Face of a Killer

by Robin Burcell

  “Goddamn it!” Jared hit the gas, took off in the last direction he saw her, keying the radio. “Two of you stay on the house. Somebody get me that plate number, and get a BOLO on it. Now.”

  Sydney was grateful for two things in that moment, dry pavement and light traffic, because Arturo would kill her if anything happened to his bike. Of course, he’d have to wait his turn. There seemed to be no shortage of people willing to do her in for one reason or another.

  She checked her rearview mirrors, saw no signs she was being followed, and relaxed slightly. If she were ever in the market for a motorcycle, this one would be on the top of her list, she thought, stopping at the signal, one foot to the ground, waiting to make a left turn onto the 101. A police car pulled up next to her, the cop glancing over, checking out the bike, looking at her. Several heartbeats passed, and she wondered if Scotty’s team would’ve called in the bike’s plate by now, have her stopped. Turn green. Turn green. ..

  The signal changed; she accelerated at a steady pace. Tried not to bring any more attention to her. If she was lucky, they didn’t have Arturo’s plate, and if they did have it, maybe they hadn’t called it in yet. The moment she was on the freeway, she looked behind her. No cop car. Though tempted to open it up, see what this baby could do, she drove the speed limit, kept a close eye on the cars around her.

  She’d done it. Now all she needed to do was get to the airport. Park. Get on that plane. She drove to one of the offsite lots that required the keys be left behind, one with indoor parking. She handed the keys and the helmet over, explained to the attendant that the bike’s owner would be by to pick it up in the morning, and registered it under Arturo’s name, but paid for it under hers. The shuttle pulled up in short order, and a few minutes later, she was walking into the airport a good half hour before boarding.

  Not bad for a night’s work, she thought, heading into the ladies’ room to see what the helmet had done to her hair. A little flat, and she fluffed it up with her fingers and some water, eyed her leather coat and black jeans in the mirror. Not quite the outfit she would’ve chosen for visiting another agency on a case, but one had to make do, and she slung Arturo’s reflective backpack over her shoulder. It contained her Bureau ID, shield, and gun, along with her ticket, paperwork, and a few other essentials, including a toothbrush and Arturo’s cell phone.

  She checked in at the desk, then with security, so they could examine the reams of paperwork and ID necessary to get the gun on board. That done, she walked to her gate, sat, waited, nearly jumped when Arturo’s cell phone rang.

  “Restricted” showed on the caller ID, and she was tempted to ignore it, knew it had to be Scotty. But then she wondered if she’d somehow gotten Arturo in trouble. She answered it with, “Arturo knows absolutely nothing about this, so leave him out of it.”

  “I’m not interested in your neighbor. It’s your safety.

  Where are you?”

  “A little late to be worrying about my safety, don’t you think?”

  “I’m ordering you in.”

  “You’re not my boss. And since you saw fit to keep me in the dark about all this, I’m not even sure I should be listening to you right now.”

  “Then I’ll have your boss order you in.”

  “You haven’t informed him yet?”

  “No.”

  Of course she knew why he hadn’t called Dixon yet. Be- cause Dixon would have to call the Special Agent in Charge, and Scotty would have to face them and explain why he’d lost an agent he was supposed to be protecting. An agent they didn’t even know was in danger. An agent he’d failed to warn. “Mind if I ask you a question, Scotty? Does your boss even know?”

  “Of course he does.”

  “Let me rephrase that. Does he know that you didn’t tell me?”

  A long stretch of silence told her that answer.

  She smiled, got up, walked away from the other passengers seated near the boarding gate, and prayed no one would make any airline security announcements over the loudspeakers. “The shit is going to hit the fan come morning.

  Isn’t it?”

  “This isn’t funny. Where are you?”

  She rather liked having one over on him. That aside, she had some quick thinking to do, or she’d find herself on some sort of administrative lockdown the moment Scotty made the necessary calls to save his career. “I have a deal for you.” “What sort of deal?”

  “Don’t tell them.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes, you can. Just like you didn’t tell me. At the very least, wait. Your bosses know what this is all about, right?

  What you’re investigating?”

  “Of course they do.”

  “They just don’t know that I wasn’t told.”

  “Correct.”

  “Well, now I do know. And I choose to be an active part of this. Which should cover your ass quite nicely.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning now that I am aware of what the inherent danger is, I choose to go about my business, my investigations as normal, so as not to tip off anyone. And that, Scotty, will allow you and… whoever it is you’re working with to con duct your own investigation.”

  “You need to be off the streets.”

  “If I’m removed from my investigations and tucked away, they’re going to know we know. I work in the same damned building as his office for God’s sake. But if I go about investigating my serial killer case as normal, everything’s fine.” “I don’t like it.”

  “You really don’t have a choice. Because the moment I’m pulled off my cases, I’m going to put in a formal complaint about how your incompetence put me and my family and my very young and innocent sister in the most extreme danger.” “Damn it, Sydney! Where are you?”

  “Working a follow-up on my serial killer case. Oh, and you might want to inform Carillo. I think he has a right to know that for the past few days, he was an unwitting target.

  That way he can make an informed decision on whether or not he wants to be sitting in the same car as me. Gotta go,” she said, just as the gate attendant picked up a microphone to announce the boarding of her flight.

  “Syd-”

  She shut down the phone, then dropped it in the backpack.

  22

  Special Agent Vincent Pettigrew of the Houston field office was a tall, gray-haired man with a lined face that spoke of a love for the outdoors and the sun, and an expensive navy suit that spoke of a love for the finer things in life. If he thought anything of Sydney’s unusual biker garb, he didn’t mention it, nor did she offer an explanation. He picked her up from Intercontinental airport, drove her to Webster, where they did a quick check on the murder case that, who would’ve guessed, turned out not to be related to her case at all, and then started on their drive to Houston, where she queried him about how he got started in the Bureau. Apparently he owed his title of doctor to the Ph. D. he’d acquired before being lured to the FBI twenty-three years ago. They’d asked him for assistance in a stolen art case, and he’d discovered it was a lot more exciting than his first-year teaching job at the university in Virginia. “It was the guns,” he told Sydney after they’d stopped for much needed coffee. He checked his rearview mirror, changed lanes, merging onto the freeway. “I was fascinated by all these smart guys running around like 007. I got to hold an actual Renoir in my hands. Figured it was going to be all artwork, all the time, some sort of specialized art task force, so when one of the operatives on the case told me I should think about joining up, I jumped.”

  “And how many art cases did you get to investigate?”

  He glanced over at her, his brown eyes sparkling with amusement. “In the twenty-three years I’ve been with the Bureau? Quite a few, but only two that made me salivate over what was stolen. Consulted on several more. In the end, I’ll get the best of both worlds. I’ll be retiring in a few weeks, and I’ve just accepted a university teaching position in art history that could lead to tenure in Virginia, s
o all in all, can’t complain.”

  “Not bad.”

  “How about you? Why’d you go into law enforcement?” “Same as you. Fascinated by the guns.” She left it at that, too tired to do much talking herself. And as they drove, she couldn’t help but remember her stepfather, Jake, telling her that she’d let her father’s murder define her. Maybe it wasn’t the fascination of the gun as much as the knowledge that if she carried one, she’d have some power to protect those she loved. But how could she protect them against something she had no knowledge about? She’d called Carillo as soon as she’d landed, told him what Scotty had told her last night, asked him to look up anything and everything on the banking scandal Scotty had mentioned. And now she had to content herself with waiting, because what she was asking was no small feat. How much of her father’s murder, McKnight’s suicide, the hit on her life, was tied up in that old case?

  “Except for the skyline, it’s not exactly the most inspiring of scenery,” Vince said several minutes later, looking over at her, perhaps seeing her eyes drift shut. “Most people think it should be wide open land with longhorns grazing.”

  She smiled, tried to act interested, and only then noticed there was nothing to look at but strip malls and car dealerships that lined the freeway. The downtown skyline was impressive from this distance, though, as several high-rises actually reflected the blue sky and the puffy white clouds that graced it. “It’s a pretty city.”

  “Clean, too. But somehow I don’t think you’re here for the travelogue…”

  She laughed, appreciating his attempt to make her at ease. “So, what can you tell me about this matter?”

  “Nothing, except it’s one hot potato. Someone came in, sanitized the entire case.”

  “Why?”

  “Right-wing Republicans taking the brunt of yet another scandal? Then again, maybe something bigger.”

  “And if it is something bigger?”

  “Whichever agency did the whitewashing, they’re higher up the food chain than us. You can’t just march into a police department the size of Houston and make a suicide note disappear.”

  “It’s gone?”

  “That’s the rumor. Every photocopy and mention of it. The report was computer generated, so if it was mentioned in the original, and we’ve got no reason to think otherwise, you couldn’t tell. And Hatcher, the agent who was first looking into the case because of that background he was doing? Well, he pretty much spooked Reynolds, the guy you first called, with his talk of national security Patriot Act stuff.”

  “You think it really is a national security issue?”

  “Knowing the way the gazillion branches of our government all fail to communicate with each other, who the hell knows? Me, I like the scandal theory, because it fits in with my all-top-government-officials-are-dirty theme.”

  They arrived in downtown Houston, and just as Vince said, it was indeed a very clean city. The PD was in the heart of the city, located in a white and tan, twenty-six-story building on Travis Street. Vince pulled into a monitored parking garage, filled with undercover cars, numerous white marked police vehicles, and a few older-model sky-blue police cars, probably being phased out of the fleet.

  Vince called from his cell phone, letting his contact know they’d arrived. “Alexander’s waiting for us at his office,” he said. Inside were two banks of elevators, and Vince hit the up button on one that covered floors one through sixteen, then held the door for Sydney to step in.

  “What floor?” she asked.

  “Six. Homicide.”

  She hit the button and the door slid shut. Investigator Alexander Hilleary was waiting in the doorway of the homicide office when they got out, a manila folder tucked beneath one arm. He was about the same height as Sydney, five-nine, with brown hair and brown eyes, maybe in his thirties, wearing a gray suit and a burgundy tie. He walked up to them, shook hands with Vince and then Sydney, before leading them to his desk, and its collection of Yu-Gi-Oh!, Pokemon, and ninja figures that seemed out of place next to the odd assortment of books on homicide and forensics. The file cabinet next to it was filled with family photos, a number of them showing a young boy playing soccer.

  Hilleary opened the file drawer, deposited his folder, then asked them, “You two want coffee or something?”

  Sydney nodded. “That would be great.”

  Vince declined, and Hilleary poured two Styrofoam cups, handed Sydney one. She sucked hers down, while Vince asked Hilleary, “So, what the hell’s going on in this place?”

  “How about we go sit in one of the interview rooms. Get a little privacy.” He led them down the hall, showed them into what was commonly called a “soft” interview room, one with a couch and armchair, usually reserved for witness interviews as opposed to suspect interrogations.

  Sydney asked, “You were on the McKnight suicide?”

  “That’s right. We really didn’t do much, other than go in, look around, confirm that, yeah, it’s a suicide. Then get back to the real work.”

  “You’re sure it’s a suicide?” she queried.

  “Definitely. Got a neighbor who was trimming the hedge that’s between their properties. She just climbed up the ladder to get to the top, looked over, witnessed him drinking at his kitchen table, writing notes, talking on the phone with a gun right there beside him. Don’t ask me why she didn’t think that unusual enough to call in until she heard the gunshot, but there you have it.”

  “Other than that, anything?”

  “Nothing,” Hilleary said. “That’s what doesn’t make sense. I mean, until Vince here called me, asked me to take a look at that note, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought, even after the Feds came in, wanting the whole thing kept hush-hush, and removing the note from evidence. That part I figured had to do with the Senate confirmation stuff. No big, you know? Especially since it wasn’t murder.”

  Vince asked, “You recall what the note said?”

  “It’s like this. That guy had quite a few notes scattered around his kitchen table, apologies saying he wished it didn’t have to end this way, crumpled up like he was trying to get it just right. I lost track. Glanced at most of them, but didn’t really take notice, at least not until one of your guys called me up right after, asking about the guy. Even then it didn’t seem out of the ordinary.”

  “Who from our office called you?” Vince asked.

  “Some agent named Hatcher. Said he was doing a background on the guy for something. Wanted to know if I thought it was a legit suicide and if he left a note. I told him, yeah, that he left several notes, all booked into evidence. He wanted us to release the notes to him. They were booked by that time, so it was too late. He had to satisfy himself with the photocopies that were in the evidence file. I figured if it was a big deal, he’d pull the proper strings, get the originals. You know, if the Bureau was taking over the case, or something.”

  “The photocopies,” Sydney said. “Can I see them?”

  “Copies of the copies.” He opened the manila folder and handed them to her. The top sheet was a copy of the property record, showing, among other things, six suicide notes, along with a variety of other stuff found at the scene.

  She read each note contained in the file, seeing nothing but the same words. “I’m sorry it had to end this way.” One was actually addressed to his ex-wife, Becky Lynn, and he’d signed it. The shadows and creases that appeared on each told her these had been the crumpled notes that were no doubt straightened by the CSI for copying. “This is it?” she asked.

  “That’s all I saw, but like I said, I wasn’t really looking.” He ran his finger on the edge of the manila folder, eyeing it before turning his gaze on her. “Here’s the thing. We run a tight ship here, and it made some of the guys nervous, what with the Feds coming down on us saying no one discusses the case, because it’s a matter of national security. A bit overkill for a suicide, you ask me, but in this day and age, who are we to question it? Especially considering there isn’t shit here in the
notes, or even in the investigation. I could see if there was, say, some big government conspiracy, kill him, make it look like a suicide, but like I said, his neighbor saw it. Of course, you want the real scoop about what was out there, I’d ask the crime scene investigator, Sandra Sechrest. If there was something there, something more than the nothing you got in those photocopies, she’ll be able to tell you. That woman’s got a memory for detail.”

  “She here today?”

  “Yeah. I can take you up to her office. She works in CSU on the twenty-fourth floor.”

  It took two separate elevators to get up to the Crime Scene Unit’s level from the sixth floor. The first elevator took them to the sixteenth floor. “Chief’s office,” Hilleary said, indicating why the carpet seemed a bit nicer on that level. From there, they moved to the second elevator bank, rode up to the twenty-fourth floor. The firearms lab was on one side, the CSU offices on the other, accessed by a rather humblelooking wooden door.

  Hilleary knocked and waited. “No one gets in or out, without being escorted,” he said. “Evidence.”

  A few moments later, the door was opened by a young man wearing navy combat fatigues and a shoulder holster. “Hilleary. What’re you doing way up here?”

  “Hey, George. Sandra in?”

  “At her desk.” He stepped aside, revealing a large office of cubicles. Posters and Halloween decorations covered the walls, photos and knickknacks littered the desks where the investigators worked. Sydney scanned the room, saw the top of a snowy white head just on the other side of a cubicle; other than that, the office was empty. George escorted the three to the woman’s cluttered desk. A nameplate reading “Sandra Sechrest” sat atop a stack of reports, finding more use as a paperweight than a desk marker.

  Officer Sechrest held a phone tucked beneath one ear, talking to someone as she rifled through a file cabinet, searching for something among the masses of hanging folders. She was a small woman, her white hair cut short, blue eyes that lit up when she saw Hilleary standing there with them. Sydney put the woman in her sixties, probably close to retiring sometime soon.