by Tim Downs
“You were just looking for a shortcut.”
“As I recall, the shortest distance between two points is still a straight line. Besides, I didn’t want the information secondhand—I wanted to ask Braden myself.”
“Why?”
“To find out if he was lying.”
Danny looked at Nick in astonishment. “Now you’re suspecting the senator of something?”
“Of course I am—and you should too. Are we supposed to consider Braden above suspicion just because he’s a politician? There’s an irony for you.”
Danny glared at Nick. “Have you got any more bright ideas like that?”
“Not yet, but I’ll let you know.”
“Well, you’d better. From now on I want these things cleared through me first, understand?”
“I didn’t want to bother you with details.”
“I told you yesterday: I like details.”
“And I told you that’s micromanaging, and you’ll drive us all crazy that way—me, anyway.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take. Is there anything else you two haven’t told me? Are there any other developments I should know about?”
Kegan held up the manila envelope. “We got the first anthropological evaluation from Quantico.”
“When did that happen?”
“Just a few minutes ago,” Nick said. “Let’s not get paranoid here.”
“What do the reports say?”
“We were just about to go over them.”
“Good—fill me in.”
There were four separate reports, each one labeled with a designator indicating the victim’s location in the graveyard and the date of discovery.
“Victim 2-6-18-08,” Kegan read. “This was the first body discovered. Not many surprises here; the victim was male, roughly six feet in height, right-handed.”
“How can you tell that?” Danny asked.
“You tend to favor your strong hand, so the muscles become stronger; that thickens the muscle attachments on the wrist and arm.”
“What about the cause of death?”
“Still undetermined. There were no cut marks on the bones and no sign of ballistic injury. There’s a note here that suggests blunt-force trauma to the skull might be indicated, but I’m not sure how they could tell—the skull was smashed flat, remember?” She scanned the rest of the page. “Apparently the assumption is based on the analysis of the second set of bones.” She picked up the second report and began to study it.
“4-6-18-08—also a male, a little shorter in stature and heavier in build. Approximate age at time of death forty to forty-five. Here we go: The cause of death is listed as ‘blunt-force trauma to the head.’ The skull was intact on this one; the victim was struck from behind, and the diameter and shape of the fracture suggest a large, smooth weapon was used—maybe an ax handle or a club.”
“Could it have been accidental?”
“It’s possible—a tree limb maybe—but it takes a lot of force to crush a skull.” She looked at the next report. “No—it was no accident.”
“Why not?”
“Because the third victim died the same way—a blow to the back of the head. The same cause of death, the same method of disposal. That’s no accident—they were definitely murdered.”
“How old are these skeletons?” Nick asked. “Did they find anything that could give us a postmortem interval?”
She looked. “They tested the bones for nitrogen levels; their best estimate is between twenty and fifty years.”
“Can’t they narrow it down any more than that?” Danny asked.
“The older the body, the harder it is to tell,” Kegan said. “Once the soft tissues are gone and the body is fully skeletonized, age becomes very difficult to estimate.”
“Twenty to fifty years—that doesn’t give us much to go on.”
“It tells us something important,” Nick said. “All four bodies are in the same age range; that means one killer could be responsible for all four, and he could still be alive.”
“All three,” Kegan corrected.
“Excuse me?”
“The fourth skeleton—one of the two we found just the other day— it’s two hundred years old.”
“What?” Nick took the report from her hand and looked at it.
“The cause of death was the same—a blow to the back of the head— but the condition of the skeleton was different. On the first three bodies there were still shreds of fabric surrounding the bone. They were synthetic fibers—synthetics break down a lot more slowly than natural fibers like cotton or silk, and none of them existed before the early twentieth century. On the fourth body there were no fibers at all, and that suggests greater age. There were artifacts that helped date the fourth body as well: four buttons made of ivory—they were commonly used in the eighteenth century but rarely since. There were also fragments of brass near the feet.”
“Shoe buckles?” Nick suggested.
“That’s what they think at Quantico. Low nitrogen levels, absence of synthetic fibers, and datable artifacts—it all adds up to two hundred years, more or less.”
“Then we’ve got two different killers here,” Danny said, “a historical one and one that might still be alive.”
“And we’re not finished excavating yet,” Kegan said. “Who knows what else we might find.”
“What’s taking so long?”
“It’s a slow process, Danny. The soil above every grave could contain forensic evidence—we have to go through it one shovelful at a time. We’re excavating, not gardening. It could take a few more days still.”
“Somebody knows about this graveyard,” Nick said almost to himself.
“Well, obviously.”
“I mean they not only know its location—they know what it was used for two hundred years ago. Who would know that?”
No one had an answer.
“Could the victims be connected in some way—the old one and the new ones?”
“We’re still waiting on mitochondrial DNA results,” Kegan said. “That might tell us if any of them were related—at least if they shared a common female ancestor.”
“Let me know as soon as you get them,” Danny said. “Is there anything else?”
Kegan flipped through the reports. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Okay,” Danny said. “What do we know so far?”
“First of all, we know we’re talking about murder now,” Nick said. “And second, we know that one killer is probably responsible for all three of the recent murders—the similar ages of the skeletons make it possible, and the common modus makes it almost certain. Third, we know the killer is a copycat—he learned his technique from somebody who lived a long time ago. That means he has historical knowledge of the area and he’s probably a native.”
“I’ll get the behavioral science services unit to start working up a profile,” Danny said.
“That’s a good idea, Danny—this guy doesn’t fit the traditional serial killer profile.”
“You two keep me posted—I’ll see you both at the noon briefing.”
They watched as Danny took out his cell phone and headed off across the field.
“That concerns me,” Nick said.
“He’s only trying to do his job.”
“No, not that—he never asked me what Braden said. I wonder why?”
“What did Braden say?”
“He said he has no information about this graveyard. Mrs. Braden said the same thing.”
“Do you believe them?”
Nick paused. “Actually, I do.”
Kegan leaned closer and grinned. “You never told me—what was she wearing?”
“I have no idea.”
“You didn’t even notice? What are those glasses for, anyway?”
“Not fashion assessment.”
Kegan shook her head. “It defies explanation.”
“I’m a man,” Nick said. “That’s all the explanation I need—now let�
�s get back to work.”
18
“Are there any other developments I should be aware of ?” the senator asked.
“No, sir. I think that about covers it for now.”
Braden sat in his wingback chair with his forearms resting on the padded leather and his legs crossed casually at the knee. Victoria and Brad sat across from him in low-backed Savannah chairs covered in cotton twill. All of them stared at a triangular black conference phone sitting on a pedestal table between them.
“Good work, Danny,” Braden said. “You don’t mind if I call you ‘Danny,’ do you?”
“No, sir, that would be just fine.”
“Well, I appreciate the update. You’re doing good work out there, son—I’ll make sure the director knows about it.”
“Thank you, sir, I really appreciate that.”
“You keep me posted on any further developments, hear?”
“Yes, sir—you’ll be the first to know.”
Brad leaned forward and pushed a button on the center of the phone. “What do you think, John?”
“I think we’ve got one certified mess out there, that’s what I think.”
“It might not be as bad as it sounds,” Victoria said.
“Now how do you figure that, darling? I count four dead bodies, and there might be more.”
“Bodies that could be fifty years old,” Victoria said. She turned to Brad. “We need to make sure we emphasize that.”
“The media will say twenty,” Brad replied.
“That’s pure speculation on their part, and we should say so. Whoever did this probably died years ago—that’s what we want to stress. We need to set this whole thing in the past—make it sound like nothing more than a historical curiosity.”
The senator winked at his wife. “What do you think of our new boy Danny?”
“He’ll do,” Victoria said. “He’s young and he’s eager to please. He’ll be a lot easier to handle than Nathan Donovan.”
“Let’s hope so. We need to stay a step ahead of this situation—I don’t want to be learning about it from the morning papers.”
“We need to be informing the papers ourselves,” Victoria said. “We should send out regular press releases—get the information to the reporters before they dig it up themselves.”
“What do you want to tell them?”
“Everything we know—with a certain editorial slant, of course. ‘Four bodies have been found so far; the FBI has no reason to think there will be more. The bodies are estimated to be as many as fifty years old; so far the FBI is at a loss to explain them.’ Brad, I want you to get me some information on how they date these skeletons. Put one of the research assistants on it—have them call the FBI or one of the local universities. Find out how much guesswork is involved—how much margin for error there is. Twenty, fifty, two hundred years—it sounds like they’re guessing to me, and if they are, I want to be able to say so.”
Brad didn’t reply.
Victoria looked at him. “Is there a problem, Brad?”
“I think there’s a question of strategy here—something we need to address. The question is, how much attention do we want to draw to this? I understand your approach, Mrs. Braden—total transparency— but I think it could backfire on us. We could start a feeding frenzy if we’re not careful.”
“Just the opposite,” Victoria said. “A feeding frenzy occurs when there’s not enough for everyone to eat. The instant a reporter senses that you’re withholding information, that’s when he’ll take a bite out of you.”
“I’m not suggesting that we withhold information—I’m suggesting that we look the other way.”
“Draw attention to more important matters,” the senator said.
“Exactly. We’re in the middle of a presidential campaign and we’ve got a platform to push. Who can blame us for that? Immigration reform, renewable energy mandates, the international nuclear threat, homeland security—every one of those subjects is more important than what’s going on at the Patriot Center. Let’s talk about what’s significant—direct the public’s attention where it belongs.”
“I just did a sit-down with Harper’s Bazaar,” Victoria said. “I went into that interview with two talking points: immigration reform and preschool education for the poor. You know what they wanted to talk about? Whether I was wearing a Zac Posen or a Nina Ricci at the Kennedy Center last week. So I told them all about the gown—the way it’s made, the way it fits, the way the stupid thing rides up on anybody bigger than a size six. I didn’t ‘direct their attention where it belongs,’ Brad, I told them more than they wanted to know—and you know what happened? They changed the subject. The question here isn’t, what do we think is important? The question is, what do they think is important? And if they think what’s important is a little graveyard at the Patriot Center, then believe me—it is.”
Brad looked at the senator for a ruling. So did Victoria—but her look was a little more determined, and her eyes communicated a subtext that her husband couldn’t miss.
The senator paused. “I think we should follow Victoria on this one. She’s got a lot of experience with the media, and I trust her instincts.”
Mrs. Braden flashed her husband a quick wink.
“It’s your call,” Brad said with a shrug of resignation. “I’ll get on the first press release right away.”
“Make sure I see it first,” Victoria said. “Remember—I want a certain editorial slant.”
“You’ve got it—anything else?”
“Yes. I want to pay a visit to Endor.”
Both men looked at her in astonishment.
“Sweetheart, I trust your instincts, but don’t you think that might be going a bit too far? I requested that Mr. Donovan be removed because he was attracting too much publicity—what will happen when your pretty face shows up out there? Talk about a feeding frenzy.”
“The problem with Nathan Donovan wasn’t too much publicity—it was the wrong kind. Think about it, Johnny: Who covers the FBI? Crime scene reporters do. But crime scene reporters don’t cover me— I get the reporters from Lifestyle and Fashion, and isn’t that just the kind of publicity we’re looking for? We don’t want someone asking, ‘How many more bodies might be out there?’ We want them to ask, ‘How big is that mall going to be?’ Besides, I won’t visit the Patriot Center—I’ll visit Endor. It’s my hometown, and it’s right next door— just close enough but not too close.”
Brad turned to her. “What would this visit accomplish, Mrs. Braden?”
“Ask Johnny,” she said. “He understands.”
The senator smiled at his wife. “I believe my wife is referring to a technique commonly employed by our nation’s chief executive: When a situation is deserving of the president’s attention but it’s too controversial to allow a personal appearance, he sends the First Lady instead. She has a softer presence. She conveys compassion and concern. No one wants to embarrass her with awkward questions. They respect her—they treat her with kid gloves.”
Victoria looked at Brad with a pouty face. “You wouldn’t want to make me cry, would you, Brad?”
Brad grinned. “No, ma’am, I wouldn’t want that. Okay, I’ll set it up. When would you like to make this visit?”
“The sooner the better. Get the PR team moving on it, and have Cassandra meet me in my office—we’ll start working up a schedule of events.” She rose from her chair, blew a quick kiss to her husband, and started for the door.
“I do have one more question,” Brad said.
“Yes?”
“What happens if they find more bodies?”
“It won’t matter,” she said.
“It won’t matter?”
“They found an old graveyard, that’s all—it happens all the time. As for the bodies, nobody knows who they are or how they got there. It’s a mystery—and that’s exactly the way we want to leave it until after the election. We want them to get those caskets out of there so they can get back to work on
the Patriot Center, but as for the bodies—we want the FBI to take them back to some laboratory and puzzle over them for a few months. Four bodies, five bodies, ten bodies—it doesn’t matter. Time is all that matters here, Brad—it’s all about time.”
Victoria turned and left the room; her heels made a receding clack on the slate floor as she crossed the foyer to her office.
“When are you going to learn to trust Victoria?” the senator said with a sly smile. “We might as well face it, son—the woman is smarter than both of us combined.”
19
Nick trotted up the shallow stone steps of Alderman Library, the largest and oldest collection of books and rare manuscripts at the University of Virginia. He squeezed past a group of students exiting the building with their ever-present cell phones pressed against their ears and entered the lobby, a cavernous room with a twenty-five-foot ceiling and towering arched windows that made it look even taller. On his left there was a coffee shop, offering both companionship and chemical enhancement for each student’s study needs; across the aisle there was a rectangular study area lined with padded vinyl chairs. On the right there was a grid of low cubicles equipped with charcoal gray computers, and across the aisle he found what he was looking for—the reference desk. Nick crossed to the desk and approached the first worker he saw, a young man in a blue scrubs top with the letter V embroidered on the breast pocket and a pair of crossed sabers below.
The student glanced up. “Need some help?”
“Yes,” Nick said, “I’m looking for a master’s thesis titled ‘The Utility of Arthropods in Medicolegal Investigations.’ It was completed at Penn State University.”
The young man looked at him blankly. “I—don’t think we have that one.”
“I didn’t expect you to keep it on a shelf next to Seventeen. I want to know if you can find it for me.”
The student began to slowly peck at a computer keyboard. “Um— I’m not sure what to look under. Let me see if I can find someone who could—”
“Never mind,” Nick said. “You can go back to Facebook now.”
Nick walked down to the opposite end of the reference desk where he found a woman seated at a computer. Her hair was a dyed reddish-orange and pulled back in a simple ponytail with short strands that dangled down over her forehead. She wore black-framed glasses with the logo “D&G” encrusted in rhinestones on the temples, and a silver post protruded from the right side of her nose. She wore a navy UVA hoodie even though it was almost summer, which was no surprise to Nick since she was a woman and the library was kept at the temperature of a meat locker.
