by J. C. Fields
He looked at JR. “I believe I found something.”
JR stood in front of a bank box, sorting files into stacks on the table. “What?”
Kruger handed the pages to JR and said, “He did suspect a series of hate crimes.”
Glancing at the pages, JR flipped through them. “Really.”
Nodding, Kruger looked further into the file he held. “I need to go through the rest of this, but from what he writes on those pages, he thinks one person is responsible for all of the unsolved murders on the list you found.”
“Yeah, but the locations are all over the country.”
“I know—that puzzled Alan as well and probably the reason he hadn’t brought it to anyone’s attention.” He pointed to the pages. “The last paragraph on the last page suggests he was going to take his findings to the director and then get me involved at some point.”
“Does he give a reason?”
With a half-smile, Kruger said, “During the early years of Alan’s career with the FBI, he was a brilliant investigator and researcher. Where he struggled was using the information to identify a suspect. We worked several cases together and he always handed that part off to me. Looks like he was going to do it again.”
Returning his attention to the pages, JR asked, “What’s our next step?”
“I haven’t read any of the files Alan referenced, but my guess is he found a pattern within each of them. What that pattern is, he doesn’t mention in his notes. Our next step is to find the pattern.”
JR nodded but did not comment.
“We need to start going through all of those unsolved cases he identified.”
***
Charlie Craft used his influence and secured the team two additional desktops. Special Agents Sandy Knoll and Jimmie Gibbs arrived late in the afternoon eager to get started. By nine o’clock, Kruger felt he saw a pattern emerge from the cases he reviewed. Not wanting to prejudice the others, he kept his thoughts to himself.
The group returned to the conference room at seven the next morning, and by eight-thirty, Kruger told everyone to get a fresh cup of coffee and join him at their makeshift conference table. Everyone brought their chair and gathered around an eight-foot table in the center of the room.
Curious as to what the others had found, Kruger placed his chair at one end and asked, “We’ve all had about six hours to look through the cases you were assigned. Let’s start with Sandy. What did you find?”
Benedict “Sandy” Knoll, a retired Special Forces Major and now a special agent with the FBI, was a large man with bulging biceps. They stretched the sleeves of an untucked black polo shirt that hung over faded blue jeans. He kept his dark blond hair cut short allowing the streaks of gray to appear above his ears. His handsome, weathered face, permanently tanned from too many tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan displayed a frown. This morning, his normal mirrored Ray-Ban sunglasses were replaced with a pair of bifocals.
“The only pattern I saw was geographical clustering.”
Kruger nodded. “Go on.”
“Kind of like drawing a circle around a big city and spreading out like spokes.”
Without commenting, Kruger pointed to Jimmie. “What’d you see?”
Jimmie Gibbs’ swimmer physique provided a sharp contrast to Knoll’s bulk. Swimming was a passion for Gibbs and he still held several Seal Team records for endurance and distance.
After retiring from Seal Team Six, he’d allowed his black hair to grow long and kept it in a ponytail extending past his shoulder blades. As a native Southern Californian, his usual dress was surfer casual, cargo shorts, linen shirt and sandals. Today was no exception. Blue eyes rounded out his handsome features. The retired Navy Seal was now married with a one-year old son. Kruger prized having Jimmie on his team because of his poise and level-headedness during investigations, especially when events got dicey.
“In two of the clusters, the victims were African Americans. The west coast cluster contains persons of Asian or Pacific Rim descent. The cluster in New York was all Jewish. I also noticed every single one of the victims possessed a college or higher degree. Plus, they were well off financially and were highly visible in their communities.”
Kruger nodded. “Good observations. Anyone else?”
JR looked over his coffee cup. “Want to tell us what you saw?”
Kruger displayed a half grin. “Sandy and Jimmie are correct. I saw those patterns as well. I also saw something else.” He paused for a moment. “Did anyone notice the timings of the murders?”
Knoll and Gibbs glanced at each other but shook their heads. Charlie frowned and JR grinned.
“All the incidents occurred during the traditional time of a college or university semester break.”
Chapter 5
Hendrick University
Adjunct professor Dorian Monk walked through the center of campus, head down, hands in his pockets, ignoring students on his way to his next class. The scuffed brown leather satchel, hanging by a strap over his left shoulder, contained class notes and a Samsung Galaxy Tablet. Considered one of the best mathematics instructors at the school, his anti-social behavior was overlooked by his department head and the university’s administration due to his status as a part-time lecturer and a non-tenure track member of the faculty. This allowed him an opportunity to earn a living without the need to become involved in campus politics.
Now in his late forties, he wore his thinning brown hair swept back and kept in a short ponytail. Perpetually smudged wire rim glasses sat on a hawk nose too large for his slim face. When traveling from one campus building to the next, he kept his dark brown eyes glued to the sidewalk in front of him. The only students who greeted him were freshmen unaware of his general disdain for students and social interaction.
Of average height and below average weight, he dressed his slim frame in jeans and untucked long sleeve shirts rolled up to his elbows. During cooler weather, a tattered brown Carhartt jacket kept the chill off.
With his official university mailing address registered as a P.O. box, no one knew where he lived. He did not socialize with any of the other professors, nor did he take part in student-related functions. He was there to draw a paycheck. His brilliance in the classroom and a long list of published papers kept him employed.
School officials and his department head considered him just another odd professor who taught upper level classes other members of the math department could not. His classes were always full with a waiting list each semester.
Within this backdrop, Dorian Monk harbored a secret—a burning hatred for his fellow human beings. It had been there since his first recollection of consciousness. He learned early to squelch it and bottle it up inside. The study of numbers and the logical solutions of formulas kept him sane. Somewhere in his late teens, he realized it was the randomness and unpredictable nature of human interactions he detested.
As Monk prepared for his 10:00 a.m. Ring Theory class, Harvey Copeland, head of the mathematics department, walked into the classroom. With his perpetual smile he said, “Good morning, Doctor Monk.”
Monk stared at him. “Morning.”
“I know you have a class in a few minutes, but I wanted to run something past you.”
“Okay.”
“The university has been asked to host a symposium the week after the semester is over.”
Monk continued to stare at him but said nothing.
“The whole campus will be filled with law enforcement professionals from all over the country.”
Monk stiffened as his eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“One of the assistant directors of the FBI is an alumnus. Since he was in charge of putting on the symposium, he chose our campus.”
“Lucky us.”
“Yes, it is an honor.”
A couple of students walked into the room and took their seats. Monk glanced at his wristwatch. “What’s the symposium about?”
“There will be numerous guest lecturers from other u
niversities here, plus they have asked for a select number of our faculty to contribute as well.”
“Doctor Copeland, you didn’t answer my question. Besides, what does this have to do with me? I’m just a part-time lecturer.”
“By choice.”
“Yes, by choice. But you still haven’t told me what the symposium is about.”
“It will be used to present the latest developments in computer technology used for law enforcement and security to those in attendance.”
Monk blinked several times. “I’m not a computer expert. Again, what does this have to do with me?”
“Your recent paper on computer algorithms is of interest to the Cyber Crimes division of the FBI. They want you to lead a session.”
“I don’t conduct sessions.”
“Dorian, I am aware of your reluctance to participate in these types of activities, but they are offering to pay participating professors six thousand per session. That’s more than you make for teaching one class during the semester and this is only for four days.”
More students filed in as the time approached 9:57. Monk looked at the students, then back at Copeland. “Okay, but I need more details.”
Copeland smiled. “Great, I will put you down as a yes.”
***
After the Ring Theory class, Monk left campus to eat at a small diner he frequented. His final class for the day would not start until one, so he sat at a table in the rear of the dining room, his back to the front entrance. Coffee and a small salad with dressing on the side comprised his daily lunch. He never ate on campus.
The coffee was hot and the salad limp, as usual. The one reason he liked this particular restaurant was few students cared for the blue-collar atmosphere. He could think in peace without having one of his students challenge him to a debate.
Today, his thoughts swirled around the news of a gathering of law enforcement officials on campus. Plus, if the FBI Cyber Crime division was involved, that meant there would be FBI agents as well. While the money was good for four days of work, the thought of interacting with those types for any length of time unsettled him.
While these thoughts intruded on his conscious, he sipped coffee, stared at the wall and lost track of time.
At 12:45 p.m., the waitress stood next to his table with a coffee pot in hand. “Professor Monk?”
He blinked several times and turned toward her. “Yes.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
The blinking continued and he remained silent.
“It’s fifteen till one.”
His eyes widened as he glanced at his wristwatch. “Oh, dear.” He threw a ten-dollar bill on the table and practically ran out of the diner.
Chapter 6
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Two Days Later
JR and Kruger sat at the conference table reviewing their notes as the meeting’s attendees shuffled in and took their seats. Muted conversations filled the room while they waited for Paul Stumpf. Everyone stood when he entered and took his seat at the head of the table.
Without preamble, he said, “What can you tell us, Sean?”
Kruger walked to a laptop at the far end of the table and inserted a flash drive. When the computer recognized it, he clicked on a PowerPoint file. “Our assumption Alan was specifically targeted appears to be correct.”
The room remained quiet.
The projector displayed the first slide of Kruger’s presentation, a picture of Alan Seltzer and another black man. “We discovered files in Alan’s personal computer indicating a multi-year search. In 2015, an African American by the name of Roger Johnson was murdered in Atlanta. Murders happen all the time in Atlanta, but this one was different. Like Alan, Mr. Johnson was a lawyer—the two met and became friends in law school. They kept in touch over the years. While Alan took his law degree to the FBI, his friend went the corporate route and worked for The Coca-Cola Company. He worked normal hours and usually returned to his family every evening around the same time. One night in late May of 2015, Roger Johnson did not come home.
“He was found shot to death in his car located in a ditch two miles from his house. A Ram 1500 was later found abandoned and identified as the vehicle that forced Roger off the road. No one was arrested and there are no current persons of interest in the case. It’s a cold case in the Atlanta Police Department. I spoke to one of the detectives who investigated the incident and he does not think Roger’s murder will never be solved.”
Kruger paused and changed the PowerPoint slide. The next picture was a professional head shot of a middle aged African American woman. “This is Ramona Sturgis, a heart surgeon, wife and mother of two teenage girls. She was also the past president of the Atlanta chapter of the American Heart Association. She was murdered in her office one night while working late. Hospital security does not know how the assailant got in, nor do they have any clues of who it was.” He paused and swept his gaze around the room. “The security cameras on that floor of the hospital were not functioning that night. Someone had disabled the system.
“The Marietta Police Department lists this as a cold case. The incident occurred the January before Roger Johnson’s death in May.”
Stumpf cleared his throat. “How many unsolved murders did Alan find?”
“Twenty-one.”
A groan spread throughout the room.
“Over how long of a period?”
“Five years.”
Teri Monroe asked, “Why weren’t they flagged as the work of a serial killer?”
With a grim smile, Kruger changed to another PowerPoint slide. A map of the United States appeared with four circles surrounding four major cities. “Because the individual or individuals responsible never killed anyone twice in the same city. They branched out to other municipalities. All of Alan’s research came from the National Crime Information Center. We have identified four clusters with the following cities in the center—San Jose, California, Albany, New York, Atlanta and Cincinnati. Different ethnic groups were targeted in each cluster. All are unsolved, all were basically an execution. Alan’s murder is the only one we can find here in the DC area. We think he was targeted because he was getting too close.”
Stumpf shook his head slowly. “Why do you think he hadn’t brought this to our attention?”
“From his notes, we know he was preparing to bring it to you, Paul. And he was going to suggest giving it to me.”
Scott Lambert crossed his arms and frowned. “Did he mention why?”
Kruger nodded. “He knew my forced retirement was approaching and he felt I would be motivated to solve it prior to my birthday.”
Lambert snorted. “Kind of high on yourself, aren’t you, Agent Kruger?”
Stumpf shot from his chair and leaned over the conference table, his palms flat on the surface. “May I remind you, Assistant Director Lambert, that your department has almost one hundred agents investigating Alan’s death with zero—and I mean absolutely zero—results. Agent Kruger’s team of five took less than two days to discover a direction. So be careful of your insinuations.”
Teri Monroe sat back in her chair, trying to hide her smile. JR did not cover his; others in the room studied their notes intently and Kruger remained stoic.
An uncomfortable minute passed as Stumpf straightened and returned his attention to the PowerPoint slide and Kruger. “I believe we have the right personnel in place.” Stumpf paused and then nodded at Kruger. “Sean, please tell your team I appreciate their dedication.”
The Director’s gaze fell on each of the individuals at the table. “If I hear of anyone questioning Agent Kruger’s discoveries, it will be their last question with the FBI. Is that understood?” Everyone stared at Stumpf, afraid to move. “Good, get back to work.” He turned toward his office and walked out of the conference room.
As Kruger watched the Director disappear through the door to his office, he muttered to himself. “I hope you don’t regret that decision, Paul.”
&nb
sp; ***
On the trip back to their makeshift headquarters at Quantico, JR turned to Kruger, who was driving. “You think this is the right direction?”
After a quick glance at his friend, he said, “The lizard part of my brain tells me it is. The analytical part believes there are too many unanswered questions to agree with the lizard part.”
“What kind of questions?”
“The pattern for one. Five unsolved murders in four clusters. Each cluster representing a varying period of time. Each period concentrating on a specific ethnic group. And the weirdest one of all, each murder corresponds to a break in an academic year.”
“I noticed you didn’t share that piece of news this morning.”
“Nope. I didn’t want everyone to finally come to the conclusion I’m crazy.”
JR stared ahead at traffic. “What if we’re right? What are the implications?”
Kruger shook his head. “Even I can’t believe what I’m going to say. We have a serial killer who is an academic, moves to a new college or university every year or so, likes to prey on ethnic groups and…”
With a frown, JR turned to look at his friend. “You just thought of something, didn’t you?”
“JR, who were the victims in each of the cases Alan identified?”
“Men and women of different ethnic backgrounds.”
“Yes, but what else?”
“There really wasn’t a pattern that I could see. Why?”
A half smile appeared on Kruger lips. “They were highly visible as leaders in their community.” He shot a quick glance at JR. “That’s the common denominator. They had a media presence. Our killer identified his victims from local news broadcasts.”
Silence filled the rental car as they drew closer to Quantico. After five minutes, JR said, “I don’t have the software here to do what I need to do next.”