“Great, I’m glad you’re all here. Please sit down. Chan and Milligan won’t be joining us because they’re on a flight back from San Francisco.” Taylor paused for a moment to give everyone the opportunity to take a seat. “First, let me say thank you to Agent Bishop for leading the team.”
The muscles along Jess’s spine tightened. She’d heard this speech before when someone was being removed from an investigation. It was always important to thank someone before you fired them, as if being polite would soften the blow. She clenched her hands until her palm screamed out, using the pain to focus. She wouldn’t show she was upset.
“Also, thank you to Agent Scott for working throughout the night, accessing Jim Iverson’s files. They’ve made for some interesting if uncomfortable viewing.”
Jess glanced over at Scott. He was typing on a laptop. With a click, the screen filled with a picture of Ryan Hastings, Eric Beauchamp, Sam Peterson, Jason Davenport, and Levi Smith. It was a candid shot taken in a cabin of some description. There were metal dormitory-style bunk beds. She didn’t recognize the room. It wasn’t Iverson’s cabin or Levi’s dormitory at Gracemount. Based on the angle, the photo was taken from above, possibly ceiling height.
“That looks like it was taken with a hidden camera,” Jamison said. “Look at the angle and the way they’re all just going about their business, getting dressed. They don’t know they’re being photographed.”
“Filmed actually,” Scott said. “It appears Iverson put cameras in the boys’ dormitory so he could film them.”
Jess was about to tell them that it was not Levi’s dorm when Scott said, “In addition to the videos, we recovered over fifty thousand pornographic images from his computer, mostly featuring pubescent boys. It’s clear he was a pedophile.”
“Hebephile,” Jess corrected.
“What?” Scott looked over at her, clearly unimpressed with the interruption.
“You said all the images were of pubescent boys; that would make Iverson a hebephile. Pedophiles are attracted to prepubescents. The Last Supper victims were all mid-to-late teens. If you’re suggesting Iverson was sexually attracted to them, that would make him a hebephile, again not a pedophile.”
Scott’s nostrils flared. “Whatever. He was into child porn. You can call it what you want, he was into kids.”
“I’m not being pedantic. If you’re suggesting there is a sexual motivation for the suicide game, we have to be very clear about the parameters of Iverson’s proclivities. Also, if the porn only featured boys, that means he is a preferential offender, and we shouldn’t have seen any female victims. But there were three.”
“Well, we did, so maybe he didn’t get the memo about how to be a textbook sex offender.” Scott smiled at his own joke.
“Sex offender? He has no convictions or charges. But even if he was, there is no evidence of any sexual component to the suicide game at all. The curator never once asked for a sexual picture or engaged in sexually explicit chat. He had complete control of these kids. If he’d wanted, he could have gotten them to send pictures or videos. It doesn’t make any sense to think there is a sexual component to this.”
“Well, I’m sorry this case doesn’t conform to your preconceived ideas.”
Jess shook her head. She was the first person to look for a sex offender angle, but it felt contrived. She may very well be going crazy but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Jim Iverson had been scapegoated by the real curator, and whoever he was didn’t do a great job of laying the ground work. This just wasn’t well-thought-through. “Go to Finder and show me the dates he downloaded the porn.”
“What? Why?”
“If you can’t find it, Tina can,” Jess challenged when he didn’t reach for the mouse, hoping he would find the threat emasculating enough to acquiesce and do what she asked. He seemed the type who would get bent out of shape to be showed up by a woman.
“No. I got it.” The keys clicked as Scott banged on the keyboard and brought up the list of dates.
Her pulse spiked when she saw the dates on the screen. A surge of adrenaline mixed with vindication shot through her. Every image had been downloaded on the same day in December. She wasn’t crazy, at least not about this. Jim Iverson had been set up—but by who? “Did you find anything illegal downloaded before December third?”
“No,” Scott admitted. His normal confidence had slipped along with his grin.
“So, you’re proposing that last month Jim Iverson developed deviant sexual attractions that caused him to set up a national suicide game five months before that. Talk me through your thought processes.”
“There might be more pornography I haven’t found yet,” Scott said.
“Or it might be a new computer?” Smart offered. “He bought the computer and then he transferred over his stash.”
Jess nodded. That was the first thing from the pair that made sense.
“Tina, can you check his debit and credit cards and see if he recently purchased a new laptop?”
“Yeah, I’m on it.”
Scott held up his hand. “It’s academic at this point. He admitted it all in a suicide note.”
“About the suicide note. It doesn’t read right.” Jess had read and reread the note over and over, trying to make sense of it, but she couldn’t.
“Read right?” Scott held up his hands in exasperation. “What does that even mean?”
“Can you bring up the note, please?” Director Taylor asked.
A photo of the note filled the screen.
I’m sorry for what I have done. I didn’t mean for things to get out of hand. I didn’t think anyone would really take part in the game. Once it started, I didn’t feel like I could stop. I apologize to the families. I hope they can find peace.
“That’s not a suicide note. It’s barely a note. Real suicide notes aren’t explanations. They focus on hopelessness. Death is their only option to end the pain. Where is the desperation here? There is no emotion to speak of. That’s not typical. Also, where are the mundane practical instructions for the people left behind? There is no mention of a will. Genuine suicide notes tend to say things like, ‘Tell mom I love her,’ and, ‘Don’t forget to clean out the lint trap in the dryer.’ People want to make sure things are going to be okay after they die so they include instructions.”
“Well, this one didn’t, and yet he shot himself in the head, so there you go,” Scott shot back.
“Has it been tested for prints?” Jamison asked, trying to diffuse the tension.
No one immediately answered.
“Well, has it?” Taylor asked.
Scott pursed his lips together. “No, sir, I don’t believe it has.”
“It needs to be tested,” Jamison said.
Director Taylor nodded. “Yes, it should have been. Get that done and we’ll add it to the report so we can close the case and put it behind us.”
Jess’s eyes widened. “Closed? We’re not even certain Jim Iverson committed suicide. Why did he start the game? How did he pick his victims? What made the boys at Gracemount so susceptible to suicide? There are too many questions.”
Taylor frowned. “Perhaps we’ll never know. I suppose that’s the nature of the beast.”
“That’s not enough for Jeanie. She deserves answers.” Jess bit into the side of her mouth until she tasted the metallic zing of blood. There was so much more she wanted to say but she wouldn’t challenge Taylor in front of everyone because she wasn’t ready to add insubordination to her extensive list of character flaws.
“Sadly, it’s going to have to be enough because Iverson took all his secrets with him,” Taylor said.
He kept talking, offering platitudes, but his words were lost on her. She couldn’t stop thinking of Jeanie’s red-rimmed eyes, hearing her cry. Every time she heard a victim cry, she thought of her father, all the people he made cry, the lives he ruined. In an instant, she was transported back.
“Agent Bishop.”
She was startled. Her
head snapped up to find everyone in the room staring at her. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“I was just saying that I spoke to Jeanie this morning and she isn’t yet ready to return to work. Agent Bishop, you’ve done such an excellent job leading this investigation. We’ve both agreed that we’d like you to stay on as team leader until Jeanie is ready to come back.”
“What?” Her mind froze, like a gearbox stuck in neutral. She looked from Taylor to Scott. She wanted to bring up the staging of Iverson’s body, the SUV tracks, and the transfer blood on the door, but Scott would just shoot her down and Taylor would nod his head like a placid puppy because he wanted this case behind him. The investigation was closed and nothing she would say could change their minds. “I mean, thank you, but-I-uh-I can’t. I mean I can’t right now. This case has brought up—” she closed her eyes so she could get out the rest of the words “—too many memories. I’d like to take the time Dr. Cameron suggested.”
Jamison’s stare was heavy on her. They both knew she would rather pour acid in her eyes than be off work.
Eighteen
“Jessie, wait up.”
Jess kept walking, pretending she couldn’t hear Jamison. She didn’t want to add insult to injury by lying to him. But she couldn’t tell him the truth because the truth was she was probably batshit crazy and he didn’t deserve to be sucked into it. She’d hurt him before; she wouldn’t do it again.
“Jessie.” In two steps, he caught up with her. His hand wrapped around hers, stopping her. An electric burst of pain shot through her hand when his calloused fingers brushed against the tender flesh of her scarred palm but she didn’t let on it hurt. “What’s going on?”
She didn’t turn around. “I just need two weeks.”
“For what?”
She squeezed her lids together. “I’ve never taken my vacation time. I just need some time off.”
“Can you at least look at me when you lie to me?”
She spun on her heel to face him. She had to crane her neck to look him in the eye. His hand was still on hers. Part of her didn’t want him to pull away—she’d always hated to be touched but it felt good to have someone who at least pretended to care. She’d felt so alone since Lindsay died. “I just need some time. Now can you please leave me alone?”
“Fine.” He dropped her hand and walked away.
Nineteen
Jess waited until everyone from her team had left the building so no one would see her head for the lab in the basement. She didn’t personally know anyone there. It was the place she sent stuff, and results magically appeared on her computer a few days later.
She glanced around, taking in everything, searching for her target, eventually focusing in on a twenty-something bent over a microscope. His tight curly hair was tied back in a low ponytail.
“Hey,” she said when she got closer.
He was startled when she approached. “Sorry. You scared me.” When he spoke, he didn’t look at her; instead, he fixed on a spot in the distance. Toothpaste was crusted in the corner of his mouth.
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Jess Bishop. My office is literally just above here.” She pointed upward at the paneled ceiling. Her office was actually on the other side of the building but she was trying to build a rapport, remind him they were on the same team.
“Okay.”
She waited for him to introduce himself but he didn’t; luckily his ID badge was clipped on the pocket of his lab coat: Jason Neilson.
Jess pulled out the swab she’d taken from Jim Iverson’s door frame.
“Jason, I have a swab I need tested. I need blood type and DNA.” She didn’t ask him to do a phenolphthalein test to make sure it was blood because she knew it was, and that it belonged to Jim Iverson, and that the killer had transferred it when he repositioned the body.
Jason walked to the front of the lab, opened a metal file cabinet, and pulled out a sheet of paper. He attached it to a clipboard and handed it to her. “Fill this out.”
Jess didn’t bother looking down at the work order because she wasn’t going to fill it out. This needed to be off the record. “This isn’t an official investigation.”
Jason scowled, clearly uncomfortable with the idea.
Jess rubbed the knotted scar of her palm as she considered the best way to come at it. She hadn’t figured out how she was going to play this before she came to the lab because she needed to know who she was dealing with. She wasn’t above flirting or coercion to get the job done but she needed to know which would work, and she wasn’t getting a clear read off this guy so she went in blind with a generic spiel and hoped for the best. “It’s for my neighbor. She’s going through a bad divorce. We think her husband broke into her apartment and—” usually she thought quicker on her feet but she was too tired to lie with the required fluency “—killed her fish,” she offered lamely. It sounded even more pathetic out loud than when she was having a breakdown in her apartment.
One of his brows rose in question. “What kind?”
“Of fish?”
“Yeah, were they saltwater or fresh?”
“Fresh. They were Bubble Eye goldfish.”
“Ah Carassius auratus auratus. Beautiful fish also known as Prussian carp. They originated from a wild species in Siberia but were developed into the modern species we know in China in the fifteen hundreds.”
“Cool.” Jess nodded, smiling to herself that she had managed to get him on side already.
“Their only downfall is those air-filled sacks around their eyes can prove too tempting, and other fish end up eating them.”
“Exactly. That’s what happened to mine—I mean my neighbor’s.”
He glanced down at the evidence bag. “That’s awful that he killed her fish.”
“Yeah, he’s awful. Anyway, I just want to make sure it’s him that broke in. If it is, I’ll tell her to press charges.”
He took the bag from her. “You really should. I’ll run this after work and get you the results. What kind of monster would kill an innocent creature?” His eyes turned down in genuine sadness.
“Thank you.” Jess smiled, wishing she inhabited a world where the murder of a fish was the worst thing she saw in a day. “While I’m here, can you check on something for me?”
Jason bit into his bottom lip. “I’m really not supposed to do anything without the correct paperwork. I could get in a lot of trouble.”
“It’s okay,” she assured him. “I’ve filled everything out. I’m just waiting on the results.”
The furrow between his eyes flattened. “Oh okay. I can do that. What are you waiting on?”
“I put in some fingernail scrapings for Levi Smith and I haven’t gotten anything back.” She pulled out her phone to give him the ID number.
“Let me check.”
Jess followed him to the computer terminal and waited as he typed in the relevant information. “Are you sure that’s the right case number?”
Jess checked it again, making sure he entered it into the computer correctly.
“Nope, it’s not here. Nothing was logged in that investigation.”
“Can you check by the victim’s name or date of birth?”
“Yeah, let me check.” Jason kept typing. “Hmm.”
“Hmm what?” Jess asked.
“There’s nothing here.”
“Are you sure.”
He nodded. “Here, look for yourself. That’s your name and number.” He pointed to the screen. “According to this, you haven’t submitted anything to the lab for testing since before Christmas.”
Jess’s heart stopped with a painful thud and then started again with frantic beats, trying to make up for the lost time. Her head spun with questions, internal voices coming at her from every direction.
She wasn’t crazy. Someone was intentionally trying to thwart her investigation from inside the FBI.
Twenty
Jess jammed her finger into the buzzer on the intercom. Wh
en he answered, she realized she’d never been to his apartment. She had spent the entire drive over looking in her rear-view mirror to see if she was being followed. No matter how many times she told herself to stop, she couldn’t.
She turned around one last time to make sure no one had followed her before she pushed the door open.
When Chan opened the door, the smell of his aftershave wafted into the hall, tickling her throat. Like always he was perfectly presented, not a hair out of place.
“Hey.” She glanced around his apartment. It was exactly how she expected: white walls, black leather couches, and a flat-screen TV that took up a quarter of the wall. Everything was pristine, not a single thing out of place. It was so clean it didn’t actually look like anyone lived there. “Do you have it?”
“No small talk? No how was the flight?”
“Do you want to talk about your flight?”
He shrugged. “Not really but it’s nice to be asked. Do you want a drink?”
“No thanks. I just want the file. Are you going out?” She pointed to his leather jacket.
“Yeah, I have a date.”
“Well, in that case, my condolences to the woman involved.”
Chan’s face split into a broad smile. “You’re just bitter because it’s not you. The offer’s still on the table.”
“No, I’m good. Thanks.” They both knew that asking her out was just part of his shtick. He had no actual desire to sleep with her, he just hit on her because that was what he did with all women. She doubted he would know what to do with himself if she actually green-lighted him, but she was never going to find out.
“Suit yourself. Sure I can’t get you a drink? You seem like you’re wound even tighter than usual.”
“No, thanks. Just the file, please.”
Chan shook his head. “Geez, you’re like a broken record. Give me a second. It’s in my briefcase. Why did you want a hard copy? Why couldn’t I just email it to you?”
Catch Your Death Page 11
