The Glenridge Chiropractor

 October 18, 2020

Garrett was mid-way through his shift at Min’s Deluxe Diner when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He cast a quick look around; the boss got really pissed if he caught an employee using their phone. But Mr. Takanopolis was out front, and nobody but the cooks and dishwashers were back here in the kitchen, so he pulled out his phone for a quick look. It was a text message, Unknown Caller: ”Check your mail”. He slid the phone back into the pocket of his jeans with a tingle of dread mixed with excitement – he knew what these messages usually meant.

That evening he unlocked his mailbox and pulled out a smattering of mail, almost all advertising fliers. But mixed in with them was an envelope from “Green Furniture Outlet” with PAST DUE prominently stamped on the front in red. The postmark was Reston, VA. He climbed the four flights of stairs to his tiny one-room apartment and ripped open the envelope. Inside was an airline ticket in his name to Dulles airport; the flight was leaving the next morning from JFK at 8:15 AM, with a return later that same day. A sticky note was attached to the ticket: “Meeting with ASAIC Thomas Carson, 11:30 AM, FBI HQ Quantico, Room 312. DG”.

At JFK the next morning, Garrett wasn’t at all surprised to see the other members of P-Cell gathering at the same gate. None of them acknowledged each other, and they sat apart, waiting to board. It wasn’t until they were on the ground in DC that they came together, walking in a tight clump to the rental car center, where Jamal rented a car for the day (he was the only one whose credit card they were all sure would pass muster). Even then, no one spoke until they were safely inside the car and on the road south to Quantico.

“Anyone know what this is all about?” Joe asked. All he got were shrugs and blank looks.

“I looked up Carson,” Jamal offered. “He’s legit FBI, but I’ve never met him. Didn’t know he was part of Delta Green.”

“Why didn’t one of our usual Handlers initiate contact?” Thomas wondered. “It’s usually Agent Esther or Agent Eduardo who gives us our Ops.” Again, no one had any answers.

They reached Quantico without issue and parked in the visitors’ lot. Jamal led them inside with the confidence of someone who knew his way around, and flashed his FBI badge at the front desk. “We have a meeting with ASAIC Carson. The guard at the desk collected IDs, compared them to an online visitor log, and issued visitor badges to the other three. “Please wait here for your escort.” Ten minutes later, a thick-set woman appeared in the lobby.

“Good morning! I’m Helen Branch, Agent Carson’s assistant. Won’t you come with me?” She escorted them through the building to a suite of offices. She knocked on the door of 312 and poked her head in: “Agent Carson? Your 11:30 is here.” She then ushered the party into the office.

ASAIC Carson was a man in his late 50s, bald on top with a fringe of graying hair around the fringes. He was getting portly, an indication that he’d been in a desk job for quite some time. He greeted the party warmly – maybe a bit too warmly. “Hello there! Thank you all for coming on such short notice! Pleasure to meet you all. Would you like some coffee? Helen, please get our guests some coffee!” Four chairs had been arranged in front of his desk, and he motioned for the party to take a seat as Helen hustled out. Carson moved behind his desk but did not sit – he paced behind the desk as he spoke. “I’m sure you’re all wondering why you’re here. Let me introduce myself: I’m Assistant Special Agent in Charge Thomas Carson and I head up Behavioral Analysis Unit 4 of NCAVC – the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. Basically, we look for patterns across crimes, trying to find similar details, and we also put together suspect profiles to help law enforcement agencies investigate serial or spree crimes: serial rapes or murders, extortion or kidnapping rings, that sort of thing.”

Helen returned and passed out coffee, then closed the door behind her as she left. Carson was scribbling on a yellow legal pad as she did so. When she was gone, he resumed his narrative, but held up a note as he spoke: “NO DG TALK IN THIS ROOM. THEY’RE LISTENING!” He waved his finger around the room; the clear indication was that the room was bugged.

“A few days ago,” he continued, “our office got a request from the local police in Glenridge, New York, up in Long Island. They’ve had a pair of grisly murders recently that look to be related, and requested our assistance. You may have heard of them; after the second murder the press got wind of the case and have taken to calling the killer the ‘Glenridge Chiropractor’. That’s because both victims were beheaded and had their spines removed.” Carson slid a pair of manila folders across his desk. “Here are the Glenridge PD reports on both murders – you can go over those in detail later.

“While the manner of death implies a clear connection between these two cases, the FBI can’t make any connection to any other cases around the country. The Suffolk County Medical Examiner also sent us samples of evidence recovered at the scene, but our FBI labs haven’t been able to identify it or link it to any other crimes.” Carson was scribbling madly again as he spoke, and held up another note: “LAST LINE OF THE REPORTS!!! FIND AND ELIMIATE THREAT”

“Nothing we’ve found would allow the FBI to step in and take over this case – there’s no sign of interstate crime for example. However, we’d like to help the local police as much as we can. That’s why I’ve called you here. I’d like you to bring you in as FBI consultants, to act as an informal support team to assist the Glenridge PD and Suffolk County Medical Examiner in any way they need. You’ll be paid, of course – normal FBI Consultant rate of $54 per hour. Helen will take you down to HR when we’re done to get all the 1099 paperwork filled out and get you temporary credentials. Here’s a secure smartphone you can use while you’re working this case. It has access to all our unclassified FBI databases, and my office and personal cell numbers are already programed in.” He handed over a cellphone box. He’d still been scribbling on his notepad, and held up yet another note: “NEVER DISCUSS DG BUSINESS ON THIS OR ANY OTHER PHONE. IF YOU NEED TO SPEAK TO ME, MEET IN PERSON.”

“Your contact at the Glenridge PD will be Detective Hannah Gregson – she’s lead on the case. The Medical Examiner is Dr. Stephen Santorini; I think his office is down in Hauppauge. I’ve got you return tickets to JFK, but you’ll need to rent a car and drive up to Long Island – there aren’t any commercial flights. All expenses will be reimbursed by the Bureau, of course.

“I know this is all a bit unusual, but we at the FBI like to provide as much help to local agencies as possible, even if it means coloring a little outside the lines. I’m sure you all will be a big help. Keep me posted on your progress. Helen!” he called, and the assistant returned. “Please take these folks down to HR and get them all set up as official consultants.” The team spent the next hour filling out paperwork (with their real names, addresses, and social security numbers – highly unusual for a Delta Green Op) Thomas, Garrett, and Joe were then given credentials identifying them as FBI Consultants (good for 30 days).

When they returned to the car to drive back to Dulles, Thomas opened the cellphone box. Inside was an ordinary-looking smartphone, but also a folded sheet of legal paper with a key taped to it. The note read: “IF YOU NEED EXTRA EQUIPMENT THERE’S AN OLD GREEN BOX IN LONG ISLAND – NO IDEA WHAT’S IN IT. GO TO BUDDY’S AUTO SALVAGE IN QUOGUE AND TELL BUDDY YOU NEED TO VISIT BETTY”

“What the hell’s a Green Box?” Thomas wondered aloud.

“What’d he say?” Joe asked. He always had trouble with Thomas’s Welsh accent.

“Agent Eduardo mentioned them once,” Garrett offered. “Back in the old days, Delta Green agents would stash extra equipment or stuff they’d recovered from Ops into storage lockers or abandoned buildings, to use later. They called them ‘Green Boxes’. Sometimes the agents never made it back to recover what they’d left behind.” A silence descended over the car as everyone speculated on who had set up the Long Island Green Box, and why they’d never been back.

It was late when they finally arrived back in New York, and they knew they were facing at least a two-hour drive to Glenridge, so they agreed to meet in the morning. There was no question about a rental car – Broadway Joe was waiting for them outside Penn Station in his black Lincoln Town Car. There was plenty of room in the trunk for everyone’s gear, with room left over for a few bodies, if necessary. Joe threaded the enormous machine through Manhattan traffic with ease, and they were soon out of the City and headed north.

They’d all read the police reports at the airport the day before, and now they reviewed them as they drove. “The first guy – the dentist, Maretti. He was reported missing around 7:30,” Joe mused as he drove one-handed up the throughway. “And the second, the librarian, was last seen about the same time. This time of year, that would be dusk, or getting on to full dark.”

“But look at the coroner’s report on the second vic,” Jamal countered. “He puts time of death between 9:30 PM and 2:30 the next morning. If she was snatched at 7:30, the killer took his time before he did her in.”

“What about this gray stuff they found under both victims’ nails?” Garrett asked. “The report calls it a ‘polymer’ – isn’t that plastic?”

“Could be,” Jamal answered, “but it could be almost anything. A polymer is just anything that’s made from very large, repeating molecules. Plastics are a type of inorganic polymer, but there are plenty of organic polymers, too. Silk, rubber, wool – all polymers. Does seem weird the FBI couldn’t identify it, though. It certainly seemed to get Carson’s panties in a bunch.”

The discussion gradually petered out as they realized they’d learned all they could from the terse police reports, and the last hour of the drive was spent in silence. They arrived in Glenridge in late morning. Glenridge was a small, picturesque waterfront town on the Great Peconic Bay. The quaint downtown had a mixture of eclectic tourist shops, small restaurants, and bed & breakfasts, while the docks held an assortment of fishing boats and expensive-looking pleasure craft.

The Glenridge PD was in a modern brick building on Millburn Ave, the main street into town. Inside, they were met by Detective Gregson. Hannah Gregson was 39, with 15 years on the job, all in Glenridge. She was tall, 5’ 8”, with brown hair pulled back in a bun. She greeted the party and escorted them back to a conference room. “I appreciate you coming. I really didn’t expect FBI assistance on this case, but I’m happy for all the help we can get. As you can imagine, this kind of thing never happens around here, and I can’t say we’re prepared to deal with it.”

She nodded at the two folders Agent Carson gave them. “I see you’ve already got the case files. Let me walk you through the high points of both murders, and then I’ll answer any questions you’ve got.

“The first victim was Dr. Carl Maretti, our local dentist. His wife reported him missing the evening of September 15 when he didn’t return home from work. At about 11:45 that night, a jogger in Peconic Park called in a report of a dead body. Two officers responded, confirmed that we were likely dealing with a murder victim, and called for backup. My partner and I were called to the scene.”

Gregson stopped for a moment, breathing deeply. “Sorry. Maybe you guys deal with this sort of thing all the time, but I … it’s hard for me.” She took another deep breath. “The body was horribly mangled. The head was gone and the spine had been ripped out, leaving a tangle of bloody, broken bones. We made an initial ID from the victim’s wallet – driver’s license, credit cards, cash were all intact. Our officers did a perimeter search and found the head about 30 yards away. His eyes had been gouged out. We secured the scene and called the medical examiner, but he’s down in Hauppage and it was the middle of the night – he didn’t arrive until nearly 5 AM. He bagged the body and took it back to his office for an autopsy. We did notice some gray goo under the victim’s fingernails; we took samples and Dr. Santorini – that’s the ME – sent it to the FBI lab for analysis. But I guess you guys know that.

“We had no clues to follow – Dr. Maretti didn’t have any known enemies, no financial problems. There was little to no physical evidence at the crime scene – actually the lack of blood at the scene suggested he’d been killed somewhere else, but we haven’t found a location. Dr. Santorini’s examination suggested the body might have been subjected to a fall, like he’d been thrown out there or something, although there’s no road nearby. But the bottom line was that we were just banging our heads on a blank wall.

“Then the second victim showed up. Three weeks later, on October 7, we got a call from the janitor at the high school that there was a dead body in a tree across the street from the school. By the time my partner and I got to the scene they’d already called the fire department to get the body down. It must have been 30, 40 feet up in the tree, impaled on a broken branch. I went up and examined the scene before the firemen took her down. It was just like Maretti – head missing, spine torn out. This time we didn’t find the head. Again we were only able to make an ID from the victim’s driver’s license, which was in her pocket. She was Vanessa Halvan, the librarian at the high school. She’d left school at the normal time the day before and no one had noticed anything unusual. She lived alone, and no one reported her missing. Her credit card records show she had dinner at a restaurant in town that night. The waitress remembered her eating alone – nothing seemed unusual. She paid at 7:23 PM and that was the last time she was seen.

“When I was up on the ladder examining the body, I could see that there were a number of broken branches above the body. There was no way to climb up that high to place the body there - I think she was dropped there from a plane or something. But we checked with Air Traffic Control and the radar people at the Air National Guard base at Gabreski airport and there are no flight plans or radar records of any flights over Glenridge that night.”

Gregson leaned back in her chair with a heavy sigh. “I’m hoping you guys can come up with something. We were hoping the FBI could link these killings to others around the country, but from what we’ve heard, there aren’t any others like this. We’ve run out of places to look. I’ve got my own theory, but my boss tells me I’m crazy.”

“Crazy theories are our bread and butter,” Joe said encouragingly. “I trust the hunches of an experienced cop any day of the week.”

Gregson looked over to make sure the conference room door was still shut, and leaned forward in her chair. “Look … this is pure speculation on my part. But the way the victims’ spines were ripped out? Even Schwarzenegger isn’t strong enough to do that. And if they were dropped from a height, that would imply something flying. But which the military radar didn’t show – or didn’t report they showed.” She lowered her voice even further. “There a big Grumman defense plant up in Calverton. All barbed wire and hush-hush. I’m thinking they’ve developed something up there that got out of control while they were testing it, some robo-soldier or something. I mean, who knows what kind of stuff the government keeps under wraps, right?” The team nodded, partly to reassure Gregson she wasn’t crazy, but mostly because they knew all too well the kinds of things the government kept under wraps. Runaway robo-soldiers would be a welcome relief.

Detective Gregson pulled out a map of Glenridge, with the landmarks from both cases marked in red ink. They continued grilling her as they examined the map. “The second victim – any idea where she was snatched from?” Thomas asked.

“We’re thinking she was grabbed going into her apartment building, after coming home from dinner. Her car was parked and locked, but her apartment was locked up tight.”

“It looked like Maretti lived pretty close to his home,” Garrett pointed out. “Did he walk home, or drive?”

“It was only a few blocks, and he normally walked, but the body was found in the opposite direction from his route home.”

“Any info on his patients that day? Anything unusual?” Joe asked.

Gregson shook her head. “Nothing we could find. His office manager, Shirley Martin, kept his appointments and was there all day. I’m sure she’d be happy to help.” She jotted Martin’s address in the margin of the map.

“What happened to the bodies?” Jamal asked.

“They’re still at the ME’s. Dr. Santorini is keeping them there while the investigation remains open. If you want to examine them yourselves, I can give him a call, let him know you’re coming.”

That seemed like the natural next step, and they promised Gregson they’d stay in touch. They climbed back into Joe’s Towncar and retraced the last part of their trip, back to Hauppage. The Suffolk County Medical Examiner’s office was housed in a very modern steel and glass building. Dr. Santorini came to the lobby greet them and usher them into the building. He was an odd duck, to say the least. He had a wild shock of strawberry blonde hair, graying at the temples. He wore a paisley shirt and board shorts, despite the cool October weather. A pair of orange-framed glasses sat high on his head; he only pulled them down to read.

He led the team into the autopsy suite, thankfully empty at the moment. “Certainly the oddest mode of murder I’ve ever examined,” he began without preface. “Although truth be told, I haven’t examined all that many murders. Enough though. All the usual stuff – stabbings, shootings, strangulation. One guy did in his old lady with a pair of garden shears. But these two? Geez Louise! Do you want to take a look?”

Without waiting for assent, Santorini opened a pair of metal doors, letting out a blast of cold air, and will pulled out a sliding tray from each refrigerated tomb. Each held the remains of one of the Glenridge victims, now little more than a mangled bag of severed muscles and shattered bones. Thomas took an involuntary step backwards and was glad they hadn’t eaten lunch yet.

Santorini began to lecture. “The cause of death for each victim appears to be decapitation by a blunt but strong cutting tool, something like a tree-limb cutter. Portions of the body are also marked by large piercing wounds from some sort of thin serrated weapon, perhaps a bear trap. None of these match any known weapons or animal bite patterns we can identify. I’ve consulted with colleagues in Manhattan, and experts on bite marks at the American Museum of Natural History, but with no luck.

“As you can see, each victim also had their spine removed. The spine was violently extracted from the base upwards towards the back of the neck, shattering all connections to the hips, shoulders, and ribcage. This was not a surgical removal, and the force required to effect such damage would be immense. This removal was post-mortem. Each victim also suffered numerous other broken bones. Especially considering the location where Ms. Halvan’s body was found, it is my opinion that the bodies were dropped from a great height.”

Santorini moved to a file cabinet and removed a small box. He extracted a glass test tube. It contains shavings of what looked like gray plastic or clay. “We also collected samples of this substance from beneath the fingernails of both victims. It appears to be some sort of polymer, but it has unusual levels of fluorine and chlorine. I sent samples for analysis to both the FBI and to an independent lab, Archon Labs. The FBI just said they couldn’t identify anything, but Archon confirmed what I feared – the samples were contaminated during collection. Stupid cops.” He gave the team a copy of the Archon report. It was probably 20 pages of dense chemical analyses, spectrographic graphs, and electron microscope images. However, the Summary at the top gave their conclusion:

‘After completing their analysis, Archon Labs concludes that the substance in question is bentonite clay, with sodium-chloride content consistent with coming from an area near saltwater. The samples contained unusual levels of chlorine and fluorine that are consistent with post-collection contamination by some form of cleaning solution or lubricant; the precise contaminant could not be isolated by this analysis. Micrographic and spectral analysis of the sample did not reveal any features that were inconsistent with this conclusion or which would indicate presence of a foreign object.’

Jamal continued to pepper Santorini with medical questions while Thomas tapped away on his phone, facing away from the bodies. Satisfied they’d learned all they could from the coroner for the moment, they headed back to the car, Thomas breathing deeply of the fresh air. “I looked up ‘bentonite clay’,” he said, holding up his smartphone. “It’s all over this area – common as mud, so to speak.”

“I don’t understand why the FBI labs didn’t find the contamination that Archon did,” Jamal grumbled. “Is the FBI hiding something? Is Carson trying to get us to uncover something the FBI doesn’t want found?”

They stopped at a diner for a late lunch, then returned to Glenridge, determined to examine the crime scenes. At the Glenridge PD, Gregson dispatched Officer Andy Boyd to accompany them – he’d been the officer who’d first found Maretti’s body. “He was laying here, in this culvert,” he said after they’d parked and walked down a jogging path. A storm drain from the nearby streets fed into an open concrete culvert that drained runoff into the Bay. An inlet from the Bay separated the area from Peconic Park to the south. “They found the head about 30 yards that way,” Boyd continued, pointing northeast.

After they’d examined the scene, Boyd led them to the tree where Vanessa Halvan’s body had been found, some 300 yards away. The tree was less than 50 yards from the back of Glenridge High School, where the victim had been librarian. The tree had no limbs until at least 20 feet up, making it impossible to climb. Above that, they could see a number of the higher limbs had been recently trimmed, probably removing branches that had been broken when Halvan’s body was dropped into it.

They thanked Officer Boyd for his help, and began to make a circuit of the park. Peconic Park was a large, open area, but offered few, if any, places for someone or something suspicious to hide other than well-landscaped trees and shrubbery. A large open gazebo, suitable for summertime band concerts, sat in the center of the park, flanked by a children’s playground. A softball field filled the southern end of the park. The western edge offered access to the waters of the Bay over a rocky shoreline, but at the south the park terminated in a 5-foot dropoff, and the eastern shore faced a long marina.

“So just hear me out,” Garrett said as they walked the circumference of the park. “Let’s say a pterodactyl is in the area.” Joe and Jamal exchanged looks, but Thomas nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe not a pterodactyl exactly, but something like one. He gets hungry, and comes out at dusk, looking to feed. He spies our vics out by themselves, swoops down, picks them up, and carries them off somewhere where he bites off their heads, then drops the bodies when he’s done with them.” Joe looked around at the heavily populated neighborhoods around them and tried to imagine where a pterodactyl might hide. He didn’t have much luck.

They completed their circuit of the park without locating any obvious pterodactyl nests. Their next stop was Shirley Martin, Dr. Maretti’s office manager. She answered her door at the first knock, and when she saw Jamal’s FBI badge she eagerly invited them in. “I’m so glad the FBI is getting involved. Dr. Maretti was a wonderful man, and what happened to him is just horrible. I pray that you find whoever did this to him.”

“Do you have the records of which patients Dr. Maretti saw that day?” Joe asked.

“Not here at home, but they’re at the office. If you want to meet me there, I’d be happy to give you anything you need.”

A short time later, Ms. Martin was letting them into Maretti’s office. It was a former home that had been converted into a dental clinic. Shirley slipped behind the reception desk, unlocked a drawer, and pulled out a large appointment book. She quickly opened it to the date that Maretti died, then turned it around for the agents to examine.

September 15

TIME	PATIENT	PROCEDURE
9:00	Jane Smythe	Filling
9:45	Harry Godson	Crown
11:00	Jane Haven	Filling
12:00	Lunch
1:00	Phil Shepherd	Root Canal
2:30	Susan Calvart	Filling
4:00	Thomas Dengler	Root Canal

 

“Were any of these new patients?” Joe asked. “Any walk-ins?”

“Oh no!” Shirley assured him. “Dr. Maretti had an excellent practice, and all of these people had been patients for years.”

“Dr. Maretti’s wife said he’d called to say he’d be late. Do you know why that was?”

“Tom Dengler’s root canal was taking a lot longer than the doctor expected. Poor boy – it sounded like he was in horrible pain. I left a little after 5:00 and he was still back there.”

“So you weren’t here when Dr. Maretti left?”

Shirley’s eyes welled with tears. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“And it was just Dr. Maretti and this Tom Dengler?”

“Well and Tom’s mother. She was in the waiting room.”

Thomas was eyeing the rather antiquated PC sitting on the desk behind the counter. “Can we take a look at Dr. Maretti’s notes?” he said, nodding to the computer.

Shirley gave a short laugh. “Yes, but not on that. Dr. Maretti wasn’t a big fan of computers. We use them for digital X-rays and such, but all of his notes are done by hand.” She opened a long file drawer and pulled out a yellow folder. “Here are Tom Dengler’s records.” Jamal winced at the obvious HIPAA violation, but didn’t object. Sure enough, a short set of handwritten notes was at the front of the file: “9/15/20. Began RC on 32. Encountered unexpected horizontal branches not apparent on X-ray. Attempted to continue but unable to complete procedure. Sent patient home with painkillers. Recommend oral surgery to remove tooth.” Thomas Dengler was 17-years old, and had been a patient of Maretti’s since age 8. Jamal added the Dengler’s address to their map and slid the file back.

“So when you left the office, it was just Dr. Maretti, Tom Dengler, and his mother, correct?” Joe asked. Shirley nodded. “Now try to remember – when you left, did you see anything or anyone out of the ordinary outside?” She shook her head, more tears spilling out.

“You’ve been a terrific help,” Joe reassured her. “We’ll come back to you if we need anything more.”

By the time they left the office it was already dusk. Detective Gregson had recommended the Peconic Inn, an old hotel facing the water, and they checked in, thankful they were on the FBI’s dime. Then they went to dinner at the Dewdrop Inn, the restaurant where Vanessa Halvan had had her last meal. Its prices weren’t too bad, at least compared to New York City, and compared to the toney places they’d seen around Glenridge, it seemed like the sort of place someone on a school librarian’s salary might go for a treat. They asked to speak to the waitress who’d served Vanessa, and she confirmed what Gregson had told them – Vanessa Halvan came in once a month or so, and had eaten alone that evening, reading a paperback. She didn’t seem upset or nervous, no one had spoken to her or showed any interest in her.

By the time they finished eating it was 8:00 PM. Garrett scanned the sky nervously as they made their way to the car. “Probably too late to drag Gregson back in to let us into Halvan’s place,” Joe said. “We can do that in the morning. But this might be a good time to catch the Dengler’s at home, see what they might be able to tell us.”

The Dengler home was a modest split-level on a side street. The doorbell was answered by a barrel-chested man with graying hair cut in a flattop. He seemed suspicious to see four strangers standing at his door at night, but Joe flashed a smile and his FBI creds, holding his finger over the part that said ‘Consultant’. “Mr. Dengler? We’re with the FBI. We’re helping the local police investigate the recent murders here in town. We’re just tying up loose ends, making sure we’ve got all the facts. We believe that your son – Tom is it? – and your wife may have been the last people to see Dr. Maretti alive. May we speak to them?”

Mr. Dengler invited the agents in. “I’m Mark Dengler,” he said, “and this is my wife, Eloise.” A stocky woman about his age had emerged from the kitchen. “These men are from the FBI and they’d like to ask you and Tom a few questions.” Mark Dengler still didn’t seem happy to have strangers in his house, but FBI badges trumped his reluctance.

“Tommy!” Mrs. Dengler called up the stairs. “There are some men here who want to talk to us.” A few minutes later, Thomas Dengler slouched down the stairs. He was a short, skinny teenager, not ugly, but not terribly attractive either – overlarge nose, wide eyes. Those eyes grew wider when he saw Jamal’s FBI badge.

“We understand you were Dr. Maretti’s last patient the day he died,” Joe continued once the family was seated. “What can you tell us about that day?”

Thomas scowled. “Yeah, I went to Dr. Maretti for a root canal a few weeks ago. He really fu… screwed it up.” He cast a guilty glance at his mother to see if she’d caught his slip. “Dug around in there FOREVER and couldn’t get it done. Said there was something that hadn’t showed up on the X-rays. I mean, what kind of dentist can’t do a simple root canal?”

“Thomas!” his father snapped. “Show some respect!” Tom cast his eyes down.

His mother was nodding sympathetically though. “I could hear poor Tom screaming clear out in the waiting room. We were in there for over two hours, and Tom came home, took painkillers, and went straight to bed.”

“And what time would that have been?”

“Oh gosh – almost 6:30. Shirley had already gone home, so it was just me and Tommy in the office.”

“Did anyone else come in the office after Ms. Martin left? Did you see anything or anyone unusual outside when you left?” Mrs. Dengler shook her head. “How about you, Tom?”

Thomas shook his head as well. “I was already pretty doped up. I don’t even really remember the ride home.”

The team thanked the Denglers for their cooperation, and headed to the hotel, frustrated that they didn’t have any useful leads on the murders.

After a good night’s sleep and breakfast at the Dewdrop Inn, they returned to the Glenridge PD. Detective Gregson joined them, bringing the keys to Vanessa Halvan’s apartment with her. Halvan lived in an old Victorian that had been subdivided into apartments. “That’s her car,” Gregson pointed to an older gray Toyota Corolla in the parking lot beside the building. “We know she made it home, but her apartment was still locked, so either she was grabbed between the car and the front door, or somebody got her to unlock her door, snatched her, and locked up behind themselves.”

Gregson led them inside and unlocked Halvan’s apartment. It was tidy and simply furnished, with many houseplants that were well past the point where watering would revive them. Thomas went straight for the laptop computer on the coffee table. “No password! We’re in!”

While Thomas dug into her file system, the others spread out through the apartment. It was only a matter of minutes before Garrett spoke up from the kitchen. “Those keys you let us in with – were they on the body?”

Gregson nodded. “Yes, keys, wallet with drivers license and cellphone were all in her pockets. The phone was shattered, though.”

“Was there a car key on that keychain?”

Gregson looked down at the keys in her hand. “Um … no. Just the apartment key.”

Garrett held up a ring of keys from a bowl on the kitchen cabinet. Along with an apartment key and several other keys was a Toyota key. “Looks like Halvan came home, let herself in, spent some amount of time in here, then went out for a walk, or maybe to meet someone. She only took the bare necessities when she left.” Gregson scowled and blushed, embarrassed to have missed something so obvious. “That moves the time of abduction out to closer to the coroner’s time of death.”

There were no other clues to be found. All Thomas found on the hard drive was a partially finished steamy romance novel that Halvan was apparently working on.

“We’re getting nowhere fast,” Jamal grumbled as they watched Gregson drive away. Anyone have any other ideas?”

“We could follow up on Gregson’s wild notion that the government is covering something up,” Joe suggested. “Go down to that air base and shake the tree a little, see what falls.” The group drove down to Gabreski airport, which housed an Air National Guard base. Their FBI credentials got them access to the Guard’s air traffic control center, but the story they got was the same as they’d already heard: no filed flight plans and no radar tracks in the vicinity of Glenridge between 6:00 PM and 7:00 AM on the nights of either murder.

Discouraged, they sat in Joe’s car, wondering what to do next. “Just for grins,” Joe suggested, “how about we go check out that Green Box?” Having nothing better to do with their day, they set off.

The town of Quogue was about half an hour east of Glenridge. ‘Town’ was being generous – more a widely spaced smattering of industrial buildings and run-down homes. Buddy’s Auto Salvage was your typical junkyard, surrounded by a wooden fence topped by barbed wire. The double gate leading into the yard was open and there was a large metal building next to it, part office, part auto garage. Two men were pulling the engine out of a pickup as the party entered.

“Hi there,” Joe said cheerfully, “we’re looking for the owner.”

The men stopped work, and eyed him suspiciously. “Owner ain’t here,” said one. The other spat.

“Oh. Well do you know when Buddy will be back?”

The two men relaxed, and the first one laughed. “Buddy? He ain’t the owner. You don’t wants to know who the owner is. But Buddy, yeah he’s around. Buddy!” he yelled back into the building. Pretty soon Buddy came hobbling out. He was probably 70, with greasy overalls and a thin halo of white hair surrounding his liver-spotted scalp. He walked with a pronounced limp, although he seemed to get along pretty well considering. “Whatchoo want?” he asked in a cracked voice.

“Well, we’re here to visit Betty,” Joe said, hoping he sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Buddy looked them up and down. “Well now … Betty ain’t had no visitors in a LONG time. ‘Spect she’s still up for it, though.” He led them to a dirty counter with a cash register, and pulled a photocopied map of the yard from a stack. The yard was divided by several broad avenues, each split by several smaller access lanes. Each of the areas in between was numbered. “Betty’s back in E3,” he said, stabbing his finger down on the map. “Enjoy youselves!”

Feeling less confident by the minute, the party made their way through the yard. Each of the numbered areas was a tangled collection of stacked and parked cars, trucks, boats, and miscellaneous machinery, some crushed flat, others mostly intact. As they turned the lane that led to area E3, they saw a dirty white Winnebago parked in front of a stack of crushed cars; its license plate read “BETTY”. Both the driver’s and passenger doors were welded shut. Metal plates had been bolted over the windshield and side windows; close inspection showed the corners of the bolts had been ground down, making it impossible for a wrench to get a grip on them. The door leading into the main “room” of the camper had a thick steel bar across it; one side had heavy hinges and the other was secured by a strong padlock. Carson’s key fit the lock perfectly.

As they opened the door, the overhead light flickered on. There was no obvious source of power. Inside, the original interior of the camper had been mostly gutted (the bed over the cab remained) and replaced with industrial tables and two rolling swivel chairs. A number of boxes and crates were scattered around the interior with no particular organization.

The group began to explore the camper’s contents. There were a number of guns and lots of ammunition, but almost all of it was pistols, no better than what they already carried (although there was a single high explosive round for a British 30mm aircraft cannon). “What the hell are you supposed to do with this?” Jamal asked, holding up several cans of polyurethane foam.

“Or these?” Garrett asked, holding up a trio of Elvis glasses with matching Elvis wigs.

“Oh man, this is so cool!” Thomas had found a stainless-steel Star Trek Klingon Bat'Leth replica, and was waving it around enthusiastically, threatening great bodily harm to anyone in arm’s reach.

“Um … guys? I think you want to take a look at this.” Joe was standing at the back corner of the Winnebago. He was looking down at a professionally made refrigeration unit, cooled by liquid helium. The unit was only large enough to store a human head inside of it, which is exactly what was currently in storage. The head was from a while male in his late 30's. Even frozen, the head gave off odd feelings of dread. “I think it would be best for everyone if we just left that where it is.” Joe said quietly, closing the freezer door.

In the end, they left Betty mostly as they’d found her. Jamal took a veterinarian’s tranquilizer pistol and three tranq darts that he figured would probably stop a bear. Thomas took a 12-guage shotgun; he wasn’t a very good shot and thought the scatter-gun would give him an edge. Besides, Joe assured him he had plenty of 12-guage shells in the trunk of his car.

With yet another disappointing foray under their belts, they returned to Glenridge. They had no leads to follow, no ideas to check out. They ate an early dinner at the Dewdrop, then returned to their rooms at the Peconic Inn.

At 2:02 AM, Jamal’s phone rang. He swung out of bed and tried to slide his feet into his Crocs – for a moment he was back in his ER residency. Then he realized this wasn’t the doctor’s lounge, but a foo-foo hotel in Long Island. He checked the caller ID – it was Detective Gregson. “We have another victim,” she said curtly.