by Bob Mayer
“Do you see something?” Burns asked her.
“I think there’s a message here,” she said, tapping the photograph of the Zero Milestone.
“Think or know?” Burns prompted.
“Interesting the way you phrased that,” Evie said. “’Think or know?’ What’s the difference?”
“Pretend you have the podium, professor,” Burns said with visible patience, his fingers lightly drumming on the desk.
“Head and heart,” Evie said.
“We know what they are,” Burns fairly growled.
Evie frowned. “No—the symbolism. It’s from a letter.”
“What letter?” Burns asked.
Evie shook her head. “It makes little sense. But—“ her voice trailed off.
Ducharme spoke up. “Who wrote the letter?”
“Thomas Jefferson.” She reached into a pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case.
“No smoking,” Burns said.
Evie ignored him and flipped open the lid. She pulled out a piece of gum and popped it in her mouth. “I quit a while ago. Nicotine gum.”
“The letter,” Burns prompted.
“In spring, 1786, while serving as US Ambassador to France, Jefferson met a married woman named Maria Cosway. We don’t know for sure if he had an affair with her, but he certainly was in love. When she left for England with her husband, he sat down and wrote her a rather remarkable letter that has come to be known as the Head-Heart Letter. Where his head argues with his heart over missing her and whether to pursue the relationship.”
Burns looked confused. “And what does that have to do with the murders?”
“I have no idea,” Evie said, but Ducharme had a sense she was holding something back. “It just popped into my head. And McBride had a fascination with Thomas Jefferson. I’m not fond of coincidence. Except, I don’t know how your General LaGrange,” she added, glancing at Ducharme, “figures into things.”
Burns held out the disks. “What are these?”
“Wooden disks.”
Burns looked from her, to Ducharme and then back at her. “Two wise guys. Are you going to help me or not?”
“We are helping you,” Evie said. “We’re not suspects in this, yet we freely came here.”
Burns tapped the disks. “These come from a Jefferson Cipher.” He glared at Evie. “You know that. Being the curator at Monticello. Where are the other twenty-four?”
“No idea,” Evie said.
“There was something else,” Burns said, grabbing a photo of what at first appeared to be just snow-covered ground. “Something was pushed down into the snow next to the tracks of Professor McBride. A couple of things actually. As near as we can tell, it looks like the imprint of the bottom of a bottle and some flowers, three of them, roses as there was a petal left in the snow. Mean anything to either of you?”
Ducharme shook his head and glanced at Evie as she answered: “If it was a bottle of cognac, then I have an idea.”
“Thomas Jefferson put them there, I suppose?” Burns said.
“No.” She looked at Ducharme. “Did General LaGrange graduate from the United States Military Academy?”
Ducharme nodded. “Yes. I did too.”
Evie tapped the photo of the imprints. “Since 1949, on the anniversary of Edgar Allan Poe’s death, a man goes to Poe’s grave in Baltimore and leaves a half-empty bottle of cognac and three roses on the grave. He’s known as the Poe Toaster.”
Burns sighed. “You’re just full of useless information, aren’t you? What the hell does Edgar Allan Poe and a grave in Baltimore have to do with two murders within blocks of the White House and a two hundred year old letter from Thomas Jefferson?”
“History,” Evie said. “Poe is the perfect connection between the University of Virginia, which McBride got his advanced degree from—and Jefferson founded-- and the United States Military Academy, which General LaGrange graduated from—and Jefferson also founded.”
“How is that?” Ducharme asked, intrigued.
Evie leaned back in her seat. “Edgar Allan Poe attended both schools and he was briefly a confidant of Thomas Jefferson while he was at UVA.”
“I don’t see the connections now,” Burns said pointedly.
“I don’t either,” Evie agreed, “but it’s there in the facts. As Sherlock Holmes said: ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbably, must be the truth.”
“Now you’re quoting a fictional detective,” Burns said.
Evie leaned back her chair and stared at the FBI agent. “As a detective, did you know that Poe is considered the originator of detective fiction, predating Conan Doyle and his character Holmes?”
“No, and thank you for sharing that worthless piece of trivia,” Burns said.
Evie sighed. “Stop with the condescension Special Agent Burns. Trivia is insignificant fact until you need that fact. I prefer any truth over the significant lies most to wallow in.” She paused. “McBride was meeting General LaGrange at the Zero Milestone for a reason. He was not a man for idle actions or words.”
“Nor was General LaGrange,” Ducharme said. He looked at Burns. “What else do you have from the crime scene?”
“I’m interrogating you,” Burns snapped.
“You don’t seem to have much at all,” Ducharme noted. “Professor Tolliver just gave you more than you have in your folders.”
Evie spoke up. “What else don’t you have from the crime scenes?”
Burns blinked. “What?”
“The killer took the roses and bottle of wine from McBride,” Evie said. “Was there anything missing from General LaGrange’s murder site?”
Ducharme grabbed the crime scene photos of his uncle’s murder scene. It took only a few seconds to spot it. He slammed a fist down on the desk, the beast surging inside his chest. “The General’s ring is missing. His Academy ring. He always wore it. He was proud of that ring.” He looked at Evie. “West Point was the first school in the country to start the tradition of class rings. We take our rings very seriously.” He turned to Burns. “Who the hell is this killer?”
“We’ll catch her,” Burns said confidently.
“’Her’?” Ducharme folded his arms once more over his chest and stared at the FBI agent. Burns finally stopped tapping his fingers on the table. “We believe the killer was a woman. The tracks in the snow from the perp indicate that.”
“What kind of weapon?” Ducharme asked.
“Blade. Very sharp. One blow to sever the head. The heart was cut out with precision, again with something very sharp, but not a scalpel. A knife or something like it, about two inches in width. It was also used in--” he paused, glancing at Evie, then continued—“the torture. We’ve got a couple of penetration wounds in non-vital areas. Surface cuts in areas where the bleeding wouldn’t be fatal.”
Burns slid a photo across the table. “McBride has defense wounds on one hand.” Burns tapped the picture. “The perp sliced off all his fingers. He must have been holding up his hand to try to stop a blow.”
“Most likely done by the killer out of frustration.” Ducharme looked up from the picture toward Burns. “You know what a bitch being frustrated can be when you’re trying to get information. Was the blade double or single-edged?”
“Single-edged.”
Ducharme nodded toward the switchblade. “You know edged weapons?”
“Yes.”
Ducharme glanced at Evie. She was looking at the photos once more. The conversation wasn’t disturbing her. Not visibly. Strange woman.
“What type of weapon do you think?” Ducharme asked.
“Some kind of short sword.”
“A professional,” Ducharme said.
“How would you know that?” Burns asked.
“I’m a professional. Plus an amateur wouldn’t have gotten to General LaGrange. The hand being cut on McBride, though, indicates some level of emotion. The killer probably didn’t get all she wanted from McBr
ide either.”
Burns was about to say something when there was a knock at the door. He got up and cracked it open to talk to someone.
Ducharme couldn’t hear what they were saying, so he turned to Evie and was about to ask her something when she pressed a finger to her lips and shook her head. Ducharme turned back as Burns returned to his chair and stood behind it.
“You must have powerful friends for someone who doesn’t exist,” he said to Ducharme as he pulled the switchblade out of the table and snapped it close. “I’ve been instructed to let you go.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “If you think of anything that could help our investigation, anyone who might have done this to your general, give me a call. If you don’t mind,” he added, his voice dripping sarcasm.
Ducharme stood and took the card. “My gun.”
Burns reached underneath his coat, retrieved the Mk-23 and handed it over.
Ducharme checked the chamber, then slid it in his holster. “And where’s my truck and Sergeant Major Kincannon?”
“Both waiting outside the front doors,” Burns said. “Pretty high speed ride. Modified at the hanger in Lakehurst?”
“Nice try.” Ducharme took a step for the door, then paused. “Is Ms. Tolliver still being held? You said she wasn’t a suspect.”
“That’s the interesting thing,” Burns said. He looked at Evie. “I think you have even more powerful friends than Colonel Ducharme. I’ve been ordered to get you immediate transportation to wherever you want to go and to assist you in any way possible.” He grimaced. “And to apologize for any inconvenience I might have caused you, Ms. Tolliver.”
Ducharme folded his arms, staring at Burns, who was pissed. That apology had cost him. Who was powerful enough to force Burns to eat crow?
Evie shook her head. “There’s no need for you to apologize. I want to help catch Mister McBride’s killer.” She looked at the table. “May I have the disks and the other contents of Mister McBride’s briefcase, please?”
“They’re evidence.”
“It’s two hundred years old,” Evie said. “Surely it’s not important to your investigation.”
Burns crossed his arms over his chest. “That doesn’t mean giving you evidence from a double homicide to take with you.”
Evie faced him squarely. “Colonel Ducharme and I had the disks and the briefcase, not the victims. And since we’re not suspects, it’s not evidence.”
A twitch crossed Burns’s face. “You can have the disks.”
“I want the briefcase and everything that was in it.”
The two stood toe to toe. “We tried turning on the laptop,” Burns finally said. “Everything in it was encoded. Not password protected, but encoded. A very sophisticated program that is basically an electronic one-time pad. I’m told by my experts that a thumb drive with the decipher code is needed because it’s a randomly generated pattern.”
“And?”
“Do you have the thumb drive?”
“No.”
Burns waited, then sighed and stepped back. “They’ll have the briefcase, with computer, ready for you at the front desk.”
Ducharme turned to Evie, impressed. “Would you like a ride, or would you prefer the FBI give you one?”
“Thank you,” Evie said and left the room.
Ducharme looked at Bratton. “What are you going to do now?”
“Conduct a double homicide investigation,” Burns snapped.
Chapter Five
Burns paused before entering the observation room. He pulled a worn, laminated card out of the sweatband of his fedora. The hat—and card—had been given to him by his mother when he graduated the FBI Academy. She’d been a fan of the old movies, when the G-Men wore fedoras and took down the bad guys with tommy-guns blazing. He’d been slightly embarrassed then, but over the years he’d grown to love the hat and the words on the card:
I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.
His shoulders squared and he slid the card back into the sweatband and entered the observation room behind the one-way glass. He was surprised to see that the two detail FBI agents were gone, replaced by a short, rough-looking older man, obviously someone with more rank than a field agent. He had a baldhead, a smashed nose and ice-blue eyes. Those eyes pierced right through Burns.
“I’m Assistant Director in Charge Turnbull. I’m your liaison to the National Security Council. General LaGrange was an important person.” Turnbull pointed at the screen of a GPS monitor. A dot moved out of the interrogation room and down the corridor toward the elevators. “The transmitter is broadcasting clearly,” Turnbull said. He had an open file on the desk.
“Where are the two officers who gave me the transmitter?” Burns asked.
“I’m handling this,” Turnbull said. “But you lead the murder investigation.”
“Then what are you handling?” Burns wanted to know. He received no answer. “You’re letting me take point so you don’t catch any shit. This goes wrong, it’ll be my hit. It goes right, you’ll grab the credit anyway.”
“There will be no credit,” Turnbull said. “We’ve got the story under wraps. There won’t be any news of it in the newspapers or on TV.” He smiled without humor, putting a finger to his lips. “This is hush-hush.”
“Right.”
“You’re one of our top profilers from what I understand.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“I didn’t hear it,” Turnbull said. “I just read it.” He held up the file marked Top Secret, For Official Use Only, on the cover: Burns’ personnel folder.
“How did you get that?” Burns winced as soon as he asked the question. An ADiC could get anyone’s file.
Turnbull flipped up a couple of pages. “You have a degree in psychology. Interesting. I suppose that helps you as a profiler.”
“At times. Experience is the best teacher.”
“What do you make of that Thomas Jefferson, Edgar Allan Poe bullshit?” Turnbull asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Think we have a serial killer on our hands?”
“I doubt it,” Burns said.
“Why?”
“These murders were very controlled and efficient with no physical evidence left by the killer other than footprints in the snow. Although the killer tortured the men, I think it was most likely a result of trying to get information from them, not for some sick pleasure, although there might have been some secondary gain.”
“’Secondary gain?’”
“Some sense of satisfaction, perhaps even arousal, that the killer isn’t consciously aware of. Or perhaps she is and she’s using some other justification to cover her real motive of enjoyment. But this isn’t just about the killing. There’s a higher purpose to these murders.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s not a serial killer. Tolliver and Ducharme figured out she’s taking trophies—the ring from the General and the flowers and bottle from McBride. That’s indicative of a serial killer, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes,” Burns said. “Or she could be gathering proof.”
“’Proof?’”
“Proof of death. That she actually did the murders and was taking trophies to show someone else. Or they could be—“ Burns paused.
“Go on,” Turnbull prompted.
“The scene at the Zero Milestone was staged,” Burns said. “Maybe a message being sent. The killer could have taken the items she did as part of something larger.”
“Interesting. So what’s going on?” Turnbull pressed.
Burns gave him a bland look. “Tell whoever you’re reporting to, that you’ll know what I know, as soon as I know it. OK?”
“Don
’t push me,” Turnbull said. “You follow orders.”
“I follow my oath and my orders.”
The room was still for a while.
“Who does Ducharme work for?” Burns finally asked.
“We’re still trying to ascertain that,” Turnbull said, “but probably the Activity as you noted. A rather innocuous name for some very wicked Special Operations types the Pentagon uses for their dirty work around the world. They’re not supposed to operate state-side.”
“They’re not supposed to exist,” Burns said.
“True,” Turnbull said. “Strange, isn’t it.” It was not a question.
Burns thought about it. “This doesn’t make sense.”
He waited, but again, there was no more forthcoming. Turnbull turned to the small TV and pressed play. The interrogation room appeared, Ducharme and Tolliver alone in it. Ducharme turned to her to obviously ask a question, but she shook her head and pressed a finger to her lips.
“A secret keeper,” Turnbull said.
“Not the only one.”
“She’s full of useless information.” Turnbull was staring intently at the screen.
“Perhaps,” Burns said, but he thought otherwise. Tolliver was one of the most intriguing people who’d ever sat across from him in an interrogation room. As was Ducharme. “The head and the heart,” he said.
“What?” Turnbull was still staring at the screen, fiddling with the controls.
“The head and the heart of the two victims might be more than just from a letter by Jefferson. Their deaths have drawn Evie and Ducharme together. The head and heart.”
“Ducharme seems more analytical than passionate,” Turnbull said.
“It’s a veneer,” Burns said. “He’s wound tight. Losing his best friend four days ago and then his best friend’s father tonight has hit him hard. And it seems a stretch that the two deaths are coincidence.”
Turnbull was still looking at the tracking screen. “Ducharme is moving and I’m willing to bet he’s got Tolliver with him. Weird, isn’t she?” Turnbull said it without any passion or particular interest. “How do you see her as the head? Because it’s full of bullshit information?”
