The Ackerman Thrillers Boxset: 1-6

by Ethan Cross

  The more Vasques thought about what had happened in the briefing, the more she realized that Williams was right. His points were valid, and her assessments were flawed. It was really Belacourt’s fault. Her father’s old partner disliked the Bureau and didn’t want to deal with anyone there other than her. He had forced her into putting together a profile for him. It wasn’t something she enjoyed or for which she had much of an aptitude. That was why she had dropped out of the BAU and had pursued a career investigating human-trafficking cases instead.

  A single question kept floating to the surface of her thoughts. Who the hell are these guys?

  She had no idea, but she was damn sure going to find out.

  26

  The Chicago FBI field office sat off to itself along Roosevelt Road on a lot enclosed by white pillars and a black rod-iron fence. It was as long as it was tall, and a grid of mirrored windows covered its entire front. Vasques’s office was on the fourth floor against the south wall, overlooking a room full of agents working away at cubicles.

  She ushered the three men from the DOJ inside and shut her door. The office had no windows and was fairly private, but she still reminded herself to keep her voice down and remain calm. Gesturing at a pair of visitor chairs, she stepped around her desk and sat down. The older man, who had introduced himself as Brubaker, and Williams sat in the chairs. She had only two, so Garrison remained standing. Brubaker and Garrison wore identical black suits, white shirts, and black ties. But Agent Williams wore a gray silk shirt undone to the second button, no tie, with a black T-shirt underneath. She already knew he was the maverick of the group, but even his attire, perhaps subconsciously, suggested some small defiance of authority. She had known rogues like him during her tenure with the Bureau, and in her experience, they often got people hurt or killed.

  “Okay, gentlemen. Why don’t we cut the crap, and you tell me who you really are.”

  Brubaker looked at Williams and something passed between them, but she couldn’t be sure what it was. Williams said, “We haven’t lied to you. We’re part of a group within the DOJ that specializes in this type of case. We’re all on the same team. All we want is to catch this guy and make sure that he doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

  Williams looked at Brubaker again, and the older man raised his eyebrows and tilted his head toward her. Williams continued. “I also want to say how sorry I am for what happened in the briefing. If I had known that you prepared the profile, I would have handled it differently.”

  She considered this. Thought about letting him off the hook but decided against it. “Why would we want your help? What do you bring to the table?”

  His eyes went distant for a second, and his hand reached toward the spot where his tie would have been. He rubbed at the spot on his chest. Finally, he said, “I notice things.”

  Silence stretched within the room. “That’s it?” Vasques laughed. “You notice things. I’m afraid you’re going to have to do better than that.”

  Williams closed his eyes and started pointing around the room. “Your trash can is small and black, wire mesh. It’s filled with some papers but mostly junk-food wrappers. A half-eaten box of McDonald’s fries, a wrapper from Subway, Snickers-bar wrapper, from what I could see. You’ve got a vent in the far-right corner of the room, up high. It’s missing a screw and squeaks a little. So does your chair, which is actually a different model from all those we passed on the way in. I assume you brought it from home. It looked like it has better lumbar support. You have fourteen awards and diplomas hanging on the left wall in two rows of seven. The third one in the second row still has part of the price tag showing on the frame where you apparently gave up on scraping it off. There are three gray filing cabinets in the left corner with five drawers each. There are twelve pictures in black frames sitting on top of the cabinets.”

  His eyelids opened, and his gaze found hers. His eyes were beautiful and bright, stunning yet piercing. She noticed that the eyes were different colors. Half bluish green and half brown. He said, “Those things are just the obvious ones, though. All on the surface. They’re not just objects. Each has a story to tell about you.”

  Without glancing away from her, Williams pointed to the pictures in the corner. “Closest one to us is a picture of Belacourt and a man I assume to be your father. It was taken at the same precinct we just came from. Next one to the right is of you at your college graduation with your dad and brother. You’re wearing a cap and gown. Your dad’s wearing a gray suit with a red tie. Your brother, a guess based on resemblance, is wearing a blue sweater and a wool jacket. I can see that you went to Duke University from the chapel in the background. It’s pretty distinctive. Also, there are no pictures of your mother anywhere. So I can infer that you were raised by your father and your mother died when you were very young. But then again, that doesn’t quite fit. She didn’t die. If she had, you’d probably still have a photo of her. I’m guessing she abandoned you and your brother. Maybe she couldn’t handle being a mother and having a cop as a husband. You’re single with no kids. Easy to tell that since you have no pictures of family other than your father and brother.”

  Vasques’s breathing had become shallow and forced. She wanted him to stop but couldn’t find the words.

  “You’re on temporary assignment to help with this case, and you once received training from the Behavioral Analysis Unit. But you dropped out. That’s why the profile contained all the right terminology, but not the right kind of insight and assessment that you can only gain from working real cases in the field. You’re a workaholic, and you don’t know what to do with yourself when you’re not here. All those takeout boxes, and there are also tiny stains on your desk blotter. Looks like barbecue sauce or steak sauce, maybe. You eat a lot of meals in this office. There’s also a few smudges there that look like make-up and lipstick. You must have fallen asleep and planted your face there on the desk.”

  Brubaker said, “I think she’s heard enough, Marcus.”

  But Williams ignored the older agent. “You just quit smoking. You’ve been chewing on your lower lip, and every time I’ve seen you, you have at least two pieces of gum jammed in your mouth. The awards and diplomas also tell me that you’re somewhat insecure about your position in the Bureau. You probably have every shooting trophy and commendation you’ve ever received on display. Then there’s your gun. Bureau typically issues Glock 22s or 23s, maybe even a 19 chambered for 9mm since it has a smaller frame and fits a woman’s hand better. Or you could carry a Sig P226 or P220. But you’re packing a custom Sig Sauer 1911 chambered for .45 ACP. It’s the biggest model they make. It’s like you’re trying to prove something to yourself or those around you. Telling everyone that you’re tough enough to handle anything. We’ve come a long way in terms of equality, but I’m sure there are still plenty of hurdles for a woman in the Bureau.”

  “Okay, Marcus. You’ve made your point,” Garrison said from the corner of the room.

  “Not sure if I have. There is one more thing. If I had to guess, I’d say that you dropped out of profiling around the same time that your father died. You told everyone that was the reason, but the truth was that you didn’t like trying to get inside the heads of killers. Some people just aren’t built for it. Plus, I can tell you’re a hands-on type of person. You like being in the field. Kicking down doors, taking down bad guys, saving the day. You get to see the faces of the people you help. But a profiler spends most of his or her time in a basement at Quantico living inside the minds of some of the world’s most deranged individuals. Still, it was quite an honor to be selected. There are only around thirty actual profilers out of 13,864 special agents in the Bureau. Your dad must have been really proud. Maybe that’s why you only quit after he was gone. Didn’t want to disappoint him. But, ultimately, it wasn’t a life that you wanted. You were afraid that to admit the truth to anyone would somehow show weakness.”

  Williams continued to stare deep into her eyes, and Vasques felt the odd sensation that he
was looking straight into her soul. Her heart throbbed against the walls of her ribcage. She felt naked and helpless. She swallowed hard and said, “I see what you mean about noticing things. I’m sure that will come in handy during the investigation. Garrison mentioned that you wanted to talk to the witness.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay, meet me downstairs in the lobby in five minutes.”

  She stood up quickly, still flustered. Her cheeks were on fire. The air was hot. Her composure was cracked and broken, but she fought to maintain control. She slipped past the three men and out of her office, leaving them to find their own way out. The way to the bathroom wound around the corner past some additional offices and cubicles. She shuffled inside the women’s restroom and found an open stall.

  After slamming the stall door and sitting down on the toilet, she tried to breathe deeply and wrestle her emotions under control. But she couldn’t. Williams had discovered things about her that no other living person knew. He had laid her bare and touched on subjects she never discussed with anyone. She felt as if he was the only person in the world that had truly seen who she was. And that made her feel frightened and ashamed.

  With her face buried in her hands, Special Agent Victoria Vasques began to cry.

  27

  The massive white parking structure directly across West Roosevelt Road from the Chicago FBI field office was six levels high, counting the roof. They had found a spot for the Yukon on the far west end of the fourth level. Marcus had volunteered to drive, and Vasques had agreed a bit too quickly. He had expected her to put up an argument, not for any real reason, just as a display of independence and authority. To his surprise, her frosty attitude had melted significantly. His little display had apparently made an impression.

  They all made small talk on the walk over to the garage. Allen was asking Vasques her impressions of Duke University. His son, Charlie, was hoping for a basketball scholarship there in the fall. Marcus was half listening to them and half analyzing every detail of their surroundings when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He didn’t recognize the number and knew what that usually meant. It was Ackerman.

  Marcus had changed his number twice when the killer first started to make near-daily calls, but, somehow, Ackerman always learned the new number. At his request, Stan had searched through all their computer systems and had found nothing. Marcus couldn’t imagine why anyone within the organization would provide such information to the killer. It had to be the computers. He made a mental note to have Stan double-check everything once again, including all their cell phones, laptops, and servers.

  After several failed attempts and more wasted resources, they had given up on trying to trace the calls back to the killer. Ackerman always used remote nodes with disposable cell phones or payphones. They could trace the calls back, but he never stayed in the same spot long enough to catch him there. He was careful and cautious, and Marcus suspected that he had been masking his appearance whenever he was in public. The killer had learned how to blend in over the years. Ackerman’s use of technology did suggest, however, that he was receiving help from someone skilled in electronics and computer systems. It wasn’t much, but it was a lead.

  The others moved on up the ramp, and Marcus slowed his pace to put a little distance between them. “Speak.”

  “Marcus, it’s good to hear your voice.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Are you enjoying your time in the Windy City?”

  His jaw clenched. How did Ackerman always know so much about their operations? “What do you want?”

  “You sound even more on edge than usual, Marcus. Have you been sleeping? That pesky insomnia. And the migraines. We really need to do something about those. I need you at your best.”

  “I’m touched by your concern.”

  “You should be. I’m the best friend you’ll ever have, Marcus. No one will ever love you the way that I do. And you need to be on top of your game if you want to take down the Anarchist. I’ve been reading about our new playmate and, quite frankly, I’m impressed.”

  A Chevy Malibu skidded around the corner ahead of them, taking the curve a bit too fast. The vehicle’s tires screeched as the driver nearly collided with a Chrysler 300 that was trying to back out. The driver of the Malibu laid on his horn and shook a fist at the woman behind the wheel of the Chrysler, even though it was hardly her fault.

  Ackerman continued on the other end of the line. “This Anarchist. He’s the real deal. He understands the hunger. He’s like us, Marcus.”

  “We’re nothing alike.”

  Ackerman chuckled. “You can lie to everyone else. You can even lie to yourself to a certain extent. But you can’t lie to me. I know all too well about the demon running around inside of you, trying to break free.”

  The killer’s words had fallen to the back of Marcus’s mind. Something had just happened. He had heard something. His subconscious had picked up on it, but it took him a moment to realize the significance.

  His eyes went wide.

  His pulse rate soared, and he could hear the blood pumping faster through his veins.

  But he couldn’t look or sound surprised. He couldn’t let Ackerman know what he had heard.

  When the driver of the Malibu had skidded around the corner and then laid on his horn, Marcus had heard the sound not only echoing through the parking garage but also coming through from the other end of the line. Ackerman’s end.

  And that could mean only one thing.

  28

  Ackerman watched the group move up the ramp toward their vehicle through a pair of Bushnell Fusion 1600 ARC binoculars. He sat low in the front seat of a silver Dodge Avenger about fifteen cars up the row from their Yukon. He wanted to be able to see Marcus’s face as they spoke. He wanted it to be as if they were there together, speaking in person. Soon they would be.

  But as some idiot took the curve of the garage moving entirely too fast and nearly caused an accident, Ackerman knew that Marcus was aware of his presence.

  Marcus had tried to conceal his shock, but a hesitation as he walked and a tensing of his shoulders gave him away. When Ackerman thought about it, he supposed that he would have been disappointed if Marcus hadn’t realized.

  His plan was only to observe and follow. That way he could spot possible opportunities where his assistance could prove valuable to the investigation into the Anarchist. Being spotted and forcing a confrontation wasn’t part of the plan. But he had learned long ago how to adapt and overcome. Situations like this were fluid and unpredictable. A person needed to be prepared to react to unforeseen circumstances and deal with unintended consequences.

  Luckily, he’d had the foresight to reverse into the parking spot so that he could make a quick escape. Those few extra seconds could make all the difference.

  Ackerman sat up, turned the key in the ignition, and threw the Avenger into drive.

  29

  Marcus could feel Ackerman’s stare slithering over him. But how to warn the others without alerting the killer? Vasques, Allen, and Andrew were ten feet ahead with their backs to him. Vasques’s shoes clicked against the pavement, the sound reminding him of a ticking clock.

  Thirty feet up the ramp, the engine of a silver sedan roared to life. It could have been just another working stiff on their way to lunch, or it could have been a sadistic murderer. His mind searched for the right move, offense or defense, react or attack. The killer was watching. If he assumed Ackerman was the sedan’s driver, he could be blowing the best shot he’d had at the killer in months. There was no way to judge Ackerman’s location based on the noises he had heard over the phone. Sound carried in strange ways.

  The car was facing forward in the parking spot.

  For a quick exit?

  That was the way Ackerman would have parked, the way Marcus would have in the same situation. A second’s hesitation could mean the difference between stopping the killer once and for all or failing again and letting him slip away. It co
uld also mean the difference between life and death for him or his colleagues.

  A predator is most dangerous when cornered, and he had no idea how Ackerman would react if faced with the possibility of capture. The killer wouldn’t go quietly; he knew that much for sure.

  He made his decision and sprinted up the ramp toward the others, closing the distance as quickly as possible.

  The tires of the silver sedan squealed, and it jolted forward.

  He saw Vasques’s head jerk toward the noise. Her black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, whipped around her neck with the sharp movement.

  The sedan shot down the ramp. The others, having no idea how close they were to one of the country’s most prolific serial murderers, didn’t sense the danger until it was too late to react.

  Vasques moved to the side of the ramp near the line of parked cars. She stood against the trunk of a black Ford Focus. There was no way for her to truly know the danger she was in.

  Marcus’s feet pounded up the ramp.

  He had only a split second to react. His right arm shot toward Allen, shoving him away. Then Marcus wrapped his left arm around Vasques’s waist and rolled them both onto the trunk of the Ford.

  The sedan smashed into the back of the Ford in the spot where Vasques had been standing a second before. Sparks shot into the air. He could feel pinpricks of heat landing on his skin. The Ford kicked sideways and smashed into the vehicle beside it. He pulled Vasques in tight as they were thrown from the trunk and smashed onto the pavement.

  Ackerman rocketed down the ramp, screeching around a tight corner.

  In one fluid movement, Marcus untangled himself from the dumbfounded FBI agent, pulled his gun, and sprinted after the killer.

  The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. His face had smashed into the concrete during the fall. The smell of burnt rubber and exhaust clung to the inside of his nostrils.