by Alex Kava
“I checked the airline schedules within the past week for flights going from Dulles or Reagan National to Kansas City.” He looked from Tully to O’Dell. “I was looking for any of the aliases Stucky has used in the past. That’s when I noticed that there was a ticket sold for a KC flight, Sunday afternoon out of Dulles, to a Walker Harding.”
Cunningham waited, looking for some reaction. Tully watched, tapping his foot nervously but not impressed with the information.
“Excuse me, sir, for saying so, but that may not mean much. It may not even be the same man.”
“Perhaps not. However, Agent Tully, I suggest you find out whatever you can about Walker Harding.”
“Assistant Director Cunningham, why am I here?” Agent O’Dell asked politely but with enough candor to indicate she wasn’t willing to continue without an answer. “I mean no disrespect, but the three of us are sitting here talking about a ticket that may or may not have been issued to a man who Stucky may or may not have talked to for years. Yet, there is one thing that we can be certain of—Albert Stucky murdered a woman in Kansas City, and most likely he is still there.”
Cunningham sat forward, leaning elbows on his desk and looking as though he had been ambushed in a chess match. But now he was ready for his move, his turn.
“Saturday night about twenty miles from here, a young woman was found murdered, her body tossed into a Dumpster, her spleen surgically removed and placed inside a discarded pizza box.”
“Saturday?” Agent O’Dell fidgeted while she calculated the time-line. “Kansas City is not a copycat. He left the goddamn kidney at my door.”
Tully winced. Forget chess. This would be more like a showdown at the OK Corral. Cunningham, however, didn’t blink.
“The young woman was a pizza delivery person. She was taken while delivering her route.”
Agent O’Dell became agitated, crossing her legs, then uncrossing them as if restraining her words. Tully knew she had to be exhausted.
Cunningham continued, “She had to have been taken somewhere close by. Perhaps in the neighborhood. He raped and sodomized her, slit her throat and removed her spleen.”
“By sodomized are you saying he raped her himself from behind or with another item?”
Tully couldn’t see a difference. Wasn’t either hideous enough? Cunningham looked to him for the answer. This, unfortunately, he could answer without digging through a single file. The young girl had looked too much like Emma for him not to remember every detail.
“There was no semen left behind, but the medical examiner seemed convinced it was penile stimulation. There were no traces or remnants that a foreign object might leave behind.”
“Stucky’s never done that before.” O’Dell sat at the edge of her chair, suddenly animated. “He wouldn’t do that. He likes to watch their faces. He enjoys seeing their fear. He wouldn’t be able to see that from behind.”
Cunningham tapped his fingertips on the desk. “The young woman delivered a pizza to your new home the night she was murdered.”
Cunningham and Tully watched O’Dell. She sat back, looking from one to the other. Tully saw the realization in her eyes. He expected to see fear, maybe anger. It surprised him to find what looked like resignation.
“That’s why I’m guessing it didn’t matter that you stayed in Kansas City. He’ll follow you. Albert Stucky is pulling you into this, no matter what I do to keep you out of it.”
“And by keeping me out of it, sir, you’re taking away my only defense.” O’Dell’s voice had an undeniable quiver to it. Tully saw her bite down on her lower lip. Was it to restrain her words or control the quiver?
“Agent Tully has requested that you assist him on the case.”
O’Dell stared at Tully with surprise. He found himself embarrassed and not sure why.
“I’ve decided to grant Agent Tully’s request on two conditions, neither of which I’m willing to negotiate.” Cunningham leaned forward again, hands fisted together. “Number one, Agent Tully is to remain the lead on this investigation. I expect you to share all information. You will not go off on a wild-goose chase or check on hunches without Agent Tully accompanying you. Is that understood?”
“Of course,” she answered, her voice now strong and firm again.
“Number two. I want you to see the Bureau’s psychologist.”
“Sir, I really don’t think—”
“Agent O’Dell, I said there will be no negotiating. I’ll leave it up to Dr. Kernan as to how many times he wants to see you each week.”
“Dr. James Kernan?” O’Dell seemed appalled.
“That’s right. I had Anita set up your first appointment. Check with her on your way out for the time. She’s also setting up an office for you. Agent Tully occupies your old one. Now, if the two of you will excuse me.” He sat back, dismissing them. “I have another appointment.”
Tully gathered his mess and waited for O’Dell at the door. For a woman who had just been given what she had wanted for the past five months, she looked more agitated than relieved.
30
TESS pulled the Miata in front of 5349 Archer Drive. Her eyes checked up and down the cul-de-sac, confirming that she had arrived too early. There was no sign of her 10:00 a.m. appointment. Actually, there were no signs of life. The neighborhood’s residents had already left for their long commute, and those who were able to stay behind were probably still in bed. She decided to use the extra time to make certain the two-story colonial was in show condition.
The house had been on the market for over eight months with little activity in the past three months. However, the sellers continued to stand firm on their selling price. Like so many of the houses on the outskirts of Newburgh Heights, money seemed to be no problem for the owners, which certainly made negotiations a problem.
Tess went to unlock the steel security door, but the key turned too easily. The dead bolt didn’t click. The door wasn’t locked, and now she could see the security system had also been disarmed.
“Damn it!” she muttered, and flipped the light switch. Yes, the electricity was on, so there was no excuse for the alarm not to be working.
She made a mental note to check on the last agent who had shown the house. She could guess it had been one of the imbeciles from Peterson Brothers. They were constantly forgetting things like this, and had the professional ethics of pimps. There had been rumors about one of them using empty client houses for sleazy sex parties.
Suddenly Tess remembered that this house had an extra-large master bedroom and bath with a skylight.
“There better not be a mess.”
She checked her wristwatch. Only fifteen minutes left. She tossed her briefcase into a corner of the living room, pushed up her sleeves, and started up the stairs. She didn’t need this crap, not this morning. Halfway up she heard the front door open. He was early. Why did he have to be early? By the time she reached the bottom of the staircase, a tall, dark-haired man was wandering through the spacious living room. Sunlight cascaded in sheets of blinding light, surrounding him.
“Hello?”
“I know I’m a bit early.”
“That’s fine.” Tess wished she had been able to check the damn master bedroom first.
He turned, and only then did she notice the white cane. Immediately, she wondered how he had gotten here. She glanced out the window but saw no signs of another vehicle.
His Ray-Bans contained particularly dark lenses. She took notice of his designer silk shirt, his expensive leather jacket and well-pressed chinos. He had a bit of a widow’s peak, but his dark hair was thick and close cropped.
“I’m Walker Harding,” he said. “Are you the agent I spoke to on the phone?”
“Yes, I’m Tess McGowan.” She offered her hand, then snatched it back, embarrassed, when she realized he couldn’t see it.
He hesitated and slowly removed his hand from his pocket. She noticed how strong and muscular it was as he held it out. He was a little off target, his fi
ngers pointed to the side of her. She stepped in closer and shook it. The long fingers wrapped all the way around her wrist, surprising her in what felt more like a caress than a handshake.
“I just arrived,” she said, extracting her hand. “I didn’t get a chance to make a quick run-through,” she explained, wondering how he would know the difference.
He wandered across the living room, tapping his cane in front and walking confidently. He stopped at the bay window that looked out over the backyard. He fumbled for the latch and opened it. Then he stood quietly, staring out as if transfixed by something in the yard.
“The sun feels wonderful,” he finally said, tilting his head back and letting his face be warmed. “I know it might seem silly, but I like lots of windows.”
“No, it’s not silly at all.”
Despite his disability, there was a self-assurance in the way he handled himself. However, his gestures seemed stiff, his hands constantly retreated to his pockets. Was he nervous, anxious?
“How big are the evergreens?”
“Excuse me?”
“I can smell evergreens. Are there a lot and are they big or small?”
She walked up beside him, keeping a safe distance without seeming rude. The lots here were huge, and the evergreens, mostly cedar and pine, created a natural border at the far edge. She couldn’t smell them. But of course his other senses had probably become more refined.
“They’re very large. Some cedar, some pine. There’s a line of them that separates the properties.”
“Good. I do like my privacy.” He turned to her and smiled. “I hope you’re not uncomfortable having to describe things to me.”
“No, of course not. Where would you like to start your tour?”
“I was told there is a fabulous master bedroom. Could we start there?”
“Good choice,” she told him. Damn it! She wished she had come earlier. That Peterson asshole better not have left a mess. “Do you prefer walking alone or would you like me to take your arm?”
“You smell quite lovely.”
She stared at him, taken off guard.
“It’s Chanel No. 5, right?”
“Yes, it is.” Was he flirting with her?
“I’ll follow your lovely scent. Just lead the way.”
She walked slowly, causing his outstretched hand to bump into her once on the landing. He let it linger on her hip as though needing to get his bearings. At least that was what Tess told herself.
The master bedroom smelled of cleaning formula, and Tess’s eyes darted around. Thankfully, the room looked in order. Tess found it odd that Mr. Harding, whose senses had been so keen downstairs, made no comment about these new overpowering scents.
“This room is about thirty by twenty,” she proceeded casually. “There’s another bay window on the south wall that looks out over the backyard. The floor is an oak parquet. There’s a—”
“Excuse me, Ms. McGowan.”
“Please, call me Tess.”
“Tess, of course.” He stopped and smiled. “I hope you won’t find this offensive, but I like to have an idea of what the person I’m talking to looks like. May I touch your face?”
She didn’t know what to say. She remembered his touching her on the landing and wondered if it had been a grope and not a harmless miscalculation.
“I’m sorry. You’re offended,” he said.
“No, of course not,” she answered. “I’m afraid I’m just not as prepared as I should be to help you.”
“It’s really quite painless,” he told her, as if explaining a surgical procedure. “I use only my fingertips. I assure you, I won’t be pawing you.” His lips curved into another smile, and Tess felt ridiculous making a fuss.
“Please, go ahead.” She stepped closer, despite her apprehension.
He set the cane aside and started slowly, gently at her hair, using both hands. His hands smelled faintly of ammonia, or was it simply the overpowering scent of the freshly scrubbed wooden floor? His fingers stroked her forehead and moved over her eyelids.
She tried to ignore their dampness, but glanced at his face for any indication that he was as uncomfortable as she was. No, he seemed composed and his fingers began their descent on either side of her face, sliding down her cheeks. She dismissed what felt like a caress. But then his fingertips moved to her lips. His index finger lingered too long, rubbing back and forth. For a second it felt as though he might press it into her mouth. Startled by the sensation, Tess looked at his eyes. She tried to see beyond the dark lenses, and when she got a glimpse of his black eyes she saw that he was staring directly at her. Was that possible? No, of course not. She was simply being paranoid.
By now his fingers had wandered to her chin, tracing their way down to her neck. They wisped beneath the neckline of her blouse, hesitating as if he was asking how far she would let him go. She began to step back just when he wrapped his fingers around her throat.
“What are you doing?” Tess gasped and grabbed at his hands.
Now he squeezed, choking her, his eyes definitely staring into hers, a twisted smile at his lips. She clawed at the fingers, steel grips clamped like the jaws of a pit bull. She struggled and twisted, but he shoved her back. Her head knocked into the wall with such a force she closed her eyes against the pain. She couldn’t breathe.
When she opened her eyes, she saw that he had released one of his hands. She was able to suck in air, her lungs aching and greedy. Before she could gather her strength, he shoved his arm up against her to hold her in place, stabbing his elbow into her throat and cutting off her air once again. That was when she saw the syringe in his free hand.
The terror spread through her quickly, her arms and legs flaying in defense. It was useless. He was much too strong. The needle poked through her jacket and sank into her arm. In seconds the room began to spin. Her hands, her knees, her muscles became limp, and then the room went black.
31
THE minute Maggie walked into Dr. James Kernan’s office she felt like a college student again. The feelings of confusion, wonder and intimidation all came back to her in a rush of sights and smells. His office, set in the Wilmington Towers in Washington, D.C., and no longer on the University of Virginia’s campus, still looked and smelled the same.
Immediately, her nostrils were accosted by stale cigar smoke, old leather and BenGay rubbing ointment. A human brain’s dissected frontal lobe bulged in a mason jar filled with formaldehyde. The jar acted as a bookend, holding up such texts as Explaining Hitler: The Search for the Origins of His Evil, Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams and what Maggie knew to be a rare first edition of Alice in Wonderland.
Kernan loved mind games and could lure a person into them without warning. One moment he would drill an unprepared freshman with rapid-fire questions, not allowing the poor student to even answer. The next minute he’d be in a corner of the classroom, standing silently with his face to the wall. Then still later, he’d climb atop a desk and lecture, his small, stocky but aging body threatening to send him falling. And this was the man the FBI trusted to determine her sanity?
Maggie heard the familiar clomp-squeak of his footsteps outside the office. Instinctively, she sat up straight and stopped browsing. Even his footsteps transformed her into a college kid.
Dr. Kernan shuffled to his desk without acknowledging Maggie. He plopped down into the leather chair, sending it into a series of creaks. Maggie couldn’t be sure that all the creaks came from the chair and not his joints.
“O’Dell, Margaret,” he said to himself, still not acknowledging her presence.
He began rummaging through stacks of papers. “Class of 1990.” He thumbed through a folder. Maggie glanced at the cover, only to discover a label that read Twenty-five Best Internet Porn Sites.
“I remember a Margaret O’Dell,” he said, like a senile old man talking to himself. “Premed. Sat in the back left corner, taking very few notes. B student. Asked questions only about criminal behavior and hereditary
traits.”
Maggie hid her surprise. These could easily be odd little facts he might have noted and kept in a student file. And of course, he would have reviewed her file before she arrived, so as to have an advantage.
“Got a master’s in behavioral psychology,” he continued while riffling through the list of porn sites. “Managed to land a forensic fellowship at Quantico.” Finally he looked up at her, his pale blue eyes swimming behind thick glasses. “Wonder what the hell you would have done if you’d been an A student.” Then he stared at her, waiting.
As usual, he caught her off guard. Suddenly he expected a response to what was never a question. Maggie remained silent and returned his steady gaze, vowing not to flinch. This was certainly not her idea of therapy. Cunningham was way off base on this one.
“So, Margaret O’Dell, the B student who was so interested in criminals but didn’t think she belonged in my classroom, is now Special Agent Margaret O’Dell, who wears a gun and a shiny badge and now doesn’t think she belongs in my office.”
He stared at her again, waiting for a response, still not asking a question. “That’s true, isn’t it? You don’t think you should be here?”
“No, I don’t,” she answered, her voice defiant despite the man’s ability to intimidate the hell out of her.
“So your superiors are wrong? All those years of training. All that experience, and they’re flat-out wrong. Is that right?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Really? That wasn’t what you said?”
Maggie needed to concentrate. She couldn’t let him twist her words. She wouldn’t let him trap her.
“You asked me if I thought I should be here,” she explained calmly. “I simply said no, I don’t think that I should be here.”
“Aw-w-w-w,” he said, drawing it out into a sigh as he sank back in his chair. “I’m so glad you clarified that for me, Margaret O’Dell.”
She remembered that her one-on-one encounters with the man had always felt like an interrogation. It was disconcerting that this befuddled, little old man who looked as if he slept in his clothes still possessed that same power. She refused to let him unnerve her.
