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“So how did it work?” Sampson asked. “One killer?”
“He’d have to be a ninja or something,” I said. “I’m thinking four.”
“At the same time?” Bree said.
I looked around, saw no lightbulbs in any of the exterior light fixtures.
“At the same time and in the dark,” I said. Then, gesturing toward the steel doors, I asked, “If they were guards, what were they guarding?”
Sampson went to the near door, turned the knob, and pushed. The door creaked open. We got out Maglites and, pistols drawn, entered the abandoned factory. I led, my beam flickering down the cement-floored hall to swinging double doors, which I pushed through.
Big machine tools had once occupied the large open space. You could see the outlines of them on the floors beneath a film of grit and dust; you could smell the oil of them in the air. There was also a faint smell of engine exhaust.
Pigeons flew through broken windows two stories above us. The sun was starting to light up the area, but I kept the flashlight on, peering around, seeing that about halfway across the factory, the vault met the walls of a second story. In the space below that upper floor, there were two large gas-fired electrical generators idling, the source of that exhaust smell.
“No one move,” Bree said.
I turned and found her studying the factory floor. She scuffed at the grime with the toe of her shoe and then turned her light back the way we’d come.
“We’re leaving footprints here,” she said. “But not back in the hallway. It’s been swept. Maybe mopped.”
I got what she was saying and trained my flashlight on the floor by the double doors. The floor there was clean as well. On either side of the doors, there was a cleaned path about twenty inches wide that ran the length of the room tight to the wall; each ended at a steel industrial staircase.
We didn’t need the flashlights to see that the stairs climbed to two catwalks and that the catwalks led to doors, one at either end of the second story. We walked along the left path, our flashlight beams finding mounds of junk, old pipes, conduits, and metal fittings, all coated in filth.
But the steel staircases looked freshly swept. The catwalk too.
One door was ajar, and I could see light shining beyond.
“Alex?” Sampson said. He’d stopped on the catwalk behind me and was shining his light down at the factory floor and onto a fifth dead man sprawled on his belly there.
“He’s been shot in the head,” Bree said, focusing her beam on the nasty exit wound at the back of his skull. “I’m calling in a second forensics team.”
“Smart,” I said, shifting my attention to the open doorway. I moved closer and pushed the door inward, revealing a short passage that was blocked from floor to ceiling and wall to wall with black, heavy-gauge plastic sheeting.
There was an industrial-strength vertical zipper in the sheeting and two small square windows through which light was blazing. I stepped up, looked through one of the windows, and felt my stomach fall twenty stories.
“Alex?” Bree said from behind me. “What is that?”
“An air lock,” I said, twisting away from the window.
She must have caught the shock on my face, said, “What?”
“Call in two more forensics teams,” I replied, hearing the tremor in my voice. “Better yet, call the FBI, Ned Mahoney. Tell him we need a team of the best from Quantico. And have them bring chemists and hazmat suits.”
Chapter
20
By the time my old friend and partner Ned Mahoney and two FBI chemists arrived, there were news satellite trucks setting up and news helicopters circling overhead.
I was on the phone with Chief Michaels, having just given him an overview of what we’d seen inside.
“Jesus,” he said. “The FBI will take this over, won’t they?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Which brings me to your question from last night.”
“Okay?”
