Max Strand accompanied Jessica and J.T. along with local FBI field agent Sam Owens. On their second meeting, Jessica found Strand a hefty, muscular man, round, rough-looking, not in the least frail for a man his age only recently out of surgery. Strand's face was a mask of experience, his eyes clearly having seen a lot of gruesome events in his years as a police detective. He appeared stoic and sad at the same time. Owens appeared Strand's opposite in every way. Cahil's residence had been kept a secret by the FBI who had moved him here from Newark. Strand had pulled a lot of strings to learn where in the city of Morristown the man resided.
After introductions were made, Jessica asked, “So, Strand, how do you like having Cahil back on your turf?”
“ You don't understand. When he was relocated initially to Newark, I put in for a job there to be close by in the event he should resume his former habits. So, when he was relocated here, that solved the problem.”
“ If you were on him, how'd he disappear?”
“ He was my obsession, not the department's. Like I told you in Philly, I've been in the hospital. Bypass operation.”
She bit her lower lip and said, “Sorry. Hope all is-”
“ He must've known I was down,” Strand said of Cahil. “We're old adversaries. Frankly, I thought he was done with his old habits, since he's done absolutely nothing after being released other than play games on his computer.”
“ His computer?” asked J.T.
Strand told Thorpe about the computer site, ending with, “And while he goes on about his crimes as if they were the work of a Lord God doing what a god does, there's nothing he can be charged with, even if he is encouraging people to worship as he does.”
“ How do you mean 'worship'?” asked J.T.
“ He's got some strange notions about gaining a glimpse of the cosmic mind-God-through feeding on brains.”
“ He's advocating cannibalizing other people to reach God?” asked J.T. “And he's free to do that?”
“ I haven't plugged in to his site recently, but he's been careful not to be too specific about what kinds of brains his audience should be chewing on. He's opted for meat products in the local grocery freezer and canned goods for a while, but now he's into pasta.”
“ So he's untouchable?”
“ The law has a long way to go to control the Web.” Strand took a deep breath as they walked toward the house together. “Like I said, I'd begun to believe Cahil through with it, until I got word of the murders. They occurred just as I was incapacitated, and I had no access to a computer. No one but a lunatic who might log on could possibly find some sort of 'truth' in Daryl's rantings.”. “How do you feel about him being on the loose now?”
Strand, stretching the full-length of his tall, rugged ex-marine frame, replied with squinting eyes and gnashing teeth. “How do you think I feel? This guy should've been put away for life. I knew he'd be at it again. Just figured it would be in another cemetery, not killing young people outright. That nuthouse they sent him to only graduated the lunatic to the real thing.” The absence of yellow police caution tape indicated that this was no crime scene, and that Owens was moving on the place with a light hand, likely having anticipated Cahil's return-before he had been apprehended in Atlantic City.
“ We kinda tiptoed into the house carefully from the rear. Went in and got out quickly when we located an active credit card number,” Owens said.
“ Didn't trip over any bodies?” asked J.T.
“ Found nothing extreme except the filth. Place is a pigsty, so we decided we'd leave it until you experts arrived. Our guys wanted him apprehended. We thought he might just be down the block at a bar or store. Then we got word you were on your way, so we waited.”
“ And you drew straws to pull this return duty, Sam?” she asked.
His face told her it was true. No one wanted to revisit this horrible place. “Like I said, after we located the credit card number, we got out, hoping to surprise him on his return. When we got news he was picked up in another town, we ceased the stake out, had the lock repaired, gave the landlord a key and kept one for you.”
She squinted, wondering what Owens and the earlier team had accomplished here. He must have read the question in her face.
Owens added, “Sorry, but we found no smoking gun to link him to the Digger killings.”
“ So, what you're saying is you were in and out. No evidence techs or high-tech searches done?” asked Jessica.
“ That's about it. We didn't confiscate any of his belongings, nor did we disturb anything.”
“ Understood,” replied Jessica, her hand out. “I'll take the key, Agent Owens.”
“ Back door,” he repeated, handing her the shiny new key. They followed a narrow and cluttered passageway alongside dirtied basement windows to the rear of the house. As Jessica turned the key in the lock, she wondered if this could indeed be the home of the Digger and/or an accomplice. Could Daryl be the Digger or a coconspirator?
Easing the door open, Jessica held back as the odors from inside assailed her. She steadied herself and pulled the door wide. It creaked and complained-groaned animal-like-as it came to a stop, fully open now to the outside world. A fetid odor combining vermin, stale air, pent-up mildew and rotting fruit wafted past her to attack Strand and J.T., while the young Morristown field agent coughed and covered his nose.
“ Terrible in there,” he muttered. “I warn you all again… watch your step. It's a rat's hole.”
“ We'll be careful,” J.T. replied as he struggled with a pair of rubber gloves. Jessica had already slipped her gloves on, and she offered a pair from her valise to both Strand and the junior agent who had reluctantly entered behind the group.
“ Somebody find a light switch,” suggested Jessica.
J.T. did so, but the switch didn't work. “No lights. Sorry.”
“ We were here during daylight hours. Light wasn't a problem,” said Owens. “Electric company must've shut it down.”
“ But the fridge is operating,” replied Jessica, hearing the hum.
“ Maybe on a generator,” suggested Strand.
A single shaft of light from a streetlamp outside somehow penetrated the kitchen area they walked through. Jessica located her high-intensity penlight, and the others did likewise. The bungalow's floors were completely covered in newspapers, magazines, books and clothing, scattered food containers-pizza and Chinese food boxes everywhere along with filthy towels and linens. Jessica's light explored the kitchen to the humming sound coming from the refrigerator. The small kitchenette reeked of stale odors. Food stains discolored every surface, including walls and ceiling, along with something the color of gray, the color of brain matter, making Jessica gasp. “Owens, your team didn't see this?”
Everyone stared at the end of her beam. “Looks like brain matter,” said J.T.
“ It's only clay,” explained Owens.
“ This some sort of sick departmental joke, Owens, meant to frighten us?” Jessica touched it with her gloved finger, found it sticky to the touch, clinging to her. Sniffing it, she decided Owens was telling the truth. “Clay,” she repeated.
“ This a joke, Owens?” repeated J.T.
“ No, Dr. Thorpe, no. None of us in the bureau put the clay here. It's all over the place. He makes these weird-assed clay models of the brain, and he stuffs them with noodles. And look here.” He opened a kitchen cabinet and his light revealed it stuffed with bags of green-gray noodles.