Megan’s father had been a career soldier and had died on the field during the first Desert War. He’d been her hero, and while he hadn’t turned to drugs or alcohol, many of his peers had. It wasn’t just from what they’d seen or done as soldiers; it was also how they were treated when they came home. Megan had known too many veterans over the years who had serious medical problems, physical or emotional, and often did nothing about it. Partly because they were men-they felt they should be able to handle it on their own-and partly because the system was a bureaucratic mess.
What if her father had been discharged instead of killed? Her father had been a soldier. He couldn’t have been anything else. But if he couldn’t be a soldier, would he have walked the streets? Lost? Confused? Angry with his fate? What about Price’s family? Did he have kids wondering where their dad was?
Men like Price often slipped through the cracks.
She was still waiting on the dead veteran’s files. All they had was one of his dog tags-if they were even his. He could have picked them up off the street or found them in a garbage can. They’d take prints at the autopsy, and the coroner’s investigators would track down family. Hopefully, they’d soon have his identification confirmed.
But Megan knew soldiers after being raised by one. She couldn’t imagine any of them tossing their tags in the trash. Not the men and women she knew.
Of course, maybe Price’s wife or ex-wife had tossed them out of spite.
Nonsequitur, Megan. You are tired.
And thinking about her mother. If Caroline had still been married to William Elliott, she would have tossed all his medals, commendations, and the numerous newspaper articles Megan had carefully preserved over the years, intending to give him a scrapbook on his retirement.
The last page in the scrapbook was her father’s obituary and a photograph she took of his headstone at Arlington National Cemetery.
Her cell phone’s symphony ring tone startled her. She grabbed the phone from the table, looked at the caller I.D., and didn’t immediately recognize the number. But it was after four in the morning-she’d fallen asleep in her chair.
“This is Megan Elliott,” she answered, clearing her throat.
“You have to get to the morgue right now!”
Morgue. “Who’s this?”
“Simone! Simone Charles, from Sac P.D. CSU. The army is snatching our victim. Says he’s AWOL and wanted for attempted murder.”
Megan sat up and Mouse jumped off her lap with an irritated meow. She couldn’t believe the army CID was pushing for jurisdiction-and at four a.m.?
“I’ll be right there.”
“I called the district attorney and asked him to file some motion or something to stop them. But he thinks the U.S. attorney needs to do it. He’s going to try to slow them down.”
“Matt Elliott?”
“Is there another D.A.?”
“Sorry. You woke me.” Of course the Sacramento P.D. would know the Sacramento district attorney, who happened to be Megan’s brother.
“I’ll call my boss,” she said. “Hold them there.”
“They’ll have to arrest me before they take my body.” Simone hung up.
Megan jumped in and out of the shower before the water warmed, pulled her wet blond hair back into a tight braid, and slid on slacks and a thin blouse, then her shoulder holster. She poured some dry food into Mouse’s dish and added water to his bowl on her way out of her downtown loft, and was in her car twenty minutes after Simone’s furious call.
She dialed her boss at his home. He answered quietly, probably so as not to wake his wife. “Richardson.”
“Megan here.” She told him what Simone told her.
“And?”
“That’s all I have. I’m on my way to the morgue to see what we can do.”
“We probably won’t be able to stop them. They have jurisdiction over their soldiers, dead or alive.”
“It would be much better if we worked together on this.”
“If anyone can convince the army’s CID to share, it’d be you, but I’m not holding my breath.” He sighed as if to emphasize the point. “I’ll call Olsen’s office.” Olsen was the U.S. attorney who oversaw their district. “Let me know what you find out. It may not be worth fighting them for.”
“Sir, Price is connected to two other murders. Did you read my report? I emailed it last night. We need the evidence to track down a serial murderer, CID and their rules notwithstanding.”
“Point taken.” He hung up, and Megan wasn’t sure if he was fully on her side.
While military investigations were essential in keeping order among the armed forces, Megan simply couldn’t see what benefit there was to the Criminal Investigation Division taking over the murder of an AWOL soldier when his death most likely had nothing to do with his being AWOL.
Unless the other two victims were AWOL.
She called Richardson back.
“Sir-”
“I’m about to shower, since you woke me. Can I have ten minutes?”
“Did you find out about the other two victims? If they were veterans?”
“No. I sent an alert to headquarters about the possible connection.”
“I’m going to follow up on that. Maybe there is another connection-”
“That they were all AWOL?” he guessed what she’d been thinking. “Let me know.” He hung up.
Texas was two hours ahead of California, but it wasn’t even seven a.m. there. Still, she called and left a message for the detective in charge of the Duane Johnson homicide. She did the same thing for the Dennis Perry homicide in Las Vegas. Then she called Matt.
“I need-”
“Good morning to you, too, Meg.”
“Sorry, I-”
“I know. I’ve had an earful from CSU. I got you a temporary restraining order, but I don’t expect it to hold up. It’ll just delay them, and probably not for long.”
“Enough time for me to convince them that they don’t want to take our victim and evidence.”
“Good luck. I’m not holding my breath.” He hung up.
Megan appreciated the legal system. Laws were there for a reason. Even military laws. But she wanted to solve a murder. Find a killer, build a case, and hand it over to the U.S. attorney for prosecution. She wanted to punish the bad guys. She only wished she was better versed in such situations like dealing with CID, but she would wing it. After all, they were on the same side.
When she pulled up in front of the morgue, there were two army jeeps and a black sedan with military plates. A soldier in uniform stood sentry. She drove around back and saw the crime scene unit’s van. An ambulance was bringing in two corpses from a local hospital for processing when Megan walked in. She didn’t see Simone, but heard her voice echoing in the sterile building. Megan cringed. She flashed her badge though the intake pathologist didn’t pay much attention, or so Megan thought. She started walking toward the voice when the gal behind the desk snapped “Grab some booties,” and pointed to a box on the wall.
“Thanks.” Megan slid them on her flats and continued to walk toward the voice.
“What about ‘restraining order’ do you not understand?” Simone said, hands on her hips, as Megan rounded the corner into the cold storage room. Rows of bodies on steel gurneys, most of them covered with sheets with only their feet showing, lined the huge refrigerator.
Megan was surprised to see that Matt had beat her to the morgue. She nodded to her brother, and to the pathologist who was standing next to Simone.
All eyes went to her. Megan quickly assessed the situation and realized that she was likely the ranking opposition, for lack of a better word. She extended her hand to the man in the suit-military lawyer, she pegged. “Hello, I’m Supervisory Special Agent Megan Elliott with the FBI. I think we can work something out where we all get what we want.”
The lawyer said, “Lieutenant Paul Stork. Your victim is our primary suspect in an attempted murder case. Private First Class Price has been AWOL for five years. And, as I was explaining to the district attorney, section-”