Psychobyte

by Cat Connor

  “El, where are you?” Mitch said again.

  “Ox Road, Fairfax. I’ll probably be late home tonight. Sorry.”

  Mitch didn’t even sigh. “How late?”

  “Dunno?” I tried to cover my disappointment, without success. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Ellie, you all right?”

  “Uh huh. I just want to be home with you.” I did my best to let a smile fill my voice. “I’ll see you when I see you.”

  “How come I can’t get an image of you right now?”

  Because for now, I don’t want you to?

  “This is not a nice case. Best you don’t see it.”

  That was weak. Since when do we investigate nice cases?

  “You sure that’s the reason?” His voice lightened. “You all right, not getting cold feet?”

  I laughed. “My feet are quite warm.” I wriggled my toes inside my boots.

  Yep. Warm. No cold feet here.

  “Smart ass. As long as you’re okay.” His smile bounced. “Miss you.”

  “I am okay. Hey, my place or yours tonight?”

  “Yours.”

  “Good.”

  “Be safe. Three things.”

  I smiled. “Three things.” The three things made my smile widen. Love. Want. Need.

  Mitch hung up. I felt bad; it was easier when I mentally took him with me. But not this afternoon. I didn’t want him seeing what I saw or knowing what I know, yet. I felt mean for shutting him out.

  Complicated? You betcha.

  I pocketed my phone and stared at the semi-detached houses in front of me. I knew from the aerial photographs I’d seen of the subdivision that there were sixteen houses in total. All the houses outwardly identical, all backed onto a large grassed common area, crisscrossed by paths and containing raised flower beds, trees, and park benches.

  Pleasant. Probably a really nice place to live. If you liked neighbors close by.

  Crime scene tape fluttered in the warm breeze. Police cars with lights still rolling lined the curb in front of my car.

  A black Chevy Suburban pulled in behind mine. Sam, Lee, and Kurt piled out and approached.

  “What have we got?” Kurt said.

  “A murder,” I replied, standing up straight. “I want you to view this scene. I need your eyes.”

  “My eyes are at your disposal,” Kurt said with a small smile.

  Sam tipped his chin at me. “Where do you want us, Chicky Babe?”

  “Do a door-to-door for me, Sam, I’m not buying that no one in this subdivision saw anything.”

  “You got it,” Lee replied. He and Sam walked toward the home on the left of the crime scene tape.

  “Shall we?” Kurt motioned me to join him as he walked up the path.

  Yes, let’s. I can hardly wait to get back in there.

  The police officer guarding the door handed us disposable booties and latex gloves. I led the way to the body.

  Kurt took a few longer strides until he leveled with me. “Talk,”

  “Jane Daughtry, twenty-six-years-old, works for us.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, she works for human resources, a civilian.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  “Another FBI employee made the nine-one-one call,” I said. “Apart from that tidbit of information, it looks like the Unsub gained entry through an open window in the living room.”

  I stopped at the open bathroom door. From the hallway, I could see part of her body slumped in the shower.

  “I counted seventeen stab wounds, no blood. The shower was running when the first officer arrived on the scene.”

  Kurt stepped into the room. Moments later he came out and beckoned to me. “What haven’t you told me?”

  So much.

  “Wish you’d brought me coffee,” I replied with a small smile. “What I know is not going to make this easier or make you happy.”

  “Figured that,” he said. “Just tell me.”

  “Jane wrote dark poetry. She had a signed copy of my book – signed by Mac.”

  Kurt’s eyes met mine. “You okay?”

  “Yes.”

  Gathering facts, leaving emotions to flounder in the dark where they belonged.

  “I found a loose piece of paper in her notebook. It said ‘Don’t leave me.’ She pointed me to a small piece of paper hidden behind the vanity.” I waved a finger to where I’d found the memo. “And that said ‘Don’t take it personally.’ The handwriting didn’t match hers from the notebook.”

  Facts made it easier.

  “She had a new prescription for a month’s worth of sleeping pills three days ago, not her usual doctor by the look of the label. There are ten pills left.” After a slight pause, I plowed on. “I saw her reach for shower gel – there’s no shower gel here.”

  Kurt’s eyes never left mine. “You saw her?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right.” He thought for a few moments. “Who did she think was going to leave her?”

  “No idea. No reference to a name anywhere.”

  “Who wrote the words ‘Don’t take it personally’ and hid it?”

  “No clue. My money is on the Unsub.”

  “What happened to the pills?”

  “I kinda hope she took them and never knew what happened to her, but somehow I doubt it.”

  “I’ll check out the doctor and the pharmacy, if you like?”

  “Please.”

  “Missing shower gel is interesting – unusual trophy?” Kurt commented.

  “Maybe he liked the smell of it,” I let the words wander in my head. I felt sure it was something to do with the smell but I couldn’t prove it, yet. “Opinion?”

  “She probably bled out.”

  I figured that.

  “Anything else?”

  “No defensive wounds. I doubt we’ll get anything from under her nails but we’ll try.” Kurt’s mouth set in a grim line. “She may well have had sleeping pills in her system but no one would swallow seventeen tablets willingly, unless it was suicide.”

  “This isn’t a suicide, Kurt.”

  “How far away are the crime scene techs?”

  “Maybe another ten minutes, depending on traffic.” I’d called them twice that morning and twice in the early afternoon. In a perfect world, techs would be available as soon as I picked up the phone. In a perfect world, we wouldn’t need crime scene techs.

  He nodded. “There were a lot of stab wounds on the woman’s body but they appear tentative, the wounds on her wrists, however, were meant to kill.”

  “Her name is Jane,” I said softly. “Jane Daughtry.”

  “What’s going on here?” Kurt tapped my head with his index finger.

  “There was a similar case in Winchester two months ago.”

  “How similar?”

  “Very. Access gained through an open window, sleeping pills unaccounted for, and the victim stabbed multiple times and found in the shower, water running.” I sighed. “No defensive wounds, a similar pattern to the stab wounds and the fatal wounds were downward slashes to the wrist.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Yes, I thought so. It was deemed a suicide by the coroner.”

  “How did you find it?”

  Fair question. Suicides weren’t usually loaded onto the violent crime database, ViCAP. It’s one of the first places I look when a murder or violent assault feels like I’ve seen or heard something similar before.

  “There was a discussion about it on a LEO forum. The local cop wasn’t convinced it was suicide but no one listened.” I’d listened but couldn’t offer much in the way of help at the time.

  Kurt waited. It’s like he knows me.

  “I gave him a call and told him what I found this afternoon. He’s sending the case file.”

  “Was there a note at that scene?”

  I nodded. “It was considered to be a suicide note. The investigating officer read it to me over the phone.” I flipped m
y notebook open and handed it to Kurt. “Two separate lines.”

  He read aloud, “‘Everything that came before. Lies fragmented on the floor.’” And looked at me. “What does that sound like to you?”

  “Part of a poem …”

  “Not loving this, Conway.”

  “Me neither.” I pulled out my phone and called Sean O’Hare. “Hey, it’s me. I need scene guards.”

  “Give me the address and the invoice goes to Delta A?”

  “Yes, thanks.” I rattled off the address and hung up.

  Sam and Lee met us at the front door.

  “You’re not going to like this, Chicky,” Lee said. “We didn’t get much. No cars reported that didn’t belong over the last week. Except a neighbor told me this was Jane’s week to be collected for work. Last week she left earlier and drove her own car. This week, a man in a red Ford Taurus picked her up. The neighbor recognized the car … alternate weeks it picks her up for work. No one saw anyone hanging around.”

  “Emilio Herrera drives a red Ford Taurus,” I replied. “That fits with what he told me about them carpooling.”

  Sam turned a page in his notebook. “Jane went out a lot, according to neighbors. Not noisy. Nice girl with nice friends. She broke up with her boyfriend a few weeks ago.”

  That was worth looking into.

  “Name?”

  “Matthew Collins.”

  “Let’s find him,” I said. My phone rang. I glanced at the screen before answering the call. “Sandra?”

  “Do you want to speak with Jane Daughtry’s parents? Troy called, said she’d informed the parents of Jane’s death and they’d like to talk to you.”

  “Yes. Can you arrange that?”

  “Will do.”

  “Set it up. I’m on my way back now.”

  Three

  Whataya Want From Me

  Dusk eased over the city as I sat at my desk reading the case file from the Winchester suicide. I leaned back in my chair, crossing my ankles and resting the heel of my left boot on the edge of my desk.

  Everything I read told me Winchester was linked. I compared the photo of that note to a photo of the note I found in Jane’s bathroom: close enough that I would say the same person wrote them. The Questioned Document lab would be able to tell us for sure.

  Why kill one woman in Winchester then the next in Fairfax? That’s quite a wide geographical gap.

  I placed the photos of the victims next to each other on the screen. Similar in appearance: blonde, slim, fine features, blue eyes. Planting my feet on the floor, I scrolled through the case file, trying to find what the Winchester woman did for a living.

  “Violet Cramer worked for …” I said to myself as I searched the file, “… the National Park Service, as a park ranger.”

  A link beyond a similar appearance and a government job didn’t show. Time to hit social media and see what that turned up. Fifteen minutes later, I knew both women had Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram accounts. Neither featured on the other’s friend list but they did have two friends in common on Facebook and followed about two hundred of the same people on Twitter. I puffed air into my cheeks and let it out slowly. Truth be known, I probably followed about a hundred of the same people on Twitter. Still, I needed to double-check any overlap.

  Time-consuming.

  I hauled myself out from behind my desk, left my cell behind, and wandered out into the bullpen in search of coffee.

  Lee and Sam were working, both on phones. I’d asked them to track down Jane Daughtry’s boyfriend. Kurt was nowhere to be seen.

  Sandra waved at me from her desk. “Can I help?”

  “When you spoke to HR, did they have anything that could relate to Jane’s death?”

  Sandra pulled up files and scanned the contents on her screen. “Her team leader said she’ll be very much missed.”

  “You think she’s still in?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “I’m going to take a look at Jane’s desk. I won’t be long.”

  I hurried over to HR. Peering through the glass main doors, I coldn’t see anyone at the reception desk. Dim lighting bathed the area with a yellowish tinge. I swiped my card to open the door. Nothing.

  Damn.

  I called Caine. “Hey, it’s me, I’m on HR’s floor. There’s no one around. I need to look at Jane Daughtry’s desk.”

  “You want me to authorize that?”

  “Please.”

  “Logging you on the floor now with SAC approval. You got five minutes.”

  “Thanks.” I swiped my card again. The light flashed green. I pushed the door open. No sounds of life came from the offices along the hallway.

  Scooting around the reception desk I searched for an office plan. I found it stuck to the interior of the Fire Warden’s cupboard. Daughtry, office seventy-four and Herrera across the hall in seventy-five. Time ticked on. I hurried. Opening the door to Daughtry’s office revealed a tidy work environment. I pulled her top desk drawer. Locked. Nothing but pens and stationery in the second drawer. No personal things. Her wastepaper basket revealed nothing.

  I looked at the walls. She’d hung her degree and a diploma, both framed. Time to go. I zapped my card to leave. The heavy glass door closed behind me as I hurried back to our floor.

  “Anything?” Sandra said, looking up as I walked toward her.

  “Nothing stands out. Might stretch my legs and head for the Firehook. You wanna come with?”

  She nodded. “Good idea. Jane’s parents won’t be in for a minimum of an hour.”

  It would be at least two hours before I’d be on my way home, all going well.

  I ducked into my office, pulled on a jacket, shoved my cell into my jeans pocket, fished my wallet from my bag and stuck it in my jacket pocket. All set.

  Sandra and I walked down the corridor to the stairs. Running down, we hit the door into the foyer at the same time. Our laughter echoed around the cavernous room. The agent at the desk glanced up, smiled and went back to monitoring the screens in front of him.

  “It’s going to be a long night, isn’t it?” Sandra said.

  “I think so.”

  “You all set for the wedding?”

  “As much as we can be.”

  “Did you write your own vows?”

  “Yes, we did. That’s a lot harder than it seems.”

  Sandra smiled. “Two weeks. Exciting.”

  “Two weeks.”

  One big family dinner before the big day and I was glad it wasn’t tonight. When was it? Three days until the dinner and the last minute prep is sorted. Then I could relax. A small laugh escaped. Yeah, right. I could relax once on the plane leaving the country for our honeymoon.

  Sandra nudged me. “Are you going to take his name?”

  “Yes.” The speed with which this fell from my lips surprised me. I didn’t take Mac’s name but I’m taking Mitch’s. Funny how life changes.

  Sandra bought coffee; I went with hot chocolate and we walked quietly back through the darkening streets. Nice to feel safe in D.C. again. It can take a while to get that sense of security back after things explode around you. This was my city and life wouldn’t leave it in ruins.

  Thirty minutes shot by in the blink of an eye. Mostly sucked up by social media, scouring each woman’s overlapping followers for any real connection. I’d broken the two hundred into groups of fifty. Sandra knocked on my door just as I’d finished the first fifty and found nothing significant.

  “Yes?” I said as Sandra poked her head around the door.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Daughtry are here.”

  “Thanks. Show them in.”

  I stood up, wiped my hands down my thighs and met the nice looking couple in their mid-fifties in the middle of the room. Handshakes all round.

  “Please, have a seat,” I said, holding my hand out to the couch in the corner.

  “How can we help you find out what happened to our daughter?” Mr. Daughtry said, taking his wife’s hand.

 
“Tell me about Jane. What was she like as a child?”

  He frowned for a second then smiled and nodded. “Happy. She was a happy kid. Liked to sing a lot.”

  Mrs. Daughtry laughed at a memory. “She was always singing. We thought she’d be a singer but as she grew older, she developed a love for numbers.”

  “And that led her to the FBI?”

  “Yes,” Mr. Daughtry replied.

  “She didn’t want to be an agent?”

  “No.”

  “Did she carry on singing?”

  Mrs. Daughtry said, “Yes, at family events. She wanted to audition for American Idol a few years ago but never did.”

  “Do you know why not?”

  “She was still in college when she thought about auditioning. I think her workload was quite high. Her degree was important to her.”

  “Boyfriends?”

  “She didn’t talk much about boys,” Mrs. Daughtry said. “Except for Matthew. She adored him.”

  “Do you know why they broke up?”

  “She never said much about the breakup.”

  “Have you spoken to Matthew?” Mr. Daughtry wanted to know. “We never met him, but she talked about him all the time before they broke up.”

  “I haven’t spoken to him yet. But I will … he’s next on the list.” I considered how to ask about him without causing the parents concern.

  Lightly. Tread gently.

  “I’m hoping that between you two and Matthew, I can get a clear picture of the woman Jane was. Also an idea of anyone in her life I should be aware of.”

  “Matthew would probably know more than us,” Mrs. Daughtry said. “He would know her friends. I don’t think Jane stayed in touch with many of her old high school friends. None of her friends attended George Mason University.”

  I wrote George Mason in my notebook. “Are you staying in The District tonight or heading back to Maryland?”

  Mr. Daughtry said, “We’re going home. We have arrangements to make for … Jane.”

  An hour later I was no closer to learning anything from her parents that struck me as a jumping point for the investigation, apart from the ex-boyfriend and that she went to George Mason in Virginia. But I did know she’d been a much-loved daughter. I gave the parents my business card and escorted them out.