Body Count

by P. D. Martin

  She puts on her gloves and carefully picks up the clock that’s usually on Sam’s coffee table. She turns it around.

  “Ten forty-five.” The hands have stopped.

  “So we’re either looking at fifteen minutes after you left, ten forty-five the morning she phoned in sick or ten forty-five last night.”

  “What about the neighbors?”

  “I’ve got two of my people interviewing everyone they can get their hands on, but most people are at work.”

  “Someone must have heard something.”

  “That’s what we figure. Downstairs particularly, but no one’s home.”

  The people who live directly under Sam would have been the most likely to hear the scuffle. Glass was broken and the potted plant would have made quite a racket as it toppled over.

  “So, do you want to look at this stuff now?” Sandra asks, pointing to the dining-room table and the D.C. files.

  “Sure.”

  I move toward the table, trying desperately to recall how it had looked when I left on Wednesday night. Was anything missing? Was anything new on the table?

  “Is that how you left it?”

  “I think so.” I finger the photos with my gloved hands. “To be honest, it would be hard to pick up one missing photo, or one extra.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “We’ll have to check the files against the inventory. Make sure everything’s there.”

  “My guys have photographed it extensively.” She pauses, and then whispers, “Do you think it’s the Slasher?”

  I look up at her and bite my lip. “Yes.”

  My visions are proof of that, but I’m not going to tell anyone about them. Sam is still alive and I’m going to save her. If I can just control these visions, maybe they can help me do just that.

  “I might call in Flynn and Jones. Get them to check out the place too,” Sandra says.

  “Good idea. We’ve got to find him, and fast.”

  Sandra puts her hand on my arm.

  I return my focus to the table and see Sam’s completed profile underneath a stack of photos. “Make sure you run this for prints, Sandra.”

  “We’ll try everything.”

  I think about our guy, our perp. He wears gloves but I can imagine him wanting to touch the paper that words about him were written on. It would make him feel closer to it and give his ego a boost—to hold his own profile in his hands. It would add to the thrill.

  “I’ll give Flynn and Jones a call now.” Sandra flips open her phone.

  “Mind if I hang around?” I ask out of professional courtesy.

  “Go for it,” she says, dialing the number and walking away.

  I look at the table and case notes sprawled across it but I still can’t see anything out of place. I lift up some of the photos, careful not to upset the orderly mess. Given that there are over sixty photos and dozens of printed pages, I decide the process is futile. We’ll have to compare the contents of the files with the inventory list.

  I force myself into Sam’s bedroom, hopeful to find something. Some clue. I resist the urge to curl into the fetal position and cry. I need to stay rational and focused on the case. That’s the way I can help Sam.

  I sink down on the edge of her bed, staring glassily into the mirror above her dressing table. I’m going to assume Sam was taken the night I was here and then the perp forced her to phone in sick, to delay the inevitable discovery of her disappearance. I close my eyes and do the math in my head. I’ve got between thirty-six and a hundred and fifty hours to find Sam, if the guy sticks with his pattern of holding the victims for three to eight days.

  I open my eyes and see it.

  A small pendant hangs from the side of the mirror. Insignificant enough, except that I’ve never seen Sam wear it, and the shape it forms is an exact replica of the tattoo I saw on Jean’s thigh. This symbol must mean something. The killer’s deliberately left this in Sam’s bedroom, taunting us, assuming no one would discover the clue, or know what it meant. I use a pen to lift the pendant off the small hook it hangs from and hold it up to the light. A small smile plays on my lips. The killer has slipped up and I’m one step closer to saving Sam. This is the something we were missing.

  CHAPTER 10

  Pike stands at the head of the table. We sit, waiting. Rivers arrives and hovers near the door.

  Pike starts. “We’re setting up a task force.”

  This is a turnaround from Rivers’s stance only three hours ago. Did Pike initiate or did Rivers push? Or maybe it’s coming from higher than Pike. For an FBI agent to be kidnapped or abducted is bad PR. We’re supposed to be invincible.

  I’m keen to get the task force moving in the right direction. “It’s the D.C. Slasher.” Most of us have come to this conclusion anyway.

  “Why do you say that, Anderson?” Pike asks.

  “It fits the profile. The killer’s purposefully moved here to be under the FBI’s nose. Under our noses.” I force evenness in my voice. “He likes the thrill, the challenge, and what better way to step up the chase than by nabbing an FBI agent—and the one profiling him.” I was wrong about this guy before. I didn’t think Sam was in serious danger. I certainly didn’t think she could be the next victim. Surely she would have noticed someone stalking her. We’re trained for that.

  “Anything else?” Pike asks.

  “The note on the third victim.”

  Rivers shoots a look my way. Did he tell Pike that Sam was supposed to be off the case?

  “Yes, the note,” Pike says.

  “He wasn’t just involving Sam, inviting her into his world, like we thought.” I keep my voice even. “It was part of a stalking ritual.”

  I’m making headway with Pike.

  “Plus, in Sam’s room there was a pendant that isn’t hers. The killer left it there.” Of course I can’t tell them that it’s exactly the same as an image I’ve seen in a dream—one that I know is related to the D.C. Slasher because I saw it on Jean’s thigh. But hopefully its mere existence, a foreign object at a crime scene, is enough.

  “You really know every piece of jewelry Sam Wright owns?” Pike says.

  I think fast. “Sam and I went out two weeks ago and went through each other’s jewelry, looking for items to match the dresses we were wearing.” An embarrassing but necessary lie.

  “To match your dresses?”

  “Yes, accessorizing.” With Sam gone, there’s only one other woman in the room, Anthea Stall, who leans toward the butch side. She wouldn’t be too worried about accessorizing. Anthea raises an eyebrow and the other agents stare at me; even James’s constant pen-tapping stops. But I don’t care if I look stupid. None of that matters. We have to find Sam.

  Pike studies me. “Rivers, you happy to go with the Slasher rather than a kidnap situation?”

  Rivers, who still hasn’t taken his eyes off me—his form of punishment for going against his orders—finally diverts his gaze.

  “Anderson’s instincts are usually right. Unless we get a ransom note in the next twenty-four hours, we have to assume it’s the Slasher.”

  James’s pen-tapping resumes.

  Pike gives Rivers a curt nod. “Okay. It’ll be a joint D.C. police/FBI task force.”

  I clasp my fingers together under the table and press my front teeth into my bottom lip. I want to get on this case. I need to get on this case. Please let them assign a full-time profiler. With these circumstances they should assign at least one of us.

  Pike continues. “Detectives Flynn and Jones from Homicide, Sandra Couples, and from our end we’ve got Krip and O’Donnell from the D.C. Field Office. We’re also going to assign two of you—”

  Thank God. “I’d like to be involved,” I say.

  My voice is quickly followed by Josh’s. “I’d like to be on the team too, sir.”

  “You two have just come off the Henley case. What about your other cases?” Rivers says.

  Marco responds first. “We can do a bit of overtime, sir. Bes
ides, we worked together well on the Henley case.”

  I take over the baton. “And we know Flynn and Jones. We all work well together.”

  Rivers and Pike exchange looks. A nod from Rivers, then one from Pike.

  “You two have got it,” Rivers says, leaning against the wall.

  Would they give it to us if they knew Josh and I were seeing each other? Possibly not. But it doesn’t matter. Josh and I did work well together on the Henley case and hopefully nothing’s changed.

  “Anything from the officers on duty? The drive-bys?” I ask.

  Rivers shakes his head. “I heard back from Couples. None of the patrols saw or heard anything suspicious.”

  I sink slightly into my seat at the disappointing news.

  Pike clears his throat and addresses the whole team. “I’ve set up appointments for you all to see Dr. Rosen. Given the situation, it’s for the best.”

  I can see from the faces around the table that no one’s happy with this development. A few arms cross and sideways glances are thrown. Most agents don’t like to talk about their feelings, me included. Besides, I know she’ll tell me I’m blocking my emotions and compensating with work. You bet I am. I can’t do Sam any good if I let myself think about her, where she might be and what she’s going through, for more than a fleeting moment. I have to catch this guy and that’s all I can think about. Catching him.

  “Janet will send you all your appointment times.” Pike unbuttons his gray suit and leans on the desk. “And there’ll be no excuses.” He looks around the table and makes sure he eyeballs us all. “I mean that. No excuses.”

  I shift in my chair. We need to get out there. Now.

  “O’Donnell will be in charge of the Bureau’s efforts,” Pike says, addressing Josh and I.

  The meeting’s finished and we all file out.

  Josh walks next to me and we move through the rabbit warren. He walks close, but not so close that the recent development in our relationship would be obvious to an observer.

  “You seem to be taking this pretty well, Soph.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

  “We’re going to find her.” I quicken my already fast steps.

  Josh hesitates. “Yes. We will.”

  “We have to find her.” My fingers tighten on my notepad.

  “Sophie, I don’t think the reality of the situation has hit you yet.” Josh gently takes my arm and brings me to a stop.

  I don’t like it. I need to keep moving.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. But I’m lying. It feels as if it’s happening to someone else or I’m watching the events unfold in a movie. To be honest, I prefer it that way.

  I start walking again. It’s bad enough that the departmental psychologist’s going to be poking around inside my head—I don’t want Josh in there too. I leave Josh in the corridor and enter my office, but he lingers in the doorway. I look up at him.

  “Do you want to ride to D.C. together?” he asks.

  I can’t think about this now! Why is he asking me this now?

  “Um…” My mind labors through the options and one thought remains—I want to be alone. “Let’s take two cars.”

  Josh nods, then pauses. I shuffle papers and keep my head down, hoping he’ll get the hint that I don’t want to talk.

  There’s silence for a few moments. “I guess I’ll see you there,” he says finally. I can tell he’s upset that I’m shutting him out, but I just don’t want to—no, can’t—talk about any of it. I need to focus on the facts.

  I look up and force a smile. “I’ll see you there soon.”

  He pauses again, and then leaves.

  I stop my meaningless paper-shuffling and actually look at what’s in my hands. It’s the full report on the handwriting from the note to Sam. On the front is a Post-it note from Marty. Knew you’d want this. I’ve compiled the three experts’ reports into one. Marty.

  I flick through it quickly before heading for D.C.

  The hour-long ride on the I-95 is pure hell, both in terms of traffic on the road and internal traffic in my head. When I finally park at the D.C. Field Office and make my way into the building, I’m even more frazzled than when I left, if that’s possible.

  The field office is a modern building on Fourth Street in the northwest quadrant. I sign in at the desk and catch the elevator to the seventh floor. The project room is large, with floor-to-ceiling windows that look over D.C. In the center of the room is a large rectangular meeting table and ten black high-back chairs. Two whiteboards are mounted on the wall, and the room is equipped with multimedia facilities, including a projector system and video conferencing equipment.

  Around the table sit the main members of the task force, including Josh. We’ll have access to backup if—no, when—we find the guy. I take the nearest seat and we all say our brief hellos with tight smiles.

  O’Donnell sits directly opposite me. I know O’Donnell. I like O’Donnell. He’s a stocky man in his mid forties, with a hairline that’s well and truly receded. He shaves what’s left of his hair, and the lack of hair accentuates his steel-blue, no-nonsense eyes.

  To O’Donnell’s left sits Krip. I don’t know much about Krip, but what I’ve seen so far isn’t impressive. He’s happy to cruise. His external image reflects what I’ve heard about him. His sandy-blond hair is long for an agent, and this, coupled with his freckled face, reminds me more of an Aussie or Californian surfer than an FBI agent. Krip leans back in his chair, way back. Does he even care that Sam’s been taken?

  On the other side of O’Donnell is Couples, who sits upright in her chair. The light from the window catches her gray streaks.

  Flynn and Jones sit together on my right. I look briefly at Flynn and we make eye contact. Flynn, like O’Donnell, has Irish heritage and amazing blue eyes. The kind of eyes that one moment can look soft and babyish, but the next seem to stab you with intensity. No doubt he uses those eyes on suspects. Today he is wearing a dark brown woolen suit with a cream shirt, no tie. He gives me a brief smile then goes back to his file. He doesn’t waste a minute.

  Next to him Jones is hunched over his pad, doodling. Jones does some of his best work when he’s doodling. He has a more casual look, jeans and a leather jacket. They sit well on his slight frame, but also accentuate his youth. Jones is in his mid twenties, but you wouldn’t know it from his work. What he lacks in murder investigation experience, he makes up for in smarts.

  “So Sophie, you’re sure it’s the Slasher,” O’Donnell says.

  “Absolutely. There’s no doubt in my mind.” No one challenges me. “Besides, given the high-profile nature, we would have got a ransom note or call by now.”

  O’Donnell hesitates for only a minute. “Okay, let’s work that angle.”

  “What did you think of Sam’s profile?” I ask, getting down to business.

  It’s Flynn who answers first. “Interesting. The possibility that he’s got a law-enforcement background is concerning.”

  “He might just be posing as an officer. We can’t be sure he’s a working cop,” I say.

  “A cop?” Krip smiles. “But Sam’s pegged him as smart and well spoken.”

  Jones comes to the defense of the boys in blue. “I’d put my IQ against yours any day.”

  We all laugh, even Krip. But the release is followed by a guilty silence.

  Finally, it’s Couples who speaks. “I still can’t believe he’s nabbed Wright.”

  No one knows what to say, so Couples’s admission is followed by somber looks and another period of silence.

  I glance at my watch and scribble down some calculations, making a mark on my empty page. I’ve already worked this out in my head, but I do it again anyway.

  “If he took Sam the night I was there, then I figure we’ve got between thirty-three hours to just under six and a half days to find her, assuming he’ll hold her for three to eight days, like he did the others.”

  O’Donnell leans against the table. “I want everyone devoted to this�
�more than full-time. Clear your schedules.”

  “No problem,” Flynn says.

  I smile at him in appreciation. He’ll work on two hours’ sleep until we find Sam.

  “Did Sam lodge anything with VICAP?” Josh says.

  Jones stops doodling and writes VICAP on a small blank section of his page. Even though it may not look like it, we’ve got his full attention.

  “Yeah, she did. The VICAP analysts are looking at it now. We’ll have the results by four today,” I say.

  Jones glances at his watch. “Two hours.”

  O’Donnell looks at Flynn and Jones. “You two already look into VICAP?”

  Flynn answers. “Our search turned up two matches in Chicago.”

  “And?”

  “Dead end. They’re related, but the perp didn’t leave any evidence in Chicago either.”

  Everyone looks discouraged. I step in. “This search should be a little different. One of our VICAP experts is expanding the search criteria and then analyzing the results manually.” You tend to get a better result with individual attention.

  “Well, let’s see what it turns up,” O’Donnell says.

  “I also got a copy of the handwriting expert’s report before I came over here,” I say, handing out copies to everyone.

  “You looked at it yet?” O’Donnell asks.

  “I had a quick glance.”

  We all take the time to read the three-page report. Jones jots down a few notes, as do I, but the rest of the team simply reads.

  The report brings together several elements, combining the efforts of a document examiner, handwriting examiner and a forensic linguist. In addition to covering the type of ink and paper used, it also includes an analysis of whether the writer is left-or right-handed, whether they’re trying to disguise their writing, patterns in speech that may indicate where a person grew up and/or their education level, and their frame of mind when writing the note. In our case, we already know that the perp used a standard blue Bic ballpoint and a page torn from a Spirax notebook, but this information forms the start of the report.

  Next comes the general handwriting analysis. The perp’s purposefully used printing and all uppercase letters, which makes a handwriting expert’s job much harder. But nonetheless, some patterns emerge, and the address details on the envelope are in normal, cursive writing. The slight slant of the writing indicates a left-hander, although the handwriting expert notes that at one point the slant changes momentarily—something that often happens if someone is writing with their non-preferred hand as an attempt to disguise their writing. But the slant change is only for two words and the writing around the words is characterized by more lifts than other sections. A lift is when someone stops writing for a split second, taking their pen off the paper. This can indicate the person is lying, under stress or still hasn’t made up their mind about exactly how they’re going to phrase the note. Our expert has concluded that the writer is left-handed and that the slant change is due to an interruption of thought.