by Elle Gray
“I guess you’re free to pick your workstation,” I say.
Astra grins and finds a station near the monitors and starts to set up. At the same time, the door opens and Maureen Weissman walks in. She’s a couple inches shorter than me, with short, neatly trimmed dirty blonde hair and brown eyes. Her stride is purposeful, her expression rigid. Astra wasn’t kidding, she really does seem to be all business. She walks over to me and stops, standing at attention a couple of feet from me.
“SSA Wilder,” she starts, her tone as rigid as her posture. “Special Agent Maureen Weissman reporting for duty.”
I glance over at Astra, who’s fighting to keep from laughing out loud. Reaching out, I take Maureen’s hand and give it a firm shake.
“Pleasure to meet you, Maureen－”
“Please, call me Mo.”
“Very well. Mo,” I nod. “Call me Blake. And you should know that this unit will run a little more informally. We’re going to be a bit looser than other squads. No need for such formalities.”
Mo looks at me like the concept of relaxing and being loose is something that’s entirely foreign to her. I guess what I’ve heard about the white collar unit being stiff and completely humorless is true. This is going to take a little work, but hopefully, we’ll rub off on her soon enough.
“Well, welcome to the CDAU,” I say. “Our acronym sucks, but we’ll be doing good work here. Go ahead and pick a station.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” she says, her tone still stiff.
“It’s just Blake. Honest, it’s all right.”
Mo looks at me with her head slightly cocked, clearly struggling with the idea of calling her superior by her first name.
“That’s okay. We’ll work on it,” I tell her. “Grab a workstation and settle into your new home.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Mo goes and picks a workstation, also near the monitors, though keeping a desk of separation between her and Astra. I glance over at Astra and share a smile with her, shaking my head. We’re really going to have to work on socializing her a bit. I mean, I’m all about the job, but Mo seems to be only about the job. In my experience, there’s a balance that needs to be made or you’ll burn out quick.
The door to the office opens again, and our resident geek, Rick Scanlon walks in. He’s only an inch or so taller than my five-nine frame, but he’s burly and somehow seems larger. He’s got a shaggy shock of light brown hair, a prodigious lumberjack style beard, and his clothes give him a very retro feel. I’d be shocked if he purchased his clothes anywhere but a vintage thrift store. He just screams hipster to me.
He sees me and smiles wide, walking over to me without hesitation and offers me his hand. His grip is firm and confident.
“Rick Scanlon,” he says, his voice a little higher pitched than I expected.
“SSA Blake Wilder,” I reply. “And something tells me you make your own craft beer and only listen to music on vinyl.”
His laugh is deep and rumbling. “And some people think this whole profiling thing is junk science.”
I laugh. “Good to have you, Rick,” I say, pointing to the cluster of tech desks. “Make yourself at home.”
“Thank you, Blake. Glad to be on the team.”
I step back and look at the three of them settling into their workstations. My team. Even though it’s less than what I expected, and I know there are some rooting for me to fail, I can’t help but feel a flush of both pride and excitement about what we’re about to do. What we are going to accomplish together. We’re going to do some great things and make a real difference here.
As Astra said… we’re going to be small but mighty.
Four
Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office
“We use crime statistics and other relevant data to identify patterns, which lead us to investigate,” I say, finishing up the brief orientation I put together. “It’s a bit unorthodox, but that’s how we operate. We’re data driven and open investigations based on that. Any questions?”
“So, we’re basically predicting crime?” Mo asks.
I pace back and forth in front of the monitors at the front of the bullpen. But then I stop and turn to Mo.
“In a sense. But I wouldn’t call it predicting, exactly. That makes it sound like something we’re not. This isn’t Minority Report or anything,” I reply.
“Great movie,” comments Rick.
“We’re using data to identify patterns,” I go on. “A pattern can potentially indicate the presence of a serial killer. For instance, a few years back, Astra and I looked at the violent crime rate in a small town called Briar Glen. It was way out of whack. Well above the national average, above Seattle, and one of the highest rates in the nation, and to make matters worse, the local LEOs had no idea. We identified a pattern of killings that went back almost two decades. We uncovered a cult that was exacting their revenge on petty criminals, and then we followed the data to make connections between seemingly unconnected cases. The only way we were able to roll them up is because of that data.
“So I know others may call it predicting, or have a host of derogatory terms for what it is we’re doing, but don’t give that any oxygen. We’re data focused. Period. The data drives us, and then we go from there.”
Mo seems to be considering it as I speak. Coming from the white collar crime unit that deals only in numbers and data, I don’t think this should be too hard for her to grasp. But she is still looking at me like I’m talking about voodoo. I suppose it has something to do with the fact that because she’s coming from white collar, she hasn’t had to deal with violent offenders before. She hasn’t had to deal with serial killers or murderers in general. It makes me wonder what she did when she was with the SPD. I make a mental note to ask her about it sometime.
“Any other questions?” I ask.
The three of them look at each other, but the room remains quiet. I give them a nod and am just about to start handing out assignments when Rosie comes through the door. She gives me a look and motions toward my office.
“Okay well, why don’t you guys take a few minutes to get to know each other, and then I’ll be back and we can start going over our next steps,” I tell them.
Rosie’s already sitting in the chair before my desk when I walk in, so I close the door and walk around, dropping into my own chair. I notice she’s got a file in her lap. It’s thin, which tells me it’s a new investigation, and there isn’t much paper on it yet.
“Sorry to pull you away from your team,” she says. “But this just came through and it’s hot. I know it’s not your usual MO, but I need a team on it, and I thought it might be a good dry run for you and your team. See how you work together and all.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” I nod. “Being able to see their strengths and weaknesses in the field is actually a really good idea.”
It’s not the way we’re going to usually be generating cases, but I knew that from time to time, we’d probably have to catch cases directly from Rosie. The SFO is a bit understaffed, since the powers that be think the Bureau would be better served by spreading our resources out and concentrating them in the bigger cities like New York, Miami, Chicago, and Los Angeles.
For some reason, they think that Seattle doesn’t have the same needs as other large urban centers. Which is ridiculous, of course. But that’s just my opinion. And as a result, the SFO doesn’t have as many agents as we need, so we often end up pulling double duty.
“So what do we have?” I ask.
Rosie slides the file over to me. “Body was found this morning. It’s in pretty bad shape, apparently,” she says. “It was discovered in a dumpster behind a restaurant just outside of Seattle city limits. SPD won’t touch it, so the King County Sheriff gave us a call direct and asked for our help.”
“Great. We’re on it,” I tell her.
“Thanks, Blake. I appreciate it.”
“You got it, boss.”
Rosie leaves the unit and
I walk back out into the bullpen. All eyes turn to me as I step to the front so I can address them all.
“Okay, we caught a case direct, and Rosie needs a team, so we’re going to get on that,” I say.
“Details?” Astra asks.
“Minimal at this point. Male, late twenties to early thirties. That’s about it,” I reply. “All I know is that it’s a body in a dumpster just outside the city. SPD won’t go near it, and apparently won’t provide assistance.”
“That’s not surprising,” Mo grumbles bitterly under her breath, sounding for all the world like Paxton. Her opinion of the SPD is obviously no more favorable than his… or mine. Which gives us something to bond over.
“All right,” I say. “Mo, Astra, with me. Rick, I want you on comms, ready to do your thing when I need it.”
“I’ll be ready and waiting,” he says.
“Good. Let’s roll.”
Five
Artie’s Diner; Caribou Pass, WA
“Wow. That’s a mess,” Astra observes.
I nod. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Jesus,” Mo gasps. “Who would do something like this?”
I turn to her and see that she’s looking a little green around the gills and have to remind myself that she’s coming from white collar. Not a lot of bloody, torn up bodies to be found there. Astra is looking at Mo, grinning wide.
“First time?” Astra asks.
Mo looks back at her, a stony, unfriendly look on her face. Astra can sometimes be a little over the top. She definitely likes to tease. And I can tell just by the way she’s looking at Astra, that Mo is definitely not that way. At least, not yet. My hope is that she learns to loosen up because I was impressed enough with her record to pick her. But you can never get a real sense of a person on paper. I think we could use her skills, but if we all can’t be one cohesive unit, and she can’t get used to being around dead bodies, I’ll need to rethink things.
“Mo, why don’t you go canvass the tape line?” I say.
She gives me a firm nod, but I can see the relief in her eyes at getting away from the torn and ravaged body in the dumpster. I know that not everybody is cut out for this kind of work. Not everybody is used to or is able to get used to, being around this sort of violence. We all think we are and that it’s no big deal. But when you’re standing in front of a body in the condition we’re looking at right now, it changes things. Makes them real.
And I need Astra to know that we need to be sensitive to that. She and I have that easy rapport between us because we’ve known each other for so long. We can make jokes like that. But not somebody like Mo, who doesn’t have the experience we do handling these sorts of cases.
“Yes ma’am,” she says, practically sprinting away.
Astra looks at me. “Delicate.”
“Maybe. But you should probably go easy on her,” I tell her. “Maybe let her get her feet wet here before putting her through the trial by fire?”
“Got to separate the wheat from the chaff,” she notes.
“True. But I don’t want to scare them away before we can find out which they are. You know what I mean?”
Astra sighs dramatically, though her eyes are sparkling with amusement. “Fine. If you say so. I’ll go easy on the newbie.”
I laugh softly. “I appreciate that.”
An hour after getting the case from Rosie, we’re standing in front of a big, blue dumpster behind a greasy spoon in the small town of Caribou Pass, which is little more than an affluent bedroom community of maybe fifty or sixty thousand souls, just over the line from Seattle.
There’s a crowd gathering on the other side of the tape line. Probably the usual morning crowd at Artie’s, all of them gawking, trying to get a glimpse of the carnage behind the diner. Caribou Pass doesn’t have much in the way of crime annually, probably making this the biggest thing to hit the town in a long while. So of course, everybody wants to see what’s happening. Gossip fodder for their book clubs, backyard barbecues, and social hours at the country club.
The sky is gray, it’s cold, and a light drizzle is falling. Typical November weather in Seattle. At least the responding officer had the good sense and foresight to put a tent up over the dumpster to preserve the crime scene.
“Agents. Thanks for getting here so quickly.”
We turn and see a tall, thin man walking our way. He’s got a thick, dark green jacket bearing the King County Sheriff’s Office patch on the sleeves over an olive green shirt, and dark green pants, and a Smokey the Bear hat on. He’s got dark hair that’s cut short and a neatly trimmed beard.
One golden star shines on each of his shoulders, which indicates to me that while he technically operates under the Sheriff’s Office, he’s effectively Chief of Police out here in this little town, which can’t afford its own department.
“Chief Zach Munson,” he introduces himself. “Caribou Pass Division of KCSO.”
He’s a lot younger than I expected him to be. He’s about my age, maybe thirty or thirty-one. Of course, being the Chief in a place like this isn’t the same as being on top in a place like Seattle. But still, it’s impressive.
Astra and I both shake hands with him and introduce ourselves, spending a couple of moments on the normal pleasantries. With the proper social norms observed, we all turn to the dumpster and the wreck inside.
“Who found him?” I ask.
“Jeff Green,” Munson explains. “He’s the owner of Artie’s. Said he found him when he was getting set up for the breakfast rush.”
I pull my phone out and hit the button to call Rick, then hold it to my ear. He answers before it stopped ringing the first time.
“Speak and be heard,” he says by way of greeting, making me chuckle.
“I need you to run a full background on a Jeff Green of Caribou Pass,” I order him.
“You got it. I’ll get started on it now. Should have it ready by the time you get back to the shop. But I’ll call if I find anything important.”
“Thanks, Rick.”
I disconnect the call and slide the phone back into my pocket. Chief Munson is looking at me, a disturbed expression on his face.
“There is no way Mr. Green had anything to do with this. He’s a good guy.”
“That may be, but this is just standard. If nothing else, we need to rule him out,” I reply. “In my experience, there is a healthy percentage of people reporting a crime who actually committed it, so I like to cover my bases.”
He nods but still looks uneasy about the fact that I’m looking into one of his townies. I get it. I’m not an idiot. Small, tight-knit communities like these tend to be pretty insular and protective of their own. And the chances are good that this Jeff Green doesn’t have anything to do with this. But we have to look at anybody and everybody even tangentially related to a murder. We have to gather every crumb of data we possibly can, even if it doesn’t seem connected. That’s the entire point of our team in the first place.
“Where is Mr. Green now?” I ask.
“He’s inside the diner. He was pretty shaken up after finding… that.”
I nod. “I understand,” I say. “Have your crime techs already photographed the body and the scene?”
“Well, I guess I’m the crime tech by default since I took the photos,” he says with a rueful laugh. “Don’t worry though, I’ve taken plenty of forensics classes and know how to take proper crime scene pictures.”
“Perfect. I’ll need copies of those, please.”
He nods. “I’ll send ‘em over as soon as I get back to the station.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Now, can you have your men lift the body out?”
“You got it,” he says and turns away, walking over to gather his men.
While he does that, Astra and I both look around the dumpster, then inside, taking a good look at how the body is laying. We’ll need to have all of the trash inside processed, so I’m going to need to have this dumpster transferred down to our crime lab
since I don’t exactly trust the Caribou Pass Division to process it correctly. It’s not because I think they’re incompetent, they just don’t have the experience to know what it is that they’re looking for. I trust our techs to know.
Munson and his men walk back over and they manage to wrestle the body out and lay it down on a tarp. Astra and I stand over the body and she whistles low.
“Somehow, he looks even worse out here than he did laying in the dumpster,” she remarks.
“Somebody went to town on this guy,” I say.
Chief Munson is looking a bit pale and drawn. He clearly hasn’t had much more experience than Mo around dead bodies. He is trying to hold it together and project an image of confidence－it would probably be a bad look for the Chief to puke up his breakfast in front of his men－but it’s a tenuous thing.
Astra and I both snap on a pair of latex gloves and start to process the body. The face of the man is… gone. Whoever killed him completely savaged his face. It looks like he’s been beaten to a pulp with a baseball bat or some other heavy, blunt object. I look over at Astra, who seems to be coming to the inevitable conclusion at the same time I am.
“Dental records are going to be a no go,” she says, confirming the thought already bouncing around in my own head.
“Looks that way,” I agree.
Astra starts to rifle through the man’s pockets, but I don’t have high hopes that she’s going to find anything useful. The smashing out of the man’s teeth feels deliberate to me. Like whoever did this knew we could match dental records and took steps to assure that we wouldn’t be able to.
The thought that this was a forensic countermeasure is confirmed for me when I looked at his hands. I lift one up and frown.
“Astra,” I say.
Having turned the last pocket inside out and finding nothing, as we thought, she looks up at me and sees that the tips of his fingers had been cut off. Her frown matches my own.
“Wow,” she says. “Somebody doesn’t want this guy IDed.”
