by Alex Kava
CHAPTER 42
John F. Kennedy Federal Building
Boston, Massachusetts
Gwen Patterson watched Agent Tully wrestle their suitcases out of the taxi cab’s trunk while the driver stood beside him. He was directing Tully, just as he had when he picked them up at the airport in Boston, pointing with a gnarled right hand, his excuse for not lifting the cases himself. Tully didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he simply asked for a receipt while he dug in his trench coat’s pockets, pulling out a wad and separating dollar bills from other crumpled receipts and a couple of McDonald’s napkins.
Gwen waited, her patience wearing thin. She wanted to snap open her handbag and pay the fare herself. It would be quicker. It was bad enough she was wasting two days, volunteering her services to the bureau and to Kyle Cunningham. Why was it that her colleagues wrote books and garnered interviews with Matt Laurer and Katie Couric? She wrote a book and what did she get? An interview with an adolescent killer.
She reached for her overnight case, but Tully snatched it away.
“No, I’ve got it,” he insisted, tucking it under his arm while he wrapped the strap of her laptop computer’s case around his other shoulder and grabbed his duffel bag.
Rather than argue with him, she led the way up the steps, letting him pass her at the last stretch so he could shuffle the bags and still open the heavy door. She wondered if he was overcompensating after Maggie had pointed out that perhaps the two of them couldn’t do this trip without being at each other’s throats the entire time. Whatever his reason for all the chivalry, Tully had been nothing but polite since they boarded their flight for Boston.
Maggie had assured Gwen time and again that Tully was one of the good guys, a smart, decent agent who wanted to do the right thing. Maggie always added that he was simply a little green, having spent much of his short time with the bureau behind a desk in Cleveland. But that his instincts and his motives were genuine. Yet, there was still something about the tall, lanky agent that rubbed Gwen the wrong way.
What she did know was that his polite, Midwestern manner grated on her. Perhaps he seemed too good to be real. Too honest. Too much of a Boy Scout. The kind of guy who would never drive over the speed limit or have one too many drinks. The kind of guy who went out of his way to open doors for women, but couldn’t remember to keep his dollar bills in a money clip or take time to shine his shoes. Maybe that was why she insisted on ruffling his feathers, pushing his buttons. Maybe she wanted to expose that calm, polite, naive Boy Scout’s facade, rip it just a bit and see what was underneath, discover what he was really made of. Had too many years as a psychologist made her cynical?
“Dr. Patterson?”
Gwen and Tully stopped and looked up at the man leaning over the second-floor railing. When he realized he was right, he bounded down the stairs with an athletic gait. Gwen knew immediately, before any introductions, that this had to be Nick Morrelli, the man who managed to make Maggie O’Dell blush at just a mention of his name. And now Gwen could understand why. He was more handsome than Maggie’s description, the epitome of the cliché tall, dark and handsome, with a strong square jaw, warm blue eyes and dimples when he smiled.
“You must be Nick Morrelli,” she said, offering her hand as he got to the bottom of the steps. “I’m Gwen Patterson.”
“And I’m Agent R.J. Tully.” Tully had to reshuffle the bags to free a hand, nearly dropping her overnight case in the process.
“Here, let me take one of those,” Nick said, helping Tully peel the laptop case’s strap from his shoulder. “District Attorney Richardson is still in court, so you’re stuck with me. I’ll take you upstairs. We can put your bags in a safe place. Why don’t we take the elevator.” He led them farther into the lobby to a bank of elevators and pushed the up button. “How was your flight?”
“It was fine,” Gwen said. She hated small talk, but Nick made it seem as if he was genuinely interested, so she humored him. “Not much of a lunch, so I hope you have some good coffee waiting for us.”
“There’s a Starbucks across the street. I’ll send someone out. What would you like?”
“A café mocha would be lovely.” She smiled at Nick as he held the elevator door open and let her squeeze past him. As she did so, she noticed Tully watching her, and from his frown, she knew exactly what he was thinking. But she didn’t care if he was disgusted by her shameless flirting. The least she could get out of this trip was a good cup of coffee.
“How about you, Agent Tully?”
“Just regular coffee is fine,” he said, in what almost sounded like a grumble. Gwen watched him lean against the far corner of the elevator car with his eyes glued to the numbers above the door. What happened to the polite Boy Scout?
Now Gwen did the same—watched the numbers light up, one floor at a time—suddenly uncomfortable with the tension between the two men and feeling somewhat responsible.
“How’s Maggie?” Morrelli asked without taking his eyes from the numbers above the door.
“She’s good.” She waited for him to ask more, but he didn’t. Maybe he wasn’t comfortable asking for more information with Agent Tully sulking nearby. She glanced at Tully and wondered if he knew about Nick and Maggie. Although, what was there really to know, since Maggie herself didn’t seem to know what to do with the handsome assistant district attorney?
With Nick being in Boston and Maggie living in Newburgh Heights, Virginia, the two of them had little opportunity to spend any time together. It had been months since they had seen each other. Months since Maggie had even mentioned him. Even knowing that he’d been assigned this case and that Gwen would be seeing him today, Maggie had barely acknowledged the fact. Hadn’t even given Gwen any messages to relay.
Gwen knew Maggie’s divorce from Greg was dragging on, and that Maggie had purposely kept things from progressing with Nick, or as she would say, “getting messy.” But there was something more, something her friend was keeping to herself. Why did Maggie insist on doing that? She had real problems with intimacy but refused to see it. Instead, she called it professional distancing and used her career as an excuse to keep everyone in her life at a safe distance.
“He’s had only one visitor since he’s been here,” Nick was telling them, and Gwen forced herself to refocus on the reason for their trip. “He’s refused to talk to a public defender and hasn’t even made his one phone call.”
“Who was the visitor?” Tully asked.
“I’m not sure. D.A. Richardson is personally handling this case. I haven’t been involved until now, so I don’t know all the details. I think the kid—the visitor—checked out as a college friend of Pratt’s.”
The elevator’s doors opened and Nick held them again for Gwen to pass. Tully stayed for a moment, leaning in the corner of the elevator car, then trailed behind them as though he didn’t need anyone’s help, keeping his distance while Nick led them down a busy corridor. She hated how men played their territorial games, especially in the presence of a woman. If she hadn’t been here, they’d be exchanging football scores and pretending to be old buddies.
“How did he know he was here?” Tully asked, now catching up with them.
“Excuse me?”
“How did the college friend know Pratt was here if Pratt hadn’t made any phone calls?”
Nick slowed and glanced at Tully over his shoulder. The look on his face told Gwen Nick wished he had had more time to equip himself with the details of the case. She found herself wanting to defend him and at the same time wondered if Tully ever tried to make a good first impression.
“Good question. I can find that out for you.” Nick finally said. “Here we are.” He pointed to the door at the end of the hall.
This time Tully was on the right side, grabbing the handle before Nick had a chance and opening it wide for both Gwen and Nick. She stopped herself from rolling her eyes at him. It would probably only encourage him.
“We’ve got him ready to see you,” Nick explained
, “but if you’d like to take some time to unwind—”
“No,” Gwen stopped him. “Let’s go ahead.”
He led her down another hallway to a door where a uniformed guard stood.
“Agent Tully and I will be watching from next door,” Nick said, pointing to another door. “Burt, here, will be right outside, so you start feeling uncomfortable or want to stop and get the hell out, just say the word, okay?”
“Thanks, Nick.” She smiled at him, hoping to relieve his concern. “I know the drill, so don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
She did know the drill. She had interviewed numerous criminals, tougher, cruder men than this boy. She slipped out of her London Fog trench coat, unsnapped her watch, plucked off her earrings and pearls, placing the items in her handbag, then surrendered the coat and handbag to Nick. She checked her suit jacket and unlatched a gold pin of a dove from her lapel. Nick opened the handbag for her, and she carefully placed it inside.
After inspecting her skirt and shoes and buttons, making certain there were no sharp edges, she bent down to her overnight case and pulled out a plain yellow legal pad—no wire spiral notebooks—and a simple number two lead pencil. She had learned the hard way that the simplest pen could be dismantled in seconds, its insides used to pick the lock of even the best set of handcuffs.
Finally prepared, she took a deep breath and nodded to Burt to open the door. Yes, she knew the drill. Don’t show any signs of vulnerability. Let him know immediately that she wouldn’t be intimidated by any of his bullshit, crude comments or lewd glares. However, when the young man sitting across the wooden table looked up at her, Gwen saw something that threatened to unravel her calm more than any obscene gesture or wolf-call whistle. What she saw in Eric Pratt’s eyes was pure, undeniable fear. And that fear seemed to be directed at her.
CHAPTER 43
FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
Maggie spread out the files on the counter Keith Ganza had cleared for her, shoving high-tech microscopes out of the way and setting empty racks of vials clinking.
“Should we wait for Detective Racine?” Ganza asked, glancing at his watch.
“She knew what time we were going to get started.” Maggie tried to keep the impatience out of her voice. Just when she was starting to be impressed with Racine, the detective did something to annoy her all over again. “The only case I could find on VICAP,” Maggie began, “is a floater fished out of Falls Lake just north of Raleigh. They found her about ten days ago.” She pulled out the scanned photos she had downloaded. “She was a twenty-two-year-old college student at Wake Forest.”
“A floater?” Ganza hovered over her shoulder. “How long had she been in the water?”
“Coroner’s report says several days.” She showed him a faxed copy. “But you know as well as I do that it’s pretty tough to figure time of death with a floater.”
“This doesn’t sound like our guy. What was VICAP’s match?”
“Actually there’re quite a few things. Her mouth was taped shut with duct tape and a piece of paper was found shoved down her throat. There’re handcuff marks on the wrist and several ligature tracks on her throat.” Again, she pulled out more scanned photos, close-ups of a mutilated neck and welted wrists.
“Was the hyoid crushed?”
Maggie ran her index finger down the coroner’s report until she came to the notation. “Yes. And check the photo. There’s a lot more bruising than from a cord. This guy likes to use his hands when he’s ready for the kill.”
Ganza held up a full-length scan. “Looks like livor mortis on her backside. She may have been sitting when she died. Would have had to be sitting for hours before he came back and tossed her in the water. But why toss her? Our guy likes to pose his victims.”
“He may not have tossed her,” Maggie said. “The Wake County sheriff told me they had some flooding in that area about two weeks ago. The lake came up over its banks.”
“Well, she’s washed pretty clean. Any DNA samples found at all? How ’bout under her nails?”
“Nope. All washed away.”
“I have the preliminary DNA results from the Brier girl,” Ganza said while he shifted through the documents Maggie had laid out.
“And?”
“There was some foreign DNA under her fingernails, but it doesn’t match the semen.” Ganza didn’t sound surprised. Maggie wasn’t, either. Whether Senator Brier wanted to believe it or not, the evidence seemed to point to consensual sex, probably earlier in the evening.
“Also found some foreign fingerprints on the Brier girl’s purse. We’ll check them against what we have in AFIS,” Ganza continued. “’Course, the way you girls share your belongings with one another, it might not lead us anywhere.”
“Goes to show you what you know about girls, Ganza. I don’t share my things with anyone, let alone something as personal as a purse.”
“Goes to show what you know about girls, O’Dell. When was the last time you carried a purse?”
“Okay, good point.” She felt her cheeks flush, surprised that he had noticed such a detail about her. Yes, she hated to admit it, but it was true that she had been anything but the typical teenage girl, and it looked like she was far from the typical woman. Still, it was embarrassing that this scruffy, weathered, forensics relic knew more about women and their accessories than she did.
“One other thing.” This time he went to the metal cabinet in the corner and brought back a plastic evidence bag. Inside, Maggie recognized the slide with a piece of transparent tape attached. It was the slide she and Stan had made from the residue found on Ginny Brier’s neck. “Hang on to that for a minute,” he told her as he walked to the door and reached for the light switch. “Now, keep in mind that whatever cord or wire or rope this guy is using has to be covered with this crap, okay?”
He shut off the light and the glittery substance on the slide began to glow in the dark.
“What in the world?”
“If we can figure out what it came off of, it might be able to tell us something about our guy.”
He snapped the lights back on.
“What about something used in a magic act or for a theater production?” Maggie asked. “Maybe some novelty store or costume shop might be able to tell us.”
“Could be. But I’m wondering, does he use it because it’s a nifty prop or because it’s something he has handy all the time?”
“My guess is it’s a nifty prop.” Maggie held up the slide again. “This guy likes attention. He likes putting on a performance.”
When she looked back at Ganza, he was picking through the assortment of documents again. He pointed to the fax copy of the crumpled piece of paper found in the floater’s throat. “No ID, no cyanide capsule, no quarters. What was this?”
Despite the wrinkles and creases, it looked like some kind of schedule with a list of dates and cities. Maggie pulled out another piece of paper from her jacket pocket.
“Recognize this?” she asked as she unfolded a copy of the Church of Spiritual Freedom’s pamphlet. The one Tully had found after Reverend Everett’s Saturday night rally. On the inside was listed the dates and cities for the organization’s fall schedule of rallies. “Take a look at the first of November. That week’s designated rally was at Falls Lake State Recreation Area in Raleigh, North Carolina. Don’t tell me it’s a coincidence, because you know—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You don’t believe in coincidences. So how does the homeless woman fit into all this? There was no rally close by. And if Prashard’s early assessment is correct, she was also killed Saturday night.”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Maggie, you know all this means is that someone wants us to make a connection to Everett. The murder of Senator Brier’s daughter looked like it could be revenge for the deaths of those boys in the cabin. But the rest—the floater, the homeless woman…” Ganza waved his hand over the spread of photos and reports and faxes. “All it
means is that someone wants us to make a connection to Everett. Doesn’t mean he’s involved.”
“Oh, he’s involved,” Maggie said, surprised by the hint of anger in her voice. “I don’t know how or why, but my gut tells me the good Reverend Joseph Everett is somehow responsible. Maybe not directly.”
“Or maybe even directly,” Racine said, appearing at the doorway. Her spiky blond hair looked windblown, her face flushed, and she seemed a bit out of breath. She came in and held up a copy of the National Enquirer. The front-page photo showed Ginny Brier holding hands with Reverend Everett. Without looking at the newspaper, Racine read the headline aloud. “Moments Before Her Death, Senator’s Daughter Attends Prayer Rally. Photo credit by our good pal Benjamin fucking Garrison.”
“Garrison?” Maggie wasn’t surprised. Though she had met him only briefly at the monument Sunday morning, she hadn’t trusted him or his reasons for being there. “Okay, so Everett met Ginny Brier. No incriminating evidence there. And no harm done. We already knew she was at the rally. Why so steamed, Detective Racine?”
“Oh, it gets much better.” Racine practically ripped the pages, flipping to the inside, creasing the fold before turning it back around. This time both Maggie and Ganza came in for a closer look.
“Son of a bitch,” Ganza muttered.
“I should have known I couldn’t trust that bastard,” Racine said through gritted teeth.
Maggie couldn’t believe it. The page was filled with crime scene photos, photos of Ginny Brier’s dead body, black boxes strategically placed over her private parts, but nothing to hide the horrible, brutal rest. Nothing to cover those terrified eyes—frozen in time, eyes wide open.
CHAPTER 44
Eric Pratt could hear and feel the chipping and splintering of his fingernails as he dug them into the grooves of his handcuffs. It had become a new habit, useful only in that it prevented him from digging the jagged nails into his own flesh.