Chapter 15

Chapter

Fifteen

A s promised, the search warrant contents came from Smoldr at 4:45 p.m. California time.

Unfortunately, Zach Young buried them in so much information, multiple people would need days to parse the relevant evidence where FlyinHi had crossed paths with each victim. Patrick Byrne’s team took the data dump and made it searchable, but it was still massive.

That meant Jon and Tracey were working through the weekend, eclipsing Edward and Caroline’s final days in D.C. Tracey’s parents assured him they were okay playing tourist, and they’d spend a few hours together each evening.

They took Jon’s recommendation for lunch reservations and promised they were fine. A prominent storm system from the west coast threatened the Rockies and could delay their flights home on Sunday. Otherwise, they were content to entertain themselves for the weekend if needed.

Saturday morning began early for Unit 4. While Tracey’s parents were off at the museums for the day, Unit 4 converged at Jon’s to pore over the Smoldr data.

The search warrant produced some very important information, but they still had much to chase.

Their phantom’s name was Richard Peter Cavanaugh. They had his address and phone number, but the search warrant results including his credit report, profession, and property ownership records were still pending. They’d begun running his name Friday evening through the pertinent FBI databases. So far, no hits. They needed more information to narrow him down.

“No arrests. No AFIS, NGI, CODIS, or any of the other databases I can think of.” Sarena huffed as she sat at the dining table, attention affixed to her laptop screen. “This guy can’t be a ghost.”

“There are more than fifty Richard Cavanaughs on LinkedIn.” Perry scrolled through social media, murmuring to himself. “Short of stereotyping which ones ‘look gay’ enough, that’s not gonna work.”

Tracey drummed his fingers on his lips, thinking. “Hey, give me a second.” He swung to his feet and shuffled out of the kitchen toward the back patio doors, pulling his phone from his pocket. He’d saved Curtis Donnelly’s phone number the day they’d met at Iron Gate, and he called him now.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Curtis, it’s Special Agent Tracey Smith. I’m sorry to bother you early like this, but we’ve made some headway based on the information you provided and I have another question or two if you have a moment.”

“Sure.” Curtis sounded like he’d only just woken up, but he didn’t protest. Ten a.m. wasn’t that early. “Anything I can do to help.”

“Does the name Richard Cavanaugh mean anything to you?”

There was a pause, but then Curtis said, “Nope. Not really.”

“Any of its shortened variations, like Rick, Richie, Dick, anything like that?”

“Nu uh. Is that him? Is that the guy who killed Wyatt?”

Hesitating, Tracey lowered his voice after a quick peek over his shoulder. “We don’t have definitive proof, but we’re following a good lead. Can you give me anything else you may know about this FlyinHi guy? Did Wyatt tell you anything more, stuff they might have talked about while getting to know each other? Where he might be from, what he was doing in Atlanta, that sort of thing?”

“Oh! He said he was a pilot.”

Tracey’s stomach swooped as if he were on a roller coaster. “A pilot? Like a small engine type deal or—”

“Oh, no, like a commercial pilot. His route was from somewhere out west, with a stop in Atlanta, and then on to D.C.” Curtis paused. “That’s something, isn’t it? He flies to these places and kills people.” It sounded like he was having an epiphany of his own.

“It’s a distinct possibility, Curtis. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”

“Agent!”

Tracey put the phone back to his ear. “Yes?”

“Can you tell me as soon as you’ve caught him?”

Softening, Tracey made the best promise he could. “You’ll be my first phone call.”

“Thank you. Good luck.” Curtis was the one to disconnect.

He ignored his leg as he strode into the dining area. “Check the FAA database.”

“What?” Perry stopped typing, surprised. They all stared at Tracey.

“Curtis Donnelly remembered Wyatt telling him Richard Cavanaugh is a commercial pilot. Check the FAA database.” He looked at Jon. “Don’t they undergo strict psychological evaluations?”

Jon’s eyes sparkled. “Yes, they do. They also have biometrics on file. Sarena, get everything we can from the FAA. Get that fingerprint and DNA profile to compare to our perp sample.”

“I’m on it.” She was already on her phone.

Tracey took his seat and, on a hunch, did a keyword search in the Smoldr evidence on the words “flying in.” It turned up several conversations, including one several months back with a username he knew as Malcom Irwin’s.

“Bingo!” He flagged the conversation as evidence.

They continued working through the data, finding bits and pieces that built a bigger picture. Quick conversations with variations of, “I’m in town for the night. Do you parTy? Are you into PnP? Can you host? See you soon.” Multiple Smoldr accounts, multiple potential victims. None of them dated past the date on the subpoena. Tracey recognized the capital T in “parTy” as slang for Tina, another name for crystal meth, and the PnP as shorthand for “party and play.” Tracey long ago assumed the username FlyinHi was a chemsex reference, but now, he saw its double meaning for a pilot. Just a coincidence? He didn’t believe in them. It felt like another puzzle piece falling into place.

When Sarena’s phone rang and she snatched it up, all eyes landed on her. She broke into a big grin as she listened. “And you’re sure? There’s at least a twenty-point match?” The person answered. “Wow, okay. Thank you.” She disconnected and danced in her chair. “Fingerprints match! Without a doubt, Richard Peter Cavanaugh is our phantom killer, at least for Wyatt Powell and Ethan Wright. Which means, since there’s matching DNA, he’s also responsible for Dalton Lewis.”

“Oh yeah.” Perry turned his laptop around so the three of them could see his screen. “The FAA just got back to me with his pilot’s credentials. Tracey, does this look like the guy you saw on the surveillance video for Beckett Taft’s scene?”

He’d done well to not look up at the cameras when meeting Taft, but it was worth a shot. Tracey leaned in and squinted. “It could be, but honestly, it’s not definitive. Surveillance was inconclusive. We’ll have to run his photo past the staff who may have seen them together. Maybe we can get a witness to pick him out in a lineup.” He wasn’t sure if there had been anyone, but with a face to show, memories could be jogged more easily.

Jon put in a search warrant request for the cell phone data of one Richard Peter Cavanaugh, resident of Denver, Colorado, employed by major US air carrier Freedom Airlines. His cell provider could take weeks to return the information, but when they did, it would show dates and times where his cell phone had pinged off cell towers. From that, they could map his proximity to the victims on the dates of their deaths. If he was anywhere near the death window, they’d know it.

Tracey sat back and stretched, then rubbed his itchy eyes. He wished he could switch his contacts out for his glasses, but he’d left them at home. The eye strain was getting real. Just a little longer, and maybe he’d suggest they take a decent sized break.

He refocused on the Smoldr document, scrolling to the cover page to start again.

Patrick Byrne’s team had made the text in the documents searchable, but it was hundreds of pages of poorly formatted, non-punctuated chat-speak full of symbol boxes where emojis had been used. It was almost a foreign language and was difficult to understand.

Which was why, when Tracey ran across a single line on the cover page, he had to read it again to make sure he understood.

The document’s header contained information about who’d been copied on the search warrant results, their contact information, and the final fulfillment date for the courts. “Distributed to the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime,” was followed by, “Informed account holder of document release as required by California law.” It went on to list the statute.

Tracey’s arms broke out in goosebumps.

“Jon, what does this mean?” He turned his computer and pointed to the line.

Jon read it, then froze. His eyes widened. “Goddammit!” He exploded out of his chair, his cell phone to his ear before he was across the room and into his office, slamming the door violently in his wake.

Sharing shocked glances, Sarena and Perry turned to him. “What was that?”

Tracey read them the lines.

Sarena said something in Spanish in a tone very like a curse.

Perry gave Tracey an unimpressed stare. “That fucking lawyer.”

“What? What does it mean?”

“He told Cavanaugh we’re onto him.” Sarena looked ready to spit nails.

Jon burst from his office, determination in his every move, his blue eyes blazing. “Sutherland’s scrambling the Unit. How ready are we to fly?”

Perry and Sarena jumped to their feet and began packing their electronics, their movements smooth and practiced.

Tracey followed suit, albeit with less grace.

“My bug-out gear’s in the car.” Perry set his laptop bag on the table and started for the coat closet.

“My overnight bag is at home, but I’m ready with just a quick swing past my house.” Sarena was right behind Perry to grab her coat and purse.

Tracey regarded Jon helplessly. He hadn’t anticipated this. “I’ve gotta pack one. It’ll take me ten minutes, fifteen tops.” Shit, shit, shit. He should have never gotten lax about this. He knew they could be called on to fly out on a moment’s notice.

Jon passed him to follow the other two to the front door. “Head to DCA. Sutherland said plane tickets will be waiting at the check-in desk. He’ll text which airline in a few. While we’re in the air, he’ll be setting up the law enforcement response on the Denver end. I’ll take Tracey to his place and meet you at the airport.”

Tracey had a thought. “Jon, the storm.”

Jon nodded. “I know. We’ll do the best we can.”

Perry and Sarena traded efficient logistical instructions and affirmatives that demonstrated how well they worked as a team, and then they were gone.

Jon came to Tracey’s side. He was practically nailed in place beside the table. Jon’s palms landed on his shoulders. “It’s okay. You’ve been on light duty. I didn’t expect you to have a go-bag ready. Are you sure you’re up for this?”

The question of going or not hadn’t even occurred to him. “Of course I’m going.” At least this time, he’d completed the necessary prerequisites to fly armed.

Jon took a few seconds to assess him, as though searching for whether or not Tracey was really ready for another big confrontation.

Tracey hardened his features and gripped Jon’s wrists. “I’m fine . Let’s go. We’re wasting time.”

To his surprise, Jon pressed a quick but insistent kiss to his lips. “Okay. Get in the car. I’m gonna run upstairs to add a few more things to my overnight bag.” He ran out to the garage with Tracey to retrieve his bag from his trunk, then disappeared back inside.

In minutes, they were zipping out of the driveway and pointed toward Tracey’s townhouse. He hoped his parents were still out sightseeing so he wouldn’t have to explain what was going on—not that he could give many details—and could send them a quick text from the airport.

His luck did not hold. Just as Jon rounded the corner and pulled the Civic a little recklessly into his driveway, the Smiths were emerging from their Uber at the curb. His mother thanked the driver while his father was a few paces away, swiping away on his phone. Probably paying on the app.

“Jon, can you distract them for me? They’re going to shit a brick when they figure out I’m ditching them for a work trip. My mother is scared enough about my job. She doesn’t need to see us haring off like this.”

“Got it. But then you need to relax and not make this look like a mad dash.” Jon turned off the engine and exited the car, greeting his parents with a wide smile. “Did you have a good time today?”

“We did!” Edward put his hand on the small of Caroline’s back as they walked toward the front steps. “I’m sorry you boys had to work and missed it.”

“Me, too.” Jon held his elbow out for Caroline to escort her up to the front door. “May I?”

“My, my. You are too sweet.” She turned to Tracey. “You’ve found yourself a polite one, I have to say.”

“I did.” Tracey smiled, but his heart was racing, and this slow pace made him chafe, although it was better for his leg. He unlocked the door from his security app. “The door should be open.”

Edward brought up the rear and held the screen door wide for everyone. “I have to look into this security system for our house. It’s nice being able to unlock it and not stand out in the cold fumbling with keys.”

“They’re a national company. I’ll text you their website.”

They made it up into the living room and Tracey didn’t bother taking off his coat while his parents shrugged out of theirs. He had to bite the bullet now.

“Guys, it’s really unfortunate timing, but we’re being sent out on a case.”

Edward and Caroline turned around wearing twin looks of surprise. “Today? It’s the weekend.” Caroline snapped her mouth closed like she realized she shouldn’t protest.

“Hon, I don’t think that matters.” Edward didn’t appear thrilled, but he schooled his expression quickly. “This comes with the territory, right? We did well to have as much time with you as we did. Don’t feel bad, son.”

“I’m really sorry. But I need to go pack real quick because we’re expected at the airport as soon as possible.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the stairs. “I’ll be back in a few.”

Before they could react further, he went to throw together his belongings, remembering the extra contact lenses this time. After zipping his bag, he took a deep, meditative breath to center himself, and then went back down to the living room.

“It shouldn’t be more than a few days,” Jon was saying. “Cases like the last one, where we’re there for a lengthy investigation, are pretty rare.”

“I’m not sure I understand why you’re needed for this quick trip then.” Caroline was clearly emotional, but trying to hold herself together.

Tracey dropped his bag on the floor and went to her, arms wide open. She stepped close and held on tight. “I know you don’t understand it, Mom, and maybe when I have more time, I can try to explain it better. But right now, we need to get going.”

“Will you be safe?” Edward’s voice shook ever-so-slightly.

The penny dropped. The last time he’d been on-site for a case, he’d been shot and involved in two rollover accidents. They were, understandably, terrified for him.

“As safe as I can be.” He turned to hug his father, his mother still tucked into his side. They stood, huddled together.

Then Caroline pulled back and rubbed her cheeks to collect herself. “Okay. We love you, Tracey.” Turning to Jon, she surprised him by pulling him into a short but fierce hug. “You be safe, too, Jon. We just met you.” The implication was she wanted more time to get to know him.

Edward shook Jon’s hand heartily. “Thank you for the hospitality.”

Tracey went to the kitchen for a sticky note and scribbled the front door code. “This will lock everything up. You are welcome to stay as long as you need, even if your flight is messed up because of the weather. Just text me your plans. If I don’t answer, it’s not because of anything bad. I’m just busy. I’ll call you when I can.”

Another quick round of cheek kisses, and he and Jon were out the door with his bag.

“That wasn’t so bad.” Jon didn’t seem put out by the detour.

But to Tracey, the extra thirty minutes felt like it cost too much time, even though he needed that goodbye with his parents.

T he weather was not as big a hindrance for their flight as it would have been the night before. The snowstorm had dumped more than a foot of snow on Denver International Airport overnight Friday and into Saturday morning, but the worst had passed. Flights had been canceled earlier, but they were beginning to allow planes to land as the storm moved north and east.

Sutherland had gotten incredibly lucky. Because of the delays, their airline had added an extra flight for stranded passengers. Sutherland had been able to get four seats to DIA leaving late afternoon, just a few hours after they’d discovered the Smoldr lawyer had forewarned their suspect.

While they waited to board, they worked with as low a profile as they could amid the other passengers at the gate. Sutherland got the no-knock arrest warrant for Richard Peter Cavanaugh and Denver’s S.W.A.T. team would meet them enroute to the Cavanaugh home.

Jon contacted Freedom Airlines for Cavanaugh’s flight schedule to determine if he’d even be home to arrest. The storm had worked in their favor, grounding him from his normal Friday evening return flight. He hadn’t been able to take off until earlier that morning, narrowing his head start drastically.

Perry, Sarena, and Tracey concentrated on finding everything they could from Cavanaugh’s background check, which had come through at last.

Their profile hadn’t been far off. They’d assessed him as a mid-forties male, college graduate with a flexible schedule that allowed for travel.

That was a bit of an understatement.

The profile described a prominent figure in his community, like a pastor or church leader because of the conversion therapy connection. Or perhaps a political figure.

Cavanaugh was actually an LGBTQ+ activist, married to his husband of thirteen years, and considered a success as a survivor of conversion therapy. His story had been the foundation of several past campaigns to pass legislation banning conversion therapy. He spoke to local youth shelters in his spare time to encourage the kids and show they could be successful no matter their background. He spent a lot of time drumming up donations for these same causes.

He was highly respected among his peers, who were about to get the shock of a lifetime when they learned their poster boy was the center of a multi-state murder investigation.

Learning he had a husband sent the team into concerned silence, staring at each other with a growing sense of urgency.

“That’s not good, is it?” Tracey was quiet about it because their huddle had begun drawing the attention of nearby passengers.

“Generally, no.” Sarena stayed focused on her laptop, where she was running a search on Cavanaugh’s recent bank hits, which could pinpoint his whereabouts. “A man with a very public persona like this could do anything to keep his image from crumbling.”

Perry peered at Tracey. “Often, by the time they escalate to murder, and especially back-to-back like this guy, there are already cracks in the image. Someone who puts on such a front for other people expects perfection in their home life. He’ll want to show off an ideal marriage. This guy doesn’t have children, but when they do, the kids have to be model students, really good at their extra-curricular activities, that sort of thing. If you scratch the surface, Pops is a tyrant running his household through fear, and the family isn’t so pristine. We might find 9-1-1 calls for domestic incidents, or times when some kind of altercation in public got out of control. Sometimes it’s road rage, sometimes it’s petty disputes with a neighbor or the HOA. His temper has been slipping for a while, I bet.”

The gate agent began calling their flight for boarding, so they gathered their stuff, pausing the discussion until they found their seats and settled into the fully booked flight.

Tracey gave Perry’s words a lot of consideration during the electronics embargo during take-off.

“Is that why we’re in such a hurry? Not just because he’s an obvious flight risk, but because he’s a danger to his husband?”

Beside him, Jon grimaced. “Yes. The bigger they are, the harder they fall, so to speak. A man with his community position won’t want this to get out, and he’ll do anything to avoid the fallout. There are a few scenarios for how this could play out.” He ticked points on his fingers. “The least violent is that he tries to run alone. Then, he could try to escaping with his husband. If Matthew Cavanaugh is aware of what Richard has done, he could be a willing accomplice. If he doesn’t know, he could become a hostage. Alternatively, Richard could simply kill him to keep him from learning the truth, and then flee. Or he could go on a spree, hoping it ends in suicide by cop. If he ends up in cuffs rather than dead, he could drag out the trial hoping to increase his publicity, or dangle details of unknown victims in front of law enforcement.” He met Tracey’s gaze with a gravity that put chills in his bones. “Many serial killers aren’t just in it for the fantasy fulfillment. Notoriety is also arousing. They want their names in lights and on Netflix docudramas. Some aren’t picky if the notoriety is because of a big dramatic exit or a court battle.”

Tracey swallowed down his nausea. “I’ve done the standoff kind. I’d prefer the court kind, for sure, even though I’ve not done one yet.”

Jon nudged his knee. “Yes, that’s the sort I prefer.”

As soon as the flight attendants announced the in-flight Wi-Fi was available for purchase, the team pulled out their computers and got back to work.

Landing at an airport after a snowstorm should have been hectic, but DIA handled it beautifully. While disembarking the plane was its usual exercise in slow-paced irritation, once they were out of the jetway and through the gate into the terminal, Tracey and the team were able to breathe. Their bags had fit in the overhead bins, so they marched straight for the area outside security, where they were met by the local field office liaison, Special Agent Owen Gimble. He had a striking military bearing, a short, spiky blond haircut, and square jaw. His blue eyes were friendly but assessing.

Sarena offered quick introductions while their group powered through the crowded airport. Tracey did his best to keep up despite twinges in his leg.

Friday’s storm had thrown off many flights, and now that the runways were cleared, the place was heaving. Gimble did a slight double-take that Jon wasn’t the one taking point as their unit’s SSA, but he said nothing. Sarena and Perry were well-practiced at the pleasantries part of the job when Jon slipped into Ice Man territory. They didn’t have a lot of time for social niceties anyway.

Gimble led them out of the doors to a waiting SUV, idling in the passenger pickup line with its lights flashing. Law enforcement privilege at its finest.

“I’ve been coordinating with SSAIC Sutherland and Denver Metro S.W.A.T. for the no-knock warrant for Richard Cavanaugh. We’re all set and ready to roll.”

They piled into the vehicle and took off toward the field office, where the team could gear up with walkies and Kevlar vests. The buzz as soon as Gimble escorted them into the building ratcheted higher, and they wasted little time.

As Tracey was slapping the Velcro of his vest closed, Sarena slipped up beside him. “You okay, Rook?”

“Yeah. S.W.A.T.’s doing the heavy lifting this time. We’re at the back.” He breathed deeply, ensuring his vest wasn’t so tight as to be restrictive. Peering down, he noted her pallor and the slight dampness near her hairline. “You good?”

“I’m hangin’ in. Last time I wore this stuff, I had to kill a guy, though.”

He swallowed. “For which I will always be grateful.”

She bumped his arm. “And if it comes to it, I’ll do it again.”

“For all our sakes, let’s hope no one’s pulling any triggers today.” He returned her nudge.

“I hear that.”

They bumped fists.

A team of field office agents was with them, so Gimble assigned them into two groups, and the scrambling began. They accepted their ear pieces and made for the parking lot.

Night had fallen, made eerily bright by the moonlight reflecting on the freshly fallen snow, though it had been cleared from the streets. They didn’t run lights and sirens. They didn’t want to alert Cavanaugh any more than he already was.

“We’re staging up with Denver Metro S.W.A.T. at the Denver Tennis Club in the Cherry Creek North neighborhood.” Gimble turned to address them. “S.W.A.T. will do the entry and capture, and then we can execute the evidentiary warrant Sutherland secured.”

Relief flooded Tracey at the confirmation they’d be in the back. As much as he wanted to see this guy in cuffs, he wasn’t eager to confront a cornered predator.

“Quick equipment check.” Jon touched his ear piece. “I want to waste as little time as possible staging. We need this guy in custody to minimize collateral damage. I’m not risking casualties any more than necessary this time.”

Heat suffused Tracey’s cheeks, but he ignored the “this time” as best he could. Jon didn’t mean to sound denigrating. He was looking out for his team’s safety, not getting in a dig.

Voices broadcasted through their equipment, checking transmission. With everything in working order, they were good to go.

The Denver Tennis Club was five miles from the field office. The club’s shorter winter hours meant a deserted parking lot, thankfully. The Cherry Creek North neighborhood was swanky, and they did their best not to attract attention. Old growth trees offered some cover, and they parked the cadre of official vehicles behind a massive pile of cleared snow at the back of the lot.

Jon deferred to Gimble as the point person with S.W.A.T. since they had the working relationship. Within thirty minutes, the plan was set. Unit 4 stood nearby, listening intently for their placement in the parade of entry.

“Time to roll.” Gimble clapped his glove-clad hands and men and women in uniform scattered to their places.

The army of vehicles followed the S.W.A.T. tactical truck, moving at a fair clip, the drivers skilled enough to avoid screeching tires or revving engines as they fanned around the Cavanaugh house and cut off any chance of escape. Agents spilled into the night without slamming doors, taking to shadows with guns drawn.

The neighborhood was silent, the gentle slopes and valleys of untouched snow muffling movement.

To Tracey, it was a beautiful, if terrifying ballet. The moment before the strike, anticipation clashed with an unknown future.

The S.W.A.T. team battered through the wooden front door of the cozy, brick Tudor-style home.

Law enforcement swarmed, running and shouting for anyone inside to get down.

Tracey and the rest of Unit 4 stood in a half-circle at the foot of the porch steps, waiting for word they could enter once the perp was secured.

Word never came.

Eventually, Gimble came to the threshold. “No one’s home.”

“Shit.” Jon marched inside. It was an older house updated to modern standards while keeping the charm of its bones. The living room to the left had a coffered ceiling and an archway through which a large dining room led to a kitchen with appliances fit for a professional chef.

The stark white walls were offset by chrome-framed furniture with boldly colored cushions or black accents. Bright throw pillows lay everywhere, including on the bench seat that was custom-built into the bay window breakfast nook in the kitchen.

Farther into the house, there were three bedrooms, three bathrooms, a full finished basement, two massive gas fireplaces with white-painted brick, and all of it sat empty and waiting for the homeowners to return.

It was a beautiful, tastefully decorated home, but it felt like performative comfort—everything was for show and not for living in.

Jon emerged from the primary bedroom. “They clearly packed in a hurry, but there’s no signs of a struggle. Richard’s husband is with him. It’s not clear if he understands why.”

“But where would they go?”

Tracey returned to the living room, approaching the fireplace mantle with its series of framed pictures. Something he remembered reading on the plane surfaced.

“They own a cabin on the Florida River outside Durango.” He snatched a picture off the mantle and turned it so the others could see. “Remote, close to national forest land.” Wracking his brain for the details, he recalled something else. “Close to a regional airport where, if he’s got enough time, he could arrange for a way to fly out and be completely off the grid by tomorrow.”

“How far is Durango from here?” Perry put his hands on his hips, clearly already working out logistics.

Gimble frowned. “A good six hours.”

“By car or plane?” Perry exchanged a pointed look with Jon, who pulled out his phone, ready to dial.

“By car, of course. A plane’ll take some coordinating, but it would be around an hour.” Gimble made a so-so gesture. “I’m not sure I can arrange that on short notice. Especially on a Saturday night.”

Jon put his phone to his ear. “Hello, sir. We have a problem. Cavanaugh’s in the wind, but we have a bead on where he might’ve run to.” He described the cabin, gave details Gimble provided about the regional airport, and pressed their need to arrive quickly. “We could probably scramble a small team to serve the arrest warrant if we can just get there. After last time, I’m sticking with official channels. Any way we can requisition a charter flight?”

He listened for several moments, then made a few affirmative sounds and disconnected. “Sutherland’s pulling some strings. We’re supposed to gather two field agents and talk to the Durango area law enforcement to serve the warrant in their jurisdiction. Forensics can stay here and do their thing; we don’t need to supervise that.”

Men and women in coveralls had already begun bringing equipment into the house to start the painstaking process of dismantling Richard Cavanaugh’s home and life to connect to the Phantom’s victims.

Jon ushered them and Gimble toward the front door. S.W.A.T. had already reassembled out on the front lawn. Local Denver officers milled about, awaiting instructions. This whole thing had fallen spectacularly apart.

Owen Gimble, for a brief moment, had an overwhelmed, almost forlorn expression. Then his jaw bunched, and he met Jon’s gaze with blue eyes like fire.

“I’m not letting this guy flee on my watch. Let’s go get him.”