Missing: Jack Beckett Book Five

By D.G. Baxter

An FBI agent is kidnapped by a psychopath who hears voices telling him to go on a killing spree. The agent is Riley O'Connor, and the man who snatched her is going more insane by the day. O'Connor got on a flight to San Francisco and was never heard from again. The search comes up dry, but Jack Beckett will not quit until he finds his friend. Along the way, he needs help from people who don't want to play ball, including a radio station host and the owner of a white van with a dark past. Beckett is convincing. Either they help, or he will beat the crap out of them. They quickly agree to cooperate. But it may be too late. The psychopath begins a killing spree in Santa Cruz, California. Beckett gets one last desperate chance to find the killer, now armed with a powerful rifle and a diabolical plan before he plunges into total madness.    

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.G. Baxter
• Release date: Feb 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386208976

Book preview

1

Jack Beckett had just passed through Reno on I-80 and was on his way to Emigrant Gap and beyond that, the vast expanses of California. It was still summer, and the weather was mild. He had both front windows cracked, and the AC on low, and the Mustang purred like a kitten as it began to climb the winding road through the Sierra Nevada foothills.

The bombing caper was now three days ago, and the images had faded as the miles piled up in his rearview mirror. It had worked out well. The bad guys were dead. The group’s followers had been charged and were locked up. And two individuals, a husband and wife had formally agreed to cooperate and had already helped bring the case to a close. It was wrapped up neatly. It was a done deal. He looked forward to some beach time once he hit San Francisco.

Beckett no longer had a home, but he considered the City by the Bay his adopted home. A guy could get lost there just walking its many unique neighborhoods. There were more restaurants in the City than one man could visit in a year. Riley O’Connor was based there, with the local FBI field office. She had been with Beckett in Chicago and had helped him bring the last case to a close. She flew ahead, leaving Chicago three days ago, and had promised to meet him when he arrived. Beckett knew a beach he wanted her to see. It was a nude beach in Santa Cruz County, just south of San Francisco. He smiled. Clothing was optional, and he wondered what Riley would look like with just a smile on her face and nothing else.

His phone suddenly rang, and the sound could be heard through the Mustang's speakers. Beckett was still getting used to blue tooth hands-free phone communication. One push of the button and he was talking with someone as if they were riding next to him. He pushed that button and said hello.

Beckett, this is Marston in Chicago.

Hi, Director. How are you? he asked.

Concerned, Marston said. When was the last time you spoke with Agent O’Connor?

In Chicago a few days ago, Beckett said. It was right after the shootout and explosion that killed the bombing suspects. She had a ton of paperwork to do. I volunteered to help, mostly with moral support, of course, but she told me to head back to California. She knew I was driving, and she planned to fly. She should be there by now.

She never made it, Marston said.

Beckett was quiet. The words hung in the air and stunned him for a moment.

What do you mean she never made it?

She’s missing, Beckett. No one can find her. She bought a ticket on a flight that should have put her in San Francisco two days ago. Our office tried to reach her for follow up questions, and when that failed we talked with the San Francisco office. I spoke with the director there, Sam Cunningham. His agents also tried to reach her, eventually going to her apartment. She’s not answering her phone or returning messages. Her apartment looked undisturbed. We’ve got her down as missing.

What’s next? Beckett asked.

Director Cunningham has assigned three of his best agents to investigate. He’s considering issuing an APB but is holding off for the moment.

I want to help, Beckett said.

I knew you would. I told Cunningham you were on your way and that I planned to talk with you. Give him a call when you arrive in San Francisco.

I just entered California ten minutes ago. I should be there in a couple of hours.

Keep me up to date. I hope this is short lived.

As I do, Beckett said. If she’s out there, I’ll find her.

Boulder Creek is a small town in the Santa Cruz mountains, 65 miles south of San Francisco. Surrounded by forests and a big state park, Boulder Creek is home to about 4500 residents. It was a logger town in the late 1800s and slowly became a refuge to many who preferred a more rural lifestyle.

From 1970 until early 1973, it was part of an area known as the murder capital of the world, a term coined by a reporter covering the carnage of that period. During 1972 and 1973, over twenty people were slaughtered by two psychopaths working independently. Herbert Mullin killed 13, and Edmund Kemper claimed at least seven victims. The two did not know each other, but their bloody reign terrorized the central coast until their capture.

Leonard Kolinsky had a small ramshackle cabin deep in the woods near Boulder Creek. One wall of his cabin was covered with old newspaper clipping of the grisly murders some 45 years ago. Each murder and follow up story received press coverage, and Leonard had managed to get reproductions of the headlines of that era. Like the killer Mullin, Kolinsky heard voices telling him of pending disaster that could only be avoided with the murder of innocents.

He was about to set off on his own killing spree. And he needed a witness, an impeccable witness that no one would question. His witness was in a small room off the kitchen, tied up, and gagged. Her name was Riley O'Connor.

2

Beckett got the phone call that O’Connor was missing on July 20 th . O’Connor had arrived at SFO on July 17 th at 6:30 pm. On the morning of the 17 th Leonard Kolinsky was still hearing voices, something that started for him a few weeks prior. The voices in Leonard’s head were sometimes exact. They had been quite clear that he must execute at least one person a week to stave off a disaster that would devastate him. The voices stopped short of specifying the exact nature of the disaster. That was left to Leonard’s imagination. He had a half dozen things that terrified him, and his mind took turns showing him each one, like a movie trailer on a loop. Over and over.

This constant churning was a terrible burden. To relieve it Leonard concluded that once he began his killing spree, the voices would stop telling him terrifying things. There was one condition, however, that Leonard could not forget. He must have a witness to his killings. The voice was very clear about that. At some point, Leonard would be called before God, and he would be required to produce a witness. On this subject the voice was specific. It would be best if the witness were an FBI agent or other law enforcement type.

This made sense to Leonard. An FBI agent was very trustworthy and what better quality could a witness have? Of course, that meant that Leonard needed to find an FBI agent, one who would cooperate, and that was going to be a considerable challenge.

As these thoughts came to a head, a stroke of good luck had come Leonard’s way. The local TV news had picked up a feed from CNN that showed a clip of an interview with an FBI agent who had just cracked a bombing case in Chicago. She was at the airport and on her way back to California. The news anchor was making a point that she was a local San Francisco-based agent who had been on loan to the Chicago field office. Her name was Riley O'Connor, and Leonard was immediately taken by her.

She was medium height, thin but with hints of athletic ability, and she wore her reddish brown hair shoulder length. Leonard guessed she might have a few freckles under her makeup. Leonard had stalked a woman before with a similar look. That was five years ago, and he paid the price for it; six months in the county jail. That didn’t cure him. After his release, he just lost interest. Seeing O'Connor on his portable TV rekindled his desire to possess such a woman. He decided within seconds that O'Connor would be his witness.

He quickly pulled up the schedules for flights from Chicago to SFO. There was one that had left an hour ago and was due to land at 6:30 pm. That had to be the one she was on. He had to hurry, but he would make it in time if he took the right route. The 280 freeway was the best bet. Traffic was light on the 280 compared to the 101. Both roads went north from San Jose to San Francisco. One would save him 30 minutes.

He would come up with his plan to snatch O’Connor as he drove north. If luck held, she would be on that flight. He smiled. He was feeling lucky.

When Beckett arrived in San Francisco on the 20th, he immediately drove to O'Connor's apartment. He had called ahead and spoke briefly with Director Cunningham. Beckett said he wanted to start by visiting O'Connor's residence. The local FBI had already searched her apartment, but Beckett convinced Cunningham that a fresh pair of eyes wouldn’t hurt. Cunningham agreed and said he would send over one of his agents, Sarah Murphy. New locks had been installed, and she would have a key to let him in.

Beckett pulled up to an address near Haight and Laguna in a neighborhood known as Hayes Valley. This was an undesirable area until the freeway overpass was removed, and then it became a hip place with rents to match. O'Connor's place was half of a large Victorian duplex. The FBI had already been at work, and several parking places had been blocked off for official use. Beckett slipped into one hoping Murphy was nearby and would put something official on his windshield. Getting towed is an automatic lousy day, and Beckett wanted no part of that.

A young woman walked up before he was able to get out of the Mustang. She waited patiently until he opened the door, slapping an FBI placard on the windshield as he stepped out of the car.

You must be Beckett, she said as she offered her hand.

She was medium height. Short dark hair. She looked a bit muscular under her cream-colored top. She wore black slacks and a lightweight brown jacket. Beckett noticed the bulge where her service pistol was strapped in a holster under the jacket. She appeared to be all business.

Beckett shook her hand.

Jack Beckett, at your service.

Sarah Murphy, FBI, she said with a smile. I’ve heard all about you.

That could be good or bad, he said.

Mostly good, I assure you, she said. I hear you want a peek into Riley’s apartment.

If you don’t mind, he said.

Follow me. She turned and walked up a short walkway and stepped onto a porch that ran the full width of the house. Two doors were close together in the center, and each opened to a separate apartment. She used a key to open the door on the right.

It opened into a large living room with big windows. There was plenty of light and the afternoon sun played off overstuffed furniture that looked comfortable and relatively new. The colors were earth tones, and the floor was covered with a tasteful area rug. The room had a slight smell of a house that had been shut up for a while. The impression was that Riley had not been here recently.

If you don’t mind, I’ll walk around, Beckett said.

Be my guest, Murphy said.

Beckett continued to walk down a hall with a bathroom on his left and what appeared to be a bedroom on his right. At the end of the hall was a kitchen. He went into each room, looking for anything out of the ordinary, especially slips of paper where a note may have been written. O'Connor had left her home in immaculate condition. Everything seemed to be in its place. She must have known she would be gone for a while when she left for Chicago. That was over a week ago.

He opened drawers in all rooms but didn't root around. Especially in the bedroom when he opened a drawer that contained her underwear. He closed that quickly when he realized what was in the drawer. It was very odd being in her place and not knowing where she was. Anger began to boil up inside, and he became determined to find her. If anyone had hurt her, they would pay the ultimate price.

Beckett returned to the living room where Murphy had taken a seat on the couch.

No clues, but you already knew that, right.

Yes, our team went through everything just as you did.

I was aware of that, Beckett said. I think I needed a starting point. I needed to know she was truly gone. Any idea why someone would do this?

Could be many things, Murphy said. We're checking people she busted who have been recently released. If anyone holds a grudge, they usually act on it within a year of their release.

That makes sense, Beckett said.

What are your thoughts? Murphy asked.

My gut tells me she was snatched at the airport, maybe as she was getting in her car. Someone may have seen something out of the ordinary. Do you know anyone who is good with social media?

In fact I do. My cousin has a small business that specializes in helping companies ramp up their social media. Why? What do you have in mind?

I’d like to run some ads on places like Facebook. Offer a reward for information. Try to find someone who saw something.

That would take the ok of Director Cunningham. We haven’t made a public statement yet that we have an agent missing.

Time for me to introduce myself to Director Cunningham. Care to come along?

Sure. This is personal for me, too. O’Connor is my friend.

Leonard left Boulder Creek at 3:45 pm on the 17th. It didn’t take him long to figure out a plan. He kept a bottle of chloroform and a few small face masks anyone can buy at a hardware store in the glove box of the old Dodge van he was driving. He had yet to decide the method he would use when he began his killing spree, but disabling a victim and bringing him or her back to his cabin was a real possibility.

He decided to stake out the approach to the parking garage and wait for the FBI agent to appear. There was a tunnel that connected each terminal to the parking garage. Passengers used that tunnel to reach a bank of elevators where they could then ride up to the floor where their car was parked. He decided that the agent would not be looking for anyone to follow her as she walked back to her car. If he was careful, he could keep her in sight until she got in the elevator, then run to make sure he was among the people inside before the door closed.

When the agent got to her floor, he would casually fall in behind her and slowly walk in the same direction. If he stayed back thirty or forty feet and pretended to look for his car, she may not notice him. Once she located her vehicle, he would begin to take action.

He would wait until she got into her car and started the engine. Typically, the door locks don't engage until a