by David Beers
Two yellow banners formed an X over the door, reading: POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.
Tommy reached up and carefully pulled at the top of each banner, letting them float down to the ground.
"You smell it?" he asked, knowing he didn't need to.
"Yes," Luke said.
Tommy understood Luke's speech patterns now, though it'd taken him roughly six months as partners. The man talked like a professor, one that had been educated at the finest institutions throughout his entire life—indeed, almost like someone that was born two hundred years ago as an English noble. Luke told Tommy at one point that Americans had so successfully butchered the English language that he thought the country really should start calling their version the American language.
Both men pulled on sterile gloves and booties, after which Tommy turned the doorknob and pushed.
The lights were off and the clouds outside the apartment denied much sunlight from entering.
Tommy stepped further inside; he didn’t turn the lights on, not wanting to smudge possible fingerprints. They would rely on the sunlight filtering in the windows for now.
"Jesus," he said.
Luke was quiet.
The victim's head sat on the kitchen counter. Blood had dried across the counter; it had also dripped down to the floor, where it pooled.
Tommy reached into his pocket, pulling out the vapor rub which all agents carried on them for crime scenes like this. He rubbed it under his nose but didn't bother to offer Luke any. All agents except Luke carried it. The smell of rotting corpses never seemed to bother his partner.
Tommy moved across the living room to the kitchen, staring at the severed head.
"Her eyes are missing," he said.
Luke was quiet, but Tommy heard him move to the couch on the right wall. Tommy turned and saw where the rest of the body sat.
On the sofa, arms spread out over the back as if the woman was simply sitting there watching a television show, except without a head.
Tommy squatted some, putting him eye to eyeless with the head.
"He left her mouth open."
"Might not be a he," Luke said from the living room.
"Always the fucking feminist, aren't you?"
"Don't want to get tunnel vision. Perhaps it was a scorned lover, and our victim here was a lesbian."
Tommy flipped back a few pages in his notebook and started scribbling what he saw. He went quiet at this stage in the game, resembling Luke. He needed to focus, to catch every detail. Luke's success in this business—as in every business he'd ever been in—stemmed from his intense intelligence. Tommy's, however, came from his work ethic.
He peered into the mouth and saw immediately that the tongue had been removed. Something else was inside instead.
"Jesus," Tommy said again. An eyeball stared out at him, lodged almost into the victim's throat. "We need to call FBI forensics in STAT.”
"Give me a minute, though, please, before we invite them."
Tommy knew what that meant; he stood, turned around, and went to the living room, where Luke was.
The body was completely naked, though the woman's legs had been crossed. While her breasts were visible, her genitalia had been covered.
"That was nice of him," Tommy said.
"Or her."
Luke sat down on the couch next to the corpse, underneath one of its arms. Something else Tommy was used to, the morbidity with which the man worked. He was, of course, careful not to disturb anything—his movements always done with a precision that Tommy thought Michael Jordan might have appreciated.
"What did the eye holes look like? Was there a lot of hacking involved, or is it pretty neat?"
"Neat," Tommy said. "The eyeball he left is intact, though in her mouth."
"Our killer didn't take as much time with the head. He sawed on it hard and rough. You can see it from the multiple cut wounds where he started at least twice. He used a saw, not an ax."
Tommy looked over the torso, seeing that Luke was right.
He knew what came next. Luke Titan's genius. The reason for his rapid rise. Insight.
"Motive?" Tommy asked.
Luke didn't look away from the body, and in fact, leaned in closer. He put his nose to the woman's savaged neck and breathed in. Tommy felt his stomach threatening to turn. Even after a year of working with the man, he still grew sick at this part. He didn't ask why Luke did it, though. He had once, and the answer had been simple: sometimes you can still smell their soul. He hadn't smiled as he said it.
Finally, after a large breath, Luke turned and looked at Tommy.
"I'm not sure yet. The cops, though, were right to call us. This may be his first, but it won't be his last."
CHAPTER 2
C hristian Windsor looked into his phone, the front facing camera showing him exactly what he thought was happening.
His tie.
His freaking tie.
He could never get the knot right—had never been able to—and now the damned thing looked absolutely ridiculous.
"It looks ridiculous," he said, not noticing the woman sitting next to him on the train. "Ridiculous, ridiculous, ridiculous."
There wasn't time to redo it. He had exactly four minutes until his stop, then another seven and a half minutes to cross the two blocks to the FBI headquarters.
"This is bad. So bad."
The woman slowly turned her gaze back to her own phone.
Christian put his down and did his best to keep his thoughts from venturing back to his tie.
Your thoughts don't control you, Melissa said. He saw her standing on the train, holding on to one of the poles. Of course, Melissa wasn't there—his psychiatrist was in her office, probably helping other patients, but it was still comforting to see her there. To hear her words.
Comfort is good for everyone, his mom said, her voice coming from a few seats back. Christian didn't turn around to look at her, because he knew that wouldn't go over well with others on the train.
Comfort. My thoughts don't control me. Take solace in comfort. He repeated the words inside his head, trying his best to push the damned tie knot away.
The train arrived at his stop and he stepped off. He didn't need a map to know where he was heading, though it was the first time he'd been there. He had studied the Washington D.C. roads and train lines years ago, and still knew them as well as the rooms in his mother's house.
"Except for the new ones," he said aloud. "They're always building new ones ... that's why I regularly check them."
No one paid any attention to the young man speaking to himself as he walked up the left side of the metro's escalators. It was October, so there wasn’t a ton of tourists in the city—tourists knew nothing of the escalator's rituals: you always stood on the right, and let those needing to walk go left. Christian thought that a businessman in winged tip shoes might slit some tourist's throat one day, someone standing on the escalator's right side.
He found himself at the crosswalk in front of the building he needed. Three and a half minutes. He'd make it.
Christian was very, very concerned with punctuality.
He entered the building, showed his badge at the front desk, and then the nervousness really started. He didn't want to be here, at all. In fact, he was regretting every decision made in the past two years—starting with the decision to apply to the FBI.
"An analyst," he said. "I wanted to be a freaking analyst."
The security guard at the front desk looked up. "Excuse me?"
"Nothing. Just talking to myself."
A few more seconds passed before the guard handed him a temporary ID badge. "Go back to the right. Keep going. It's going to be a long walk. When you get to the elevator, there will be a security guard there. Show him your ID, then place this temporary one inside the elevator card reader. Once you do that, it'll let you off on the correct floor."
"Thanks," Christian said, already walking off. His mind was calculating the time it would take. Probably
two and a half minutes, maybe a few seconds more on either side. It depended on the technical specifications of the elevator, as well as the floor it was currently on.
The panic rose in him with each step he took.
"Analyst, analyst, analyst," he repeated to himself.
He didn't look the next security guard in the eye. He just placed his badge in the elevator card reader, and sure enough, it started rising. Ten seconds for the elevator, he decided based on its ascension velocity.
And finally, he was where he didn't want to be.
In the Director of the FBI's front office.
Christian shook his head side to side quickly as he stepped off, knowing simultaneously that he didn't want to be here and that his tie was a mess.
"Hi, Mr. Windsor. Please have a seat, Director Waverly will be with you in a second."
Despite Christian's nearly crippling panic, his mind began doing what it had always done. It took in everything around him, almost at once. The assistant was forty-two years old, and had smoked at one time. Her teeth still held the stains, but her fingertips were no longer yellow. Her smile was genuine, reaching up to her eyes as well.
Christian knew all of this without concentrating on it. He would, of course, be able to consult the information if he ever needed it.
On the surface, though, Christian sat in a chair and continued obsessing over his tie.
Your tie is fine, Christian, Melissa said. She sat next to him, wearing a dark suit. He didn't look over to her. That wouldn't be smart. Christian had learned—or rather his mother had taught him—that the things he saw was his mind's way of helping him deal with stressful situations.
"It's okay to use them as tools," she told him when he was ten. "You just don't want other people to know that you're using them; there's nothing wrong with it, but other people might not understand."
That's what Christian understood: most people would never really understand him. His mother did. Melissa did. That was all, and also all he wanted.
"Mr. Windsor?"
Christian looked up at the FBI Director. He already knew the man's height and weight, as well as his curriculum vitae. He didn't match his public picture perfectly, but those things were always taken with the subject's best look in mind. Alan Waverly had a bit of a paunch, though Christian doubted he was in any serious danger of a heart attack. If the paunch continued growing however, he would be one day.
"Hi. I'm Christian Windsor," he said, standing. The Director extended his hand.
Christian looked at it for five seconds.
You have to, Melissa said from behind him.
He took the Director's hand and shook it. "I'm sorry. I'm not great in social situations."
Alan Waverly smiled. "I've heard. Let's go back to my office and talk, okay?"
Christian nodded, dropping eye contact and following the man through the hallway. His peripheral vision allowed his mind to categorize what the corridors looked like without him having to glance around. He hated glancing around.
They reached the office and the Director walked over to a large conference table. Christian stopped once he entered.
"This is very nice. Much nicer than the cubicles I assume are on the rest of the floors."
The office was large, with pictures of the Director along side dignitaries littering the walls. Family photos sat on his desk next to a large monitor, though the screen was currently black.
Alan Waverly laughed. "Yes, I agree. I imagine they'd rather sit in something like this as well. Come take a seat."
Christian walked to the conference table and sat. "I shouldn't have said that. I say things without thinking. My mom says I don't have a filter. My therapist says the same."
Nothing sat on the table, not a notepad nor a tablet for the Director to take notes on.
What's that mean? he wondered.
"Well, Christian, I know a bit about you. You wouldn't be at this meeting, especially before becoming a full-fledged FBI agent, if I didn't. I know about your idiosyncrasies. I'll tell you when you need to apologize for something you've said, so no need to until then, okay?"
"Okay," Christian said, staring at the shiny wooden table before him. That was one thing Christian never had any interest in, decorations, so he knew nothing of the wood. Only that it looked extremely nice.
"Now, do you know why you're here?"
"Professor Gauge recommended you meet me. He said he thinks that it would be good for me to get in to field work. I don't want to do field work, Mr. Director."
"Call me, Alan, please," he said, still smiling. Christian wondered if the smile was genuine or if it was simply a politician's tool—much like the one Christian used to get him through the day. "Yes, your professor did end up getting in touch with me, though it took much longer than I would have liked. I've looked over your records. You're number one in your class at Quantico—"
"Not in the physical trials. I'm not good at those. I'm only in the middle of the pack," Christian interrupted without looking up.
"I know that as well, and middle of the pack is fine. I'm not looking for an Olympic gold winner. I'm looking for someone with your mental agility. I don't want to beat around the bush here, Christian. I asked you to come because I have a very specific job offer for you, and truthfully, it's a great opportunity. You will be immediately moving up about five years in your career."
"What is it?" Christian asked, though he already knew. The Director didn't call people to his office for an analyst position.
"Field work with a very special team. We have a division that deals with exceptional cases, crimes that involve very deranged individuals, including serial killers. The team consists of two people. One is Thomas Phillips and the other is Luke Titan."
The Director stopped talking, obviously letting the second name sink in.
Luke Titan wasn't just known in the FBI; he was known throughout the world. Christian knew his age, of course: thirty-nine last month. He joined the FBI two years ago, applying and skipping through the entire Quantico process. The first person to ever do it—the President of the United States had to approve the request.
Luke Titan had started college at thirteen years old, completing a medical doctorate as well as PhD in astrophysics. Christian, not to mention the rest of the world, couldn't fathom why he joined the FBI. Especially given what he'd accomplished in his other careers.
"I think you would be a great addition to the team," Waverly said, "and I'd like to offer you a spot on it. They're stationed in your hometown, too. Atlanta."
Christian started shaking his head back and forth. "I wanted to be an analyst. I signed up to be an analyst. Not field work. I'm not good at meeting people. I don't like groups. I don't like traveling. I don't like any of it."
"I know. Professor Gauge told me about your resistance. He also told me why you joined the FBI. Your resume isn't something that would naturally lead to us: dual graduate degrees in theoretical physics and psychology. You have a unique ability to understand others and deal with very, very complex numbers. You could be making a lot of money at any university in the world or consulting for almost any firm. Instead, you chose the FBI. Gauge told me, but I'd like to hear it from you. Why did you sign up for Quantico?"
Christian stopped shaking his head and finally looked up at the Director. "I ... I don't want to say."
"That's fine, but it doesn't mean you're not going to. We don't have to start there, though. Tell me about the dual degrees."
Christian closed his eyes. He didn't turn inward, there was no need for that here. He wanted darkness to surround him, because he was being forced to open up. He knew following these directions was imperative if he wanted a career when he left this office.
"The smartest minds in the world are figuring out how to get people to click ads. I have a tough time connecting with people, though I want to. My mom doesn't have that problem. She can connect with anyone and I saw how much of a difference she made for people. I can't do that, ever. But, I thought, t
here are very severe problems facing the world, and if I could put my life's work to addressing those problems, then maybe I could help people like she did, albeit it indirectly. I didn't want to do that by getting people to click ads."
"Good. Now tell me why the FBI."
Christian swallowed, still not opening his eyes. He didn't even bother to think what it looked like to the Director—sitting in this massive office with his eyes shut during a meeting. The panic would be too much.
"I ... I'm twenty-three. I'm smart. I'm very, very smart. I thought that working with the FBI would allow me to have a quicker impact, and I could spend ten years or so here helping those that are suffering. Then, when I'm in my thirties, I could start working on large scale problems."
"But you signed up to be an analyst?"
"Yes," Christian said. "I don't like being around people. I don't like meeting people. I like numbers. I like spreadsheets."
"Christian, analysts are important in our line of work, but they're a dime a dozen. Any college kid with a finance degree can analyze what we need, and for the tough ones, we have PhDs in statistics and all kinds of other mathematical sciences that I have no clue about. If you're here to help, and you really want to do some good, you need to be in the field. You need to be looking at crime scenes so that we can catch criminals. Not crunching numbers."
Christian opened his eyes and stared across the table, though he knew Melissa stood next to him.
If you walk out of here, your career is over. You always talk about wanting to be like your mom. Here's your chance, she said.
He shut his eyes again, tight, so that creases formed in the corners. "For how long?"
"The job contract will be for a year. After that, you'll be as free as a bird."
"If I don't take it, Director Waverly, I've just wasted two years at Quantico, haven't I?"
"I don't know about wasted," the Director said, "but you certainly won't reach your potential here."
CHAPTER 3
