Unsolved

by James Patterson

He works the remote on the wheelchair, rolls up to the mirror, and takes a hard look at his overall appearance. The unshaven face, the shiny scar shaped like a crescent moon near his right eye, shoulder-length hair pulled back into a ponytail, the camouflage hat and army fatigue jacket. He looks at the wheelchair too. With the American-flag decal on the leather armrest and the bumper sticker reading RANGERS LEAD THE WAY on the bottom shroud of the wheelchair, he is the quintessential wounded veteran.

  He looks past the mirror into the bedroom, obviously the one she sleeps in; there are clothes everywhere, the bed unmade. He turns to the other bedroom, surely the home office where Emmy—

  He draws a breath. To call this a home office would not be doing it justice. This is more like command central. Two computers, a desktop and a laptop, on an L-shaped desk. The walls papered with notes and flow charts and articles. He wheels himself inside, thankful that it’s hardwood floor and not carpet so no tracks will be left.

  He wants to review everything on these walls, but first things first.

  He removes his equipment and quickly gets to work, downloading everything from her computers, using his spyware to bypass her password protection, and uploading tracer software.

  Soon he will have all her data, and with the software, he will see everything she does on these computers.

  He checks his GPS tracker to confirm that Emmy is still in DC. “Now I have some time to get acquainted with you, my dear Emmy,” he whispers.

  30

  I SIT in the conference room like a prisoner awaiting sentencing, my eyes bloodshot and heavy, the beginning of a cold stuffing me up, a dull ringing in my ears.

  The turn of the knob startles me, even though I’m expecting him.

  Dwight Ross enters without a word and takes a seat across from me at the walnut table. He stares at me, letting the silence ramp up the tension. Maybe he thinks that if he just stares at me, I’ll start blurting out apologies, begging for forgiveness, throwing myself on his mercy. If that’s what he’s waiting for, he’s going to wait a long time.

  “You know why you’re here,” he says finally.

  I nod.

  “You admit you opened an unauthorized investigation?”

  “I admit that when I initially reached out to the New Orleans PD, I didn’t specify that I was doing so on my own. I gave the impression that I was working in my official capacity. I cleared that up once I got there,” I say.

  “But you were told that when you were on your little personal crusades, your hunts for leprechauns and fairy princesses and serial killers, you had to make it clear that you weren’t acting in an official capacity. You agreed to that.”

  “I did, yes.”

  “And when you initially contacted New Orleans, you didn’t make that clear.”

  “Not initially, no.”

  He nods. This is going fine so far. He’s making his case against me, step by step.

  “In the past, have you contacted other local law enforcement agencies and given them the impression that you were acting on behalf of the Bureau?”

  I wonder if he knows the answer to that already. I wonder if he’s had a look at my personal e-mail account. But it doesn’t matter. I’m too burned out to lie.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “So New Orleans wasn’t an isolated incident?”

  “I think I just answered that question.”

  He points at me. “Talking back isn’t going to help you here, Dockery. You embarrassed the Bureau. You embarrassed me. You made it look like I’m not in control of my own people.”

  “Is that what this is about?”

  He draws back. Licks his lips, shakes his head, then shows me a nasty grin. “You really are a piece of work, aren’t you?”

  “I do my job and I do it well,” I say. “And on the side, instead of reading books or watching TV or training for marathons, I try to stop serial killers. I don’t ask for any help. I do it on my own. Yes, I have misrepresented myself. I admit it. I have occasionally given people the impression that I’m working on a Bureau investigation so they’ll cooperate with me. I won’t do it again. That’s a promise. It’ll never happen again. But I won’t apologize.”

  “You will apologize,” he says. “And do you know why?”

  I won’t give him the pleasure of a response.

  “You’ll apologize,” he says, “because you need the Bureau’s resources to do what you do in your spare time. Without us, you’re out of the serial-killer-chasing business.”

  Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation or maybe it’s everything that just happened with Books, but I will not grovel for this asshole. He’s going to fire me or he isn’t.

  Ross chuckles. He gets out of his chair and starts moving around the room. “You know what I think?” he says. “I think you got really lucky once with Graham. It made you feel special. It made you feel smart. Everyone admires and pities you because you got all cut up by that creep, but the truth is, getting attacked was the best thing that ever happened to you. Every day, we are all reminded of how brave and smart you are.

  “And now? Now it’s like a drug. You need it again. You want everyone to think you’re special again. But you’re not special, Dockery. You’re a freak with no people skills who makes herself crazy looking high and low for serial killers who don’t exist. You stare at a computer day and night because you know that nobody likes you, and no man would want you.”

  I look away, holding it all in. He’s baiting me. He wants me to blow up. He wants me to explode so he can add insubordination, erratic behavior, and anything else he can come up with to the list of my administrative violations.

  “Resign,” he says, coming up behind me. “Make it easy on yourself.”

  I put my hands on the table, bracing myself, my skin crawling.

  “Never,” I say.

  “Exactly!” He claps his hands together once. “You can’t do it. You can’t wean off the drug. This job is all you have. And since I could fire you without thinking twice about it, that means I’m all you have.”

  I close my eyes as he stands behind me. If he touches me, I’m going to deck him.

  But he won’t. He’s torturing me plenty without laying a finger on me.

  “This is your last chance. So here are the new rules, Dockery. First off, you come to work every day. None of this crap about how efficient you are at home. No more special treatment for the poor lady who got her face cut up. You show up every day.

  “Second, I want a cup of Starbucks on my desk, piping hot, every morning by eight o’clock. You’re going to walk it in, you’re going to smile, and you’re going to say, ‘Good morning, Mr. Assistant Director.’ I will make a point of saying the coffee’s not necessary. And you will make a point of saying that you appreciate how understanding I’ve been, that it’s the least you can do.”

  My body trembles, but I don’t speak. Focus on the positive—he’s not firing you. You’re still in the game. That’s all that matters. You can deal with Dwight Ross later.

  “I’m sure I’ll come up with more as we go along,” he says. “Now go back to your cubicle and get to work like a good little numbers girl.”

  31

  THE MAN who calls himself Charlie reads the data and notes on Emmy’s wall, his emotions going from admiration to envy to horror. Useless feelings, all of them, but he can’t help it as he reads on and on.

  The list of homeless people in Los Angeles from a year ago, all of them declared dead of natural causes.

  Next, a list of senior citizens in Scottsdale, again all deaths attributed to natural or accidental causes.

  He thinks back to the timing of those murders. This would have been while she was still recovering, probably while she was still in the hospital.

  What no other law enforcement agency was able to do, Emmy had done from her hospital bed.

  He hadn’t heard a word of it in the media. He’d had no idea that anyone had connected these deaths in LA and Scottsdale and saw them as murders.

&
nbsp; But you did, Emmy. Did no one believe you?

  Apparently not. Still, it burns inside him. She has followed everything he’s done.

  He checks his GPS tracker to confirm that Emmy isn’t on her way back home. Then he keeps reading.

  The next group of victims is listed on a series of papers descending to the carpet. At the top of the list is the most recent—Nora Connolley in New Orleans. It’s been all over the news this weekend, Emmy’s visit to New Orleans, her theory that Nora Connolley’s death is part of a larger murder spree.

  Below her, Laura Berg from Vienna, Virginia, and next to her, Detective Joe Halsted, whom Emmy had coaxed into investigating Laura’s death as a homicide and whom Charlie had killed as well. Then heading vertically downward again to victims in Indianapolis, Atlanta, Charleston, Dallas. Every victim accompanied by articles on his or her death, police reports, profiles of the victims, Emmy’s handwritten notes.

  She missed a couple of victims, but how could she not miss one or two? He can’t believe she found these victims. How many stories of death did she have to sift through on a daily basis to find these people?

  And even if she missed the occasional victim, she has seen more than enough. Enough to construct a pattern and a possible profile of the killer.

  The victim profile:

  Lives alone

  Single-story home

  House up for sale or recently purchased—video/photos of home online

  Attached garage or detached but private access

  Within two blocks of public transportation

  Nonprofit/volunteer/advocacy work for disabled, homeless, elderly, terminally ill

  The offender’s methodology:

  Subdues individuals away from home—why?

  Subdues them by injecting something with needle (puncture wounds on torsos)

  Drives victims to their homes (why?) in their cars, not his (why?)

  Takes public transportation back to his car at abduction site

  The offender profile, less fact-based and more theoretical:

  Skilled and disciplined

  Medical training? Military special-ops background?

  Doesn’t like people in need or the people who care for them

  Doesn’t like stairs

  Doesn’t like his vehicle being seen

  Either (1) he’s frail and infirm and so self-loathing that he lashes out at those like him or their caregivers, or (2) he’s taken Darwinism to the extreme and wants to eradicate the weak in our society

  Or both

  He feels ripped open, exposed, burned.

  He slams his fists down on the arms of the wheelchair over and over like a spoiled child, sweat pouring into his eyes, his body on fire, the useless anger consuming him. All of this work, all of the care I put into it, all the discipline, the methodology, was foolproof if properly executed, and I did properly execute it, I left behind no trace, I did everything right, but she figured it out anyway, my motives, my design, even a partial profile—

  Then everything goes dark. Utter silence, a complete vacuum, no space or time, pure nothingness.

  Blackness. Everything seeping out, his body still, the distracting emotions dissolving into mist.

  And then clarity.

  Only the worst of fools will fool themselves. There is no getting around it. Emmy won this battle. No, she didn’t pin it all the way down, and she never, ever would have pinned it on him. But she got close, and close is close enough to stop his work.

  “Congratulations, my lady,” he whispers. “Round one goes to you.”

  He wheels himself over and removes his equipment from her computers. Everything in them has been downloaded; all his spyware has been uploaded.

  He will need to regroup, assess his failures, come up with a whole new plan.

  He shakes himself, glances at the bulletin board next to the computers.

  Then suddenly focuses.

  Nothing on this small corkboard about serial killers. Nothing about the homeless or sick or single-story homes or faking accidental deaths. No, the notes stuck to this bulletin board concern another case altogether, one he’s read about in the papers.

  Citizen David. The crusader who blows up buildings and hacks the websites of those who do not subscribe to his inane, politically correct ideology.

  “Citizen David,” he mumbles.

  He closes his eyes and sits completely still, ideas flashing through his brain like lightning, the adrenaline coursing through him. His hands grip the sides of the wheelchair like he’s bracing for a hurricane—

  He opens his eyes.

  “Emmy,” he says, “I’m rather looking forward to round two.”

  32

  I OPEN the door to my apartment as the alarm blares out its shrill warning call. I type in the pass code, and the alarm settles down with a couple of beeps, the light a solid green.

  I walk in, flip on the overhead light, drop my work bag, and feel a shudder pass through me. I hold my breath, standing still, listening.

  A sound? A movement? A different smell?

  I don’t know. All I know is that something is telling me that there is a stranger inside my apartment.

  “H-hello?” I whisper, the sudden jolt of fear weakening my voice.

  And then it comes, as it has so many times since my attack: My heart throbbing like a volcano about to erupt. Fire engulfing my chest and cascading down my limbs. My breaths ragged and desperate, as if I’m walled off and can breathe only through a tiny hole.

  My legs buckle and I fall to the floor. I plant my hands in the carpet, grip the fibers as if I might slide off the world if I don’t hold on. Convinced, absolutely certain to my core, that in my peripheral vision will appear the looming shadow of a stranger coming to hurt me, his feet stopping just short of my face.

  If I hold still, I can breathe. Hold still and you can breathe.

  But nothing is still; the lights are dimming and flashing, my body is scorched and sweating, the furniture is dancing around me, the ground is quaking, and I know he’s coming, I know that the stranger will stand before me with a creepy smile, dead eyes, and the glint of a scalpel wet with my blood.

  You know what I’m going to do to you, the stranger will say, and you can’t stop me.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on breathing: Close your eyes and breathe, close your eyes and breathe, close your eyes and…

  When I open my eyes, I am shivering, wet from cold sweat. I suck in delicious oxygen and crawl to the living room, past the exercise equipment, to the couch with the quilt my grandmother knit for me when I was a baby. I wrap myself in it and sit on the floor against the couch.

  There is nobody here, I tell myself as I shake like a rattle.

  Usually that’s enough. It’s like coming down from a nightmare, awakening and realizing it was all a trick of your mind, a bad dream.

  But…it’s different this time.

  Nobody is here, I think to myself. But somebody was here.

  I get to my feet and walk on unsteady legs through my small apartment, turning on every light as I go, half expecting to find clothes thrown everywhere in my bedroom—more than usual, that is—drawers pulled open, file folders dumped, mattresses overturned, an apartment ransacked.

  But nothing looks disturbed. My home office is exactly as it was, the wallpaper of notes, the computers, even the chair left just as I always leave it, tucked all the way in under the desk.

  The alarm, I recall, was on when I came home. Nobody knows my pass code. If someone had come in, the alarm would have sounded. And if someone managed to get past it, someone with the technological know-how to do something like that, the alarm would have been disarmed, a solid green, not armed with a solid red as it was when I entered.

  Don’t be an idiot, Emmy. Nobody was here. Nothing has been taken. It wasn’t some sixth sense talking to you. It was just another panic attack.

  Shaken, I pour myself a glass of water, sit down at my computer, and begin my nightly ritual of combin
g through recent deaths deemed accidental or natural.

  I work until three in the morning, breaking only for a microwaved meal and a half an hour on the stationary bike. I leave every light on in the apartment and drag my couch against the front door before falling on my bed, exhausted and depleted.

  When the alarm on my clock radio goes off, I feel like I haven’t slept a wink.

  33

  “MORNING, ROBERTA,” I say as I head toward Dwight Ross’s office holding a piping-hot cup of Starbucks.

  Roberta, her gray hair pulled back and her eyes staring at me over her glasses, says, “What is that?”

  “Just want to show my appreciation for everything the assistant director’s done for me,” I sing, suppressing my gag reflex.

  “Mmm-hmm.” Roberta’s a saint for working with Dwight Ross. And she’s sharp too. She isn’t fooled by the ruse. Nobody in the building likes Dwight as much as I’m pretending to.

  I walk into his office, and he calls out, “Oh, Emmy, that’s not necessary,” loud enough for Roberta to hear. But when I set the coffee down on his immaculate desk, he turns his wrist and taps on his watch. “I said eight, not eight oh three,” he says just above a whisper. “And it better be hot.”

  One of these days, I promise myself, I’m going to put hemlock in that cup.

  I go to my cubicle and boot up my computer. Other analysts begin arriving within minutes.

  “Hey, lady!” says Bonita Sexton. She has the cubicle next to me and is part of my team on Citizen David; she’s grown accustomed to working with me primarily by phone or e-mail, not in person, during my extended absence.

  “Hey, Rabbit,” I say. Her nickname’s due to her vegan diet, I think, or maybe her diminutive size. She was born in the early sixties to radical hippies in Chicago and still has it in her blood. She doesn’t wear makeup, leaves her hair long and straight, wears loose-fitting clothes. She even drives an electric car. She raised two boys as a single parent; one of them is an aspiring poet and part-time barista at a Starbucks in New Haven, and the other is a social worker in Tampa.