Black Friday (Maggie O'Dell)

by Alex Kava

  “Do you have a Z97 filter or HDzoom pack?” Yarden’s fingers stopped in midflight and he looked at her with obvious admiration. Not only did she understand the three-second system but also the new state-of-the-art technology.

  “We don’t have anything quite as sophisticated,” Yarden said, glancing over to Nick as if he was to blame, being the company’s highest authority on the premises.

  “The company is considering updates,” Nick said almost too quickly.

  Maggie heard a bit of defensiveness in Nick’s tone. She ignored it and focused instead on Yarden who was cueing up segments for her to view on monitor after monitor.

  “This is one of them.” He pointed at the first screen.

  Maggie leaned forward. Nick didn’t. Had he already seen these? Of course, he had. She wondered how long Morrelli and Yarden had been at it.

  From the grainy quality of the video all Maggie could decipher was that the man was average height, clean-cut. He was wearing jeans, a jacket with maybe a logo on the shoulder, and tennis shoes. There was nothing extraordinary about him.

  She felt the two men watching her, gauging her reaction, waiting.

  Yarden added more views, cueing monitor after monitor until there was a line of grainy freeze-framed images of two different young men with the same backpack walking separately through the crowded mall. Only one instance showed the two of them together.

  “I thought there were three?”

  “Oh yeah, there were three all right.” Yarden’s fingers started poking the keys again. “The third one came in with a young woman and another man.” He brought up the segment. “We followed him to the food court. Then we…we sort of lost him. We don’t have many camera angles on that area and no cameras actually in the food court.”

  “What about the woman and the other man? Were they involved?”

  When Yarden didn’t answer Maggie sat back and glanced over at him. He and Nick were exchanging another look. Yarden’s ruddy complexion had gone pale. Nick started searching the monitors.

  “What is it?” Maggie asked.

  “We think one of the bombs went off in the women’s restroom,” Nick told her as his eyes darted from screen to screen. “You may have just answered our question as to how that could have happened.”

  CHAPTER

  27

  For a few minutes Rebecca was back in the bedroom she grew up in, light filtering through yellow gauze curtains, the sound of windchimes outside her second floor window. She could smell fried bacon and imagined her parents down in the kitchen, her mom setting the Sunday breakfast table with bright-colored placemats and long-stem glasses for their orange juice. Her dad would be playing short-order cook, waiting for Rebecca before he started his performance of flipping the pancakes. Those Sunday mornings weren’t for show. Her parents really had been happy, the banter out of love not jealousy. She wanted to sink down and soothe herself in that moment, that feeling of calm and security. If only she could ignore the prick at her skin, the ache in her arm, that deep burning sensation.

  Her eyes fluttered open. She willed them to stay closed. They wouldn’t listen. The blur around her swirled images and noise together. Before her eyes could focus she started to remember: holiday music, Dixon laughing, Patrick smiling. And then…backpacks exploding.

  Rebecca didn’t realize that she had tried to sit up until she felt hands on her shoulders pushing her back down.

  “It’s okay.”

  She recognized the voice and searched for it. Patrick’s face bobbed in front of her, slowly coming into focus. There was no smile, only concern. And she tried to remember—how badly had she been hurt? The image of a severed arm lying next to her made her twist around to check both her own. One was wrapped. The other had a needle and tubes in it. But both were there, attached.

  “You’re all right, sugar,” a woman’s voice said from someplace over Rebecca’s head. “Just relax and lie still a bit.”

  “Do you remember what happened?” Patrick asked. She nodded. Her throat felt like sandpaper. She tried to wet her lips. Patrick noticed, fumbled around then brought a bottle of water to her mouth. He was gentle, giving her sips when she wanted to gulp. She knew he saw her frustration but still he insisted on sips.

  “Where are we?”

  “The hotel across the street,” he said. “Where?”

  “Across the street from the mall. They set up a triage area here.”

  “But the hospital…I thought we were going to the hospital.”

  “It’s okay.” He took her hand. “They were able to take care of you here. You don’t need to go to the hospital.”

  She sat up again. This time Patrick helped her instead of holding her back down. Her eyes scanned the room, searching through the chaos for the man with the syringe. “He’s not here,” Patrick told her. “I’ve been watching.” She avoided his eyes and continued her own search. The man with the syringe knew she was still alive. She wiped at her forehead despite the poke of the needle. Her skin was clammy with sweat and she still felt light-headed. Dixon’s message rattled in her mind. He said she wasn’t safe. That she couldn’t trust anyone. Not even Patrick.

  Did the man with the syringe give up because he knew she was with Patrick and he couldn’t get to her? Or did he no longer need to get to her because she was with Patrick?

  Rebecca glanced at her friend. His hair was tousled, his jaw bristled with dark stubble. His eyes watched her with an intensity she wasn’t used to seeing. What was it? Concern, panic, fatigue? Or something else?

  How well did she really know Patrick Murphy?

  “You okay?” he asked as he reached for her hand again.

  She pulled back, grabbing her bandaged arm as if in pain.

  “Did they give me anything? Like for the pain?”

  “I think she just localized it.” Patrick was already looking around for a nurse or paramedic. “Does it hurt pretty bad?”

  Now there was no doubt—concern filled his eyes when he looked back at her.

  “Could you see if they have some Advil or something?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll be right back.”

  Rebecca watched him zigzag through the triage groups and head for a nearby exit. She patted down her pockets carefully and stopped when she saw him glance back. He disappeared from sight and she twisted around to find her coat. Quickly she found Dixon’s iPhone. It was turned off. She decided to keep it off.

  She scooted to the edge of the covered table, almost forgetting the needle and IV tube in her arm. Another glance over her shoulder. No Patrick. She bit down on her lower lip and pulled the needle out, bending her elbow to stop any bleeding. Then she eased off the table, awkwardly, without use of her hands and trying not to notice the ache in her bandaged arm.

  Still no sign of Patrick. She saw an EXIT sign in the other direction and that’s where she headed. Within minutes she made her way through the crowded lobby and found an ATM. No one noticed her. There was too much commotion. She kept her head down but her eyes darted around everywhere. She slipped her debit card into the machine, keyed in her PIN and waited. She’d get enough cash for a cab ride, something to eat. Maybe she’d better get enough for a hotel room, but someplace near the hospital.

  The card spit out of the machine and the display screen blinked: CARD REFUSED.

  There had to be a mistake.

  She’d used this debit card a couple of times on their trip and in various locations. She knew she still had about $425 in the account. She slid the card back in and before she could key in the PIN the machine spit it out again, repeating the message.

  Rebecca glanced around. Still, no one paid attention to her. There was too much chaos in and out to notice her sudden panic.

  She pulled out her one and only credit card. She’d taken a cash advance from the card last month. She had a substantial cash allowance available but had disciplined herself to use it only as a last resort. This definitely qualified. She slid the credit card into the machine, waited and t
yped in the PIN. Maybe she’d better take out extra, especially if her debit card wasn’t working. Just to be safe. All she had in her pockets was the change left from a twenty.

  The machine spit this card out, too. CARD REFUSED.

  Don’t panic, she told herself. There’s just something wrong with this machine. She’d find another ATM. No big deal.

  She found the exit with confident strides through the midst of rescue personnel and bloodied shoppers. She was in good shape compared to them. That’s what she kept telling herself. Then she pushed through the side door and she was outside. When had it gotten dark?

  The cold hit her in the face. She had to catch her breath. It had started snowing again. The wind whipped around her. On this side of the hotel there were only lights in the corners of the parking lot. And suddenly the confidence seemed to slide right out of her. She was all alone. Nothing new there. She was used to being on her own. So why did this time feel like she was sliding off a cliff?

  CHAPTER

  28

  There wasn’t much to go on, yet Maggie made note of everything. Small details that appeared insignificant at first glance, could end up breaking a case. Despite the grainy black-and-white video she might find something. Except A.D. Kunze expected more than something. He expected her to supply a conclusive profile, one irrefutable enough he could use for a search warrant. He made it sound like she should have names, addresses and social security numbers just by examining the black-and-white, three-second delayed movements of these young homicide bombers.

  Unfortunately he wasn’t the only one. Television and movies had turned profiling into a sort of magic act that had people believing with a few clues and a wave of the hand, you could pull the rabbit out of the hat, so to speak. Even Kunze insisted there was a scientific formula—which was almost as bad as magic—that if a suspect showed certain characteristics or traits—characteristic number one, two and five from a theoretical psychological profiling chart—then, of course, the suspect fit a specific category. Organized, disorganized. Anger, vengeance. Ritualistic, chaotic. Two out of three and voilà, just look for the nearest sociopathic narcissist with a speech impediment dressed in a double-breasted navy blue suit. If only it were that easy.

  Maggie had a premed background, a bachelor’s degree in criminal psychology and a master’s in behavioral psychology. Early in her career she had earned a forensic fellowship at Quantico. Yet, even she believed profiling was more about observation than anything else. The trick—if there was one—was seeing what others missed, taking account of what may appear obvious to others. And just as important as paying attention to what was left behind, you needed to pay attention to what was absent.

  Notably absent in this case so far? Hours had passed and no one had taken credit for the attack. Not even a suicide note or video…yet. Already it didn’t quite fit into a mass killing category like Virginia Tech or Columbine High School. Also absent was that none of these young men looked nervous or anxious. None of them seemed to fit the profile of a homicide bomber or a mass murderer.

  “Is this the one?” Yarden asked.

  He had been waiting on her almost to the point of being annoying. Ordinarily she’d rather be left alone to run through each tape, over and over as many times as necessary until she was sure no detail had gone unnoticed. But this was Yarden’s territory. Actually his mastery of the control panel and ability to follow instructions were saving them valuable time.

  “Yes. If you could rewind it from when we first see him.”

  It was the track on the corner monitor from the third-floor camera in what Yarden had marked as NW1. This would be the third time Maggie had asked to see this particular track.

  There had to be something here that she was missing. What was she not seeing?

  Yarden began the tape, fingers ready to freeze-frame or zoom in. But Maggie let it play. She wanted to examine Bomber #1, focusing only on him, picking him out of the distant crowd then watching as he got closer and closer.

  His head didn’t swivel or dart around. His hands stayed by his side in a comfortable, easy stride. There was nothing to indicate he was nervous or anxious. He didn’t glance around, worried about being followed. He didn’t look around for cameras, didn’t even seem to care whether or not one caught him on film.

  He wore a jacket, jeans, tennis shoes, a baseball cap. Nothing sagged, bulged or flapped over to hide any weapons or to disguise his appearance. Nor was there anything to indicate he belonged to a gang. No backward cap, no special hand signals, no T-shirt with a message. He appeared to be dressed in regular street clothes.

  Maggie guessed his age at somewhere between eighteen and twenty-six. Like the others he was undeniably Caucasian. Light-colored hair curled over the collar of his jacket but not over his ears. Sideburns were long but trimmed, and on the morning after Thanksgiving, Maggie couldn’t help but notice he had taken time to shave. Was that something a twenty-year-old took time out to do, especially if he knew he was going to the mall to blow himself up?

  Maybe it meant nothing. She knew homicide bombers often followed their daily routine even on the day of their deaths. They didn’t want to alarm or tip off family members or friends. Still, she wrote it down in her small notebook.

  She wasn’t used to jotting things down. Never had a problem keeping it all in her head. Writing stuff down, that was her partner, R.J. Tully. He scratched out notes about everything and on anything that was available: a napkin, a dry cleaning receipt, a ticket stub. Maggie had been content to commit details to memory until A.D. Raymond Kunze came along. Now it seemed important to keep a record of her thought process. He couldn’t sideswipe her if there was documentation. Suddenly she was becoming one of those bureaucrats she hated, concerned about covering her ass. Was it that, or did she simply not want Kunze to win, to break her spirit?

  On the video Bomber #1 crossed right below the camera. Not even a glance in its direction. Did he even know it was there? A clean-cut, good-looking, college-aged guy with his entire future ahead of him. Nice clothes, athletic physique, an air of confidence. She wanted him to look up, just for a second so she could see his eyes. So that she might be able to get a glimpse of why he did this? But she already knew. She had already seen this series three times before and each time she had willed his eyes to glance up. Come on, just one glance. And each time Bomber #1 simply walked on by.

  CHAPTER

  29

  Rebecca was gone.

  Patrick’s first reaction was that she’d been taken against her will. Could that paramedic psycho have followed them?

  Damn! He knew he should never have left her alone. He had been so sure the guy wouldn’t dare try anything here in the crowded hotel ballroom where triage sites with cots, IVs and real medics lined up one after another. Narrow paths would make it difficult to drag anyone from the room without notice. Or so Patrick thought. What if the guy managed to get to Rebecca and drug her?

  Stupid! How could he be so stupid?

  “You looking for your girlfriend?”

  Patrick spun around. It was the old man who had been on the triage cot next to Rebecca. His silver hair sprouted up out of the gauze that now wrapped his head.

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Yep. She left.”

  “By herself?”

  Was it possible the guy was confused?

  “As far as I could tell.” He scratched at the gauze.

  “She just got up and left.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. Pulled the needle from her arm.” He pointed at the IV left on the cot.

  “Did you see where she went?”

  The man pointed a crooked finger. Patrick had to turn and look over his shoulder. There was an exit clear across the ballroom. That didn’t make sense. The closest exit was right behind her where Patrick had gone. She watched him leave. If she was looking for him why would she head in the opposite direction?

  “Are you sure?”

  “Hey, I
may have gotten knocked in the head but there’s nothing wrong with my eyesight.”

  “Sorry. It’s just…”

  “I know, I know,” he nodded. “You’re worried about her. She didn’t look so good. A little glassy-eyed, if you ask me.”

  Patrick pulled out his cell phone. No text messages. No voice messages. No missed calls. He didn’t know Dixon’s iPhone number and Rebecca didn’t have a cell phone of her own. What was she thinking? Was she still in shock? Maybe she didn’t know what she was doing.

  He thanked the old man and headed for the exit. If she was disoriented, she couldn’t have gotten far.

  The exit opened to a common area. A table and folding chairs had been set up. Two blue uniformed paramedics controlled the flow of the chaos. Patrick could barely see the lobby through the crowd. To his right he saw a bank of elevators and down the hall to the left, another exit. This one probably to the outside.

  Patrick stood looking from one area to the other. Which way did Rebecca go? He couldn’t imagine her fighting her way through the crowd. She hated crowds and after what she’d just been through? But she wasn’t herself. Maybe still in shock. He’d learned how physically debilitating shock could be from his Fire Science classes. If she wandered outside she might not realize how cold it was.

  He headed for the exit. Just as he pushed out the door he saw a man in a uniform coming from the parking lot, headed for Patrick.

  “You. Wait a minute. Whatya think you’re doing?”

  CHAPTER

  30

  Nick leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands over his face, his fingertips digging at the blur of fatigue. He didn’t need to look at his watch. The bristle on his jaw told him it was late. His stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten since earlier in the day. He had a headache. The room was too warm and too dark. The glare from the computer monitors had sucked the liquid from his eyes. And of course it didn’t help matters that Maggie O’Dell sat next to him, so close he could smell the scent of her, causing his mind to reel slightly off track—was it shampoo? Lotion? Perfume?