by Julie Cave
Ferguson motioned at the door. “A skillful lock-picking instrument,” he said. “The door itself is undamaged, but the lock was manipulated. When we take the lock apart in the lab, we’ll be able to see the nicks and scratches on the metal where the tool has come into contact with it. It would have taken all of 20 seconds for someone who knew what they were doing to get in.”
“No deadbolts or chains?” Dinah swung the door toward herself to look at the security. There was a deadbolt, but it too had been manipulated by someone who knew what they were doing.
“Where do you get tools for lock-picking as sophisticated as these?” she asked.
Ferguson shrugged. “It’s probably not that hard. Any locksmith would have these, but you could also get them off the Internet.”
“I suppose dusting for fingerprints on the door is redundant,” added Dinah.
“The techs did it anyway, although Lara has been living here for over two years. We would expect to find hers and the supers’ and maybe the neighbors. To be frank, I would think if the attacker came armed with lock-picking tools, he would have been smart enough to wear gloves.”
“Right. What about the rest?”
“No weapon found. There are no obvious signs of struggle or flight in the living areas, which suggests the victim wasn’t attacked out here nor chased toward the bathroom. Initially, it looks like she was surprised as she was preparing to take a shower.”
This was consistent with Lara’s story, thought Dinah, so at least she was telling the truth about something.
“It looks like a very quick and efficient attack,” continued Ferguson as they arrived in the bathroom. Blood had spattered the shower cubicle walls and more of it pooled around the drain. “He hit her and she fell to the floor. We didn’t find blood anywhere else in the shower, so the cubicle is the primary scene. There was nowhere for her to escape to; she was essentially trapped in the shower cubicle at the attacker’s mercy. If he wanted to say something to her at this point, she would have been conscious. Then he landed a few more blows and left as quietly as he came.”
“So he was obviously very controlled and calm,” Dinah said. “There seemed to be no anger or passion of any kind. He came and did what he had to do. Plus, he contained the scene in the bathroom. Was there any burglary?”
Ferguson shook his head. “Doesn’t look like it. The victim’s pocketbook and wallet were found, with credit cards and cash still present.”
“Are you thinking professional hit?”
Ferguson considered this. “In the context of the abduction of Thomas Whitfield, it would be hard to believe anything else — particularly in the light of your early morning phone call.” Suddenly remembering the phone call, he turned to Dinah. “Did she. . . ?”
“No,” said Dinah. “I told you, she refused to talk. Weren’t you listening?”
“If you’re the one talking, then I tend to drift in and out,” admitted Ferguson cheerfully. Dinah narrowed her eyes at him.
“I think it’s obvious that Thomas Whitfield’s disappearance is suspicious,” Ferguson said. “The question is, is he still alive?”
The agents left the condo at Forrest Hills and decided to visit Thomas Whitfield’s home in Georgetown. They were hoping that they would find some personal information that had been missing from his office at the museum. While Ferguson drove, Dinah started to feel tired. She hadn’t been technically diagnosed as an insomniac. She felt sure, when she was honest with herself, that any self-respecting doctor would realize that the insomnia was a symptom of a deeper depression. Then the doctor would want to medicate and place her into therapy as quickly as possible. Dinah didn’t want medication or therapy; for her, the pain was a deserved punishment for past transgressions. She found no relief in her fitful bouts of sleep and found herself thinking more and more about that final, endless slumber.
As is often the case with insomniacs, the sudden need to sleep could come at any time, and often at unwelcome times. Waves of exhaustion rolled across her and she lost the battle to keep her eyes open. She drifted into the heavy, quiet land of light sleep.
You can’t do it on your own.
She was aware that she wasn’t dreaming but recalling the vivid imagery of the previous night’s dream. It had touched her subconscious and refused to let go.
• • • •
“Dinah, wake up!” She felt a hand shaking her arm lightly. She forced her eyes open and saw Ferguson looking at her strangely. The car had stopped and they were outside a graceful shingle-style, semi-detached complex with white-painted shutters.
“Sorry, didn’t sleep very well last night,” she said.
“No, you were mumbling to yourself,” Ferguson said. “Something about doing it on your own. What were you dreaming about?”
Dinah hesitated. “Uh, I’m not really sure,” she replied, truthfully. She desperately wanted to change the subject. “Is this the Whitfields’ home?”
“Yup. Nice pad, huh?”
The two agents made their way up the path and onto the porch. As Dinah lifted her hand to push the doorbell, Ferguson suddenly grabbed her arm and put a finger to his lips. Then he pointed at the front door. It was slightly ajar. Both agents unholstered their guns and Ferguson pushed the door lightly. It swung open, and the agents crept into a living room furnished with floral armchairs and built-in bookshelves flanking the marble fireplace. Most of the books had been thrown to the tan hardwood floors and were scattered around, several with the covers almost entirely ripped off.
Ahead of the agents was an arched doorway, and Dinah could see the curved end of a staircase banister. They continued to tiptoe through the archway and into a relatively untouched dining room. Beyond this was an empty, galley-style kitchen, also largely untouched.
Ferguson tapped Dinah’s elbow and pointed upstairs, indicating he would search up there. Dinah nodded and continued her stealthy progress. She could see that the back door, opening from the kitchen, was also hanging open.
Dinah found more evidence of a disturbance in the family room, where more books had been displaced, but by far the most damage was done in the study. The room looked like a tornado had touched down in there, sucked up the contents of the room, oscillated for several moments, then dropped everything back onto the floor. Two neat filing cabinets had been stored underneath the desk. All four drawers had been ripped out and the contents upended all over the floor. The desktop computer lay smashed amongst the paper. Computer disks were scattered across the floor.
Yet there was no sign of Mrs. Whitfield.
Ferguson materialized beside Dinah and said in a low voice, “Upstairs is clear, although there is a mighty mess up there.”
“Same here. But is there a basement?”
The two agents found the door to the basement and crept down the short flight of stairs, each secretly glad the other was there. The basement was dark and musty, and the agents could vaguely see the washer and dryer and some household tools. Ferguson located a light switch, and the room was flooded with dim, murky light from the low-wattage, bare bulb swinging from the ceiling.
Then they saw Mrs. Whitfield. She was sitting in a chair backed up against storage boxes. Her ankles were tied to the legs of the chair, her arms were bound behind her, and her mouth was gagged. Her eyes were wide and terrified and stared at the agents imploringly. Dinah rushed over and immediately began loosening the binds, beginning with the gag. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Have you been hurt?”
“I’m fine,” she croaked once the gag was free. “He didn’t hurt me. He just took me by surprise, bundled me down here, tied me up, and messed around upstairs doing goodness knows what for what seemed like hours. I could use a glass of water though.”
Ferguson went to find a glass and water from the kitchen. Mrs. Whitfield rubbed her wrists and ankles, trying to get her circulation moving again. When he came back, Dinah suggested, “Why don’t you take us through exactly what happened.”
“I was in the kitchen,”
said Mrs. Whitfield, after draining the glass of water. “I’ve been a bit jumpy since yesterday, because of — well, because of Thomas. I keep hearing noises. Anyway, I was in the kitchen, and I heard a noise from outside, in the back garden.”
“What sort of noise?” interjected Ferguson.
“It was a screeching noise. There is a side gate.” Mrs. Whitfield pointed to her left, apparently in the direction of the side gate. “If it’s left unlocked, it swings back and forth and makes an awful screeching noise. It drives me crazy. Anyway, I thought I must’ve left it open so I went outside to shut it. Almost the minute I stepped outside, I was grabbed.”
“Exactly how did this happen?” Ferguson asked. In the partnership between him and Dinah, he had always been the pedantic one, questioning every tiny detail. He must’ve sensed Dinah’s impatience, because he added, “Sorry to be a pain. There is no detail that is unimportant.”
“I stood on the top step. The door had only just shut behind me and I was about to walk down the steps. A hand suddenly pressed against my face.”
“From what direction?”
“I’m sorry, I really don’t know. Could’ve been the right or the left. He lifted me almost off my feet and dragged me inside. I was struggling to get free, but he was too strong. Then he spoke to me.”
“Did you get a look at him?”
She shook her head. “He wore a ski mask. He told me that he had a gun, and that I was to do exactly as I was told and I wouldn’t get hurt. Then he released me and he took me down to the basement.”
“Did he know the plans of the house?” Dinah asked.
Mrs. Whitfield considered this. “You know, now that you mention it, it seems that he did. He didn’t ask me where the basement was. He just took me down there, tied me up, and gagged me. He didn’t speak to me again.” She paused. “Do you think that he’s been here before?”
“It’s a possibility,” Ferguson said. “What happened then?”
“Well, I could hear him making a mess up there. Then he left and I started worrying about what would happen if nobody found me.”
“He didn’t come back down here at all?”
“No. Is he the person who took Thomas?” Mrs. Whitfield tensed as she spoke, seeming to steel herself against the answer.
“It certainly seems possible,” answered Ferguson truthfully. In addition to being pedantic, he was also the master of the unique FBI language — noncommittal, taciturn, and unfailingly polite. “When you feel up to it, would you mind coming upstairs to check if anything has been stolen?”
The three of them made their way upstairs, where the damage to the living room and study made Mrs. Whitfield gasp and clap her hand over her mouth. She moved around the house methodically while the two agents went to the kitchen door where she was attacked.
Dinah noted that the kitchen was positioned in the back right-hand corner of the house and it would have been very easy for the attackers to hide around the side of the house until they heard Mrs. Whitfield close the back door.
Ferguson phoned the district police to send over a crime scene crew, while Dinah checked the side of the house for footprints or other preliminary evidence.
There was nothing.
“Nothing missing,” reported Mrs. Whitfield from the kitchen.
Dinah came back inside and shut the door behind her. “Okay, that rules out robbery,” she said. “Listen, my partner has asked the crime scene technicians to come and take fingerprints and look for other evidence. They’ll be here shortly. In the meantime, I don’t think you should stay here by yourself. Is there someone you can call?”
Mrs. Whitfield looked distressed. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she cried, tears welling in her eyes. “First Thomas disappears, and now this.” She sniffed and Dinah waited for her to compose herself. “I’ll call my sister.”
Ferguson approached with his cell phone in his hand. “We gotta go back to the office,” he informed Dinah. “I just saw crime scene turn into the street. Will you be okay, Mrs. Whitfield?”
She nodded miserably, her small frame hunched. Dinah wanted to hug and comfort her, but she didn’t know what to say.
• • • •
“What’s up?” Dinah asked as the two agents climbed back into the Crown and headed back towards headquarters.
“We’ve been summoned,” Ferguson said, driving faster than was strictly safe. “By the boss.” He suddenly held up a finger and turned up the volume on the radio. The hourly newscast was just beginning.
The secretary of the Smithsonian, Mr. Thomas Whitfield, has now been missing for 24 hours, and police say they have no new leads to his disappearance. Police refuse to confirm whether Mr. Whitfield may have met with foul play; however, it has been confirmed that there is some fear regarding his safety. In a related incident, Mr. Whitfield’s personal assistant, Lara Southall, was assaulted in her condo in the early hours of this morning and taken to a hospital suffering head and facial injuries. She remains in the hospital and police are scouring her Forrest Hills condo for clues. Police will not confirm whether other staff at the museum are at risk; however, our sources close to the executive team at the museum confirm that the remaining staff are worried for their safety and are fearful that a serial attacker may be on the loose.
“A serial attacker?” groaned Ferguson. “Give me a break!”
“Guess that explains why the Special Agent in Charge wants to see us,” Dinah said quietly. “Pressure’s on.”
Ferguson glanced at his partner. “Are you going to be okay?”
The panic and dread fighting for space inside Dinah’s skull made her lash out at Ferguson. “I guess I don’t have a choice,” she snapped. “All thanks to you, since you decided for all of us that I was to be part of this investigation.”
Ferguson absorbed the verbal attack silently as he found a parking space underneath the J. Edgar Hoover building. Dinah felt bad and wanted to apologize to her partner, but she couldn’t find the words.
They both hurried in silence to the elevators and up to the Special Agent in Charge’s office. The SAC, George Hanlon, was a classic law enforcement bureaucrat with a flair for politics, and his barely concealed desire to climb the ladder was well-known. George Hanlon was sharp and sarcastic, which Ferguson thought would be interesting, given Dinah’s own ill temper.
They were ushered into the office almost immediately, where George Hanlon was staring out the window, his back to the two agents. Dinah looked at Ferguson and rolled her eyes. George Hanlon loved to assert his authority, even in the most petty of ways. He was a tall, skinny man, with a prominent Adam’s apple and a nose that resembled the beak of an eagle.
Finally he turned around and eyed the agents. “Please sit down,” he said. He waited until they had, then continued, “How is your investigation into Thomas Whitfield’s disappearance going?”
“It’s been 24 hours,” said Ferguson. “But up until early this morning, we couldn’t be sure that there was even a crime to investigate.”
Hanlon watched his agent thoughtfully. “And now that you do know?”
“Crime scene haven’t found any. . . .”
“Okay, what I’m hearing is excuses. I want answers,” Hanlon interrupted. “The secretary of the Smithsonian does not simply vanish into thin air. He needs to be found, ASAP.” He swung his chair around so that his back was to the agents. “And another thing,” he continued in a soft, deadly voice. “Are you sure you’re supposed to be here, Agent Harris?”
“I . . .” began Dinah but Ferguson nudged her and overrode her.
“I cleared it with both her supervisor and you,” he said. “I wanted Harris to work with me on this case because she is simply a very good investigator.”
“Was,” corrected Hanlon caustically. “Frankly it doesn’t show great judgment, Agent Ferguson, given the level of media interest and Agent Harris’s previous mistakes.”
“The circumstances surrounding that mistake were extraordinary,” said Fe
rguson tightly. “As I’m sure you know.”
Hanlon held his hands up in mock surrender. “All I’m saying, Agent Ferguson, is that the press has a nasty habit of dredging up the past and I’m warning you to be ready for it.”
It was interesting and somewhat deprecating, thought Dinah, to have two people discuss her mental strengths and weaknesses as if she weren’t there.
“The bottom line, in any case, is this: you’d better wrap this case up in the very near future or both of you will be looking for new jobs,” continued Hanlon. He looked at Dinah directly as he added, “With or without nervous breakdowns in the field.”
Dinah should have prepared herself for some level of malice from the SAC; in the absence of an ability to be a good leader, George Hanlon resorted to threats and taunts to assert his authority. Still, she was wounded to the quick by the man’s words.
“I don’t respond well to threats,” she said, staring directly at George Hanlon. Ferguson could almost see the ire rising in her face, turning her cheeks bright red.
“Dinah . . .” Ferguson attempted to shut her down before she said something she regretted.
With great effort, Dinah pushed down the anger she was feeling and stood.
The two agents returned to their workstations, and Ferguson shot his partner a glance. Dinah knew that he worried that Hanlon’s words would push her over the edge, and she deftly moved her internal mask across her emotions. Her exoskeleton, she liked to think of it, protecting the soft organs of hurt, grief, and remorse.
“He was pretty tough on you,” Ferguson began tentatively. “Are you going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” Dinah replied lightly. She stared at her computer screen, trying to signal that the conversation was over.
“Are you?”
“I said, I’ll be fine! I don’t want to talk about it,” Dinah said. “Don’t you have work to do?”
• • • •
In the country estate located in upstate New York, where the landscape had turned into a glorious mix of gold and auburn and sparkled in the late afternoon sun like jewelry in a showcase, two men met in an oak-paneled library.