Deeper Than the Dead ok-1

by Tami Hoag

  “She would have told us.”

  “Maybe she was afraid to.”

  She didn’t have an answer for that. She wasn’t sure.

  “Does she have a car?”

  “Yes, a gold Chevy Nova. 1974 or ’75. I have the license plate number in her file.”

  “Where’s the car?” Mendez asked.

  “I don’t know. It’s not at the cottage.”

  “So she could have gone somewhere on her own.”

  “No. She didn’t just leave.”

  “You know as well I do, Jane,” Dixon said quietly. “How many of these women go back to their abusers?”

  “Not our women.”

  Dixon lifted one white eyebrow. “None of them?”

  Jane Thomas scowled. She knew better. “Not this one. She wouldn’t. She would never just leave Petal.”

  Mendez stopped writing mid-word. “Petal? Who’s Petal?”

  “Karly’s dog.”

  His heart gave a big thump then began to beat faster. “What kind of dog?”

  “A pit bull. Why?”

  He turned to Dixon. “The kids said there was a black-and-white dog at the scene. It might have been a pit bull.”

  “Oh my God,” Jane Thomas whispered, sinking down onto the chair behind her. She covered her mouth with her hand as her green eyes filled with tears.

  “Where is she?” she asked. She didn’t look at Mendez or at Dixon but stared at the floor as if her life depended on it. “Can I see her?”

  Dixon sighed. “We’ll be sending the body to the LA County coroner for an autopsy, but it hasn’t left yet. But it might be better just to have you look at some Polaroids from the scene—”

  “No.”

  “Jane—”

  “I want to see her.” She looked up at Dixon now in a way that made Mendez wonder just how well they knew each other. “I need to see her.”

  Dixon started to say something, then clamped his mouth shut and looked out the window. The silence hung in the air like fog. The image of the dead woman’s face slid through Mendez’s memory. He wished he hadn’t had to look at it, and that was his job.

  Finally Dixon nodded. “Okay. But I’m warning you, Jane, it’s going to be hard.”

  “Then let’s get it over with.”

  The three of them got in a sedan and Mendez drove them to Orrison Funeral Home. No one said anything. Dixon sat in the backseat with Jane Thomas, but neither of them looked at the other, Mendez noted, glancing at them via the rearview mirror.

  The funeral home director took them to the yellow-tiled embalming room where their vic was on a gurney in a body bag, waiting for her ride to the city.

  Dixon dismissed the man, who closed the door behind him as he left.

  “We don’t think she had been dead that long when we found her,” Dixon said. “Decomposition is minimal, but not absent.”

  Jane Thomas stared at the body bag. “Just show me.”

  “I want you to be prepared—”

  “Damn it, Cal, just show me!” she snapped. “This is hard enough!”

  Dixon held his hands up in surrender. Mendez unzipped the bag and gently peeled it open.

  Jane Thomas put a hand over her mouth. What color she had drained from her face.

  “Is that her?” Dixon asked.

  She didn’t answer right away. She stared at the woman on the gurney for a long, silent moment.

  “Jane? Is that her? Is this Karly Vickers?”

  “No,” she said at last, her voice little more than a breath. “No. It’s Lisa.”

  “Lisa?”

  “Lisa Warwick,” she said, and she began to tremble. “She used to work for me.”

  “This woman used to work for you?” Mendez said.

  “Yes.”

  “And one of your clients is missing.”

  She didn’t answer. She’d gone into shock. Then she began to cry and sway, and Cal Dixon stepped close and put his hands on her shoulders to steady her.

  Mendez looked his boss in the eye. “Three dead, one missing. Do you still think we’re not dealing with a serial killer?”

  To his credit all Dixon said was, “Call Quantico.”

  Good thing, Mendez thought, because he already had.

  14

  Vince Leone closed his car door. The sound seemed amplified. He looked up at the sky. The blue was so intense it hurt his eyes. He put his Ray-Bans on and breathed deeply of the crisp fall air. His head filled with the scents of Virginia: damp earth, forest, cut grass.

  The academy grounds were alive with people. Young agents going here, running there. Veterans, like himself, hustling between buildings, between meetings.

  The sounds of footfalls on concrete, snatches of conversation, a lawn mower, gunfire in the distance: All assaulted his ears. His sight, hearing, sense of smell—all seemed magnified, hypersensitive. It might have been an inner need to absorb as much of life as possible, or it might have had something to do with the bullet in his head.

  He went into the building, to the elevators, pushed the Down button. Down. Way down. People got on the car with him. A couple of them looked at him sideways, then looked away. He vaguely recognized faces but couldn’t recall names. He didn’t know them well—or they him, he suspected, though his short-term memory still had some holes in it.

  They knew of him, he suspected. He had signed on with the Bureau in 1971 after a stellar career in homicide in the Chicago PD. He had come to Quantico and the Behavioral Sciences Unit the fall of 1975, just as the unit was beginning to blaze some exciting trails. Being a part of that time had made him and his colleagues legends. He was forty-eight and a legend. Not bad.

  Or maybe these people knew about him, as in “The guy that got shot in the head and lived.” The academy was a small, incestuous community, and like in all small, incestuous communities, gossip ran thick and fast.

  The elevator stopped and most of the passengers got off, headed for the cafeteria or PX. The smell of coffee, eggs, and bacon grease hit him like a brick, then the doors closed and the car began to drop another twenty feet to what the agents lovingly referred to as the National Cellar for the Analysis of Violent Crime.

  The warren of offices and conference rooms had been a bomb shelter during the height of the Cold War, a hideout for J. Edgar and his cronies in the event of nuclear attack. The Bureau had seen fit to send the Behavioral Sciences/Investigative Support Unit down to the win dowless, sometimes musty-smelling, subbasement a year before.

  Closed off in their own giant tomb with their cases—the worst of the worst murders and sexual assaults the country had to offer—the agents joked (in the gallows humor that kept them for what passed as sane) that they lived and worked ten times deeper than the dead.

  Leone stepped off the elevator.

  “Vince!”

  He glanced up at his colleague, wearily amused by the expression on his face. “Bob. I’m not a ghost.”

  “Geez, no. Not at all. I’m just surprised to see you, that’s all. What are you doing here?”

  “Last I knew, I worked here,” Vince said, turning in the opposite direction.

  He went into the men’s room, went into a stall, and puked, a wave of heat sweeping over him. The meds or maybe nerves, he admitted to himself. He’d been gone six months.

  A couple of stalls down, someone else vomited.

  They came out of the stalls and went to the sinks together.

  “Vince!”

  “Got a bad one, Ken?” Leone asked. He ran the faucet, scooped water into his hand, and rinsed his mouth.

  Ken’s face was gray and drawn, his eyes haunted. “Three little kids, sexually assaulted, their faces blown off with a shotgun.

  “We don’t know who they are, where they came from. We can’t compare dental records to missing kids’ because they don’t have any teeth left. We keep hearing about DNA profiling as the coming thing, but it can’t come fast enough for these kids.”

  “It’s years out,” Vince said. It woul
d be a miracle for law enforcement when the technology came, but as Ken had said, it couldn’t come fast enough.

  Ken shook his head as if he were trying to shake the images from his brain. Ken was a top profiler, but he had never quite mastered the ability to close the door between analysis and sympathy. Therein lay the road to an ulcer, at the very least.

  “It’s always worse when it’s kids,” Vince said.

  “I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” he admitted. “The vics were about the same ages as my boys. I go home at night . . . You know how it is.”

  “Yep.”

  Vince went home at night to a big-screen TV. He’d been divorced seven years. His oldest was in college now. But he remembered how it had been to try to leave cases at the office so he could go home and pretend to be normal.

  “I played golf with Howard on the weekend,” Ken said. “IRDU is looking pretty good to me.”

  “Research and Development. Hmmm . . .” Vince would have sooner stayed home and hit his thumb with a hammer over and over, but that was him.

  “Hey,” Ken said, as if he had only just realized. “What are you doing here?”

  Vince shrugged. “It’s Wednesday.”

  All of the profilers also taught about fifteen hours a week, both in the FBI Academy and the National Academy for law enforcement officers. But they didn’t teach on Wednesday mornings. For those not out in the field on assignments, Wednesday mornings were spent in the conference room, going over case facts, picking one another’s brains, bouncing ideas off one another.

  BSU had grown over the ten years of its existence to include six full-time profilers, working to assist local law enforcement in solving tough cases. When John Douglas had been made chief of the operational side of BSU, the profilers had been given their own acronym—ISU, Investigative Support Unit—within the BSU. Douglas had wanted to take the BS out of what they did. Ironically, the agents in the unit continued to call themselves BSUers.

  BSU. ISU. Another three letters added into the giant vat of alphabet soup that was the Bureau. Unit names seemed to change with every new unit chief, and every new chief seemed to have some pet subgroup to create. IRDU (Institutional Research and Development Unit). SOARU (Special Operations and Research Unit). NCAVC (National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime). NCIC (National Crime Information Center). VICAP (Violent Criminal Apprehension Program).

  Despite John’s best hope, BS was the Bureau’s specialty.

  Vince went into the conference room, turning his back to the long table as he poured himself a cup of coffee to burn the taste of vomit out of his mouth.

  The discussion of Ken’s case was already under way. Crime scene photos were being passed around and remarked upon. What did this mean? What did that mean? If the children were related, it meant this. If the children had been abducted individually, it meant that. How would authorities go about the task of identifying the bodies? How many children had been reported missing in a two-hundred-mile radius in the past year?

  Vince slipped into a chair, reserving comment on any of it. He needed a few minutes to regroup, to build up another charge of energy. The coffee was bitter and acidic, and his stomach lining felt raw.

  “There’s an NCIC search under way for reports of missing children in the age groups of the victims,” Ken said.

  “Once VICAP is totally operational, we’ll be able to search the database based on the perp’s MO,” another agent said.

  “And once the technology is developed I’ll be able to watch the World Series on my wristwatch,” said another. “Someday isn’t going to help us today.”

  Had anybody ever heard of anything on a violent child predator with a similar MO? Why a shotgun? Why obliterate the faces? Did that point to murder by a relative or someone else who knew the children? Or was the shotgun a signature meant to make a statement as to the psychological state of the UNSUB (unknown subject)?

  Ken stood at the gigantic whiteboard, jotting down ideas being thrown at him on one part of the board and noting pertinent questions on another.

  Vince took it all in, his mind half on the case details, half on his colleagues. They were all in shirtsleeves, but the day was young, and all neckties were still neatly in place.

  He had known most of these guys a long time. They had worked a lot of cases together and they had a lot in common in addition to backgrounds in law enforcement and years in the Bureau. Three of the five guys in the room right now—including Vince—had been in the marines. John had served in the air force. They had the common experiences of trying to juggle marriage and family with the job—and in several cases the common experience of marriages falling apart because of the job.

  “You’re quiet, Vince.” The voice came from the head of the table.

  Vince met eyes with his old friend—who seemed not the least bit surprised to see him. Vince spread his hands and shrugged.

  “Sorry, Ken,” he said to the agent at the board. “But we’re just spinning our wheels until they figure out who these kids are. Unless you want to do two profiles: one for a stranger as the UNSUB, one for a person known to the kids. That’s a hell of a lot of work when you’ve got how many other cases ongoing? Ten? Twelve?”

  Ken looked at the end of his rope.

  “But hey,” Vince said. “What do I know? I’m just an old cop from Chicago. I can reach out to a gal I know at the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. They’re only up and running for a year, but they get a lot of anecdotal information we don’t. I can go make the call right now.”

  Ken nodded. “Thanks, Vince. I appreciate it.”

  Vince got up and left the room, going directly back to the men’s room where he puked up the coffee. He rinsed his mouth out and stood for a moment, assessing himself in the mirror, seeing what his colleagues were seeing.

  He had always been a big, good-looking guy: six three, two hundred pounds, built to play football. Now he was a tall, raw-boned man, twenty pounds underweight. He hadn’t lost the chiseled bone structure of his face, or his large dark eyes, or his wide white smile, thank God. He had something to fall back on. And there was color in his face at the moment, but when his blood pressure returned to pre-puking normal, his complexion would be a pale reflection of the steel gray heavily threaded through his black hair.

  The hair had grown back thick and wavy, thank God. Bald had not been a good look on him.

  For a moment he flashed back on that late March evening, walking to his car with his groceries, his mind on a case. That was as much as he had been able to recall. And even that memory had probably been manufactured by his brain. Witnesses had stated a guy in a hooded sweatshirt with a gun in his hand had walked up to him, demanded money. He hadn’t reacted quickly enough. The assailant pulled the trigger.

  Three weeks went by before he regained consciousness and was told by his doctors that he was a miracle. The .22-caliber bullet had entered his skull and never exited. Only time would tell the extent of the lasting damage to his brain.

  He had found it ironic. All his years in law enforcement, and he had never been injured. He, Mr. FBI, had to get mugged in a Kroger’s parking lot, shot in the head by a junkie.

  Leaving the men’s room, he went to his desk. As was his habit since the Marine Corps, it was neat and orderly, and he could have laid his hand on any piece of paper he needed without having to make a mess. An orderly environment spoke of an orderly brain—except for the shards of brass in the middle of his.

  After chewing down a handful of antacid tablets from his desk drawer, he made his phone call, got some information, and went back to the meeting where he handed Ken a piece of paper with a phone number on it.

  The discussion had moved on to a series of sexual homicides in New Mexico near the Mexican border. The investigation was involving the Mexican authorities who were asking to send two of their detectives to Quantico for a crash course in profiling.

  The morning wore on. Vince bided his time, letting the agents wi
th active cases take their turns. As the meeting wound down, his friend at the head of the table made eye contact again.

  “You didn’t come in because you missed looking at all these ugly mugs,” he said.

  “No.” Vince cracked a lopsided smile and chuckled. “Where’s Russo? I came to look at her.”

  Rosanne Russo was the only woman in the unit and more than used to taking a rash of shit for it.

  “She’s at a conference in Seattle.”

  “Damn. My luck.”

  “What have you got, Vince?”

  He rose to his feet slowly, so as not to touch off a bout of vertigo. “I’ve got a possible serial killer in Southern California. The guy abducts women, tortures them, and glues their eyes and mouths shut with superglue.”

  “Pre- or postmortem?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “What’s the victim profile?”

  “One of the vics had an old record of arrests for prostitution. No ID yet on the latest one.”

  “How many vics?”

  “Three in two years.”

  His friend frowned. “That barely meets criteria.”

  “Tell that to the dead woman they found yesterday. She was buried in a public park with her head aboveground.”

  Eyebrows went up. Now it was interesting. This was a jaded bunch. There wasn’t much in the way of human depravity they hadn’t seen. It took something pretty out there to impress them.

  “Photos?”

  “They just found her late yesterday. No photos yet.”

  “What about from the other two cases?”

  “Were the other bodies buried in the same manner?” another agent asked.

  “No and no.”

  “You don’t have any paper on this,” his friend said. “I haven’t seen any paper on this.”

  “Nope. I was just wondering if anyone had come across this See-No-Evil, Speak-No-Evil thing with the superglue before. Roy?”

  Roy was the resident expert on sexual assault and sexual homicide, although they all had dealt with their share of it. Roy shook his head.