caught Harris smoking a bong in the living room and attacked him. Harris fought back hard, hence the destruction of his living room. At one point, he tried to escape. We found fingerprints on the front door and scuff marks from size fourteen work boots on the ground where the killer grabbed him and dragged him away."

"Size fourteen?" Faith said.

"Lovely," Michael added, "another freak of nature."

Garvey grinned. "You didn't think this job would be easy, did you?"

"Have you interviewed the neighbors?" Faith asked.

"There's no point," Garvey replied. "The answer is yes, we did, but all we got were variations on the theme of didn't see anything. Frankly, agents, Harvey could have been executed in the middle of the street while the killer broadcasted his name and street address via megaphone, and no one would have admitted to seeing anything. People who talk to cops get killed out here."

Faith looked again at the photos. She knew that Harvey Harris was far from a good man, but the image of his destroyed living room and the knowledge that he had fought for his life the way he did, only to succumb to a crazed killer, elicited a bout of sympathy for the man.

Gordon had died the same way.

Faith put the photos in her pocket and said, "What about the second crime scene?"

"That one's a little easier," Garvey replied. "That's Grant Street out past Maplewood. It's a poor neighborhood there, and I wouldn't expect anyone there to offer any more help than the people there, but it's not full of gangsters, and people keep their dogs on a leash. There's not much as far as evidence either, other than the cut fence and some bootprints, but I'll save you time on the boots. Size fourteen Doc Marten knockoffs, sold for thirty bucks in every warehouse store in the United States."

"They don't sell size fourteens in stores," Faith corrected.

Garvey shrugged. "They do here. You'll get the full report, of course, if you want to check my work. Between you and me, I think the gang connection is our best bet."

"Was Vinny connected to the Georgia Syndicate?" Faith asked.

"We haven't established a connection yet, but considering his past, I'm guessing it's more likely than not that he was working for them as a procurer."

"You mean a thief," Michael said.

"Yep. Funny how they don't like that word in the criminal world."

"I'd like to see the scene," Faith said, "and to interview the homeowner."

"That, at least, I can arrange."

***

Aloysius Farmer greeted the agents with a wan smile. As Garvey had said, the people of this neighborhood were less hostile than on Hansen street, but that didn't mean they were friendly. Farmer's smile was the closest thing they had gotten to a polite greeting since arriving in Atlanta.

"Excuse the mess," he said as he led the agents to his backyard. "I haven't really had a chance to clean up since yesterday."

"That's understandable, Mr. Farmer," Michael replied. "I'm so sorry for what you've had to go through."

Farmer shrugged. "It's better than what the thief had to go through."

"Good point," Michael said.

"When did you discover Mr. Mariano's body?" Faith asked.

"Last night, when I got home from work. I get home late, around nine o'clock most days, but I was a little early yesterday on account of I had a cough."

"Got it," Faith said. "So what time were you home?"

"Seven-thirty."

"And you saw the body right away?"

"Yeah. I feed Macy when I get home. I was early, but I wanted to get to bed quick so the cough would disappear, so I headed out to feed her as soon as I got home. I found her passed out in her doghouse and the guy, the thief, dead."

"You said your dog was passed out?" Faith said.

"Yeah. The vet said there was a sedative in her body. It looks like someone knocked her out. I don't know if it was the thief or the murderer."

That would be an important question to answer.

"What did you do when you saw the body?"

"Well, I didn't know it was a body at first. I didn't see the hole in the fence or anything. I thought it was a homeless dude passed out in my yard. That happens sometimes."

"A lot of homeless people pass out in your yard?" Michael asked.

"Well, this is the first time it's happened to me, but I know two or three of my neighbors have come home to find people passed out on their couches or beds. I just figured it was the same thing."

"So what did you do?" Faith repeated.

Farmer sighed. "I walked over and said, ‘Hey! What the hell you doin' boy? Get up out of my yard.' He didn't answer, obviously, so I…" he hesitated and glanced nervously at Garvey.

"Better you answer here than at the station," Garvey said.

Farmer nodded. "Well, I, uh, I kicked him."

"You kicked him?"

"Not hard," Farmer said, "just a little tap to wake him up. I didn't want to bend down and shake him in case he pulled a knife or something."

Faith and Michael exchanged a look. "So you kicked him, and then what?"

"Well, I saw his eyes all bloody and his neck all burnt up, and I realized he was dead."

"And that's when you called the cops?"

"Hell no," Farmer replied, "I got Macy, and I got out of the house as fast as I could. I drove to a coffee shop and called the cops from there. You gotta understand, agent, this isn't a good neighborhood. It's better than Hansen Street, but it's still not that safe. I was afraid that whoever killed that man might still be around."

That was understandable. "How long after discovering the body did you call the police?"

"I don't know," Farmer replied, "maybe fifteen minutes or so? I didn't really check."

Faith turned to Garvey, "and you responded to the call?"

"I did. It sounded an awful lot like the other case, and when I found out it was, I told my lieutenant I wanted on the scene."

"So what did you see?"

"Everything Mr. Farmer just described," she said. "The blood from the eyes was new. The killer used a lot more current this time."

"How's your dog?" Faith asked.

"She's good now. I'm keeping her inside for now. Probably for good. I don't know why they doped her up, but I don't want to risk her getting hurt. She's all I have."

Faith looked down at Turk, who had finished his inspection of the scene and now waited patiently for them to finish. "I know what you mean." She looked back at Mr. Farmer. "Do you mind if we see Macy for a moment?"

Farmer's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"Our K9 is trained to detect and remember specific scents. Even though the sedative is out of your dog's system, it's possible that traces might still remain on her fur or her breath. If Turk can recognize the scent, there's a possibility we can use it to track down the murderer."

Farmer looked ruefully at Turk. "Is he friendly?"

"As long as you and Macy are friendly, he's perfectly friendly," Faith replied.

He still looked unsure, but he nodded and said, "All right. She's in the bedroom. I'll bring her downstairs."

He returned a moment later with an old Cocker Spaniel. The dog had red-brown fur with white paws and a white face with a liberal touch of gray on the muzzle. Faith guessed she was at least ten years old, probably older. Why would either of the men have bothered to sedate an old spaniel?

"Does Macy bark a lot?" Michael asked, evidently thinking the same thing.

"Almost never," Farmer replied. "She's the sweetest dog you've ever seen. I don't know why they would have bothered doping her." He chuckled affectionately. "Unless they were afraid of getting cuddled to death."

Macy was indeed an affectionate dog. As soon as Farmer set her down, she trotted to the waiting agents and waited for pats, which the three of them were more than willing to give. Turk greeted her professionally, dipping his head and carefully sniffing around her. Macy accepted the inspection with good grace, and when Turk was finished, she licked his nose and trotted forward to lean her head against his.

Faith could almost swear that Turk blushed.

"She's a sweetheart, isn't she?" Farmer said, beaming at Macy with the love that humans reserved only for dogs and small children.

"She is," Faith agreed with a smile. "Dogs are wonderful."

"That they are," he agreed emphatically. "I just don't get why anyone would want to hurt them."

"I'm glad Macy's all right," Michael said.

"Me too."

They left Farmer then, sending Macy off with a round of farewell pats. On their way to the car, Garvey said, "I didn't want to mention this while Mr. Farmer was present, but the killer continued to shock Mr. Mariano even after he was dead. The coroner said he was cooked on the inside."

Michael shook his head. He looked sick. Faith looked back at the house and said, "This wasn't just a gang hit. This was personal."