Immediately, he removed his hand from his pocket, but kept both hands beneath the table.
"Drink it, Porter."
"Yes." He took the glass and raised it to his lips.
I held my breath. Maybe I wouldn't have to kill him after all.
The glass trembled in his hand.
"Go ahead," I said, gritting my teeth.
"I can't!" He slammed the glass on the table. Amber liquid splashed over the side of the glass.
We both stared at the puddle on the table.
"Shit," I muttered under my breath.
I resisted the urge to slam my fist into his face. His defiance was proving to be a major problem. Like Winkler.
He watched me, afraid to move, afraid to speak.
Good. He should be afraid.
"I'll get you a cola then," I said, rising.
With my back to him, I poured soda into a clean glass. With a sigh of resignation, I reached for a small vial tucked behind the napkin holder and added the clear, odorless liquid to his drink. With some regret, I turned, smiled and handed him the glass.
I poured two fingers of amber fire in the other glass and raised it in salute. "To justice."
Porter Sampson took a long drink of cola and I tossed back the whiskey. The warm burn infused my body instantly, as if I'd been washed clean. I felt no guilt in what I was about to do. The man had determined his own fate by refusing to do what I told him.
"You're no longer useful to me, Porter."
He watched me in confusion. Then he blinked and his head jerked. I could sense he knew what would happen next. I saw it in his eyes as his head hit the table with a thud.
"It's time."
Porter Sampson lay next to a gas can on the rocky shoreline. He was fully dressed and motionless, except for his dark eyes. They fluttered and fought for control of his voice and body.
"If only you had listened." In the dark, I waved the weapon in my hand. "Why couldn't you have done what you were told?"
He stared up at me, helpless as a baby.
Rage engulfed me. "You're useless!"
Recalling my own personal humiliation, I mercilessly hammered at his head. The skull shifted and cracked beneath the pressure. I had no idea how many times I hit him. I never count.
Finally, I stood over his motionless body. Blood pooled beneath his head and spattered his face. Panting heavily, I grabbed the gas can and completely doused his barely conscious body. Then I set the can between his legs.
"No evidence," I muttered.
I gazed at the Ottawa River. In the distance, tiny lights blinked like sleepy stars on the water's surface. I had no fear of the boat lights. They were too far out to see anything.
I glanced at the boat tied to the dock. It was too dark to make out anything except a shadowy hulk.
"I wish it hadn't come to this," I said, my voice laced with regret.
I lit a long match and tossed it on Sampson's chest. Flames immediately slithered over his body. Staring into his glazed eyes, I saw him blink furiously.
The bastard was still alive.
I grinned.
Fire licked at his clothing, turning them to feathery ash within seconds. I saw his skin pucker and blister, and the air was filled with the scent of burning flesh and gasoline.
"No hard feelings, mate."
As I made my way to the boat, a waft of thick smoke hit me. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe. I breathed in the acrid air and gasped.
Jasi drew in a choked breath and was instantly jolted back to the present. Between bouts of coughing, she gagged as if she'd fed a cannibalistic desire and partaken of Porter Sampson's flesh. She could still smell his burning corpse.
She inhaled deeply from the OxyBlast canister, then leaned over, grasping both knees to keep her balance.
"I know who the victim is."
"Who?" Natassia asked.
Before Jasi could answer, Ben said, "Porter Sampson."
Her head jerked up. "How did you―?"
He held out a hand. Something small glistened in his palm. "Sampson had a gold cap on one of his molars."
She told them everything she'd seen.
Natassia gasped. "That's awful."
Jasi bagged the gold tooth. Her eyes flicked toward the fire pit. Porter Sampson had been cremated alive. That was something that would haunt Lorraine Sampson for the rest of her life.
"There's more," she said.
"What?"
"Sampson willingly met his killer. On a boat."
Jasi crouched over the cairn. After a crime scene photographer did his thing, she disassembled the cairn stone by stone, hoping the killer had left a clue.
He hadn't.
"I've arranged for a press conference," Matthew told her an hour later via data-com. "Live feed, on the six o'clock news."
She checked her watch. It was almost 4:30.
"I thought we were keeping quiet on this," she said.
"We have to control what the media releases," Matthew said. "I don't want there to be any unexpected leaks, so we'll feed them the information we want them to have."
"I understand. I'll let Ben know."
"Ben's not going to do it. You are."
Jasi was stunned. Matthew's policy had always been that the team leader was responsible for correspondence with media.
She swallowed hard. "Are you sure?"
There was a brief pause.
"Jasmine, you are more than qualified to lead a team. Just remember what you've been taught. Secure―"
"The scene," she finished. "Interview the witnesses and spin the story to the press in a way that doesn't reveal everything we know."
"You got it."
She could tell he was smiling.
"I can do it, sir."
After she hung up, she called the RCMP.
When a receptionist answered, Jasi said, "I need to speak with Constable O'Malley."
The call was transferred.
"O'Malley."
His voice had the rasp of a heavy smoker.
"This is Agent McLellan. We need to arrange a press conference for the six o'clock news."
"What do you need?"
"I was hoping you'd help coordinate the key players. You know your local media contacts better than I do."
"Fine. Leave it up to me."
O'Malley cleared his throat. "Do you have an ID yet?"
"We're pretty sure it's Porter Sampson."
The constable cursed. "So we do have a serial killer on the loose."
"It looks that way."
"Well, let's hope he's gotten whatever he's after."
"I have a feeling he's only just begun."
She disconnected the call, then made her way toward Ben and Natassia.
"They're removing the remains now," Natassia told her. "And I've bagged any evidence I could find near the scene."
"Find anything interesting?"
"A receipt for a case of beer, a used condom, a wad of gum―probably from one of the kids―and a piece of fiber that I found in the bushes. This is a popular place. Apparently most of the teen population hangs out around the river. It's kind of a Lover's Lane."
"Maybe the X-Disk found something."
"Ops is processing the data now," Ben said. "But that'll take a while."
Someone called Jasi's name.
Next to the fire pit, a woman in a heavy white jacket stood slowly, using a broken tree branch for support.
Jasi recognized her immediately. Faith Copeland.
"I wanted to show you something," Copeland said, limping around the edge of the pit.
"Are you all right?" Jasi asked.
"It's nothing. I twisted my ankle in the grass." Copeland leaned over and retrieved the skull. It was charred and there were bits of fried flesh and brain matter clinging to it. With a gloved finger, the pathologist traced the circular impressions in the scalp. "See anything familiar, Agent McLellan?"
"Same wounds as Winkler."
"Same wounds, same weapon."
Copeland wasn't finished. "There are at least eighteen indentations this time, Agent McLellan. They're embedded much deeper than the last victim's wounds. You know what that means."
"The killer's rage is escalating."
Copeland nodded. "This victim didn't stand a chance. If we could only figure out what weapon leaves this kind of mark." Frustrated, she tamped the ground with the stick.
Jasi stared at the small impression in the earth.
Something about Paul Cahill's actions in the yacht club bar had triggered a glimmer, a thought that had never fully surfaced. Until now.
"Dr. Copeland, do you think the end of a pool cue could make these impressions?"
"It's possible, I suppose."
Jasi reached for her data-com. "Excuse me for a moment." She called Matthew.
"What do you have?" he asked.
"When I was at the yacht club talking to the Cahills, the son, Paul Cahill, was pissed at his old man. He stamped his pool cue into the carpet. I didn't think of it at first, but a cue has a round end and could be about an inch and a half in diameter. Can you get his cue and a sample of the carpet?"
"I'll get the warrants and send an evidence team out to the bar right away. Good work, Jasmine."
She thanked him and hung up.
Paul Cahill definitely exhibited signs of rage toward his father. But was this spoiled kid capable of such brutality?
Immediately, she pictured Winkler's crushed skull.
Was Monty Winkler clubbed with a pool cue?
As Faith Copeland sealed the skull in a large plastic bag, Jasi said, "We have reason to believe this victim is Porter Sampson."
Copeland was startled. "The man found unconscious in the park?"
"I'm guessing he somehow got away from his captor."
The pathologist's gaze was intense. "Why do you think it's him?"
"My partner found a gold tooth in the ashes."
It was certainly easier to suggest they'd made a possible ID from the tooth than to try to explain how Jasi had stepped into the mind of the killer and witnessed the murder firsthand.
"I see. I take it Mr. Sampson had a gold tooth, then."
"It's already bagged. I'll have Agent Prushenko turn it over to you."
She called Ben and Natassia over and introduced them to the pathologist.
Natassia gave Copeland the tooth.
"I should have a positive ID for you in a few hours," Copeland said, placing the bag in an evidence cooler. "I'll have a COD in about an hour."
"He died of smoke inhalation," Jasi blurted.
Copeland stared at her. "How do you know?"
"Just a wild guess."
The pathologist gave her a strange look, then hurried off.
Jasi turned to her partners. "The skull has the same wound pattern as Winkler's. Made by the same weapon. I'm thinking maybe Paul Cahill's pool cue."
Ben looked surprised. "What led you to that thought?"
Making her way toward the SUV, she told them about her conversation with Matthew. Then she said, "We have to get back to the hotel. O'Malley is scheduling a press conference for six. I need some time to prepare."
"Whose head is on the chopping block?" Ben asked.
"Mine."
"You?" He chuckled. "You're doing the conference?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He held up a hand and took a step back. "Hey, don't get defensive. I'm just surprised Matthew gave you the job of spokesperson. He usually saves that for your first official case as team leader."
"I can do this," she insisted.
"Of course you can," Natassia said. "Why are you giving her such a hard time, Ben?"
"Last time she tried to speak in front of a crowd, she froze up. When she finally said something, her voice came out in a mangled squeak." He grinned.
"That must have been awful for her. And here I thought she couldn't possibly be afraid of anything."
"If there's one thing you'll learn about Jasi, she'd rather be buried alive than speak to a mob of hungry reporters."
Jasi moved to the side of the SUV. "I can hear you two, you know."
"I'm not saying you won't do a good job," Ben said.
He let out a shrill sound that made her cringe. Then he broke into a laughing fit.
The bastard was mimicking her.
She climbed into the back seat and slammed the door in frustration. There was a brief delay before her partners climbed in front. When they did, their expressions were calm and composed. On the surface. But inside, she knew they were having a laugh fest.
"So…" Ben drawled, catching her gaze in the rearview mirror. "I take it you don't want to sit up here with me."
Jasi's eyes narrowed. "Oh, bite me!"
26
Media personnel from every local TV and radio station, plus the major newspapers, gathered outside the Parliament buildings. As soon as Jasi stepped behind the microphone, the crowd began to buzz. And so did her nerves. Her heart hammered so hard in her chest she was sure everyone could hear it.
Rifling the papers in her hands, she took a few deep breaths. "Thank―" She flinched as her voice cracked. She began again. "Thank you, everyone. I'm agent Jasmine McLellan. I'm with the CFBI, and I'd like to assure you that we're doing our best to solve the two recent murders in your city."
She glanced at Ben.
He gave her a nod and mouthed, "You're doing great."
She gave a brief statement on the two victims, without releasing cause of death or any other forensic information.
"How were they killed?" a Global TV reporter shouted as she turned away.
"We can't answer that question at this time."
"Do you have any suspects?"
"The CFBI, in conjunction with OPS and RCMP, is looking into all leads," she said patiently. "We're interviewing all witnesses, and we ask that anyone who has information regarding these murders to please call the RCMP Tip Line."
A young reporter from the Ottawa Citizen stepped forward. "Does this mean there's a serial killer loose in Ottawa?"
"At this time we have two murder victims who both happen to be politicians. It's too early to tell if they were killed by the same person."
The crowd erupted in fury.
"How many bodies do you need for it to be a serial killer then?" someone hollered.
"What about the Prime Minister? Is he in danger too?"
"Is this a terrorist act?
Jasi held her hand up to quiet the throng. "All I can say right now is that it's only a matter of time before we catch whoever is responsible." She thanked the media. "I assure you, as soon as we have something concrete, we'll notify you and issue a statement."
After the conference, Ben patted her on the back. "I knew you could do it. Sorry I teased you before."
She couldn't help but chuckle. She felt good. Relieved.
"And I didn't even have to picture them all naked."
Ben grinned. "So, Miss Public Speaker, what's next?"
"I'll give Ottawa Forensics Unit a call," she said.
She barely got the words out when her data-com beeped. She gulped in a breath when she saw who it was.
Faith Copeland.
"I was just about to call you," Jasi said.
"I must be psychic."
Jasi bit back a laugh. "It would be nice if you were. So what have you got?"
"Confirmation on the wound pattern. Exact match to your previous victim. But the force used was even greater than with the previous victim."
"But there's no doubt in your mind that we're looking for the same person who murdered Winkler."
"Correct. We found something else that links the cases."
"What?"
"The victim was given a large dose of Flunitripazam."
Rohypnol. The killer's drug of choice.
"Were you able to confirm ID?"
"DNA was a one hundred percent match to the samples we obtained earlie
r from Porter Sampson." She paused. "You were right, Agent McLellan."
"About what?"
"He died from smoke inhalation. Lucky guess."
Copeland hung up.
Jasi went in search of her partners.
"DNA is definitely Sampson's," she told them. "And the wound patterns are also a match."
"I wish we could figure out the weapon," Ben replied.
"Have you thought more about your vision?" Natassia asked Jasi.
"I haven't had much time to." She realized something. "I was so distracted by the press conference that I haven't even listened to the voice file."
"I'll forward the file to you once I clean up the sound."
"Great," Jasi said. "I keep thinking there's something I missed."
Jasi stood in front of her hotel room door, the IHD in hand. "Well, let's see if you can figure this out."
She plugged the device into her data-com and immediately a numerical keypad appeared on the screen. She entered 911 and a message told her to point her 'com at the door lock, hit the call button and wait for the light on the lock to turn green before turning the knob.
She was inside in less than ten seconds.
"Holy shit, Natassia," she muttered, carefully returning the IHD to her inside jacket pocket.
In the quiet of the hotel room, her mind flitted to her vision. There was a clue in it somewhere. She knew it. All she needed was to remember what it was.
She massaged her temple. Nothing.
With a sigh, she checked her 'com for messages. Natassia had been true to her promise and a copy of the voice file from the crime scene was waiting in her inbox.
"Come on in," she heard herself say.
In the recording she described her surroundings, coached gently by Natassia.
"Did you bring it?"
Sampson had given his killer an envelope.
What was in it?
She'd seen that he'd been drugged.
There was something odd in Sampson's actions prior to taking the Rohypnol. He'd done exactly what he was told, as if the killer was the puppet master.
What hold did his killer have over him?
Was Sampson being blackmailed? Or threatened?
On the data-com, she said, "If only you had listened. Why couldn't you have done what you were told like the others?"
Jasi gasped. "What others?"
Winkler…Sampson. Who else was involved?
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