by Sydney Bauer
Joe glanced at Leo King—a dedicated and trusted friend who gave him a subtle roll of his eyes before introducing FBI Profiler Special Agent Ned Jacobs. Jacobs then proceeded to open the folder in front of him, look directly at the Nagoshis and, out of an intuitive sense of courtesy, begin by explaining the profiling process in detail.
“First up,” said Jacobs with a smile. “I should explain that us profilers are not clairvoyants. We have no special powers or supernatural insights, and do not keep crystal balls or tarot cards in our two by four lockers at Quantico.”
Jacobs was a kind-faced African-American, and Joe realized the top-notch communicator was cleverly taking the edge off the room by providing the Nagoshis with sound and helpful information.
“There are only about forty of us in total,” Jacobs went on. “Forty of about thirteen thousand agents. But that doesn’t necessarily make us special. It just means we fit the bill for this type of job—we have trained extensively in areas such as forensic sciences, forensic pathology, sex crime investigations and interview and interrogation techniques, and then undertaken further studies in behavioral analysis.
“As profilers we assess a crime scene and embark on a process we call ‘criminal investigative analysis,’ which in layman’s terms means study all the evidence and come up with a possible profile of the offender based on his or her psychopathology—the behavioral and psychological indicators that are left at a violent crime scene as a result of the offender’s physical, sexual, and in some cases verbal interaction with his or her victims.”
Jacobs stopped then, taking a sip from the ice-filled glass before him.
“The good news is, we have assisted the Bureau and other law enforcement agencies in making hundreds of arrests by giving our fellow agents and police detectives guidelines for their search and investigations. The not-so-good news is that we have our limitations. We cannot hand the investigators the offender—merely provide another tool to assist them in narrowing their search.”
“And in the case of my sister?” asked Peter Nagoshi with just the slightest hint of irritation—and Joe could have sworn his father shifted ever so slightly in his seat.
“Right,” said Jacobs, obviously reading the Nagoshi son’s impatience and realizing it was time to cut to the chase. “In Jessica’s case the first obstacle we face as profilers is that the crime appears to be a one-off. Profilers get much clearer results when analyzing the work of serial killers who leave a trail of behavioral clues at each crime. Stand-alone offenses are not so easy, but I am fairly confident I have some basic information that can assist the police in their investigations.”
Peter Nagoshi nodded for Jacobs to continue as the amiable agent looked down at his notes.
“Given the approach to the murder and the statistical information available to us regarding attacks of this kind in this area, I believe the offender to be a white male, aged between twenty and thirty. I believe him to be controlling and organized, to the point of being meticulous.”
“How so?” asked John Nagoshi, speaking for the first time.
“The crime scene was sanitary, the offender left almost no forensic evidence, the body although distorted was organized in a resting position, her hair was placed neatly away from her face and the method of murder in itself was reasonably ‘clean.’
“The placement of the stone as a pillow appears to be something of an afterthought suggesting either a knowledge of the cultural significance of the rock itself—or more likely, in my opinion, a sense of familiarity with . . .”
“One moment, Special Agent Jacobs,” interrupted John Nagoshi, obviously wanting to take in every detail. “You said the murder was clean? I would call murder many things, but I do not believe there is anything hygienic about taking a young girl’s life.”
“Yes, sir, I agree,” said Jacobs. “But in this case I am speaking literally rather than psychologically. Strangulation does not pollute a crime scene, Mr. Nagoshi, with blood and other messy body fluids. It leaves the victim looking as if in a state of sleep. It can be a killer’s way of ‘preserving his victim,’ leaving his memory of her largely intact.”
“What about the blows to the head?” asked Katz.
“Acts of rage. The two blows Jessica endured were, in my opinion, the result of some emotional or psychological trigger, some revelation or physical action or new piece of information she shared with her killer, which led the normally controlled individual to lash out in anger. The blows disabled her and the strangulation silenced her cleanly, neatly, quietly.”
“Are you saying my daughter was familiar with her killer, Agent Jacobs?” asked John Nagoshi who, Joe was surprised to see, seemed a little taken aback by this suggestion.
“Almost certainly. First there was the placement of the stone I mentioned earlier. Its use as a pillow, motivated by either the killer’s knowledge of it being, as your gardener explained, a ‘death stone,’ or more likely, in my opinion, a symbolic gesture suggesting that the offender knew her well enough to wish to see her at peace in death.
“Then there was the taking of the stockings and shoes and the fact that the removal of such intimate items indicates familiarity.” Jacobs paused. “Jessica knew her killer, Mr. Nagoshi. I am sure of it.”
There was silence then as John Nagoshi nodded, and despite his stoic expression, Joe sensed this new piece of information did not sit well with the respected corporate chief.
“What else does the taking of shoes tell us?” asked Katz, determined to keep control of Jacobs’ report.
“All sorts of things but none of them definitive. Subconsciously the killer may have wanted to restrict Jessica from taking a certain road, from going somewhere, doing something, making a decision that might either alter his preferred course or have taken her away from him. Physically he may have had some connection to that part of her body, which indicates a sexual attraction the offender did not, at least at the time, pursue.”
“But she was not raped,” said John Nagoshi.
“No,” said Jacobs. “But that does not mean the killer did not have intimate feelings for your daughter. In fact my guess is there was a strong physical attraction on his part—but one that, at least at that point in time, was not returned.”
“So he is what?” asked Katz. “Cowardly, impotent, weak?”
“On the contrary,” said Jacobs, shaking his head. “I believe him to be confident, adaptable, intelligent. My guess is the lack of sexual contact on the night of the crime was more a case of his trying to protect himself. Sexual crimes can be some of the easiest to solve because of the exchange of bodily fluids. I believe the killer considered this. He did what he did out of anger but within moments of the crime was calm enough to move into damage control.”
Jacobs stopped then and closed his file, his many “possibilities” still hanging in the air like teasers to an unsolvable who dunit.
John Nagoshi placed his hands on the table before him, his back straight, his demeanor even, before looking directly at Roger Katz to say: “Forgive me, Mr. Katz. I appreciate Special Agent Jacobs’ expertise and the trouble he has gone to in studying my daughter’s killer. But I do not see how this transforms into action.
“My daughter was young, intelligent and pleasing to the eye. I am her father, Mr. Katz, but not naive enough not to understand she was a profitable catch in more ways than one. There must be some other way to identify this man. What about the fingerprints, the shoe print, the . . .”
“The shoe print was only a partial, Mr. Nagoshi,” said Leo King. “It looked to be a Nike but half of the students at Deane wear the same type of shoe. As for the fingerprints, they are of no use to us until we have something or someone to compare them to. Our people in Quantico have worked overtime on them and I can assure you they are extremely pleased with their ability to enhance their clarity given their deteriorated state at the scene. But the offender, whoever he is, does not have a record. We have run the prints through our Integrated Automated Fingerprint I
dentification System, checked every local, state, federal and government database available. We even ran them through Interpol. But our killer is a first timer—or in the very least, has never been caught before.”
“Then there must be something more,” said John Nagoshi. “Lieutenant Mannix,” he said, turning to Joe. “You told me many weeks ago that the police obtained some evidence they were keeping silent in the interest of the investigation. At the time I agreed. I know we live our lives in the eyes of the public and, as such, respected your judgment when you suggested it was best Peter and I not know of such a detail.” Nagoshi took a short breath before shifting in his seat once more and going on.
“She was my daughter, Lieutenant, and while I am no investigator, I am schooled in the arts of discovery for profit. Perhaps if I knew this detail, my son and I could shed some light on the matter.”
“I don’t know if that is such a good idea,” began Roger Katz who, Joe guessed, was afraid of the powerful man’s reaction to what he knew would be a shocking revelation—and perhaps even more fearful of any repercussions on his part, given he had “caved in” to Joe’s insistence that this evidentiary detail be withheld.
But Nagoshi was not listening. He was focused on Mannix, his eyes unwavering, his determination clear.
Joe met the man’s gaze, seeing now for the first time, deep below his controlled façade, the basic primal need for a father to avenge his daughter’s death. He had seen it before, too many times, and in the end, he realized, John Nagoshi was no different than any other parent who had suffered the ultimate loss. He needed the truth, and more to the point, he deserved it.
“Mr. Nagoshi,” said Joe, stealing a quick glance at Frank and Leo, who both gave slight nods in agreement before moving on, “there is a detail, a significant one, but I am afraid it has not helped us identify your daughter’s killer. We have found no evidence of her being in a physical relationship. No proof that suggested she was . . .”
“What is it?” snapped Peter, with no effort to hide his frustration. Joe looked to the son before turning to the father again, knowing it was he who would feel the full impact of what he had to say.
“I am afraid, Mr. Nagoshi, that on the night of Jessica’s death, the killer stole more than one life.”
“A serial killer?” said Nagoshi. “But Agent Jacobs said . . . I do not understand.”
“No, sir,” said Joe, realizing there was only one way to say what needed to be said. “Jessica was pregnant, Mr. Nagoshi. When the murderer struck, he killed your daughter and your grandchild—two lives for the price of one. I am sorry, sir. I am very sorry.”
What happened next was a surprise to them all. Peter Nagoshi leapt from his seat and yelled “Baita!” sending his heavy antique chair teetering on its hind legs before knocking it backward toward the floor.
Roger Katz responded immediately, standing to move around the table and calm the obviously distressed Nagoshi son, but in the process he managed to knock the corner of his hard leather binder, which slid at an angle toward the water pitcher at his end of the table. The pitcher smashed sideways, sending water and ice cascading down the long conference table in one almighty gush before breaking into several tributaries that tracked across the table, slid off the edges into people’s laps and poured silently down onto the American-made “Persian” rug, which soaked up the liquid like a thick, hungry sponge.
“This cannot be true! Baita,” said Peter again, his father now ignoring the wet patch on his suit pants to stand and settle his offspring who, as far as Mannix could tell, was either extremely distressed by this latest piece of news or, more to the point, accusing Joe of telling an outright lie.
“Peter,” said John Nagoshi, subtly stepping around the obstacle that was a floundering Roger Katz to hold his son by both shoulders before leaning in and whispering quietly in his ear in Japanese.
A respectful Special Agent Jacobs and Detective McKay diverted their gaze and retrieved some paper towels from a side table before proceeding to mop up the remaining water that now sat like bubbles on the glossy varnished table.
And then Peter Nagoshi nodded, now leaving his father’s huddle to face the room and say: “Forgive me, gentlemen, I am afraid this revelation is unexpected. This is a difficult time for my family and I apologize for any impropriety.”
The older Nagoshi indicated for his son to retake his seat—and the rest of the room followed in unison.
“I mean you no disrespect, Lieutenant Mannix,” Peter Nagoshi went on, his red cheeks flush, his breathing now deep. “And I understand your reasoning that police investigators must sometimes operate in secrecy. But if what you say is true, I do not agree that this was a detail to be kept from us. Jessica was my sister, her child was my niece or nephew—my father’s grandchild—a Nagoshi heir.
“We have not honored this child by mourning its loss,” said the younger Nagoshi, his voice now rising a notch. “Rather it has been used as a pawn in your so far fruitless investigations and we . . .”
“Peter,” said John Nagoshi before turning to Mannix himself. “I apologize for my son’s reactions, Lieutenant. But I have to say I agree with him. This is a significant truth and I am afraid I do not see how . . .”
“Mr. Nagoshi is right,” said Katz, prompting Joe, Frank and Leo to do a double take toward the sycophantic ADA at the head of the table. “This detail should not have been kept from his family.
“I can assure you, Mr. Nagoshi,” the Kat went on, now turning to the corporate giant with an expression that suggested both sympathy and determination, “I did not agree with this obviously unsuccessful tactic, but I am afraid the DA’s office is often at the mercy of investigators whose job it is to provide the raw material for a case that . . .”
“Who was the father of this child, Lieutenant?” interrupted Nagoshi, still focusing on Joe.
“We have no idea, sir,” said Joe. “We have a DNA sample from the fetus but once again we need something to compare it to.”
“How far along was she?”
“Thirteen weeks, sir,” said Joe. “But just because your daughter was pregnant, does not mean the father of the child was her killer. Our medical examiner stressed there was no evidence of rape either on the night of your daughter’s death or previously, which suggests any sexual relations she had had in the past were consensual.”
Peter Nagoshi bristled in his seat and Joe took a breath before going on. “Look Mr. Nagoshi, I am sorry this detail was withheld from you and your son, but in all honesty I still believe it should be kept within the four walls of this room. We do not want a situation where every asshole in town is claiming to be the father of your unborn grandchild and believe me, there are scum out there low enough to waste our time with such rubbish in some ridiculous attempt to get their hands on your fortune.
“Furthermore,” Joe went on before Katz could interrupt, “I still believe this detail can help us find the offender. If Special Agent Jacobs is right, then maybe it was the news of her pregnancy that rocked the killer’s world. Maybe it was this unborn child that sent the murderer over the edge and if that is the case then . . .”
“Two million dollars,” said Nagoshi.
“I’m sorry, sir?” said Mannix.
“Two million American dollars for information that leads to the arrest of the man who murdered my family. One million for each life, Lieutenant, a tawdry amount is it not?”
The room fell silent again, until . . .
“Mr. Nagoshi,” said Katz, his eyes wide at just the mention of such a substantial reward, “I think that is a very good idea. It could just be the key to . . .”
“No,” said Joe, now completely exasperated by the unexpected turn of events at this evening’s meeting. “Forgive me, sir, but that is a huge mistake. For every idiot who will come out of the woodwork claiming to be Jessica’s lover, there will be another thousand concocting fanciful crap just so they can get their hands on the reward.”
“I shall trust your judgme
nt that the pregnancy should be kept quiet, Lieutenant,” said Nagoshi. “But monetary incentives are my area of expertise and I am afraid you have no jurisdiction as to how I allocate my finances. The reward stands, Lieutenant. I shall contact the press today and if you do not wish the Boston Police to be the relevant point of contact, then I shall set up my own team of investigators to . . . as you say, sift through the koedame.”
Joe looked at him then, the others in the room virtually forgotten, the two of them negotiating like broker to broker, expert to expert, man to man.
“All right, Mr. Nagoshi,” said Joe at last. “You win. But I want to ask one favor—one small favor before we send out an invitation to every greedy piece of scum this side of Maine to bombard this investigation with bullshit.”
Joe took a breath, not sure what he was about to do was right. He had not intended to mention James Matheson at this meeting, especially after his recent conversation with David. But this evening’s events had been anything but predictable, and right now he would do everything he could to prevent this case—a case he and Frank were slowly and carefully unraveling—from turning into the three-ring circus from hell. “There is a new lead, sir,” Joe went on, carefully choosing his words. “A young man who we believe may have had some form of personal relationship with your daughter.”
“What?” said a now red-faced Roger Katz.
“Detective McKay and I have spent the past twenty-four hours making some discreet inquiries about this boy,” said Mannix, ignoring the now furious ADA. “And I want to make it clear that, at least at this point, we have no evidence to suggest he is guilty.
“He is popular, intelligent, independently wealthy and one of the highest performers at Deane’s School of Law—scholastically and athletically. We also believe he has an alibi and with all due respect, sir, we need at least until the weekend to check it out.”
Joe stopped there, taking a sip of water to cool his now dry throat before taking another breath and moving on. “So that’s the deal, Mr. Nagoshi. It’s now Wednesday evening. Forty-eight hours and you get to post your reward. We come up blank, you put up your money. Two more days and you have it your way. Just give us a chance to . . .”