Still, he didn’t like Forsyth’s new plan.
Killing was easy and usually led to a lackluster, by-the-numbers investigation. Murder was so common that unsolved cases didn’t seem to bother anyone except the victim’s family. And once those tears dried up, or fresher tears erupted, the media packed their tents and hit the next freak show.
Plus, Scagnelli had ways of eliminating people that left no fingerprints. Anita Molkesky’s death had probably been discovered by now, but it hadn’t raised any public alarm. For all their prurience, the media had an unwritten code of not covering suicides, their one bit of false morality disguised as sensitivity to the feelings of the survivors. Since her death was unattended-as far as investigators knew-the ME would be called in for an examination, but given Anita’s history and the copious amounts of drugs in her system, it would be a simple matter of documenting a foregone conclusion.
Scagnelli wouldn’t take the same route with Mark Morgan. If he had his way, he’d go with an automobile mishap of some kind. After Mark’s little exhibition in his law-enforcement class, his reckless behavior created the perfect cover story. Hell, even a self-inflicted gunshot wound would have done the job.
But kidnapping was complicated compared to murder.
For one thing, a corpse was easy to handle. But a living person tended to kick, scream, and generally make a fuss. Corpses could show up eventually, particularly if they had been processed with care, but kidnapping victims had to stay hidden. Corpses inevitably brought closure to the cops, the press, and the justice system, but a kidnapping stayed an open book that commanded attention and effort.
Plus, if he was going to kidnap somebody, he’d rather do Dr. Alexis Morgan. Not that he ever played around on the job, but all things being equal, if he had to drug, bind, and wrestle somebody, he’d just as soon have a pretty victim with soft curves. Mark probably stank of the kind of cologne they marketed in Sports Illustrated, and he’d try some macho, psycho shit like he’d pulled on the driving course.
Which is what he was trying to tell Forsyth on the phone, but the man wasn’t used to having his orders questioned. Considering Forsyth was chief bottle washer and towel jockey for Senator Burchfield, such an arrogant attitude seemed a little excessive. But Forsyth had the two qualities guaranteed to fuel his self-righteousness: a career in politics and a fervent belief in Jesus Christ as the world’s only redeemer.
“Assuming I can pull it off, where I am supposed to stash him?” Scagnelli said.
“The place where you followed them would have done perfect,” Forsyth said. “But the Monkey House is ancient history now.”
Scagnelli made a mental note to dig around in that history a little more. He knew about Halcyon, since it had been registered for a clinical trial with the FDA to treat post-traumatic stress disorder. But no case outcomes had ever been recorded, and no patents were filed on the compound. All he’d uncovered so far was the same stuff everybody already knew.
“If we know Dr. Morgan has the Seethe formula, why do we need her husband?”
“Bait,” Forsyth said. “Dr. Morgan’s two weaknesses are pride and love.”
“Hell, that’s true of just about any woman, but I don’t see how we can crack her.”
“You’re like the city slicker who comes out to the farm to buy mule eggs,” Forsyth said. “I could sell you any old thing and call it ‘mule eggs,’ and you’d never know the difference. You ain’t the kind to ask questions.”
True enough. But I’ve never been this curious before. And I’ve never been this close to the White House before, either.
“Okay, just tell me where to dump him and it’s done.”
“Umstead Correctional in Butner. It was a center for young hooligans but it closed two years ago. Minimum security, no fence, no surveillance. You’ll find the warden’s brick house at the back of the property.”
“I assume it’s ready for occupancy.”
“All it needs is a guest. There’s food, entertainment, and a little bonus for you. The kind you like.”
“Mule eggs?”
“Let’s just say they’re little and white and make you kick up your heels.”
“Consider it done.”
“The key’s under the mat.”
“Of course.”
Forsyth rang off.
Scagnelli tossed his half-finished coffee in the trash and went to the parking lot. Before entering his rental sedan, he dropped his prepaid Tracfone on the ground and then stomped it with his foot. He then collected a few of the pieces, leaving some on the ground. That’s what he sometimes did with bodies, too. Spread them around to a lot of different places.
He reached the Morgans’ house in fifteen minutes. After Mark’s little rampage wore off, he’d dropped his wife at the neurosciences building. Apparently she had a lot of work to do on her Halcyon research, and Forsyth was content to let her finish before he swooped in for the harvest. Mark had driven the faux cop car home and it now sat in the driveway, facing the road like a real cop would park in case of an emergency call.
Scagnelli cruised the street, turned around in front of an ugly Tudor-style house with a “For Sale” sign in the yard, and rolled past his target once more. This neighborhood looked a little too upscale to pull the old “utility worker” trick, plus Scagnelli liked to vary his routines.
Dusk was approaching, and it was the time of weekday when late commuters would be pulling into the neighborhood. Even though the Morgan home was relatively isolated for such a densely populated area, Scagnelli didn’t think a simple drive-through club-and-run would work. Mark was armed, minimally trained, and on edge, a combination that could end in a firefight.
While Scagnelli was okay with that, Forsyth wanted the guy alive and was willing to pay for it.
Scagnelli wished he had a dog. Hook up a leash and that gave you purpose. A jogging suit or gym shorts would also work, but he hadn’t packed for such a cover and the shopping district was on the far side of town. He wanted to finish the job before the missus got home.
In the end, he decided on a combination of delivery boy and lost out-of-towner. The corner gas station had a restaurant attached called Papi’s Italiano, and despite sporting the green, white, and red color scheme of Italy, its menu was about as authentic as a can of Chef Boyardee. Scagnelli had them box up a plastic-looking cheese pizza sitting under a sun lamp, paid his twelve dollars, and took it to his car. He removed his jacket, undid the top buttons on his shirt, and mussed his hair. Then he drove back to the Morgan house with the food filling the car with its oily stench.
His rental sedan didn’t match the job, and he was fifteen years too old to be a stoner delivery boy, even in this economy, but he didn’t think anyone would notice. The best thing about the current Congress and its complete destruction of the American standard of living was that everyone was focused on their own misery.
Parking beside the fake cruiser, he hustled to the front door, whistling. The pizza was a prop with one purpose only, to buy that one second of surprise in which to gain entry. Even though the front door gave him the most exposure to scrutiny, it would be the only way to make a grand entry. He knocked twice and glanced impatiently at his watch, all while hefting the pizza box above his left shoulder. Then he rapped with the brass knocker.
“Pizza!” he called, just to get in the mood.
He expected Mark to peek out the window and then cautiously open the door to tell him he had the wrong house. Mark would likely be armed, but he wouldn’t want to show the gun because he couldn’t risk a police report. Scagnelli enjoyed working with people who also had a lot to hide. In a way, it put hunter and prey on equal footing.