Gimble and Dobbs followed the agent down a series of hallways; Gimble had been told his name but couldn’t remember it. Her brain was a muddled mess. As they walked, he rattled off additional information—the case was moving fast.
“We’ve got another body.”
“What?”
“A kid named Roy Beagle. He worked the Sharper Image counter at Laughlin/Bullhead International Airport near Needles, California. They found him locked inside a Mamava pod, strangled, with his pants around his ankles. He had a feather sticking out of his mouth. Been there at least four days. Cleaning crew found him.”
“Jesus,” Gimble muttered.
Dobbs asked, “What’s a Mamava pod?”
“Nursing station for mothers. They’re in all the major airports now,” the agent replied. “We also found her prints on the MP5 recovered on the edge of the woods back at Longtin’s cabin. The investigating officer believes she was the one firing on the propane tank and that she dropped the weapon a moment or two before she came into view. Voice analysis proves you were speaking to her, not Kepler, over the comm system. Same thing at the truck stop when you were in the helicopter.”
“She sounded just like him.”
“She believed she was him,” the agent said. “We think she set the SUV on fire after she left your line of sight and used the explosion as a distraction to kill the sniper.”
“Or Michael killed him—we may never know.” Gimble’s fingers were twitching.
“The ballistics are a mess. According to forensics, the round we recovered from the Honda’s door was a nine-millimeter and originated from the cabin, not the sniper’s rifle. The angle’s all wrong.”
“Vela,” Dobbs said softly.
“Had to be,” Gimble replied.
“That’s not what I mean,” Dobbs said.
And when she looked up through the open door of SAIC Paul Grimsley’s office, she understood. Assistant Director Warren Beckner had flown in from New York that morning and taken over the space. He stood behind Grimsley’s desk. Special Agent Omer Vela was sitting in a chair opposite him, a cup of coffee in his hand.
“What the hell is he doing here?” Gimble spat, charging into the room.
Beckner raised a hand. “Control yourself, Agent.”
Her face burned. “He sabotaged this investigation! He tried to kill me! I have reason to believe he released Michael Kepler, an action that led to the man’s death. We also have evidence that he took unauthorized shots at Megan Fitzgerald—this man should be in custody!”
“Lower your voice and take a seat, Agent,” Beckner told her. “Detective, come in and close that door behind you.”
Dobbs looked at Gimble, then closed the door.
Beckner placed both hands on the desk and appeared lost in thought. When he looked back up at Gimble, he sighed. “We seem to have extenuating circumstances.”
“No shit,” Gimble said.
“I left my patience back in the city, Gimble. Don’t push me. Not today,” Beckner said. He picked up a sheet of paper from the desk, traced the edge with his index finger, then put it back down. “Apparently, Dr. Vela is not who he originally presented himself to be when he joined your team.”
Gimble glared. “No—”
Beckner silenced her with a glance. “He doesn’t fall under my purview. He’s not with the Department of Justice, not with the Bureau.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So who is he with?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
Dobbs took a step forward. “Defense? DoD?”
Beckner’s face betrayed nothing.
Vela took a sip of his coffee.
Gimble’s eyes didn’t leave Vela. “That’s it, isn’t it? Department of Defense?”
“Things have gotten out of hand, and I’m here to put the train back on the rails,” Vela said.
She turned to Beckner. “I don’t care who signs his checks. Are you aware he has a history with Fitzgerald? There’s a good chance he knew Megan Fitzgerald was our unsub prior to joining the investigation—he withheld information that could have prevented the deaths of more than a dozen people.”
Vela took another sip of coffee. “I’m here to tell you, Megan Fitzgerald is not your unsub.”
“Excuse me?”
“Newspapers, television, the internet…they all have Michael Kepler as your killer. That’s the narrative we’re going with. Any contradicting information you may have learned is to be treated as classified,” Vela told her.
Gimble’s face somehow grew redder. “Narrative? This isn’t some kind of story you can shape and edit! Kepler may not be one hundred percent innocent in all this, but he certainly isn’t a killer. It was Megan all along! We found propofol in her locker at Cornell—the same drug used to kill Alyssa Tepper. She planted Michael’s DNA at the crime scenes. We can place her at each murder. We’ve got numerous phone calls between her and Roland Eads up until the hours before he was killed—looks like Eads was trying to build a case against Fitzgerald and that guy Patchen. He stole substantial amounts of information from Windham Hall. We found it hidden in a crawl space under his house. Megan most likely shot him in cold blood while her brother sat right beside him! We just found another body—some kid at the airport who—”
Vela interrupted. “The boy at the airport will be ruled an unrelated isolated incident. As far as the rest, the recently deceased Michael Kepler is your killer. Megan Fitzgerald had absolutely nothing to do with any of it. In fact, when she attempted to convince her adoptive brother to turn himself in, he kidnapped her. She was lucky to escape with her life. Somehow, she even managed to rescue his final victim. Anything she might have told you that’s contradictory to this is due to her current fragile mental state—her confusion and shock. She’s been horribly traumatized and is in need of care. I’m here to see that she gets that care at a properly equipped facility.”
“Oh no.” Gimble shook her head. “You’re not taking her.”
“‘Do you have any idea who was funding him?’” Dobbs muttered to himself.
“What?”
“That’s what the Fitzgerald housekeeper told us,” he said. “‘You don’t report that kind of thing. Not if you want to live.’ Fitzgerald wasn’t some rogue doctor; he was working for someone. Whomever Vela here answers to.”
Gimble turned back to the doctor. “Who? NSA? CIA?”
Vela said, “Kepler fits the profile. Frankly, he fits better than Megan ever could. All those bodies—the press wants someone like Kepler, expects someone like Kepler.”
Beckner sat on the corner of the desk. “Megan Fitzgerald is mentally ill. If we attempted to prosecute, she’d never see the interior of a courtroom, you know that. She wouldn’t answer for these crimes. She’d end up in the care of competent doctors, which is where she belongs. This is best for her. As far as the press goes, the people need closure. Kepler provides that. This is the proper solution to protect all interests.”
Gimble huffed. “I don’t believe this! Whose orders are you following?”
He held up the sheet of paper. “If I could show you whose signature is on this document, you wouldn’t be arguing with anyone right now.”
“Then show me.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“I can’t go along with this,” Gimble said.
“You’ve caught one of the most prolific serial killers of the twenty-first century. Your methods will be taught at Quantico. This puts you on the path to take my job one day,” Beckner told her. “Don’t blow this, Agent. This is a make-or-break moment for your career.”
Gimble took out her badge and gun. “Agent Begley died working this case. So did many U.S. marshals. Their families deserve to know the truth.”
“Discussing any of this with anyone outside this room will be considered an act of treason,” Vela said. “Don’t commit career suicide over the reputation of a dead man. Kepler is your killer.”
Beckner stood. “Your reports have been vetted. Do the right thing here. Believe me, this is the right thing. It’s bigger than personal feelings of right or wrong.”
“I’ll take care of her,” Vela assured Gimble.
An alarm blared through the office, a high-pitched alternating tone accompanied by flashing strobes in the ceiling.
“Megan!” Gimble shouted, bolting from the room.