Pike stands at the head of the table. We sit, waiting. Rivers arrives and hovers near the door.
Pike starts. “We’re setting up a task force.”
This is a turnaround from Rivers’s stance only three hours ago. Did Pike initiate or did Rivers push? Or maybe it’s coming from higher than Pike. For an FBI agent to be kidnapped or abducted is bad PR. We’re supposed to be invincible.
I’m keen to get the task force moving in the right direction. “It’s the D.C. Slasher.” Most of us have come to this conclusion anyway.
“Why do you say that, Anderson?” Pike asks.
“It fits the profile. The killer’s purposefully moved here to be under the FBI’s nose. Under our noses.” I force evenness in my voice. “He likes the thrill, the challenge, and what better way to step up the chase than by nabbing an FBI agent—and the one profiling him.” I was wrong about this guy before. I didn’t think Sam was in serious danger. I certainly didn’t think she could be the next victim. Surely she would have noticed someone stalking her. We’re trained for that.
“Anything else?” Pike asks.
“The note on the third victim.”
Rivers shoots a look my way. Did he tell Pike that Sam was supposed to be off the case?
“Yes, the note,” Pike says.
“He wasn’t just involving Sam, inviting her into his world, like we thought.” I keep my voice even. “It was part of a stalking ritual.”
I’m making headway with Pike.
“Plus, in Sam’s room there was a pendant that isn’t hers. The killer left it there.” Of course I can’t tell them that it’s exactly the same as an image I’ve seen in a dream—one that I know is related to the D.C. Slasher because I saw it on Jean’s thigh. But hopefully its mere existence, a foreign object at a crime scene, is enough.
“You really know every piece of jewelry Sam Wright owns?” Pike says.
I think fast. “Sam and I went out two weeks ago and went through each other’s jewelry, looking for items to match the dresses we were wearing.” An embarrassing but necessary lie.
“To match your dresses?”
“Yes, accessorizing.” With Sam gone, there’s only one other woman in the room, Anthea Stall, who leans toward the butch side. She wouldn’t be too worried about accessorizing. Anthea raises an eyebrow and the other agents stare at me; even James’s constant pen-tapping stops. But I don’t care if I look stupid. None of that matters. We have to find Sam.
Pike studies me. “Rivers, you happy to go with the Slasher rather than a kidnap situation?”
Rivers, who still hasn’t taken his eyes off me—his form of punishment for going against his orders—finally diverts his gaze.
“Anderson’s instincts are usually right. Unless we get a ransom note in the next twenty-four hours, we have to assume it’s the Slasher.”
James’s pen-tapping resumes.
Pike gives Rivers a curt nod. “Okay. It’ll be a joint D.C. police/FBI task force.”
I clasp my fingers together under the table and press my front teeth into my bottom lip. I want to get on this case. I need to get on this case. Please let them assign a full-time profiler. With these circumstances they should assign at least one of us.
Pike continues. “Detectives Flynn and Jones from Homicide, Sandra Couples, and from our end we’ve got Krip and O’Donnell from the D.C. Field Office. We’re also going to assign two of you—”
Thank God. “I’d like to be involved,” I say.
My voice is quickly followed by Josh’s. “I’d like to be on the team too, sir.”
“You two have just come off the Henley case. What about your other cases?” Rivers says.
Marco responds first. “We can do a bit of overtime, sir. Besides, we worked together well on the Henley case.”
I take over the baton. “And we know Flynn and Jones. We all work well together.”
Rivers and Pike exchange looks. A nod from Rivers, then one from Pike.
“You two have got it,” Rivers says, leaning against the wall.
Would they give it to us if they knew Josh and I were seeing each other? Possibly not. But it doesn’t matter. Josh and I did work well together on the Henley case and hopefully nothing’s changed.
“Anything from the officers on duty? The drive-bys?” I ask.
Rivers shakes his head. “I heard back from Couples. None of the patrols saw or heard anything suspicious.”
I sink slightly into my seat at the disappointing news.
Pike clears his throat and addresses the whole team. “I’ve set up appointments for you all to see Dr. Rosen. Given the situation, it’s for the best.”
I can see from the faces around the table that no one’s happy with this development. A few arms cross and sideways glances are thrown. Most agents don’t like to talk about their feelings, me included. Besides, I know she’ll tell me I’m blocking my emotions and compensating with work. You bet I am. I can’t do Sam any good if I let myself think about her, where she might be and what she’s going through, for more than a fleeting moment. I have to catch this guy and that’s all I can think about. Catching him.
“Janet will send you all your appointment times.” Pike unbuttons his gray suit and leans on the desk. “And there’ll be no excuses.” He looks around the table and makes sure he eyeballs us all. “I mean that. No excuses.”
I shift in my chair. We need to get out there. Now.
“O’Donnell will be in charge of the Bureau’s efforts,” Pike says, addressing Josh and I.
The meeting’s finished and we all file out.
Josh walks next to me and we move through the rabbit warren. He walks close, but not so close that the recent development in our relationship would be obvious to an observer.
“You seem to be taking this pretty well, Soph.” He doesn’t sound convinced.
“We’re going to find her.” I quicken my already fast steps.
Josh hesitates. “Yes. We will.”
“We have to find her.” My fingers tighten on my notepad.
“Sophie, I don’t think the reality of the situation has hit you yet.” Josh gently takes my arm and brings me to a stop.
I don’t like it. I need to keep moving.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. But I’m lying. It feels as if it’s happening to someone else or I’m watching the events unfold in a movie. To be honest, I prefer it that way.
I start walking again. It’s bad enough that the departmental psychologist’s going to be poking around inside my head—I don’t want Josh in there too. I leave Josh in the corridor and enter my office, but he lingers in the doorway. I look up at him.
“Do you want to ride to D.C. together?” he asks.
I can’t think about this now! Why is he asking me this now?
“Um…” My mind labors through the options and one thought remains—I want to be alone. “Let’s take two cars.”
Josh nods, then pauses. I shuffle papers and keep my head down, hoping he’ll get the hint that I don’t want to talk.
There’s silence for a few moments. “I guess I’ll see you there,” he says finally. I can tell he’s upset that I’m shutting him out, but I just don’t want to—no, can’t—talk about any of it. I need to focus on the facts.
I look up and force a smile. “I’ll see you there soon.”
He pauses again, and then leaves.
I stop my meaningless paper-shuffling and actually look at what’s in my hands. It’s the full report on the handwriting from the note to Sam. On the front is a Post-it note from Marty. Knew you’d want this. I’ve compiled the three experts’ reports into one. Marty.
I flick through it quickly before heading for D.C.
The hour-long ride on the I-95 is pure hell, both in terms of traffic on the road and internal traffic in my head. When I finally park at the D.C. Field Office and make my way into the building, I’m even more frazzled than when I left, if that’s possible.
The field office is a modern building on Fourth Street in the northwest quadrant. I sign in at the desk and catch the elevator to the seventh floor. The project room is large, with floor-to-ceiling windows that look over D.C. In the center of the room is a large rectangular meeting table and ten black high-back chairs. Two whiteboards are mounted on the wall, and the room is equipped with multimedia facilities, including a projector system and video conferencing equipment.
Around the table sit the main members of the task force, including Josh. We’ll have access to backup if—no, when—we find the guy. I take the nearest seat and we all say our brief hellos with tight smiles.
O’Donnell sits directly opposite me. I know O’Donnell. I like O’Donnell. He’s a stocky man in his mid forties, with a hairline that’s well and truly receded. He shaves what’s left of his hair, and the lack of hair accentuates his steel-blue, no-nonsense eyes.
To O’Donnell’s left sits Krip. I don’t know much about Krip, but what I’ve seen so far isn’t impressive. He’s happy to cruise. His external image reflects what I’ve heard about him. His sandy-blond hair is long for an agent, and this, coupled with his freckled face, reminds me more of an Aussie or Californian surfer than an FBI agent. Krip leans back in his chair, way back. Does he even care that Sam’s been taken?
On the other side of O’Donnell is Couples, who sits upright in her chair. The light from the window catches her gray streaks.
Flynn and Jones sit together on my right. I look briefly at Flynn and we make eye contact. Flynn, like O’Donnell, has Irish heritage and amazing blue eyes. The kind of eyes that one moment can look soft and babyish, but the next seem to stab you with intensity. No doubt he uses those eyes on suspects. Today he is wearing a dark brown woolen suit with a cream shirt, no tie. He gives me a brief smile then goes back to his file. He doesn’t waste a minute.
Next to him Jones is hunched over his pad, doodling. Jones does some of his best work when he’s doodling. He has a more casual look, jeans and a leather jacket. They sit well on his slight frame, but also accentuate his youth. Jones is in his mid twenties, but you wouldn’t know it from his work. What he lacks in murder investigation experience, he makes up for in smarts.
“So Sophie, you’re sure it’s the Slasher,” O’Donnell says.
“Absolutely. There’s no doubt in my mind.” No one challenges me. “Besides, given the high-profile nature, we would have got a ransom note or call by now.”
O’Donnell hesitates for only a minute. “Okay, let’s work that angle.”
“What did you think of Sam’s profile?” I ask, getting down to business.
It’s Flynn who answers first. “Interesting. The possibility that he’s got a law-enforcement background is concerning.”
“He might just be posing as an officer. We can’t be sure he’s a working cop,” I say.
“A cop?” Krip smiles. “But Sam’s pegged him as smart and well spoken.”
Jones comes to the defense of the boys in blue. “I’d put my IQ against yours any day.”
We all laugh, even Krip. But the release is followed by a guilty silence.
Finally, it’s Couples who speaks. “I still can’t believe he’s nabbed Wright.”
No one knows what to say, so Couples’s admission is followed by somber looks and another period of silence.
I glance at my watch and scribble down some calculations, making a mark on my empty page. I’ve already worked this out in my head, but I do it again anyway.
“If he took Sam the night I was there, then I figure we’ve got between thirty-three hours to just under six and a half days to find her, assuming he’ll hold her for three to eight days, like he did the others.”
O’Donnell leans against the table. “I want everyone devoted to this—more than full-time. Clear your schedules.”
“No problem,” Flynn says.
I smile at him in appreciation. He’ll work on two hours’ sleep until we find Sam.
“Did Sam lodge anything with VICAP?” Josh says.
Jones stops doodling and writes VICAP on a small blank section of his page. Even though it may not look like it, we’ve got his full attention.
“Yeah, she did. The VICAP analysts are looking at it now. We’ll have the results by four today,” I say.
Jones glances at his watch. “Two hours.”
O’Donnell looks at Flynn and Jones. “You two already look into VICAP?”
Flynn answers. “Our search turned up two matches in Chicago.”
“And?”
“Dead end. They’re related, but the perp didn’t leave any evidence in Chicago either.”
Everyone looks discouraged. I step in. “This search should be a little different. One of our VICAP experts is expanding the search criteria and then analyzing the results manually.” You tend to get a better result with individual attention.
“Well, let’s see what it turns up,” O’Donnell says.
“I also got a copy of the handwriting expert’s report before I came over here,” I say, handing out copies to everyone.
“You looked at it yet?” O’Donnell asks.
“I had a quick glance.”
We all take the time to read the three-page report. Jones jots down a few notes, as do I, but the rest of the team simply reads.
The report brings together several elements, combining the efforts of a document examiner, handwriting examiner and a forensic linguist. In addition to covering the type of ink and paper used, it also includes an analysis of whether the writer is left-or right-handed, whether they’re trying to disguise their writing, patterns in speech that may indicate where a person grew up and/or their education level, and their frame of mind when writing the note. In our case, we already know that the perp used a standard blue Bic ballpoint and a page torn from a Spirax notebook, but this information forms the start of the report.
Next comes the general handwriting analysis. The perp’s purposefully used printing and all uppercase letters, which makes a handwriting expert’s job much harder. But nonetheless, some patterns emerge, and the address details on the envelope are in normal, cursive writing. The slight slant of the writing indicates a left-hander, although the handwriting expert notes that at one point the slant changes momentarily—something that often happens if someone is writing with their non-preferred hand as an attempt to disguise their writing. But the slant change is only for two words and the writing around the words is characterized by more lifts than other sections. A lift is when someone stops writing for a split second, taking their pen off the paper. This can indicate the person is lying, under stress or still hasn’t made up their mind about exactly how they’re going to phrase the note. Our expert has concluded that the writer is left-handed and that the slant change is due to an interruption of thought.
The forensic linguist has noted that the writer has misspelled the word delighted but believes it’s inconsistent with the writing in the rest of the letter. The misspelling is a deliberate attempt to disguise his education level. In particular, the linguist notes his near-perfect use of punctuation as good evidence of university-level education. This tracks with our profile. The linguist has also been able to pinpoint a South, Southwest background.
After less than ten minutes, O’Donnell summarizes it. “So we’re looking at South, Southwest origin, maybe Arizona, New Mexico or Texas. However, there are some inconsistencies that make the forensic linguist think our guy moved around a bit. He’s highly educated and our expert doesn’t think the killer rehearsed the note much or at all, and attempts to disguise the handwriting are in the form of the caps and the one misspelling.”
“Confident son of a bitch,” Krip says, leaning back farther in his chair but still staring out the window.
“Well, at this stage he’s got reason to be,” I say. “We’ve got no physical evidence and no real leads.”
“What about Wright’s place, Couples? Anything there?” O’Donnell asks.
“Not yet. There were prints all over the place. I’m in contact with the FBI lab and they’re still running them all against Sam’s, Sophie’s and the cleaner’s.”
“How long will it take?”
“Marty Tyrone said they’ll be working it around the clock, but it’ll be at least another twenty hours or so before they’ve checked everything, isolated the prints and run them all.”
O’Donnell nods and then runs his fingers underneath the frames of his glasses and squeezes the bridge of his nose.
Working to a tight time frame is never easy. These things always take time, and that’s the one thing we don’t have.
“’Course, we might get an unidentified print in ten minutes’ time,” Couples says.
“We have to assume there’ll be no prints,” Josh says, holding his pen up and clicking it twice, rapidly.
“I agree. The guy’s never left one before. Why start now?” I say. “Except perhaps on the profile.”
“The profile?”
“Yeah. I can imagine our guy wanting to establish a physical connection with the words Sam wrote about him. He may have even taken his gloves off.”
“Good thinking. Sandra, organize to have the profile checked out as a priority,” O’Donnell says.
“Sure. It’s being checked, but I’ll get it stepped up in terms of priority.”
“I’m interested in the files too. I’ve been wondering if he took something, evidence of his handiwork, or even if he left an extra photo,” I say.
“I’ve got a list here of exactly what we sent through to your unit,” Flynn says, flicking through some pages in his file and digging out a loose page.
Couples nods and flips her cell phone open. “Marty, it’s Sandra Couples. Anything?… Get your guys to focus on the files and photos that were on Sam’s dining-room table, and especially the printout of the Slasher profile. Yep… Uh, huh… Good,” Sandra says. “I’ll fax through the inventory too—get someone to check it, will you.” She hangs up. “Done.” She takes the sheet of paper from Flynn. “I’ll fax this through when we’re finished.”
“What else have we got?” O’Donnell asks.
I stand up to pace.
Josh double-clicks his pen. “The pendant.”
“You entered that in as evidence, didn’t you, Anderson?” Flynn says.
“Yeah, it’s definitely not Sam’s.”
“It’s already been checked for prints and DNA.” Sandra looks around the table and then looks up at me. “Nothing, I’m afraid.”
I twist the ring on my little finger.
“What if it belongs to one of the other victims?” Krip says, moving forward in his chair for the first time.
I’m surprised it’s Krip who makes this contribution. I stop twisting my ring. “I like it. But I don’t think it’s one of his D.C. victims.”
Jones nods. “Yeah, Sam’s profile indicates he’s not a first-timer.”
“No. Everything’s too perfect,” I say.
“Well, we know our guy takes trophies,” Flynn says. “He took a bracelet from Jean, Teresa’s ring, and we just got word from Susan’s mom—she thinks a necklace is missing.”
Jones looks up at Flynn but keeps doodling. “Not our necklace?”
“No, I described it to Mrs. Young. It’s not it.”
I take a seat at the table again. “So let’s assume it is another victim’s necklace.”
Josh turns to me. “Or maybe even a girlfriend or relative of the perp.”
“We’ll have to wait and see what VICAP turns up.”
We pause. What haven’t we covered?
“Any luck with the neighbors?” Jones pauses his doodling and looks at Couples.
“No one we’ve spoken to so far heard anything. But I’m hopeful about the apartment directly below Sam. We’re chasing down the couple that live there. We should find them in the next hour or so. If not, I’ve got someone going over there at five to wait for them to get home from work.”
“Excellent. It would be good to pinpoint the abduction time,” O’Donnell says.
“What about entry points?” I ask Couples. “How’d he get in?”
“Had to be through the bedroom window. There are definitely no signs of forced entry.”
I shake my head. I still don’t buy it.
“Anything else?” O’Donnell raises both eyebrows and looks around the table.
Silence.
“There must be something,” I say.
“Forensics would have found it if there was. You know that,” Josh says quietly.
“We’re waiting on everything.” I flop backward in the seat, my elbows leaning on the armrests.
Josh reaches his hand out to me and then pulls it back, covering the attempt at an intimate gesture by tapping on the table. “Yes.” He forces a smile. “But look what we might have by six tonight.”
“True.” By six we should know if anything’s missing from the Slasher files, if there are any fingerprints on the profile, and when exactly Sam was abducted. It’s not a bad start, but I was hoping for more.
“And the call?” Josh says.
Krip, who has resumed his semireclined position, answers. “Made from her cell phone. Doesn’t tell us much.”
“Krip, go to the cell-phone company and find out what area the call was routed through,” O’Donnell says.
Of course. All cell-phone calls are picked up by a tower, usually the nearest one, and we’ll be able to get a rough location from it.
Krip nods.
“Sophie, Sam ordered a blowup of Jean’s thigh. Any idea why?” Flynn says.
“Yeah, we thought we could see some sort of marking on it.” It’s not an absolute lie. I’m just not telling him how I saw the marking.
“Here you go.” Flynn pushes the photo across the table.
I snatch it up, eagerly examining the top of Jean’s thigh. What a mess, there are cuts everywhere. But there’s no tattoo. Still, the image must have something to do with the Slasher because not only was the marking in my dream and waking premonition, now there’s the pendant too.
“Mind if I keep this?” I ask.
“No problem.”
O’Donnell hands us completed case files. “I suggest we use the next few hours to go through the case. Familiarize ourselves with everything.”
“I might see if I can add to the profile,” I say.
“I’ll go back to Quantico and sit on the VICAP guys.
Make sure we get that report,” Josh says. He clicks his pen, puts it in his folder and flips the folder closed.
“Let’s meet back here at five. Then we’ll have the VICAP info and hopefully something from Sam’s neighbors. What about the third D.C. victim? Anything more on her?” O’Donnell says.
“Coroner’s finished his report.” Flynn shakes his head. “Nothing interesting, I’m afraid.” He flicks through a pile of papers and brings one to the top. “This one had thirty-two cuts, including the throat wound, which was the cause of death. Time of death has been verified as between 11:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. Her fingernails were clean, recently cut back in fact, and there were no foreign fibers, hairs or anything else.”
I slump in my chair. “Lividity?”
Flynn focuses his blue eyes, in their soft mode, on me. “Same as the others. She died on a flat surface and must have been transported in something pretty flat too.”
“A van.”
Jones looks up. “Wouldn’t that show ridges, though?”
He’s right.
“Maybe something flat in the back of the van?” Josh says.
This guy’s good.
“And forensics?” O’Donnell asks.
Josh leans forward. “I spoke to Marty just before I left Quantico. There was blood near the scene but it turned out to be the victim’s. Must have got there during transportation. Broken branches showed us his route but no footprints.”
“He raked over his tracks,” I add.
O’Donnell raises his eyebrows.
Josh continues. “Rake indentations didn’t give us anything. A standard model that golf courses use for sand bunkers.”
O’Donnell shakes his head.
Flynn adds, “This guy is thorough.”
“Very.” O’Donnell starts to gather his papers into one pile.
We all follow suit.
“Have you got somewhere quiet I can go, O’Donnell?” I ask.
“Stay in this room if you like.”
“Fine.” I put the case files back onto the desk. “And your nearest coffee place?”
“There’s a Starbucks one block away—turn right as you go out of the building.”
I take a few bills out of my wallet as the meeting room empties and then jog to Starbucks. I order a grande caramel macchiato with a double shot of espresso. Caffeine and sugar may be the only things that get me through the next few days.