“Dr. Stratham’s going to want to get an early start,” Jenn argued. “They’re predicting rain in that area for tomorrow afternoon.”
“Nerd.”
“Ignoramus,” Jenn returned with ease.
It was a familiar exchange.
“See you in a few hours,” said Sam. “Drive safely.”
She sighed but promised to do so.
When the call ended, Sam stared at the phone for a moment, wondering at the wisdom of involving Jenn. Sure, she’d be knee deep in muck and never far from a dozen like-minded science freaks, but he didn’t like the idea of exposing her to the sights and smells he’d seen today. Given her career choice, she would see the dark side of humanity sooner rather than later, but Sam still felt mildly guilty for bringing her anywhere near this case. It gave him a bad vibe.
People who hacked up others and carved messages into trees typically weren’t one-shot wonders. Even if this was the perpetrator’s first kill, it would probably not be his last.
Chapter 4:
The Big One
FBI Field Office
William J. Green, Jr. Federal Building
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Luck finally favored Special Agent Samuel Kerman as he reached the City of Brotherly Love. A car pulled away, leaving Sam a parking spot within sight of his destination. After expertly parallel parking his sister’s Hyundai Elantra in the space, Sam checked for traffic and leapt out as soon as the coast was clear. Both knees cracked as his feet hit the pavement. Self-respecting men taller than 5’ 5” should never drive an Elantra for more than an hour at a stretch, especially cherry-red ones with Hello Kitty bumper stickers.
All 6’ 2” and 180 pounds of Sam was grateful to escape the small car. Jenn had terrible taste in music too. That left the scratchy radio as the only means of breaking up the monotony. He made a mental note to get his sister a subscription to one of those satellite radio programs for Christmas. She would probably fill the memory buttons with country music channels, but if he was ever forced to borrow her car again, he’d have palatable options.
After checking through security, Sam headed up to his cubicle. He needed to find his spare suit before meeting his boss. Stopping at his apartment would have been nice, but that would have made him late. Sam was still too new in the building to take liberties with the SAC’s time. His first three-year stint had been at a resident agency in Elk City, Oklahoma. Being an East Coast boy, Sam had returned as soon as possible. He really wanted to work in New York City, but he’d been recruited from the Newark, New Jersey field office. Career goals aside, Sam had no complaints about Philly so far. The cheesesteaks that could be found were always amazing. Thinking of cheesesteak made his stomach grumble.
The reminder of skipping lunch made him dig around in his desk until he found a power bar. Hopefully, the meeting with Special Agent in Charge Louis Hatcher would be relatively quick, so Sam could go out for a proper meal. After changing, Sam strode briskly toward the real offices.
“What’s your secret, Kerman?” Thane Joseph Newhouse asked. The agent leaned casually against the left side of the threshold to his cubicle, sipping from a large cup of coffee.
“What are you talking about?” Sam inquired, pausing long enough to toss his go bag into his office.
“Rumor mill says you’ve landed The Big One. Is that a fact?” T.J. kept his tone even, but the unmistakable glint of jealousy shone from his eyes.
“I don’t know,” said Sam. “Guess I’ll find out soon. I’ve got a meeting with Hatcher in a few minutes.” Grateful for the excuse, he resumed his quest to reach the SAC’s office fifteen minutes before the meeting was set to start.
“If it’s true, I want in!” T.J. called after Sam.
For his part, Sam waved to acknowledge the request. He wasn’t sure why T.J. thought he’d have any say in the matter. Thane wasn’t a bad sort, but in Sam’s humble opinion, the older man came across as too ambitious and career-oriented to really be a good agent. Pushing T.J. from his mind, Sam finished the trek to the suite of real offices and checked in with the SAC’s administrative assistant.
“Have a seat, Agent Kerman,” said the woman. “I’ll let Agent Hatcher know you’re here, and I’ll call you when he has a moment to see you.”
Catching sight of her nameplate, which read: Dawn Hopper, Sam thanked her by name and took a seat. His father had always stressed the importance of being polite, especially when it came to people who had the power to make one wait. His fingers itched to check his phone, but he resisted the temptation. He did not need the SAC to come out and see him fiddling with a cell phone.
When twenty minutes had dragged by, Dawn waved to catch his attention.
“Agent Hatcher is on an important conference call, but he said it should wrap up soon,” she reported. “Would you like some coffee while you wait? There’s a fresh pot in the back.”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug. “It’s really good.”
“I plan to have a late lunch after my meeting,” Sam said, wondering why he felt compelled to explain himself.
A red light blinked on Dawn’s phone, snapping the woman to attention.
“That might be him now, perhaps you won’t have to wait,” she commented, picking up the receiver and pressing the red button.
A short conversation later, Dawn smiled at Sam and told him his wait was over.
Soon, Sam was shaking hands with a man he’d only met once in his life. Louis Hatcher had a large, slightly crooked nose, big ears, and a forehead that seemed to go on forever due to the prominent bald island at the top of his head. Sam liked him. He had a gruff Brooklyn accent, scruff on his chin and above his lips, and a straightforward approach to everything.
After quick pleasantries, Hatcher got to the point.
“You got one heck of a fairy godmother looking out for your career, Agent Kerman. I’ve got a U.S. senator asking me to make you the poster boy for our forensic lab cleanup.”
Sam wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. Hatcher’s glare could have melted steel if it were weaponized, but he didn’t think the ire was directed at him.
“Sir?” Sam’s inflection made it a question. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
Hatcher sighed.
“All right. Quick history lesson. A couple of years back, the head of the Quantico lab goes on record saying innocent people wound up wrongly convicted ’cause a few agents got overzealous and fudged some things.” Hatcher’s expression told Sam what he thought about the whistleblower. “You can imagine the fallout that followed. Credibility goes to crap, funding gets cut, convictions get overturned, bad guys walk, and the people with nothing better to do cry for a zillion reforms.”
Sam thought reforms were probably a good thing, but he had enough sense to keep the opinion in.
“Normally, I don’t give a rat’s tail what any senator wants, but we work for one of the largest political beasts out there,” said Hatcher. “Long story short, part of the reforms involves showing that the Bureau as a whole is keeping a close eye on the lab people. That’s where you come in.”
“What do you need me to do, sir?” Sam asked, trying to keep an open mind.
Hatcher wasn’t exactly painting a glorious picture of his new assignment.
“I need you to be my liaison with Dr. Stratham’s people, so I’m giving you the go on heading up this park killer case.”
A thrill ran through Sam. The assignment also reminded him that he needed to ask the SAC for a favor.
“Speaking of Dr. Stratham, do you mind if she hires my sister as a temporary intern? Jennifer’s almost finished with her forensic science degree.”
One of Hatcher’s eyebrows took a higher position on his forehead.
“I already gave the scientist permission for that this morning,” he said. His tone implied: what took you so long to ask?
“She called?” Sam asked, before he could stop hims
elf.
“Of course, she called, first thing this morning. You’re gonna have to work on your communication with the lady if you intend to take this assignment.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam said, trying to look contrite. He was too relieved for the expression to stick well.
“You’re probably wondering ‘why me?’ right about now,” predicted Hatcher. He sat back in his expansive black leather chair and regarded Sam carefully.
Sam had been trying to find a tactful way to put the question for several minutes now. He confirmed his curiosity with a nod.
“I’ll be honest with you. A high profile case like this would typically go to somebody with more seniority. I won’t pretend to know every reason, but whoever made the call did their homework well,” said Hatcher.
Sam leaned forward a little, not wanting to miss a word. His boss didn’t seem like the type of man to exaggerate, so what would follow could probably be taken as a fair assessment of where he stood in the hierarchy.
“The fact that you’re new to this building means you haven’t set down deep roots. You also haven’t been around long enough to make many enemies. The Behavioral Science Unit people will appreciate that if and when they become involved. Besides, your background means you can probably understand the forensic scientists without hovering too much. You already have at least one fan in the Newark office, and you can thank Dr. Stratham for backing the recommendation. She’s the one that’s gotta stand you in the long run.” Hatcher leveled a serious gaze at Sam. “People have high hopes for you, but the good fortune comes with a warning.”
“People aren’t going to appreciate me cutting the line, so to speak,” Sam said.
“Field agents call a case like this ‘The Big One.’ It’s got the power to make or break your career. I know that’s a lot of pressure for a young agent. Are you up to this?”
“I’m ready, sir,” said Sam. He met Hatcher’s gaze.
“Good. Then, take that file and study it. Pack a bag and return to Bradford County. Help Dr. Stratham as needed, but your first priority will be to work up a victim profile. Get me some notes by tomorrow. You’ll probably have to wait until after the autopsy to know much, but write down as many questions as you can think of. I need to know this guy inside and out. Once we know him, we’ll be better able to say who wanted him dead and on display all over those hunting grounds.”
***
Joe’s Steak & Soda Shop
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Who was the victim?
Sam usually tried to keep meal time separate from work time, but he was too excited to wait. He wolfed down a giant cheesesteak in four minutes flat, then washed his hands and dove into the case notes while he leisurely finished off a Dr. Pepper. He could take or leave soda, but there was something about a greasy cheesesteak that made a carbonated beverage a requirement. Jenn would yell if she knew of his eating habits, so he made it a point to avoid discussing meals with her.
Grabbing a pen and his pocket notebook, Sam started listing things he wanted to know about the John Doe found in plastic bags yesterday. He would have preferred to work on his laptop, but the act of writing the questions out gave him time to consider each. Every question rolled around his head a few times before he jotted it down.
Physical: tall or short, slight or muscular? What would it take to overpower him? Ask Dr. S. about drugs.
Mental: intelligence level? What could he have gotten into that got him in trouble?
Emotional: nice or mean, helpful or hurtful, compassionate or selfish?
Other: What is his family situation? Is he married? Does he have kids?
Random victim or targeted victim?
Sam really hoped the victim was targeted because that would give him something to work with. If he was just a guy in the wrong place at the right time to cross paths with the killer, the investigation would be much more difficult.
Motive for murder?
Motives tended to fall into two broad categories: love and money. Without even knowing the man’s name, it was hard to predict which motive happened to be more likely. Getting cut into tiny pieces meant somebody was plenty upset with him. That was a vote for this being personal, but said nothing about the question of motive.
Having exhausted his initial questions, Sam moved on to the finer details of motives. Odds were better that if love was the ultimate motive, the killer could be a woman. The man must have done something pretty rotten to end up in his current state. A jealous man would be more likely to beat the offender to a bloody pulp and move on with his life. Slicing, dicing, and packing took a lot of effort.
Money opened up more possibilities. Somebody cheated in some significant way could be angry enough to put in the work necessary to make such a statement.
Perceived wrong or real wrong?
Sam couldn’t rule out the idea of the victim’s crimes being figments of the killer’s imagination, but he leaned toward “real wrong.” Gut instinct came back to the notion that somebody who put in that much effort to kill probably had a reason, whether justified or not.
Chapter 5:
Good Guys are Gone
Melissa Novak’s Private Residence
Hillsborough, New Jersey
The delicious smell of garlic greeted Melissa as she entered the house. She let the scent relax her. The musical clatter of moving pots and pans combined with the hiss of steam to tell her someone was hard at work in the kitchen. Tossing her coat and briefcase onto the couch, Melissa kicked off her shoes and padded toward the activity in her stocking-clad feet.
“Honey, I’m home,” Melissa joked, crossing the threshold into the kitchen. Two steps in, her right foot came down on something small and hard. “Ouch!” she cried, lifting her foot to peek at the offending block.
“Watch your step,” Josie warned belatedly.
“Mine!” declared an unseen voice from beneath the table.
“Edwin David, what did I say about your toys?” asked Josie.
“Mommy’s,” answered the voice.
“That’s right,” Josie replied in a sing-song tone. “So play with them nicely.”
“And don’t leave them in the walkway,” Melissa added, crouching down so she could see the child. “Hello, Eddie.”
“What’s your name?” asked Eddie.
“You know me. I’m your Aunt Mel.”
“That’s his new favorite question as of this morning,” explained Josie. “Expect it at least a dozen times this evening. You can thank Felicity’s Furry Friends for that.” Josie stopped her dinner preparations long enough to give Melissa a long-suffering look.
Melissa chuckled. She knew of the TV show both from her work and from exposure to her three-year-old nephew. Some weeks she couldn’t go one day without seeing a Felicity’s Furry Friends T-shirt, sneaker, sock, pencil, or other kid paraphernalia. Whoever did the marketing for that show sure knew how to milk the popularity.
“What’s your name?” repeated Eddie.
“Eddie, please!” begged Josie. “Enough with the question. Play with the blocks.”
“Hey, don’t I get a hug?” Melissa asked. Her knees were starting to get stiff, but she wanted to draw Eddie out from under the table. She couldn’t safely sit down at the kitchen table without stepping on him in his current position.
The boy scrambled to his feet, slammed his head on the table, and burst into tears.
“Oooo, that’s gotta hurt,” Melissa said sympathetically.
“What happened?” Josie asked.
“He hit his head on the table,” Melissa explained. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got this.” Reaching in, Melissa gripped Eddie’s arms and carefully extracted the boy from the space beneath the table. “You’re all right,” she assured the boy, wrapping him in a tight hug. She kissed the tender spot on his head.
Eddie wailed for about a minute before subsiding into moody sniffles. The lack of screaming allowed Melissa to hear faint crying from a different room.
“
Uh-oh. Carley wants to cry too,” said Melissa to Eddie. “Shall we go visit her?”
The boy shook his head emphatically, smearing snot and tears over a wider section of Melissa’s nice suit jacket. It didn’t faze her. Snot and tears were occupational hazards. She probably kept the local economy afloat through the power of her dry cleaning bills.
“How much time do we have?” Melissa inquired.
“The salad’s already done, but the chicken will take another ten minutes,” said Josie. “You’ve got time to collect the other loud one, if you’re willing.”
The whine of a dog reached Melissa’s ears. She had almost forgotten about the Dalmatian puppy.
“Where’s Sal?”
“See Sal!” exclaimed Eddie, meaning he wanted to see the dog.
“Maybe later,” said Melissa.
“Porch exile.” Josie’s narrowed eyes and tone told Melissa there was a story behind the two-word answer.
“What’d he do now?” Melissa asked. She thought of how un-kid-and-dog-proof her house was and winced.
Carley’s cries intensified.
“Hold that thought,” said Melissa. “Carley duty calls.”
Shifting her grip on Eddie, Melissa wound her way through the hallway leading toward the front door. She would have hurried except she wanted to avoid any more building block incidents.
“Whew, you’re a workout,” she said to Eddie once they were midway up the stairs.
They reached the guest room holding the crying infant and entered cautiously. Melissa was grateful Carley’s cries were normal fussy noises and not screeches yet.
“Hush!” ordered Eddie. He clapped both hands over his ears and growled at his sister.
“Eddie! We do not growl at the baby,” Melissa scolded, trying not to laugh.
Somebody’s picked up a bad habit from Sal.
“Let’s go see what she wants.”
It didn’t take long to ascertain the disturbance.
Eddie summed up the situation in a word.
“Stinky!”
Melissa shrugged.
“Well, that’s an easy enough fix,” she said. Entering the room, she kicked the door shut behind her and set Eddie down. The toddler had mastered the art of door opening, but it would slow him down if he tried to escape. “Stay here.”
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