by Tami Dane
—Plutarch
17
Thursday morning—day number ten of this case—I was sitting in my cubicle alone. Just me. Nobody else. The chief was gone—meetings. Gabe Wagner was gone—with Fischer. JT was gone—interviewing some more students.
It was just me and the phones, which weren’t ringing.
I was bored.
I was lonely.
And for the first time since I started with the PBAU, I felt like a lowly intern. It sucked.
Trying to make good use of my time, I opened a new word-processing document and poised my fingers over the keys. Just as I was about to type the first word, the phone rang.
Hallelujah.
I had never answered a phone so fast. “PBAU, this is Sloan Skye speaking. How may I help you?”
“Hello, my name’s Fran Doonan. I’m calling for Agent Jordan Thomas. I got his card from a neighbor.”
“I’m sorry, he’s out of the office. May I help you?”
“I suppose so. I was told Agent Thomas is investigating the Fitzgerald High murderer. I have a photograph I need to show him. I live next door to Emma Walker. I was taking pictures of my cat, when I caught something on film. I was hoping he—or someone—could come to my home so I could show him the photograph.”
A few days ago, this would have been a simple situation. I would have taken the woman’s address and told her I’d be there within the hour.
Not so, now.
“May I please have your address and phone number, and I’ll try to reach Agent Thomas and give him the message?”
She rattled off the information, and I thanked her for calling. Then I ended the call with a promise to get back to her ASAP. I grabbed my cell phone and called JT.
It rang.
And rang.
And rang.
No answer.
Finally it clicked over to voice mail. I left him a message, giving him all the pertinent details; then I tried the chief.
Her phone rang.
And rang.
And rang.
No answer.
Same with Chad Fischer’s.
It seemed everyone was too busy to answer ringing cell phones.
There was nothing more I could do, though there was plenty I wanted to do.
Frustrated and annoyed, I went back to my blank word-processing page to write out our sketchy profile as it currently stood:
Gender: Male
Race: Caucasian
Age: Undetermined, though my gut tells me we aren’t dealing with an inexperienced teenager here. This killer has been killing for some time. There are no signs of inexperience or hesitation.
Species: Undetermined, possibly Homo sapiens
MO: Debilitate the victim with an electrical charge strong enough to cause cardiac arrest. Vampirism afterward.
Motivation: Possibly lust driven, deriving pleasure from the torture of the victims. Vampirism afterward for sexual gratification. As perverse as that sounds, there have been many such serial killers throughout history. It isn’t completely out of the scope of possibility.
Using the Internet, I delved deeper into the lust-driven, vampiric serial killer, reading biographies, looking for clues and commonalities that might be helpful. It appeared that a certain percentage of vampiric killers were psychotic—insane. They suffered from delusions and hallucinations.
This did not fit our profile. Psychotic killers left clues; they didn’t hide evidence. They chose their victims at random and used whatever means at hand to make their kill.
And then there was the story of Rod Ferrell, a teenager who had come to believe he was a vampire after becoming addicted to role-playing games. Ferrell had killed two people for the purpose of helping a friend and fellow vampire. Now, that was an interesting case. I could see some parallels there.
Were we dealing with a group of kids playing dangerous games?
As I read the biography, I was sickened by the violence, shocked by the horrific life the boy had led. But I came away with some valuable information, some things to look for.
Sudden lack of interest in school and notable change in behavior.
A heavy interest in role-playing games.
Cutting.
Bizarre behavior and knowledge of occult practices and rituals.
Drug use.
I added those elements to my in-process profile; then I went back to reading. After a while, my back grew achy and my butt numb. I stretched, checked the clock, and decided it was time to make a lunch run. I’d just gathered my keys and wallet when my cell phone rang.
JT. Finally. “Hey, Skye, what’s up?”
“Did you listen to your message? I received a call from the neighbor of one of our victims. She said she obtained your card from Emma Walker’s parents. She caught something on film that she felt might be important to our case.”
“Interesting. I’ll head over. How are you doing?”
“I’m bored. But I’ve found some interesting stuff on the Internet about vampiric serial killers. I gathered a list of traits to add to our profile.”
“Excellent. I’m about to pull into the lot. How about you come with me? You can go over that list while we’re driving.”
“I’m ready to go.”
“Good. Meet me downstairs.”
I clicked off and dashed out the door.
It didn’t take me long to update JT on my Internet research. That left the rest of the trip for awkward silence, broken up by bits of uncomfortable small talk. Not since I’d started working with the PBAU had I felt so uncomfortable around JT. By the time we’d reached the Walkers’ street, I was jittery, had a bad case of car claustrophobia—not to mention, a full bladder. After taking a detour to make a pit stop at a local bagel shop for doughnuts, coffee, and a trip to the ladies’ room, I was ready to head over to Fran Doonan’s to see what this photograph thing was all about.
JT slanted his eyes at me when I climbed back into the car with my loot. “I thought you had to use the bathroom.”
“I did. But this place requires you to buy something in order to use the bathroom.”
His lips twitched. “I see.”
I shoved my hand in the bag, producing a custard-filled doughnut. “Want one?”
“Sure.”
We munched on custard-filled, deep-fried dough for the next few minutes, which was just long enough to get back to Fran Doonan’s street. I did a quick mirror check to make sure I didn’t have any crumbs on my chin or custard on my lips and then followed JT up the front walk.
The door swung open after the first knock. Fran Doonan had been waiting for us.
JT extended a hand. “Agent Jordan Thomas.”
The woman grabbed his hand; but instead of shaking it, she hauled him through the door. He tripped over the threshold on his way in. I followed, and the door was slammed shut and locked behind us.
Immediately sirens started shrieking in my head. This lady, who looked the epitome of a middle-class, suburban soccer mom, was either paranoid or terrified for her life.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” the woman said. She sounded like she’d just run a marathon. Her eyes were bugged. Her lips were the shade of milk.
“There was an accident on I-95,” JT said, sending a glance my way.
I motioned to her camera, sitting on the console table. “You said you had a photograph to show us?”
“I do.” The woman lifted the camera, picking up a large white envelope that was sitting under it. Her hands were visibly shaking. “Before I give this to you, I have to assure you it’s one hundred percent real. I had the print blown up so you can see the details better.”
Now I was really curious. “All right.” I extended an arm, but Fran Doonan handed the envelope to JT, instead. Her hands were clasped as she waited for JT to take a look.
His brows rose to the top of his forehead, then scrunched together. Saying nothing, he handed the print to me.
At first, I had no idea what I was lookin
g at. But then, I saw it. It was the form of a bird. This bird was enormous—the height of a man, black, with white on its chest, with legs the deep scarlet color of blood.
“What is it?” the woman asked. “That bird is enormous. At least six feet tall.”
“We can’t say . . . yet.” I handed the picture back to JT.
He pointed at the window next to the bird’s head. “Is this the Walkers’ house?”
“It is.” She grabbed the camera and shoved it into JT’s hands. “There are more shots, but none as clear as that one. I had the shutter set to snap a series of shots a second apart, so you’ll see that there’s a brilliant blue flash, like lightning. Then the . . . bird . . . appears. It stands there for roughly ten seconds before another blue flash happens, and he’s gone. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Thank you. We can take the memory card out, and let you keep the camera—”
“No. Take it. I won’t touch that thing again. I mean, I realize that monster isn’t in there.” She waved her hands. “But I just can’t.”
“All right. Thank you.” JT cradled the camera in his hands and motioned to the door. “We should get going. We’ll give this to our technicians—see what they can make of it. Thank you.”
“Will you tell me what you find?”
“Sure.”
I knew that was a lie. We couldn’t tell her. That was against the bureau’s policy. But I was guessing JT said that so the poor woman might be able to sleep at night.
“Thank you.” Reaching around JT, she unlocked the door and opened it. “I haven’t stepped outside since I saw that picture. A six-foot-tall bird. I still can’t believe it’s possible. If anyone else had shown me that picture, I would’ve told them it was a fake. But the image is there, not just on the print, but on the memory card too. It isn’t fake.”
“We’ll check it out, Mrs. Doonan. Thank you again.” JT stepped outside.
I thanked her too, then followed him out.
The door slammed the minute we’d cleared the doorway.
JT rounded the front of the Doonans’ house. “Before we leave, I’d like to check out the spot where the bird appeared. Let’s see if we can find anything to prove it was really there.”
“Sure.”
We tromped up to the Walkers’ house and knocked. No answer.
JT looked at me. I looked at him. We shrugged, then circled the side of the house. Fortunately, we ran into no obstacles. No fence. No landscaping.
We stopped.
“What is that?” JT asked, staring at the strange mark on the grass. Neither of us had noticed it before.
I had a feeling I knew what it was.
I stepped around him, looking down at the center of the mark, where the grass was brown. Branching out from the central patch, almost like bent spokes on a wheel, were lines that looked like veins, with smaller lines branching off those.
I stooped. “Lightning strike. It looks just like the marks on the girls.”
JT glanced at the Doonans’ house, then back at the Walkers’ home. “What a strange coincidence that there was a lightning strike at the exact same spot Doonan had seen the giant bird.”
“It’s no coincidence. It can’t be.”
I started parting the grass, searching for something—anything—that would lead me to the answers I needed.
I had no doubt we were onto something here: the lightning strike, the man-sized bird, the victims, all showing signs of electrocution, and the burned-out appliances.
“Finally we have a break,” I said.
“What are you talking about? Did you find anything in the grass?”
“No. But, JT, that photo . . . It’s a picture of our unsub. Now all we have to do is profile him.”
No man chooses evil because it is evil; he only mistakes it for happiness, the good he seeks.
—Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
18
The instant we returned to the PBAU, I powered up my uberslow loaner laptop and, after waiting eons for it to connect, started searching the Web. I hit pay dirt literally seconds later. Three little search terms, and I had a profile of our unsub.
I printed out the Web page and raced over to JT’s cubby. He was on the phone, talking low. I set the printout on his desk and returned to mine.
Finally, after working this case for ten long days, we had our profile.
Thank God.
I tried to sit, but I couldn’t. I tried to concentrate, but I couldn’t.
I wanted to talk to JT, figure out our next step.
Why was he still sitting over there in his cubby?
I stood, peering over the top of my cubicle wall to see if he was still on the phone. He was.
Big, heavy sigh.
I opened the word-processing file in which I’d written my preliminary profile and started tinkering with it, adding the details I’d just found.
What felt like ten hours later, JT came strolling over.
He wasn’t beaming. He didn’t look happy at all. This wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I was talking to Brittany.”
Ah, now the down-in-the-dumps expression made sense. “Is she okay?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
He pulled up a chair and, more or less, fell into it. “I want to help her, but I have no idea what to do. She’s taking this loss so hard.”
“I can’t imagine how bad it is to lose a child.”
He shook his head. “She’s alone. Her marriage is over. It’s all too much.”
I had no idea what to say. My life hadn’t been all magical ponies and National Science Fair wins, but I’d also never experienced such a huge loss. Yes, I’d lost my father. But when that had happened, I hadn’t been old enough to understand or grieve.
“Her doctor’s talking about releasing her already. I don’t think she’s ready for that.” He fiddled with my printout. “Maybe this is crazy, but I’m thinking of asking her to move in with me.”
Those words struck me like a kick in the gut. Not long ago, JT and I had been shoving our tongues into each other’s mouth. Granted, I’d put a stop to it pretty quickly.
But still . . . it was time for some brutal honesty.
Despite this courtship thing with Damen, I’d kept the possibility, in the back of my mind, of JT and me becoming an item. If he shacked up with Brittany, that possibility would never happen.
I gave myself a mental slap to the head. What was I thinking? I was in something of a relationship. Damen and I were courting. What kind of selfish bitch was I, to think I should be able to keep JT to myself as a backup, in case things didn’t work out with Damen?
I decided I would be supportive—as a friend should be. “I thought she was a lesbian?”
“Yeah.” He gnawed on his lip. “She was married to a woman, but I don’t think she was one hundred percent lesbian.”
I didn’t want to know why he thought that. It could have something to do with the fact that he had been, after all, fully capable of reaching the Big O with her, thus impregnating her. It could also be that they’d both enjoyed the act of coitus more than either had anticipated.
“Um . . .”
“Sorry.” JT flipped the pages. “I’m raining on your parade.” His lips curved, but the expression wasn’t a smile. “You’ve done it again, Skye. You’ve profiled our unsub.”
“Yes, and no.” I pointed at the pages. “Did you read those?”
“Er . . . not yet.”
“I kind of thought not.”
He poked a button on his cell. “I’m calling the chief. She’ll want an update immediately. In the meantime, are you going to give me a hint?”
“Sure. In a nutshell, we have a lot more work to do.” I shoved his chair, sending it rolling toward his cubby. “Now go, read.”
After calling the chief, JT made an attempt to help me draft the final profile while we waited for the rest of the team to c
ome in. I could see him making the effort. Sadly, though, his concentration was shot, and he kept asking me the same questions over and over and over. And when his phone rang, he’d launched out of his chair like a rocket, phone clapped to his ear, as he scurried away to take the call.
Each time, he’d come back, looking a little breathless and on edge. “Sorry.”
“Not a problem. Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate, so I didn’t ask.
When Gabe Wagner came in, on the heels of Chad Fischer, I was relieved and anxious, both. JT wasn’t in any shape to help me with the case. I needed some fresh minds.
The chief came in a few minutes later, and we all gathered in the conference room. She took her place at the head of the table. “Skye has some important information to share with all of you.” She focused on me. “Sloan, we’re all ears.”
I began, “After receiving a tip from one of the victim’s neighbors, JT and I visited the location of an unusual sighting. This witness was able to produce a photograph that, combined with some evidence we found at the site, led to my identifying his species.” While I spoke, JT handed each one a copy of Fran Doonan’s photo. “That is an impundulu or thekwane. A lightning bird. This species is a creature of South African folklore. The lightning bird is able to take the form of a human-sized black-and-white bird. Plus, depending upon which myth you read, it is able not only to produce lightning at will, but it is able to take the form of lightning. It can travel at the speed of light. It is also able to take the form of an attractive man. In this form, he is able to seduce young women.”
Everyone was taking notes.
After letting them get caught up, I continued my presentation. “The impundulu is known to act on behalf of a witch or witch doctor, acting as his or her familiar, and enacting revenge against enemies. If we make the assumption that our impundulu is doing the same, we are searching for not one but two unsubs. The impundulu himself and the witch or witch doctor he serves. The second could be either male or female. We need to generate two sets of motives—one for each unsub. And we’ll need to produce two profiles as well.”
