by Rachel Lucas
“Don’t worry, you’ll be well compensated.” I wasn’t certain what he meant by that. I didn’t make much at the law firm but I liked the job. “Well compensated”? That could mean six figures or it could mean barely more than minimum wage.
“What about school? I’m a full-time student.” I protested. I couldn’t just drop everything right now.
“I’ve also talked to the president of your university.” I tried not to gasp at that. I was sure my face was turning a bright red. He talked to the University president? About me? I tried to say something but the words wouldn’t come out. “He was actually a Bureau man himself. Served for five years right out of college. He was more than happy to do a waiver on your classes if this investigation takes up too much of your time. You can just pick up the next semester right where you left off.”
Was he always this high-handed? In a single conversation my entire life had just been rearranged. I couldn’t decide if I should be angry at the loss of control or humbled that the FBI wanted my help so much. Before I could decide he continued.
“My forensic psychologist, Madeline Reynolds, got hung up in Atlanta. She should be here in the morning. I’d like for you to meet with her. That badge should give you easy access in and out of here.”
I all I could really do was nod numbly. How could I refuse?
“Should we say ten o’clock then?” It wasn’t a question as much as a statement.
“Yes, sir,” I couldn’t help answering.
“Get some sleep then,” he directed as Logan and I rose to our feet and exited the room, “I need you at the top of your game tomorrow. It might be another long day.”
I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that.
Dragging myself into bed that night, I didn’t want to think about the patrol car outside my apartment thanks to Logan. He still didn’t want to let his guard down until Lisbeth was sighted again.
So many thoughts kept cycling through my head. So much had happened the last few days. Everything in my life, it seemed, had been turned upside down. I couldn’t take it all in. There were so many conflicting emotions running through me I couldn’t even identify them all.
One stark reality hit me though. Tomorrow was going to be my first official day as a FBI consultant.
What have I gotten myself into?
Chapter Eighteen
Dr. Madeline Reynolds was a tiny woman, not even five feet tall. She wore her straight hair in an A line and it was five shades of blonde, brown and everything in between. She wore thick-framed rectangular glasses with jewels at the hinges. Her conservative black pant suit had a dash of color with a ruby red blouse underneath.
Logan introduced us as I came into the briefing room the next morning. She was pouring over several books, piles of papers in neat stacks and Lisbeth’s medical file I had already gone through the day before. A laptop sat on the desk before her, an online medical journal was on the screen. She hardly looked up at the introduction.
“Caitlyn, this is Dr. Madeline Reynolds, a forensic psychologist with the FBI,” Logan began.
“Call me Dr. Reynolds,” she extended a hand of introduction without glancing my way. Logan and I exchanged a look that she didn’t see. He raised an eyebrow at her formality. “I should have been here yesterday, I know,” she was speaking more to the papers in her hand than to me, “but they had a bomb threat from a passenger at the airport in Atlanta. They wanted me to interview the suspect once he was in custody. He was a paranoid schizophrenic off his meds, poor thing. ”
I sat down in the same chair I had occupied most of the day before. I looked up at the board before me and all the detailed information I had tried to gather about Lisbeth and the family. Logan walked away to go speak with Detective Hammond and his police chief.
“Now, since I received the call from Field Director Phillip I’ve been doing extensive research on Dissociative Identity Disorder. I will admit that it’s rare and I have little personal experience with the disorder, but the American Journal of Psychiatry outlines everything well enough.” She glanced up just long enough for me to see her light brown eyes behind her glasses. “Actually,” she pulled back the sleeve of her jacket to look at an expensive women’s watch, “I know Director Phillips set up this meeting with you this morning, but I took the liberty of making an appointment with Dr. Martin Ross, Elizabeth Marshall’s attending physician, in a little more than an hour from now. I really do need to leave right away to make the drive down to Provo.”
She clicked her laptop shut and started putting it in her traveling case. I sat there quietly and watched as she gathered her books together and rearranged her papers into more neat piles.
She had already dismissed me.
I sat thoughtfully for a moment, debating with myself about whether or not I should warn her about Dr. Ross. Who knows, maybe he would be more helpful to her than I would be. Perhaps she was just meeting with him out of some sort of professional courtesy.
She was packed up and ready to walk out and she hadn’t even allowed me to say a single word.
“Well, good luck with Dr. Ross,” I called to her as she shouldered the bag for her laptop and then her purse and started walking out.
Something in my tone must have stopped her. She turned around and looked at me clearly for the first time. With her standing and me sitting, we were almost eye level.
“Excuse me?” She asked. I wasn’t certain if she was annoyed with me or merely curious. “What did you mean by that?”
“Nothing,” I decided at that moment that explaining Dr. Ross to her was not going to help. She needed to meet him herself to understand what it was like to deal with that man. “I’m sure he’ll be very helpful to you.”
“Yes,” she gave a sharp nod, “I’m certain he will.”
With that, she turned her back on me again and left the room. Dismissed again.
I sat for a few minutes in thought after she left. I certainly didn’t want to meet with Dr. Ross again. After I had repeatedly warned him, told him numerous times that Lisbeth was resistant to medication, he had still insisted that he had “cured” her. It was his carelessness that had allowed her to be moved to a treatment facility with lesser security. A treatment facility she had all but walked away from.
Yes, I wasn’t about to volunteer to go with her to see Dr. Ross. I was afraid that if I saw that pompous, arrogant doctor I’d want to wring his neck.
Before my thoughts could stray too far down that path, my attention was drawn by a federal agent carrying in what looked to be a large tube wrapped in plastic. He came over to the desk just vacated by Dr. Reynolds and with careful hands unwrapped the plastic.
There, laid across the desk, were a canvass protected by a thin plastic layer. Staring up at me from the canvass were a pair of deadly, blood-red eyes. The eyes of my nightmares.
Chapter Nineteen
With one shaking finger, I traced a line over the plastic, following with my finger the words that had been uncovered. They seemed to be painstakingly carved into the minute lines of the dragon’s wings, along its arched neck, across its scaly body. One long line of jumbled words at first, until you put them all together.
Look under my home you will find the answers inside the metal box help me keep it safe
This was it. This was how Logan and I knew to look under the demolished trailer for the metal box. This was how we found what was inside. This was what led me to find out that my one-time best friend could possibly be a very dangerous killer.
The agents must have brought it here from the county forensic lab where it was being analyzed. One more thing to add to the growing collection of items on display in the hunt for the fugitive suspected murderer. It was all so surreal, like something out of a dark movie, or a nightmare. I kept waiting to wake up from all of this and find it was really only just a bad dream.
“Where did Dr. Reynolds go?” Logan was back at my side and asking the question before he saw what I was looking at. He followed my gaze and my han
d, reaching out his own finger and tracing one of the words covered in plastic.
He must have sensed my thoughts. We had both discovered this painting together, deep in the back of a closet, far back in the dark where secrets are kept. I realized it was the first time we were both seeing it for what it was, a message, a riddle, a desperate plea. This was the first time we were seeing it as Barbara Marshall meant us to see it.
In a strange way, the dragon was even more frightening with the exposed words through it. Where before it was an intimidating mythical creature crawling though the bowels of hell, now, with its secrets revealed, it was more deadly for what danger it revealed in real life.
It took me a moment to mentally shake myself and realize that Logan had asked me a question.
“She’s on her way to Provo to meet with Dr. Ross,” I finally answered him, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, “I guess she felt she would be able to get more useful information out of him than talking to me.”
Logan gave me a slight smile. His opinion of Dr. Ross was probably even lower than mine.
“Well, I think Director Phillips was right,” he picked up the badge attached to the lanyard around my neck, “he made you a consultant to the FBI, not Ross. I think Phillips is a better judge of character than someone with five degrees after their name.”
I gave him a small smile back. I hadn’t really allowed Dr. Reynolds to bruise my ego, but Logan’s complement felt good just the same.
“Has there been any word?” I asked the question that I almost dreaded the answer to. Internally, I felt divided. On one hand, I wanted Lisbeth safe and locked away, in a secure environment where she couldn’t harm anyone. On the other hand, I was afraid that if we didn’t find her soon it might be too late, that more innocent lives could be lost.
“There was a possible sighting in Omaha,” he answered, “we’re examining the possibility that the TX in the pens at the Park City house might have been left there to throw us off. There’s a good chance that she could be heading north, or any other direction for that matter. Have you had any ideas about where she could be going next?”
I crossed my arms across my chest in frustration. I had been wracking my brain about that very thing since they had found the note in the stolen Lexus.
“It depends on which personality is in control and what their agenda is,” I glanced back over the list I had itemized on the dry-erase board. “Maxine wrote the note. She was clearly in charge, and that would be necessary for her to blend in with other truckers on the road. I just don’t know what kind of a motive Maxine would have. I don’t know of any grudge she would have against anyone. She may have just been useful for the moment. One of the others might be the driving force behind all of this.”
“The note sounded like a specific threat on a specific person,” Logan pointed at a photo copy of the note taped up on one of the boards. “‘It took a long time but we found him. It wasn’t easy. But he deserves this. We’ve been planning this for a long time.’ It sounds like she may have been planning this. There’s a reason she’s going after this one person. You don’t have any ideas who it could be?”
I searched my mind again for any clue but still came up empty handed. With Lisbeth, most of the present was usually tied up in the past. What could there be that I might have missed?
“The only thing that I can think of,” I mentioned, going out on a limb, “is her life right before I moved back here to Utah. Right before Barbara’s death, Lisbeth was pretty much living a nomadic life. For the most part, she was practically homeless. From the information I’ve been able to gather, she would disappear for long periods of time. Barbara tried to keep her on medication but Lisbeth would just sell it on the streets to have money to get by on. That was when those earlier murders seemed to have taken place. Anything could have happened at that time. Out on the streets, hitch-hiking, catching rides with truckers, going all over the intermountain region. She could have been assaulted, beaten, raped. There could be any number of people she might want revenge on.”
Logan took a seat on one of the chairs, bringing a foot up to brace it against another chair. He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair.
“The possibilities are endless,” he said in frustration, “it could be any stranger on the street that did something to offend one of the family members.”
“True,” I agreed, “and her acts could just as well be random too. I still think the attack in Park City was random. I don’t think she had any connection to the woman there. She just needed to break into a home in a nice neighborhood to get some money and a car to steal.”
“A crime of opportunity,” Logan agreed. “And with so many different personalities and so many motives, how are we ever going to track her down?”
“Well, we can start by heading to the airport,” Director Phillips had entered the room and caught the last part of our conversation. “There’s been a homicide in Killeen, Texas. The Texas Rangers think there might be a connection. We have a chartered jet waiting for us at Salt Lake International. Let’s get going.”
Chapter Twenty
We drove in a black Escalade to a part of the Salt Lake International airport that I didn’t even know existed. The Special Agent driving us showed his badge to a guard at the gate and we were allowed through. We drove along the empty tarmac to a large hangar where a Lear Jet sat waiting for us.
“I offered to have Dr. Reynolds meet us here at the airport,” Director Phillips explained as we exited our vehicle and began making our way towards the plane, “but she insisted on making her meeting with Dr. Ross. She’ll join us later in Texas if there’s a need.”
I didn’t know the director well enough to judge his mood, but I sensed a note of disproval in his voice towards Dr. Reynolds. I wondered if perhaps he had suggested to her that she meet with me first to hear my take on Lisbeth before she spoke with Dr. Ross. He didn’t seem to be the kind of leader to accept someone going against his recommendations.
Almost as a soon as we were buckled in we began taxiing down the runway and preparing for takeoff. My stomach dropped a bit as the jet became airborne and we soared into the white clouds.
Logan and I sat next each other in seats facing Director Phillips and another agent, our driver Special Agent Vance. Logan had explained to me on the drive to the airport that his police department had given him the approval to work with the FBI on this assignment. Since he had been Lisbeth’s arresting officer and had closely investigated her case, the FBI thought he might prove useful. I was just grateful to have him along.
Before we even reached altitude, Director Phillips brought a folding table out from the wall, took his laptop out of his traveling bag and placed it on the table. He typed in a few passwords and moved the screen so we all could see.
“This is what we know so far,” the director clicked on a downloaded picture and an image started to come into view. At first, all you could see was a dirt road along a dry field. It took a moment to see an outline of a figure lying in the tall yellow grass. “A couple of boys were riding their dirt bikes on a road outside of town when they came across the body. They stated they thought it was some kind of mannequin at first. The local police came in and started to process the scene. Once they began to examine the body and the scene, they recognized this…”
He broke off and looked up at me, a slight apology was in his eyes.
“I’m sorry if this is too graphic, Ms. Stewart,” he clicked on the next photo.
The next image was a close up of some area of the victim’s body, perhaps his stomach or back. The symbol, Lisbeth’s supposed symbol, was carved deeply into the flesh.
I tried to view it objectively, like any other professional would try to do. I tried not to think about the fact that this had been a live person not long ago. I tried not to think about whether this symbol had been carved into their flesh before or after their death. I tried to be objective, but I still couldn’t help feeling a jolt of shock at the picture before me, at wha
t it represented.
“As soon as they saw the mark and recognized it from our bulletins, they contacted the Rangers and our local field office,” Phillips went on to explain. “They haven’t been able to ID the victim yet. From what they do know, the victim seems to be a male Caucasian in his late-forties to mid-fifties. They’re currently canvassing the entire area to look for any other evidence or form of identification.”
“Do we have a cause of death yet?” Logan asked.
“Right before our plane took off they were preparing to take the body to the coroner. There won’t be an official cause of death until she finishes her full examination. But from initial reports, they believe it was a possible torture, a mutilation.”
The director seemed to debate whether or not to go into any further detail. I noticed there were more images to be viewed on the screen but Phillips moved the laptop back around so it wasn’t within my view.
I didn’t miss the look exchanged between Logan and the FBI director. It clearly stated that this was not going to be an easy crime scene for a “rookie” like myself to see. I couldn’t decide if I should be grateful for their discretion or annoyed.
Chapter Twenty-One
As we prepared for landing at the Killeen-Ft. Hood Regional Airport, I was able to get a good look at the Texas town from the air. It was a sprawling mid-western town with a good deal of new growth. The local military base, Ft. Hood, had a strong presence here and many residents of the town had ties to the military.
At one time, there might have been many patches of green with fields, grass and trees, but this area of the country, the south and mid-west had been under a severe drought in the last year or so. Browns and dried yellows made up most of the colors I could see from the air. The very land itself looked parched and dried.
We were met on the tarmac by an agent from the local field office named Special Agent Carter. He had a dark blue van waiting for us to take us to the crime scene. He handed a brown envelope to Director Phillips. After the introductions were made Phillips immediately began asking for updates.
