by Burton, Mary
In her early to midthirties, she was attractive with deep-olive skin and sharp brown eyes alight with curiosity and hints of annoyance. She was someone who appeared wary by nature and who would have let the facts unfold before she fired the first question. He guessed a deliberate pause had been part of the reason she had survived her attacker last week.
She extended her hand, and he stepped forward to accept it. Long fingers wrapped around his hand and squeezed with surprising strength. “Agent Ramsey. Agent Melina Shepard.”
He held her hand tight, noting the subtle callus likely earned with weight training. “Pleasure.”
“I hear my DNA sample brought you here?” Hers was a husky, rich voice.
“It did.”
“It’s been less than a week. That’s a fast turnaround for the FBI.”
“Your boss is a hard man to ignore.” Jackson had staked his reputation on Shepard’s assessment of the van’s driver, who she believed was a practiced killer. Quantico, Jackson had warned, had better pay attention.
“Yes, he can be.” She was already walking toward the elevators and pressed the button. “Agent Jackson is waiting for us upstairs. He’s finishing up a call.”
“Good.”
The doors opened and they stepped in. She selected the third floor. “Are you going to tell me who I stumbled across?”
“I’ll save the show for when we have Jackson. Will cut down on repetition.”
She regarded him closely. “I stumbled onto a bad one.”
Ramsey had a file filled with pictures of dead women killed by this man. “One of the worst.”
Silent, they rode to the third floor, and when the doors opened, she introduced him to the receptionist and pointed him in the direction of the bathrooms. When he shook his head no, she knocked on a corner door. The nameplate read JACKSON. She poked her head in the door. “Boss? Agent Ramsey is here.”
“Come on in.”
She stepped back, motioned for him to go in first. He stood his ground and waited for her. Annoyance in her gaze appeared again, but she clearly decided there were bigger battles to fight than outdated chivalry.
Carter Jackson ended his call, stood, and unrolled shirtsleeves over muscled forearms that suited a former UT quarterback. Midforties, Jackson had been with TBI over twenty years. He had a solid reputation in the state and at Quantico.
Jackson extended his hand. “Welcome to Nashville.”
Ramsey was met with a strong grip. “Wish it were under better circumstances.”
“Likewise,” Jackson said. “There’s coffee in the conference room.”
Ramsey’s doctor had once mentioned he should cut back on the brew and take more vacations. It was laughable. Ramsey had a better chance of taking up knitting.
Agent Shepard led the way toward the conference room. They passed several open doors, and a glance in each found a curious agent finding a reason to hover.
The conference room was well lit with a bank of windows that overlooked the surrounding compound. Melina stood back as the two men filled cups. Her move didn’t appear to be deferential but strategic. She was assessing him, taking note of the small details that he knew could yield insight into any man.
Ramsey sat at the end of the table and set his briefcase and coffee cup down. He clicked open the locks as Jackson sat and Shepard closed the door.
She sat to his left, and though she kept her gaze downcast, Ramsey sensed her curiosity. From what Jackson had said on the phone, Shepard was good at what she did. She had worked the entire state doing mostly undercover and human trafficking cases, but she could be reckless. That trait was her best asset but also her Achilles’ heel.
“Agent Shepard, how do you know”—he glanced at his notes—“Reverend Beckett?”
“Our parents are neighbors. She’s two years older, and we knew each other growing up. She knows the women who work the streets around her mission. When she learned two were missing, she asked me if I could ask around.”
“And you figured you could handle it alone?” Ramsey asked.
No hint of apology softened her grim expression. “Yes, I did.”
“And when did you realize the driver of the van wasn’t your ordinary john?”
“As I said in my report, when I smelled hints of bleach in the van.”
“Consider yourself fortunate,” Ramsey said.
Darkness shadowed her eyes. “I do.”
“This individual’s DNA is linked to at least ten murders across the country. But I believe there are more victims.”
“Ten?” No missing the anger tightening her words.
“That we know of. If you hadn’t stabbed him, you would have been the next victim. Who gave you a belt buckle with a knife?”
“My father. He’s a retired Nashville homicide detective.”
Points for Dad. He opened his folder and pulled out a series of crime scene photos. The images were all of nude women at various stages of decomposition.
Agent Shepard studied the first image with keen interest. Ramsey had seen the pictures so many times that he could describe them without looking. The image she studied now was of Nikki Smith, Victim #6. She had been a runaway who at seventeen had started selling herself on the streets. She had been twenty-one when she was murdered. “Cause of death was strangulation, but as you can see from the cuts and puncture marks on her body, she was tortured before she was killed.”
“Is that a handcuff key on the chain around her neck?” Shepard asked.
“Yes. All the victims were found with similar keys on their bodies. We think he was toying with the women. The key that could have set them free was dangling from their neck out of reach.”
Agent Shepard nodded as she studied another picture. “Are those drill marks on the body?” Her tone was an odd blend of curiosity, anger, and some horror.
“We believe so,” he said.
She passed the images to Jackson, whose stoic gaze shifted from sadness to anger. “When was she killed?”
“2005. Her body was found on the side of a rural road in Maryland; however, she worked the streets in Baltimore. She’d been missing for a week. The next victim was found two years later in South Carolina. Again, young woman, tortured and strangled.”
“Does he have a type?” Shepard asked.
“He goes after the prostitutes,” he said. “The ones he chose weren’t on the streets long.”
“Inexperienced. Not yet hardened by the streets.”
“Yes.”
“They were easier targets,” Shepard said. “The experienced ones might have avoided him.”
“Exactly.”
“Does he have a physical preference?” she asked.
He searched in his file for a one-page compilation of a series of photos that was of all the victims’ faces taken within one to two years before their deaths. Some were high school yearbook pictures, others were DMV, and a few were grainy snapshots.
Agent Shepard’s gaze moved from face to face, methodically scanning the images. “Dark hair, olive skin, brown eyes.”
“You fit his profile perfectly,” Ramsey said.
“He didn’t choose me at random?”
“No.”
“Lucky me.”
“If it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else.”
“The two missing girls that Sarah Beckett has been searching for look like these women,” Jackson commented.
“Do you think the van driver is connected to the two missing women?” Ramsey asked.
“Since I’m not a fan of coincidence, I’d say yes,” Jackson said.
“If that’s true, we’ve got a much bigger problem than I originally thought,” Shepard said.
“Reverend Beckett does serve women he targets,” Ramsey said.
“How long did it take to find the bodies of the other victims?” Jackson’s frown had deepened.
“Anywhere between one week to nine months,” Ramsey said. “He’s not interested in credit or being noticed. He du
mps them in secluded locations and moves on with his life.”
“He wants to keep doing what he’s doing,” Jackson said.
“Correct,” Ramsey said. “Which makes him even more dangerous and harder to catch.”
“And now he’s in Nashville,” Jackson said.
“He was seven days ago,” Ramsey said. “Agent Shepard, you’re the first person we know of who has survived direct contact with him and has seen how he operates.”
She sifted slowly through all the images one more time. If she were worried about her near-fatal mistake, her cool expression gave no hint of it. “What can we do for you?”
“Have there been any sightings of his van?” Ramsey asked.
“We put out a BOLO as soon as Agent Shepard called in her attack,” Jackson said. “We also went through all the street cameras in the area in the days after the attack. There was no sign of the van.”
“No one has seen it. We are assuming he ditched it somewhere close to the Mission.”
“I’ve spoken to Reverend Beckett several times in the last few days,” Shepard said. “She hasn’t heard anything about him appearing again, and all the working girls are on notice.”
Jackson closed the file of images. “We’ll assist in any way we can.”
“I’d like to work with Agent Shepard and interview the women who were working that night, along with Reverend Beckett.”
“What do you think the chances are that he’s still in the area?” Agent Shepard asked.
“I’m not sure he is. But this is as close as I’ve gotten.”
“How long have you been chasing this guy?” Agent Shepard asked.
“Seven years. I picked up the case when we crossed paths in Wilmington, North Carolina. He killed three prostitutes there.”
“He’s not worried about leaving DNA on his victims,” Agent Shepard said. “But he’s obsessed with leaving none in his van. Thus, the bleach.”
“Control is important to him, especially in the van, which is his workshop and domain,” Ramsey said. “He spends a lot of time in it. Agent Shepard, you noted that the side door opened with astonishing speed.”
“Correct,” she said.
“He’s spent time modifying it to reduce the abduction window to an acceptable risk.”
“And he doesn’t want his kills to be attached to it,” Jackson said.
“Not to the van,” Ramsey said.
“But he wants his DNA to link the victims,” Agent Shepard said. “Like an artist signs his work.”
Ramsey was impressed by her insight. “Agreed.”
“He must be certain he’s not in any databases,” Jackson said.
“So far, he’s not,” Ramsey said.
“He’s a clean slate and likes his van the same way,” Agent Shepard said, more to herself.
“Exactly,” Ramsey said.
“I looked at dozens of van pictures this last week,” she said. “I’d say this one is at least ten years old.”
“I’d like to drive to the corner where your attack occurred, Agent Shepard,” Ramsey said.
“What if I return to the corner tonight? If he’s out there, he could see that I’ve gotten back to work.”
“No,” Jackson said.
“It might eventually come to that,” Ramsey said. “For now, I just want to see the area.”
“I can take you now. We can also pay a visit to Reverend Beckett.”
“Good,” Ramsey said.
Agent Shepard tapped her fingertips on the open file. “If this killer ditched the van, he’ll be back for it. He has to have stowed it close to the Mission. I could go through surveillance footage of the area. It has to be on a private security camera somewhere.”
“I’ve had officers doing exactly that for the last three days,” Jackson said.
“And?” she asked.
Jackson’s phone rang. He glanced at the number, his face tight with annoyance. “I have to take this.”
“Sure,” Ramsey said.
Jackson nodded as he listened to the person on the phone, his scowl softening as he ended the call. “We might have gotten lucky. Officers located the white van in a warehouse twenty minutes ago.”
“Where?” Ramsey asked.
“Five blocks from where Agent Shepard encountered him.”
“I want to see it before it’s moved or disturbed,” Ramsey said.
“Be my guest. Agent Shepard will drive you.”
A glimmer of excitement caught in her brown gaze. “Yes, sir.”
Jackson left them and Ramsey followed Shepard to her office. The walls were bare, which he thought odd since he knew she had been in this office for two years. If not for the neat piles of papers along the wall behind her desk and the dust covering the shelves crammed with used investigative books and the odd certificate of merit, he would have assumed she had just moved in. She had not bothered with formalities like diplomas or the standard grip-and-grin photos taken with dignitaries at award ceremonies. He had read her jacket and knew she had been awarded two accommodations, which were nowhere in sight. He was not sure yet if she saw them as an unnecessary bother or if she was making a statement. He guessed the latter.
“Why were you out there alone?” Ramsey asked.
“I wasn’t alone until the last couple of seconds.”
“I don’t consider an Episcopal priest proper backup.”
“You haven’t met Sarah.”
“Does she have law enforcement experience that I’m not aware of?”
“No. But she runs a halfway house in the Bottom. That’s not for the faint of heart.”
He had read her report multiple times and had almost memorized it. “Why didn’t you leave with the other two women?”
She raised her chin. “Sarah was very concerned about the missing women. I was on the street hoping to get a lead from one of the pimps or the girls. If I couldn’t find out where they were, I wanted to identify any individual that might have seemed off to them. I thought I’d give it just a few more minutes. And then your Key Killer rolled out of the shadows.”
“Key Killer?”
“Not the best name, as far as violent killers go, but the name seems to fit.” She grabbed her backpack and walked past him. He noted the slight limp. The rolled ankle must still hurt.
“I can drive,” she said.
“I’d rather take my vehicle. It’s my mobile office.”
“Like the Key Killer.”
He liked his creature comforts and he missed his own vehicle. “We’ll take my car.”
“Whatever works for you.”
They crossed the lobby and went out the main door to a black SUV.
“I bet it’s identical to the car you drive in Virginia,” she said.
“If you want to play the profiling game, I have a few assessments of you I can share.”
She met his gaze. “In due time, Agent Ramsey.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Monday, August 24, Noon
The last thing Melina needed was Ramsey rooting around in her brain. She sensed he already had several accurate observations to share. Looking in a mirror was not top of her priority list.
Still, curiosity had her stealing a quick glance into the back seat of his rented vehicle. There was a black roller bag, small enough to carry on. He would not have checked it because his files were too important to risk with baggage handlers. She imagined it contained a second set of socks, a few clean shirts still in their dry cleaner bags, and workout gear. He did not want to be here long, but he was prepared to stay as long as he was effective.
He was not wearing a wedding band, but a lot of cops did not. The less the bad guys knew about them the better. His suit was top quality and the stitching appeared custom. The gold watch on his wrist was a Rolex, expensive but old. Ramsey did not flaunt what he had, and she decided he had grown up with money. One did not measure success by material things if one always had them. She would bet a paycheck he could trace his lineage back generations.
> She sat in the front seat of the rental car and clicked her seat belt. He slid behind the wheel, put on dark glasses as the soft scent of his aftershave mingled with rental car air freshener. The thick pine scent, like the bleach, was designed to mask the presence of previous occupants.
As Melina read off the address of the warehouse where the van had been found, Agent Jackson texted indicating he would meet them there. She acknowledged his message before punching the street number and name into the GPS.
This was the part where she was probably supposed to make small talk. Nope. She was going to let him go first.
“How long have you been with TBI?” Ramsey asked.
His tone was smooth, but the words were as practiced as a concert violinist’s notes. She imagined the honed script that came with an FBI badge. He was close to forty, which suggested he had worked with countless local law enforcement officers just like her.
“Seven years,” she said. “Most of it was in the Knoxville office.”
“Where are you from?”
She had one foot in the doghouse with Jackson and the other ready to race into this investigation. She reminded herself that her goals did not involve staring at the four blank walls of her office. “Nashville. My parents still live here. As I mentioned, Dad’s former law enforcement and Mom’s a retired schoolteacher. I have an undergraduate and master’s in psychology. I thought I wanted to be a social worker but found I didn’t have the temperament to hold hands and talk about feelings.”
“Nice to be back home?” He almost sounded sincere.
“It is,” she said honestly. “Mom makes enough food at Sunday dinner to fuel me for a week.” When he did not comment, she asked, “What’s your story? Your accent has a very slight southern drawl.”
A small smile tugged at the edge of his lips. “I thought I’d lost it.”
“Nashville has a way of reenergizing the faintest southern accents.”
He nodded as if making a mental note. “I’m from Virginia. Grew up near Alexandria.”
“Lots of tourist stuff. A lot of traffic, even then.”
“It’s worse.”
They wound their way around the beltway and soon found themselves headed toward the industrial south side. He moved down a series of side streets until they rounded a corner and came upon the collection of police cars.
