The FBI Profiler Series 6-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  “You,” Rainie said hotly, “have been watching too many Oliver Stone movies.”

  “I’ll do it,” Quincy said calmly. They both looked at him belatedly, as if just now remembering he was there. “I’ll look into Shep,” he repeated, then quickly cut off Rainie’s objection. “It’s due discipline, Rainie. There are too many things about this shooting that don’t make sense. Until they do, everyone must be a suspect—mysterious men in black and, yes, the town sheriff.”

  Rainie sat back. She wasn’t happy, but there was no more point in arguing. Quincy returned to the general conversation.

  “One last thing,” he said. “If the UNSUB is a stranger, we need to cast a wider net because chances are that he’s still in the area.”

  “You mean in Bakersville?” Rainie asked incredulously.

  “No, this town is too small to hide in. He’d look for a neighboring town, maybe a larger tourist resort. Someplace where he could go to bars and local establishments and watch all the news coverage. He’s probably following the investigation very closely and asking others about it. It’s his way of reliving the moment, of still having fun. We should make contact with neighboring police departments. Have their officers ask hotel workers and bartenders. Any new faces showing a lot of interest in Bakersville’s tragedy? Any mid-twenties to mid-forties white males who’ve been mouthing off on the subject or asking a lot of questions? That sort of thing.”

  Sanders nodded. “I can make a few calls,” he said, then shrugged dubiously. “I don’t want to lose my own men to a wild-goose chase, though. You guys may like the notion of some mystery man, but I keep coming back to the victim’s injury. I’ve seen a lot of homicides, and a single gunshot wound to the forehead—that’s a targeted victim any way you look at it. Maybe it wasn’t Danny, but somebody specifically wanted Melissa Avalon dead.”

  Quincy didn’t argue. Neither did Rainie. It did seem to come back to Melissa Avalon, and the fact that they still couldn’t understand why made them all very uncomfortable.

  “Well, at least we have one lucky break on our side,” Quincy said finally.

  Sanders and Rainie exchanged startled glances. Sanders did the honors. “We have a break?”

  “The recovery of the .22-caliber slug. You said it yourself, Detective. Most .22s become too deformed for a ballistics test. My guess is our shooter knew that too. So he tells Danny to bring a .22. Chances are, his slug will ricochet inside the skull, obliterating trajectory and rifling marks. Given all other circumstantial evidence, Danny will be blamed for Melissa Avalon’s death as well. Except the bullet doesn’t ricochet. It holds a trajectory that immediately lets us know the shooter must have been another adult. And it keeps enough of the base intact to reveal its little secret—it’s perfectly smooth, indicating a unique weapon. One 40-grain slug later, we know something else happened at that school.”

  Rainie slowly nodded. Without the slug and its trajectory, there would never have been any reason to look beyond Danny O’Grady. Especially with the boy confessing each and every chance he got.

  Sanders, however, was frowning. “I don’t get it. You’re saying someone asked Danny to bring a .22 to cover for his own .22. But why the hell would he do that? Why wouldn’t he simply use Danny’s gun?”

  Rainie stopped. Stared. She looked at Quincy, who for once appeared completely flummoxed.

  “The .22 slug is smooth,” she murmured. “It definitely didn’t come from Danny’s gun. And that poses another question: If the shooter brought his own weapon to kill Melissa Avalon, why a .22? It’s not that powerful, particularly for a head shot. Frankly, many people survive that wound. And yet he fired only one shot to her forehead with his own gun. Risking her living to tell the tale. Risking someone seeing him armed. I don’t understand.… Something here doesn’t make sense.”

  They all looked at one another. No one had an answer. A preselected victim. A mystery slug. An unidentified man who had cajoled a thirteen-year-old boy into taking part in murder.

  They had come a long way from a mindless act of rage, and now, suddenly, Rainie didn’t know where they were going anymore. She thought about her small, peaceful town. She thought about the towering trees and the gentle rolling hills. She thought about Danny, so scared and frightened and determined to take credit for murder. She thought of the school halls, still streaked in blood.

  And for the first time in fourteen years, Rainie was frightened.

  NINETEEN

  Thursday, May 17, 4:21 P.M.

  Danny sat alone in his eight-by-eight room, staring at a spider that was slowly working its way across the thin-carpeted floor.

  The door was open. Every morning at 6 A.M., the doors were flung wide by burly staff members who yelled, “It’s that time, boys and girls.” The doors stayed open all day, joining a series of look-alike rooms to a main hallway until nine o’clock at night, when everyone prepared for bed. More staff people—not guards, Danny was told, but guides—came by and locked everyone in from the outside. At ten o’clock came lights-out. Danny would find a face peering in through the Plexiglas window, making sure he followed the rules.

  Danny followed the rules. He didn’t make any trouble. He got up when he was supposed to. He let the guide escort him to the cafeteria. He stared at his tray. He let another guide lead him to a classroom, where twenty boys, ages ranging from twelve to seventeen, pretended to be studying under the eyes of some chipper lady who insisted that they could be whatever they wanted to be. Later they were allowed to socialize.

  Danny always came back to his room, where he sat alone. No one cared. Cabot County’s Juvenile Center was a newer facility. It operated as a giant, beige-colored dorm, unlike the other places kids whispered about. Old prisons converted into youth facilities where the walls and floors were slabs of concrete and everybody got to watch everybody pee. Cabot County wasn’t anything like that. Some of the kids got to wear their own clothes as long as they didn’t sport gang colors or offensive T-shirts. The social room had lots of Plexiglas windows and real live plants. If kids earned enough merit points, they could watch TV or even rent movies for the VCR.

  For the most part, the guides led them through their days, a careful schedule of meals, classes, and rec time. As long as you did what you were told and went where you were told, no one made a fuss. You could even be alone during the social time. Sit in your room. Stare at your blue hospital scrubs. Watch spiders. Didn’t matter.

  The whole point was that you were never going to make it any farther. The nice rooms had Plexiglas windows for a reason. And all the outside doors were inch-thick steel. Then there was the ten-foot-high fence ringing the yard and topped with coils of barbed wire. The searchlights. The guides who had keys to rifles loaded with rubber bullets.

  When Danny first got there, the older kids had been fascinated by him, and they told him stories of juvies who’d run for it. Kids who had been flattened by mattresses, gassed with pepper spray, or, rarely, if they made it beyond the fence, hunted down by growling Dobermans. If the dogs catch you, they’re each allowed one bite as a reward, kids said. The guides pick the place.

  Danny thought the kids were full of shit, but he didn’t say anything. Since the day he’d come in, that had been his motto. Don’t give up a word.

  I’m smart, I’m smart, I’m smart.

  I’m scared.

  Now he watched the spider laboriously climb toward the barred window, thirsty for sunlight or maybe the wind in its hairy little face.

  Danny fingered his scrubs—no laces, no buttons, no belts for a kid under “SWatch”—and tried to get his mind to shut up.

  The lawyer came to talk to him yesterday. Danny hadn’t wanted to see the man. He had a fancy gray suit and an expensive watch and Danny knew he must cost a lot of money, which made him feel worse. His mom would be stressed about that, trying to figure out how to pay. His father would yell at her that it didn’t matter, because good old Shep didn’t get how the world worked. He was still lost in his footba
ll fantasies where he and/or his son were scoring the winning touchdown during the big homecoming game.

  Danny hated worrying his mom. He knew she had cried. He’d heard her himself. Late at night he tried to cover his ears with his hands to block out the sound, but then he’d have to move his hand and stuff it in his mouth to keep from whimpering.

  The lawyer made small talk. He told Danny what a lawyer did and what a trial was about. What his role would be and what Danny’s role would be. He spoke as if Danny was four years old, and Danny let him. He stared at a point just beyond the lawyer’s ear while the man babbled for an hour.

  Danny wasn’t supposed to talk to the counselors, he was told. They technically worked for the detention center, so it could be argued that they were law enforcement and anything he told them might be used against him at trial. To be on the safe side, Danny should ask for a chaplain or a pastor or a rabbi if he felt like spilling his guts. Priest-penitent privilege was absolute.

  Danny didn’t talk. He knew absolutely he could not talk, could not trust anyone, even during the quiet hours of the night when the words bobbed up inside him and lodged as a fierce, hard knot in the center of his chest. That’s when he saw what had happened again, clearly but somehow distanced, as if it had all been a dream and had nothing to do with him. Then he’d raise his hand, see that he wasn’t even trembling, and want to scream and scream and scream.

  The lawyer told him two experts would be visiting him as well. There were more rules about talking. One of them couldn’t be trusted. Danny was to be careful. The other—Schaffer, maybe?—worked for his parents. He could tell him everything. Maybe he should think about telling him everything. Maybe he would feel better about getting it off his chest.

  The lawyer looked at him kindly.

  Danny thought about Miss Avalon. The expression that had washed over her face. The way she had turned toward him. Her last words, not understanding.

  “Danny, run! Run, run, run!”

  The spider reached the window. Danny watched it race happily over the warm, unbreakable glass.

  So many things in his mind. All these images, but so far away. Blood. Noise. Smells he’d never imagined. Hot guns in his hands. But so far away. Maybe just a dream. Snap, open your eyes and it’s gone. Maybe a bad TV show. Click, turn it off, go to bed.

  Sally and Alice and Miss Avalon. Sally and Alice and pretty Miss Avalon.

  “Run, Danny, run!”

  Danny got up. He raised his hand and slammed it down on the spider. Smash. He had happy spider guts all over his hand. He studied his fingers. They still wouldn’t tremble. He stared at his hand and he willed it to shake. Nothing.

  Danny, the stone-cold killer.

  He went back to his bed.

  Rainie swooped down on Charlie Kenyon like a bat out of hell. She’d had four run-ins with the nineteen-year-old, and this time around she didn’t have the patience. She spotted him riding a small Huffy dirt bike down a bumpy logging road on his father’s wooded estate, she flipped on her lights, and she went after him.

  Quincy was riding shotgun. He didn’t blink an eye at the display of sirens, lights, and billowing dust as Rainie pulled Charlie over to the side of the road and fishtailed to a stop. She got out of the car with her hand resting on the top of the baton in her heavy utility belt.

  “Off the bike, Charlie.”

  “Holy shit, Officer, was I speeding?” Looking cool in a black leather jacket and too-tight jeans, Charlie remained standing over the dirt bike. He gave her a mocking grin. Rainie worked on not smashing in his face. She needed to get more sleep. Even for herself, she was short-tempered these days.

  Charlie’s gaze flickered behind her, to where Quincy was climbing out of the car.

  “Who’s the suit?” Charlie asked.

  “None of your business.”

  “Breaking in a new partner? Shouldn’t you have told him about the dress code? Man, I’ve seen guys killed for wearing silk ties in these parts.”

  Rainie ignored his comments. “Whose bike, Charlie?”

  “Why? Gonna make me an offer?”

  “Whose bike, Charlie?”

  “Mine—”

  “It’s sized for an eight-year-old.”

  “I’m nostalgic.”

  “Really? And here I thought you were just a lying piece of shit. Get off the bike, Charlie, and put your hands in the air.”

  Charlie finally dropped his James Dean routine long enough to scowl and whine. “Hey, I won the bike fair and square. It’s not my fault the kid never learned to dodge left in a fight.”

  “I said now.”

  “I’m on my father’s property—”

  “Now!”

  Charlie finally went quiet. He stared at her. He stared at Quincy. Then he grudgingly swung a leg over the bike and let it drop to the ground. “All right, all right, don’t get your panties in a wad.”

  “Hands in the air. Turn around. Place them against the tree trunk. Spread your legs.”

  “You’re gonna pat me down? Over stealing a bike?”

  “Who said this had anything to do with a bike?”

  “What the—”

  He was too late. Rainie had already gotten close enough to hook her foot around his. She twisted him straight into the tree trunk, planted his hands above his head, and frisked him. A minute later she was the proud owner of a corkscrew, a switchblade, two hundred dollars cash, and a roll of quarters.

  Quincy helped himself to the coins. He hefted the roll in his hand, fisted his fingers around it, and admired the weight. Charlie Kenyon knew how to pack a punch.

  “Slow nights, Mr. Kenyon?” he asked Charlie.

  Rainie released her pressure on the teen’s back. He turned around unhurriedly, making a big show of shaking out his arms and fussing with the collar of his leather jacket. After smoothing back his brown wavy hair, he gave Quincy a disdainful stare.

  “I’m sorry,” the teen said with bracing sarcasm, “but I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Supervisory Special Agent Pierce Quincy. FBI.”

  “Ah shit,” Charlie said.

  Rainie finally smiled. “Funny, your father said the same thing when I spoke to him this afternoon. It appears it’s one thing to tangle with the locals, but not even your father feels like messing with the feds.”

  “You can take the bike.”

  “No kidding. Charlie, tell us about Danny O’Grady.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. We want to know everything you ever said to Danny. And if I were you, I’d give us absolute cooperation, because a few eyewitnesses have already told us enough to book you as an accomplice to murder. You’re nineteen, Charlie. You end up aiding and abetting a mass murder, and there’s nothing your pissant ex-mayor father can do to help you anymore. You graduate to a whole new league of adult delinquency. We’re talking hard time, and not even at one of those lovely country-club prisons. You’d get the real thing.”

  “Hey, hey, hey, hey.” Charlie held up two hands and made a big show of backing off. “You think I was involved with hurting those girls? No way, no how. I got an alibi.” He gave Quincy a look. “And she’s real sweet, if you know what I mean.”

  “Why were you hanging out at the elementary school? Are high school kids too tough for you? Bigger, stronger, might actually put up a fight?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just got a thing for jungle gyms.”

  “I’m getting angry, Charlie. I’m not getting a lot of sleep these days, and the mayor told me this morning to do whatever’s necessary to solve this case, so I wouldn’t make me angry right now.”

  “I got a federal witness,” Charlie said promptly.

  Quincy looked at the sky. “Where?”

  “Shit, I thought you guys had standards.”

  Quincy eyed Rainie balefully. “I guess that explains Waco.”

  Charlie flinched. “This just burns me, man.”

  “My heart’s breaking,” Rainie assured him
. “Why were you at the elementary school, Charlie?”

  “ ’Cause I get bored, okay? ’Cause there’s nothing to do in Bitchville, U.S.A., and sometimes I need a little distraction.”

  “Is that what Danny O’Grady was to you? Distraction?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Danny was interesting. Real potential, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I don’t. He was a good student, smart, stayed out of trouble. The only potential I saw in him was to get a lot further in life than you ever will.”

  Charlie turned away from her. He looked at Quincy slyly. “You know what I mean, don’t you, fed? I’ve heard about you. You’re some big-shot profiler. Best there ever was, put away the infamous Jim Beckett. Dazzle me, fed. It’s damn slow around here. I need someone to say something interesting just so I can stay awake.”

  “I think you should keep doing the talking,” Quincy said evenly. “Us law-enforcement types have a hang-up about hearing things in your own words. Besides, I’m sure you love to listen to yourself speak.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “It’s a job requirement.”

  “Charlie, what were you doing with Danny?”

  “Nothing, okay? Exercising our First Amendment rights. You come down on me for that and I’ll sic the ACLU all over your small-town ass.”

  Rainie turned to Quincy. “This isn’t working for me.”

  “He seems very belligerent,” Quincy agreed.

  “I think we’re going to have to do something about that.”

  “Harm a single dead-skin cell on my head and my father will sue you back to the Stone Age.”

  “At this point, your father would have to get in line.” Rainie turned back to Quincy. She said thoughtfully, “I’m thinking hair or jacket.”

  Quincy carefully scrutinized Charlie’s black biker jacket and meticulously styled hair.

  “Jacket,” he said.

  “Okay.” Rainie stepped forward. Charlie saw her coming and tried to duck right. She countered, found a sleeve, and neatly spun Charlie around. A second later she held the black leather jacket and Charlie stood stunned.