by Alex Kava
Kathleen looked around her current apartment, a sunny one-bedroom she had recently decorated herself with bright and cheerful colors that she no longer saw through blurry, hungover eyes. She hadn’t had a drink in ten months, two weeks and…She checked the desk calendar—four days. Though it still wasn’t easy. She reached for the coffee mug again and took a swallow.
Looking at the calendar reminded her how close Thanksgiving was. She checked her watch. She would need to call Maggie. It was important to Reverend Everett that she and Maggie have a family Thanksgiving together. Surely they could do it, just this once. How difficult could it be to get through one day together? It’s not like they hadn’t done it before. They had spent plenty of holidays together, though at the moment, Kathleen couldn’t remember any vividly enough to feel reassured. Holidays had usually been sort of a blur to her.
She checked the time again. If she called during the day, she’d get Maggie’s voice messaging service, and she wouldn’t get to talk to Maggie.
Kathleen thought about their breakfast yesterday. The girl had fidgeted as if she couldn’t wait to leave, and now Kathleen wondered if Maggie really had been called away. Or had she simply not wanted to spend another minute with her own mother? How did they ever get to this place? How did they ever get to be enemies? No, not enemies. But not friends, either. And why could they not even talk to each other?
She checked her watch again. Sat quietly. Tapped her fingers on the papers, then glanced at the phone on the counter. If she called while Maggie was at work, she’d only be able to leave a message. She sat for a while longer, staring at the phone. Okay, so this wasn’t going to be easy—she was still a coward. She got up and went to the counter. She’d leave a message, and she picked up the phone.
CHAPTER 35
Maggie stood up to stretch her legs and automatically began her ritual pacing. The real meeting hadn’t begun until the senator was safely in his limousine and on his way back to the District. Now the uncensored reports and photos were strewn across the conference room’s table alongside coffee mugs, cans of Pepsi, bottles of water and sandwiches Cunningham had ordered up from the cafeteria.
The old easel-backed chalkboard Cunningham liked to use was almost filled. On one side were the words:
duct tape
cyanide capsule
semen residue
handcuff marks: none found on the victim
ligature tracks: possible cord with glittery residue
possible DNA under nails
scene posed/staged
unidentified circular marks in dirt
On the other side under the heading Unsub was a shorter list, the beginning of a profile:
left-handed
organized, although a risk-taker
knows police procedure
prepared: brought weapon to scene
may interact well with society, but no regard for others
draws satisfaction from seeing his victim suffer
strong sense of grandiosity and entitlement
Cunningham had peeled off his jacket and gotten down to work as soon as Senator Brier had left the conference room, yet he still hadn’t explained why they had gathered out here at Quantico instead of at FBI headquarters. Nor had he bothered to explain why he had been chosen to head the task force rather than the Special Agent in Charge (SAC) of the District’s field office or why BSU had even been called in to take a look at the scene before they knew the victim was a daughter of a United States senator. He hadn’t bothered to explain any of it, and neither Maggie, nor the rest of them, seemed willing to call him on it.
There was plenty he wasn’t telling them. Yet, what he had told them, at least three times, was that all information was to remain shared with only the six members of the task force and with absolutely no exceptions. Redundant, really. They were all professionals. They knew the rules. Well, maybe all of them except Racine. Maggie wondered if perhaps Cunningham didn’t trust Racine, either. Could that be why he was holding back on an explanation? Of course, he had no choice about including Racine. The task force had to have someone from the District PD, and since Racine had already been assigned to the case, it made sense she would continue as liaison.
“According to Wenhoff, cause of death was asphyxiation due to manual strangulation,” Keith Ganza said with his usual monotone, continuing their list.
Cunningham found the word ligature on the chalkboard and scrawled underneath manual strangulation—COD.
“Manual strangulation? What about all the ligature marks?” Tully pointed them out in the autopsy photos of the young woman’s neck.
Keith reached for several of the photos, pulled one out and slid it back to Tully. “See that bruising and the vertical crescent marks? The bruising was made by the pressure of his thumbs. The vertical crescentic abrasions were made by his fingernails. The horizontal ones are all hers. The bruising and the abrasions are in the perfect position to break the hyoid bone. That’s the curved bone at the base of the tongue.” He indicated the area in one of the photos. “There were also fractures to the cartilage of the windpipe and the larynx. All are signs of excessive force and signs of manual strangulation.”
“The guy obviously had been using some kind of cord, over and over again.” Racine stood now to look over Tully’s shoulder at the photos. “Why the hell would he suddenly decide to use his hands?”
Maggie noticed that Racine was leaning close enough into Tully to brush her breasts against his back. She looked away and caught Gwen watching. Gwen’s eyes told her she knew exactly what she was thinking, and Gwen’s sudden frown warned Maggie to be careful and keep any sarcasm to herself.
“Maybe he used his hands when he was finished with whatever little game of pass out and wake up he was playing with her. He may have felt like he had more control with his hands to complete the job,” Maggie said, then turned away from them and stared out the window. She remembered the girl’s neck without looking at any photos, and she could easily conjure up an image of how it came to its mangled black-and-blue state. Black and blue, almost the color the sky had now turned, swollen with dark clouds. A light rain began tapping against the glass. “Maybe the cord simply wasn’t personal enough,” she added without looking back at any of them.
“She may have gotten personal enough to get a piece of him under her fingernails,” Ganza said, and immediately had Maggie’s attention. “Most of the skin was her own, but she managed to get in a scratch or two. Enough for DNA. We’re checking to see if it matches the semen.”
“Also, what about the cyanide capsule?” Racine asked. “And that pinkish tint. Stan made it sound like it could have been the poison.”
Now Maggie turned and glanced at Tully. The two of them looked to Cunningham. Yes, what about the cyanide capsule? They had avoided discussing the possible connection between the senator’s daughter and those five suicidal boys from the cabin in the Massachusetts woods. No way was it a coincidence—not that Maggie even believed in coincidences. Someone had gone to an awful lot of trouble to make sure they made a connection. Someone, perhaps, wanting to point out his deed, or rather, his revenge.
“Poison does leave a pinkish tint. Some of the cyanide had been absorbed into her system, but very little,” Keith answered, though no one except Racine seemed interested.
“So,” Racine said, rubbing her temple as if genuinely trying to figure it out. “Why strangle her if you’ve put cyanide in her mouth and taped it shut? Am I the only who thinks that doesn’t make sense?”
“The capsule was strictly for show,” Cunningham finally offered without looking at the detective, making the explanation sound commonplace. He wiped the chalk from his hands, taking a break and picking up his ham on rye. He took a bite without looking at the sandwich, concentrating instead on the diagrams and police reports spread out on the table.
Racine, now back in her chair, shifted impatiently, waiting.
“You must have heard about the standoff last week in Massachusetts.�
� Cunningham still wouldn’t meet her gaze and flipped through the reports. “Five young men used the same kind of capsule filled with cyanide to commit suicide before they opened fire on ATF and FBI agents. For some reason, someone wants us to know there’s a connection with Senator Brier’s daughter.”
Racine looked around the table, only now realizing this was news only to her. “You all fucking knew about this?”
“The information about the cyanide is classified and so far has been successfully held back from the media.” Cunningham’s tone made Racine sit back. “We need to keep it that way, Detective Racine. Is that understood?”
“Of course. But if I’m to be a part of this task force, I don’t expect information to be held back from me.”
“Fair enough.”
“So was this some sort of revenge killing?” Racine caught on quickly. Maggie couldn’t help but be impressed, and she turned back to the window when Racine looked her way.
“Or is that too obvious?” Racine asked. “The life of a senator’s daughter in exchange for five?”
“Revenge certainly can’t be discounted,” Cunningham answered between bites of his sandwich.
“Maybe now you can also tell me how you knew about it before we discovered it was the senator’s daughter?”
“Excuse me?”
Maggie looked back at Cunningham. Racine dared to ask the question all of them had been thinking. The woman certainly had more guts than brains.
“Why was BSU called in on this?” Racine asked, apparently unaffected by Cunningham’s position of power or his scowl. Maggie couldn’t help thinking that if Racine did have aspirations of getting into the FBI, she may be squashing an important reference.
“A homicide on federal property is a federal matter,” he told Racine in his best cool, authoritarian tone, “and therefore, the FBI is in charge of the investigation.”
“Yeah, I know that. But why BSU?” Racine didn’t flinch. Maggie watched to see if Cunningham would. By now, everyone was watching to see if Cunningham would.
He pushed up the bridge of his glasses and looked around at each of them. “There was an anonymous phone call early yesterday morning,” he finally confessed, digging his hands into his pockets and leaning against a seldom-used podium next to the chalkboard. “It was traced to a pay phone at the monument. The caller simply said we’d find something interesting at the FDR Memorial. The call came in on my direct line.”
No one said anything.
“I’m not certain why the caller chose to tell me,” Cunningham added when no one, not even Racine, dared to ask. “Perhaps they knew I was at the crime scene at the cabin. Perhaps they knew we had been asked to profile that case.” He looked over at Maggie. “You were quoted in the Times. Anyone could have made the assumption we were on the case.”
Maggie felt a sudden flush, regretting that she had said anything. That morning a reporter had caught her off guard, coming down the steps of the J. Edgar Hoover Building. He had asked about Agent Delaney. She hadn’t been able to mask her anger and simply told him that they would catch the responsible party. That was all she had said, but in that evening’s edition of the Washington Times, the reporter had identified her as a criminal profiler, insinuating that BSU was somehow involved.
“It doesn’t matter.” Cunningham tried to relieve her discomfort with a wave of his hand. “The important thing is for us to find this bastard. Agent Tully, how did it go with Emma and Agent LaPlatz?”
“I think it went well.” Maggie noticed Tully seemed back to his normal self. He pulled out a copy of the line drawing from a folder and added it to the mess in the middle of the table. “Whether this Brandon is involved or not, Emma knows she saw him with Ginny Brier that evening. Agent LaPlatz is in the process of faxing the sketch to all law enforcement within a hundred-mile radius with a note that he’s wanted for questioning.”
“Questioning and perhaps a voluntary DNA sample. We need to find him. Detective Racine,” Cunningham said, picking up the sketch, “perhaps you could have some officers take a copy of this and check if anyone saw this Brandon around the monuments Sunday morning. Maybe he’s also our mystery caller.”
Racine nodded.
“And we need to know what group those boys in that cabin belonged to. We keep coming up empty-handed.” He looked to Gwen. “There’s one survivor. He’s refused to talk to anyone. He may have important information. Would you give it a shot?”
“Of course,” Gwen said without hesitation.
Just then, Tully pulled out the pamphlet Maggie had seen him folding earlier. It still had the accordion folds, and he tried smoothing out the creases on the side with the man’s picture. “I forgot about this. I found it at the monument Sunday morning. It’s from the group that held the prayer rally Saturday night. Emma thinks Brandon might be a member. And in fact, if Wenhoff’s time of death is accurate, the murderer was killing the Brier girl while the rally was still taking place down below.”
Cunningham leaned over the table to take a look. Maggie left her perch at the window.
“That’s it,” Maggie said as she read the block type: Church of Spiritual Freedom. “That’s the nonprofit organization that owns the cabin.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded, looking to Ganza for confirmation as they all stood, leaning over Tully for a closer look. Now Maggie glanced at the man’s photo, a handsome, dark-haired man in his forties with a movie star’s slick looks. Then she read the caption, and she felt her stomach flip. Reverend Joseph Everett. Jesus! The man who might be at the center of these murders was her mother’s savior.
CHAPTER 36
Justin couldn’t believe his eyes. Compared to the rest of the compound, Father’s small cottage looked like a fucking palace. There was a fireplace and expensive leather chairs. Bookcases were filled with books, something members were not allowed to own or keep, except for a personal copy of the Bible. The walls were covered with framed artwork and the windows with flowing drapes. A bowl with fresh fruit, another rare commodity, sat on a hand-carved sofa table. Next to the bowl was a can of Pepsi. Shit! Alice had led him to believe that junk food was like the Antichrist or some fucking thing.
He sat in one of the leather chairs, waiting as he had been instructed to do by Cassie, Father’s personal assistant. He should have been nervous about being asked here—no, summoned. That was the word Darren had used when he came to get him. Had to be Father’s word. Not likely an idiot like Darren would come up with a word like that all on his own.
He could hear Father’s voice in the room next door, Father’s office. He couldn’t hear another voice, though it was obvious Father was having a conversation with someone. He had to be on the phone. Another surprise. Had to be a cellular phone, since there weren’t any fucking phone lines running into the compound.
“I don’t like the sounds of this, Stephen,” Father was saying.
Yeah, he had to be on the phone, ’cause Justin wasn’t hearing Stephen answer.
“How could this have happened?” Father asked, sounding impatient. He didn’t wait for an answer. “He made a big mistake this time.”
Justin wondered who’d fucked up. Then he heard Father say, “No, no. Brandon’s being taken care of. Don’t worry about him. He won’t make the same mistake twice.”
Brandon? So it was the golden boy who fucked up? Justin smiled, then caught himself. There could be cameras.
He tried to sit still, but his eyes kept pivoting around at the amazing surroundings. Office, bedroom, huge fucking living room. He knew Father even had his own bathroom. Now he wondered if the man had a fucking whirlpool bath and…Oh, shit. He hadn’t even thought about it before—the man probably had toilet paper. Not just toilet paper but that white, soft, cushiony stuff. And no way was he restricted to two-minute showers. The thought had Justin raking his fingers through his hair. At least this morning he had gotten all the shampoo out before the water shut off. Maybe he was finally getting the hang of it. But he wo
uld never get used to brushing his teeth without water. The antiseptic taste of that generic paste stayed with him throughout the day.
“Justin.” Father entered the room without a sound, no footstep, no warning. He wore a black turtleneck sweater and dark trousers that looked freshly pressed.
Justin jumped at the sound of his voice, then automatically stood, wondering if he would need to sit on the floor now. Hadn’t Alice told him that Father’s head had to be above everyone else’s? Or did it not count when no one else was around to see? Shit! He wished he had talked to Alice before coming.
“Sit down,” Father said, pointing to Justin’s chair. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you since Saturday night.” He sat in the leather chair facing Justin’s.
He watched the reverend’s face, looking for signs of anger or that scowl he had perfected, the one that could turn men to stone and probably make women sterile. Who knew what powers this guy possessed. But, instead, Father’s face was calm and serious but friendly.
“I know you must be confused by what you think you saw on the bus coming back Saturday evening.”
Oh, shit! He was actually going to make them discuss this. Justin shifted, making the leather of his chair crackle. “I was sorta half-asleep,” he attempted.
“Yes, I thought perhaps you had been. That’s why I think you may have misunderstood what you saw.” Father sat back and crossed his leg with his right ankle resting on the knee of his left leg, making himself comfortable yet looking in complete control. “You know, Justin, I must constantly test all my followers. Just one among us who shows weakness could destroy us all.”
Justin nodded, pretending to understand this bullshit.
