by Blake Pierce
Walder now sounded incredulous.
“You don’t think he’s the killer?”
“No, I don’t.”
“From what Belt told me, you had him cold. Belt said he was even getting ready to confess.”
“He confessed, all right,” Riley said. “He confessed to stealing five hundred dollars from his employer. When we caught him, he was just getting ready to split town with the cash.”
Another silence fell.
Then Walder said, “According to Chief Belt, Grant Carson is a lifelong criminal with a history of violent behavior who recently got out of prison and just happens to be trained in carpentry—a skill you might expect from a killer who makes sand timers. Do you have any reason to think there’s been some mistake?”
Riley gulped hard.
“Well, we haven’t found any physical evidence linking him to the murders, and …”
“And what?”
Riley remembered the expression on Carson’s face when she’d looked at him through the two-way glass.
She said, “It’s a gut feeling.”
“A gut feeling?”
“That’s right.”
A longer silence fell.
Then Walder said, “I want to talk to your whole FBI team. Right now. A conference call.”
Walder abruptly ended the call.
Riley felt crushed and discouraged.
It was bad enough that she was all but sure they’d wasted precious time catching the wrong man. Things weren’t going to get any easier with Walder breathing down their necks.
But Riley obediently went back to the interrogation room and called Jenn and Bill away from questioning Grant Carson. The three of them went into the conference room, where all six members of the FBI team were already awaiting further orders.
Reluctantly, she called Walder back on the table phone. She put him on the speaker so the others could participate in the call.
Walder was making no attempt to mask his impatience.
He said to the group, “I guess you’ve all been fairly busy today—at least I hope you’ve been busy, although I’ve seen little to show for it. So you probably haven’t had time to keep up with the news. The media is going crazy about this killer. I’ll spare you some of the bizarre theories that are kicking around. Suffice it to say that the public is still trying to pick a nickname for the killer. Right now the most popular choices seem to be ‘Father Time’ and ‘The Sandman.’”
With an audible sneer in his voice, Walder added, “Which nickname do you people prefer?”
Everybody at the table glanced at one another and said nothing.
Walder waited for several long moments before speaking again. Riley found herself eyeing the clock on the wall, its second hand clicking along in its ruthless circle.
Finally Walder said, “The BAU is looking like a gang of idiots right now. To make things worse, your team leader tells me that she has a gut feeling that you’ve caught the wrong man, and Grant Carson isn’t the murderer. Would anybody else like to weigh in with their opinions?”
The mood in the room was growing more uncomfortable by the second. Huang, Whittington, Craft, and Ridge were sitting there slack-jawed. After all, they hadn’t been in on the interrogation, and this was the first they’d heard about any doubts of Grant Carson’s guilt.
But Bill and Jenn looked less unsure of themselves.
Bill said into the phone, “Chief Walder, this is Jeffreys. I’ve got some of the same doubts as Agent Paige.”
Jenn said, “This is Agent Roston. And I feel the same way.”
Walder let out a growl of irritation.
“What about the rest of you?” he asked.
The other four agents looked at one another nervously. Then one by one, they answered.
“This is Whittington, and I’ve got no idea.”
“This is Ridge, and I don’t know either.”
“Craft here. I don’t know.”
“This is Huang. I have no basis on which to form an opinion.”
More silence followed.
“Listen to me, all of you,” Walder said at last. “Your team leader, Agent Paige, seems to be leading you into the middle of nowhere.”
Riley winced during yet another silence.
Was Walder about to fire her—again?
No, surely not, she thought.
After all, just last month she’d received a special commendation from FBI Director Gaven Milner himself.
Walder couldn’t fire her without making a lot of trouble for himself.
That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try to humiliate her.
She sat waiting for the blow to fall.
Walder finally said, “Agent Huang, I want you to take over the leadership of the team.”
Huang looked stunned.
“Yes, sir,” he said in a rather tentative voice. “I’ll do that, sir.”
“That will be all for now,” Walder said. “I’ll be checking in with you frequently. And I’m expecting results, damn it. Remember, the clock is running.”
He ended the call, and the team members sat looking at one another.
As though we didn’t know that time is tight, Riley thought angrily. She focused her eyes on Agent Craig Huang.
Huang was new to the BAU, and Riley hadn’t worked with him very often. In fact, they hadn’t gotten along well at first. She hadn’t liked his work very much, and he hadn’t seemed to like her.
But they’d grown on each other over the months, and she’d come to admire his dedication and sharp mind.
Nevertheless, she knew perfectly well that Huang was one of Walder’s favorites. She also knew that Huang was ambitious. He would surely relish this opportunity to take command.
She couldn’t help but feel hurt that this was going to be his big break—now in the middle of a case that she’d been working so hard to solve.
Trying to keep a note of bitterness out of her voice, Riley said, “Well, Agent Huang—what are your orders?”
Huang sat staring at the table for a moment.
In a small voice he said, “My orders are …”
His voice drifted off. Then he looked up at Riley. He grinned ever so slightly.
“My orders are that you give the orders, Agent Paige. Now and always. So tell us what to do next.”
There was a murmur of agreement from everybody at the table.
Riley was thunderstruck. She could hardly believe her ears.
She was touched beyond words by the loyalty and trust of her colleagues.
She was also humbled and daunted. Was she worthy of their loyalty and trust right now?
She remembered how she’d gone berserk while arresting Grant Carson. She still didn’t understand what had come over her.
All she knew was that she wasn’t at her best right now, and she didn’t understand why.
Whatever demons were nagging at her, she had to shake them off.
Somebody’s life might be in danger very soon.
And as Walder had just said …
“The clock is running.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Before Riley could start giving orders to the FBI agents sitting at the conference table with her, Chief Belt burst into the room. He looked as exasperated as he had when she’d left him back at the interrogation room.
“Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” he barked. “Agent Paige, the last thing you told me was that Carson’s not our killer. Then you took off without explaining a damn thing.”
“Please sit down, Chief Belt,” Riley said.
Belt sat down across the table, looking expectant and impatient.
Riley said, “As you just heard, Grant Carson confessed to a completely separate and unrelated crime. And the truth is, we’ve got absolutely no evidence to connect him with the murders. And if we waste time trying to find some connection that isn’t there—”
Belt interrupted.
“What do you mean, waste time? Isn’t he the only suspect we’ve got? We’
d better keep putting pressure on him until he talks.”
Riley stifled a sigh. This wasn’t going to be easy to explain.
Then Craig Huang spoke up.
“Chief Belt, Grant Carson is almost certainly not the killer. And I’m afraid you’re going to have to take Agent Paige’s word for it. At the BAU, we’ve all learned to respect and trust her instincts. She’s more than earned our trust. And she’s got plenty of commendations to back up her gut feelings. If she says Grant Carson’s not our man, I’ll stake my career that she’s right.”
There was a murmur of agreement from the other agents present.
Riley felt another burst of humble gratitude.
I hope I’m not wrong this time, she thought.
She was keenly aware that her gut feelings had been known to fail her on just a few occasions. But she sensed that this wasn’t one of those times.
Belt’s expression softened. He seemed to accept Huang’s judgment.
“What do we do now?” Belt said.
Riley said, “First, keep Carson in custody. He’s definitely guilty of stealing from his employer, and he might have broken the terms of his parole in other ways. After we’ve caught the murderer, you can sort out all of that. But for the time being …”
She paused and thought for a moment.
Then she said, “Agents Whittington and Craft, you’ve already met with the victims’ families. Pay them another visit and show them the composite sketch. See if the portrait reminds them of anyone they might know. Then go to the beach and show the sketch to Rags Tucker. Maybe he’ll recognize who it is. Take a couple of Chief Belt’s people with you.”
She looked at the other faces at the table.
“Agent Engel, go deal with the reporters outside. Use your judgment as to what to tell them. Be truthful, but try not to say anything to stir up further rumors or panic. We’re in the middle of a PR disaster as it is.”
She thought for another moment.
“Agents Ridge and Geraty, drive the two sand timers back to Quantico. Turn them over to Sam Flores so his people can examine them more closely. Be careful with the one that’s still running. Don’t jar or shake it more than you can help—and whatever you do, don’t turn it over.”
“How about if you take my car back,” Bill said. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “I drove down here by myself but I’ll stick with the agency SUV now.”
Ridge nodded and took the keys. “Yessir,” he said. “We can take the timers in the car.”
“Good,” Riley said. Then she turned to Craig Huang.
“Agent Huang, organize with Chief Belt’s people to deal with the public. And make sure that the Belle Terre Nature Preserve is thoroughly closed off, and that everybody knows to stay away from there.”
Huang nodded.
He said, “We’ll close it up and stake it out. With some luck, that’ll be enough to keep the killer from striking again—at least on the schedule he’s set for himself.”
With some luck, Riley thought to herself.
In fact, she saw no reason to think otherwise.
But luck was a thing she’d long since learned not to count on. Besides, she couldn’t persuade herself that luck was on their side right now.
Once they had their orders, Engel, Whittington, Craft, Ridge, Geraty, and Huang all left the room. So did Chief Belt. Riley was left alone with Bill and Jenn.
“What about us three?” Jenn asked.
Riley focused on one idea that was nagging at her mind.
None of her team had actually interviewed the witness. In fact, it seemed that few questions had been asked of the woman. The police unit had been intent on getting the sketch made. But that had been so generic that it had led them on yet another mistaken chase. The man’s guilt was infinitesimal compared to the one they were actually seeking. And if anybody could lead them to the actual killer …
Riley said, “We’ve got to go talk to the witness who saw the suspect at the beach. Maybe we can jog her memory, get more detail than the local sketch artist was able to get from her.”
Jenn sat drumming her fingers on the table.
Riley asked her, “Have you got another question?”
Jenn said slowly, “Riley, where are we when it comes to profiling the killer? What do we know about him, really?”
Riley didn’t know what to say. All along she’d felt sure that the killer had been able to charm his victims, get them to trust him at least briefly.
But beyond that …
What? she wondered. What do we really know?
Riley suddenly realized something.
She was shaking slightly, and her hands were cold and sweaty.
What’s wrong with me? she wondered.
Once again, she felt mystified by her own feelings and behavior.
She was still trying to figure out why she had gotten out of control back at Grant Carson’s house and had almost killed him.
And now her body seemed to be in a state of low-grade panic.
But why?
She gulped hard, then said to Bill and Jenn, “I need to talk to Mike Nevins about this profile. Could the two of you leave me alone for just a few minutes?”
Jenn looked at Riley with surprise.
“Is something wrong?” Jenn asked.
“Good,” Bill said. He nudged Jenn with a quiet grunt, obviously trying to tell her to do as Riley said. Jenn nodded, and without asking any further questions, the other two agents left the room.
Riley sat alone in the silent meeting room for a few moments.
A profile, she thought.
Why was she having so much trouble coming up with one? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she kept coming up blank. Surely that was why she was feeling so troubled and anxious.
She needed help getting into the killer’s head—the kind of help she couldn’t get from Bill or Jenn.
She took out her cell phone to send a text message to Mike Nevins. At Riley’s insistence, Bill had gone to the well-known psychiatrist for help with his PTSD. It was also true that Mike had helped Riley through her own share of rough times.
But Mike Nevins was, first and foremost, a brilliant forensic psychiatrist who frequently consulted for the FBI and had given Riley crucial insights into some truly baffling cases.
And this seemed to be one of them.
She typed …
Mike? Have U got a few minutes?
In just a few seconds she got a reply …
Sure Riley. What’s up?
Riley thought for a moment, then typed …
Could we talk on video?
Mike replied …
No problem. Give me a second.
Riley got out a pad and pencil to make notes. She quickly saw Mike’s face on her cell phone, and she knew that he could see her face as well. He was a dapper, expensively dressed man with a meticulous, fussy personality. As usual, he was a welcome sight.
“What can I do for you, Riley?” he asked with a smile.
Riley sighed and shook her head.
“Mike, I’m really beside myself right now. I’m working on a case that’s driving me crazy.”
“Oh, yes. The killer people are calling ‘Father Time’ or ‘the Sandman.’ I’ve been following the case all day on the Internet. I’m sure it doesn’t help that he’s caught the public’s imagination.”
Riley stifled a growl of dismay.
“You’ve got no idea.”
“Is it true that he’s leaving sand timers to show when he’ll take his next victims?”
“Yeah, and the one that’s running now is going to run out at around six o’clock tomorrow morning. The trouble is, I’m having an awful time profiling him. At the murder scenes, I got hit with a gut feeling that he’s a likeable guy and easily trusted. But that’s about all.”
Mike stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“Who are you working with on the case?” he asked.
“Jenn Roston and Bill Jeffreys.”
Mi
ke chuckled with satisfaction.
“So Bill is back on the job! I’m glad to hear it. I’ve been encouraging him to get involved in a new case. It’s high time for him to get back on the horse. How’s he doing?”
Riley shrugged.
“Better than I am at the moment.”
Riley found herself idly doodling on the paper in front of her.
She said, “Jenn Roston is really interested in his obsession with sand.”
“Yes, he’s obviously got a thing about sand. And about time as well. But the sheer cruelty of burying people alive like that …”
Mike shuddered. “That suggests revenge to me,” he said.
“I think so too,” Riley said. “Still, how can that make sense? We can’t find any connection between the two victims. It’s as if he picks his victims at random. But revenge is personal, directed at someone specific. Or at least at a specific group or type.”
Mike squinted and tapped on the frame of his glasses.
“Not necessarily,” he said. “His revenge might be more—how can I put it?—vicarious in nature.”
Mike paused and thought for a moment.
“Perhaps the true subjects of his revenge—the people who wronged him in some way—are now absent from his life. Maybe whatever they did to him happened long ago. Maybe he doesn’t even completely remember what they did, or even remember it at all. All he knows is that something long suppressed keeps welling up inside of him—some wild kind of rage that he sometimes feels for human beings in general.”
“With that kind of rage, would he be able to pass as a normal person?”
“Possibly. He’s a very sick man and exceptionally dangerous to anyone who comes his way at certain times, but he could appear more ordinary under other circumstances. It’s quite likely that he doesn’t fully understand his own actions or motives.”
Riley tried not to groan aloud.
“But I’ve got to understand him,” she muttered. “How am I supposed to do my job if I can’t even …”
Riley’s voice trailed off. She couldn’t think of words to express her frustration.
Mike peered more closely at her, looking deeply concerned.
“Riley, I’m afraid you’re on the wrong track altogether. You’re trying to profile the killer, you’re trying to understand what makes him tick. But you’re analyzing the wrong person.”
