The Kill Season

by Robin Mahle

  “You’re fucking insane.”

  Wylder appeared confused. “Of course I am. It took you this long to realize it? I thought you were smarter than that.”

  Scott was only a handful of those who knew of Mason’s habit. The rest were in Rio. But he had left no evidence behind. Not that he was aware of. No trails. He’d worked exceptionally hard to cover them up for his boss who paid him hundreds of thousands of dollars to clean up his messes. But now as he peered at Wylder’s empty eyes, his bloodied clothes and hair and face, a sinking feeling bore down on him. He wasn’t going to make it out of this unscathed after all.

  “Come. I’ll make some coffee.” Wylder started into the kitchen. “I should get cleaned up first, but I’m desperate for some caffeine. It’s been a long night. But you’re here now and we can wrap this up.”

  “I—I can’t help you. I don’t know how to fix this. Mason, it’s over.” The look of resignation and defeat masked his face. His own death warrant had just been signed. Maybe that didn’t matter because life in prison didn’t seem like a great alternative.

  “Sure you can. Don’t be ridiculous. Fix it like you always do. You’ll handle it. You don’t really have a choice.” Wylder pushed a coffee mug toward him along the counter. “Drink this, you’ll feel better.”

  Scott peered at the cup that was imprinted with Mason’s bloodied fingers.

  Mason held firm his confidant’s gaze. “Just drink it. Look, man, it is what it is. Either you do this, or you die.”

  21

  The labs inside Quantico were a bevy of computers scrolling lines of what would appear to an outsider as inexplicable code. Centrifuges spun and microscopes displayed their findings across large screens. They received requests for analysis from across the country. This was where law enforcement went when there was nothing left to find. This was where the three agents who had already made it home arrived with a last-ditch effort in hopes of a hail Mary.

  “I’ll try, but I won’t lie, it’s a long shot.” The lab tech with gloved hands viewed the specimen from the Ziplock bag. The napkin with which Mason Wylder so willingly offered up his DNA.

  “Better than no shot.” Walsh eyed the time. “Can you get us something by tonight?”

  “You know I’ll do my best.” The technician turned his chair toward his computer.

  Walsh peered at the others. “Let’s go. Let him do what he needs to do.” He started back into the corridors.

  “Our people have risked their lives more than once and we still have nothing to show for it,” Duncan said.

  “That’s not entirely true,” Quinn said. “Scarborough said the AdA had a name for him, didn’t he?”

  “He did, but they were left with no choice but to flee before he could meet with them again. They suspect it was Varela who gave up their position bearing in mind he was the only one who knew where they were. I can’t say I’m not happy about that result. I think those gangs were just stringing them along, and I think it would’ve ended badly for Scarborough. No. It’s best they get back here.” Walsh made a turn toward his office. “I just want them home.”

  Duncan and Quinn followed him into his office and Duncan began. “Is there anything we can do to, I don’t know, get someone to check in on this guy? Mason Wylder?”

  “Without cause?” Walsh returned to his desk. “What are we going to say? He was in Rio when we were and he might be a killer?”

  “Why the hell not? What if we don’t get anything back from that napkin?” Duncan appeared flustered. “For God’s sake, we’re relying on the possibility he left skin cells behind, a miniscule amount of DNA. There has to be another angle to this.”

  Quinn leaned against a file cabinet near Walsh’s desk. “We’re all assuming Wylder is the killer, but we have no hard evidence of that. It could still be too soon to leave. Not until we can give them a definitive answer.”

  “Hang on,” Walsh said. “First you thought it was a bad idea for them to stay. Now it’s a bad idea for them to leave? Which is it, Quinn?” Walsh folded his arms across his square chest. “I’m trying to figure out who’s team you’re on because it doesn’t feel like it’s ours.”

  “That’s even a question in your mind? That’s new. How long have we known each other, man?”

  “A long time. Which is why your behavior is so troubling. Look, whatever problem you have with Scarborough needs to be hashed out because it’s affecting your outlook and we can’t afford to have you showing bias. You’re the profiler here, man. Your job is to give us some damn idea as to who we’re looking for and you’ve provided zilch so far.”

  Quinn aimed his sights on Duncan. “Is this how you feel too? Like I’m pushing back on this entire investigation?”

  “A little. Yeah. I don’t know if it’s Scarborough or if it’s Reid, but someone’s gotten under your skin and yeah, it’s starting to become a problem. We’re lost right now. Don’t you see that? Half our team has been running for their lives and you sit here and question every decision our team leader has made? I don’t get it.”

  Quinn eyed his colleagues. “Well, I guess it’s better to know how you feel now rather than later. Glad to see we’re all one cohesive unit.”

  “That’s not on us, man. That’s on you,” Walsh said. “You need to take a look in the mirror and figure out some things because this can’t continue, and I think you know that. When our people get back, you’re going to have to step in line.”

  “This isn’t the military, Walsh, in case you forgot.”

  “Maybe not. But there is a hierarchy and I think you’ve forgotten that.”

  “It’s really good to know how you both feel. Gives me something to chew on.” Quinn started to leave.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this, man. You just need to have a hard look at what you want from this team,” Walsh said.

  Duncan watched as he left and turned back to Walsh. “This entire investigation has felt disjointed. We haven’t been behaving like a team and something’s got to give.”

  “I know. I feel it too. Let’s get through this. Get our people back home and get some hard evidence on this guy.”

  “Assuming he’s our guy.” She stopped a moment. “You haven’t answered my question. What if we go check him out anyway before the others return?”

  “Who? Wylder?”

  “Yeah. Why not? We can do some digging. We can pull up his passport details. See when and where he’s traveled, including Rio and get a feel for the timeline. That could be critical. We can pull phone records.”

  “That’s where I’ll have to stop you. We can’t do that. Not without a warrant.”

  “Levi, come on. We know people. We already have records of our mysterious person who made calls in Rio.”

  “Then those are the ones we’ll need to analyze. Check to see if any of the numbers match the phone number of Wylder. His phone number, we can get.”

  “That’s what I want to hear. We’ll pull up anything and everything on Mason Wylder until the others return and go from there.”

  “Agreed. We’ll suffer the consequences later.”

  The airstrip was just ahead and a plane awaited them. The hour was late and the drive long, but the remaining BAU team made it to the secluded airstrip operated by their own where they would fly to Brasilia and then on to D.C.

  Cain pulled up as close as he could to the plane when his phone rang. “Yeah?” He waited for the caller to continue. “I see. Thank you.” He ended the call. “That was Lambert. He says it wasn’t Varela. It was the AdA. Well, it wasn’t entirely Varela. Apparently, his officers grew suspicious and informed the AdA. After that, they must’ve figured we didn’t go through with it after all.” Cain looked to Scarborough. “I told you we should’ve killed him. Now you’re forced to run. Who knows what the hell will happen to me when I get back to Brasilia? Doubt I’ll be able to show my face here in Rio ever again.”

  Guilt crawled up Kate’s spine because she had wanted Varela to live and might’ve plant
ed the idea in Scarborough’s head. Turns out, she had been wrong. And now Nick would feel the brunt of the ill-conceived plan that once again, nearly cost their lives.

  “Doesn’t matter now,” Scarborough said. “It’s done and we’re leaving. Should never have come to this God forsaken, shady country.” He opened his door and stepped outside.

  In the blackness of a tropical night where the trees blocked out the glow of the moon, and the sound of cicadas overwhelmed the skies, the three agents who remained in Brazil made their way onto the small charter plane bound for safety.

  Eva Duncan examined her computer screen as she submitted to the NCIC or National Crime Information Center database. The database itself comprised of roughly 18 different systems and inside one of those systems was the passport information she would need. The State department and the FBI shared material in circumstances when needed during the course of a criminal investigation. This was one such instance. She could search for Mason Wylder’s travel information and determine when and where he traveled since he held the passport. For someone of his status, that could mean files upon files of information to sift through. A wealthy celebrity traveled frequently, but she would narrow down her search to the last two years and see what those results yielded.

  She eyed the time and noted her team’s plane should be landing in Brasilia at any moment. It was her hope that one of them would call in to confirm their location. She worried about Cameron and despite her siding with Scarborough on the call to remain in Brazil, her heart was torn. Cameron could handle himself, no question, but sometimes he was arrogant. Most of the time he was arrogant, and that could cost him. Knowing that they were aboard their first flight put her mind at ease, though she didn’t know what they would face upon landing in Brasilia or how easy it would be to get on another flight and leave that place for good.

  “Here he is.” Duncan verified the name and address against what she already had and confirmed it. “I got you now.” She typed in a few more commands and printed his travel data for the past two years. It was an extensive amount of information, much of which would have been gleaned by further drilling down, but she wanted everything. First things first, though. When had he left for Brazil and what was his history?

  The murders, according to the now-deceased Pedro Sosa, had been an ongoing problem for at least a year, maybe longer. But records and reports were scarce in Rocinha, if anyone reported anything at all. Most feared retribution by either the gangs or the civil police. Neither of which were sympathetic to their cause.

  She retrieved the information and highlighted the dates as reflected on Wylder’s passport statement and marched headstrong into Walsh’s office. “I have something you should look at.”

  “Come on in and let’s have a look-see.”

  “Should we get Quinn in here?” Duncan pulled up a chair and sat down.

  “That would be the right thing to do, yes.” He appeared to pause on taking action.

  “And so, that’s what we’ll do, right?” She persisted.

  Walsh picked up his phone and called Quinn. “Hey, Duncan found travel information on Wylder. Do you want in on it?” He nodded. “Okay. Come on over.”

  “He’s coming. You need anything to drink?” Walsh stood. “I’m going to the breakroom for a water.”

  “I’ll take one. Bring one for Quinn, too.”

  “Sure thing.” Walsh left his office and on his way to the kitchen, he spotted Quinn. “Go on in, Duncan’s there. Just grabbing some waters. Care for one?”

  “Please. Thanks.” Quinn continued until reaching Walsh’s office and walked inside. “Hey. I just passed Walsh in the hall.”

  Duncan patted the seat next to her. “Have a seat. This is good news.”

  He accepted her offer. “Listen, um, about earlier. It’s something I need to work on. And I’m sorry for dragging you into it.”

  “It wasn’t just me. Walsh too. All of us, Quinn. It’s affecting all of us.”

  “I am now acutely aware of that fact.”

  Walsh returned. “Here you go.” He sat back down at his desk. “Show us the goods, Duncan.”

  She laid out the reports that had been highlighted to show the dates when Wylder visited Rio. “As you can see here, he arrived in Rio in early May. Probably right after his show wrapped up taping.”

  “That’d be my guess,” Walsh said. “Go on.”

  “And of course, we saw him there at the club, so that tracks. And if you look here, you can see a history of summer travel, however, each time, he stayed the entire summer. Didn’t return until September.”

  “How long has he maintained this habit?” Quinn asked.

  “At least the past two years. I could go back further, though, if need be.”

  Quinn nodded as if considering the notion. “What do we know about him here? Any run ins with the law?”

  “Not that I’ve been able to find,” Walsh began. “I did run a background check already.”

  “Okay. So no record, which makes sense. He probably wouldn’t have a job if he had a record. During his travels, I wonder if he chooses to stay in the same place? Does he own a house there?”

  “He does in fact own a very nice property in Gávea,” she continued.

  “That’s near Rocinha, as we discovered,” Quinn replied. “I’d like to know more about his background here. Trouble in school, what his family was or is like. That would help me decide if he’s a likely unsub.”

  “Seems to me he’s put himself right at the top of our list, given the time factors alone. Highly coincidental,” Walsh said. “I mean, come on. The guy decides to return days after we arrive? When he had no history of doing so in his prior visits?”

  “That’s a fair point,” Quinn replied. “And then a woman goes missing from the very place he also frequented.”

  “If that don’t sound calculated, I don’t know what does.” Walsh turned his attention to Duncan. “When you and Reid were at that club, though, and this is what still confounds me. You two saw a different man who you believed matched the tipster’s description of the person seen up that hill just prior to the discovery of the shallow graves. What do we know about him?”

  “Well, he was next to Wylder. Close, you know? Talked to him for a while. But then things went south and we left.”

  “Is it possible to think the incident you two faced was triggered at the direction of Wylder himself?” Walsh added.

  “If that’s the case, then the man with him could be an accomplice.” Duncan turned to Quinn. “That would change your profile. We don’t see that often. A willing accomplice like that? Especially one of an extremely high-profile individual.”

  “That would throw a wrench into the works. I mean, who would keep quiet about such a thing?” Quinn pursed his lips. “Unless he was getting paid to keep quiet. This guy, this Mason Wylder, if he is who we think he is, he has the means to payoff anyone for just about anything. And we know how the cops there have their hands out.”

  “But why risk doing something here, stateside, when it doesn’t seem there’s been any indication of that before?” Duncan continued.

  “He could be losing control of his urges. He had to leave shy of his usual plans. That could have thrown him off. The reporter’s death. He might’ve felt boxed in and in being forced to return home, he was unfulfilled,” Quinn said.

  “Okay, so where are we on the cross-referencing of the phone records we received from the calls made near that tower in Rocinha?” Walsh pressed on.

  “I was just about to get started on that,” Duncan said.

  “Let me pull this up and do a quick cross-check.” Walsh opened the file that contained the phone records and ran a check against US numbers making calls during that timeframe. “If we get a hit with a New York number, or hell, any US number as far as I’m concerned, that’s where we’ll start getting some better details.”

  “We can trace it then,” Quinn said. “We might not have a warrant, but right now, we have enough to get on
e.”

  22

  The actions leading up to this moment seemed unimaginable and in working for Mason Wylder, Scott had had plenty of time to imagine the impossible. There was shock, at first, but then it seemed like, well, like it didn’t matter. No one was going to find out. No one gave a shit about those poor women. And Wylder was happy.

  It had taken time and a lot of booze, but Scott adapted to the behavior and the ritual hadn’t altered in the years since he’d been working for Wylder. Tolerance resulted because as soon as they would return to New York in the fall, everything would return to normal.

  Now, all that has changed. Wylder was fully unhinged. And here they were, back home in New York. It was going to be hard enough diverting attention away from Wylder after the murder of the director’s niece. In fact, that was an ongoing investigation that was growing in intensity, and it was likely only a matter of time before the NYPD would knock on Wylder’s door. Scott had already devised an alibi, but with this? Wylder was out of control and he no longer believed he could contain the problem.

  Scott finished rinsing out the bloodied rags and the woman was wrapped inside an area rug. He still needed to find a way to get her out of the house. There were certain people he could call on yet again, but questions would be raised that he would have no choice but to answer. Nevertheless, there didn’t seem to be much choice in the matter right now. Scott had become the fixer and there was no escaping it. Wylder’s words still echoed in his head. “Do this, or you die.”

  If he was caught, he’d be dead anyway. Either by way of suicide or waiting for the thugs in the prison to do it for him. He wouldn’t see his 30th birthday come November.

  Scott returned to his feet and peered down at his shirt. “Damn it. I love this shirt.” It was soaked in the woman’s blood. He didn’t know who she was, which was probably best. And while Mason studied his script in his office, Scott was forced to finish the job and make everything appear as though nothing had happened. “Easier said than done.”