Before It's Too Late

by Sara Driscoll

  “Rocco, stop being nosy. Come. Down.” Lauren pointed at the floor beside her chair. The dog came and flopped on the floor with a dramatic sigh. “Honestly, I think he’s a teenager some days. So, Craig, what do we know?”

  “I’ve been down in the lab, hassling the techs again.” He looked up and gave an evil grin. “They love me.”

  “I think they’re scared of you,” Scott said. “No one gets early results quite like you do.”

  “Peters does, and always did.” Again with the slightly maniacal smile. “I learned everything from him.”

  “I need to come with you the next time you visit the lab,” Brian quipped. “This sounds like a useful skill. So what did the useful skill win for us this time?”

  “Early toxicological reports on the deceased victim.” Craig opened the file and scanned the contents. “We’ve got a combination of two anesthetics being reported here. One was easy to find, the other not so much. Isoflurane was used initially. In the reports from Ms. Baldwin yesterday, she reported something cold and wet pressed over her mouth and nose. That was the isoflurane. It’s a short-acting, inhaled anesthetic, with a generally short half-life, but they were able to find minute traces of it in the”—Craig leaned in and squinted at the word—“alveolar tissues of the lungs. It apparently disappears from the bloodstream quickly, but takes a little longer to get broken down in the tissues. The longer lasting anesthetic was ketamine. That was delivered by injection, right into the vein, as witnessed by marks inside both victims’ elbows.”

  “So . . . fast-acting inhaled anesthetic to subdue the victim, then a longer acting anesthetic in the van to keep her quiet while he restrained and then moved the victim to the kill site,” Lauren hypothesized. “Once the victim was in place, he likely wanted her awake and aware and terrified. He clearly planned on Michelle regaining consciousness, so he gagged her so she couldn’t call for help.”

  “If she could draw enough breath to even manage it,” Brian said.

  “Doubtful he took the time to properly weigh and dose the victims,” Scott said. “More than likely, speed was the important aspect. He’d have had a syringe ready to go in the van. The isoflurane would stop working as soon as the anesthetic-soaked cloth was removed, so he needed to have the second dose ready to go, overlapping them to make sure the victim stayed unconscious.” Scott shrugged when Craig stared at him in surprise. “All those years volunteering at the local vet clinic are paying off.”

  “Are those typical veterinary anesthetics?” Craig asked.

  “Not exclusively. But they’re used in vet practices for surgery and the like. Pair that with the Animal Control aspect of the kidnappings and you have to wonder about the background of the perp.”

  “Would Animal Control have something like that?”

  “They would. Ketamine is used for euthanasia, but the job is usually done by only one worker and it’s a direct vein injection. So a second anesthetic is usually used to calm the animal enough to allow for the lethal injection.”

  “So the perp could be anyone in the small animal world?” Brian asked. “A vet, a vet tech, or Animal Control officer?”

  “Could be a hospital orderly or a nurse also,” Meg suggested. “I’m pretty sure those anesthetics are used in people too. But aren’t they controlled substances? You can’t just order a bottle from the pharmacy for your own use. You can’t even just use the open bottle at your vet clinic. To the best of my knowledge, those drugs are tightly regulated and monitored down to a fraction of an ounce.”

  “That, in itself, tells us something,” Lauren said. “The only thing is, you have to make sure there is no black market for it. There certainly is for ketamine. You can buy that stuff on the street as ‘Special K.’ ”

  “No market for isoflurane though.” Meg sat back in her chair, cradling her coffee cup. “That wouldn’t make a good street drug. No high, just one whiff and you’re out for the count, until you’re breathing air again. No draw there.”

  “One wouldn’t think so,” Craig said. “But it gives agents a place to start. They’re looking into any thefts at local hospitals, clinics, and veterinary hospitals.” He shot back his cuff and looked at his watch. “Rutherford is coming in from Quantico at nine-thirty and has booked the big departmental conference room on four. I let him know about yesterday’s victim and he stopped by to get all the information so he could work on the profile.” He looked at Meg and cocked his head toward his office door. “Can I have a word with you?”

  Foreboding rose like a tide. Truthfully, at the back of her mind, she’d been wondering when this shoe was going to drop. Might as well get this over with, because she sure as hell wasn’t going to obediently agree to the suggestion she saw coming. “Sure. Hawk, stay.” She stood and pushed in her desk chair, meeting Brian’s eyes and clearly reading the question in them. She hoped the look she returned clearly spoke of her suspicion.

  She followed Craig into his office, but purposely left the door wide open, hoping that would limit Craig slightly. He wasn’t a yeller, but he did raise his voice occasionally when he was passionate about an issue, and she really didn’t want to wade into an argument if she could help it. “What’s up?”

  Craig sat down in his chair and loosened his tie. He looked tired, the lines carved a little more deeply around his eyes. “I want you to think about removing yourself from this case.”

  And there it was, the size-thirteen Salvatore Ferragamos crashing to the floor. Meg didn’t bother to beat around the bush. “Why?”

  “Because it’s getting too personal to you. The messages are directed at you. The victims resemble you. I can’t afford to have any handler on the case who is distracted by what’s going on.”

  You don’t even know the half of it. “I’m not distracted. I’m completely on my game.”

  “You’re going to tell me losing the first victim didn’t bother you?”

  “Of course she bothered me.” As her voice rose, Meg watched Craig glance at the open door behind her, but she didn’t modulate her words. “She died waiting for us. She died horribly, alone and terrified, trying to claw her way out. If that didn’t bother me, I’d be a robot. If it didn’t bother any of us, you should throw us all off the team.” She studied his clenched jaw. “But it’s not all of us, is it? It’s just me.”

  “No one else is involved in the same way. And while you’re a very valuable part of this team, the distraction from the stress of the perp doing this for you, hell, maybe to you, is a risk the team can’t take.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I disagree.” Brian came through the door, his face slightly flushed because he’d obviously been eavesdropping. “Meg is a crucial part of this team, and I’d argue it’s her involvement in the case that makes the team stronger.”

  Craig shot him a furious glare. “Foster, I don’t recall inviting you to this meeting.”

  “You didn’t. But I couldn’t help overhearing. You can’t take Meg off this case. You’ll only be damaging our chances of stopping this guy. Don’t you get it? The answer is in here.” Reaching over, he tapped Meg’s temple. “This guy can’t be completely unknown to her. She’s working it all out, and he’s somewhere in there, but she doesn’t know who he is yet. You have to give her time to work the case and work through the possibilities. Send her home and we not only lose the contribution of a top-of-their-game team, but you block her from access to aspects of the case that might trigger a suspect in her mind. Remove Meg, and you’ll be possibly irrevocably tying our hands, and more women may die as a result.”

  Meg felt it was time to cut in before Brian buried himself. Or he kept tapping on her skull like it was a wall and he was searching for studs. “I understand your position, sir, and respect it. But I agree with Brian—we need to catch this guy. And to do so, you need all hands on deck, and I need access to the case. Somehow I know, or knew, this person. And at some point, he is going to do something to give himself away. But we have to wait for that to happen. And if I’m in the
dark, I can’t help. Don’t forget, I’m not alone in this. I’m paired with someone at all times on this case, and I’ve got Hawk. Don’t underestimate him. Remember how he took Mannew down last month. Not to mention we also have Lacey and Rocco on the team. We all look out for each other, all the time. And this is no exception.”

  Craig heaved out a frustrated sigh. “You piss me off when you gang up on me. You piss me off more when you may be right. Jennings, I don’t want anyone on my team getting injured or into a dangerous situation, do you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, sir.”

  “Good, keep it that way.” He swiveled to face his computer. “We’re done here.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  They retreated from Craig’s office, this time pulling the door closed behind them.

  Brian sank into his desk chair. “Oh, thank God. I wasn’t sure that would work. You left that door open on purpose, didn’t you?”

  Meg stepped over Hawk and sat down, tipping her chair back to stare at the ceiling. “Damn straight. I suspected I might need help. He doesn’t really have a right to pull me off the case, nothing that could be considered conflict of interest or anything, but he could still make things difficult.” She picked up the stress ball on her desk—one that looked like a shrieking baby—and tossed it at Brian, who smoothly caught it. “Thanks for eavesdropping. I’m not sure I could have swayed him on my own.”

  “Happy to help. I don’t want to do this without you, so I considered it well worth walking into the lion’s den.” Brian glanced at his watch. “We’d better head to the conference room. Rutherford will be here in five.” He stood and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Let’s see who the profiler thinks we’re looking at. Then you can see if you know anyone who fits the bill to nail this guy.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Crisis Planning: Unlike strategic planning, planning during a crisis refines or replaces the assumptions underpinning strategic planning and is based upon new intelligence and actual events.

  Thursday, May 25, 9:32 AM

  Fourth floor conference room, J. Edgar Hoover Building

  Washington, DC

  The conference room filled quickly. Not just the Human Scent Evidence Team and their dogs, but all the field agents associated with the case. Rutherford stood at the head of the table, leafing through the file folder he’d brought with him. Craig came through the door, studiously avoiding the eyes of his team, and took a chair at the end of the table.

  Rutherford snapped the file closed and straightened. A tall, distinguished African American, with silver at his temples, he towered over most of the men in the room even when they were on their feet. Dressed in a black suit, softened by an aqua tie, he commanded the room simply by his presence. When he spoke, his words were clearly chosen with care, and the intelligence behind the power quickly became the most notable thing about him.

  “Thank you all for coming.” At the sound of the door, his gaze shot to the back of the room, his eyebrows shooting skyward as Executive Assistant Director Peters slipped in, choosing to stand against the wall at the back of the room, rather than join the group around the table. Rutherford gave him a short nod, then continued. His eyes scanned the table, finally coming to rest on Meg. “Ms. Jennings.”

  “Agent Rutherford.”

  He studied her critically for a moment, his dark eyes assessing. “Please excuse being treated as a detail of this case. I know that’s not how it is for you, that you’re involved in this case, and, more so, personally impacted by it. But your connection to the victims is a crucial part of the investigation.”

  Meg tipped her head in assent. “I understand the methods and what’s at stake. Please continue.”

  “Thank you.” Rutherford removed two 8-inch by 10-inch photos from the folder and tacked them up on the board behind him on the wall, one under the other. “This is the first victim, Sandra Holmes. Better known as Sandy to friends and family.” The first picture showed a death mask, the face pale and waxen, the expression lifeless. As horrible as that image was, the second picture in some ways was much harder to look at—a picture of life and health, a woman with dark hair, light skin, and blue eyes, smiling and waving to the camera. Rutherford tapped the first picture. “This was taken by the ME’s staff at the time of autopsy.” His index finger rested on the second photograph. “This photo was supplied by Sandy’s parents. Sandy was taken from Glencarlyn Park at dusk. She was thirty-six, single, an Iraq War vet, and the owner of a PTSD service dog named Ruby. She was a loving daughter, worked as a bookkeeper out of her own home, and had a passion for backgammon and romance novels.”

  Meg noted that while Rutherford referred to her as “Ms. Jennings,” he constantly referred to the victim by her first name to strengthen the image of the victim in the minds of the investigating agents. She knew from years of cop work that any investigator who connects personally with a victim will go the extra mile to find that victim justice.

  “But none of that was important to our unsub,” Rutherford continued, using the common shorthand jargon for “unknown subject.” He pulled another photo from the file and added it to the board. “This was all that was important.”

  Meg found herself looking at an eight-by-ten reproduction of her FBI identification photo.

  “Somehow Meg Jennings is the key. As you know, the first message came in attached to Ruby’s leash, encoded, with the only part of the message that was instantly readable being Ms. Jennings’s name and designation within the FBI. So this is someone who knew how to get our attention.”

  “And mine,” Meg mumbled under her breath, earning a sideways glance from Brian sitting beside her.

  “The clue itself was not related to Ms. Jennings, but instead to two aspects of the case that will likely continue through it—the American Civil War and the victim herself. The kill site chosen was one directly related to Sandy, who, as a veteran, would have been eligible for inurnment at Arlington Cemetery. She is still eligible, but her parents have opted to bury their only daughter somewhere other than the site of her murder, which is entirely understandable.”

  He slid another color image from the folder and placed it next to Meg’s photo. Michelle Wilson smiled out from the photo in what was clearly a professional headshot. “This is Michelle Wilson, who was the first victim to be abducted, but, due to an oversight in the initial investigation, wasn’t connected to this case for nearly forty-eight hours and was found as the second victim. Michelle is forty-two, widowed, and works in real estate. She is an elected officer of the Daughters of Union Veterans of the Civil War and is related to Corporal George Wilson, who died on Belle Isle in the Confederate prison camp there. She was out walking her beagle on the beach in Cape Charles when she was abducted after dark. Once the connection was made, linking her to this case, a similar coded message was found addressed to Ms. Jennings. Fortunately, even with the delay in identifying Michelle as a related victim, and in decoding the message, the Human Scent Evidence Team successfully found her alive on Belle Isle. She had been restrained specifically in a position that would cause asphyxiation, given enough time. I think the link between victim and method of death here comes back to the Confederate prison camp. Torture was common at most, if not all, Civil War prison camps. There was a particular method called ‘tying on the spare wheel,’ which was used for discipline of soldiers and prisoners alike. It was a position similar to a spread-eagled crucifixion and it could lead to positional asphyxiation if the prisoner was left too long. He picked a simpler position for Michelle, but one that was equally effective. She is still in critical condition, but doctors are hopeful she will make a full recovery. Now, assuming the unsub intended us to discover Michelle’s disappearance first, he expected her to be found first, and likely alive, given the expected time frame. So she was his first foray into the abductions and either he meant her as a warning shot, or he’s escalating. Personally, I believe he meant for her to survive so you would always believe you had a chance in
the game.”

  Rutherford pulled out a photo of the third victim and tacked it up so Meg’s face was surrounded by a living image of each of the victims.

  Seeing the faces there in color was like a fist to the gut for Meg. They weren’t carbon copies of her, but they were more than close enough. Two thoughts tumbled over each other in her brain in a race to float to the top.

  He’s killing me, over and over.

  Cara’s in danger.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Brian muttered, turning to her. “You okay?”

  “I knew it. We knew it. But it suddenly got a whole lot more real, didn’t it?”

  “Sure as hell did.” Brian squeezed her hand under the table.

  “This is Catriona Baldwin. Catriona was taken right off the street after leaving an AIDS hospice, where she and her therapy dog, Lachlan, volunteer on a weekly basis. She was walking to her car at the time. A coded message was found, once again addressed to Ms. Jennings. Catriona had the good fortune of being found by the Human Scent Evidence Team before the unsub managed to kill her. Catriona is a florist who owns her own shop, which is apparently very popular and a recognizable brand, according to my wife. She’s known in the community as someone who gives back and is big into fund-raising and helping the local neighborhood. More notable and more important to this case, she is Wiccan by faith.”

  “Witchcraft?” One of the agents closer to Rutherford spit out the word like it left a foul taste in his mouth. “Like the Wicked Witch of the West?”

  “Wiccan.” Rutherford stressed the single word. “They’d say they were white witches. They believe in peace and harmony and helping your fellow man. It’s called ‘research,’ Brody, and I suggest you give it a try sometime before you scoff.” Rutherford turned back to the table at large. “This explains the method of attempted killing—pressing, or compression asphyxiation. One of the victims of the Salem Witch Trials was killed this way. So for the third time, we have a tie to the victim through the method of execution. As discovered by Mr. McCord and printed in the Washington Post this morning, the location is also connected to the victim, as it has historically been used as a location for Wiccan handfastings, or weddings. A pattern is emerging.” He started ticking off the fingers of his right hand. “One, the victims resemble Ms. Jennings in appearance. The victims are otherwise unrelated. Two, the victims had their dogs with them at the time of the abduction, and the dogs were used to convey the coded message. Three, the kill spot is related to the victim. Four, the specific method of death is related to the victim. Five, the coded message used to initiate the game is a Vigenère cipher, a code used during the Civil War by the Confederacy. Six, the death sites have also had a Civil War connection of some kind. Seven, the method of death is oriented around asphyxia, but that doesn’t narrow it down much for us. So far, we have suffocation in an enclosed space, positional asphyxiation, and pressing. The question is whether he might repeat methods, or will he find other ways to asphyxiate his victims? That remains to be seen, as does his motivation for this particular kind of death.