The Love Killings by Robert Ellis Read Free Book Online Page B

city’s mayor.
    Matt breezed through security with his new ID. The special task force was housed on the eighth floor with Violent Crime. Kate Brown was waiting for him and eyed the badge clipped to his belt as he stepped out of the elevator.
    “Any trouble downstairs?” she asked.
    “No,” he said. “It was easy.”
    “You need to meet someone before Dr. Westbrook gets started.”
    He nodded and followed her down the hall to a large corner office. Ken Doyle was standing by the desk with a man Matt assumed was Wes Rogers.
    Doyle smiled. “Glad you made it, Jones. This is Wes Rogers, special agent in charge. I think you’ll like working with him.”
    Matt met Rogers’s even gaze and shook his hand.
    “Good to meet you, Jones. Welcome to the task force. We’ll get you squared away after the briefing. Sound good?”
    Matt nodded. “Thanks.”
    Doyle rested his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Brown gave us an update on your walk through the crime scene, Jones. You’re already paying off dividends, and I’m glad you’re here. Now let’s get down to the Crisis Room.”
    Doyle led the way out of the office. As they started down the hall, Matt kept his eyes on Rogers. The truth was that the special agent in charge came off like a forty-five-year-old version of the actor James Earl Jones. His voice was deep and throaty like the actor’s, his complexion on the medium side, and he had those steady eyes that seemed to sweep your way and lock in. He was a big man with a firm handshake. Matt couldn’t help but be impressed by his demeanor and presence, his confidence.
    The Crisis Room was around the next corner at the very end of the hallway. Rogers held the door open, and Matt entered and took a quick look around. His first thought was that the Feds had money. Everything appeared to be ultra-modern and high-tech, including the media wall at the head of the room, which housed three massive video monitors. Below the screens a lectern with a lamp had been set on a low built-in stage. More than twenty members of the task force were sitting in chairs, waiting to be briefed by Dr. Westbrook. Behind them Matt counted twenty-four desks pushed together in pairs so that they faced each other. He looked at the laptop computers on the desktops, the matching desk lamps, and the conference room in back enclosed in walls of glass. Everything appeared to be new and up-to-date. Clearly, he wasn’t in an office anywhere near the Hollywood station right now.
    “Let’s find a seat,” Brown said.
    Matt followed her over to the last row of chairs, gazing at the monitors as they sat down. The video feeds were different on all three. The first screen was switched to a cable news station and muted. On the far right screen, someone had put together a clip that depicted Dr. Baylor’s face as it had been six weeks ago, cut against what he might look like today if he’d made any changes. One shot after the next showed the doctor wearing a moustache, a beard, eyeglasses with different frames, a change in hair color, and a variety of common hats.
    Matt found the clip impressive—the Feds had money and they had time—but it was the screen in the middle that grabbed his attention.
    The feed was paused and darkened, yet the image still had impact. It was video from the Strattons’ second-floor landing, and Matt couldn’t take his eyes off it. Last night he could only imagine what had happened on the night of the murders. Now, looking at the victims as they were found, everything changed.
    “Their eyes are open,” he whispered.
    Brown leaned closer. “Wide-open like they’re still alive. That’s one reason why it went from local to county so quickly. The first responders freaked out.”
    Matt nodded slightly, his mind fixated on the center screen. He was wondering how he would have responded had he been the first one to enter the Strattons’ home and discover the crime scene. How anyone would have responded. He looked at the father sitting