Quantico, Virginia
Maggie chose the empty cafeteria to meet with her team. She was early, commandeering her favorite table next to the window overlooking the woods. Snow covered the trees. It was still lightly falling. She missed running the trails, although she’d brought her gear.
Wishful thinking. No way she could plow through. Not being able to run out in the fresh air was almost as bad as being down underground.
There would be no competition for the table. The place was empty. Classes were finished for the year. Many of the agents scheduled time off for the holidays.
The holidays. Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Years.
None of them held much meaning for Maggie. Her father died when she was twelve. Her short marriage created no holiday traditions. Even when her mother experienced periods of sobriety, Maggie still avoided her. Her half-brother Patrick had only recently come into her life, but as a first responder, he usually worked through the holidays or was on call.
Gwen and Tully, her dogs Harvey and Jake. They were her family. And now Ryder.
She smiled at the memory of his face when she suggested that she come down and spend Christmas with him. He had tried to pretend it wasn’t a big deal, but his eyes said otherwise. Despite the life and death situations they had been through together, they were still sorting out this new level of their relationship. Which seemed a bit silly. They had already become close friends. Long ago, Hannah had welcomed Maggie as though she were a part of their family. Brodie and Jason and all the dogs... She knew she would fit in.
And yet, she tried not to look too forward to the trip. Like so much of her life, any time she’d let her guard down and cared about someone, it usually resulted in disappointment. Sometimes betrayal. And whether she wanted to admit it or not, Ryder was right. It was a big deal.
Gwen claimed Maggie sabotaged relationships just to avoid getting hurt. “You do that often enough,” Gwen told her, “And you miss out on a whole lot of happiness.”
To which Maggie replied, “I think happiness is overrated.”
“Says the woman who has only dabbled in the concept.”
She watched out the window as she waited for the others. Recently, she started bringing her work up here where she could breathe. Her cramped office triggered her claustrophobia. Not because it was small, but because it was down underground—too many stories—she didn’t want to count. Even getting on the elevator made her break out in a sweat.
She couldn’t admit it. Wouldn’t admit it. If she did, they’d send her to see the bureau psychologist. It was the way they dealt with vulnerabilities around here.
When the new director asked her to take this assignment, and he agreed to let her build her own team, he’d also offered her a larger office. But the office he referenced was still down underground in the Behavioral Science Unit. Eventually, she’d need to figure out a way to ask for an office somewhere else on campus.
Agent Antonio Alonzo was the first to arrive. He wore an orange oxford button-down, neatly tucked into black trousers. His shiny leather shoes obviously hadn’t touched the slush outside. His eyeglass frames matched his shirt, and he brought his own designer coffee.
Alonzo was a cyber-wizard. Maggie was anxious to hear what, if anything, he’d learned in the short amount of time. He grinned when he saw her and took the seat closest to her right.
“You have a habit of giving me less and less to work with,” he laughed.
“It’s D.C. I thought there were cameras on every street corner.”
“That might be true in some areas.” He opened his laptop and started tapping. “We’re dealing with places where the so-called political class doesn’t hang out. So, in other words, very few cameras.”
“There has to be something.”
“I haven’t found a captured image of either murder. A couple close, but no angle or direct view. But then, he probably knew that, right? I separated what we do have of both crime scenes from the time slots you gave me. My focus was establishing patterns, similarities, anything and everything that might overlap. Facial recognition is not helpful with scarves and hoods and dark shadows. Also, these people don’t move much. They spend a lot of time hunkered down under blankets and in makeshift tents.”
“It’s cold out, Alonzo.”
“I know. I get it. But I could barely track the victims.”
“Do we have identities on either yet?”
“I tapped into the autopsy report for the first victim, and—”
“Wait. You didn’t get anything from Detective Racine?”
“Not yet.” He shrugged. It didn’t matter to him. He could access what he needed without the formalities. Who was Maggie to argue? She’d never played well with others.
“I got the fingerprints for both victims,” Alonzo said. “I’ve already run them through all the regular databases. No hits. Which only means neither of them were in the military, had government clearance, was listed as missing or had a criminal record.
“The only other pieces of information I have are that their names were maybe Danny and Carlo. I’ll try facial recognition, but those programs don’t always like it when the only photos I’ve got are dead guys.”
His fingers were still tapping.
“I do have something, though.”
“I’m listening.”
“I put in all the information into ViCAP. Narrowed it to the last six months.”
ViCAP was the Violent Crime Apprehension Program that tracked communication between law enforcement agencies.
“You got a hit on the M.O.?” Maggie asked.
“October. Homeless guy inside a tent. Hit on the head, then stabbed. Coroner’s report listed a ball-peen hammer as a possible weapon.”
“Racine didn’t mention any of this.”
“She probably didn’t know. It was downtown Jacksonville, Florida.”
“How many miles is that from D.C.?”
“Approximately seven hundred, if you take I-95 South. About ten hours and fifteen minutes if you don’t stop for coffee and potty breaks.”
“You think it’s the same guy?”
Alonzo shrugged. She could tell he had more.
“I opened up the perimeters to include a longer stretch of time. Same details: ball-peen hammer, stab wounds, homeless. Got another hit. February of last year. Five-day window. Two homeless victims. New York City.”
“Two victims in five days? Were we ever consulted on those two?”
“Not that I can find.”
“How has no one noticed?”
“Different cities. All the victims were homeless. The murders appeared to be random. Lots of random attacks on the homeless, especially in these three cities. In New York, just two weeks before, someone shoved a homeless guy onto the subway tracks as a train was approaching.”
Maggie winced. He was right. Random crime had skyrocketed in the last several years for some of these cities. What looked like a serial killer to her could easily be lost in the wash of violent crimes.
For more than a decade, she’d profiled dozens of twisted killers. Sometimes all she had were their victims—or pieces of them—to tell her what happened through the evidence left behind. But not being able to identify the victims would make their job more difficult.
“Do you have IDs for any of those victims?”
“Not for October. And only one from February.” He’d brought along a file folder, and now he slid it over to her.
“Do you think there could be more?”
“You know, not every department puts their unsolved homicides in ViCAP. Also, the ball-peen hammer might not have been identified or reported in some reports. That’s what got me the hits. But I’m still searching. So, you think it’s the same guy?”
“Could all be a coincidence.”
“Except you don’t believe in coincidences.” He tipped his coffee cup at her to emphasize the point before taking a sip. “You said the MPD may have found his throwaway at this last scene?”
“We’re hoping it’s his.”
“If Kuszak pulls some DNA, I’ll have a whole new run at it.”
“If it’s the same guy, this certainly would eliminate him being homeless.”
“D.C., Jacksonville and New York City,” Alonzo said. “I haven’t been able to determine a pattern with those cities.”
“If there is one, I’m sure you’ll find it. Don’t stop looking though. I have a gut feeling there are other cities.”