FROSTBURG, MARYLAND
The state police helicopter set down gracefully in a grass field near Route 40, about half a mile north of Interstate 68. Ana Thorne was the first to emerge from the shiny blue-and-gold chopper. Across the field, she immediately spotted a police officer standing by a parked cruiser on the side of the road, emphatically waving her over. “Looks like our ride’s here,” she yelled to Bill McCreary, who had just finished easing his hefty frame out of the chopper.
“Good,” said McCreary. “Let’s go.” He broke into a slow jog across the field.
Ana smiled at the sight of McCreary jogging. She hesitated a moment before quickly catching up with him, her long athletic strides putting his lopsided, lumbering gait to shame. They reached the police cruiser half a minute later.
The police officer was tall and lanky, dressed in the khaki-and-brown uniform of the Allegany County Sheriff’s Office. He appeared anxious. “You guys from the FBI?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said McCreary, breathing heavily and wheezing.
“Hop in. I’ll take you over.”
Ten minutes later, they arrived in the parking lot of the Huntsman Motel and pulled up next to a brown SUV with a gold sheriff’s star on the door. The SUV was parked in a remote corner of the lot, away from the view of most of the rooms. Several police officers in khaki-and-brown uniforms were clustered around the sheriff’s SUV, and they watched with tremendous interest as McCreary and Thorne emerged from the cruiser. They seemed especially interested in Ana Thorne.
“About damn time,” said a heavyset man in a tight uniform and a wide-brimmed hat. He broke out of the group and introduced himself as Walter Fitch, the Allegany County sheriff.
McCreary cut right to the chase. “What room’s he in?”
“Room 132,” replied Fitch.
“What do you know about him?” McCreary asked.
Fitch looked annoyed by McCreary’s rapid-fire questions. “Can I, uh . . . see some identification?”
McCreary and Thorne both flashed their fake FBI badges and waited for the sheriff to inspect them.
“Right,” said Fitch after a while. “So, we got a tip from the store clerk next door, who saw the APB flash across her computer screen this morning. Said a man came into her store about three A.M. Same description as the carjacking suspect. Long gray hair and beard, long fingernails, midsixties. According to her, he looked like a homeless guy. Filthy and kind of . . . disoriented. He bought a bunch of personal hygiene items like fingernail clippers, razors, and so forth. And he bought some food, cigarettes, and several newsmagazines.”
“Did he say anything unusual to her?” asked Ana.
“No, she didn’t mention him saying anything unusual. In fact, she said he sounded kind of smart. Bought his stuff, said thank you, and left. She did say, though, that he seemed really interested in the magazines and newspapers in the back. ‘Mesmerized,’ I think was the word she used.”
Thorne and McCreary glanced at each other.
“How’d he pay?” Ana asked.
“Cash. Two fifty-dollar bills. We checked them out. They’re genuine.”
“We’ll need to get those from you,” said Ana. “What about the car?”
“Right over there.” The sheriff pointed to a blue Chevy Impala with West Virginia plates that was parked, front in, about forty yards away. “Tags match. Broken driver’s-side window. Owner’s registration was in the glove compartment. It’s definitely the same car.”
“Wait. You went through it already?” said McCreary, unable to disguise his surprise.
Exasperation flashed across Fitch’s face. “Yeah, we went through it, okay? We’ve been here since nine thirty this morning. Worked this scene for nearly an hour before we even knew you guys were involved. In fact, we were just about to bust down this guy’s door when I got the call from HQ to back off. Been waiting here ever since.”
McCreary nodded calmly, but he was not happy. Jesus, he thought. The car’s right in front of the guy’s room. You think he might have noticed you rifling through it? He kept these thoughts to himself. “What did you find in the car?” he asked.
“Found an old carbide lamp in the passenger’s seat, which is probably what he used to smash the window. Title and registration in the glove compartment. In the console, we found a bag of marijuana. About six ounces. Could’ve been the owner’s, but we’re not sure. A pack of rolling papers, a lighter, some CDs, cell phone charger . . . and a bunch of other miscellaneous stuff.”
“Is all that stuff still in the car?” Ana asked.
“All except the marijuana.” The sheriff paused, noticing their inquisitive looks. “We tagged and bagged it already and sent it to the evidence locker. Standard procedure for drugs and cash.” He paused again, observing their continued expressions of confusion. “Look, that stuff tends to disappear real quick if you don’t lock it up, okay?”
Ana nodded that she understood. “So what time did the suspect check in here?”
Fitch rubbed his face and exhaled loudly. “I talked to the night manager this morning. Best he could remember, the guy checked in around three fifteen A.M. Same description as before. Long gray hair, beard, fingernails.”
“What name did he give?”
“He didn’t.”
“But . . . I thought hotels were required by law to check ID.”
“Come on,” said Fitch, laughing sarcastically. “Look at this place. The night manager figured the guy was homeless, so he made him pay up front in cash. Didn’t bother to ask for an ID.”
“How’d he pay?” Ana asked.
“Same way. Two fifties. Guy said he had a whole wad of them.”
Ana suddenly thought about the money they’d found in Dr. Holzberg’s wallet. “Can I see those bills?”
Fitch shook his head. “Like I said, young lady, cash and drugs get sent to evidence right away. So if you want to see those bills now, you’ll have to go downtown.”
“Or,” Ana retorted. “You can bring them here.” She held the sheriff’s gaze for several seconds, leaving no doubt that she expected him to do just that, and that she did not appreciate being called “young lady.”
Fitch bobbed his head back and forth, then scowled and cursed under his breath. “Hey, Davidson!” he barked to one of his deputies. “Go to evidence and bring back those fifties we got from the store, and the hotel register.”
“Will do,” said the deputy.
“Anything else?” said Fitch.
“Yeah,” Ana replied. “Has anyone seen the suspect since he checked in here last night?”
“Nope, we’ve had the room under surveillance since about nine thirty this morning. No one’s come in or out since then. I’m guessing he’s sleeping like Rip Van Winkle in there.”
“I doubt it,” McCreary mumbled.
“Got a room key?” asked Ana.
“Uh-huh.”
“Then let’s go.”
Ten minutes later, they were all in position. Ana Thorne stood beside the door to room 132 with her pistol drawn. One of the sheriff’s deputies stood on the other side of the door. Thorne drew a deep breath and nodded for him to proceed.
Keeping his body as far to the side as possible, the deputy slowly inserted the key into the lock. He glanced at Ana one last time, and she nodded for him to continue. Then, in one quick motion, the deputy turned the key clockwise and popped the door open a quarter inch.
At the same moment, Ana stepped forward and gave the door a hard kick. “FBI!” she shouted as she charged in, training her weapon at chest level all around the room.
Empty.
“Bathroom!” Ana shouted, nodding toward the open bathroom door.
The deputy rushed into the bathroom with his weapon leveled. A second later, he yelled, “Clear!”
Ana activated her earpiece. “No one here,” she said.
McCreary’s voice came on the line. “I’m not surprised.”
“Hey, check this out,” the deputy called from the bathroom.
Ana entered the dingy bathroom and saw what he was pointing to. The window above the shower stall was wide open. She tapped the transmit button again. “Bill, he went out through a back window. No telling how long ago.”
“Probably when he saw a bunch of cops digging through his car,” McCreary replied. He sighed and added, “Okay, I’ll have a team comb the area behind the motel and put out an APB for the immediate vicinity.”
Ana looked down at the bathroom floor, which was covered with mounds of gray hair. She pushed the transmit button again. “Oh, and you can drop the Santa Claus description,” she said. “He’ll look different now. Short hair and probably clean shaven.” She waited for the transmitter to time out, then turned to the deputy and pointed to the mess on the floor. “Bag all of this,” she said. “It’ll be useful for DNA.”
Five minutes later, it seemed the whole police squad was in the room, including Sheriff Fitch. Ana spotted McCreary standing outside, near the doorway, and she made her way over to him.
“Have them box everything up,” he instructed her quietly. “We can take the boxes with us tonight.”
Ana nodded and was just about to say something when a young police corporal interrupted. “Excuse me, ma’am. Sheriff asked me to give these to you.” He handed her two plastic evidence bags, each containing two fifty-dollar bills.
Ana waited for the cop to leave, then closely inspected one of the bills through the clear plastic bag.
“Checking the date?” asked McCreary quietly.
“Uh-huh. This one says ‘Series 1970.’” She quickly checked the other bag. “Series 1971.’” She looked at McCreary, confused. “They postdate 1959 by more than ten years. What do you make of that?”
McCreary shrugged. “Maybe he stole them.”
Ana looked unconvinced. “Where would he have stolen a wad of forty-year-old bills?”
McCreary shrugged. “Good point.”
“Hey, guys,” said another police officer. “Sheriff wants you inside. Thinks he might have found something.”
Thorne and McCreary quickly pushed their way through the crowd of policemen inside the motel room. “You got something, Sheriff?” asked McCreary as they approached.
Sheriff Fitch was hunched over the nightstand with his back to them. “Yeah. Got a notepad here that appears to have some residual writing impressions. You could submit it for ESDA analysis, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” He straightened, turned around, and held out a small piece of paper between his thumb and forefinger. “Just look at it at an angle to the light.”
Ana took the paper carefully by one corner and inspected it closely in the glow of the nightstand lamp. It was a page from a small notepad with several letters prominently indented from someone having written with a ballpoint pen on the preceding page. It took several seconds before the light hit the page just right and a legible word suddenly appeared. “Jasher,” she whispered.
“Mean anything to you?” asked the sheriff.
Thorne and McCreary both looked at each other and shook their heads.
Five minutes later, when they were away from the crowd, Ana leaned close to McCreary and whispered emphatically, “We need to have Michael plug this into his program right away.”
“Speaking of Michael,” said McCreary. “Where the hell is he?”