by Lisa Regan
“This is Georgette Paul,” I began. “She was forty-five years old. Found dead in her Denver home three weeks ago. She lived alone. She was a manager at an independent bookstore. There was an employment application crumpled up and stuffed in her mouth with the words ‘for you’ written on it. This, obviously, is the UNSUB’s signature.”
I picked up another photo, a close-up of the application once it had been extricated from her mouth, and passed it around. The agents at the back of the table leaned forward as one to get a better view of it.
“Marker?” asked Agent TK Bennett, his dark chocolate eyes scrutinizing the photo.
“Yes,” I said. “It looks like the killer used a Sharpie. There was one found at the scene but it had no prints on it.”
TK handed the photo off to Agent Arnold Innes, who sat across from him. The junior agents and interns in the room craned their necks in Innes’ direction. For a moment, they reminded me of baby birds, eager, stretching their necks in the direction of sustenance.
“Go on,” TK said.
“The medical examiner said there was nothing in her stomach, which suggests she’d been deprived of food for up to twenty-four hours prior to her death.”
“Or the UNSUB just didn’t have time to feed her while he was torturing her to death,” Innes piped in. He sighed heavily, as if bored. Thick reading glasses slid down his nose as he peered at me over the rims.
TK glanced at him and then turned back to me. I swallowed. I picked up another photo of Paul’s blackened face. It trembled just slightly in my hand. “She wasn’t tortured,” I said.
Innes arched a severe eyebrow in my direction. “I think her family would disagree if they saw that photo.”
“She didn’t have any family,” TK said pointedly. “Are you going to wait for Agent Bishop to finish her presentation?”
Innes folded his arms across his chest, staring back at TK. “Bishop said she lived alone. That doesn’t mean she didn’t have family.”
Sighing, TK tapped his index finger along the side of the half-empty Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of him. “Well, this was my file which I assigned to Agent Bishop as part of her training. My cursory review of the file indicated that Paul had no family. Now, can we move on?”
I watched the two of them face-off. Innes was short, white, old and rumpled. In contrast, TK was tall, black, considerably younger and sharp as a pin in his neatly pressed suit. TK pulled his shoulders up straight. His reflection lengthened, creeping across the shiny conference room table, closer to Innes on the other side. TK didn’t blink, didn’t move. Innes shifted slightly forward in his chair and cleared his throat. Although arctic air hissed from the overhead vents, I felt a bead of sweat trickle down between my shoulder blades.
I glanced around at the other agents whose eyes were riveted to the two men. Where bodies had rustled earlier, shifting in an effort to get comfortable in the conference room chairs or to get a better look at the photographs circulating, now there was complete stillness. One junior agent, who sat directly opposite me, looked like his eyes might pop out of his head. I thought I could actually hear him swallow.
“Agent Bennett is correct,” I interjected, drawing the gazes of my colleagues back to me, although Innes and TK continued to stare at each other, the enmity between them almost palpable. “She didn’t have any family. No next of kin. A coworker called the police when she didn’t show up three days in a row. According to the police reports, coworkers say she loved her job and took a lot of pride in it.”
Slowly, with great effort, TK and Innes swiveled in their chairs to look at me once more. “I know it looks bad,” I continued. “But the cause of death was not blunt force trauma. Paul was asphyxiated. They found her saliva on one of her sofa pillows which suggests the UNSUB smothered her. All the blows were inflicted postmortem. Based on the shape of the wounds and the fact that there were no wood splinters in Paul’s head, the medical examiner thinks the UNSUB used a small aluminum baseball bat to beat her. Most likely, he took it with him since it was not found at the scene.”
TK leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak slightly. He met my eyes, a small smile playing on his face. He rested his elbows on the armrests of his chair and made a steeple with his long fingers. “So there was no bruising on the victim’s body. Is that right, Agent Bishop?”
“No. No bruising on her body. Obviously, she would have needed blood flow for that. But he smashed her head in pretty good to make it look like he had beaten her to death. It was all staged,” I responded, glancing at my notes. “No prints at the scene, no trace evidence. No fibers, skin under fingernails, semen—nothing. There was no sign of forced entry.”
“Any reports in there about a disgruntled employee or job applicant that she had trouble with?” TK asked.
“No, nothing,” I replied. “But Denver PD is still rounding up witnesses and people who knew her. They could still turn up something. They asked for our help with this. I think we should send them a profile and see if it helps them narrow their suspect list.”
“You’re looking for someone she turned down for a job,” Innes said, his tone flat. He pushed the photo of the employment application back toward me. “This is personal. You don’t torture someone like this”—he stood and came closer, flicking one finger against a photo of Paul’s battered face—“unless you have something personal against them.”
“I agree that this has a personal element to it, but the beating was staged. He is not a truly sadistic murderer. He didn’t actually torture her,” I argued.
Again, Innes looked down at me over the rim of his glasses. “The UNSUB was angry with this woman. He came into her home and he tortured her, and then he killed her.”
My stomach burned again—from frustration this time. “You think inflicting a beating postmortem is torture? I could tell you a thing or two about real torture.” I tried to keep my voice from rising, but still it went up a full octave.
Innes chuckled, covering his mouth as the chuckle turned into a cough. “That is your golden ticket, isn’t it?” he said when the cough subsided.
“Agent Innes,” TK said, rising from his seat quickly. The chair’s padded top bumped against the wall, a muted thump. I raised an open palm to stop TK from intervening. I knew where this was going. Like most of the agents in the BAU, since my arrival Innes had shown nothing but disdain for me—when he deigned to acknowledge me at all. This was the closest I had come to any of them openly acknowledging their issues with my appointment to the BAU.
I got as close to him as I could, crowding him, and thrust my chin up defiantly. “Is there a problem, Agent Innes?”
He folded his arms across his chest and snickered, but I caught a brief flicker of surprise in his eyes. “Is there a problem?” I asked again.
“No. No problem,” he said. “Except that you don’t belong in this unit.”
I raised an eyebrow, put my hands on my hips and looked him up and down, nice and slow until he began shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “Well,” I said evenly. “I guess it’s a good thing you don’t sign my paycheck. If you think I don’t belong here, why don’t you go to our superiors and tell them that you think their judgment is shit? I’m sure they’d be happy to have your input.”
He sneered. “You only got into this unit because of Nico Sala.”
I grinned and stepped even closer. I could smell his aftershave and the mouthwash on his breath. “That’s right,” I said. “I did get in here because of Nico Sala. Because the profile I did on him was dead on. Read the file, you pompous prick. My work stands for itself.”
He was unfazed. He waggled his index finger at me. “Did you or did you not sustain brain damage in the attack?”
“Agent Innes!” TK, who was as unflappable as they came, slapped his palm on the table. “That is enough.”
I did
n’t take my eyes off Innes. I focused on my breathing. In and out. In and out. I tried not to give into the dizziness that swept over me. Innes was right. The attack had damaged my brain. There were things I had to relearn in the weeks afterward, and my long term memory was compromised. There were things from before the attack that I could no longer remember. But just because I couldn’t remember the names of my college professors or the plots of books I had read in the tenth grade didn’t mean I couldn’t do my job.
“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer,” I said.
Innes opened his mouth, but before he could speak, I reached out and fingered the lapel of his suit. It was at least five years old, as were his shoes. Beneath his jacket, on his white collared shirt was an old coffee stain. He tried to keep it hidden with his tie, but I could see the edges of it. “When’s the last time you bought a new suit?” I asked, changing the subject abruptly.
He swatted my hand away and stepped back. “What?” he said, his forehead creasing in confusion.
“You’ve been here for fifteen years, right? When’s the last time you bought a new suit or a new pair of shoes?”
A vein in his forehead pulsed, angry and blue. His eyes darted around the room. Everyone but TK looked away quickly. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not here to emasculate you. I’m not your wife.”
His eyes flashed. “You watch it,” he said.
“She left you about five years ago, I’d say. Took the house and most of your money in the divorce. She’s got a new man now who is probably living in your home with your kids. You can’t even afford new shoes, she’s raked you over the coals so badly. And apparently when she left, she took the secret of stain removing with her. You live in a shitty one-bedroom apartment now with musty-smelling furniture and an old nineteen-inch television. Your kids avoid you, and you’ve had exactly two dates since the divorce, neither of which got past dinner.” I leaned closer to him, lowering my voice. “Am I close or should we talk about your drinking?”
“Fuck you,” he said, brushing past me in a huff.
My hands shook as I gathered up the Georgette Paul file. I had all but forgotten that there were other people in the room. My colleagues gaped at me, some of their faces pale with horror and one or two hiding loose smiles in their coffee cups. Now they busied themselves again, passing around photos, jotting down notes, checking their cell phones. TK’s laughter drew my attention. When I looked over at him, he began a slow clap.
“It’s about time you confronted him,” he said.
The other agents in the room did not join in. Bulgy Eyes in the back cleared his throat and shot TK a look of contempt, his brow drawing low over his eyes. If I remembered correctly, he was a protégé of Innes’. Agent Flick, that was his name.
I ignored his pinched face and smiled weakly at TK. I was at the tail end of my five-year mentoring period with the BAU, and I had just dressed down a senior agent. My job was all I had, and I loved it. I didn’t want to make waves, but enough was enough. It felt good to stand up for myself. “I guess he isn’t staying to hear my profile,” I said.
A short burst of laughter, like the sharp report of a gun, erupted from beside Agent Flick.
It was a female intern. It was quickly suppressed beneath the wilting glare of the others in the room.
“Oh, I think you gave him the profile,” TK said, not bothering to contain his own laughter.
Face flushed, Flick stood abruptly, gathering up his notebook and phone noisily and stormed out of the room.
Still laughing, TK shook his head. “Okay, everyone. This meeting is over. Let’s reconvene tomorrow and we’ll finish discussing the Paul file.”
Bodies loosened with relief and the rest of the agents slinked away, leaving the conference room door ajar. I plopped into a chair, letting out a heavy breath. Georgette Paul’s dangling, bloody eye stared at me from the surface of the table. “That went well,” I said.
“Actually, it did,” TK replied.
I raised an eyebrow. “I was being sarcastic.”
“And I was being serious. That guy is a jerk, and he’s treated you badly since you got here. I wouldn’t have had the restraint you’ve shown.”
“Let’s hope I don’t regret it later.”
“Agent Bishop?” It was the female intern who had laughed earlier. She stood in the doorway, one hand worrying the gold chain around her neck. The pale skin of her forehead bunched up. “Agent Crossen wants to see you in her office. Now.”
I glanced at TK, who shrugged. My stomach suddenly felt like a block of ice. “I’ll be right there,” I said.
The woman nodded and walked away slowly. I stood and straightened my clothes. Pain throbbed dully in both my temples. As I gathered the Paul file together, TK reached over and placed a warm palm on my forearm. His dark eyes steadied me. “Don’t back down, Bishop,” he said with a reassuring smile. “There’s only so much shit a person can take.”
CHAPTER FOUR
KASSIDY
July 6th
I don’t know what I expected—an inquisition maybe—but when I got to Talia Crossen’s office, it was just her. She sat at her desk, her long legs propped up on the corner of it as she lounged in her chair, rifling through a file in her lap. She wore heels and a taupe skirt suit. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was sharply cut and angled toward her face, giving her a chic, sophisticated look.
Without looking up from the file, she said, “Close the door.”
I complied and took a few steps into her office. As intimidating as Talia could be, the warmth of her office was always unexpected. She’d decorated in soothing pastels and impressionist art. Neat stacks of files sat on her desk and floor. A one-cup coffeemaker sat atop the windowsill next to three potted African violets. A large Dieffenbachia plant took up one corner of the room. Trinkets from families she’d met and helped on assignment dotted the bookshelves that lined the wall to my right, and a pair of black flats peeked out at me from under her desk.
“Sit,” she said, motioning to the chairs in front of her desk. One of them had a week’s worth of dry-cleaning draped over it, so I chose the empty one.
“If this is about Agent Innes—” I began.
Talia put the file she’d been looking through onto her desk and leaned forward. Her blue eyes sparkled, her gaze that of a hawk’s. “Agent Innes did come to see me,” she interjected.
She paused. I waited, resisting the urge to squirm in my seat like a snake under someone’s boot. I pulled my body up straight and set my jaw.
“You still have that law degree, right?” she said, her tone unreadable. “I mean, you could fall back on that, right?”
My bowels loosened. My feet went cold and numb. I fought to keep my face from falling but failed. Lucky for me, the torture didn’t last long. Talia tilted her head back and laughed, her shoulders quaking. When she looked at me again, her eyes were unguarded and warm. Relief coursed through me.
“I’m kidding, Bishop!” she said. “Innes did come to see me—”
“He was inappropriate, especially in front of our colleagues.”
Talia held up a palm to silence me. “I’m not taking disciplinary action,” she said. “That’s not why you’re here. I am familiar with Agent Innes’…opinion of you, and I’m aware that there are other agents in this unit who share his opinion.”
Unlike me, Talia had been welcomed into the BAU like a war hero returning home, thanks to her uncanny ability to get confessions from even the most tight-lipped criminals. She was legendary.
Talia rose and rounded the desk, perching on the edge directly in front of me. “Kassidy,” she went on. “I handpicked you for this unit based on your work on the Sala case. Unfortunately, you came into this position with a stigma attached to you, with questions raised about the reason for your promo
tion. I want to be clear that the other agents are the ones with those questions—not your SAC, not the director, and not me.”
I met her eyes and smiled. “Thank you.”
“I had hoped that those doubts would have been dispelled by now but some people in this unit are simply too rigid to let go of their preconceived notions.” She cocked her head to the side and studied me. “What was that you said to me once about bullies?”
I raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Bullies?”
“You know,” she said. “You were telling me about an incident in your adolescence where you intervened when another student was being bullied by three larger boys. The one that landed you in a detention center? You were suspended from school.”
I groaned and covered my eyes with a palm that was quickly becoming sweaty. No wonder other agents and law enforcement officers called her the Confessor. It was amazing what she could get you to reveal in just a few hours. We had gone out for drinks a few months earlier and were discussing pack behavior and team serial killers—great happy hour conversation—and somehow that incident had come up.
“I was in the eighth grade,” I mumbled.
“You said that you only need to take out the leader. Make an example of him.”
“And the rest of them crumble,” I finished.
Talia smiled. “Yes,” she said. “That’s what you said. Anyway, I certainly wouldn’t recommend making Innes swallow a lit cigarette or breaking his kneecap, appealing though that may seem, but if you need to make an example out of anyone else, as you did with Agent Innes, I won’t be upset.”