by Rick Murcer
What Louise had told her was that it was okay to go outside with Daddy and that she could dress herself because she was becoming a big girl.
After educating Jen on the virtues of telling the complete truth, he and Louise had one of those twinkle in the eye moments that parents have when their child is caught doing something wrong, but it’s funny at the same time.
This whole thing had that feel. There was a truth in all of this, yet it was hidden because of the games and the idiosyncrasies of the killer’s actions and perceptions. He racked his brain for a pattern, any kind of order that would give him insight to this bastard’s end game, and, for that matter, his beginnings.
The bodies in the casket, the phone, Agent Frost’s pointless murder, the videos, the brazen attack on the Bureau office, the modern-day mummy in the hotel, the text, the Canopic jars, and the seeming obsession with Egyptian culture all hid a truth, a take on the killer’s reality that went everywhere and then nowhere. It was almost like the killer wasn’t sure how to get to the end of his journey and needed help.
But where in God’s name was the end of his journey? All Manny knew for sure was that the killer’s destination would be dark, violent, and deadly. He had already displayed sick glimpses of those traits, and his grand finale would encompass a huge dose of all three. Now that was something Manny would take to the bank.
He suddenly felt more unease than at any point since they’d reached Vegas. That emotion reminded him that the hows and whats of a killer’s method, while crucial, were only a means to accomplish the end the killer desired; the why. He’d do well to remember that this man had drawn the BAU to Sin City for a specific purpose. He was pretty sure it wasn’t for dinner and a show.
Come on, Williams, what does he want?
“What’s going on inside there?” asked Sophie, touching Manny’s head.
He sighed, running his hand through his hair. “I don’t really know, Sophie. It’s just not coming to me. I hate to say it, but it’s one of those times that I simply don’t see the rhythm of our boy’s world. I can give a basic profile. You know, white male, thirty to fifty, tall, strong, smart, bent on vengeance, without strange sexual—That’s it, right? That’s something I’ve missed. Damn it, Williams.”
“What is it?” asked Dean.
Manny turned to him. “Have you seen any indications of sexual abuse or some sick-ass defilement of the corpses? I mean . . . we have the mother’s hand on the son’s crotch, but nothing else for this guy, right?”
Dean shrugged. “You’re right. Nothing about, on, or in the other victims have shown sexual contact. No abuse, postmortem or antemortem, or any indication that he’d gone there.”
“Highly unlikely for a serial killer,” said Manny. “Sexual gratification, like we discussed earlier, is usually a huge motivation, no matter the act.”
“He could be recording the actions or killings for self-gratification later,” said Agent Wilkins.
“But there was no indication of that on the video in the FBI office, and coming into the building and swatting a few cops around had to give him a major hard-on, if he were capable or interested,” said Sophie. “So he’s not interested in sex here? I’m not buying that totally. He’s a man, for crying out loud.”
“I think it’s not a primary motivation at all. He could have slept with Grace before he killed her and wrapped her the way he did. It’s almost like he’s avoiding it,” said Manny.
“Men avoiding sex? What the hell is this world coming to?” said Sophie.
“I see your point, Sophie, but he’s not interested. Remember when we talked about trying to apply conventional reasoning to insane actions? We have to think differently. The lack of sexual references or actions makes him some type of visionary killer, but his psychology isn’t consistent. There’s not been one mention of voices, demons, or even that God told him what to do. Just a few messages for us to follow and trip over along the way,” said Manny.
Sophie plopped back in her chair.
“So what does that mean?”
Manny abruptly knew what that meant. “Listen. We’ve been running behind this guy for a while. He leads, we follow. He throws us a few crumbs, we search for more. In that way, he is much like Argyle. I think he thinks he has us right where he wants us, and in almost every way. I think it’s our turn.”
“Our turn? To do what?” asked Sophie.
“Think about it. What’s the thing that he’d most expect from us?”
Agent Wilkins nodded. “He’d expect us to react to his next act. And depending what that is, he will have us deeper in the trap, so to speak.”
“Right. Now what’s the least thing he’d expect?” asked Manny.
“Oh, oh, I have an idea,” said Sophie, her eyes alive. “Since this guy isn’t about the sex, why don’t I dress up like a hooker and run through the casino calling out Argyle’s name and offering oral sex?”
Walking around the table, Manny pulled Sophie from her chair and hugged her.
“You know, girl, that’s just brilliant.”
CHAPTER-52
Scrolling down, Chloe reached the end of the microfilm, and then slapped the side of the antiquated projector with an open hand. She’d missed the date she wanted to read by one stinking day. Although the microfilm box said it was here, it was inaccurate. One day. Her frustration wasn’t just with the process of loading and threading the old microfilm, but with the fact that many of the boxes had been mislabeled and misfiled over the years. In a day and age when almost everything pertinent to anything had been transferred from this archaic example of a manual, inefficient system to a navigable website, she was amazed that the City of Lansing hadn’t followed suit. She understood budgets, but this was ridiculous.
Added to that was the fact that she was exasperated and delayed in finishing research on Alan Gordon’s murder. One thing she’d learned, and learned over time, was that local stories and information dealing with a specific historical event had better insight, at times, than the cops.
Most reporters had their sources, even the bad ones, and speculated far more than law enforcement.
Admittedly, journalism had evolved to the point that most of it was irresponsible and codeless. In the past, reporters tried to protect the subjects of their articles as much as possible. Not in this day and age. Reporting had become blood in the water, let the sharks loose, and to hell with the consequences sensationalism with an almost intentional disregard for the total truth. Another reason she’d almost completely stopped reading newspapers.
But what she was seeking was far more personal than the current-day definition of journalistic reporting.
There was more information somewhere, and her experience, if not her intuition, whispered that it was so. She simply had to find it. That was why she was going through this total pain in the ass method of searching old newspapers. She wanted to see what the locals had written about the horrible murder. Maybe some local reporter had had better luck than the cops turning up something.
With another sigh, Chloe took out the next microfilm from the dilapidated, discolored box, looked at the date on the roll, and loaded it into the wobbly reader’s feeding slot. She turned the black knob and watched the header go up the screen until wonder of all wonders materialized. The screaming headline told her she’d hit pay dirt. Her elation was quickly exchanged for a creepy, disconcerting reality.
LOCAL STUDENT FOUND VICOUSLY MURDERED
Funny. She’d read a thousand headlines and not many had struck her with its pure authenticity like this one. Behind this headline was far more than print and yellowing paper, but a young man whose promising future had been stolen from him. Alan Gordon may have lived a simple life, raising a family and growing old with the woman of his dreams. That was probably likely, on some level. He would probably have experienced his fifteen minutes of fame, but chances are, nothing more, at least as the world sees fame. Yet, what if that wasn’t true? What if he’d been the one that God had designated to cure
cancer or bring about a world of peace or discover the way to visit other galaxies with the flip of a switch?
She continued to stare at the screen. Manny’s voice quietly added to her own. She could imagine him saying that hundreds of kids die each day and any or all of them could change the way the world does business. But we can only help the ones who let us. Nothing more, nothing less.
Chloe shook her head, bit her lip, and scrolled down to the main story, praying that stories like this one would eventually disappear, for eternity.
The reporter was a name she recognized. Eric Hayes was the reporter from the Lansing paper that Argyle had killed on a cruise ship just before they’d captured him two-years ago, or maybe he’d captured them. At any rate, she wouldn’t have remembered except for the terrible crime scene pictures of the long, bloodied knife sticking through one side of Hayes’ neck.
Great. More pleasant memories strolling down serial-killer lane.
Reaching the main article, she dissected each word. Hayes had written a decent piece. His facts were close, with the usual small, detailed inaccuracies of getting information secondhand or from the infamous “source,” but he did the story justice. He’d even thrown in a few quotes from first responders to the scene.
Turning the knob, the next frame came into view.
Chloe frowned. Below the end of Hayes’ story was an editorial with the caption: COPS FAIL TO STOP VIOLENCE.
It was written by a staff reporter. Generally, when the term staff reporter was on the tagline, the commentary was written by someone who didn’t want to be named or a newbie who was being given the opportunity to dip into the world of reporting.
She leaned closer to the dim screen and began reading. There was no question that this person had a proverbial hard-on for the LPD. The writer used the terms incompetence and favoritism, and even claimed the police in Lansing had been instructed to ignore certain complaints coming from rich-bitch areas of town that contributed heavily to political concerns on the force.
The commentary seemed to be an angry rant, and she was about to go back to Hayes’ story to see if she’d missed anything when the next line of the editorial forced her to read on.
. . . Take the murder of poor Alan Gordon. This reporter interviewed several bystanders and subsequently the two people who’d found his body. They were visibly shaken by what they’d stumbled upon, yet were also puzzled by the LPD’s lack of interest in what they had to say. When they began to offer information, including the fact they’d heard a motorcycle roar down the street opposite the park just as they stumbled upon the body, a detective, later identified as Gavin Crosby, asked the woman to stop speaking and set up an appointment to come down to the station. He told her to get her story straight then come and see him. She said he then walked away, talking with another detective about how many kids he knew with motorcycles without even asking her name. Good citizens of Ingham County, this is what I’m . . .
The article finished how it started with almost incoherent ranting, yet Chloe had gotten something. Something she hadn’t counted on. Something Gavin had said.
She reread the part of the article that portrayed Gavin walking away. The alleged quote by Gavin bothered her. One key word more than the rest.
Why would Gavin say what he said regarding how many kids he knew with motorcycles?
Kids? Why not just people? Was it just a generalization? A slip of the tongue? Or had he known something else?
There was only one way to find out.
After she packed up her bag, she turned off the machine and headed for the door. Chloe felt her anger grow, even though she was trying to control it. She felt betrayed with the lack of Gavin’s total honesty, as she saw it.
Her Irish ire wasn’t going to let this one rest. There was no mistaking in her mind that Gavin had more knowledge about this case. It was time to find out what.
As she reached the front door of the library, she walked outside, pulled out her phone, and dialed.
It was time for another talk with her boss, and this time, she wanted the truth.
*****
Gavin’s phone vibrated, and he took it from his suit-coat pocket, expecting it to be from someone in the office. He was almost right. Chloe Williams’s number flashed on the bright screen, begging him to answer, it seemed.
He’d been right to turn her loose on this file. Manny would say it was to resolve a deep-seated injustice and to help him reconcile a sense of guilt. He’d be half right. The injustice was never very deep, never far from his thoughts, even when it should have been, but he did want to set the record straight. No, he needed to set it straight.
Watching the screen, he reached out his forefinger, hesitated, and then declined the call. He switched off the phone, sat back in his chair, and waited. He had never been particularly philosophical; he just simply did what it took to get the job done over the years. Yet, if he’d learned anything during his life as an officer, he’d learned that escaping what was rightfully yours, what your actions truly owned, was impossible. Karma could be a bitch, as they say, but it was far more than that. He supposed there were other words for Karma, but in the end they all meant the same thing.
Fate, destiny, truth, even God’s will were all in the mix for what the next few hours held, and he was accepting of that.
Chloe’s work had made that easier.
Picking up his briefcase, he left the room.
CHAPTER-53
“No. Don’t do anything. Let him go for now. I’ll be in touch when a final decision is made.”
Assistant Director John Dickman hung up the phone and watched as the number on the LED display faded to gray, then reappeared showing only his last name and extension. The exchange on the mini-screen was almost a microcosm of his professional life. Names changed as personnel changed but one name, his, always came back when the day’s business was over. Someone had to be the constant, the rock, the man everyone could count on. And, for the last twelve years, he’d filled that role. No questions asked, no hesitation. He always did what it took—men like him were rare commodities. Locating a suitable replacement, in this era of political correctness and human rights first, would be difficult at best.
Moving around the front of his desk, he sat in one of the plush, black leather chairs and crossed his legs. He then took out his pack of cigarettes, lit up, and blew a slow, steel-gray ring that floated aimlessly toward the chandelier guarding the high ceiling.
Dickman had interviewed six candidates to take his place and selected three for subsequent testing. Two, one woman and one man, had performed impressively. Their test scores were off the charts, their intellect infallible, and their ability to size up a situation and act accordingly had surpassed expectations. Both were going to make fine assistant directors for the Bureau . . . hell, maybe even run the damn place.
Drawing another drag, he then put the cancer stick out in his imported ashtray. Then there was Agent Joshua Corner. The young man that ran his BAU and had answered to him for the last three years was as talented as the other two, perhaps more. He was smart. And his field experience made him a perfect potential candidate. But that’s where the potential, compared to the others, became an albatross around his young protégé’s neck.
He was almost the polar opposite of the other two when it came to taking orders. In fact, Corner fought him on almost every move over the last two years.
For instance, Corner added Chloe Franson to his unit. Despite Dickman’s warning regarding some of her anger tendencies—and there were concerns how she would recover from being shot in the bust in New York. Corner told him they could use some emotion and that the gunshot, according to her psych report, would make her even more determined to do her job. He was right, to a point, and she proved extremely valuable in hunting down Argyle. Corner used his intuition and ignored advice from his superiors. That didn’t go unnoticed. Chloe’s subsequent resignation, as a result of her marriage to another member of the BAU, also had gone under the negative side
of the slate.
Bringing in Manny Williams and his crew was also a calculated risk, yet, in that instance, the FBI had already been monitoring Williams before Corner had worked with him on the cruise ship. True profilers were rare by any standards and to land him without wrangling through much difficulty had been a bit of a coup.
But even hiring Manny Williams wasn’t as open and shut as it ought to have been, given his advice to Corner.
Corner initially admitted, based on the testing, that he may not have hired Williams because he was sometimes too emotional based on the psychological examinations conducted by the Bureau. But ten minutes in a room with Williams and watching him work was all Corner needed to be swayed to hire him.
Again, Corner had exhibited great instincts, flexibility, and street smarts.
He got up from the chair and went to his personal coffee machine and poured a second cup, then wandered back to his desk.
Smarts.
Maybe too smart. Corner had dug into areas that were way out of his league and pay grade, and he’d done it more than once. Even after being warned that a repeat performance would carry consequences, he simply did what he thought was the right thing to do—orders be damned.
“Dangerous, my young friend,” he whispered.
Brash, loyal to a fault, unimpressed with authority, putting his nose into places where he had no business being, and now this final incomprehensible stunt. The man had left the most important three days of his professional life, taking a top candidate for government research in the area of cyber-prosthetic work with him.
Reckless. And for what? Some sense of warped loyalty involving his unit and ignoring the bigger picture in the process?
Pulling Corner’s file from his top drawer, he tossed it on the right corner of the desk.
“Your time with the BAU is almost over, Josh Corner, in more ways than one.”
He reached for the phone and dialed another extension.
The day of reckoning had arrived for Special Agent Joshua Corner.
