by Elle Gray
“Wilder, what in the hell are you doing on my crime scene?” Torres huffs when he finally reaches us.
“That would be Supervisory Special Agent Wilder, Deputy Chief Torres,” I snap.
“I don’t give a damn what your title is. This is my crime scene and you’re on it, without my permission. Now kindly pack up and get your ass out of here, Supervisory Special Agent Wilder,” he spits.
I step closer to him, a malicious grin on my face. “You do realize the FBI is a federal organization, don’t you? Federal authority, in most cases, supersedes local authority. So, if I wanted to, I could step in, claim jurisdiction, and kick you off my crime scene.”
Torres looks at me, his mouth hanging open for a moment as he seems unable to process what I just said. But the moment passes, and his bluster comes back with a vengeance. He glares hard at me, his already beady eyes growing smaller and more malevolent.
“May I have a word with you in private, SSA Wilder?” he asks.
I look around at the wide-open space of the park pointedly. “Not sure there’s much privacy to be had here, Deputy Chief.”
He sighs and walks away, fully expecting me to follow. So, I don’t. I wait until he’s standing about twenty feet away and turns around, thinking I was right behind him. He looks up, his face twisted and contorted with rage.
“SSA Wilder,” he calls. “A word, please.”
“You should really be careful with him, Blake,” Lee says, low enough so only I can hear. “Pissing him off is only going to make things harder on you in the long run. Like it or not, the man plays the game and is really well connected.”
I wave him off. “Let him do his worst. Trust me, Detective Lee, nobody, and I mean nobody, can be more petty and vindictive than me. I made it an art.”
He looks skeptical and shakes his head. “Your funeral. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I leave him chatting with Astra and walk over to where Torres is waiting for me, glowering, his expression dark. I have to keep myself from laughing. I stop a couple of feet away from Torres and watch as he physically transforms. His face loses the heat, as do his eyes. He unclenches his jaw and releases his fists, and a sense of calm descends over his face. I’m sure it’s a Herculean effort. Going from rage to calm—or in this case, the appearance of calm—is no easy feat. I’ll give him kudos for trying to keep himself under control for a change.
“What can I do for you, Deputy Chief?” I ask.
“I suppose asking you to get off my crime scene nicely won’t have any effect, will it?”
“I think we’ve already established whose crime scene this actually is,” I reply. “But I’ll let you stay on it. I’m not that petty.”
“Hey, you remember that little chat we had outside your car a while back?”
“Oh, you mean when you stopped me, threatened me, then really gave serious thought to shooting me by the side of the road?” I fire back. “Is that the little chat you’re talking about?”
“Characterize it how you want, but my point remains. I’m not going to let you grandstand out here and besmirch the hard-working men and women of the SPD because you want the headlines,” he spits. “I will not let you run roughshod over my department or try to make us—or me—look bad.”
“See, that’s the problem with you, Deputy Chief Torres—this isn’t about you,” I hiss. “It’s not about you and it’s not about me.”
I turn and point to the body of the girl lying on the opened body bag, then glare at him.
“This is about her. This is about finding the monster who did this to her and bringing them to justice,” I all but shout. “This isn’t about your political fortunes or who gets the headlines. Because unlike you, I actually give a damn about these victims. I actually want to solve this case and put a monster in a cage.”
“How dare you?” Torres growls. “Who in the hell do you think you are?”
“I’m somebody who doesn’t think hiding the information about murders in the city is good policy!” I yell at him. “I’m somebody who doesn’t think of myself first and foremost in all things. I’m not an arrogant, pompous ass like that. Like you.”
And then Astra is there beside me, pushing me backward until she can take my arm and start to pull me away. But I fight her, trying to get back to Torres to finish my litany of insults. I don’t have to go far though, because he’s following close behind, his face twisted with rage.
“You’d best watch yourself, Wilder. Keep pushing me and see what happens.”
“You threatening me, Torres? Again?”
“It’s not a threat. I’m just saying I might finish what I started that day I pulled you over.”
I lurch at him, but Astra is there, holding me back. I don’t think I ever realized quite how strong she was until that moment. Detective Lee is also there, putting himself between me and Torres, helping to keep the Deputy Chief at bay. He turns to Astra, disbelief on his features. All around us, I can see people stopping what they’re doing to watch the spectacle unfolding. I can feel the weight of their stares; I know I should get myself back under control but can’t seem to stop. He’s managed to trigger that “on” switch in me and now I’m ready for a fight.
“You should get her out of here,” he says.
Astra nods, then drags and pulls me out of the park, not stopping until we’re next to our car. When she finally lets me go, I immediately start back for the park. But then my head is rocked to the side and there’s a sharp sting in my face. I put my hand to my cheek and look at her, eyes wide, mouth hanging open.
“You slapped me,” I say.
“Yeah well, I didn’t have a bucket of cold water handy,” she says. “Get in the car.”
Numb with shock and disbelief, I do what she says. She drops in behind the wheel and turns to me. I can see she’s fighting like hell to keep herself from smiling and laughing. Though for the life of me, I can’t figure out what’s so funny.
“Well,” she says. “That was interesting.”
Eighteen
SAC Rosie Espinoza’s Office; Seattle Field Office
“What in the hell were you thinking?” Rosie growls.
“I wasn’t. Simple as that,” I reply. “I let him get under my skin and I just reacted. I was wrong and I apologize.”
“Damn straight you were wrong, Blake.”
I nod. “I know.”
Rosie taps the screen on her tablet and the wall-mounted monitor springs to life, showing me and Torres getting into it. I look down at my hands in my lap, listening to both of us shouting at each other. On the screen, Astra and Lee are separating us, but Torres and I are still struggling to get back at each other, rage upon our faces. It looks like a freaking free-for-all. We’re both lucky somebody didn’t get hurt.
I’d been aware of the crowd at the crime scene watching us trying to kill each other, but I hadn’t seen anybody filming. But apparently, they had, and then threw it up on YouTube well before I even got back to the field office. By the time I hit the CDAU, there was a message from Rosie telling me to get to her office immediately.
“Four hundred thousand views,” Rosie says, shaking her head. “And it’s been what, two hours since this happened? How does it feel to go viral, kid?”
“Not very good, to be honest.”
“No, I wouldn’t imagine it would,” she says. “Not for something like this. Something like this makes me look bad. You know that, don’t you?”
“I do. And I apologize for my part in this mess. It wasn’t my finest moment.”
She scoffs. “You don’t say?”
Rosie plays the video again from the start. I guess having to relive that moment over and over again is one form of punishment. I’m sure there will be others, though. I can’t believe I lost my cool the way I did. That’s not me. I’m calm. Logical. Stoic, even. I don’t let people like Torres push my buttons, and I certainly don’t blow up like Krakatoa in public like I did. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt more embarrassed o
r ashamed of myself than I do right now.
As I sit in the chair across from her, watching Rosie watching the video again, I can’t help but feel like a kid in the principal’s office, waiting for the punishment to be doled out. Or even better—one time when I was a kid, I accidentally threw a ball through the window after my folks had told me not to play in the house. But it was raining, and I was bored, and one throw got away from me. After that, I’d had to sit in my dad’s office, just waiting for him to drop the hammer on me—just like I’m doing right now. The two scenarios couldn’t be more alike.
“You’re a supervisory agent, Blake. You know better than this,” Rosie says.
“I do. I screwed up.”
“I’ll say. I had Torres on the phone screaming that he would take this all the way up to the Director if I didn’t fire you.”
I look up, feeling the knots in my stomach tighten painfully. This job is my life. This job is who I am and if I lose it, I don’t know what I would do. Just the thought of losing this job is soul-crushing to me. Rosie looks at me and smirks, then waves me off.
“I’ve already spoken to the Director. You’re not going anywhere. This time,” she says and points to the screen. “But do anything like this again and I can’t guarantee your head won’t be on the chopping block.”
The wave of relief that washes through me is profound. I slump back in my seat feeling utterly wrung out. It’s all I can to do keep myself from sobbing my eyes out with joy that I’m not going to get canned. I take a moment to gather myself, then sit back up again when I feel able.
“I swear nothing like this is ever going to happen again, Rosie. You have my word,” I stammer.
“It better not, kid, or I’ll throw you out the front doors myself.”
I nod. “You won’t have to. I’ll leave on my own,” I say. “If you need me to issue a formal apology—”
She scoffs. “To Torres? Screw that. He didn’t get half of what he should have,” she said. “No, I’m not going to have you apologize to that pig. He doesn’t deserve it.”
She watches the video again. My face is burning with embarrassment so hot I’m surprised my head hasn’t burst into flame. I want to tell her to turn it off. Especially as I watch the view count scrolling as the numbers continue to rise. But Rosie seems to be enjoying herself by torturing me. I continue to sit there though, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Am I suspended without pay? Administrative leave?” I ask. “Am I being assigned to anger management courses or anything?”
She waves me off again. “You’re punishing yourself far harder than I ever could. So as far as I’m concerned, I’ve given you the firm talking to I had to give you as your boss, and you’ve paid your penance.”
“Thank you, Rosie. I appreciate this.”
She nods and then chuckles as she points to the screen. “Right there. His chin is perfectly lined up. I totally thought you were going to take the shot.”
“If I had, I’m sure I’d be cleaning out my office right now.”
She nods. “Probably so. That this didn’t go further than a verbal altercation was your saving grace, kid,” she says, then turns to me. “What did he say that set you off like that? I’ve never seen you so angry.”
I shrug. “I honestly don’t know. I guess it’s just a combination of a lot of things,” I reply. “And when he threatened me again, I just snapped. Lost it.”
“He threatened you again?”
I nod. I told Rosie about what happened when Torres pulled me over. I honestly thought he was going to shoot me, and given that I was banged up after the case we’d just put to bed, I was in no condition to fight back. At least, not very well or effectively. And in that moment, I’d never felt weaker or more powerless in my life. It’s something I’ve carried with me since that day. It’s a feeling I despise in myself. And I hate Torres with every fiber of my being for making me feel that way. So yeah, there’s probably a bit of baggage I’m hauling around after that.
“Said he’s going to finish what he started,” I tell her.
“That bastard.”
“Yeah, but I have no proof. You can’t hear it on that tape,” I sigh. “It’s my word against his. There’s nothing I can do about it except hope he breaks into my house one night to make good on his threat, giving me the excuse I need to shoot him.”
“We need to do something about that,” Rosie says. “I won’t stand by while he threatens the lives of my agents and gets away with it scot-free. One of these days we’re going after Torres. We’re going to make him pay.”
“Maybe we should just let it all go,” I offer. “The last thing I want is to go viral again. Or worse, end up in court for doing something I can’t take back.”
Rosie looks at me, arching an eyebrow. “Don’t worry, Blake. He’s going to get his. I’ll see to it. Personally.”
That sets a grin back on my face. Mild-mannered though she may be, Rosalinda Espinoza is somebody I would not want to get on the wrong side of.
I’m just grateful to be on the right side of her. For now.
Nineteen
Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office
When I walk into the CDAU the next morning, Astra immediately begins to check out my backside, inspecting it closely until I burst into laughter and push her away.
“What in the world are you doing?” I ask.
“Just seeing how big of a chunk Rosie bit out of it when we got back yesterday.”
“Big enough,” I reply. “Probably won’t be sitting right for a week.”
“That’s my girl,” Astra chuckles. “Way to go, slugger.”
I laugh and throw a pen at her. “Can we get to work, please?”
“Only if you promise not to beat me,” she flashes me a mischievous grin.
“Am I ever going to live this down?”
“Definitely not,” Mo says with a quiet chuckle.
“Et tu, Brute?”
“We’re going to be dining out on this for years, babe,” Astra adds.
The four screens on the wall at the front of the bullpen flash to life and are filled with the video. Except these ones are remixed, set to music from techno, to screaming death metal, to a power ballad. And as Rick plays them, one after the other, Mo and Astra break out into hysterical laughter. My face flares with heat once again.
“Did you do those?” I ask.
Rick shakes his head. “Not me. I personally think I would have gone with a nice Yanni remix if I had,” he says, laughing. “But no, not me. The internet is sometimes a beautiful place.”
“The internet is full of sick, deranged psychopaths,” I mutter.
“That too,” Rick nods.
“Okay, are we going to do some actual work today or just sit here and mock me all day?”
“Do we have the option?” Astra asks.
“No,” I say. “Rick, cut the videos.”
He’s still laughing to himself as he pulls the videos down. I take a moment to compose myself—and to give Mo and Astra time to stop laughing. And when everything seems to have settled down, I look up at my team.
“All right, where are we on previous cases involving torture and ketamine?” I ask.
“We’ve found three over the last five years who were dosed with ketamine and were then sadistically tortured,” Rick says, and the screens light up with the crime scene photos of three women—two brunettes and a blonde.
I step closer to look at the case files. One of the two brunettes was found inside a house almost five years ago. The other brunette was found in a campground three years ago. Both bear signs of torture, and the bruising on their bodies is extensive, but to me, they don’t seem to fit.
“Cause of death on the first brunette?” I ask.
Mo’s fingers fly over the keys of her computer as she pulls up the autopsy report for the victim. She squints as she reads the small print.
“Monica Saldano, age thirty-seven. Looks like COD was an overdose,” she reads out
.
“And the second?” I ask.
“Megan Stills, age forty-two. Blunt force trauma,” Mo reports.
An image of the back of her head pops up on the screen. It looks like somebody took a baseball bat to it. The skull is partially caved in and there’s a gash opened down to the bone. I take it in and think about it.
“Could be our guy,” Astra says. “Maybe these were his early kills, and he was just figuring out his kink. Wanted to experiment before he settled on one method.”
“It’s possible, but I don’t think so,” I reply slowly.
“Why’s that?” Mo asks.
“Bring up the third girl. The blonde.”
Rick calls up the photo and I’m struck right away by how similar she looks to Summer Kennedy and now Serena Monroe. She’s young and blonde, and can’t be older than twenty-one. She would have fit right in with some of those UW girls Astra and I were interviewing. I look at the stamp and see this kill was just over a month ago.
“COD?” I ask.
“This is Emily Tompkins. Age nineteen,” Mo says. “Cause of death was manual strangulation.”
I glance over at Astra who suddenly perks up, then turn to Rick. “Can you call up the photos of her body?”
The screens are suddenly filled with images of the girl’s body, moving from the crime scene to her autopsy. I notice that Emily was found in a river, hung up on a pile of rocks. Her body, like the others, had been pierced, sliced, beaten, and burned with cigarettes. She endured so much untold pain and suffering just like Summer and Serena. It breaks my heart
“This is our first victim,” I say. “Emily Tompkins was the first victim. She looks just like the other two. Was beaten and tortured in the exact same way. And then she was unceremoniously dumped. And all had ketamine in their systems. The coincidences are piling up and we can’t ignore them.”
“Our guy hasn’t evolved much over his three kills,” Astra notes.
“He hasn’t had to,” I reply. “I’d guess that based on his proficiency, he’s studied forensics at the very least.”
