Hollow Green Read online

Stone pushed off the desk and stood back.

  “Go get ’em.”

  The agents began to scramble.

  Vincent approached Stone and said, “I’d like to go with you to the facility.”

  Stone glanced up as she grabbed a file folder and shimmied her way toward the door. “Walk with me?” she asked, taking a reprieve from her usual demeanor of cold and authoritative.

  “I, uh…” she began. “I want to apologize to you.”

  “For what?” He was taken aback.

  Stone took a quick scan to see if any eyes were prying or any ears were listening. “For what you said. About it not being Michaels.”

  “How so?”

  “The last victim. It didn’t make any sense.”

  Vincent nodded. “And why do you think that is?”

  “The fact that the victim was male.”

  “Michaels killed males before, though…”

  Stone grabbed Vincent by the arm and slowed him down as they were three feet shy of the door. “No more games,” she said coolly. “Tell me what you’re thinking, I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. Look, it’s obvious you’re a great investigator. And you were right in saying that we needed to cooperate. So, this is me. Cooperating.”

  A smile crept its way into the corner of Vincent’s mouth. He was pleased at the change in Stone’s attitude. “If we were to assume that Michaels was indeed the killer, then he’s already broken his own pattern by killing the last victim. Yes, he had a male victim before. But that was a fluke. He was getting rid of a witness. And now, all of a sudden, he’s killing a male victim deliberately. It doesn’t fit. It doesn’t feel right.”

  “Feelings don’t constitute legitimate detective work.”

  “Quite the opposite. All good detectives have one thing that sets them apart from the FBI’s scalpel-like deduction methods. They have one thing that yields them better results than anything else.”

  “And what is that?”

  Vincent shrugged. “Gut instinct.”

  Stone held up a finger. “As different as we may be, even though I work for the Bureau, I’m not that different from you. I have a similar philosophy and approach to this job. I believe gut instinct is what makes a great investigator stand out from a bad one, but I also believe that facts and a good sense of technical deduction have to go along with the gut to make it work.”

  “Is this your way of saying we’re on a team now as opposed to a one-man show, Agent Stone?”

  Stone thought for a moment.

  “You could say that,” she said. “Sure.”

  Both of them comfortably shared the silence.

  Vincent said, “So you want to go to the hospital, yes?”

  “I do. I want to talk to this Dr. Davidson.”

  “You know that you could’ve just brought him here. Or made a phone call.”

  Stone tapped the back of her hand against Vincent’s chest. “Come on, detective. Where’s the fun in that?”

  5

  Sandoval stayed behind at the station to work with the chief on Hollow Green Police Department’s end of the manhunt. Stone ordered the agents who were originally supposed to ride with her to the facility to stay behind, and temporarily gave the assistant special agent in charge working alongside her the reins, since she was now going to work alongside Vincent for the duration of the search.

  “You married, detective?” Stone asked as the unmarked sedan she was behind the wheel of ground up the gravel beneath them, the car shooting down a two-lane road that snaked through the barren flatlands surrounding the prison just outside of Hollow Green.

  Vincent shook his head. “Didn’t take you long to ask that one”.

  “I’m naturally curious,” Stone said. “I am an FBI agent, after all.”

  Vincent half turned his head and said, “Yeah. I was married,” out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Any kids?”

  “Just one. Claire.”

  Stone took a breath. “I have one too. A boy. Tray.”

  Vincent was finding that his respect for Stone had increased just a little bit.

  “How old?” he asked.

  “Eight. Yours?”

  Vincent said nothing.

  I can’t honestly remember…

  Stone, adept and keen with her empathy, could sense the backlogged self-animosity that Vincent had, and decided to give him a bit of leeway and veer the subject away from his child.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said. “About the job?”

  Vincent shrugged. “Shoot.”

  “Why did you leave Chicago PD? Full disclosure, I’ve heard of you. Your work on the McCauley case really assisted those people in L.A. when they caught him.”

  Vincent shook his head. “Those guys in the LAPD brought him down. Not me.”

  “You’re being modest. McCauley was practically a ghost. Your work helped them sniff out a trail. I mean, your work on the Red Line murders was just…”

  Stone couldn’t find the words.

  But needless to say, she was impressed.

  Vincent said, “I’m not hearing a question, Special Agent Stone.”

  Stone said, “I guess I want to know why you quit.”

  “I already told you.”

  “I believe what you told me was a partial answer. A guy like you has a strong stomach. I have a hard time believing you just up and left because the stress of the job got to you.”

  “It’s a realistic scenario. It’s happened to plenty of police officers before me. I’m sure there will be plenty more after, as well.”

  “Yeah.” Stone looked at him while trying to keep an eye on the road. “But I don’t think that’s the case for you. I think something happened. Maybe you got into a bit of trouble.”

  Vincent looked at her cautiously. “I’m not looking to incriminate myself—”

  Stone held up a hand. “I’m just asking as a colleague. That’s all. And you don’t have to answer. I mean that.”

  Vincent looked out the window at the barren flatlands. The brown-tainted patches of grass and soulless feel to the surrounding terrain was like a canvas for his thoughts, his life playing out on the screen like a sad film with an up-in-the-air ending that would probably only go one of two ways.

  “I shot the wrong person,” he said. “That’s what happened.”

  Silence. Nothing but the tires on gravel and the hum of the motor filled the void.

  “It was dark,” Vincent said. “And the guy was a perp, but…”

  He closed his eyes. Looked away. Still carrying a cross built out of his sins that cost him a job, a marriage, and a steady relationship with his own flesh and blood.

  He decided to finish the tale.

  “I made a mistake,” he said. “The man I shot was no saint, but being boozed up at the time didn’t help. I cut a deal, I was dismissed from the department, and I was cast out of my home and launched out a cannon that landed me here in purgatory.”

  Stone shrugged. “Hollow Green seems like an easy town to live in.”

  “For a minute,” Vincent said. “And then reality catches up to you. Your past catches up to you. Hollow Green really lives up to its name. You end up feeling those very two things after six months of living here…”

  Stone didn’t know what to say.

  But before she had a chance to switch gears, when they were just one mile outside the prison, Sandoval called to inform them of some interesting—very interesting—developments in the case.

  The last victim, Bryan Presley, was a guard at Hollow Green.

  Stone put the car in park just outside the prison gates as Vincent finished up with Sandoval.

  “A guard?” Vincent said into his cell. “You’re sure?”

  “Positive,” Sandoval replied. “I’m looking at his work badge right now. I was questioning his wife when she brought it up.”

  Vincent sighed. “How could we have overlooked this?”

  “Everyone was scrambling. We could take the time to find someone to
point the finger at, but I think there are slightly more pressing issues at the moment.”

  “Yeah, I read you. Look, we’re about to head in. See what you can dig up on Presley’s work history. I’ll call you back in a few.”

  Vincent hung up.

  Stone asked, “Who was that?”

  “Sandoval,” Vincent said. “Apparently Bryan Presley was a guard here.”

  Stone felt her adrenaline spike slightly.

  The coincidences were starting to stack up.

  6

  Hollow Green Mental Health Facility was a privately-owned institute that received its yearly funds from a grant. The entire facility was a plain, fifteen-acre compound with three stories and a façade that looked similar to that of an office park you’d find in any town in America, stacked in a T-shaped layout with the housing for the “patients” at the top of the T, facing east.

  The only difference between the taupe building and others just like it was the twelve-foot-high chain-link fence topped with razor wire, guarded by two pairs of security officers in white uniforms at the front gates and the two guard towers on either side.

  Stone pulled the car up to the gate, flashed her badge, and said, “Agent Stone and Detective Vincent. We’d like to speak with Dr. Davidson immediately.”

  The guard, a burly guy with a crew cut, held up a finger and retreated into the shack and made a phone call. After twenty second, she returned, the gate buzzed, and the guard gestured for them to head in.

  Stone pulled into the parking lot to the west, threw it into park, and, after checking through security, they were greeted inside a green-painted hallway with no windows and a controlled climate that kept everything at a frigidly cold temperature.

  Vincent leaned into Stone’s ear and said, “Let’s wait to ask him about Presley.”

  “Agreed,” Stone said. “We should act like this whole thing is a formality. We ask him about the conditions of Michaels’ release, his prognosis on the guy, etcetera. Then we’ll start grilling him.”

  “Want to take the lead?”

  Stone motioned toward the slim, towering figure of a man in a tweed jacket approaching them with a warm smile and said, “Be my guest, detective.”

  “Dr. Davidson.” The Harvard-looking man extended a hand to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Stone and Vincent shook his hand. “I’m sorry to just barge in like this,” Vincent said. “But we’re in the middle of a situation right now, and your insight might help us.”

  Davidson pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Do you want to speak privately in my office, perhaps?” he asked like he was offering them a cup of tea.

  “That would be great.”

  Davidson led the way toward his office, moving left and then right down the depressing hallway before leading them into a modestly sized office with an oak desk, stacks of papers, a bookshelf with obscure texts lining the shelves, and a chain-link window behind him that overlooked the recreational yard.

  “I assume you’re here to talk to me about Trevor Michaels,” Davidson said, he slipped into his creaky wooden chair.

  “As a matter of fact,” Stone said, lingering near the door, “yes.”

  “I stand by my final report when he was discharged. Michaels’ time in this institution proved valuable. He made great strides during his time here. Quite honestly, I was amazed at how well adjusted he was when he left.”

  “He was released on a work order, correct?” Vincent asked.

  Davidson nodded. “Correct. He was assigned a parole officer and given a job at a local packing plant working ten-hour days. Under supervision, of course. While I still vouch for Michaels’ current state of mind, I felt it necessary to recommend to the judge overseeing his case to keep a… well, let’s say a ‘tight leash’ on him for the first few months of his release.”

  Vincent asked, “When was the last time you spoke to either Michaels or his PO?”

  “Two days after his release. They simply wanted another copy of my official report.”

  “So then you’re not aware that Michaels left town and has been missing for the past six days?”

  A look of concern and shame overcame Davidson’s eyes, magnified by the glasses he wore on the tip of his nose.

  He nervously cleared his throat. “I was not made aware.”

  “Are you aware,” Stone said, “that Hollow Green has now experienced three murders in the past four days, all committed in the same fashion as Michaels’ original murders?”

  Davidson removed his glasses, propped his elbows on his desk, and began rubbing his temples as his eyes strayed.

  “No,” he said. “I was not aware of that either…”

  Vincent shot a look in Stone’s direction.

  She replied with the subtlest of nods.

  “Dr. Davidson.” Vincent watched as Davidson slipped his glasses back on. “We’re currently in the middle of manhunt over in Hollow Green. The whole town is practically under martial law at the moment. We’re trying to see if there’s anything that occurred during Michaels’ stay here, more specifically the final days of his incarceration, that might give us some kind of clue as to where he is or why this is happening. I’m sorry to be speaking to you in such broad strokes, but the situation is unprecedented, and we’re all scrambling to catch up.”

  Davidson resumed his doctoral composure and held up a hand. “I understand, detective. I want to help you in any way that I can. I feel, dare I say it… I feel somewhat responsible for what’s happened.”

  Vincent shook his head. “The killer is responsible for what’s going on. Not you.”

  Seconds passed.

  “How many victims have there been, again?” Davidson asked.

  “Three so far,” Vincent said.

  “That’s horrible. And you said they were done in the same fashion as Michaels’ earlier killings, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m assuming they are random killings. That’s how Michaels operated before—if this is indeed Michaels.”

  Okay.

  Ask him.

  He held up a finger. “There was something about the last victim I found very peculiar.”

  “What was it?”

  “It was a man by the name of Bryan Presley. He was a guard at this very facility.”

  A long pause from Davidson, a stoic yet shocked reaction on his face. “Good lord… Bryan Presley?”

  Vincent nodded. “Correct.”

  Davidson threw his weight back in his chair, removed his glasses, and shook his head. “This is egregious. This is… This is unfathomable.”

  “Was Presley on schedule to work today?”

  “No… No, he was on a two-day break. I didn’t expect to hear from him or see him until Thursday.”

  Vincent looked at Davidson’s reaction, trying to spot a tell, some kind of indication that he wasn’t being forthright, that he was withholding vital information that could prove useful.

  But Vincent found nothing.

  He’s being truthful. Yet something still feels off.

  Vincent opted to play it cool. “I’d like to take a look at some of the work logs here, if you don’t mind.”

  Davidson took on a compliant and eager tone. “Of course, of course.” He stood up, then snapped his fingers and said, “I actually still have his personal belongings that he had with him in his cell. There was a snafu, and Michaels took the wrong box with him. His parole officer was trying to handle the exchange, but obviously, we never got around to it.”

  “That would be great.”

  Davidson moved toward the door. “In fact,” he said, “I’m going to speak with Delores. She works in HR. I’ll have her start pulling files. Just give me one moment.”

  He hustled out of the room.

  Stone approached Vincent. “What’s your read?” he asked her quietly.

  She said, “He seems on the up-and-up.”

  “Kind of.”

  Stone looked at him as she lean
ed against Davidson’s desk. “What are you driving at?”

  Vincent shifted his weight. “He didn’t seem evasive. I mean, he seemed genuine, but there were some things in his narrative that didn’t make sense.”

  “Such as?”

  “His confidence on Michaels’ discharge from the hospital. The fact that he was so positive the guy was fine and then acted shocked when the guy turned out to have allegedly gone psychotic again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I feel like a guy like him would have been persistent on his diagnosis of a patient. Doctors more often than not stand by their word. I mean, in their line of work it can sometimes be literally life or death when they touch something. We never said for certain that Michaels was the killer.”

  “You implied it.”

  “Still. That’s the only part that doesn’t make sense.”

  Two seconds later, Stone’s cell phone rang. “It’s one of my agents,” she said as she moved toward the hallway. “I gotta take this.”

  Stone excused herself. A half-minute later, Davidson reentered the room.

  “Detective,” he said, “follow me.”

  7

  Davidson brought Vincent up to the second floor and into a spacious area that looked very similar to an evidence locker in a police station. There were several rows with metal shelving stacked seven feet high and ripe with boxes marked in felt pen. Squatting on a chair behind a dented metal desk, a distant look on her face, was an elderly woman with a pink cardigan draped over her shoulders.

  “Delores, my dear,” Davidson said as they entered the room. “This is the detective I just spoke to you about.”

  “Detective Vincent,” Vincent said, gently shaking her hand.

  Delores, not making eye contact, waved Vincent on wearily as she shuffled her tennis-shoe-clad feet toward the back of the room.

  “Michaels didn’t have much,” she said unenthusiastically. “He was, what do you call it, a minimalist.”

  Davidson, turned toward the door, said, “I’ll go speak with the guards on Michaels’ old cell block and tell them you’re coming by shortly to inspect it.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” Vincent said. “If you could snag Agent Stone out there in the hallway and relay that, I’d really appreciate it.”