by P. D. Martin
Sam and I walk toward the street. Over the ridge come two TV crews, each with a reporter and a camera operator.
We instinctively put our heads down, hoping to go unnoticed. But our ploy doesn’t work. One of the reporters knows Sam.
“Agent Wright, is this the work of the Slasher?”
The press has christened our killer the D.C. Slasher. Descriptive, I guess.
A microphone is shoved in Sam’s face.
“No comment.”
We keep walking. The other reporter also thrusts her microphone in front of Sam, hoping for more.
“What’s the FBI’s involvement in this case?”
“You know the answer to that question.” Sam quickens her pace and I follow suit.
“What’s the killer like? What does your profile tell us?”
Sam ignores the questions and keeps walking. The reporters stay with us for a few steps, then move on, hurrying down the hill to the crime scene. They know they have a better chance of getting a statement from D.C. police than FBI.
Once out of earshot, Sam says, “Damn vultures.”
I’m inclined to agree, but I also know they’re only doing their job. Even though I avoid them, I’m probably a bit more sympathetic to reporters than Sam. I have to be, one of my school friends from Melbourne is a reporter with Channel 10. She covers crime and often has to hassle cops and witnesses for statements.
I decide to change the topic. “Are you freaked out by the note?”
“A little,” she says without the usual melodic ring to her voice.
“So, who knows you’re working this case?”
“Well, the whole world now.” She glances back at the TV crew, who have parked themselves right on top of the crime-scene tape.
“But who knew yesterday?”
“That’s the million-dollar question. I rang Flynn and he told his partner and boss, as you’d expect. Then there are our guys.”
“And that information’s supposed to be kept quiet.”
“Well, someone’s talked. The perp knew I was on the case.”
“Who would know? Where are the records kept?”
“Well, it’s no secret internally. Assistants, Pike, forensics, VICAP, they’d all know. Then admin too, for the files. And on top of that you’re talking partners. Say Hunter tells his wife about his cases, and she asks who got what case, she tells her sister, who tells a friend. Especially with the D.C. case, because of all the press it’s getting.”
“True.”
“Or we could have had an internal leak to the press. For all I know, it could have been in last night’s edition of the Post.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” It would be an impossible lead to track down.
“What do you think of the note?” Sam asks as we reach the ridge.
“He’s definitely challenging you. Baiting you. He follows the newspapers and your cases closely.”
“And he’s been watching me.”
“Mmm. And that can’t be a good thing.” I try to lighten the moment.
Sam looks over her shoulder, down to the crime scene. “Think he’s watching us now?”
“Could be. He’s probably in that lot.” I motion toward the crowd of onlookers. We stop on the ridge.
Sam nods and forces a smile. We both know it’s common for killers to watch the discovery of their crime. It allows them to relive the thrill of the kill and the control they felt over the victim. But you can’t detain every passerby who stares at a police scene. Crime sites are made for onlookers—flashing lights, lots of police officers and other officials—everyone stops to look. It’s human nature, albeit one of our darker traits.
Sam turns back and starts walking again. “Well, we’ve got his picture then.”
I’m soon in step with her again. “Yep.”
It’s standard practice to photograph all crime-scene voyeurs, just in case. There have been cases that have broken that way—the same face turning up at two or more crime scenes. Cops get suspicious, start to investigate. And then that face turns out to be the perp.
We step off the grass and onto the pathway.
“I’m going to work up the profile as soon as we get back. After I’ve seen Rivers, that is,” Sam says.
“I wonder what he’ll make of this. He won’t be happy about the killer’s contact with the unit.”
“No. Hey, why don’t you come with me to see him? I’ll tell him that you’ve been helping me out.”
“Sure, if you want.”
“Well, it won’t hurt bringing the teacher’s pet along.” The normal Sam surfaces again.
“Ha, ha,” I say. “Has it ever happened before? A killer contacting the profiler?”
“I think there have been a couple of cases, but not since I’ve been with the unit.”
“No doubt Rivers has got procedures. Marco reckons he’ll be pissed.”
“You’re off the case!” Rivers says to Sam.
“What?”
I bite my tongue. Neither of us is prepared for the intensity of his response.
“You heard me. That’s the procedure. If a killer gets personal with a profiler, we reassign. We can’t play into his hands and give the killer a relationship with one of our people.”
“But surely we can’t just submit and give him the power,” Sam says. “It’ll make him think we’re afraid.”
“It’s not fear, it’s good sense.” Rivers stands and moves away from his desk. “This is the best approach.”
“But why?” Sam’s standing now. “I’ve done most of the work and it will only take a few hours to come up with a complete profile. Hunter has refined the cops’ victimologies, except for the girl today, and I’ve already started the profile.”
“I don’t care. It’s procedure. End of story.” He sits down and stares at his desk. “Tuldoon can take the case.” He doesn’t look up.
Sam gives me a look, raises her eyebrows and mouths the word you at me.
I smile. “I could take it, sir.”
Rivers stares at me. “Why are you even here, Anderson? Haven’t you got enough work?”
I take it like a punch in the stomach.
He flicks his eyes away and I can tell he feels guilty. It’s out of character for him to lose his temper.
Sam steps in. “It will take Tuldoon at least a day or two to get up to speed—”
“For God’s sake, Wright, sit down.”
Sam sits. “And all Sophie would need is…?” She looks at me.
“A few hours, five tops,” I say. “Then I can go back to my other cases.”
Rivers doesn’t say anything. I take this as encouragement.
“Why don’t I draft the profile, then hand it over to Tuldoon? He can do the last victimology and check the profile against it.” A compromise.
Rivers drums his fingers on his desk. He can’t afford to lose two days of Tuldoon’s time when it would only take five hours of mine.
“Anderson, why have you already spent time on this anyway? It was assigned to Wright.”
“Sam and I did some work on the case last night, sir. Strictly after hours. Two heads are better than one.”
“And what about your little outing this morning. You call that after hours?”
Now he’s got me cornered.
“I asked her to come, sir,” Sam says. “To be honest, I was a little unnerved by the letter.”
“Exactly. Because the perp got personal with you.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam says. But I can tell she wants to fight him on it.
“And what if he was there?” Rivers says. “Maybe he thinks he’s got two FBI profilers working his case.” He shakes his head. “I don’t like it. It feeds his ego.”
“I’m happy to hand the case over,” Sam says convincingly. “But it makes sense to give it to Sophie. By the time I brief Tuldoon on it…” She leaves the last sentence hanging for effect.
I jump in. “I can have the profile ready tomorrow. I’ll do most of it at home tonight.”
The fingers drum again. “And then you’re off it. You hand it over to Tuldoon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Wright, you’re off this now. I don’t want you to have anything more to do with this case. I want you off it. Do you hear me?”
“I’m off.”
“And Wright, watch yourself. In fact, I’m going to arrange for the cops to swing by your place a few times when they’re patrolling.”
“But—”
“No buts. You’re getting drive-bys. We need to make sure his spying activities were a one-off and not the start of a stalking routine.”
Sam takes a breath in but then thinks the better of arguing.
Rivers looks back down at his desk and starts scrawling on his notepad. Our dismissal is obvious.
“That was intense,” I say to Sam in the corridor.
“I’ve never seen him like that. Did you see the vein on this head?”
“That sucker was pumping.”
“He’s not usually such a stickler for procedures either,” Sam says.
She’s been working with him for a couple of years, so she’d know.
“I guess the pressure’s getting to him. His team is dwindling.”
Sam nods then says, “So we’ll work on it together?”
“I knew you wouldn’t hand it over.”
“And I knew you knew that.” She waves her finger at me and smiles. “Thanks for playing along in there. And don’t worry, I know how you hate breaking the rules. It will be our little secret. Deal?” She holds out her hand.
“Deal,” I say and we shake on it.
“Maybe we should have spit on our hands. Or blood perhaps?”
I laugh.
We get to Sam’s office first. “So, do you want to see the profile tonight? After the gym?” she says.
“Shit, I’m training.” I remember the sparring session I’d set up with Marco a few days ago. “Marco.”
“Really? Just you and Marco?”
“Do you want to come?”
“You know what they say, honey. Three’s a crowd,” she says with a wink.
“Come on, train with us.”
“I don’t take my hand-to-hand combat quite as seriously as you two. Besides, I know you like the extra workout the guys give you.”
She’s right. I’ve been taking kung fu lessons for eight years and Marco has been training for ten. I do get a better workout and test of my skills with him than with Sam. She’s better with a gun than her arms and legs.
“Why don’t I drop by your place later?” After Rivers’s reaction, I really don’t want Sam to be working on this case alone.
“Don’t worry. I’ll drop the profile off at your apartment on my way home. Besides, you might be busy tonight, girl.” She smiles, spins and walks into her office.
Incorrigible. I love her.
When Sophie was at the park too, I couldn’t have been happier. To have them both there to view my masterpiece was beyond my wildest dreams. Now I have their attention.
Sophie’s shoulder-length blond hair had been whisked across her face by the wind, yet every hair was perfect. The cold made her cheeks glow pink against the translucence of her pale, smooth skin and when she looked up I could see, even from where I was standing, the intensity of her blue eyes. She was wearing my favorite suit too. The knee-length, charcoal skirt that shows off her slim legs and hips without hugging too hard to the contours of her body, accompanied by the short, tailored jacket that displays the womanly indent of her waist. So gorgeous, so sexy, yet so seemingly unaware of her power over men. Awkward almost.
Sam, on the other hand, broadcasts her beauty with every step, every movement. I don’t know which I prefer.
I relive the pleasure of seeing them. The anticipation. Even cutting short my time with the redhead was worth it.
But the pleasure was the greatest when my darling Samantha looked over her shoulder. She knows I’m watching. She’s looking for me. She’s trying to figure out who I am right now! She can’t see me, but I can see her.
I look at my latest photo of her, fresh from my darkroom. Her face is gentle yet sculptured. Her long curls of dark brown hair are tied up, but a few strands give away the wild nature of her hair. I imagine it flowing down her back. Her chiseled jawline supports her beautifully large mouth, full lips and white, straight teeth. I study her face and imagine it contorting in pleasure. I get more pleasure from Sophie and Sam than I do from my girls. They’re so close to me.
Bliss rushes through my body and settles in my groin. I relieve myself with thoughts of SamanthaWright and SophieAnderson.
CHAPTER 06
I slam my leg into the punching bag Marco holds, and smile as he’s thrown off balance by the impact. I get a lot more power from my legs than my arms. It’s probably true for most women.
Marco moves the bag up and down his body, mirroring a moving target, and I aim for the center with each strike and kick. Then he moves it from side to side, gaining speed. I react and deliver a series of kicks: right front kick off the back leg; two swift side kicks with my left then right leg; a 180-degree side kick; and finally a high roundhouse kick, aimed at his head.
“Nice,” he says. Then responds by mixing it up more, moving forward and backward. I adjust accordingly and add punches. After about ten minutes, I’m dripping with sweat and the power in my kicks and punches is waning.
“Come on, Sophie.”
I rise to the challenge and deliver another series of kicks, culminating in a 360-degree side kick that harnesses all my remaining strength. It has the desired effect and Marco staggers to the side.
“Not bad.” He grins. “For a girl.”
But I’m not biting. I know my muscles aren’t as powerful as a man’s. It means I have to be better and faster. I have to train harder. I guzzle three-quarters of my water and rest my hands on my thighs with my head down to get my breath back.
Marco moves closer and takes a few sips of his water. He stands close, real close. I look up at his face. He’s barely got a bead of sweat on him.
I pick up my towel and wipe the sweat from my face.
“Your turn.” I reach for the bag that’s resting on Marco’s leg. He picks it up and hands it to me. Our hands brush gently. I look at Marco. He’s noticed the contact too.
I smile and remember the heat of his body next to mine the night we nearly kissed. There was that awkward silence that often seems to occur before a first kiss and I could feel our bodies getting closer. Our faces getting closer. And then, just as our lips were about to touch, I pulled away. It wasn’t Matt that stopped me. Matt and I would have ended even if I hadn’t moved to the States. It’s not a man in Australia holding me back, it’s me. There’s just something about Marco that I can’t quite put my finger on. My fear that he’s a womanizer? But Sam’s right. I do like him and maybe I am ready.
I crouch in a low horse position, with the bag up, covering the side of my body, ready to take the strikes. I brace myself heavily, knowing how hard it is to keep on my feet when Marco gets going. He’s strong and fast. I use my speed instead, and keep on the move. It’s heavy work for me and I’m exhausted by the time we’ve finished the bag work. Marco is finally dripping with sweat.
I refill my water bottle and wipe my face again, ready for some one-on-one sparring. We suit up with a mouth-guard, protector pads, gloves and helmets. Standard martial arts safety gear. The gym has almost cleared out and the section we’re in is empty.
I glance at my watch. “Seven-thirty. No wonder I’m hungry.”
“Me too. How about we finish up in fifteen?”
“Sounds good. You attack first.”
We stand side by side and move into low horse stances, arms in guard position. I take a deep breath, readying myself for the incoming strikes and kicks.
Marco starts with a hook punch that’s coming directly to my head. I block it with my left, outside arm and look to the right, ready for his second punch. This is aimed at my stomach
and I use a lower block to divert it. I take a step back, swapping legs, and Marco sends a roundhouse kick my way. A cross-block stops it dead. I love being able to match Marco. It also makes me feel safe— I could defend an attack.
I sense his hands coming down from above me and I immediately form an upper cross-block with my hands above my head, catching his double punch. I dodge and deflect a straight punch, followed by a side kick. Our dance continues for five minutes before we take a two-minute breather and swap positions. Now I attack and he defends. I think quickly, coming up with a fast series of punches and kicks, but only one meets its mark. I keep them coming, as hard and fast as I can, but my energy is waning. The intensity is broken when I throw a sloppy crescent kick, which Marco catches instead of blocking. A quick, sudden backward movement from him sends me up in the air, only to return to the mats on my back. I hit the mats hard, but only my pride is hurt. Marco’s grinning face comes into my field of vision and I can’t help but laugh.
He offers me his hand, but instead of taking it I hook my left foot around his right ankle and position my right foot just above his knee. If this was a real-life situation I’d go for a direct hit on his knee, but it’s too risky for training because I could damage a ligament. I bend my left leg quickly, folding it inward so my ankle comes toward my butt. At the same time I push Marco’s thigh with my right leg. I complete the whole move within a split second, not long enough for Marco to prepare himself for the conflicting forces on his leg. He tumbles backward onto the mat. I rock back on my hands in a somersault position and push off, legs going skyward. I arch my back and land on my feet. It’s a move I learned not in kung fu but from a Gene Kelly movie when I was twelve. Now I stand over Marco, grinning.
“Not bad, Anderson,” he says.
I smile again, give him a flirtatious wink and make an overdramatic turn and take one step away.
“That’s it,” he says, grabbing my ankle. Holding on to my ankle, he rolls away from me. I don’t have time to steady myself or break free, so within a couple of seconds I’m down on the mat too. We lie next to each other, laughing. I casually drop my arm onto his stomach. And we both stop laughing. I withdraw my hand and we lie there silently for a few seconds, getting our breath back.
