Killer Within

by Jeff Gunhus

  “Special Agent McNeil,” Richard said stiffly.

  Allison tried to read his face. He was trying for controlled anger, the supervisor hell-bent on a strong reprimand, but she thought his eyes said something different. Maybe concern, even relief that she was all right. “C’mon, Richard, it’s a little late at night for the ‘Special Agent McNeil’ routine, all right? It’s been a long night.”

  “I heard.”

  “I bet you did,” she said, glancing over at Scott.

  “Do you want to explain? Or should I just assume this entire deal is FUBAR and throw it up on the scoreboard as just another complete misadventure of Allison McNeil, destroyer of her own career?”

  “I was making progress on the case.” Allison cringed at how defensive she sounded.

  “No, you brought me your theory and your request to make contact. I heard you out. I denied it.”

  “I put myself on leave. I wasn’t acting under the aegis of—”

  “I gave you a specific order!” Richard shouted, slamming the table. “Then I find out from Scott—”

  “Who you sent to spy on me!” Allison shouted back.

  “To protect you.”

  “Not your job,” Allison said coldly. “It never was. Did Mr. Discreet over here tell you how many times he almost blew my cover? He’s the most obvious—”

  “Scott’s not the issue here tonight, Allison!” Richard shouted. “Jesus Christ, you haven’t changed at all, have you?”

  Scott cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’m just going to go—”

  “You’re staying right here,” Richard said. “Both of you have turned a simple surveillance into a cluster fuck. Like it or not, you’re in this mess together.”

  “Sir, I’d like to remind you that I had no authority over Agent McNeil. The steps she took were of her own accord and were against my advice. I don’t think—”

  “I’m not interested in what you think right now. All I want is for someone to explain to me how a simple surveillance on an unimportant suspect in a stock fraud case turned into boating and dinner with the target.”

  “You’re not jealous, are you, Richard?”

  “Oh Jesus, you’re unbelievable.”

  “I’m just going to go and—” Scott mumbled.

  “Stay!” Allison and Richard shouted together.

  Scott slumped against the wall, obviously wishing he were anywhere else in the world.

  “Look, you know what this is really about. I was making progress. There’s no way we’re going to get anywhere by watching him through binoculars. He’s starting to trust me. I saved his kid’s life, for chrissake. If I can just—”

  “You’re done with this one. You’re being reassigned.”

  “What?”

  “Allison, you drew your gun on a civilian in a bar. You think I’m going to put you back out in the field?”

  Allison felt the fight drain out of her. “I didn’t draw the gun,” she said quietly. “That’s an exaggeration.”

  “Whatever. Your other theories aside, this is a bullshit stock fraud case anyway. We both know that if we get him, it’ll be on a paper trail, not from candlelit dinners on his private yacht.” Richard leaned toward her and whispered, “Christ, Allison, this was your chance to get back on track, show that you can be a team player. But once again you had to do your own thing. I’m not going to be able to protect you from this, you know.”

  The desk phone rang, a soft warbling tone that filled the room like an alarm clock meant to cajole rather than shock a person out of sleep. Richard and Allison stared at each other for two rings.

  “Your phone’s ringing,” Scott said.

  Richard waited another beat, then reached over his desk and picked up the phone. Allison looked away, her eyes falling on his Brag Wall. Richard was right. She had never played by the rules, while Richard had never met a rule he didn’t like. She was relegated to the backwaters of the Bureau, far away from the work she trained for; Richard was on the wall shaking hands with leaders of the free world. Not for the first time in the past year, Allison found herself wondering if it wasn’t time for her to leave the FBI. If she had a clue what else she could do with herself, she might very well pull the plug and move on.

  She had zoned out on the conversation Richard had on the phone, but when he hung up she noticed that he looked shaken. The thought crossed her mind that maybe the decision to leave the FBI was about to be made for her.

  “Everything all right?” Allison asked.

  “Yeah, come with me. The three of us have a meeting to attend.”

  “A meeting?”

  “Yes”—Richard grabbed her by the arm—“and for God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t be yourself.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Allison followed Richard out of the room and down the glossy lime-green linoleum hallway, a leftover from the remodel in the 1970s. Although she knew there were parts of the building that never let up the hurried pace that came with being the nation’s premier law enforcement center, there were few people in this part of the building at midnight, mostly administrative folks catching up on heavy workloads, cleaning people emptying the shredders located next to every desk into giant garbage bags, and young agents trying to impress bosses long since returned home to their tract houses in the Northern Virginia suburbs.

  They entered the elevator and Richard swiped a plastic access card through a slot and pressed the fifth floor. The three of them stood in silence as the elevator rose smoothly to the executive level.

  When the door opened it was obvious they weren’t in admin hell any longer. Thick, blue carpet on the floor and dark-stained wood accents gave the hallway the feel of a luxury hotel. “Tax dollars at work,” Allison mumbled, trying to release some of the anxiety building inside her.

  Richard grunted. She wasn’t sure if it was meant as a courtesy laugh or a sign of disapproval. She couldn’t believe she actually cared. But she did.

  Then Richard leaned in. “You’re in it pretty deep, Ali. I’d go easy if I were you.”

  “I think I preferred Special Agent McNeil.”

  “This way.” Richard directed her to an open door.

  It was a conference room, not much different than ones available on the floor they just came up from. There was no one else in the room waiting for them. Both Scott and Richard took seats, leaving Allison standing.

  “So, why are we up here?” Allison asked. “What’s the deal?”

  “You’re here at my request,” a voice behind her said.

  She spun around and felt her stomach churn at the sight. The man was gray-haired, lanky to the point of being almost too thin, but with a tight-skinned face that spurned any accurate guess about his age. She knew the frail appearance was misleading. The man still ran five miles a day and played tennis against men half his age in a weekly league. He was a legend of the field and even more legendary for his work through the labyrinth of Washington politics. Allison had seen him speak many times, but she had never met the director of the FBI personally.

  “Director Mason,” she sputtered. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t told we would be meeting tonight, sir.”

  Mason smiled paternally. “It’s all right. I asked Deputy Thornton to keep it under wraps. This meeting is outside my normal schedule. Don’t hold it against him.”

  Allison swallowed hard and marveled at the amount of subtext playing in those few words.

  I’m not here. We’re not meeting. I know about you and Agent Thornton over there. In fact, I know more about everything than you ever will; let’s not forget that, shall we?

  She nodded as if he had spoken those words out loud. “I understand, sir.”

  Mason stared at her for a few beats of her pounding heart before nodding. “Good, I believe you do. Now sit down, will you? I hear you’ve had an interesting go of things recently. I woul
d like to hear about it.”

  “Sir,” Richard started, “I’ve been briefed by—”

  Mason held up a hand and cut him off. “Thank you, Agent Thornton, but I would like very much to get this information unfiltered.” He offered an open palm toward Allison, as if inviting her to place something into it, something useful and precious if possible. “Agent McNeil. Your review of the situation, if you please.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Allison finished her story with a retelling of the events only hours before, leaving no detail out since Scott had no doubt already told them everything. She had discussed her rape before with superiors during the psych evaluations and was used to giving the information without emotion, as if it were a case involving some random eighteen-year-old white female victim. But the confrontation with Gerty had put her in a vulnerable place, and she had to stop twice to catch up with her emotions.

  Mason listened carefully. Although he did not take notes, Allison had no doubt that every detail was being stored away for later use.

  “And then Special Agent Hansford interceded and stopped me from pulling my weapon. We left the establishment, and he transported me here.”

  Mason tapped the tabletop softly, his eyes never leaving Allison’s. “What do you believe would have happened if Agent Hansford had not been there?”

  Allison tried to meet the director’s stare but withered under the intensity. Somehow she knew he would recognize a lie, and a part of her understood that for some reason it was very important that she proved she would tell the truth under pressure, even if it might end her career.

  “I have no doubt—” Her voice broke and she had to clear her throat. “I have no doubt that if Special Agent Hansford had not interceded I would have shot Craig Gerty.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Richard lean back in his chair, as if physically distancing himself from the damaged goods sitting at the table.

  Director Mason raised a single eyebrow and regarded Allison closely. “Shot but not killed?”

  “No, sir,” Allison said a bit too quickly, “I’m an excellent shot. I’m sure I would have killed him.”

  “Jesus, Allison,” Richard finally burst out.

  “Richard,” Mason said just loudly enough to ensure Richard cut himself off. “Would you and Special Agent Hansford please excuse us? I would like to have a brief private conversation with Special Agent McNeil. Thank you.” He turned toward Allison as if Richard had simply ceased to exist once he had been dismissed. “Do you mind if I call you Allison?”

  “Of course. That’s fine. I hope, however, to still be a special agent when I leave the room.”

  Allison thought Director Mason grimaced, but she realized it was actually a smile. A bit out of practice, but a smile nonetheless.

  Richard shifted his weight uncomfortably in his chair. Allison looked him over. He was pale and she wondered if it was concern for her career or his own. He seemed about to protest the director’s request when Scott, up on his feet as soon as the director’s words had cleared his lips, tugged at his arm and guided him out of the room.

  Allison cleared her throat, glancing around the room for a pitcher of water, but there was none. When she looked back at the director, he had a smile on his lips.

  “Your dossier describes you well.”

  Allison noticed how old-fashioned the word dossier sounded, and she wondered if the effect was calculated. She didn’t doubt that Clarence Mason knew more about interrogations and psychological profiling than anyone else in the world. Anything she had learned at the Bureau could probably be traced back to Mason’s experience and world-class intelligence. She knew better than to think anything he said was coincidental or arbitrary.

  She remembered a quote from one of her classes: “You will be given many opportunities to keep your mouth shut. Take advantage of as many of them as possible.” She waited the director out.

  “Sharp. Outspoken. A bit of a maverick, they say. An outsider.”

  Allison tried to control her breathing. She knew that she was blinking too much as Mason threw labels at her. She was sure he was picking up every sign of how nervous she was.

  “You have discharged your weapon in the line of duty. Killed a man. Consequent admin review found it was a proper use of lethal force. Saved Special Agent Thornton’s life, I understand.”

  “He had saved mine only minutes before.”

  “I see,” Mason said, flapping open the file in front of him with a flourish, although Allison suspected he knew the contents well enough. “It appears that you have a problem with authority figures.”

  “I wouldn’t say—”

  “Took a swing at your old boss Garret Morrison. Clocked him pretty good from what I hear. I guess Garret’s legendary tenacity wasn’t appreciated in his pursuit of you.”

  Allison fought back the impulse to explain herself, to remind the director that Garret Morrison had made several inappropriate advances despite her clear indication that she was not interested in what he was offering. But she knew it was in the report Mason held in his hand, likely both the official administrative reprimand she received for her action and Morrison’s protest about her. Although a legend in the Bureau for his profiling work in the Behavioral Analysis Unit, he had rubbed enough people the wrong way that his demands for her dismissal were ignored—but not his demands that she be reassigned somewhere far away from the work she loved. She was still in the Criminal Investigative Division but working white-collar crimes instead of violent crimes in the Behavioral Analysis Unit, where she wanted to be. Intellectually, she was able to catch on quickly to the work in financial crimes, but all she wanted to do was get back into the homicide cases. Mason had to already know all this, so she decided not to rise to the bait.

  “I suppose Garret deserved it. He usually does.” He thumbed the polished tabletop with the tips of his thin fingers. “What do you think about your new friend Arnie Milhouse?”

  “I gave you the details of what has happened so far. I think the event with his son brought me closer into his confidence. But there has been nothing so far to conclusively implicate him in the securities fraud.”

  “Ah yes, the securities fraud. And what do you think of the other matter?”

  Allison clenched her hands together beneath the table. The old man’s eyes bored into her as if they could see every secret buried behind her defenses. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir.”

  Mason raised an eyebrow in an impossible arc and leveled his stare at her. In the silence, Allison was sure the director could hear her heart pounding in her chest.

  She caved to the pressure. “Are you referring to the inconsistencies in the double homicide Arnie Milhouse was involved in?”

  Mason nodded. “And the wife. Not so long after, I believe.”

  “Yes, the wife, Sophia Lane Milhouse,” Allison said, self-conscious of the fact she was trying to impress the man now. “Died in a house fire less than a month after the homicides. Seems Mrs. Milhouse didn’t know it was dangerous to smoke in bed. The life insurance money gave Milhouse his start in investments.”

  “Anything suspicious about the fire?”

  “Both the locals and the insurance company investigated but found nothing. The wife was a known alcoholic and drug abuser. No one seemed too sad to see her go.”

  “I didn’t ask you what the locals decided. I asked you if there was anything suspicious about the fire.”

  Allison took a deep breath. “The convenience store double homicide.”

  “Yes.”

  “Arnie Milhouse killed the robber by stabbing him in the neck with a ballpoint pen. That’s very hard to do.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean it requires a certain amount of rage. The pen was not only stuck into the neck muscle but gouged the jugular, penetrated the windpipe—”

  “And why rag
e? Couldn’t it have been from fear? He just saw someone shot in the face. Likely he thought he was next.”

  “Perhaps, but there’s the store’s surveillance video too.”

  “Yes, gone missing. Very odd.”

  “And never explained. The store owner is on record that there was always a tape in there but it was gone when the police arrived. The locals wrote it off as a nonissue. I suppose they assumed the owner forgot the tape.”

  “So you think our friend Arnie Milhouse went home with a new appetite for killing, and his poor druggie wife was the next course.”

  Allison hesitated. “I have no proof that—”

  “Forget proof for right now. Talk to me about your instinct.”

  Allison straightened in her chair. Mason’s tone carried with it the undercurrent of command. “In the course of investigating the stock fraud case, I’ve come to suspect that Arnie Milhouse may have murdered his wife.”

  “Agent McNeil, you have a master’s in psychology from UCLA. You were number four in your class at the academy. You worked under Garret Morrison in the Behavior Analysis Unit for three years doing psych profiles on some very bad people.” Mason pointed a crooked finger at her. “You believe he killed more than just his wife, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You believe he is a serial killer.”

  Allison swallowed painfully, wishing desperately for a glass of water.

  “I don’t know if—”