by C Paradee
Changing back into her street clothes, she went to her office and began to prepare her preliminary report.
"Hey Doc..." came the teasing voice from her doorway.
Smiling, she looked up. "Mark, how many times do I have to tell you it's Megan?"
Grinning easily, he winked at her and replied, "Ok, Ok. So what tidbit do you have for this lowly reporter struggling to survive his purgatory on the crime beat?"
Rolling her eyes, "Since when haven't you loved the lure of the police scanner? I think you beat the police to the scene half the time."
"Guess I'm busted," he laughed and continued, "but I heard the Shadow case is now yours. How'd that happen?" Mark Potter was handsome in a rugged sort of way. He was somewhere around 6 feet, with wavy chestnut brown hair trimmed to a fashionable length. He had an easy smile and a charming manner. His chin was square and he was always sporting a five o'clock shadow no matter how many times a day he shaved.
Megan answered absently, "Just lucky I guess." She was still wondering why herself. And she particularly didn't like the fact that everyone in the city seemed to know it was her case almost before she did.
"So what did the autopsy show?"
"Mark, you know very good and well I can't discuss that with you," she said, smiling to take the sting out of the words.
"Oh come on, I'll just quote an inside source," he persisted.
"Oh that's just great. Everyone in the city seems to know I've been assigned this case and you're going to quote an inside source. Get real will ya," replied an exasperated Megan.
"Sorry, you're right. I was really being inconsiderate. Can I make it up by taking you to dinner tonight?" he asked hopefully.
Looking at the figure in her doorway, Megan silently sighed. She like Mark and considered him a friend, but she knew he wanted more. Going to an occasional movie or out to eat as long as she paid her way was ok. But she wondered if he was ever going to understand that there would never be a relationship other than friendship between them. God knows she had told him enough times. If nothing else he was tenacious.
"I know you didn't mean any harm. You're just doing your job. So dinner isn't necessary, and besides, I already have plans for tonight," she said, feeling guilty about the little white lie she uttered.
"OK, you can't blame a guy for trying. If you do find out anything you can let me have, would you give me a call?"
"Sure Mark, I always do."
"Later," he replied sauntering out of the office.
"See ya Mark."
Megan turned her attention back to the report she was working on. She wasn't looking forward to calling Sgt. Davies and telling him the autopsy results were negative.
Finishing the report, Megan placed the call, "Dr. Donnovan here. I just wanted to let you know that the preliminary autopsy report hasn't yielded anything new. Death was by strangulation and then the neck was broken. Time of death between 2300 and 0300. Preliminary reports on the blood, toxicology and tissue samples won't be back until tomorrow," she reported clinically.
"Ok, thanks. I guess I wasn't really expecting much on this one either. Seems our killer is extremely clever. But then the organized serial killers usually are. Be sure and let me know what the tests show."
"I'll fax the results tomorrow..."
"Oh, Dr. Donnovan," he interrupted, "one more thing. Apparently the Mayor decided we weren't making enough progress on this case so he called in the FBI. I thought you should know because you'll probably get a call from them. The Mayor made it perfectly clear we are to cooperate fully."
"Thanks for the warning," she replied and hung up the phone. I wonder if that's why I got this case. Dr. Whitehouse hates working with the FBI. They always tell him what to say or not to say to the reporters. He hates being told what to do. Somehow that just doesn't seem like a good enough reason, though.
Tony was glad to see some of the outlying suburbs of Cleveland approaching as she drove her new 1998 Buick Regal GS westbound down I-90. Needing a car, she had opted for something with soft lines but not overtly sporty. She wanted something that would be fairly nondescript and with that thought in mind she chose jasper green metallic. She had tested the ability of the turbo charged engine during the day and been pleased with the results. Yeah, it would do, she thought popping out the CD and turning the radio on.
The thought of going into this assignment blind made her distinctly uneasy. When doing infiltration, she had always been provided a complete dossier on the target. So when the game began, she knew the players. Their likes, dislikes, families, friends, job, hangouts, amount of money they made, what they had claimed on their IRS forms over the years, previous military or law enforcement experience, basically everything. With this information provided, it was easy enough to either befriend someone in the target organization or stage an incident that would call her to their attention and wait until they made contact. Which they always did. Even on wet operations, the information only provided on a need to know basis, it was still always sufficient to get the job done. Tony reminded herself that she was not working undercover anymore and that she didn't need the support system of the infrastructure to find a serial killer. Somehow that thought did not ease her concern.
Driving along the Lake Erie shoreline, Tony noticed the boats and yachts docked at the various piers along the lake. Maybe there are some redeeming features in this town after all.
Singing along with the songs on the soft rock channel, she exited following the directions she had been given to the Marriott and parked her car in the underground garage. She grabbed her luggage and headed for the elevator.
Checking in, she was given a message from Mike Braxton requesting that she call when she arrived. Stuffing it in her pocket, she quickly took in her surroundings falling into the old habit of checking the layout. The locations of the doors, stairs, and elevators were of primary importance. This attention to detail had saved her life more than once.
Turning her attention to the desk clerk as he informed her, "The pool is open 24 hours a day, and on the Club floor there is a fitness center that is open from 5am to 11pm. The dining room closes at 10pm, but the sports bar is open until 2am. Handing her a key card, he said, "You're in 305. Just go down that hall to the elevators, go up to three and turn left. The room is near the end of the hall. Do you need help with your luggage?"
Shaking her head no, she thanked the clerk and went to find her room. All she could think of was a nice hot shower to wash the road grime off. Then perhaps a martini and Caesar salad for dinner. Might even get a chance to start that book she'd been carrying around for over a year. What was it? Oh yeah, The First Wives' Club.
Feeling much better after her shower and dinner, Tony picked up the phone to call Mike as she downed her martini. "Agent Viglioni calling for Mike Braxton."
"Hi... mind if I call you Tony?" He continued, without waiting for a response. "Welcome to Cleveland. How was your drive up?"
"Not too bad," she automatically responded while trying to get a fix on the character behind the voice. "I'm looking forward to getting started."
"Well we're glad to have you aboard Tony. We've been very shorthanded lately. You will be handling the serial killer case. There was another victim last night, same MO. I'll brief you on it in the morning." He silently hoped this agent would last longer than the last one. He had only lasted three months before getting caught in the cross fire of a gang war. For some reason no one took a Cleveland assignment seriously.
"I'll meet with you at 9:00 a.m.," adding, "that's room 640 in the Federal Building." Not knowing Tony had already ascertained the location of the FBI office.
"I'll be there," Tony said before hanging up the phone. Walking over to the bar, she fixed another martini, picked up her book and gracefully lowered herself to the sofa, totally relaxing for the first time all day.
Megan finished up her workout at Bally's and decided to stop for Chinese on the way home. She always went to the same place because the food was good a
nd they didn't use Msg. Arriving home, she parked in the parking garage and started making her way to the elevator.
Her neck prickling, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up, Megan stopped and turned around, scanning the garage carefully. There was no one there. She could have sworn someone was watching her. Megan hated deserted parking garages. She had autopsied too many cases that were the result of them. But lately the garage seemed almost malevolent. Clearly her overactive imagination was at work again. But this wasn't the first time, a small voice in her mind spoke. Ignoring it and trying to shake off the feeling, she proceeded to her apartment.
Eating her dinner, Megan's thoughts drifted back to her conversation with Mark. She never lacked for dating opportunities, but she turned most of them down. She thought about her two engagements, both to the same guy. She had loved Ray, but something had been missing from their relationship. She was the one who broke off the engagement both times. She still wondered why she had felt so threatened by the idea of marriage to him. She just knew it wasn't right for her. What she had never figured out was why. Now when she dated, she always stopped short of a relationship. Being a romantic at heart, she guessed she was just waiting for someone to sweep her off her feet. Well you better quit turning everyone down or it's never going to happen, her mind voiced her unspoken thoughts. Not knowing why she felt so melancholy tonight, Megan decided to lose herself in a book. She picked up Montana Skies by Nora Roberts and was quickly captivated by the story.
Bolting upright, the pounding of his heart in his chest threatening to explode as his lungs struggled for air, he ripped the tangled sheets away from his sweat-covered body before realizing it was only a dream. Finally able to catch his breath and slow his breathing down, he slowly gained control.
It was wrong. It was too soon. It had only been a couple of days. The nightmares shouldn't be back yet. Panic reared its ugly head, and his mind fought for control. Get a grip. Panicking isn't going to help. With an effort that was almost physical in its intensity, he was able to shut the panic down.
Walking over to the sink, he poured a glass of water drinking deeply. There would be no more sleep for him this night.
Tony was up early after spending a fitful night. Donning a pair of shorts and T-shirt, she headed to the fitness center.
A couple of hours later, feeling the pleasant tiredness associated with a good workout of well-toned muscles, she reentered her room.
Tony knew that today was important in setting the tempo at her new job. Deciding on the subtle power approach, she showered and blew dry her hair. Dressing in a blue slack suit, offset with an ice blue blouse, she sparingly applied makeup. What else... oh yeah... the not so subtle height intimidation thing, smiling she donned 3 inch spiked heels.
Hailing a taxi, Tony looked out at the city on the ride to the federal building. Taking the elevator to the 6th floor she located the FBI office and entered. Looking at the large room divided by cubicles, she headed over to the closest desk and asked to see Director Braxton.
John Austin looked up to address the woman speaking to him and had to consciously struggle to keep from gaping. He took in the image appreciatively, and thoughts best left unspoken ran through his mind. "It's right down there on the left."
"Thanks," Tony answered, smiling easily. Turning down the row indicated, she was well aware of his eyes following her.
Tony entered the office and asked the secretary to see the Director. Taking a seat, she waited.
Mike Braxton had carefully gone over the file on Tony Viglioni. The problem was that it had revealed very little. The picture showed an attractive brunette. She was 30 years old. Had graduated Summa cum laude with a major in Political Science and a minor in Criminal Justice. Immediately upon graduating she had entered the FBI Academy at Quantico. She had graduated at the top of her class breaking many of the previous records in self defense, infiltration, hostage negotiation, and marksmanship. It was here that things became sketchy. Her file indicated she had been assigned to the Washington, D.C. office for the last eight years. Mike was not a fool. This record had been cleansed. That could mean one of two things. Either the agent had been involved in some major screw-up or else she had been involved in top secret covert operations. Whatever the case was, apparently Headquarters didn't think he had a need to know. Mike wasn't entirely happy with this lack of information, but he'd worked for the government too long to question the decisions of the higher-ups.
If there was such a thing as a stereotypical FBI agent, Mike Braxton fit the mold. Average height, brown hair cut short, clean shaven, conservative dark blue suit, white shirt, blue tie, black wingtips, a slight bulge under the jacket indicating a shoulder holster and no particularly distinctive features.
Calling his secretary and telling her to send the new agent in, Mike rounded his desk to meet Tony. Holding out his hand, he said, "Hi. Please call me Mike." He shook her hand, feeling slightly intimidated, and decided the picture in her file did not do her justice.
Tony smiled engagingly and said, "Hi, nice to meet you."
"Have a seat. Once again, we're glad to have you. When you are finished here, see my secretary for an in-processing packet.
Walking back and forth he continued, "We are currently very short staffed. Some of the operations we are involved with include a computer scam targeting old people, a counterfeit ring, and several bank robberies. One of our agents is out on disability and a gang war is looming. Monday the Mayor asked for our assistance in the serial killer case. In the interest of good relations with the local law enforcement agencies, we cannot refuse."
Raising an eyebrow, she asked, "Your point is?" continuing to appraise her new boss. This is definitely a company man. What a wus. Well, did you really expect to be impressed? It's not like Huey didn't kind of warn ya and if he doesn't quit pacing back and forth in front of my chair I'm gonna have to hurt him.
Feeling control of the conversation slip away when she interrupted him, he replied, "I don't have anyone else to assign with you on this case. So you're on your own. I expect to be kept informed of all developments as they occur. Of course you will have access to all the FBI resources through the computers here in the office. Our job is to assist the locals', not take over their operation. I know I don't have to tell you how important it is to maintain good working relations with them. Your point of contact is Sgt. Davies. My secretary will give you the number." Thinking, God, she has presence. A very powerful presence. I'm glad we're not on opposite sides.
"Fine. Anything else," she inquired in a bored voice, just anxious to be out of this meeting.
"No, that will be all. The only agent in the office right now is John Austin. Come on, I'll introduce you."
Tony turned to follow him thinking, must be the guy by the door.
After the introductions were made, Tony received her in-processing packet and was shown to her cubicle. There was a small desk, a PC, and a filing cabinet. Laying the in-processing packet aside, she picked up the phone and called Sgt. Davies.
"Sgt. Davies, this is Tony Viglioni of the FBI. I've been asked to assist you in the serial killer case."
"I've been expecting a call from someone in your office. I have had a file made up with copies of the progress of our investigation so far. I have also included all the crime scene photos. I'll have a squad car drop it off. Once you review it, if you have any questions, I'll do my best to clear them up. Otherwise we will provide you with new information when we get it and will expect the same from you. What number can you be reached at?"
Tony gave him her number and rang off. Nothing like getting blown off by the locals, she mused. It was obvious the FBI was not very popular with the police department. But she didn't create that little problem and she would be damned if people were going to keep blowing her off. First her boss, and now this idiot.
Pacing around the cubicle, she slowly emptied her mind and thought focus. It was a technique that she had taught herself over the years. She was aware of her qui
ck temper and knew that success in this endeavor relied on her tempering it.
When the packet from Sgt. Davies arrived, Tony quickly scanned the contents paying particular attention to the crime scene photos. Looking at the details of the crime scene photos, she tried to lock into the mode the killer must have been in. But there really wasn't enough to go on. All the victims had been killed between 2300 and 0300. All were of similar body type and age. All were killed near the Cuyahoga River. The autopsy reports indicated death by strangulation with the neck broken postmortem. There were pages of interviews with people in the area at the time, but no one had seen or heard anything.
Looks like I'm gonna have to start from scratch. The file indicated that the Assistant Coroner, Dr. Donnovan, was in charge of the case. The autopsy report for the latest victim was not in the file. Wanting to talk to someone who had been at the crime scene, she decided to start with the Coroner's office.
"Dr. Donnovan," answered Megan, while absently twirling a piece of hair in her fingers.
Tony thought the pleasant voice sounded young to be the Assistant Coroner. "Dr. Donnovan, this is Agent Tony Viglioni with the FBI. I would like to talk to you about the serial killer case. I can be there in 30 minutes. It won't take much time."
Megan took in the low-pitched voice, thinking, God, what a voice. It's almost... sexy. She loved to play a game with herself of what someone she hadn't met would look like in person based on their voice on the phone. She smiled to herself remembering an expose on TV about the women that talked on sex chat lines. Many of them worked out of their homes while tending husbands and children. Interestingly enough, most of them did not look anything like the voice would lead you to believe. This woman had one of those kinds of voices. With this in mind, Megan drew a picture in her mind of a frumpy, dour woman, 30-40, dressed in a severe business suit, probably gray, after all everyone knew the FBI didn't have any imagination, with her hair in a bun and wire rim glasses.