The Forgotten Widow

by Layne, Kennedy

  “Malone, are you calling it a night?”

  Dean turned his shoulder into the relentless wind. Agent Frank Rowe was walking down the cracked suburban sidewalk, rubbing his hands together to maintain a modicum of circulation. He was without a proper winter coat, scarf, or gloves. The older man had a habit of leaving those essential items in his vehicle unless necessity dictated. Dean suspected it was an old ploy to give Frank an excuse to head back to his car sooner rather than later.

  “No, I’m heading out east to Winter Heights.” Dean squinted when a gust of wind blew up the first layer of fallen snow that had yet to stick to the ground in any meaningful way. A small squall of flurries hit the glass door on the front entrance of their building in response. “What are you doing back here at this hour? Weren’t you taking your wife to dinner or something?”

  “That was the original plan. Archer called and said to get my ass downtown,” Frank complained, blowing fruitlessly into his hands. The temperature had to be hovering around thirty degrees, and that wasn’t taking into consideration the windchill. The man’s bald head should have been protected. “Is this about all that chatter going on over at the college?”

  “No.” Dean briefly deliberated heading back inside with Frank, but then remembered the forty-minute drive ahead of him. “Archer will go into more detail with you, but it looks like the Winter Heights Police Department has officially invited us in on that suspected serial killer case that they’ve been dealing with for the past five months.”

  “The one that idiot reporter dubbed The Widow Taker?” Frank shook his head in irritation. “We’re right in the middle of dealing with a possible domestic terrorism cell, and now we’re going to waste needed resources on two murders that a yokel news wannabe has blown way out of proportion? Oh, wait. Let me guess. The mayor called Archer, who subsequently rolled over like a scared dog and then asked how receptive he could be. Fucking politics. This kind of shit is going to get someone killed. Maybe it’ll be Archer himself, not that he’d ever venture out of his office far enough to let someone take a shot at him.”

  It had actually been the governor who called, but Dean figured he should let Archer deal with the grizzly veteran agent. After all, that was the basic job description of a bureaucratic mid-level manager. Frank wasn’t known for his pleasant demeanor, but he sure as hell closed cases.

  It was true that they currently had their hands full with a prickly domestic terrorism investigation involving a Chechen mob connection. Those involved were killing former disaffected Soviet Spetsnaz commandos operating a competing smuggling operation out of New York. Money from various Balkan groups who controlled much of the heroin trade in this region had found its way to a fringe group of nationalists. They didn’t like competition, especially from the Russians. It wasn’t that no one could argue that there weren’t more important cases pending, but it was best to appease the gods of the well-oiled machine that was interagency cooperation when the governor called in a marker.

  “Oh, and it’s three murders now. But I’ll take lead on our end of this investigation, since you and Erin have a pretty good handle on the tips coming in from the college. Archer will probably have you bounce in between if something comes up, but I’ll do my best to see that the disruptions are kept to a minimum.” Dean managed to fish out his car keys from his pocket, grateful that he’d put on gloves before leaving the building. “Have a good night.”

  He didn’t wait to reach the intersection before crossing the street. The traffic had long ago diminished with the worsening weather. He also wasn’t wasting time for a pedestrian signal to change in what he knew to be over a two-minute interval. Generally, he would wait like the rest of the law-abiding civilian populace. Today wasn’t one of those days.

  Dean usually parked in the garage attached to the federal building, but he’d only meant to stop into the office for a second. So much for best laid plans of mice and men. Now he was en route to pay a visit to the Winter Heights Police Department instead of stopping off at the local watering hole for a beer.

  The black Ford Crown Vic the FBI office had given him for business purposes was already covered with a thin layer of ice. The GSA managed the office’s vehicles, but they didn’t rotate the cars all that often. This generic sample had the same equipment as most of the others, with the exception of his individual go-bag and secondary weapon. He kept his gear locked in the trunk so some gang member didn’t end up with a long gun and vest. Those items were issued and guarded with one’s life if he or she wanted to succeed in this career. There was nothing like explaining the loss of an M4 or a class three vest to a supervisor. That never went down easy. He’d never lost a weapon on duty or dropped the ball while on the job, but he’d heard from those who had, and it wasn’t pretty.

  It took him nearly five minutes to clear off the windows and run the engine long enough for heat to begin blowing through the vents. He automatically checked the mileage against the GSA schedule for maintenance. Failure to do so could earn the ire of his supervisor. Scheduled oil changes were gospel according to the GSA. Failure to adhere to the program was akin to heresy. He liked it better when that type of attention was on Frank. That man never serviced his vehicle on time.

  Dean put the fan on high and reconnected his cell phone via the vehicle’s Bluetooth system for hands-free calls. Once he was linked properly, he placed a call that should eliminate any wasted time before beginning the long drive south.

  “Winter Heights Police Department. How may I direct your call?”

  “This is FBI Special Agent Dean Malone. I’d like to speak with Sheriff Hopkins.”

  “One moment, sir.”

  Dean used the red light he was currently stopped at in order to remove his winter coat now that the car had become somewhat warm. He didn’t like the confines of the extra layer, and forty minutes was a long time to endure that type of restriction. He even loosened his tie a bit, knowing full well it was a meaningless mental gesture that wouldn’t help him relax or maneuver the slick roads any better.

  “Agent Malone, Sheriff Hopkins here. I was hoping you’d call this evening.”

  A quick glance at the clock on the dashboard read 6:35. His headlights cut through the darkness, but the strength of the beams was limited against the veil of falling snow. It would more than likely take him an hour to reach his destination.

  “I’ve been informed you’ve requested our assistance on a series of recent murder investigations you believe are related. I’m heading your way now to go over the case files and forensics reports. I’d like to review a copy of them over the weekend, as well as request that any pertinent information be sent to our behavioral analysis unit so that they might be better able to help us out by developing a profile for these murders.” Dean signaled his turn, grimacing when he managed to get behind one of the county’s gigantic salt trucks. He could have easily had the sheriff electronically send everything he had on the case, but it was always best to see any physical evidence they had in person. “Listen, you don’t have stay. It might take me some time to reach Winter Heights. If you could have one of your deputies assigned to the property room show me the evidence once I get there, it would be much appreciated.”

  “Agent, first of all, I’ve been through this particular rodeo more than a few times. The hard and soft copies are already available here and online via our department agency drop box. I emailed a copy to your BAU earlier today with my initial request. I’ve had three murders in the span of five months that have occurred in my jurisdiction. Know this—I am personally responsible to those women and their families.” The sheriff’s audible sigh of frustration was evident over the line. “I’ll be here whenever you arrive.”

  Dean wasn’t the type of man who went into cases blindly, and this one was no exception. Sheriff Charles Hopkins was in his early forties, married with two children, and relatively new to the top job. He’d done his time on the beat and worked his way up through the department. Of course, he was taking this case
personally. Neither the general public nor his own detectives would look too favorably on the newly elected sheriff for bringing in the federal government on an investigation like this too soon. Local law enforcement deserved their own shot at resolving this case, but the public was fickle. Their patience was limited, and these murders were a public relations minefield. Dean intended to keep his participation as low key as possible.

  With such a special request though, there came certain requirements and procedural rules that could affect how the case was tried. It was tough when walking that political line, but the reins had been taken out of Hopkins’ hands the moment this case received the top brass of the state police and the governor’s attention.

  “Sheriff, I understand. Do me a favor, though.” Dean was able to pass the salt truck and pick up what little speed he could, given the road conditions. He’d unfortunately dealt with a similar investigation in his career, and he sure as hell wasn’t looking forward to taking on another case with parallel aspects. What he was one hundred percent sure of was that involving the media would only incite the crowd into making this a three-ring circus and getting the proverbial animals overly excited. “Don’t alert the media of our involvement quite yet. We can discuss giving an official statement about our support once the BAU has had a chance to get their feet under them, but please give me until then to see where we stand on this investigation.”

  The local media could be quite effective when utilized properly. That was where the BAU’s Public Affairs Office (PAO) came into the picture. He wanted them to handle any public statements that were necessary. That was something Frank had taught him early on in his career—let the experts do their jobs within the framework provided by their Standard Operating Procedure (SOP).

  Anytime a particular milestone was reached in any case, per the BAU’s PAO SOP, the Agent-In-Charge submitted his or her findings, which were then reviewed by several independent supervisory agents who offered their perspective and guidance prior to distribution.

  Dean figured the leak to the media that Sheriff Hopkins was dealing with came from either one of his deputies or one of the clerks who had access to an electronic copy of the case information. Either way, the outflow of sensitive information needed to come to an immediate stop. The sheriff had no choice but to put his people on notice. Official phones were subject to monitoring, and leaks would be plugged.

  Dean intuitively understood that Hopkins would have a better handle on his staff than a stranger coming in the door—a guest who was about to change their whole way of doing business. He would make sure to be there when the sheriff talked about operational security (OPSEC). Once their boss made his point, Dean would put a sharp perspective on it by reviewing the consequences of interfering with a federal investigation as if it was a deadly sin.

  “I’ve already had that specific discussion with those under my command, Agent Malone.” That lone statement all but told Dean that the sheriff had already identified the person responsible for the media dubbing this killer The Widow Taker. “I realize the damage has been done, but I do run a tight ship here and have checked that box hard. Every crime scene has been efficiently cataloged and the chain of evidence logged and reviewed to my specifications.”

  “Then it shouldn’t take long for you to get me up to speed,” Dean said, settling back in his seat for the long drive ahead. “And Sheriff? Call me Dean. We’re in this one together. We can’t afford not to be.”

  He disconnected the line, allowing the sounds of the roadway to distract him from the task he had before him. The rhythm of his tires did little to ease the small nugget of agitation that had set up residence in the back of his mind.

  The Widow Taker.

  It was a hell of a title to give a perverted killer who was most likely basking in all the glorified media attention. Did the Winter Heights Police Department have this one right? Was the only common denominator of these women the fact that they were all widows or were there more defining characteristics to the unsub’s selection of his victims?

  Dean was holding out hope that some subjective thread had been missed, because cases like these were nothing but fodder for the yellow page journalist to take and twist in order to spin the public into a panic. It seemed as if the days of unbiased reporting were all but dead. Single source reporting was the bane of his existence. Each of those damned journalists were looking to top one another’s headlines and would pay handsomely for a solitary shred of inside information. Short of that, they would postulate the most outlandish horseshit anyone could ever imagine. They didn’t care that they were misleading the public or perpetuating their own lies. It was a game of ratings to them.

  Assumptions shouldn’t be made before reading over the facts of the actual case file. Dean would reserve judgment on the obvious link found between the victims until such time as it was determined to be the assailant’s method of selecting his victims. The women could have just as easily gone to the same church, attended the same yoga class, or been involved with the same book club that the killer attended. Online activities were also often missed, such as their social network friends’ lists and dating services.

  The sheriff’s office wouldn’t necessarily have the manpower to cover such a vast spectrum of leads, but the BAU had procedures and access to cutting edge software programs at their disposal that other law enforcement agencies didn’t have on a daily basis. The FBI was a vast organization with powerful means to attack any task, even those that might at first seem insurmountable. Quantum computing had come into being, and sifting through the mountain of needles looking for that specific one was now a reality.

  Many of those investigative programs were connected to vast databases all over the country, each containing tiny slivers of information on John Q. Public or mounds of correlated data on subjects as superfluous as the migratory habits of the common North American sparrow. Whatever the police missed in their initial interviews would be followed up by profilers and analysts. Witnesses would be re-interviewed and asked those questions that needed to be probed more deeply. Most often, the devil was in the details. Dean had experience in dealing with the worst of society’s human refuse. He understood his prey.

  The Widow Taker.

  It was Dean’s own personal link to the designation given by the media that didn’t sit right with him. His mother had been widowed at a young age, doing her very best to bring up her two sons all on her own. She’d done one hell of a job, too. He did his best to repay her dedication with weekly visits, a few phone calls sprinkled in between, and by doing anything he could to keep up maintenance on the old family home, thereby making life easier for her. It wasn’t nearly enough to repay her for everything she’d done, but it was a start.

  Dean realized he and his brother could just have easily been born to some of the families he’d observed during his career. It was like spinning the chambers on his grandfather’s old Smith & Wesson revolver that his mother still kept in her Easter hatbox in the closet.

  Dean briefly wondered if he shouldn’t have deferred and had Frank take this case, but then thought better of it. Yes, there were certain investigations that became personal. He was seasoned enough to stop that from interfering with the prosecution of this case, though. As if to cast doubt on his own confidence and the sheriff’s ability to control his department, his phone chirped with a text message concerning breaking news.

  So much for preventing the leak that was coming from Sheriff Hopkin’s department.

  Winter Heights Police Department is bringing in the FBI on The Widow Taker case. Three women have been murdered in the span of five months, the latest being Meghan Vance. She lost her husband less than a year ago and was the niece of our very own Governor Richard Compton.

  Chapter Three

  “Why in the world haven’t you answered any of my calls?”

  Kenna Burke suppressed a groan of frustration. She didn’t have the inclination nor the battery life on her phone to deal with another one of her mother’s so-call
ed emergencies, which usually involved one of the dogs or the next-door neighbor’s mission to destroy her hedges. These soul-wrenching phone conversations were getting more frequent and harder to ignore, but the time had come to put them to an end. The underlying meaning behind all of it didn’t escape her.

  “Mom, I’m not moving to Florida. It’s just not going to happen.”

  There.

  Kenna had actually said the words aloud, and she didn’t regret them in the least. She was even proud of herself for finally taking a stand. She loved her parents dearly, but voluntarily moving anywhere near them to be endlessly suffocated twenty-four-seven wasn’t happening anytime in the immediate future. Life-altering events had a way of changing the manner in which people treated one another, as well as how they perceived the world. In her mother’s case, she wanted to cover her daughter with an emotional wet blanket the size of Texas.

  It had been a little under three years since Kenna had lost her husband. She didn’t want to be coddled or smothered. At this point, she was done providing demonstrative support for those who thought they were helping her. It was far past the time at which she should join the land of the living. Indulging in further mourning or propping up another’s desire to wallow in it beyond now seemed more like a lifestyle choice rather than actual progress. Justin would want her to be happy, and she would be doing him a disservice by going against his wishes.

  “I’ll come home for the holidays as I always have,” Kenna promised, holding her cell phone in between her ear and shoulder. Where had she put the book of matches she’d used to light candles? “You and Dad can visit whenever you want—with enough notice, of course. I love you, Mom. I really do. But I’ve established myself here with a good client base, and I don’t want to give that up right now.”