by Alex Kava
Gwen flipped through the pages and with only a glance began picking out the ambiguous terms, the safe posts that specified approximate time and cause of death, giving information without giving details. Whatever clearance or special permission Senator Brier may have gotten from Director Mueller himself, Gwen knew he would be spared the real facts. Yes, Cunningham would do his best to dilute the gruesome details, no matter who might be calling the shots. And Gwen didn’t blame him. Senator or not, no father should hear about the frightening and brutal last minutes of his daughter’s life.
“There is one thing I need to ask up front.” The senator stopped riffling through the papers, but did not look up. “Was she…was she raped?”
Gwen watched all the men’s faces, their eyes avoiding the senator’s. This was something that fascinated her about men who were close to a victim, whether it be husband, father or son. Their loved one could have been beaten and stabbed beyond recognition, tortured, mutilated and brutally murdered, but somehow none of that was as awful to them as the mere thought that she may have been raped, that she may have been violated in a way incomprehensible to them.
When nobody spoke, Maggie said, “The evidence is inconclusive.”
Senator Brier stared at her, then shook his head. “You need not spare me. I need to know.”
Like hell he needed to know. Gwen stopped herself as Maggie caught her eyes. Maggie looked to Cunningham as if for permission to proceed. He sat, eyes straight ahead, his hands folded over each other on the table, no indication that he wanted her to stop.
Maggie continued, “We did find some vaginal semen, but there was no bruising, no tearing. Is it possible Ginny may have been with someone earlier in the evening?”
Gwen saw Cunningham shoot Maggie a look of warning. He obviously hadn’t expected her to ask the question. But now Maggie was no longer paying attention. Instead, she focused on the senator, waiting for his answer. Gwen wanted to smile. Good for you, Maggie. The senator looked flustered. He seemed more willing and comfortable talking about his daughter’s possible rape than he did about her normal sex life.
“I don’t know for sure. Some of her friends might know.”
“It would be helpful for us to find out,” Maggie continued, despite Cunningham fidgeting at the end of the table.
“You can’t possibly believe some boyfriend of hers did this to her, can you?” Senator Brier leaned forward, a hand twisting into a fist, crumpling a piece of paper. “That’s absolutely absurd.”
“No, we don’t believe that. Not at all, sir,” Cunningham said, jumping in. “That’s not what Agent O’Dell meant.” He looked at Maggie, and Gwen recognized the scowl that barely transformed his always stoic face. “Is it, Agent O’Dell?”
“No, of course not.” Maggie appeared calm and unflustered, and Gwen was relieved. “What I meant was that we will need to determine whether or not Virginia did, in fact, have consensual sex that evening. Otherwise the semen could be important evidence in finding her murderer.”
The senator finally nodded, then he sat back an inch, maybe two. Gwen imagined this was his style on the Senate floor, too, always ready, never relaxed.
“On that same note, Senator Brier,” Cunningham said, pushing up his glasses and planting his elbows on the table, “I have to ask you, is there anyone you know of who would want to hurt you or your daughter?”
The senator flinched, stunned by the question. He rubbed at his temple as if warding off a headache. When he finally spoke there was an unmistakable quiver. “So you are saying this wasn’t random? That it may have been someone Ginny knew?”
Chairs creaked with the shifting of uncomfortable bodies. Nervous fingers rustled papers. Without knowing much about the case, even Gwen realized that, whether it was a crazed boyfriend or not, no one around the table believed Virginia Brier had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one, that is, except for Senator Brier, who either believed it had been random, or wanted badly to convince himself that it had been. Gwen watched the man wring his hands as he waited for Cunningham to tell him the obvious.
“We don’t know anything for certain, Senator. We need to eliminate all possibilities. And, yes, we’ll need a list of all your daughter’s friends, anyone who may have seen or talked to her Saturday or even Friday.”
There was a muffled knock at the door and a tall, handsome black man came in, apologizing as he went to the senator’s side without waiting for an invitation. He leaned down and whispered something in his boss’s ear, a gesture that appeared familiar and comfortable for both men, despite the audience that waited quietly around the table.
The senator nodded and without looking up at his assistant said, “Thank you, Stephen.” Then he looked across the table to Cunningham while he stood, leaning on the young man’s outstretched arm. “I apologize, Kyle. I must get back to the Capitol. I expect you’ll keep me informed.”
“Of course, Senator. I’ll give you all the details you need to know, as soon as we know them.”
Senator Brier seemed satisfied. Gwen smiled at Cunningham’s choice of words—“all the details you need to know.” Cunningham should have been a politician. He was good at this, telling people what they wanted to hear while telling them absolutely nothing at all.
CHAPTER 34
Richmond, Virginia
Kathleen O’Dell shoved the papers aside and grabbed for her mug of coffee. She took a sip, closed her eyes and took another. This was much better than that god-awful tea, although Reverend Everett would be scolding her if he knew how much caffeine she had poured into her system, and it wasn’t even noon. How could she be expected to give up alcohol and caffeine?
She shuffled through the pages again. Stephen had been very considerate in getting all the government forms she needed. If only it didn’t take so long to fill them out. Who would ever guess that it took so much work to transfer what little assets she had: a meager money market and savings account along with Thomas’s pension. She had even forgotten about Thomas’s pension, a small monthly amount, but enough that Reverend Everett seemed quite pleased when she had remembered it. That was when he’d told her once again she played an integral part in his mission. That God had sent her to him as a special favor. She’d never before been an integral anything to anyone, let alone to such an important man as Reverend Everett.
After spending the morning sorting through her assets, she realized that she also had never had much of anything. But then, she had never really expected much, either. Just what was necessary to get by—that was enough.
After Thomas’s death, Kathleen had sold their house and all their belongings so that she could move Maggie as far away as possible and as soon as possible. With Thomas’s life insurance, she thought they would be okay, and they had been comfortable in the small Richmond apartment. They never had much, but it wasn’t like Maggie went hungry or wore rags.
Kathleen looked around her current apartment, a sunny one-bedroom she had recently decorated herself with bright and cheerful colors that she no longer saw through blurry, hungover eyes. She hadn’t had a drink in ten months, two weeks and…She checked the desk calendar—four days. Though it still wasn’t easy. She reached for the coffee mug again and took a swallow.
Looking at the calendar reminded her how close Thanksgiving was. She checked her watch. She would need to call Maggie. It was important to Reverend Everett that she and Maggie have a family Thanksgiving together. Surely they could do it, just this once. How difficult could it be to get through one day together? It’s not like they hadn’t done it before. They had spent plenty of holidays together, though at the moment, Kathleen couldn’t remember any vividly enough to feel reassured. Holidays had usually been sort of a blur to her.
She checked the time again. If she called during the day, she’d get Maggie’s voice messaging service, and she wouldn’t get to talk to Maggie.
Kathleen thought about their breakfast yesterday. The girl had fidgeted as if she couldn’t wait to leave, and n
ow Kathleen wondered if Maggie really had been called away. Or had she simply not wanted to spend another minute with her own mother? How did they ever get to this place? How did they ever get to be enemies? No, not enemies. But not friends, either. And why could they not even talk to each other?
She checked her watch again. Sat quietly. Tapped her fingers on the papers, then glanced at the phone on the counter. If she called while Maggie was at work, she’d only be able to leave a message. She sat for a while longer, staring at the phone. Okay, so this wasn’t going to be easy—she was still a coward. She got up and went to the counter. She’d leave a message, and she picked up the phone.
CHAPTER 35
Maggie stood up to stretch her legs and automatically began her ritual pacing. The real meeting hadn’t begun until the senator was safely in his limousine and on his way back to the District. Now the uncensored reports and photos were strewn across the conference room’s table alongside coffee mugs, cans of Pepsi, bottles of water and sandwiches Cunningham had ordered up from the cafeteria.
The old easel-backed chalkboard Cunningham liked to use was almost filled. On one side were the words:
duct tape
cyanide capsule
semen residue
handcuff marks: none found on the victim
ligature tracks: possible cord with glittery residue
possible DNA under nails
scene posed/staged
unidentified circular marks in dirt
On the other side under the heading Unsub was a shorter list, the beginning of a profile:
left-handed
organized, although a risk-taker
knows police procedure
prepared: brought weapon to scene
may interact well with society, but no regard for others
draws satisfaction from seeing his victim suffer
strong sense of grandiosity and entitlement
Cunningham had peeled off his jacket and gotten down to work as soon as Senator Brier had left the conference room, yet he still hadn’t explained why they had gathered out here at Quantico instead of at FBI headquarters. Nor had he bothered to explain why he had been chosen to head the task force rather than the Special Agent in Charge (SAC) of the District’s field office or why BSU had even been called in to take a look at the scene before they knew the victim was a daughter of a United States senator. He hadn’t bothered to explain any of it, and neither Maggie, nor the rest of them, seemed willing to call him on it.
There was plenty he wasn’t telling them. Yet, what he had told them, at least three times, was that all information was to remain shared with only the six members of the task force and with absolutely no exceptions. Redundant, really. They were all professionals. They knew the rules. Well, maybe all of them except Racine. Maggie wondered if perhaps Cunningham didn’t trust Racine, either. Could that be why he was holding back on an explanation? Of course, he had no choice about including Racine. The task force had to have someone from the District PD, and since Racine had already been assigned to the case, it made sense she would continue as liaison.
“According to Wenhoff, cause of death was asphyxiation due to manual strangulation,” Keith Ganza said with his usual monotone, continuing their list.
Cunningham found the word ligature on the chalkboard and scrawled underneath manual strangulation—COD.
“Manual strangulation? What about all the ligature marks?” Tully pointed them out in the autopsy photos of the young woman’s neck.
Keith reached for several of the photos, pulled one out and slid it back to Tully. “See that bruising and the vertical crescent marks? The bruising was made by the pressure of his thumbs. The vertical crescentic abrasions were made by his fingernails. The horizontal ones are all hers. The bruising and the abrasions are in the perfect position to break the hyoid bone. That’s the curved bone at the base of the tongue.” He indicated the area in one of the photos. “There were also fractures to the cartilage of the windpipe and the larynx. All are signs of excessive force and signs of manual strangulation.”
“The guy obviously had been using some kind of cord, over and over again.” Racine stood now to look over Tully’s shoulder at the photos. “Why the hell would he suddenly decide to use his hands?”
Maggie noticed that Racine was leaning close enough into Tully to brush her breasts against his back. She looked away and caught Gwen watching. Gwen’s eyes told her she knew exactly what she was thinking, and Gwen’s sudden frown warned Maggie to be careful and keep any sarcasm to herself.
“Maybe he used his hands when he was finished with whatever little game of pass out and wake up he was playing with her. He may have felt like he had more control with his hands to complete the job,” Maggie said, then turned away from them and stared out the window. She remembered the girl’s neck without looking at any photos, and she could easily conjure up an image of how it came to its mangled black-and-blue state. Black and blue, almost the color the sky had now turned, swollen with dark clouds. A light rain began tapping against the glass. “Maybe the cord simply wasn’t personal enough,” she added without looking back at any of them.
“She may have gotten personal enough to get a piece of him under her fingernails,” Ganza said, and immediately had Maggie’s attention. “Most of the skin was her own, but she managed to get in a scratch or two. Enough for DNA. We’re checking to see if it matches the semen.”
“Also, what about the cyanide capsule?” Racine asked. “And that pinkish tint. Stan made it sound like it could have been the poison.”
Now Maggie turned and glanced at Tully. The two of them looked to Cunningham. Yes, what about the cyanide capsule? They had avoided discussing the possible connection between the senator’s daughter and those five suicidal boys from the cabin in the Massachusetts woods. No way was it a coincidence—not that Maggie even believed in coincidences. Someone had gone to an awful lot of trouble to make sure they made a connection. Someone, perhaps, wanting to point out his deed, or rather, his revenge.
“Poison does leave a pinkish tint. Some of the cyanide had been absorbed into her system, but very little,” Keith answered, though no one except Racine seemed interested.
“So,” Racine said, rubbing her temple as if genuinely trying to figure it out. “Why strangle her if you’ve put cyanide in her mouth and taped it shut? Am I the only who thinks that doesn’t make sense?”
“The capsule was strictly for show,” Cunningham finally offered without looking at the detective, making the explanation sound commonplace. He wiped the chalk from his hands, taking a break and picking up his ham on rye. He took a bite without looking at the sandwich, concentrating instead on the diagrams and police reports spread out on the table.
Racine, now back in her chair, shifted impatiently, waiting.
“You must have heard about the standoff last week in Massachusetts.” Cunningham still wouldn’t meet her gaze and flipped through the reports. “Five young men used the same kind of capsule filled with cyanide to commit suicide before they opened fire on ATF and FBI agents. For some reason, someone wants us to know there’s a connection with Senator Brier’s daughter.”
Racine looked around the table, only now realizing this was news only to her. “You all fucking knew about this?”
“The information about the cyanide is classified and so far has been successfully held back from the media.” Cunningham’s tone made Racine sit back. “We need to keep it that way, Detective Racine. Is that understood?”
“Of course. But if I’m to be a part of this task force, I don’t expect information to be held back from me.”
“Fair enough.”
“So was this some sort of revenge killing?” Racine caught on quickly. Maggie couldn’t help but be impressed, and she turned back to the window when Racine looked her way.
“Or is that too obvious?” Racine asked. “The life of a senator’s daughter in exchange for five?”
“Revenge certainly can’t be discounted,�
�� Cunningham answered between bites of his sandwich.
“Maybe now you can also tell me how you knew about it before we discovered it was the senator’s daughter?”
“Excuse me?”
Maggie looked back at Cunningham. Racine dared to ask the question all of them had been thinking. The woman certainly had more guts than brains.
“Why was BSU called in on this?” Racine asked, apparently unaffected by Cunningham’s position of power or his scowl. Maggie couldn’t help thinking that if Racine did have aspirations of getting into the FBI, she may be squashing an important reference.
“A homicide on federal property is a federal matter,” he told Racine in his best cool, authoritarian tone, “and therefore, the FBI is in charge of the investigation.”
“Yeah, I know that. But why BSU?” Racine didn’t flinch. Maggie watched to see if Cunningham would. By now, everyone was watching to see if Cunningham would.
He pushed up the bridge of his glasses and looked around at each of them. “There was an anonymous phone call early yesterday morning,” he finally confessed, digging his hands into his pockets and leaning against a seldom-used podium next to the chalkboard. “It was traced to a pay phone at the monument. The caller simply said we’d find something interesting at the FDR Memorial. The call came in on my direct line.”
No one said anything.
“I’m not certain why the caller chose to tell me,” Cunningham added when no one, not even Racine, dared to ask. “Perhaps they knew I was at the crime scene at the cabin. Perhaps they knew we had been asked to profile that case.” He looked over at Maggie. “You were quoted in the Times. Anyone could have made the assumption we were on the case.”
Maggie felt a sudden flush, regretting that she had said anything. That morning a reporter had caught her off guard, coming down the steps of the J. Edgar Hoover Building. He had asked about Agent Delaney. She hadn’t been able to mask her anger and simply told him that they would catch the responsible party. That was all she had said, but in that evening’s edition of the Washington Times, the reporter had identified her as a criminal profiler, insinuating that BSU was somehow involved.