“Any matches?” Bosworth asked.
Pearson shook his head. “Not available yet. Those tests take time, unlike the ones on CSI.”
No shit, Sherlock, Colby thought.
“Now, that,” Pearson continued, “was an obvious act of arrogance and conceit. The killer’s taunting us, saying, ‘I know you’ll find this, so go ahead, try to catch me.’ ” He held up his index finger. “This could mean he left the cigarette knowing his DNA is not on file. Or, two,” he extended a second finger. “He used a cigarette that he found, just to throw us off. Or,” He held up his ring finger. “He actually slipped up and left it there.”
“In the same spot as the original?” Colby said. “I don’t think so. This guy ain’t stupid. Everything he’s done has been orchestrated. We need to focus on figuring out his motivation.”
“Ooooh, I love it when you use them big words,” Bosworth said with a laugh. When no one else did, he blinked twice and shut up.
Good, Colby thought. I knew if I waited long enough that asshole would step on his dick.
Pearson stared at Bosworth as he picked up the book again. “Nonetheless, we can’t afford to rule out any possibilities. Which is why we’ve got to check out every possible lead as if it were a valid one. Basic homicide investigation.”
Colby couldn’t help rolling his eyes at that one.
“We’re passing out our latest VICAP projections,” Pearson said. “Obviously, this new killer has some connection to the Laird case. We just have to establish what it is.”
O’Keefe began moving around the table passing out manila folders, “Inside this you’ll find your assignments for the day. You’ll also find your partner assignments. Plan on being back here at three o’clock.” She stopped and looked at Bosworth and Colby, and then smiled. “That’s fifteen hundred for you military and police types.” At least she has a sense of humor, Colby thought, hoping he wasn’t partnered up with Bosworth.
Pearson accepted the last manila folder from O’Keefe, and held it toward Colby. “Before you leave, Detective, I need to speak to you in my office.”
When the mid-morning attendants came back, Matthew bided his time, shuffling listlessly into the grooming line to get his hair cut and new clothes. He bundled his street clothes and underwear into his laundry bag, and sat naked on the plastic barber’s chair. The attendant acting as barber looked shocked when he saw Matthew’s long hair.
“Take it all off,” Matthew said, sitting in the chair. “I want to look like everybody else.”
“You’re…very articulate,” the attendant said, his hand poised with the clippers.
“Yeah, I’m the exception,” Matthew said. “Now, just do it.”
Seconds later the burning tingle of the electric clippers swept over his head. He felt, more than saw, his fashionable locks falling. It was over in about twenty-five seconds. No final trimming was needed.
No tip, either, Matthew thought as he got up from the chair and moved into the shower line, receiving his bar of soap as the line edged forward.
After walking through the specially designed showers, he grabbed a towel from the stack and dried off. He was given a clean set of scrubs and elastic slippers that he fitted over his bare feet. His regular shoes had been taken from him when he’d been assigned to C ward with the rest of them. Memories about about being forced to work there as a teen, taking care of his “brethren,” as the old man had put it, made his blood boil. Me, like them? But actually they all were cut from the same cloth, so to speak. It’s just that his cut was the only good one.
He wondered if he should try to feign repentance, throw himself on the old man’s mercy. If there was such a thing. He doubted Jetters harbored any. No, it was better to continue with his plan. Morgan had gone through worse. Far worse. Matthew knew he could get through this. After all, he estimated it would only be a matter of hours now.
So he practiced looking dumb, stupid, and listless as he shuffled forward, through the line, accepting his paper plate and watching them plop a scoop-full of tan colored slop and one piece of bland, unbuttered toast onto his plate. He was given a plastic bottle of orange juice on the way to the tables. The food disgusted him, like everything about this place. He watched the Blems shoveling it in, chewing without closing their mouths. Feeding time at the zoo.
But soon, he’d be out. And revenge would be sweet. All he had to do was find someone who looked exactly like him to take his place. And that was easy. They all did.
Colby felt the irritation and impatience starting to bubble up and overflow. While part of him knew that to challenge Pearson and the way this investigation was being handled was probably the kiss of death for his chances to stay on the task force, the other part of him felt compelled to take command. The vague, dithering focus was only going to lead to more people getting killed.
But that was the way the Feds operated: slow and slower. Their strategy was totally reactive. They needed to start shaking some trees, rattling some bushes.
Pearson held out his hand, indicating Colby should sit in front of the big desk. It set Colby’s teeth on edge.
Pearson settled into the big chair opposite him. “You were a bit confrontational in the briefing. I don’t appreciate someone interrupting my flow when I’m speaking.” Colby took a deep breath.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be,” he said. “I’m just concerned that we’re not proceeding in the best direction on this.”
Pearson’s raised his eyebrows. “Oh? In what way?” Maybe he’ll listen to me, Colby thought. He edged forward.
“For one thing, this offender has made a case study of Morgan Laird. And he’s duplicated Laird’s crime pattern to the point of precision.”
Pearson, brought his fingertips together and nodded.
“Well,” Colby continued, “in order to figure out who he is, we have to figure out why. What’s his motivation?”
Pearson sighed and dropped his hands. “If you would have taken the time to study our VICAP profile, you’d know that we’ve already addressed that.”
Colby felt like grinding his teeth. Their profile was so generic that it was like painting an autumn landscape in black and white.
“Have you considered the possibility that Laird might be involved in these new killings?” he asked, trying to regain a measure of composure. “I mean, there’s no way the new killer could know all the nuances of his activities.”
Pearson shot him a patronizing smile. “Unless he studied your book.”
Colby compressed his lips and let a slow breath out through his nose. “My book does detail the crimes that Laird confessed to after he was arrested, but—”
“We do consider Laird as a person of interest,” Pearson said, interrupting, “but to suggest that he is the major perpetrator is ludicrous.”
“I’m not suggesting that. Only that there has to be some kind of connection. If we can figure out what it is—”
“Which is exactly why we’re going to interview Laird this morning,” Pearson said, interrupting again.
“What?”
Pearson looked at his watch. “His lawyer is bringing him by later today.”
“Great,” Colby said. “I’m looking forward to that.”
“Not possible,” Pearson said. “Mr. Fontaine explicitly stipulated that you were not to be involved in the interview.”
“Fontaine? Who the hell is he to set the terms?”
“He’s Laird’s attorney.”
Colby frowned. “Listen, I know Laird. I know how he thinks. He’s a natural born sociopath. A habitual liar. A killer. I can cut through his bullshit.”
Pearson’s right cheek twitched slightly, and he shook his head. “I have another assignment for you today. You’re to accompany Detective Labyorteaux out to backtrack on a homicide victim.”
“What? Who?”
“Doctor John H. Norton,” Pearson said. “He worked at a private research facility called New Genesis in Oakbrook Estates. She has the information.”
“How’s that related to the copycat case?” Pearson leaned forward. “As the Special Agent in Charge, I hand out the assignments, not explain them.”
Colby glared at him for a solid five seconds. “Why can’t I at least watch your interview with Laird?”
“As I said,” Pearson began.
“Look, I’ll know if that bastard’s trying to feed you a line of shit.”
Pearson recoiled at the word choice.
“Laird said he would feel intimidated by your presence,” he said. “I gave him my assurance that you would not be in the building.”
“Oh great, coddle the son-of-a-bitch, why don’t ya?”
Pearson stared back in placid fashion. “That’s your assignment. Do I need to remind you again that I am in charge?”
Colby met the stare, suppressing the urge to tell the FBI man to go to hell. This battle was already lost.
“Besides,” Pearson said, his smile looking smug and self-satisfied again. “There’s something of an overlap.”
“An overlap?”
“When Morgan Laird was in prison, John Norton was one of his doctors.”
Chapter 9
Knox watched as Jetters took off his glasses and sat heavily in the padded chair behind his desk. The old man’s face looked pale and gaunt, with each wrinkle as deep as a groove in a marble statue. But he looked fragile, too. Not marble. More like porcelain. He looked bad, that was for sure. Perhaps the worst that Knox had ever seen him. Taking a slow, deep breath, he waited, wondering if the old man was finally going to crack right in front of him.
“You’re absolutely sure?” Jetters said, using his fingers to massage the bridge of his nose.
Knox waited for Jetters to look up, but the old bastard just kept at it, his eyes tightly shut.
“Yes, I’ve checked it out thoroughly,” Knox said, finally. “There is a student named Potts, which was the name he gave us, but the boy and Matthew don’t even know each other that well. The story was a complete fabrication. That’s in addition to the other details I mentioned.”
Jetters recoiled slightly. “And you’re certain he’s done…” Jetters hesitated, “the other crimes?”
This time Knox didn’t wait. “As certain as I could be without making my interest too obvious. If I checked into it any further, it might start attracting the cops’ attention.”
Jetters compressed his lips, dropping his hand from his face. He replaced his glasses and sat forward.
“First that problem with Norton, and now this.” He looked at Knox again. The pale blue eyes looked clear now. “How difficult is it going to be to clean this mess up?”
Knox considered the question. “That depends.”
“On what?”
On how much money you’re going to pay me by the end of this, he thought. The words kept ringing in Knox’s mind, but he didn’t speak them. Instead, he said, “Don’t forget we’ve already run more than just a few risks taking care of Norton, and his domestic partner. We need to start thinking about overall damage control.”
“I know, I know.” Jetters brought his hand to his face and traced the lines on either side of his mouth. “Perhaps I gave him too much freedom, too soon. But Matthew has been my crowning achievement. The jewel in my metaphorical crown, so to speak. The embodiment, the vindication of all of our research. Without him, and the Others, we could have never perfected the…” He stopped, lifted his glasses, and began the massage again. “The program.”
The Program? It was all Knox could do not to laugh. Was that what the old man called growing new organs for rich assholes and getting paid those big bucks?
Jetters heaved a sigh. “If only John hadn’t been so stubborn about insisting on announcing our findings at that conference.”
Knox felt a surge of glee thinking about his “insurance” policy: the hard drives from Norton’s laptop and PC. He’d kept the originals and given Jetters the crushed remains of two duplicates. Money in the bank. Or, they soon would be, at any rate.
“Look, Professor, I’m concerned they’re going to trace this back to New Genesis. There is a trail, for somebody skilled enough to find it.” He paused to let that sink in, then added, “Like I said, damage control.”
Jetters considered this, then nodded. “I must think this through.”
Knox thought about asking if Matthew had one of those genetic triggers that he’d read about in Norton’s files. From the sound of it, the professor was very adept at developing them. Was there a grave reserved for Matthew in the unmarked cemetery at the far, south end of the compound? But Knox kept silent. No sense in tipping his hand too soon. When the time was right, he would tell Jetters that he’d done his last clean-up job, that he was retiring on the company’s dime to someplace nice and warm, where the women walked around wearing next to nothing. The more information he could gather now, the more leverage he’d have when he needed to make his closing pitch. The copies of the hard drives were his trump cards. A pair of bullets. The aces of clubs and spades. He caught Jetters staring at him, his expression going from worry to anger in an instant.
“I’m glad to see you’re amused by all this,” the old man said. But before he could continue with his chastisement, the phone rang. Jetters snatched it up.
“I told you I was not to be disturbed!” He yelled into the phone, but then his voice changed into little more than a croaking whisper. “What? Did they say what they wanted?” His face paled again, worse than before, and his eyes shot a glance up toward Knox. “Tell them I’ll see them shortly.” He replaced the receiver with an uncharacteristic gentleness.
“Is everything all right?” Knox asked.
“The police are downstairs.” Jetters had turned as white as a sheet. “They want to talk to me.”
Dix watched her slow smile as she sat across from him, sipping coffee in the small shop on Harrison Street. He would rather they were having martinis in a bar someplace, but all in good time. After all, it was early in the day, and here he was sitting at the same table with the gorgeous Carmel Washington.
“So, Mr. Dix,” she said, “tell me again why it was so important that I meet you this morning.”
“Please, just call me Dix. All my friends do.”
Her brown eyes studied him over the rim of the cup.
He grinned. “Believe me, I live up to that name, too.”
“I’m not sure how I should take that.”
Dix laughed and patted his hairpiece, secretly smoothing it out over his bald spot. “Like I said, there may be snow on the roof, but there’s plenty of fire in the furnace.”
Carmel took another sip of her coffee. She suddenly looked distracted, and he was afraid she was going to make some girlie excuse and take off on him. He couldn’t let that happen.
“Everything’s moving perfectly according to my plan,” he said quickly. “Colby’s been assigned to the task force investigating the copycat serial killer, and I’ll be working the case with him.”
Her eyes widened again, ever so slightly this time. “You’re working the case? I thought you were retired?”
He nodded. “Yeah, well, technically, I am. But Colby always likes to run stuff by me. Back in the day, I was one of the top homicide investigators in this city.”
She took another long sip and Dix watched her full lips curling over the edge of the cup. Something stirred inside him. God, she was hot. But, all in good time.
“That’s why you gotta trust me and back off a tad,” he said.
“We’ve already made our FOIA requests. Both to the city and the Feds.” She set the cup down.
“I don’t know how much longer my editor will want to sit on this.” She looked at him. “You’re sure there’s more to it than just some copycat murders?”
Dix grinned and nodded. “Believe me, you’ll be astounded. It’s the biggest cover-up since Nixon.” Maybe he was exaggerating a little bit, but anything to impress a lady.
She rolled her eyes. “It would help if you gave me some m
ore access to that report, then. So I could decide for myself.”
“Like I said, you gotta trust me.” He reached over and lightly touched the back of her hand. “Once I crack this new one, you’ll have an exclusive.”
He pictured himself being interviewed on her show in a tailor-made suit and a new hairpiece, pushing a book about his own life story, and how he’d come out of retirement to solve a string of gristly murders.
“Suppose I can get him to wait,” she said, all business now. There was no naiveté in this babe. “How can I be sure you’ll deliver?”
His mouth twisted into a lopsided grin. “Baby,” he reached over and touched her hand again, this time letting his fingers linger. She didn’t pull away, which he took as a good sign. “I always deliver. And you can take that to the bank.”
He watched her smile back at him, still letting his fingers dance across her caramel-colored skin. It felt good, but he wished he actually was as confident as he was trying to sound. But hell, he’d solved big ones before. He was the one who’d pinched Laird, for Christ’s sake. Well, him and Colby. The guy was good, no doubt about it, but that was only because he’d learned from the master.
He looked into her dark eyes again. It was crunch time, but, dammit, he could do it. Make it all come true. One way or another, he’d solve this damn thing, even if he had to go around Colby to do it.
Matthew peered out the small, eight-by-eleven inch window in the door of his cell. Luckily, they’d left the covering shutter open, so he could see out, like from a prison cell. This reminded him of his initial discovery about Morgan Laird, and himself. The overheard conversation between the old man and Norton, the slip that led him to sneak into the records room, finding the master file on Morgan, the experiments, and…
The attendants were now long gone, having pushed the meal cart through the safety doors, and into the waiting elevator. It was set up that way. You could only get on and off this floor with one of those special keys to operate the elevator, and once it had stopped at this level, it stayed in place until the key was inserted again. They’d return again in about two hours.
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