Hubris -- part 4
Back to part 3
Sam commandeered a small conference room for the video call to Henriksen, who was now at the field office in Chicago. The connection fuzzed a bit, static crackling over the audio. Sam shook his head as they finally got it cleared up enough to work. Typical government equipment.
“What happened in Chicago?” Sam asked once they exchanged short greetings.
“Another robbery,” Henriksen scowled darkly, “which they didn’t report at first because they thought they could handle it internally.”
“When?”
“Two weeks before Security National. Little place called Jones Diamond Importers. Family owned, make and sell lots of high end custom stuff. The store manager, Mark Jones, who’s the owner’s son, came in one night, cleaned out the entire store and the safe, then disappeared.” Henriksen scoffed low in his throat. “They wanted to find him themselves, work it out in the family. Well, they found him.”
Judging by his expression, Sam was anticipating something messy. “Where?”
“In the closet at home. Looks like he hung himself.” Henriksen’s lip curled slightly. “’Course, after hanging around in a stuffy closet for nearly two months, things got a little nasty. Mailman complained about the smell, so his sister checked it out.”
“Gross. And let me guess, not a trace of the jewels.”
“Exactly. That’s when they reported it. Figured their stock was worth about ten and a half million dollars.” For a brief instant, Henriksen looked slightly envious. Then he was all business. “What’d your team come up with?”
“Something interesting.” Sam smiled crookedly. “The robberies might be related to the credit card theft. And murder.”
Henriksen nodded slowly. “I had a feeling it might. Can you prove it?”
“Maybe.” Sam clicked open a new window and attached his report to an email, then sent it off. “I just sent you a summation. It’s a lot of circumstantial evidence, but there’s just too much that correlates. Problem is, we still don’t have a suspect. We can track his activity, but he himself isn’t popping up on the radar. The UnSub is still a ghost for now.”
“So how do we change that?” Henriksen asked pointedly, apparently staring at Sam’s left shoulder, which meant he was reading the email.
“Hodkins is working with the accounting guys to see if we can get a complete record of his movements. McDowell and Jeffers are trying to get access to the evidence from the other crime scenes. Even without a name, if his fingerprints have been run even once they’ll show up on AFIS. And I’ve been trying to track down Reidy . . .”
Just then the door banged open, and a tall thin man with receding brown hair walked in with a file and a smirk. “Winchester, right? I’m Special Agent Calvin Reidy. Morgan said I’d find you here.”
“Hey,” Sam nodded at him. “I’ve got Henriksen on vid call right now.”
“Oh good.” Reidy shook Sam’s hand, then came around the table so he could see the monitor. “Hey Vic, how’s it going?”
“Frustrating, as usual,” Henriksen said. “You got something?”
“Yep. You’re gonna owe me lunch for a year for this one.” Reidy held up his file. “Four years ago, Baltimore PD was investigating a double murder. Attorney had his throat slit in his office, no trace of the killer anywhere. A week later, his wife dies the exact same way in their house, except she got off a 911 call. Cops show up in time to catch the guy red-handed at the scene.”
“The point?” Henriksen deadpanned.
“I’m getting there. They ran the guy’s prints, checked his ID. Had some priors on his record; assault, B&E, arson, and, this one’s weird, grave desecration. Possible fingerprint hits on another dozen crime scenes. But get this - the credit card was flagged as a fake, so they started a back-trace. Connected him to three other cases of identity fraud.” Reidy grinned. “One of which is on our list.”
He pulled out a rap sheet with a flourish and held it up to the screen. “Meet Dean Harrison.”
Sam’s eyes caught on the mug shot and for a second his heart seemed to stop. Oh fuck.
Dean.
“So you think this is our guy?” Henriksen demanded, not realizing Sam’s heart was about to leap out his chest. “What happened in Baltimore?”
“Guy escaped custody. Two homicide cops went after him, but only one came back. She claims her partner was the killer; apparently he’d been involved in heroin theft and redistribution. He killed the lawyer to cover it up, and confessed to her because he was going to blame everything on Harrison and kill him. Harrison happened to be in the wrong place, wrong time. She objected, he tried to kill her, and Harrison escaped during the struggle. Evidence supported it.” Reidy shrugged.
“But that was four years ago. That doesn’t tell me where he is now,” Henriksen growled.
“Gives us a face and a name, Vic. That’s a helluva lot more than we had this morning,” Reidy pointed out. “I’m having the mug shot faxed over to you now.”
Henriksen nodded. “Sam,” he barked, and Sam jumped a bit, startled from the stunned stupor seeing Dean’s face had brought on. “Do a background check on this Harrison guy. I want to know everything about him, from when he was born to what he had for lunch today.”
Sam nodded, not quite ready to trust his voice, and hoping he didn’t look as rattled as he felt.
He needed coffee.
A few hours later, Sam had moved beyond shocked to downright pissed, with a little reluctant admiration thrown in for good measure. As far as the system was concerned, Dean Harrison had absolutely nothing in common with Dean Winchester, besides an uncanny physical resemblance.
Dean Harrison was born in Toledo, Ohio, to a William and Kelly Harrison, who both died before Dean was two. An only child, he was raised by his aunt Ellen who lived pretty much off the grid out in Nebraska. From what little he could glean from county records, Dean was home-schooled until the age of 16, whereupon he took off. There wasn’t a whole lot on him personally in the system. A Kansas driver’s license, but no car listed. Spotty job history, mainly as a mechanic and handyman, marked the next few years.
His criminal record was a lot more interesting, though. Starting in 2006, he started getting picked up for a variety of offenses: Breaking and entering, theft, arson, several assaults, menacing, harassment, resisting arrest, and grave desecration. That last one sealed it for Sam, looking over the complaint report: grave dug up, coffin broken in to and the body torched. It wasn’t some sick necrophile - it was a Hunter putting down a spirit.
Which meant it was Dean. Maybe. But if it was, where was Dad in all this?
Things got serious in 2008 and later. Baltimore was only the tip of the iceburg. His fingerprints matched almost two dozen possible hits at different crime scenes, several of which tallied with the trail they were recreating with the credit cards. Partial prints were found in an auction house which was broken into and robbed, in an apartment where a girl was later shot to death, on the doorframe in a house where five decapitated bodies were discovered, and more. Suspected for many crimes, he’d only been picked up a handful of times, and so far he’d never spent more than a night in jail, always skipping town the next day.
Dean Winchester, on the other hand, disappeared off the radar completely after 2005. Not hits on social security number or driver’s license, no fingerprints, no job, address, or phone. For all intents and purposes, he vanished - or became someone else.
Sam leaned his elbows on his desk and rubbed his face wearily. Maybe it was naiveté or just wishful thinking, but he never thought he’d ever have to hunt down a Hunter, let alone Dean. He knew their family wasn’t exactly on the up and up, but over the years for the most part they’d managed to stay under the radar, moving on when scrutiny got too intense. Why did that have to change now?
He supposed he should be grateful that there was nothing linking Dean Harrison back to Sam Winchester. That would be . . . trouble. As it was, he let himself admire for a moment the master work that went into creating the Dean Harrison record. It all looked perfect; if he hadn’t known better, he’d never have guessed it was complete manufactured bull.
They were expecting him to use this background to build a more concrete background, figure out what he would do next, how he would react. Sam stifled a snort. Profile his brother . . . once upon a time, he knew more about Dean than anyone else in the world. All the little quirks and habits, the minutia that details the whole person into an individual. Growing up together and living in each other’s pockets tended to make that inevitable.
Now, though, with eight years of separation, of life changes and different places, he wondered if he would even recognize Dean any more. How much was left of the brother he once know, and how much was a complete stranger to him?
His phone rang, startling him. Glancing at the number, he answered it, “Special Agent Winchester.”
“Sam, it’s me,” came Henriksen’s voice. “We’ve got a problem. Girl at the jewelry store in Milwaukee recognized Dean’s picture. He was there two days ago.”
Sam straightened up, all senses instinctively coming alert. “What? Why would he go back there?”
“You’re the profiler, you tell me,” Henriksen snapped. “What’s important is that he’s likely still in town. I want you and Reidy to fly up there tonight. I’ll finish up and meet you there.” He heard a car door slam. “We need to catch this guy, Sam. Before he kills someone else.”
*~*~*~*~*~*
Reidy was a much more pleasant travel companion than Henriksen was, but Sam wasn’t in the best mood to appreciate it. It was his turn to bury himself in his work, skimming reports and making notes to himself. Something felt . . . off, about the pattern they were building. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, though.
As soon as they landed and deplaned, Sam took the opportunity to stretch, reaching high until his back made a satisfying crack. He loathed flying coach; they never had near enough leg room for him. Reidy gave him a knowing look as he shouldered his own bag, then led the way toward the pick up area.
They’d barely reached baggage claim when Henriksen suddenly appeared beside them, face taut with stress. Reidy frowned in response. “Vic?”
“Just got the call. Bank robbery in progress. City Bank of Milwaukee.” Henriksen glanced at Sam. “He’s got hostages.”
Sam muttered a soft curse under his breath. What the hell was going on here? “Sure it’s our guy?”
“You know as much as I do right now.” Henriksen hurried them towards the exit, but Reidy suddenly pulled up short. Henriksen shot him a look. “Reidy?”
“It’s him,” Reidy said softly, and Sam followed his gaze - and froze.
Several of the TV monitors around the concourse were tuned to news channels, and right now every single one was covering the bank robbery. Someone had just come out of the bank, escorting an older security guard at gunpoint, apparently releasing the hostage. He glanced around at the gathered SWAT team, angling himself slightly behind the hostage to discourage any shots as he yelled at them to get back. The cameras zoomed in on the man - Dean.
For a long second Sam drank in the sight of his brother, clearly alive and well, if visibly tense. Then rage crashed through him, obliterating the relief. What the fucking hell was Dean doing?!
“Let’s go!” Henriksen said, snapping Sam back to his surroundings. He flushed; he really had to quit zoning out like that. Quickly matching pace with the two agents, they raced for the car and tore out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires. Speeding down night-darkened streets, Henriksen clicked on the police scanner, listening for a status update. Shots had been fired, one man was down inside the bank, supposedly the gunman. One of the hostages had taken over the situation.
“What?” Henriksen frowned heavily.
“What the hell’s going on with this guy, Winchester?” Reidy asked. “He’s never been this blatant before.”
“I don’t know!” Sam protested. If he had to guess, though, he was pretty sure that Dean had caught the shifter’s trail and tracked it to the bank. But how it all turned into a hostage situation, Sam had absolutely no idea.
“Why’s he switching MOs? Got impatient? Got caught? He’s improvising?” Henriksen thought aloud. “Maybe he was casing the place and something spooked him.”
“I. Don’t. Know,” Sam gritted out
Within twenty minutes they pulled up outside the bank, the street clogged with emergency vehicles, police trucks, news vans, and curious onlookers. Henriksen scowled at the camera lights all around, but got out of the car and shrugged on a light windbreaker with FBI emblazoned on the back in yellow, an air of command settling over him with it. He led the way to what had to be the command module; Reidy and Sam followed close.
The cops inside grimaced as soon as the three agents climbed inside. Sam ignored it; it was a common reaction among local police whenever feds showed up. “Lieutenant Robards?”
A weathered middle-aged man nodded reluctantly. “Yeah?”
“Special Agent Henriksen,” Henriksen introduced himself, his body language commanding and confident. “My partner, Special Agent Reidy, and Special Agent Winchester.”
“Let me guess,” Robards said dryly. “You're lead dog now, but you would just love my full cooperation.”
“I don't give a rat’s ass what you do, you can go get a donut and bang your wife for all I care,” Henriksen shot back. “What I do need is your S.W.A.T. team locked and loaded.”
Robards’ face tightened in annoyance. “Listen, Agent. Something's not right about this. It's, uh, it's not going down like a usual heist.”
“That's because it isn't one. You have no idea what you're dealing with, do you? There is a monster in that bank, Robards.”
“What the hell you talking about?” Robards glanced at the screens showing all the external camera feeds on the bank. “The gunman’s down.”
Sam moved into Henriksen’s view, and waited for the barely-there nod before asking, “What exactly happened?”
Robards sighed and gestured at the tech guy, who immediately started messing with his controls. “Guy came into the bank right before closing time, armed to the teeth, locked himself in first thing. Got the call about a bank robbery in progress when an outside security guard noticed the chain on the door. At least ten confirmed hostages. We surrounded the building, got snipers posted all around, then cut the power.”
The tech looked up. “These are the last feeds from the security camera before we cut power.” Sam leaned over his shoulder, then groaned at seeing first one, then two familiar faces.
“Ronald Resnick,” he answered Henriksen’s questioning look. “He locked the doors, took everyone hostage. Looks like he has an assault rifle. Dean was already inside.”
“Wonderful,” Henriksen rolled his eyes. “Just what we need, a conspiracy theory nutbag and a serial killer in one building.” He asked Robards, “Your snipers take down Resnick?”
“Had to. He was aiming that cannon at a civilian, and we had a clean shot.” Robards shook his head. “Whole thing’s hinky as hell. We managed to get him on the phone earlier. Said he didn’t have any demands, wasn’t there to rob the bank. Called himself a crime fighter and confirmed he was acting alone, then asked for a paramedic for one of the hostages before he hung up.”
“So Dean took advantage of the situation to take over, and now he’s locked in there, armed and alone with a bunch of hostages.” Henriksen shook his head. “That’s not good.” He snapped his fingers at the tech. “Call inside again. I need to talk to him.”
The tech glanced at Robards, then picked up the phone and dialed before handing the handset to Henriksen. Silence descended over the group as they waited, listening to the distant ring.
After the eighth ring, there was a click as someone picked up, the volume loud enough for everyone to hear. “Yeah?” Even rough and muted over a phone line, Sam could recognize Dean’s voice anywhere.
“This is Special Agent Victor Henriksen.”
“Yeah, listen, I'm not really in the negotiating mood right now.”
“Good. Me neither,” Henriksen interjected. “It's my job to bring you in; alive's a bonus but not necessary.”
“Whoa. Kinda harsh for a Federal Agent, don't you think?” The surprise and confusion came through loud and clear.
“Well, you're not the typical suspect, are you, Dean?” A soft intake of air, and Henriksen pressed his advantage. “I want you out here, right now, unarmed. Or we come in.”
“How’d you even know I was here?” Dean asked.
“Go screw yourself, that's how I knew,” Henriksen retorted. “It's become my job to know about you, Dean. I've been looking for you for weeks now. I know about the murders up in Michigan, I know about the Houdini act you pulled in Baltimore. I know about the desecrations and the thefts. I know about your family.”
“You don’t know crap about me,” Dean growled back, and Sam fought back a shiver. He’d never heard his brother sound so dark.
“You wanna come out here and discuss it?” Henriksen let a cold smile cross his face. “You have one hour to make a decision or we come through those doors full automatic.”
A second’s pause, then a click and a dial tone. Unperturbed, Henriksen put down the phone and turned to Robards. “Scramble your men. Five minutes, then we go in.”
“What? Henriksen, he’s let out one hostage so far,” Robards pointed out. “He’s hurt no one as far as we can tell.”
“As far as you can tell. You don’t know this guy. He’s smart, dangerous, and has already killed at least five people that we know about.”
Robards stepped closer as he insisted, “We can’t risk the lives of all those people.”
“Trust me, Dean’s a greater risk to them than we are.”
“This is crazy.”
Henriksen paused and looked Robards dead in the eye. “Crazy’s in there. And I just hung up on it.”
Sam scowled; he hated the automatic assumption of crazy, even more so considering it was Dean. But if it got Robards to cooperate, he’d bite his tongue.
Robards rolled his eyes but acquiesced. “Fine. Five minutes. You wanna go in with them, go talk to the captain over there.” He pointed out a shorter man in SWAT gear who seemed to be in charge outside.
“Thank you.” Henriksen jerked his head, and Sam and Reidy filed out of the trailer first. An SUV had pulled up outside by their car, and two men with FBI jackets waited for them. Reidy and Henriksen shared a look, then Reidy walked over to the agents while Henriksen headed for the SWAT captain. After a moment’s indecision, Sam followed Henriksen.
“Captain?” Henriksen called out, and the guy turned, took one good look at him, and immediately bristled. Sam rolled his eyes. Great, a threatened alpha ready for a pissing match.
“SWAT Captain Art Sigriccia,” he clipped out. “And you are?”
“FBI. Special Agents Henriksen and Winchester.”
“I got your order. We’ll be ready to go in four minutes. Snipers are covering all egress points, and we’ve already chosen our entrance.”
“Good. I won’t interfere, Captain. I just wanted to let you know that we’re coming in with you.” Henriksen’s tone brooked no refusal.
Sigriccia’s face tightened, but clearly decided it wasn’t worth the effort to argue, not on such a short schedule. “Fine. You’ll go in after Team Alpha clears it.”
“You have a visual on the suspect?”
“Negative. He’s good, stays away from the window, any outside sight lines. We have seen some of the hostages though - looks like he’s having trouble keeping them in one place.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Do not underestimate this guy,” Henriksen warned before he turned away.
Aggravated, Sigriccia called after him, “Hope you brought vests.”
They hadn’t, but the agents from the Milwaukee field office had. In short order Sam found himself in a bulletproof vest, gun loaded and holstered, watching as the SWAT guys counted down before shattering the plate glass window to one of the offices. The first three teams went through cautiously, guns at the ready.
Seconds clicked past agonizingly slowly, and Sam found himself holding his breath until the radio clicked, “Clear.”
The team updated their progress as they searched the building, the radio clicking and hissing.
“Found one of the hostages. She’s unharmed. Escorting her out now.”
“Found a body! Third floor office. No sign of the suspect.”
“Found three hostages. They’re unharmed. Phil, escort them out of here.”
“Second and third floors secure. No sign of the suspect. Heading downstairs now.”
The next team went in with the police and the FBI agents right behind them. Sam held his Sig-Saur in both hands, low at his side with the muzzle pointing down as he carefully stepped over the broken glass into the darkened building. Except for the noises of the people around him, it was almost eerily silent. He fought to calm the instinctive adrenaline rush as his nerves clanged danger.
They crept along toward the office where the first body lay, listening as the lead team continued to update their progress.
“Got a body down here, lobby. It’s the first gunman.”
“I’m at the vault. The rest of the hostages are inside. They appear unharmed.”
“What the hell is this mess? Some sort of slimy goo on the north stairwell.”
“Body down in the boiler room, and Captain? It’s not pretty.”
Henriksen snarled to himself at that one, then let the stone-faced mask slip on again as they reached the office. An officer standing guard on the room glanced up at them. “Male, African-American. Goner.”
That was pretty obvious. The guy lay dressed only in his skivvies on the crushed remains of - Sam glanced up to confirm - ceiling panels, his throat slit deep. Henriksen shook his head and walked out of the office, heading down the hallway towards the stairs, radio crackling as the SWAT team cleared the building.
Sigriccia came up behind Henriksen as he reached the vault area. “Sir? My team said it’s secure. He’s gone.”
“You tell your team to tear it apart. The ducts, the ceilings, the furnace, everything,” Henriksen snapped, nearly vibrating with rage.
“I don't think that's necessary.”
“Why not?” Henriksen demanded. Sigriccia motioned for him to follow, and Sam fell into step right next to Henriksen. The next floor down, Sigriccia indicated a small storage closet guarded by one of his men. Inside, two men lay unconscious and handcuffed back to back. One was dressed in SWAT gear, minus his helmet, but the other was stripped to his underwear.
“He snuck out,” Sam stated unnecessarily, ignoring Henriksen’s furious glare. His mind worked frantically, analyzing, pulling together time frames and likely moves. Suddenly he turned to Sigriccia. “Where’s the nearest parking garage?”
Sigriccia frowned, but answered, “Next block over, about two buildings down. Why?”
Sam didn’t bother to answer before he sprinted away, following the signs to the emergency exit door on the street level. He slammed into the door, which spilled him out into an alley. Looking both ways to orient himself, he turned left and headed for the parking garage.
First level didn’t show any movement, so Sam leapt for the stairwell. As he climbed, he suddenly heard an engine turn over with a throaty roar characteristic of older cars somewhere above him. Panting, he pushed himself to go faster, taking the steps two and three at a time.
He emerged on the third level just in time to see a big black car streak past him. Sprinting out to the middle of the aisle, he automatically pointed his gun at the rapidly receding car but held his shot, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. The driver’s head was barely visible through the back windshield, not enough for an ID. Sam squinted, trying to read the license plate, but the car hung a sharp right and headed down the ramp, disappearing from view and leaving just the afterimage of the tail lights in his eyes.
*~*~*~*~*~*
On to part 5
Sam commandeered a small conference room for the video call to Henriksen, who was now at the field office in Chicago. The connection fuzzed a bit, static crackling over the audio. Sam shook his head as they finally got it cleared up enough to work. Typical government equipment.
“What happened in Chicago?” Sam asked once they exchanged short greetings.
“Another robbery,” Henriksen scowled darkly, “which they didn’t report at first because they thought they could handle it internally.”
“When?”
“Two weeks before Security National. Little place called Jones Diamond Importers. Family owned, make and sell lots of high end custom stuff. The store manager, Mark Jones, who’s the owner’s son, came in one night, cleaned out the entire store and the safe, then disappeared.” Henriksen scoffed low in his throat. “They wanted to find him themselves, work it out in the family. Well, they found him.”
Judging by his expression, Sam was anticipating something messy. “Where?”
“In the closet at home. Looks like he hung himself.” Henriksen’s lip curled slightly. “’Course, after hanging around in a stuffy closet for nearly two months, things got a little nasty. Mailman complained about the smell, so his sister checked it out.”
“Gross. And let me guess, not a trace of the jewels.”
“Exactly. That’s when they reported it. Figured their stock was worth about ten and a half million dollars.” For a brief instant, Henriksen looked slightly envious. Then he was all business. “What’d your team come up with?”
“Something interesting.” Sam smiled crookedly. “The robberies might be related to the credit card theft. And murder.”
Henriksen nodded slowly. “I had a feeling it might. Can you prove it?”
“Maybe.” Sam clicked open a new window and attached his report to an email, then sent it off. “I just sent you a summation. It’s a lot of circumstantial evidence, but there’s just too much that correlates. Problem is, we still don’t have a suspect. We can track his activity, but he himself isn’t popping up on the radar. The UnSub is still a ghost for now.”
“So how do we change that?” Henriksen asked pointedly, apparently staring at Sam’s left shoulder, which meant he was reading the email.
“Hodkins is working with the accounting guys to see if we can get a complete record of his movements. McDowell and Jeffers are trying to get access to the evidence from the other crime scenes. Even without a name, if his fingerprints have been run even once they’ll show up on AFIS. And I’ve been trying to track down Reidy . . .”
Just then the door banged open, and a tall thin man with receding brown hair walked in with a file and a smirk. “Winchester, right? I’m Special Agent Calvin Reidy. Morgan said I’d find you here.”
“Hey,” Sam nodded at him. “I’ve got Henriksen on vid call right now.”
“Oh good.” Reidy shook Sam’s hand, then came around the table so he could see the monitor. “Hey Vic, how’s it going?”
“Frustrating, as usual,” Henriksen said. “You got something?”
“Yep. You’re gonna owe me lunch for a year for this one.” Reidy held up his file. “Four years ago, Baltimore PD was investigating a double murder. Attorney had his throat slit in his office, no trace of the killer anywhere. A week later, his wife dies the exact same way in their house, except she got off a 911 call. Cops show up in time to catch the guy red-handed at the scene.”
“The point?” Henriksen deadpanned.
“I’m getting there. They ran the guy’s prints, checked his ID. Had some priors on his record; assault, B&E, arson, and, this one’s weird, grave desecration. Possible fingerprint hits on another dozen crime scenes. But get this - the credit card was flagged as a fake, so they started a back-trace. Connected him to three other cases of identity fraud.” Reidy grinned. “One of which is on our list.”
He pulled out a rap sheet with a flourish and held it up to the screen. “Meet Dean Harrison.”
Sam’s eyes caught on the mug shot and for a second his heart seemed to stop. Oh fuck.
Dean.
“So you think this is our guy?” Henriksen demanded, not realizing Sam’s heart was about to leap out his chest. “What happened in Baltimore?”
“Guy escaped custody. Two homicide cops went after him, but only one came back. She claims her partner was the killer; apparently he’d been involved in heroin theft and redistribution. He killed the lawyer to cover it up, and confessed to her because he was going to blame everything on Harrison and kill him. Harrison happened to be in the wrong place, wrong time. She objected, he tried to kill her, and Harrison escaped during the struggle. Evidence supported it.” Reidy shrugged.
“But that was four years ago. That doesn’t tell me where he is now,” Henriksen growled.
“Gives us a face and a name, Vic. That’s a helluva lot more than we had this morning,” Reidy pointed out. “I’m having the mug shot faxed over to you now.”
Henriksen nodded. “Sam,” he barked, and Sam jumped a bit, startled from the stunned stupor seeing Dean’s face had brought on. “Do a background check on this Harrison guy. I want to know everything about him, from when he was born to what he had for lunch today.”
Sam nodded, not quite ready to trust his voice, and hoping he didn’t look as rattled as he felt.
He needed coffee.
A few hours later, Sam had moved beyond shocked to downright pissed, with a little reluctant admiration thrown in for good measure. As far as the system was concerned, Dean Harrison had absolutely nothing in common with Dean Winchester, besides an uncanny physical resemblance.
Dean Harrison was born in Toledo, Ohio, to a William and Kelly Harrison, who both died before Dean was two. An only child, he was raised by his aunt Ellen who lived pretty much off the grid out in Nebraska. From what little he could glean from county records, Dean was home-schooled until the age of 16, whereupon he took off. There wasn’t a whole lot on him personally in the system. A Kansas driver’s license, but no car listed. Spotty job history, mainly as a mechanic and handyman, marked the next few years.
His criminal record was a lot more interesting, though. Starting in 2006, he started getting picked up for a variety of offenses: Breaking and entering, theft, arson, several assaults, menacing, harassment, resisting arrest, and grave desecration. That last one sealed it for Sam, looking over the complaint report: grave dug up, coffin broken in to and the body torched. It wasn’t some sick necrophile - it was a Hunter putting down a spirit.
Which meant it was Dean. Maybe. But if it was, where was Dad in all this?
Things got serious in 2008 and later. Baltimore was only the tip of the iceburg. His fingerprints matched almost two dozen possible hits at different crime scenes, several of which tallied with the trail they were recreating with the credit cards. Partial prints were found in an auction house which was broken into and robbed, in an apartment where a girl was later shot to death, on the doorframe in a house where five decapitated bodies were discovered, and more. Suspected for many crimes, he’d only been picked up a handful of times, and so far he’d never spent more than a night in jail, always skipping town the next day.
Dean Winchester, on the other hand, disappeared off the radar completely after 2005. Not hits on social security number or driver’s license, no fingerprints, no job, address, or phone. For all intents and purposes, he vanished - or became someone else.
Sam leaned his elbows on his desk and rubbed his face wearily. Maybe it was naiveté or just wishful thinking, but he never thought he’d ever have to hunt down a Hunter, let alone Dean. He knew their family wasn’t exactly on the up and up, but over the years for the most part they’d managed to stay under the radar, moving on when scrutiny got too intense. Why did that have to change now?
He supposed he should be grateful that there was nothing linking Dean Harrison back to Sam Winchester. That would be . . . trouble. As it was, he let himself admire for a moment the master work that went into creating the Dean Harrison record. It all looked perfect; if he hadn’t known better, he’d never have guessed it was complete manufactured bull.
They were expecting him to use this background to build a more concrete background, figure out what he would do next, how he would react. Sam stifled a snort. Profile his brother . . . once upon a time, he knew more about Dean than anyone else in the world. All the little quirks and habits, the minutia that details the whole person into an individual. Growing up together and living in each other’s pockets tended to make that inevitable.
Now, though, with eight years of separation, of life changes and different places, he wondered if he would even recognize Dean any more. How much was left of the brother he once know, and how much was a complete stranger to him?
His phone rang, startling him. Glancing at the number, he answered it, “Special Agent Winchester.”
“Sam, it’s me,” came Henriksen’s voice. “We’ve got a problem. Girl at the jewelry store in Milwaukee recognized Dean’s picture. He was there two days ago.”
Sam straightened up, all senses instinctively coming alert. “What? Why would he go back there?”
“You’re the profiler, you tell me,” Henriksen snapped. “What’s important is that he’s likely still in town. I want you and Reidy to fly up there tonight. I’ll finish up and meet you there.” He heard a car door slam. “We need to catch this guy, Sam. Before he kills someone else.”
*~*~*~*~*~*
Reidy was a much more pleasant travel companion than Henriksen was, but Sam wasn’t in the best mood to appreciate it. It was his turn to bury himself in his work, skimming reports and making notes to himself. Something felt . . . off, about the pattern they were building. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, though.
As soon as they landed and deplaned, Sam took the opportunity to stretch, reaching high until his back made a satisfying crack. He loathed flying coach; they never had near enough leg room for him. Reidy gave him a knowing look as he shouldered his own bag, then led the way toward the pick up area.
They’d barely reached baggage claim when Henriksen suddenly appeared beside them, face taut with stress. Reidy frowned in response. “Vic?”
“Just got the call. Bank robbery in progress. City Bank of Milwaukee.” Henriksen glanced at Sam. “He’s got hostages.”
Sam muttered a soft curse under his breath. What the hell was going on here? “Sure it’s our guy?”
“You know as much as I do right now.” Henriksen hurried them towards the exit, but Reidy suddenly pulled up short. Henriksen shot him a look. “Reidy?”
“It’s him,” Reidy said softly, and Sam followed his gaze - and froze.
Several of the TV monitors around the concourse were tuned to news channels, and right now every single one was covering the bank robbery. Someone had just come out of the bank, escorting an older security guard at gunpoint, apparently releasing the hostage. He glanced around at the gathered SWAT team, angling himself slightly behind the hostage to discourage any shots as he yelled at them to get back. The cameras zoomed in on the man - Dean.
For a long second Sam drank in the sight of his brother, clearly alive and well, if visibly tense. Then rage crashed through him, obliterating the relief. What the fucking hell was Dean doing?!
“Let’s go!” Henriksen said, snapping Sam back to his surroundings. He flushed; he really had to quit zoning out like that. Quickly matching pace with the two agents, they raced for the car and tore out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires. Speeding down night-darkened streets, Henriksen clicked on the police scanner, listening for a status update. Shots had been fired, one man was down inside the bank, supposedly the gunman. One of the hostages had taken over the situation.
“What?” Henriksen frowned heavily.
“What the hell’s going on with this guy, Winchester?” Reidy asked. “He’s never been this blatant before.”
“I don’t know!” Sam protested. If he had to guess, though, he was pretty sure that Dean had caught the shifter’s trail and tracked it to the bank. But how it all turned into a hostage situation, Sam had absolutely no idea.
“Why’s he switching MOs? Got impatient? Got caught? He’s improvising?” Henriksen thought aloud. “Maybe he was casing the place and something spooked him.”
“I. Don’t. Know,” Sam gritted out
Within twenty minutes they pulled up outside the bank, the street clogged with emergency vehicles, police trucks, news vans, and curious onlookers. Henriksen scowled at the camera lights all around, but got out of the car and shrugged on a light windbreaker with FBI emblazoned on the back in yellow, an air of command settling over him with it. He led the way to what had to be the command module; Reidy and Sam followed close.
The cops inside grimaced as soon as the three agents climbed inside. Sam ignored it; it was a common reaction among local police whenever feds showed up. “Lieutenant Robards?”
A weathered middle-aged man nodded reluctantly. “Yeah?”
“Special Agent Henriksen,” Henriksen introduced himself, his body language commanding and confident. “My partner, Special Agent Reidy, and Special Agent Winchester.”
“Let me guess,” Robards said dryly. “You're lead dog now, but you would just love my full cooperation.”
“I don't give a rat’s ass what you do, you can go get a donut and bang your wife for all I care,” Henriksen shot back. “What I do need is your S.W.A.T. team locked and loaded.”
Robards’ face tightened in annoyance. “Listen, Agent. Something's not right about this. It's, uh, it's not going down like a usual heist.”
“That's because it isn't one. You have no idea what you're dealing with, do you? There is a monster in that bank, Robards.”
“What the hell you talking about?” Robards glanced at the screens showing all the external camera feeds on the bank. “The gunman’s down.”
Sam moved into Henriksen’s view, and waited for the barely-there nod before asking, “What exactly happened?”
Robards sighed and gestured at the tech guy, who immediately started messing with his controls. “Guy came into the bank right before closing time, armed to the teeth, locked himself in first thing. Got the call about a bank robbery in progress when an outside security guard noticed the chain on the door. At least ten confirmed hostages. We surrounded the building, got snipers posted all around, then cut the power.”
The tech looked up. “These are the last feeds from the security camera before we cut power.” Sam leaned over his shoulder, then groaned at seeing first one, then two familiar faces.
“Ronald Resnick,” he answered Henriksen’s questioning look. “He locked the doors, took everyone hostage. Looks like he has an assault rifle. Dean was already inside.”
“Wonderful,” Henriksen rolled his eyes. “Just what we need, a conspiracy theory nutbag and a serial killer in one building.” He asked Robards, “Your snipers take down Resnick?”
“Had to. He was aiming that cannon at a civilian, and we had a clean shot.” Robards shook his head. “Whole thing’s hinky as hell. We managed to get him on the phone earlier. Said he didn’t have any demands, wasn’t there to rob the bank. Called himself a crime fighter and confirmed he was acting alone, then asked for a paramedic for one of the hostages before he hung up.”
“So Dean took advantage of the situation to take over, and now he’s locked in there, armed and alone with a bunch of hostages.” Henriksen shook his head. “That’s not good.” He snapped his fingers at the tech. “Call inside again. I need to talk to him.”
The tech glanced at Robards, then picked up the phone and dialed before handing the handset to Henriksen. Silence descended over the group as they waited, listening to the distant ring.
After the eighth ring, there was a click as someone picked up, the volume loud enough for everyone to hear. “Yeah?” Even rough and muted over a phone line, Sam could recognize Dean’s voice anywhere.
“This is Special Agent Victor Henriksen.”
“Yeah, listen, I'm not really in the negotiating mood right now.”
“Good. Me neither,” Henriksen interjected. “It's my job to bring you in; alive's a bonus but not necessary.”
“Whoa. Kinda harsh for a Federal Agent, don't you think?” The surprise and confusion came through loud and clear.
“Well, you're not the typical suspect, are you, Dean?” A soft intake of air, and Henriksen pressed his advantage. “I want you out here, right now, unarmed. Or we come in.”
“How’d you even know I was here?” Dean asked.
“Go screw yourself, that's how I knew,” Henriksen retorted. “It's become my job to know about you, Dean. I've been looking for you for weeks now. I know about the murders up in Michigan, I know about the Houdini act you pulled in Baltimore. I know about the desecrations and the thefts. I know about your family.”
“You don’t know crap about me,” Dean growled back, and Sam fought back a shiver. He’d never heard his brother sound so dark.
“You wanna come out here and discuss it?” Henriksen let a cold smile cross his face. “You have one hour to make a decision or we come through those doors full automatic.”
A second’s pause, then a click and a dial tone. Unperturbed, Henriksen put down the phone and turned to Robards. “Scramble your men. Five minutes, then we go in.”
“What? Henriksen, he’s let out one hostage so far,” Robards pointed out. “He’s hurt no one as far as we can tell.”
“As far as you can tell. You don’t know this guy. He’s smart, dangerous, and has already killed at least five people that we know about.”
Robards stepped closer as he insisted, “We can’t risk the lives of all those people.”
“Trust me, Dean’s a greater risk to them than we are.”
“This is crazy.”
Henriksen paused and looked Robards dead in the eye. “Crazy’s in there. And I just hung up on it.”
Sam scowled; he hated the automatic assumption of crazy, even more so considering it was Dean. But if it got Robards to cooperate, he’d bite his tongue.
Robards rolled his eyes but acquiesced. “Fine. Five minutes. You wanna go in with them, go talk to the captain over there.” He pointed out a shorter man in SWAT gear who seemed to be in charge outside.
“Thank you.” Henriksen jerked his head, and Sam and Reidy filed out of the trailer first. An SUV had pulled up outside by their car, and two men with FBI jackets waited for them. Reidy and Henriksen shared a look, then Reidy walked over to the agents while Henriksen headed for the SWAT captain. After a moment’s indecision, Sam followed Henriksen.
“Captain?” Henriksen called out, and the guy turned, took one good look at him, and immediately bristled. Sam rolled his eyes. Great, a threatened alpha ready for a pissing match.
“SWAT Captain Art Sigriccia,” he clipped out. “And you are?”
“FBI. Special Agents Henriksen and Winchester.”
“I got your order. We’ll be ready to go in four minutes. Snipers are covering all egress points, and we’ve already chosen our entrance.”
“Good. I won’t interfere, Captain. I just wanted to let you know that we’re coming in with you.” Henriksen’s tone brooked no refusal.
Sigriccia’s face tightened, but clearly decided it wasn’t worth the effort to argue, not on such a short schedule. “Fine. You’ll go in after Team Alpha clears it.”
“You have a visual on the suspect?”
“Negative. He’s good, stays away from the window, any outside sight lines. We have seen some of the hostages though - looks like he’s having trouble keeping them in one place.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Do not underestimate this guy,” Henriksen warned before he turned away.
Aggravated, Sigriccia called after him, “Hope you brought vests.”
They hadn’t, but the agents from the Milwaukee field office had. In short order Sam found himself in a bulletproof vest, gun loaded and holstered, watching as the SWAT guys counted down before shattering the plate glass window to one of the offices. The first three teams went through cautiously, guns at the ready.
Seconds clicked past agonizingly slowly, and Sam found himself holding his breath until the radio clicked, “Clear.”
The team updated their progress as they searched the building, the radio clicking and hissing.
“Found one of the hostages. She’s unharmed. Escorting her out now.”
“Found a body! Third floor office. No sign of the suspect.”
“Found three hostages. They’re unharmed. Phil, escort them out of here.”
“Second and third floors secure. No sign of the suspect. Heading downstairs now.”
The next team went in with the police and the FBI agents right behind them. Sam held his Sig-Saur in both hands, low at his side with the muzzle pointing down as he carefully stepped over the broken glass into the darkened building. Except for the noises of the people around him, it was almost eerily silent. He fought to calm the instinctive adrenaline rush as his nerves clanged danger.
They crept along toward the office where the first body lay, listening as the lead team continued to update their progress.
“Got a body down here, lobby. It’s the first gunman.”
“I’m at the vault. The rest of the hostages are inside. They appear unharmed.”
“What the hell is this mess? Some sort of slimy goo on the north stairwell.”
“Body down in the boiler room, and Captain? It’s not pretty.”
Henriksen snarled to himself at that one, then let the stone-faced mask slip on again as they reached the office. An officer standing guard on the room glanced up at them. “Male, African-American. Goner.”
That was pretty obvious. The guy lay dressed only in his skivvies on the crushed remains of - Sam glanced up to confirm - ceiling panels, his throat slit deep. Henriksen shook his head and walked out of the office, heading down the hallway towards the stairs, radio crackling as the SWAT team cleared the building.
Sigriccia came up behind Henriksen as he reached the vault area. “Sir? My team said it’s secure. He’s gone.”
“You tell your team to tear it apart. The ducts, the ceilings, the furnace, everything,” Henriksen snapped, nearly vibrating with rage.
“I don't think that's necessary.”
“Why not?” Henriksen demanded. Sigriccia motioned for him to follow, and Sam fell into step right next to Henriksen. The next floor down, Sigriccia indicated a small storage closet guarded by one of his men. Inside, two men lay unconscious and handcuffed back to back. One was dressed in SWAT gear, minus his helmet, but the other was stripped to his underwear.
“He snuck out,” Sam stated unnecessarily, ignoring Henriksen’s furious glare. His mind worked frantically, analyzing, pulling together time frames and likely moves. Suddenly he turned to Sigriccia. “Where’s the nearest parking garage?”
Sigriccia frowned, but answered, “Next block over, about two buildings down. Why?”
Sam didn’t bother to answer before he sprinted away, following the signs to the emergency exit door on the street level. He slammed into the door, which spilled him out into an alley. Looking both ways to orient himself, he turned left and headed for the parking garage.
First level didn’t show any movement, so Sam leapt for the stairwell. As he climbed, he suddenly heard an engine turn over with a throaty roar characteristic of older cars somewhere above him. Panting, he pushed himself to go faster, taking the steps two and three at a time.
He emerged on the third level just in time to see a big black car streak past him. Sprinting out to the middle of the aisle, he automatically pointed his gun at the rapidly receding car but held his shot, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. The driver’s head was barely visible through the back windshield, not enough for an ID. Sam squinted, trying to read the license plate, but the car hung a sharp right and headed down the ramp, disappearing from view and leaving just the afterimage of the tail lights in his eyes.
*~*~*~*~*~*
On to part 5