Chapter 1
Had I known that the call would come so early . . . I wouldn’t have stayed out so late hydrating with vodka.
Good to see not much has changed on the twenty-sixth floor. The secretary at the main desk has a familiar smile, one I remember from years earlier.
“Neil Baggio, I had a feeling we’d be seeing you back here.”
“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “I was afraid I’d never see your face again. How are you, Jen?”
“I’m doing good. They’re paying me well, plus the benefits are great.
How are you? I’ve read quite a few stories in the paper that had your company’s name in them. It sounds like running your own shop is keeping you busy these days.”
“Yeah, I mostly just sit back and enjoy the show now that I have a lot of talented people working for me. I’ve got a few ex-military guys and a couple of veteran investigators, including an ex-cop. Business is booming, as they say.”
“All those cheating, rich husbands must be keeping your lights on.”
“And for that, Jen, I thank them. Because of those cheating, rich husbands, I finally enjoy a decent life.”
“Well, let me tell Agent Garcia you’re here. You know the way—it’s your old office, after all. Though from the looks of it, she’s done a far better job with it than you did.”
“That’s not saying much, considering I never did a thing to it.”
“That’s true. You seemed to prefer unfinished drywall and folding chairs to a nice paint job and a leather sofa. Maybe you never planned to stick around.”
“You got me there. It was good seeing you again, Jen.”
“You too, Neil. Don’t be a stranger.”
After all these years, the FBI’s Detroit branch offices still felt like death. The hallways as mildewed as ever, the only noticeable change since I last worked out of the McNamara Federal office the new carpet. Back then, it was linoleum flooring and white walls. I suspect the building was designed that way on purpose, to ensure agents spent their time out in the field instead of trapped in this soul-sucking, overly-lit fluorescent box.
Could it be any brighter in here? I mean, fuck! I swear I’m seeing spots and my head is killing me. Of course, that could be the hangover I brought in with me. You can get careless and stay out a little too late when you run your own private investigation and security firm with the perks of a flex-time schedule. But such perks don’t help with the hangover’s vicelike grip.
I’m not bringing my A or B game, as cemented by the incessant ringing of both my home and cell phone this morning. A rude, 5:00 a.m. awakening from the FBI. I knew the Bureau would want to bring me back in for this case, should it ever reopen. Had I known that the call would come so early after the latest development on Trumbull Avenue, I wouldn’t have stayed out so late hydrating with vodka. My biggest question was, how much of my help did they need? Taking the first step toward solving that mystery meant meandering down the hallway to Agent Garcia’s office, trying not to look like a lopsided cartoon character.
My first glimpse of my old office amazed me. Garcia hadn’t just made a few adjustments. She’d changed everything, including the favorite wall I used to punch, which doubled as a hiding spot for paperwork I hadn’t turned in. I know, I know—look at the meathead G-man who can only express emotions with his fists. But at the end of a crazy week or month, we agents pushed paperwork to the bottom of the priority list. Jen saved my ass there on more than one occasion. Taking dictation as I ranted around the room, making sure those papers got filed on time.
“Come on in and take a seat, Mister Baggio. I’ll just be a moment.” Agent Garcia directed me toward a chair while standing to one side of her desk, ear pressed to her phone.
Everything about Agent Maria Garcia’s appearance spoke of planning and execution to the last detail. From her crisp tailored suit, to her catalog-worthy hair and makeup, to the straightening of her posture as I entered. A hyperawareness of perception. Government jobs like this tend to involve more scrutiny and hurdles for women than for men. A male agent could drag into the office, rumpled and unshaven, and nobody would say a word, assuming an all-nighter working a case.A female agent’s image intertwined with that of the Bureau’s.
I took the leather chair in front of Garcia’s desk, admiring what she’d done with the place. I’d considered having an office an obligation I never asked for, treating it as storage for case files. For Garcia, the office functioned as a curated extension of her persona, starting with an Amish-crafted oak desk, as denoted by the maker’s mark. Yet, despite such exquisite woodwork, Garcia used a simple metal folding chair. All her degrees hung on the wall, alongside photos of herself with several political figures and local celebrities. I liked her picture with Thomas “The Hitman” Hearns, the legendary boxer and local hero, who still shows up at the Kronk Gym, sometimes to growl encouragement at young fighters.
Even her oak squirrel paperweight fit perfectly with everything else. Judging by the wood grain and stain, handcrafted by the same Amish family that made the desk. The emphasis on detail got under my skin. Too nice a workspace for a field agent; more like a politician’s office. Then again, she might aspire in that direction. Her persona screamed political figure.
“Sorry about that, I had some loose ends to tie up,” Garcia said. “It seems like some of my superiors aren’t too happy you’re here.”
“Let me guess. Bob Hendrickson?”
“Very perceptive, Mister Baggio. Is there anything else you picked up eavesdropping while I was on the phone?”
“Honestly speaking?”
“I’d have it no other way.”
“You appear to have a problem with your image; you worry about it too much. That’s probably why you’re such a good agent. I was never image conscious myself. I just wanted to work the case and I couldn’t care less which politicians I pissed off in the process.”
“Oh, is that a fact? It looks like you’ve deduced quite a bit from just one phone call.”
“You also keep staring at your chair.”
“My chair?”
“It doesn’t exactly fit your aesthetic, does it? My guess is that you were supposed to have something much fancier delivered this week; however, it didn’t come in, so now you’re stuck sitting on an unstylish leftover from the supply closet. If you’re going to throw around words like ‘deduced,’ then I’ll be happy to show off my Sherlock Holmes impression. It’s always a crowd pleaser.”
I was pushing it, but little charm might break the ice. I tend to go for disarming, from simple conversations to criminals with a firearm on me.
“Nice job. I’ll give you points for the chair. An old colleague and mentor of mine ordered me a new one as a gift; I got my first big collar last month.”
“Congratulations. Gracin?”
“Gracin, what?”
“He’s still giving out those Eames executive chairs. Let me guess: merlot-colored leather with extra lumbar support.”
Agent Garcia narrowed her eyes at me—a look I’ve gotten from more women than I care to admit. “How did you know?” she said.
“Because I can see the order form on your desk. Sorry, Agent Garcia. Just a little fun at your expense. I’ll try to keep the deducing to a minimum.”
“Old habits die hard, I suppose. Now let’s move on to the business at hand. Have you been following the news?”
“Close enough to know why I’m here.”
“Well, let’s get straight to the point then, shall we?”
I’d been following this thing for months, but I wouldn’t tip my hand quite yet, because the less they thought I knew, the more freedom I’d have to gain leads. Plus, if Garcia found out how much I did know about the case, she’d want to know how I got the information. I didn’t plan to tell her anything yet; better to keep her and Hendrickson in the dark.
When I first worked the Cappelano case, it took a long time to get a handle on him because of his obsessive nature and personalized approach to murder. He burned an insignia into the victim’s skin, each branding stamp unique. Cappelano enjoyed the intimate process of tailoring each victim’s stamp, all while knowing someone went about their day unaware of the horror he had in store for them. A sick and twisted individual. Who killed people and believed he did the world a favor? He didn’t kill out of any sense of justice, but for firsthand “research” into the psychology of a murderer, to bring greater understanding to humanity.
“Well, you called me here, so why don’t you start?” I said, getting comfortable.
“First things first, we believe Veritas has come out of hiding to continue what he started back in ninety-eight.”
“That’s a good guess. Do you have any evidence this is, in fact, Cappelano and not a copycat killer?”
“We are almost certain this is Veritas based on—”
“Please call him by his name,” I interrupted. “I can’t stand that tag. His name is Franklin Cappelano.”
“Apologies. I didn’t mean to strike a nerve. Anyway, we know he wants you on this case, and we think he’ll keep killing until we bring you back in.”
“Fuck, Cappelano always did have a hard-on for me.”
You can never tell what will inspire a serial killer, but sexual gratification almost always drives some of the violent act. The victims’ physical appearance could trigger a killer’s dark urges, or the personal attention of being hunted by individual detectives. Over time, their motivations can even evolve from one trigger to another. Which is why I often consider the serial killers I chase as pansexual; there are few defined boundaries to their lust.
“Mister Baggio, watch your language. The reason you’re here is that we want you back, and we’re willing to pay you substantially.”
“Substantially, please—the bureau doesn’t pay substantially for anything. But I hear you. I only have one question before I think this over.”
“I know what you’re thinking. And yes, Bob Hendrickson is still running things around here. No, he’s not entirely happy about this move to bring you in, but then again, this decision goes over his head as well.”
She had no clue what I was thinking; she wasn’t there when the case fell apart, and she had no idea what it did to me. Hendrickson was one of the reasons I’d been gone for so long. I was working in handcuffs on because Bob Hendrickson didn’t want any bad publicity. When it comes to murder cases, I care about getting the offender off the streets. If I wanted to get into politics, I would have chosen a different path from working for the FBI on serial homicide cases. Our justice system has become so crippled because of ties to the political system. Worrying about the votes those in office will gain or lose makes shooting straight hard. Instead of choosing right, we choose safety, so no one important looks bad. I want no part of working within that system anymore.
“Really, why don’t you enlighten me on what I’m thinking?” I ask her.
“I know how you feel you were treated. It was just standard bureau practice, you know that.”
Bureaucratic practice would be more accurate. Pulling me off the Cappelano investigation was nothing but a political move for Hendrickson, more concerned with the political and public fallout of my plan—and sure, maybe the financial cost, too—than catching a crazed killer. But hey, that’s why I don’t have a position in leadership; I forget the cost, get too tied up in the catch. It seems like the citizens Hendrickson claims to serve would care we caught the guy more than how we did it. So long as we avoided collateral damage.
“The ball is in your court, Mister Baggio.”
“Well, I need a day to think about it. How about lunch tomorrow? I have to set some things in motion at work if I’m going to do this.”
“That’s fine. Say, noon tomorrow at Mama Rosa’s? Do you remember the place?”
“Yeah, I know the place. Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”
I didn’t need time to think about it. But some posturing would hide my eagerness to get back on this case. If they knew about my fixation on the chase, my fantasies about cuffing Cappelano, they could control me. Acting like I could take it or leave it gave me bargaining power. If I played my cards right, the Bureau would give me almost complete power over the case instead of treating me like a rookie on a ride-along.
I got a sudden vision of Bob Hendrickson fuming in his office. Not just because the Bureau wanted me back in for this case. But because he always knew he couldn’t catch Cappelano without me. Letting a killer escape once looks bad enough to the public eye; twice would mean unmitigated disaster. For once, Hendrickson’s political reputation and the case’s high profile would work in my favor. Too bad we couldn’t set aside our personal problems and work together, but then again, we are both stubborn-ass men. That didn’t make for a good excuse, but it was the simplest explanation.
“Well then, we’re done here. We can cover the Trumbull case tomorrow. I’m still waiting on some details from the assigned agents,” Garcia said, flashing me a rehearsed professional smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mister Baggio?”
“I’ll be there with bells on. And it’s Neil.”
The murder on Trumbull brought me here. The Bureau and I share the same opinion, that with this murder, Cappelano has begun working his way back into the fold. If the team assigned to the Trumbull case turns up anything new, they’ll let me know, but since they get to keep working on it, I assume focus has shifted to the next case. With Cappelano, there’s always a next case.
Walking out of Agent Garcia’s office, I had accomplished my goal: Garcia and I established an understanding, I got my foot back in, and I let the Bureau dangle a carrot in front of me. Before I’d even exited the building, Ken called my cell from the warehouse.
“How’d the meeting go?”
“You called quick. I could still be in Garcia’s office right now.”
“We both know you keep it short, bud. Especially when you’re trying to get your way.”
“You’re right, that’s exactly what I did. But I was in there twenty minutes, not fifteen.”
“I figured they’d try stalling. You know, where they have the secretary page them as you walk into the office, and they act like they’re on an important call to make you wait.”
“Good guess; that’s exactly how she played it. How’re things out at the warehouse tonight? Anything major going on?”
“Nothing too special. Are you coming in so we can schedule things up for this case?”
“I’m heading out there right now. Since I’m already downtown, shouldn’t take me too long to get there. See you in about fifteen minutes.”
“Alright, sounds good. See you in a bit.”
Ken and I met in May 2001, when I frequented a small bar called Kelly’s not too far from my house. I’d hung out there a lot, not drinking, but enjoying the atmosphere. I could bring my laptop and some old unsolved case files and just work. Ken used to own the bar as a retired army ranger of twenty-three years. He told me he wanted out of the bar business and would love to help with my cases. So we worked together a few times. Our first case together involved a company concerned one of their warehouse managers was stealing from them.
Ken and I staked out the warehouse in a rotating eight-hour shift for six days, during which time we got to know each other better. As business kept coming in, we kept working together, then had to hire more help to handle demand. He called some of his old military buddies, who, in turn, brought in some ex-cops. Eventually CB, Inc. was born. The “C” stands for Chamberlain in Kenneth Maurice Chamberlain. Calling him Mo or Maurice will get you hurt. He hates that name. The “B” stands for Baggio in Neil Baggio. The company that hired me for that warehouse job later closed up and moved out of state, so Ken and I bought the place.
A year or so passed before we had the money and clout to turn a two-man operation into half-a-dozen men. Before that, we operated out of Ken’s bar. When, in the summer of 2002, Ken and I decided to find a place to set up shop, the warehouse happened to fall into our laps. After we drove around looking for properties and saw it had come up for sale, I called the owner. Thanks to our previous relationship, he sold it to us for next to nothing. Ken sold his bar. That money, along with what I had saved up, went to remodeling. Though the warehouse came to us a shell of a building, it was just what we needed.
Today the outside still looks the same. We did all the work on the inside -fixing all the weak points, building new doorways just within the outer ones.Though the doors outside remain unlocked, once you walk in, you are in a small hall with another door only accessible by key card. Same with the car bay. All to keep track of who opens what and when. The same keypads lock all the offices to protect everyone’s property. This way, if someone does use their card to break in, they can only open a few other doors in the building.Most of the surveillance equipment gets locked in a separate room with limited access.If an investigator needs equipment, they must check it out. Maybe the system seems a little elementary, but it keeps our costs down, forces people to take care of things. No one wants to pay for replacement of a new camera or high-powered night binoculars.
Meeting with Ken will be nothing of great importance tonight. We’ll review everyone’s status on their cases and decide who to use in this one. Even though I’m working for the Bureau this time, I don’t trust them as far as I can throw them. For my sanity and everyone around me, I’ll use my guys where the Bureau can’t go. Because where the Bureau must gain evidence through legal procedures, my guys don’t have to, allowing me more movement within the investigation I otherwise wouldn’t have.
Most of the time Ken and I would just bullshit around, making fun of the FBI. We’d make sure to stay on the same page going into this investigation so we didn’t step on each other’s toes.
