by Alex Kava
Lately she carried around a file or two with her. Over lunch, in between meetings, or curled up on her sofa at home, she found herself sifting, reviewing, searching for pieces she may have missed. The cases filled almost every waking hour. Her husband, Greg accused her of being obsessed, and in the last couple of months she began to worry that he might be right. Even today she’d skipped lunch, anxious to see the details of this new case.
The fact was she had stopped killers from adding victims to their lists. With each apprehension came a sense of power. But with that power came an overwhelming obligation and responsibility. So much so, that she hated turning down a single request, hated having to be so selective, picking and choosing. Unfortunately—or perhaps for the sake of her mental and physical health she should consider it fortunate—her boss, Assistant Director Cunningham restricted her caseload.
“You need to take a break every once in while, Agent O’Dell,” he had told her when she first started. “I can’t have you burning out before you reach thirty.”
Now alone in her office, Maggie opened the envelope carefully and slid the contents onto her desk. Immediately, her eyes caught a glimpse of the photos. These weren’t blurry Polaroids. A close-up of the victim’s neck showed what could be rope burns. Another captured bite-marks, red gashes in the soft flesh of the inner arm.
She stopped herself from picking up any of these for a closer look. Instead she left everything where it landed when it slid out of the envelope. She stood back, restraining her hands, keeping them on her hips as she cocked her head to take in an overview of the contents.
She focused in on the medical examiner’s report without swooping. Instead, she scanned it all the way to the middle of the first page before she found what she was looking for. This victim’s name was David Robards. Twenty-one. Five feet, nine inches tall. A hundred and fifty pounds.
The autopsy listed the manner of death as “undetermined,” but Maggie already knew that early police reports indicated that Robards’ death “appeared to be alcohol-related drowning.” Those were the few things Maggie had allowed Detective Michael Hogan to tell her. He seemed stunned when she stopped him from providing more details.
“I need to see the photos first,” she had explained. “The next time we talk I’ll ask you to take me through the crime scene as if I’m walking right beside you.”
Hogan accepted this without argument. They all did. Sometimes it surprised her how few of them questioned any of her process, almost as if she were clairvoyant and they dared not disrupt the magic they didn’t understand but respected.
She was impressed and maybe a bit too excited to see that Hogan provided a good deal of documents, photos and even several plastic bags of trace evidence. This was more than she usually received.
Again before digging in, Maggie went over the details she had committed to memory. David Robards was one of three victims in nine months. All of them were young, white males. College students but not from the same universities. Each had been drinking with friends before they disappeared only to be found in a river days—sometimes weeks—later.
Maggie glanced at the array of photos. “Alcohol related” didn’t exactly explain the rope burns left on Robards’ neck or what appeared to be a bite-mark left on the inside of his upper arm.
A knock on her door startled her.
“Come in,” she said when she really wanted to say, go away.
Preston Turner eased the door open just enough to tuck his huge head and right shoulder in between. The agent reminded her of an ex-linebacker, and she was sure he could crush his way through the door if he chose.
“O’Dell, boy, am I glad you’re here.” He grinned at her. “Delaney has a family thing. Wanna go with me to an autopsy?”
She hesitated, not because of the interruption but because of the unexpected invitation. None of the guys ever invited her to come along.
“Sure,” she said trying to sound casual. Trying to sound like one of the guys—that’s how she needed to react. With all that in mind, she decided to add, “Can we stop on the way and pick up lunch?”
She carefully slid all of Hogan’s case back into its package, so her back was to Turner when he said, “Very funny, O’Dell. So Delaney already tipped you off.”
“Tipped me off?”
“About how much I hate autopsies.”
She turned to look at him and now saw his clenched jaw and his right hand fisted over the door handle. Agents Turner and Delaney had been treating her like their little sister ever since she helped them break open a three-year old serial arson case. Last week they waved her over to join them and three other male agents at the coveted “guys’ table” in the cafeteria for lunch. Delaney had even stopped by a couple of times to see what she was working on.
She didn’t mind. Both were well-respected and in this male-dominated department it was a relief to have some of her male counterparts more interested in her profiling skills rather than how she filled out her navy blue suit. However, she never would have guessed that the tough, but charming, Preston Turner had a queasy stomach when it came to autopsies.
“Delaney never told me.”
“He didn’t? Huh.” Turner pretended it wasn’t a big deal, now glancing at his watch as if suddenly the time was more important.
“I skipped lunch,” she explained.
“Then by all means, we’ll drive through and get you some lunch.” He held the door open for her. “Actually I wouldn’t mind if we were a little late getting there.”
3
Warren County, Virginia
He took a different exit off the interstate. It was never good to get too comfortable and follow the same route. Although it meant depending on his mobile GPS more than he liked. Life was about taking risks, seeing opportunities where others simply drove by. Being unpredictable had always served him well.
Until now.
He hadn’t been on the two-lane blacktop for ten minutes when he saw the cruiser in his rearview mirror. His eyes automatically glanced at his speedometer. Two miles per hour over the limit, if that. And yet, when he looked up again, the cruiser’s flashing lights filled his rearview mirror, rushing up behind him.
This was ridiculous. He hadn’t done anything to warrant notice. And it was much too early for the car to have been reported as stolen. He slowed down and pulled carefully to the edge of the highway, allowing only one set of tires to drop off the blacktop and onto the muddy side.
He listened, holding his breath as he sat perfectly still. He didn’t fumble for his driver’s license. Nor did he reach to check the glove compartment where he could only hope the car’s owner kept the registration papers. Instead he sat quietly, listening for anything unusual while he watched the side mirror. He could see the asshole taking his time. Was he running the license plate number? Finally the officer climbed out of his cruiser and strutted toward him.
He recognized that strut. Uniform tight across the chest and arms to emphasis the muscles he worked so hard to develop. Hat brim low so there was no space between it and the frame of his sunglasses. He held back a smirk when he noticed the man’s sunglasses had mirrored lenses. Of course, they did. It was all part of the training package—asserting authority 101.
He waited until the asshole was one step away from his car door before he hit the button to bring down the window.
“Good afternoon, officer.”
That took the guy a bit off guard. Most people wanted to know immediately what they had done wrong. But to find the driver friendly and not confrontational or defensive? That was unpredictable.
“License and registration.”
Direct, demanding to the point of being rude. The asshole thought he was—again, asserting his authority—but what he had just revealed was that his confidence level wasn’t high enough to exchange a friendly greeting without losing that precious piece of authority.
“Yes, sir.”
He slowly pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket. All careful, deliberate movements. He didn’t need this guy suddenly feeling threatened by what he might misinterpret as a jerk or a grab. He slid the driver’s license out and handed it up. The license was a fake but he knew it was professional enough to fool even a digital scanner. The identity was one of his many and it matched his current physical appearance—a harmless, ordinary middle-aged guy.
Fact was, he hadn’t used his real name in years. Only a handful of people still knew him as Albert Stucky, but even they would never recognize him because he changed with each new name and identity. He was like a chameleon, shredding his skin and pulling on a whole new persona. Three weeks ago he was a blind veteran with a pronounced limp.
However, the vehicle registration might be trickier.
“Is it okay if I get the registration from the glove compartment?” he asked before he reached for it.
“Go ahead.”
“This is my friend’s car,” he explained as he popped the compartment open. He was only informing the good officer. No hint of excuse or reason to be defensive. “She hates leaving it at the airport, so I usually drive her.”
Under the pack of tissues and three tubes of lipstick, he found the paper he recognized as the registration. As he grabbed it he glanced over the type, committing the address and full name to memory: Susan R. Fuller. He left the compartment open to show he had nothing to hide then sat back and held the paper up through the open window.
The officer didn’t take his glasses off as he examined the driver’s license and looked over the registration.
“Where’d she go?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your friend.”
It wasn’t at all the question he had expected.
“Florida. Fort Lauderdale.”
“Vacation?”
He had to think quickly. This guy was good. If he were her friend why wouldn’t he have joined her on vacation?
“No, unfortunately, business.”
The hat bobbed but he couldn’t tell behind the mirrored sunglasses if the officer was still reading the license and registration or if he was looking for some tell. A tell was a clue, an indicator that signaled someone was lying.
“What kind of business?”
“Excuse me?”
“What kind of business is she in?”
“Susie owns a little boutique in Gainesville. Costume jewelry, bright colored scarves, that sort of thing. You know where the Red Lobster is?”
Actually she worked at a pastry shop next to the boutique, but the trick was to take the asshole off guard a bit. Turn it around. Ask him a question that seemed totally unrelated. If nothing else, the guy would be thinking about where the Red Lobster was. But he didn’t wait for the man to respond.
“It’s in that upscale shopping center off the interstate. You’ve probably driven by it.” But in saying that, he was hoping the officer would probably never notice a women’s boutique nor would he have any reason to in an upscale neighborhood that rarely had any police incidents.
To his surprise the officer handed the registration back to him but kept his driver’s license. He waved a hand at the back of the vehicle.
“One of your taillights is out. I’m gonna have to give you a ticket.”
He stopped himself from saying, “But it’s not even my car.” Instead, he watched the man march back to his cruiser and now every nerve in his body came alert.
He knew the asshole wanted to run the license plate and worse, he wanted to run the driver’s license. Whether he believed the story or any portion of it, didn’t matter. The guy was still going to bust his chops, make him sweat, push a little harder just to see if he could get him to crack.
Son of a bitch.
The driver’s license was solid. He needed to relax. He always made sure he had a credit card in the same name. Those were easy to come by. For this identity he’d even gotten a library card. Other times he’d added a membership card to Costco or Sam’s Club. He tried to change it up a bit. Never wanted to get too comfortable, take anything for granted. Part of that being unpredictable creed.
The guy was finished and on his way back.
He cocked his head and listened hard. Nothing. But he wasn’t sure how much longer this would take. Those damned sunglasses wouldn’t allow a hint of what came next. Just be patient, he told himself. And prepared. The heel of his right foot tapped the hunting knife he kept under the driver’s seat. Its presence calmed him by the time the officer arrived back at the car door.
Then without a word the asshole handed him his driver’s license . . . along with a ticket.
Even as Stucky took the two items the man’s attention was drawn away. His head tilted and his body turned to look back toward his cruiser. Stucky took the opportunity to glance at the officer’s nametag then he held back a smile.
Mr. Tough Guy living up to his name.
He shifted to look in the rearview mirror now anxious to see the new focus of this asshole. A vehicle was approaching. The first one he’d seen since leaving the interstate.
The guy was obviously done with him but he stood in place, making no move to leave. And now there was a hint of emotion. Stucky saw it in the way the guy’s jaw clenched as if he were grinding his teeth. He glanced in the rearview mirror. It was a black pickup but it didn’t seem to be speeding. And yet, it held the officer’s attention almost as if the guy was expecting it.
The pickup slowed a little, not much, weaving into the other lane to give the officer on the side of the road plenty of room. Stucky watched the asshole’s face. With his head turned Stucky could see the guy’s eyes behind the sunglasses, and he was intrigued to witness a slip of anger. Stucky was so focused on the asshole that he barely saw more than a glimpse of long blond hair in the passenger window as the vehicle drove by.
It took a second or two before the officer realized he still had a car pulled over. Suddenly the guy tapped the car door with his knuckles, signaling he was finished and dismissing him.
“Move along,” he said, his emotions back in check or so he pretended.
As Stucky shifted into gear he saw the officer glancing over his shoulder, still watching the taillights of the pickup blink then disappear around a curve. He pulled out before the officer got back into his cruiser. He accelerated quickly to the speed limit wanting to gain some distance. When he rounded the curve he looked up and couldn’t see the cruiser. He almost missed an old pasture road on the other side of a line of trees.
He skidded to halt. Glanced in the rearview mirror. He backed into the two-track road, spitting up dirt into the tire wells until he knew his car was hidden from the road by the pine trees.
Then he waited.
He wanted to see what the hell had gotten this guy all bent out of shape. Something told him there was more to this asshole under that carefully crafted surface. Not to mention the fact that he had almost caught Stucky. That pissed him off. But with his relief came a swell of power. A feeling of being invincible.
He wanted to tell the asshole, “You didn’t discover my secret, but maybe I can find out yours.”
He had several hours before he needed to worry. It wasn’t like he was in a hurry. Still, he cocked his head and listened as he watched the road, expecting the cruiser any minute now.
Susan R. Fuller wasn’t going anywhere. The injection worked like it always did. Except she must have kicked out the taillight.
4
Richmond, Virginia
“Whoa! She is seriously messed up.”
This was the first thing out of Turner’s mouth when they arrived. No “hello.” No apology for their delay. With only a glance at the corpse, Maggie realized that was an understatement even before the M.E. scowled at them over his half glasses. They were twenty minutes late though i
t took only five to go through the fast food drive-thru.
“I’m sure you won’t mind that I started without you, Agent Turner.”
Stan Wenhoff was clearly not happy. But it was hard to tell. Head down, shoulders hunched, his eyes didn’t leave his fingers. He had already sliced the body open and started to examine the internal injuries. Maggie had worked with the medical examiner about a dozen times. His facial expression rarely changed as if it were stamped on with an eternal look of disapproval. She knew lack of emotion could be an advantage in his line of work.
Wenhoff finally glanced up. To Maggie he nodded and said, “Agent O’Dell, good to see you again.” Back to Turner. “Gowns, masks, shoe covers—” He pointed with his scalpel to a metal rack against the far wall behind them.
“This is not the missing councilwoman from Boston,” Wenhoff told them, getting down to business.
The story had made the national news, a constant loop with photos and interviews of panicked family members. The woman had gone missing several days ago, her car found in the parking lot of a restaurant she frequented.
Now that Maggie stood over the corpse she wondered how Wenhoff could be so certain. The tangled hair, the bruises and gashes on her swollen face made her unrecognizable.
As if reading Maggie’s mind, Wenhoff said, “This woman’s been gone more than a few days. I’d say a week, maybe even two.”
“She doesn’t look like she’s been dead for that long,” Turner said, towering over Maggie’s right shoulder.
She noticed Turner hanging back behind her instead of alongside her, his facemask clasped firmly in place. She left hers dangling at her neck. Autopsies didn’t bother her. She’d considered pre-med in college until she realized a medical doctor might require social skills she didn’t have. Fact was, she felt more comfortable with dead people, and yes, she had a minor in psychology so she also knew that preference wasn’t quite normal.
