A Bustle in the Hedgerow (CASMIRC Book 1) Read online

  PRAISE FOR A BUSTLE IN THE HEDGEROW

  “This nail-biter teems with suspense and competently manages two murder mysteries in one… An unrelenting debut thriller that reads like the work of a pro.”

  -Kirkus Reviews

  “I highly recommend A Bustle in the Hedgerow to any fan of intelligent thrillers. I could not put [it] down. An amazing first novel by an author who crafted a complex and unfortunately believable mystery/thriller that I will not soon forget.”

  -Peter Haywood Shaw, author of Teeth of the Fog

  “A Bustle in the Hedgerow starts out deceptively simple, but gets more complex and interesting as the mystery deepens. Characters are three-dimensional and multifaceted…a good psychological thriller.”

  -Catherine Langrehr, IndieReader

  “Lots of twists and turns, manipulation and red herrings mean this is a book that will stay with you long after you finish it. You many also want to give your children a tighter hug this evening.”

  -Julie Ryan, author of Jenna’s Journey, allthingsbookie.com

  A Bustle in the Hedgerow

  A Novel

  By Ben Miller

  A Bustle in the Hedgerow

  By Ben Miller

  ISBN-13: 978-1494403720

  ISBN-10: 1494403722

  © Copyright 2013, by Ben Miller

  www.benmillerbooks.com

  All rights reserved

  Published by Krac Publishing

  Mars, PA

  Lyrics from "Family Snapshot"

  Written by Peter Gabriel

  Published by Real World Music Ltd

  Courtesy of petergabriel.com

  Reprinted by permission. International Copyright secured.

  Cover art by Beyond Book Covers

  www.beyondbookcovers.com

  © Copyright 2017, Ben Miller

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  INTRODUCTION:

  THE FBI AND CASMIRC

  The Federal Bureau of Investigation was not included in the original design of The United States of America. The delegates at the Second Continental Congress in the 1770s did not incorporate any federal law-enforcement agencies into their plan. The first such agency was the Department of Justice, established nearly a century later in 1870. Up until and even including that time, federal crimes were rare. Only those crimes that occurred on federal government reservations or that crossed state lines were considered “federal.” As such, the Department of Justice did not feel the need to hire its own investigative staff. Rather, on those exceedingly infrequent occasions that federal crimes happened, the DOJ would hire freelance private detectives to investigate. Around the turn of the Twentieth Century, the DOJ began soliciting the services of other government agencies, most often the Secret Service, to helm any inquiries. However, these agents then would report to the Director of the Secret Service, not the DOJ or its director, the Attorney General, creating an inherent problem in this configuration. This could lead to massive amounts of confusion and lost information, not to mention a potential conflict of interest, depending on the type of case.

  During Theodore Roosevelt’s second term in office, his Attorney General Charles Bonaparte voiced frustration regarding this system. He shared Roosevelt’s “Progressive” political bend, favoring more federal government involvement in an ever increasingly industrialized world. As such, he wanted his own team of investigators that reported directly to him. In May 1908, Congress heard his plea and outlawed the use of Secret Service Agents by the Department of Justice. Within the next two months, Bonaparte compiled thirty-four “Special Agents of the Department of Justice” – ten former Secret Service agents and twenty-four Department of Justice employees. On July 26, 1908, he ordered them to take a meeting with Chief Examiner Stanley W. Finch. Historians regard this meeting as the birth of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, even though the name was not applied until a year later by Bonaparte’s successor, Attorney General George Wickersham.

  The FBI spent much of the next several decades fighting against organized crime while also assisting local authorities with any investigative effort. In the early 1980s, the focus of the FBI expanded to include counter-terrorism, partly in anticipation of the 1984 Olympic Games in Los Angeles and the desire to avoid any situation similar to Munich in 1972. Despite this intense focus on potential international crime, in June 1984, at the suggestion of the Criminal Personality Research Project of 1982, President Ronald Reagan announced the creation of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, or NCAVC. The FBI training headquarters in Quantico, Virginia became the home for NCAVC, which, among other things, encompasses the Behavioral Analysis Unit.

  In October, 1998, Congress passed the Protection of Children from Sexual Predators Act. In it, a new division of the NCAVC was established: the Morgan P. Hardiman Child Abduction and Serial Murder Investigative Resource Center, or CASMIRC. Today, local authorities can enlist the services of CASMIRC for any suspected or actual violent crime committed against a child, which includes abduction, molestation, rape, and murder.

  DAY ONE:

  MONDAY

  1

  By the age of nine years, Adrianna Cottrell had concluded that a clear line exists between Good People and Bad People. Everyone lived on one side of the line or the other, and no one ever crossed the line. The two groups’ memberships were mutually exclusive. Of course, she belonged with the Good People. She smiled politely and spoke with kindness and respect. She took out the garbage when asked, made her bed most of the time, and often volunteered to help out with her little sister. She still picked her nose, like many people, but she would never eat the boogers, mostly in fear that this might disqualify her from the ranks of the Good. In fact, she had never done anything to suggest that she fit in with the Bad People; thus, by her reasoning, she didn’t deserve for anything bad to happen to her. Certainly she didn’t deserve to get murdered four months shy of her tenth birthday. Unfortunately for Adrianna the Bad People don’t seem to care about deserves.

  Her warm body lay in the midst of last autumn’s slimy, decaying leaves and the early sprouts of this spring’s weeds. Jed Thompson, the school’s gym teacher, discovered her, on the far side of a row of hedges, behind the tennis courts at the back of the playground. From his knees, with a faint plume of steam rising from the fresh pool of his vomit in front of him, Jed wondered how she had gotten on the other side of the hedges. He noticed no broken branches in the sturdy shrubbery, and surely this little third-grader couldn’t have done the Fosbury Flop over them. The thought quickly faded as he called 9-1-1.

  It took about eight minutes for the first responding police officer, Nat Fordham, to arrive. Like Jed, Nat had never seen a dead body before. Unlike Jed, Nat didn’t puke. Instead, he found himself transfixed on the glassy, lifeless eyes of the young girl. Along with her curly auburn hair, her green eyes had been Adrianna’s proudest and most distinguishing feature.

  Nat had served on the force a mere seven months. The following day he asked for a two-week leave-of-absence, which he received, but he never actually came back. It equaled the second-shortest stint ever with the York Police Force. Nat eventually went back to school, got a Master’s degree in accounting, and finished out his days as a CPA, but a week never passed that he didn’t think about that little girl lying in that bed of old leaves, her mouth turned down in a confused frown, her greenish eyes staring endlessly into the woods.

  2

&nbs
p; The lights emanated a tremendous amount of heat. He should have remembered how hot they were. He had sat here before, right in this same chair, in this same situation. He could feel tiny beads of sweat forming at the top of his forehead. He tried not to focus on the lights or their heat. Like all of the men in his family, once he got a true sweat going, Jackson Byrne would need sixty minutes and a cool towel to make it stop. This propensity toward profuse perspiration was perhaps the sole curse of being a Byrne Man.

  Why had he not remembered this detail of sitting here before? Given his history of copious perspiration, it seemed significant. Jack suddenly experienced a rare moment of insight: how was it that he possessed such skill in noticing the details of other people’s lives—or, more accurately, their deaths—yet he could easily forget an important aspect of his own experiences? He didn’t dwell on the thought for long, as he got distracted by the change in focus of the other people in the expansive studio.

  Caleb Goodnight came onto the stage, entering the glow of those bright lights. He had an innate way of garnering attention just by entering a room. He was not tall, nor exceedingly handsome, nor especially bright. Nevertheless, he commanded a presence, for he possessed seemingly supernatural charisma. For anyone who knew him well, this seemed the case for all of his 42 years. Unlike some of his talk-show counterparts, Caleb did not put up a façade. Genuinely personable and equally likable, he was kind to his friends, and he treated his guests like friends.

  In addition to his distinctive personality, Caleb had a signature look: his navy sport coat over an argyle sweater, his light-brown neatly-trimmed goatee, and his thin, dark-rimmed rectangular glasses. It was akin to Larry King’s suspenders and large spectacles, but more contemporary, and somehow more earnest.

  Caleb approached Jack with his right hand outstretched. “Hi, Jack.”

  Jack stood up and grasped Caleb’s hand. “Hi, Caleb. Good to be here.”

  They released hands as each sat down in the upholstered chairs angled towards each other in the center of the stage.

  “How have you been?” Caleb asked.

  “Busy. I never realized how much work it would be to write a book,” Jack replied with a raise of his eyebrows.

  Caleb gave a small nod in agreement. He had written two fact-based books himself, one of which became a national best-seller. “Fascinating, by the way. I think it’s probably the best piece of literature offering insight into how minds like yours work, how detectives think about solving crimes. And I’m not just saying that because you’re my friend.” True to form, though he had a variety of guests on his show with a variety of accomplishments, Caleb never offered false praise. If he didn’t like someone’s work, he may have him on his show, but he wouldn’t shower him with insincere flattery.

  Knowing this about Caleb, Jack accepted the kudos sincerely. “Thanks.”

  “And that next-to-last chapter blew me away. I had no idea things had gotten so bad in this country, the laws so circumspect. I think that’s why it has struck a chord with so many people: anybody who has kids, works with kids, ever was a kid.”

  Jack offered a subtle nod. “I just wish we had a better solution.”

  Caleb opened his mouth to respond but he got interrupted. A man who had previously introduced himself to Jack as Tim the Producer raised a hand to signify his importance. “Thirty seconds to go, people.”

  “Ready?” Caleb queried.

  “Yep. I think if I said ‘no,’ though, it wouldn’t make much of a difference to Tim the Producer.”

  “You’re a quick study.” Caleb leaned to his right, a little closer to Jack. He said in a low whisper, “He has the personality of a toad, but he puts together a great finished product.”

  Jack stifled a smile as he motioned to his wireless microphone clipped to his lapel. “Aren’t these mikes on?”

  Caleb smirked wryly and nodded.

  Tim the Producer pushed an open palm towards the men on the stage. “And in five, four …” He stopped saying the numbers, but continued counting down on his fingers. Why do they always do that? Jack wondered. Why not say 3, 2, or 1?

  Caleb turned to face the camera. “Good evening and welcome. I’m Caleb Goodnight, and this is The Goodnight Hour.” He always opened every show with the same two sentences, spoken with the exact same intonation. Simple, most definitely, but over his six-year run as a late-night cable talk show host, it had become a staple in the Zeitgeist.

  “Tonight my guest is Special Agent Jackson Byrne of the FBI.” Caleb rotated his head to face Jack. “Jack, welcome back to the show.”

  “Thanks, Caleb. It’s good to be here.”

  3

  Randall stared at the TV. The Goodnight Hour ended twenty-seven minutes ago, but his thoughts still lingered on that show. He had watched it religiously for years. He believed in Caleb Goodnight— one of the few TV personalities that Randall felt he could trust.

  Jackson Byrne was back. Back on The Goodnight Hour. Back where it all began. When Randall first conceptualized his Work. When he got reborn.

  Randall thought about his last victim. From local media outlets in York, he had learned her name: Adrianna Cottrell. She had a mother, a father, and a 4-year-old sister, all of whom missed her very much, according to the local papers. A gruesome tragedy, they called it.

  With this, Randall agreed. It was very sad that she had to die. But she did, unfortunately. Well, Adrianna didn’t, but somebody did. His Work dictated it. And she served as well as anyone.

  Randall suddenly felt the need to be faster. Not with his thinking, God no. He already possessed greater intelligence and faster cognitive processing than anyone else on the planet. He wanted to move quickly, like a cheetah, a lynx, or a jaguar.

  Adrianna’s family pleaded with their community to help them find out who had committed such an awful crime. Local authorities apparently worked “around the clock” to solve it.

  But they wouldn’t. Randall knew this as well as he knew his own name.

  Fast like a greyhound, or an ostrich—he felt compelled to break up the feline theme. He despised monotony almost as much as banality.

  He stopped thinking about Adrianna Cottrell, Jackson Byrne, and Caleb Goodnight all at the same time. He put on his running shoes and went outside for a run. Not a jog, a run. He needed to be faster.

  4

  The waitress arrived with the two draft beers on her tray. She set the drinks down in front of Jack and Caleb and lingered there for a moment. “I’m a really big fan,” she said to Caleb, batting her eyelashes.

  “Oh, thank you,” Caleb politely responded.

  “The worst part about this job is that I miss your show like four nights a week. I have it on DVR, but it’s just not the same as watching it live, you know?”

  “That’s very nice support, thank you. I’m glad you enjoy the show.”

  She smiled awkwardly and walked back toward the bar.

  The hotel bar had very little activity this time of night on a Monday. Besides Jack and Caleb, there were only about three other parties there, all of them small groups conversing softly. The bartender, a young, short, athletic-looking man with a pencil-thin beard, spent twice as much time watching an NBA playoff game on the TV than he did pouring drinks. Jack and Caleb’s waitress, the only one still working, set her tray down on the bar and looked at the TV with only the slightest amount of interest.

  Jack raised his glass and took a sip. “Thanks again for having me back. I love coming to New York, even for a short trip like this one.”

  “Are you heading back to Virginia tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. I’m meeting an old family friend for a late lunch. Then Vicki and I are going to a school thing for Jonah, like a little play. Something about safari animals or something.” He smirked and shrugged. “$14,000 a year to learn how to paint whiskers on his face and sew a lion costume.”

  Caleb gave Jack a knowing smile. “All part of the program, my friend.”

  Caleb always acted cordially toward
s his guests, but he seldom considered them friends outside of the studio. Sometimes it had to do with differences in background or philosophy. But more commonly it was due to the fact that Caleb just didn’t like what fame—in any measure of the word—did to people. Even the 15-minute variety could alter the simplest of lives. A few weeks ago, he had as his guest an eleven-year-old girl who had become famous for her appearances in a series of wireless phone commercials. From that she had garnered the distinction of having the most rapid increase of followers on her Twitter account since the technology’s inception. Fame sure chooses some strange passengers, he remembered thinking at the time. That certainly would not be the last time this concept would enter his consciousness.

  During his first encounter with Jack, Caleb recognized instantly that fame had touched him differently. Jack hardly shied away from his newfound celebrity; in fact, he embraced it. However, it didn’t seem to change the way he saw the world. Partly because of this, partly because of shared interests, and partly because of good chemistry—which exists even in the most platonic of relationships, even if most men wouldn’t admit it—Caleb and Jack had become friends.

  Caleb took another large sip of his stout and licked the tan foam from his upper lip. “So anything exciting going on in the job?”

  “No, not now. I’ve actually been busier doing book signings than anything else recently. My literary agent is working me like a dog.”

  Caleb smiled. “Do you like it?”

  Jack shrugged. “Not really. The most interesting thing is watching the sorts of people who come out to a book signing. I’ve convinced myself that sometime, somewhere, at least one person I meet will turn out to be a serial killer, kidnapper, or rapist himself. To keep my mind occupied during these excruciating days, I try to figure out which one it’s going to be.”