“Rosemont panicked, exposed himself. Thornton sent Morse code that their position had been compromised, and we did everything we could to get back there, but by that time it was too late. Thornton was dead and the Taliban had Rosemont.”
“They took him hostage?” Megan asked.
“We didn’t know that at the time. Then, we assumed he was dead and they took his body and Thornton’s to parade over the airwaves and demoralize us. It would have worked. We’d been making great inroads in Afghanistan, something like this would have really damaged our position.”
“But he wasn’t dead.”
“No. They held him hostage for three months. Another Delta team extracted him and brought him back to the States.”
“Do you know where he is now?” Hans asked.
Padre laughed humorlessly. “I don’t want to know. The bastards desecrated Thornton’s body. I blamed Rosemont. It was hard to forgive him. I did-I had to- but I don’t want to think about him. Thornton was a good man. He had a family.”
Padre excused himself and left the rectory.
“Do you want to go with him?” Megan asked Jack.
“He needs to be alone.” The concern in Jack’s eyes for his friend was heartbreaking.
Megan’s cell phone rang, and caller I.D. showed an unfamiliar Sacramento number. She answered. “Megan Elliott.”
“You’ll never believe it!”
“Who’s this?”
“Simone. We have the body.”
“The body?”
“The John Doe. Price.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“The dead guy in the alley? CID just dumped him back at the morgue. They ran his prints. It’s not George Price.”
Megan’s stomach flipped. “But we had his prints. Why didn’t we know immediately?”
“We don’t have access to the military database. Only criminal and DMV databases. The guy’s prints didn’t show up, but we weren’t concerned. If he had no record, no reason to be in the system, we wouldn’t have them. We would have naturally checked the military next, but they had the body. They didn’t tell us until this morning!”
Megan was in shock. “But it’s the same M.O., the I.D., we have a connection with the other victims-”
“I don’t know what’s going on, but I thought you should know. CID gave us a photograph of Price-the one they’ve been flashing on the news was Price at eighteen. But they had a photo that’s only five years old. There’s no way in Hell our John Doe is Price. Both white, six feet tall, basic build, similar coloring, but obviously not the same man. I’ll shoot an e-mail with the pic off to you … done. You have more contacts and resources. If you can find the real George Price first, more power to you. In the meantime, Black is trying to find out who our John Doe is and how he came by Price’s dog tags.”
Megan hung up the phone, perplexed.
Why did the killers think the homeless John Doe was Price? Had they never actually seen him before? Or was it so long ago they didn’t exactly remember him?
Or did this mean that George Price was part of the killing team?
“The victim in Sacramento isn’t Price?” Jack asked.
Megan shook her head. “This changes everything. We need to find the real George Price.”
“If he’s still alive,” Hans said. “Or wants to be found. He’s been AWOL for five years. He could have a new identity, be out of the country, in hiding. He’s not going to come forward knowing he’ll be prosecuted by the army for attempted murder as well as desertion.”
“What if he’s involved?”
“First Jefferson, now Price?” Jack said. “You’re really stretching it. Why would Price put his own identification around a man he just killed?”
Megan fumed. “How do I know? To stage his own death?”
“He’d know the prints wouldn’t match,” Jack snapped.
“At least I’m trying to figure it out! We don’t know what’s going on, but George Price was dead three days ago, and now he’s not. He’s still AWOL, but that man was killed by the same people who tortured and executed three other Delta Force soldiers who had all worked together for two years in Afghanistan. You tell me there’s not a connection somewhere. Maybe the homeless guy found the tags in the garbage, for all we know. But then how in the world did the killers mistake him for Price?” She couldn’t figure it out, and it was eating at her. Deductive reasoning was one of her strengths, but nothing in this scenario made sense.
“I’ll call Quantico and have them start looking,” Hans said. He shook his head and Megan felt his disapproval. “I’m surprised that you of all people made such an amateur mistake.”
Before she could respond to Hans, Jack said to her, “Maybe you should call in your friend from Rogan-Caruso-the one you have investigating me. Because he seems to be able to get information out of a magic hat. Though he didn’t get the goods that Price wasn’t Price.”
Megan’s brows furrowed. What was Jack saying? J.T., yeah, he would be a good contact. But Jack almost sounded jealous. What a ridiculous-ludicrous! — idea. She really was exhausted.
“Good idea,” she said absently. Jack mumbled something under his breath, but Megan didn’t hear the words. She watched Hans walk away and realized he was angry with her. She ran through everything that happened Monday-yeah, they made the assumption the victim was George Price; they took his prints to verify … but when CID came and took the body, Megan didn’t even question the man’s identity. Of course it was Price, why else would the army take him?
But she’d made an assumption that, though based on circumstantial evidence, was false. The entire case was in jeopardy
Except that the homeless John Doe had been killed in the same manner as the other victims, and therefore Price’s tags must have deliberately been put on the body. Price was connected somehow. This was no coincidence.
She looked around for Hans to explain, but he was across the room talking quietly on the phone, his back to her. And Jack was staring out the window, his back also facing her. She felt as if she would explode. She needed to talk it out, analyze every angle.
Someone rapped on the rectory door and Jack answered. “Hern, right?”
“Right. Good memory, Kincaid.”
Ranger Ted Hern came in, taking his hat off. “Dr. Vigo, Agent Elliott. Glad you’re both here. We may have a break.”
Hern’s expression was dour while he waited for Hans to wrap up his call. “Two dead bodies at a rest stop outside Blythe, California. And in the parking lot, the highway patrol found a military identification tag for Lawrence Bartleton.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hans said to Megan as he punched buttons on his cell phone, “I’ll get a military transport out of McAllen. We should be in California in a couple hours.”
Jack said, “I have a plane. I’ll take you.”
“That’s not necessary,” Hans said, putting the phone to his ear.
Megan caught Jack’s eye. He was a hard man, but he wasn’t too hard to read. He’d go with or without them. Scout was his friend, he felt responsible. Megan understood that all too well. “Jack’s contacts may come in handy,” she said. “And we can leave now.”
Hern said, “The victims were a young truck driver, twenty-three, and his wife. She was pregnant.”
“Any witnesses?” Megan asked.
“I don’t know. Barker and I can stay here and follow up on the autopsy and potential witnesses in the Bartleton investigation.”
“Father Francis may have seen a potential witness, or possible suspect, at the church Tuesday night. Can you get a sketch artist to work with him?”
“We’ll jump on it,” Hern said.
“Appreciate it,” Megan said. “My e-mail is on my card, and I can receive images on my BlackBerry. Get it to me as soon as you can.” She looked at Hans, who was on hold, and then asked Jack, “You have a plane that can fit all of us?”
“Yes.”
“How long to Blythe?”
“Three hours in the air, plus or minus.”
Megan glanced at Hans again. Why didn’t he want to use Jack? He wouldn’t have been her first choice, but right now the fastest way to Blythe would bring them that much closer to the killers. They’d been at a rest stop. Someone had to have seen something. There had to be a witness. Even if they didn’t know they were a witness.