by Leslie Wolfe
She hesitated, then took a deep breath and replied, as gently as she could.
“To your earlier point, sir, it was a fraud case, not a kidnapping. The risk was very low.”
“I’m not talking about the risk. I’m talking about a local team who’s frustrated as hell because they feel robbed of the credit they deserved. I’m talking about you breaking procedure. Again.”
“With all due respect, sir, they didn’t deserve much credit in this case. The warrants had been issued and faxed to their squad room, and they decided to get breakfast instead. Donuts and coffee. I just didn’t want to wait, that’s all. I wanted to close the case. They knew where I was going, and they arrived too late. Their choice, sir.”
Pearson stood, pushing his chair back forcefully, and started to pace the office. She followed his movements for a while, then gave up, keeping her eyes focused out the window, on the blue sky promising another sunny day.
Then Pearson stopped, standing tall in front of her. She instinctively pushed her chair back, feeling threatened. Then she stood, reading his posture as a hint their meeting was over.
“We’re not done yet, Winnett. Sit down.”
She complied, but pushed her chair away even more, putting as much distance as possible between Pearson and her, fighting the panic she felt taking control of her brain. She focused on her breathing, which made things more bearable.
Pearson moved back behind his desk and took his seat. She relaxed, letting out a long breath slowly, discreetly.
“You’ve worked without a partner for months. You’re curt, dismissive, hard to work with. People file complaints because you piss them off. You’re a lawsuit waiting to happen, regardless of how smart you are. You’re perceived as arrogant, disrespectful, and it’s going to stop. Today.” Pearson took a few gulps of bottled water. “Do you know why procedure requires agents to work in teams, Winnett?”
She nodded. Pearson continued, not expecting her to answer.
“It’s better for everyone involved. You’re less likely to get complaints. You’re less likely to do stupid stuff and get in trouble. Partners help each other, keep each other honest, have—”
“Have each other’s back, sir?” she interrupted, her voice rich with bitter, pained undertones. “I’m sure you can agree that’s not exactly true. Not all the time.”
“Mike’s death was not your fault! You were cleared of all wrongdoing.”
“That doesn’t mean anything, sir. Not to me. He died when I was supposed to have his back. Now his four-year-old son doesn’t have a father. So let’s just both agree it’s best for everyone’s health if I work alone, all right?”
“You don’t make the rules, Winnett! You don’t set terms, I do,” Pearson said, raising his voice. “Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re young, Winnett,” he said, sounding somewhat calmer, but also more threatening. He flipped through a file for a split second. “Only 34. You could still have a good career as an FBI agent, or choose to take an exit, whether willingly or unwillingly.” Pearson paused, pensive for a minute. “I’m putting you on notice. All your behavioral issues will stop, right now. Right this minute. You’ll be polite, courteous, helpful, colla—”
“You mean politically correct, sir?”
Pearson shook his head in disbelief, swallowing a curse.
“You will not interrupt your colleagues and superiors when they talk. You’ll be a model agent, respectful, and praiseworthy. If I get one more friggin’ complaint, you’re out, Winnett.”
“It’s fucking, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“If you feel the need to use an expletive, just go for the real deal. Don’t fudge it up. It makes you appear weak.”
“Christ, Winnett, you’re unbelievable! Do you know why you’re even here? Why you’re not out already?”
“Um… no, sir.” She felt a pang of fear twisting her gut. She hadn’t realized things were so bad. Her job was all she had. All she had left.
“How long have you been an FBI agent, Winnett? Ten years?”
“Yes, sir, a little over 10 years.”
“You gave me and your fellow agents 10 long years of frustration, but also the best case-solving record in this regional bureau. You bring new methods into our work, and the bureau recognizes and appreciates innovation.”
“New methods, sir?”
“The, what’s it called, um, the outlier detection analysis you used in your healthcare fraud case. I still can’t believe it, but Quantico wants to build it into the manual. They want to call it the Winnett method. Can you believe it?”
She smiled, a tiny smile of pride and achievement.
“Ah, wipe that smirk off your face, Winnett! Method or not, you’re on notice. I’ll assign you a new partner in the next couple of days, someone more tenured, who can teach you a thing or two about professionalism and respect. Until then, I’m assigning you to the murder case in Juno Beach.”
“A murder case, sir? This is not typical procedure. Why doesn’t local investigate? Is this your way of benching me?”
“Don’t you dare quote procedure on me. Do your job, and be thankful you still have one. Dismissed.”
History
Tess drove on the sand at snail speed, muttering oaths under her breath. Hordes of people who didn’t belong were sure to invade a crime scene, minutes after the police had been called in. Maniacs of all sorts and flavors owned police radios, from newspeople to plain amateurs who got a thrill out of seeing dead bodies. She’d asked someone about it, one of the profilers from Quantico. He’d said that seeing death is, in a weird way, a celebration of one’s life, of being alive. It’s the reason some couples have sex after attending funerals. A sick world, that’s what it was. Yeah.
Reluctant crowds parted, brought to compliance by the red and blue strobes on her car, and she managed to park in parallel with the coroner’s van. The body was still there; good. If she hurried a little, she could maybe catch it as it was found, before the coroner loaded it into the van.
She hopped out of her SUV and slammed the door, then approached the police line with a spring in her step, ignoring the soft sand that had already filled her shoes. Two detectives, most likely the first at the scene, approached the line from the other side. She ran her long, thin fingers through her shoulder-length, blonde hair, then pulled out her badge.
“Special Agent Winnett, FBI. You the primary?
“Yeah, Gary Michowsky, in case you forgot, and this is my partner, Todd Fradella,” Michowsky replied, shaking her hand firmly. Fradella’s handshake was less convinced, and he averted his eyes.
She bent over to cross under the line and made a beeline for the lifeguard tower.
“Can’t believe you called the feds, Gary,” Fradella said, barely bothering to lower his voice somewhat. “We could have nailed this case. Just you and me.”
Great, just great. An ambitious, young detective, guaranteed to challenge her at every junction and most likely to file a complaint or two, just because he won’t be able to claim the collar on his damn résumé.
“Trust me on this, Fradella,” Michowsky replied, sounding both defeated and frustrated at the same time. She turned and looked at Michowsky again, this time paying more attention. Something was a little off about him. Maybe he was sick or something. As for Fradella, he was fuming.
She rushed when she saw the coroner and his aides ready to move the body.
“Hold it,” she yelled, flashing her badge. “Hey, Doc,” she greeted Rizza warmly.
“Hey there, yourself,” Doc Rizza replied. “Wanna take a gander before we move her?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
She circled the body a couple of times, carefully, closing in at each pass, noticing more. Perfectly posed body, expressive posture. No useable footprints, a sandy mess of a dump site, deteriorating by the second in the strong ocean breeze. A sick, smart, bold killer.
“We’re just wasting time now,” Fradel
la complained to Michowsky. “Just watch.”
“Why is it you never trust my judgment, huh?” Michowsky said. “Why do you always have to bitch and moan about everything?”
“This was our opportunity—”
“Ah… opportunity for what? To see some more girls get killed before we nail this guy?”
Tess refrained from chuckling. That partnership wasn’t made in heaven. She turned to Doc Rizza.
“Do we even know it’s a guy?”
“I’d venture to say yes, but I can’t be sure. I can’t determine that here,” he gestured toward the many cameramen lined up at the yellow tape.
“Fair enough,” she replied. “TOD?”
“Twelve to sixteen hours ago.”
“All right, you can move her now, thanks.”
She watched Doc Rizza and AJ, his assistant, struggle with the body in full rigor. Doc and AJ made sure the newspeople didn’t catch a glimpse of the body, as they loaded it on the stretcher and then zipped the body bag closed.
“So, it’s you again,” Michowsky said. “It’s going to be a treat.”
“You two know each other?” Fradella asked.
“Yeah,” Tess replied, “unfortunately.”
“Theresa and I worked together on a case a few years ago,” Michowsky added. “It was memorable.”
“It’s Tess, not Theresa.”
“As a favor, maybe. It’s Theresa on your badge,” he pushed back. “To be honest, I was hoping the bureau would send someone else.”
“Then it’s Special Agent Winnett for you,” she replied dryly.
It wasn’t her fault she didn’t build better relationships. She tried. But this guy, for one, made it impossible. This guy decided to hold onto an old grudge, over a mistake that he’d made to begin with. Sometimes she just didn’t get people. People were hard to deal with. Was she supposed to let mistakes go by unaddressed, at the risk of jeopardizing the case? Was she supposed to be the humble one now, to try to forge a relationship threatened already by Michowsky’s old grudge? She envied people who were natural-born politicians, smooth operators who knew exactly what to say and when, who had charisma, who were immediately deemed successful even if they didn’t have any real results.
She didn’t have a clue how to mend things with Michowsky. Instead, she shrugged it off and refocused on the case.
“All right, walk me through it.”
Michowsky and Fradella looked at each other, then Fradella decided to speak.
“A couple of teenagers found her at dawn. She was posed and tied in place with fishing line. We cut the line before you got here.”
“Any usable prints, tire tracks, anything?”
“Nothing. Javier is taking some sand. The lab will sift through it, see if they can find anything.”
She looked around one more time, immersed in thought.
“So what do you think?” she asked.
“Aren’t you—” Michowsky started, but Fradella interrupted.
“This is obviously a dump site, a secondary crime scene. As soon as the ME has more details, we’ll have a confirmed COD, weapon, and TOD. We don’t have an ID yet.”
“Your alphabet blurb didn’t tell me anything useful,” Tess replied coolly. “I asked what you think, not what you know.”
“Oh,” Fradella blurted, then frowned, while his cheeks hued a little. “We thought it might be a ritualistic killing, maybe with some religious connotations. I also thought it might be a serial killer, based on how everything looks.”
“Interesting,” she said thoughtfully, her eyes wandering in the direction of the two kids, still huddled together. “Have there been any other victims?”
“No, none that we know of,” Fradella replied, while Michowsky promptly rolled his eyes.
“I told you,” Michowsky said. “Due diligence first, then conclusions. Otherwise you’re just as lame as the media.”
Fradella pursed his lips and looked away, embarrassed.
“Detective Michowsky, a word, please?” Tess asked, and took his arm before he could say no.
They took a few steps, then she stopped and let go of his arm.
“Not in front of anyone else,” she said. Seeing how confused he looked, she continued. “Scolding Fradella. He resents you now, and for good reason.”
“I don’t need you to tell me how to speak with my partner. You’re not exactly an expert, from what I remember.”
“Fine. Suit yourself.”
She returned to Fradella and resumed the earlier conversation.
“I agree it might be a serial killer, Detective Fradella, even if we don’t have other victims identified yet. He dumped her here, when the Everglades are a short drive away. If he would have dropped her in the Glades, no one would have ever found her. He wanted us to find her like this. That’s one of the features of serial killers. They make statements with their kills.”
“You don’t have enough data to say the word serial,” Michowsky pushed back. “I hate the sensationalizing of these cases. What happened to five victims before we can call it a serial?”
“They all start somewhere, Gary. Do you mind if we catch him early? And it’s three, not five. New guidelines.”
He scoffed angrily. “I knew that.”
“I know you don’t mind if we catch him faster. That’s why you called us, right? So what’s crawling up your ass then? Ancient history? I can’t help what happened, Michowsky. But I can help you now. We can help each other.”
Michowsky ran his hand over his buzz-cut hair, visibly frustrated, but didn’t reply.
A few yards away, the two teenagers sat on the sand, holding hands, their backs hunched. The girl was crying quietly, and her swollen, red face was proof she’d been crying for a while.
“How long has she been crying?” Tess asked.
“Since we got here, and she hasn’t stopped. Threw up a couple of times too,” Fradella replied.
“Any idea why?”
“I’m guessing she’s afraid she’ll get grounded as soon as their parents get here,” Michowsky replied, irritated.
“You’re guessing,” Tess repeated his words slowly, quietly, with a hint of biting sarcasm. “Teenagers these days don’t cry for much, and they don’t throw up that easily either. She’s definitely more rattled than he is, so something’s off. And it’s not the dead body. They see dead bodies on TV all day long and don’t give a damn. May I?” she asked, gesturing toward the two youngsters.
Michowsky shrugged, and Fradella followed her from a distance, probably curious to see what she wanted to do.
Tess approached the two slowly, then crouched in front of them.
“Hey, guys, I’m Special Agent Tess Winnett with the FBI. But you can call me Tess, all right?”
She extended her hand, and the girl took it first, shyly.
“Kris,” she said, then sniffled and wiped her face with a soaked sweatshirt sleeve.
“Carl,” the boy added.
“I see you’re upset,” she said, focusing on the girl. “It’s understandable, you know. I’d be scared too.”
Kris raised her welled-up eyes, tears still rolling on her cheeks. Tess saw fear in those eyes, an unspeakable fear she recognized.
“I’d be terrified,” Tess continued, dropping her voice to almost a whisper. “What if something like that happened to me?”
As she spoke, Tess felt some of that unspeakable fear contaminate her, freezing her blood. She breathed, pushing away the eerie, paralyzing feeling.
Kris nodded, keeping her hazel eyes locked with Tess’s.
Tess decided to push it further, on a hunch.
“What if the killer saw me, right?” Tess continued, and Kris nodded, only so slightly. “What if he was right there, a few yards away?”
Kris responded with the same almost imperceptible nod.
“No, Kris,” Carl whispered, tightening the grip on her hand.
“What if I came within a few feet of such a monster, while he was finishing h
is kill?” Tess whispered, and Kris nodded again. Then she suddenly turned to the side and threw up spasmodically, dry heaves mixed with sobs, while Tess held her hair and supported her forehead.
“Water,” she mouthed to Fradella, and he rushed to get some.
Kris convulsed some more, then accepted the water, rinsed her mouth, and raised her eyes to meet Tess’s inquisitive gaze.
“Tell me,” Tess asked softly. “Tell me what you saw.”
“Nothing, I swear,” Carl spoke, choked up. “She wasn’t there when we arrived. The girl. We played there. Right there. Oh, God…”
Tess maintained eye contact with Kris, who nodded again. Fresh tears welled up again in the young girl’s eyes.
“Then we came here, taking pictures, waiting for the sunrise,” Carl added. “Then Kris looked, and she was there. The dead girl.”
“Oh, goddamn it,” Michowsky muttered, and Carl promptly clammed up. Tess shot him a murderous look.
“The killer came within a few feet of you and you didn’t see anything… I understand this must be scary,” Tess continued, touching Kris’s hand. “But you’re alive and healthy and well. He didn’t touch you and he never will. You know why? Because we’ll catch him. And this? This will be our little secret.”
“You promise?” Kris said quietly.
“Yes, I promise. It won’t take long until we get the bastard.”
She stood and beckoned Michowsky to follow her.
As soon as they were out of the kids’ earshot, she turned and faced him, angry as hell.
“Do that to me again, and I’ll have you on report. Don’t ever intimidate a witness into not speaking with us, you hear me?”
“I didn’t—”
“You didn’t do your job, neither of you,” she interrupted, now that Fradella had caught up with them. “You completely botched that interrogation, and you missed critical information. This killer was audacious enough to dump a body in full rigor, 20 yards away from these kids. We’re talking about an individual who takes a tremendous amount of risk to make a statement. He’s highly sure of himself and ready to kill again on a dime.”
