Chapter Two

“I need your help,” the voice said and even through the vastness of cellular space the desperation was clear.
“Well that’s rich. You got a lot of fucking nerve.”
“I know, Agent Hanson, but under the circumstances you’re all I got.”
“And why would I help you Easton?”
“Because we’re both in the same boat,” Easton sighed. “Look, Internal Affairs is going to be here in about an hour, maybe a little longer. We don’t have an IA office here so they’re coming down from Charleston. We have a little time.”
“Internal Affairs? Why?”
“Do you remember a detective from Louisville? A guy named Marsh?”
Hanson searched his memory, “Yeah, I met Marsh once, why?” he asked confused.
“I killed him, just now, in my office.”
“What?”
“He came down here to kill me, I shot first.”
“Why would he… I mean…” Hanson’s digital mind struggled to make the connection.
“He was the reason I arrested you. He said he was putting together a national case, but this time he… he was… different.”
“Okay, I’m on my way. Don’t touch anything. I’ll be there shortly.”
Hanson made two quick phone calls to Simpson and Gates. Gates finally made her way back from Miami leaving Marissa, much to his dismay, to clean up things down there. By the time he entered the dingy police station parking lot, Gates and Simpson were already getting out of her convertible.
“I thought I’d beat you,” Hanson said as he pulled his suit jacket from his backseat and sizing up the square cinder and pale brick building. “You weren’t at Ally’s?”
“No,” Gates said opening the glass door for her gentlemen counterparts. “Simpson and I were just pouring over Preston Tatum’s financial records. Ally is enthralled with basketball at the moment.”
Preston Tatum was first suspected to be Scott Cane, the shapehifting vigilante they’d hunted for years. Hanson and Gates quickly dropped that line of thinking once they learned the real Scott Cane was living as Ally Miller, Cynthia Gate’s longtime girlfriend – causing her to rethink the meaning of “it’s complicated” on her Facebook profile.
Even though the Tatum investigation did not end with the discovery of Scott Cane, Tatum’s actions over the last few months were too bizarre to overlook. Leading them to believe that Scott Cane’s nemesis, a man known only as ‘Four’, could be the reason.
Cane was the fifth test subject in a highly classified experiment, and Four, being the test subject before him, had much the same abilities. He could shift his form into anyone who he sampled, though with Four he required lethal amounts of human blood, while Cane could copy a person by simply licking the sweat from their skin.
Tatum’s actions were not as evil as would be expected from a bloodsucker like Four, but something was off and they all wanted to keep a close eye on the billionaire playboy.
Easton was sitting calmly in the lobby – lost in thought. He did not have the look of a man who just killed another cop. He was calm, almost serene. His toes tapped rhythmically on the waxed linoleum and his eyes drifted off as if he was simply waiting in line at the DMV.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, without so much as a smile creeping up his lip. “He’s in my office.”
With a gesture, Hanson followed him back – Gates and Simpson in tow until they stopped in the doorway and assessed the scene.
“No one goes in,” Simpson said squeezing in between the taller men crowding in front. Never taking his eyes off the scene, he slipped latex gloves over his small brown hands and donned plastic booties in the doorway. With trained precision he padded gently into the office. Deep eyes moved skillfully around the crime scene as they had done hundreds of time before. “IA will bring down an entire forensics team, so we don’t want to disturb anything. I’ll get as much information as possible before they get here, but understand, I can’t touch anything, so my powers are limited,” Simpson said as he retrieved his thin phone from his pant pocket and began taking a few preliminary photos.
“From what I understand, you with limited powers, is better than most at full strength,” Easton complemented, ever the southern gentleman. Despite their differences, Hanson had to admit that Easton was the perfect cop for the town. He cared about the people he protected, and he rarely made mistakes – the exception being that he arrested Hanson for murder.
“You want to tell me why we’re here?” Gates asked forcing the men to turn toward her and away from the door – allowing Simpson to do his job without being monitored like a wounded mouse amidst vultures.
“A few months ago, Detective Marsh approached me about helping him look into Agent Hanson. Y’all just stole my serial killer investigation so I’ll admit… I was pissed. I don’t think I’d a believed him if I was thinking logically. The evidence was sketchy at best, but he assured me that once I picked you up, more indictments would follow from Atlanta, Sacramento, and Louisville.”
“But they didn’t,” Hanson stated.
“No, so I started calling the districts that Marsh said he had in the bag. None of them knew what I was talking about. Then I found out Marsh filed his papers for retirement, and took off to use up his remaining vacation days.”
“He dropped off the map.”
“Yeah… until now,” Easton gestured to the bloated body.
“What am I missing?” Hanson asked with a stern look. “You said we’re in the same boat?”
Easton cleared his throat. “Marsh said some strange things before… well…”
“You shot him.”
“He started talking about his ‘associates’, and not wanting to ‘bring me in’. After I shot him, I asked him why he did it and he said ‘I had to get out of this body’.” Easton emphasized the quotes with a common hand gesture.
Hanson and Gates stared into each other’s eyes, both attempting to process his statement.
A chime on the front door broke the thick silence, as all three heads turned down the hall at their approaching visitor. Hanson and Gates, expecting a team of people, looked quizzically at the single man making his way down the hall.
He was tall with stark white hair wearing a crumpled southern style button-down – the kind that was blue striped with a solid white collar and cuffs. A strange sensation in the air surrounded him like a man used to getting his way, but the lines on his face tinged with anxiety.
“Get him the hell out a there,” he drawled with an ancient old-money southern accent, that reminded Hanson of Donald Southerland in ‘A Time to Kill’ – his finger wagging in Hanson’s direction.
“Dad, he is only here to help,” Easton said in a timid voice uncommon to his commanding demeanor.
“The hell he is. This damn shark is circling now that he smells blood in the water.”
“I called them here.”
“You what? Why would you… Damn it, son,” he sighed.
“It’s okay Mr. Easton,” Gates broke in knowing that a southern gentleman would never disrespect a woman, and Hanson’s invasion might be misconstrued. “We want to help…”
“It’s Mr. Tipton,” he interrupted. “Sheriff Tipton,” he scowled pointedly.
“My apologies, Sheriff Tipton, I’m Dr. Cynthia Gates. I’m surprised we haven’t had the pleasure yet.” Cynthia held out her hand daring him to reject it.
“My Father works out of the new government building in Bluffton.”
“An office that you should be holding by next year,” Tipton huffed. “But once the media gets a hold of this…”
The Sheriff looked around before hanging his head and allowing all the air to puff out of his body. Judging by his shirt and the dark circles around his eyes, he was likely sound asleep when Easton called.
“I apologize, Dr. Gates,” he finally said regaining control and straightening his tie. “I’m just worried about my son, both his career and his life. I should never have spoken that way in front of a lady. Let me start over.” He extended his hand before adding. “Sheriff Donde Tipton.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” Gates took his hand. “I know that there’s some history between your son and Agent Hanson, but I assure you, Sheriff Tipton, my partner is a professional.”
“Well I suppose he’s gonna need someone on his side once IA gets here. And please, just call me Donde, I’ll be retiring this year.”
Simpson stepped out of the room and removed his gloves and booties – everyone turned, forming a semi-circle – looking at him expectantly. Hesitating slightly he cleared his throat.
“Seems pretty open and shut. It might’ve been better if you’d let him get his gun out of the holster, but I know how things are in the heat of the moment. The first bullet penetrated under the desk and dissected his femoral artery. He would’ve died from that wound had you not shot him in the chest with the second. The second bullet went through his hand and into his chest, which more or less proves he was going for his gun. It’s possible that IA could conclude that he went for his gun because you shot him, but there is no way to prove it. All they’ll have is a theory.”
“Thanks, S… ah… anything else?” Hanson stammered.
“Yeah…there’s some kind of weird clay stuck to his boots, I’d like to get a sample, but I can’t touch it. I’ll see if I can hack the database for the test results,” Simpson paused running his hand down his goatee and stealing a glance at Cynthia’s low cut blouse. “What’s gonna bother IA is motive, you know, why is this guy here and why would he try to kill you?”
“That’s what we were just discussing,” Hanson said looking at Easton then Donde.
“Perhaps you can give us a moment, dad?” Easton asked timidly.
“Son, I don’t think that’s a good…”
“Dad, please, it’s important.”
“Fine,” he huffed. “I’ll call Marty again, he didn’t answer earlier.”
“Do you really think it’s a good idea for me to hire an attorney right now?”
“If you think I’m letting IA question you without your union rep and an attorney you are out of your mind.”
“I have to agree with your dad on that,” Gates said. “They’ll play a lot of psychological games with you in their interrogation. You should have a blocker there.”
“Okay,” Easton conceded. “Call him.”
Donde dialed the phone as he walked back down the hall. Easton drew a ragged breath, filling his cheeks before letting it out.
“Sorry, my step dad can be a bit… overbearing.” Then as if he could figure out no other way to ease into it, he asked bluntly, “Y’all aren’t regular FBI agents, are you?”
“Well we’re part of a special taskforce on…”
“Not what I mean,” Easton waved him off. “I exhumed Edwin Mackey’s remains. He was tortured – parts of him cut off, ribs broken. Because of the fire, I don’t think the Medical Examiner even bothered to look at it.”
Gates looked at Hanson cautiously before responding. “We’re tracking a vigilante that’s been…”
“I’m not stupid,” Easton cut in again. “Mackey was dead long before that fire. He was buried in his yard – I found the grave. His DNA was in the soil. He was tortured, killed, buried, dug up and burned.”
“Huh,” Hanson mumbled in an attempt to play dumb. In reality, his mind began pouring over the information. Cane always froze his victims – preserving their bodies perfectly. Hanson still didn’t know how he kept them so perfect, and he made a mental note to ask him – or rather, Ally.
“But the timeline doesn’t match,” Easton continued. “How can I guy be dead for several years and still be walking around, running a business, hanging out at the sandbar? I even looked up his birth records to make sure he didn’t have an identical twin. I’ve searched his house and land over and over. I’m a good cop. I may not be FBI but I know when something is off, and y’all know more than you’re letting on.”
“How did you get access to Mackey’s property?”
“I bought it.”
“You bought it? To what prove me wrong?” Hanson huffed.
“I bought it because it was a good investment, waterfront with a dock and all, and because I don’t like unsolved puzzles. They dig in to me, churning over and over. I lose sleep, can’t eat. I have to solve it, but now… I got myself in too deep. I need your help, so drop the façade and be honest with me.”
“Look, I can’t tell you too much,” Hanson said wrapping his arm around Easton’s shoulder and leading him down the hall. Through the front door they could see a congregation forming around Donde and knew they didn’t have much time. “But what I can say is there’s a man out there killing people like Edwin Mackey, and because of his, let’s say, ‘special abilities’ there may be others that want to get their hands on him.”
“Am I in danger? Is my family in danger?”
“I… “ Hanson locked eyes with Gates briefly. She tilted her head slightly, offering no guarantees. “I don’t know… but… I promise. I’ll do whatever I can.”
Easton simply nodded and opened the door for IA.
Hanson, Gates and Simpson managed to slip away during the ensuing chaos. Hanson threw his keys to Simpson making some lame excuse to catch a ride with Cynthia – calling him Samuels in the process. As Cynthia’s convertible pulled from the parking lot, the night-air cooled their faces.
“You think somebody’s really after Cane?”
“Yeah,” Hanson answered solemnly.
“But who else knows?”
“That’s what we have to find out. And it’s not just one person either.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He said ‘associates’ – plural.”