Killer Within

by Jeff Gunhus

  “I didn’t ask what you knew,” Mason suddenly barked, his voice like a hammer. “What do you believe? Your instinct, Allison.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, trying not to show her shock. She kept her voice level, even softer than it had been before. Damned if she was going to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled her cage. “I do believe he’s a killer. A blend of serial and thrill. He got a taste of it in the convenience store, felt the rush, and decided to take care of his wife next.”

  Mason stood and walked around the table, thinking. It wasn’t until he was behind her, out of her line of vision, that he spoke again. “You’ve felt the rush of killing someone yourself, haven’t you? ‘Elation,’ I think you called it. Almost did it again tonight. Does that make you a potential serial killer too?”

  Allison rocked back in her chair as if Mason’s words were a wall of cold water. Her sudden burst of self-confidence was gone, replaced by uncertainty and nervousness. Obviously, the confidentially she had been promised in her sessions with the Bureau’s trauma counselors had not applied to the director if he wanted to see what one of his junior agents was thinking. She searched for something to say but came up empty.

  Mason hummed softly, walking back in front of her, watching her reaction. “Come, come. You can do better than that.”

  Allison leaned forward, using her rising anger at being so obviously manipulated to steel her voice. “Victor Mendez, the man I killed, had a knife to my partner’s throat. During my psych sessions I admitted to feeling a rush afterward.”

  “And that disturbed you.”

  “Of course. I thought I should feel remorse. Sick to my stomach. Something.”

  “But you felt . . .”

  Allison met her boss’s penetrating stare. “Elation. That’s the word I used in my counseling sessions. Elated. Not only because I saved my partner’s life, but also because I had rid the world of an evil asshole. I had the power to do that.”

  “A dangerous philosophy, Agent McNeil.”

  “I would not characterize it as philosophy, sir. It was an emotion, one I can easily control.” Mason cocked an eyebrow, and she caught his meaning. “Tonight . . . well, tonight was a lack of control. It was entirely unprofessional and I make no excuses for it. You asked what my instincts were about Arnie Milhouse and I gave you my judgment. Your insinuations that my actions in the Victor Mendez case were anything but professional are both insulting and unwarranted. If we have nothing more to discuss . . .” Allison stood up from the table.

  Mason smiled. “Good. Better. Now sit down; I have something to show you.”

  Allison shook her head slightly, playing catch-up to Mason’s pace. She lowered herself back into her chair, aware that everything to this point had been designed to test her. Mason reached down to his side and picked up an attaché case. He removed three eight-by-ten photographs and pushed them across the table to her.

  “Suzanne Greenville. Twenty-six-year-old DC call girl. High-class apparently, strictly upper echelon clientele.”

  Allison inspected the photos, mentally cataloging the parts of the image the FBI’s profilers would have picked up on to categorize the killer. Feet and hands hacked off but left near the body. Mouth gaping open, stuffed with a black substance. “The substance in her mouth? Is it feces?”

  Mason nodded. “What does it tell you?”

  “Both modi operandi have been seen before. In the 1950s, Clifford Forrestal always removed the hands and feet of his victims. The feces in the mouth is just like Beau Rickensaw. New Jersey in the 1970s.”

  “What does that tell you?”

  “I’m sure Garret’s team of profilers has—”

  “I’m asking you.”

  Allison took a deep breath and studied the pictures. “He’s intelligent. He knows what we look for at a crime scene and he’s giving it to us. But it’s too much, too self-conscious. There aren’t any other killings with these same key factors, are there?”

  “Not yet.”

  “There won’t be. There will be more, but with different markers. Likely right out of our own textbooks. Maybe someone who was a profiler at one time.” She looked up at Mason. “But it’s not, is it? You think Milhouse is connected to this.”

  Mason pointed to the photos. “Suzanne Greenville was a woman with an exit strategy. Not only did she share the bed of some our nation’s rising stars in politics and business, but she kept a diary and an extensive photo record of these fine moments.”

  “That’s a political bomb waiting to explode.”

  “That’s what we thought at first. But while the diary lists some more notable clients and makes reference to the photos and video, her murderer removed all hard drives and data storage. We found a single thumb drive he overlooked. There were a few dozen people on it, mostly nobodies, midlevel people. Thank God.”

  Allison couldn’t help but notice the disappointment in Mason’s voice. She’d heard the rumors that he was the new J. Edgar Hoover, with a growing file on the who’s who in Washington DC. She had no doubt that a stack of illicit photos of America’s top legislators with a dead call girl would have been the find of the century for him. Hell, with that in his back pocket, Mason probably would have been director for life.

  “So, I’m here because Arnie Milhouse is somehow connected to all this, right?”

  Mason nodded. “Arnie Milhouse is on the one thumb drive we did find. He was contacted by an agent five days ago and shown a photo. We didn’t suspect much at the time, just trying to run down all the leads, but something interesting happened after the meeting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Arnie Milhouse left the meeting and went to his banker to make arrangements to leave the country, indefinitely it seems. We’ve tracked over ten million dollars that have been transferred to an offshore account.”

  “Maybe meeting with the agent spooked him about the securities fraud.”

  Mason cocked an eyebrow. “Do you really believe that?”

  Allison looked back down at the pictures and tried to imagine the man who she had seen hugging his young son commit the heinous crime in the photos. Even though it was her own theory about Arnie that had put her on his trail, it was hard to reconcile the two images. Still, she felt her gut pulling her toward the conclusion Mason was suggesting.

  “I don’t know. Before, I was talking about a theory. But that was before I spent time with him. It’s hard for me to say now.”

  Mason said nothing but studied Allison as she continued to pore over the photographs.

  “So, you want me to continue my surveillance and see if he’s the killer.”

  “It’s a long shot. Like you said, he might be running because of the stock fraud case. But my gut tells me there’s something here. And your gut tells you the same thing, doesn’t it?”

  Allison nodded. “It does.”

  “I’ve made more arrests following my instincts than all the forensic science in this place put together,” Mason said. “You need to go back in light, and quick. Just like you were doing. Play out your hunch and see where it leads. It’s a risky game, so I’m asking you to do it but I won’t order you to.”

  “Backup?”

  “One man. My choice. If you think this is too dangerous, I will completely—”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Mason smiled. “Good. Very good. I was told I could rely on you.” Mason stood up and stretched his hand toward her. She shook it firmly, wondering who had told him that.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I know what this could mean for you,” the director said softly. “Professionally . . . and personally. Do we need to discuss it?”

  Allison met his eye and shook her head. No, that won’t be necessary, you old fox bastard. Is there anything you don’t know?

  Mason nodded. “Good. Arnie Milhouse chartered a fl
ight out of the country two days from now. Before he leaves, you need to have brought this to a conclusion. Godspeed.”

  The director turned and left the room, leaving Allison openmouthed at the sudden deadline imposed on her and with an overwhelming feeling that Richard had been correct in the elevator. She was indeed far over her head.

  CHAPTER 31

  “This is complete bullshit,” Richard mumbled halfway through the drive back to Annapolis.

  Allison kept looking out of the passenger window and didn’t reply. She was still conflicted over Director Mason assigning Richard as her backup. It was so outside protocol and Mason was so intent on keeping the mission under wraps that Richard had taken himself off official duty during the assignment.

  Then again, the whole business was far enough out of regular channels to make even a hater of the bureaucracy like Allison a bit nervous. She stared at the wall of trees whisking by, lit gently by the first morning light from the sun directly ahead of them, and let the details of the night’s meeting percolate through her brain.

  Caught up in the adrenaline rush of meeting a living hero in Director Mason, she knew on reflection she had failed to ask even the most basic questions. Were there other suspects in the murder of Suzanne Greenville? Didn’t Arnie Milhouse’s behavior after the agent interview create reasonable suspicion to launch a full-blown surveillance?

  Allison figured Mason played her perfectly. At the heart of the matter, he wanted to stop a serial killer, if that’s what Arnie was. But he also wanted the rest of the call girl’s photos if they existed. There was a chance her killer had them. If they could be found, Mason wanted them to be recovered with minimum publicity and as few people involved as possible.

  Allison wondered for the first time whether Mason might have been on the list of clients.

  If not, she wouldn’t be surprised if some of the men in the diary were not the same men working to have Mason removed from the Bureau. Just like anyone with power in DC, Clarence Mason had his enemies. Perhaps knowing Mason held files on them would be enough to stop their constant calls for his resignation.

  It was politics at its ugliest, but Allison wasn’t naïve about how things worked in Washington. If it came down to saving a few sleazy politicos from embarrassment to save the career of a true American hero like Mason, she wasn’t going to complain.

  In any case, that was just the sideshow. Even if Arnie was the killer she thought him to be, there was only the slimmest of chances that he had possession of the photos. Mason had to know this, which just underscored how badly he wanted them.

  She wondered whether Mason knew Arnie’s stock fraud case was complete bullshit. That she had made the whole thing up as a cover to dig into Arnie’s past. After the transfer to financial crimes, she was toxic goods, so her new supervisor was happy to stay out of her way. Even without proof, it was easy enough to fabricate a scenario where Arnie was named a person of interest, employing her broad powers to comb through every aspect of his life. She had been chasing down her belief that Arnie Milhouse was a murderer for longer than either Richard or Mason could have ever guessed. Even as intimate as she and Richard had been, there were things she wouldn’t share. If he knew the truth, there was no way he’d ever let her get close to Arnie.

  But that no longer mattered because Mason was her new patron saint. Ultimately, she didn’t care about Suzanne Greenville’s photos. They were simply an add-on, important to her only because they were important to Mason. As long as he wanted her on the case, it didn’t matter what Richard thought.

  Of course, Mason’s masterstroke was understanding all this and knowing she would overlook protocol for the chance to continue her work. This was her case; her way to get back into the work she loved—tracking down killers.

  She wondered, though, if Mason could have guessed that a large part of her was hoping she was wrong about Arnie.

  “Who told Mason my theories about Arnie?” she asked Richard.

  “I did.”

  “But why—”

  “His name turned up in the Suzanne Greenville murder because his photos were on the thumb drive. The computer kicked out that he was already under surveillance for the stock fraud case, so I was called in.”

  “Who was there? Anyone except Mason?”

  “Yeah, your pal Garret was there with his people.”

  Allison sighed. “I bet Garret almost shit when he heard my name.”

  “Yeah, he wasn’t too happy, but Mason shut him up in a hurry. Then he ended the meeting and Mason and I finished together. That’s when your little theories came up.”

  “Doesn’t that seem a little odd?” she asked, shrugging off his condescending tone.

  “No. Mason and I have met privately on many occasions. There’s nothing odd about it.”

  Allison marveled at Richard’s ability to be boastful and defensive at the same time. Always aware of hierarchy and proximity to power, Richard assumed everyone around him was as impressed with his status as he was himself. The word privately came out as a challenge, as if daring Allison to feel more connected than he was because of her one meeting with Mason.

  “No, I mean, if Mason gave any credence to this at all, why wouldn’t he want Garret working on this case?”

  “Are you kidding? Garret’s a publicity hound. Mason wants this thing wrapped tight.”

  “And that’s why you’re here?”

  “That’s why I’m in charge,” Richard said. “You will follow my rules out here or I don’t give a damn what Mason says, I’ll pull you out so fast it’ll . . .”

  “Make my head spin?” Allison laughed. “You’ve been watching too many late-night cop movies.”

  Richard didn’t find her amusing. “I’m serious. If you take too many risks, I will close this down. I don’t care what Mason says.”

  Allison smiled. The idea of Richard going against a direct order from Clarence Mason was ridiculous.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t mess things up for you while the big dogs are watching.”

  “It’s not that,” he said quietly. He looked over at her. “I’m not going to let you get hurt. If you’re right about Milhouse, then you’re walking into a situation that could go very bad, very fast. This whole thing worries me.”

  Allison turned away from him, fearing the path he was taking them down. Farther down that road was more emotion, more worry, more memories.

  “Don’t worry, I know how to handle Arnie Milhouse. I’ll be fine. You just make sure you’re around when I call for backup.”

  “Oh, I’ll be there.”

  “See, then there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Allison went back to watching the trees along the highway stream by as Richard drove back to Annapolis. A shudder worked its way through her body, from her lower back, up her spine, and through her hairline, making her scalp tingle.

  She knew a lie when she heard one, especially when it came out of her own mouth.

  CHAPTER 32

  Charlie felt a little guilty about spying on Allison for a rich prick like Arnie Milhouse, so he decided to drink a gallon or two of beer to make himself feel better. But his sense of curiosity was stronger than his desire to get stinking drunk, and after a couple of drinks, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to try and find out who the man was that Allison had tangled with before her odd departure.

  More than an hour of drinking later, he had double-oh-sevened himself into the confidence of Craig Gerty. By the time Charlie worked his way into a conversation with him, Gerty was drunk and disorderly in the first degree.

  And what he learned about his friend Allison fascinated him. Charlie stayed with Gerty until the bar closed, taking shots of water to match the obnoxious asshole’s shots of tequila. By the time they left Middleton Tavern together, they were both staggering down the street. Gerty from being completely hammered and Charlie from trying to walk with h
is bum leg while his new best friend repeatedly smashed into him to keep his balance. Charlie hammed it up, telling the story for the third time that night about Allison kicking him in the groin, Gerty bent over and howling with laughter, tears coming down his face from the sheer delight of it. Everything about the man bothered Charlie: his looks, his arrogant attitude, the way he disrespected Allison every chance he got. Still, he played along just to keep the pearls of information coming.

  To begin with, her name was McNeil, not Davenport. Charlie supposed she could have been married, but if so, she had lied about that too. This wasn’t her first time to Annapolis; she had spent a half year at the academy before quitting. Charlie wondered what other lies she had told and why they had been necessary. He supposed he would have spent more time dwelling on it if not for the last thing Gerty had said to him.

  “Listhen ’ere,” he’d slurred at Charlie. “You wanna fuck tha’ bitch Allison, don’tcha?”

  “Shit yeah,” Charlie slurred back, pretending to be as drunk as his new best buddy.

  “I got me some a’ that, back in the day. Ere’s the deal. You gotta jus’ take it from her, cuz she ain’t gonna jus’ give it away. You gotta throw her uppity ass on the groun’, put your han’ over her mouth, an’ jus’ take it, know what I mean?”

  Charlie wasn’t sure he did know what he meant at first. Even when he realized what Gerty was saying, he couldn’t wrap his brain around it. “Are you saying you raped her? Is that why she left the academy?”

  Gerty had reared back his hand as if to high-five Charlie, a sneering smile on his face. “You know it. ’Cademy’s goin’ to the bitches, but Craig Gerty’s on the job. Put it there, man.”

  Charlie put it there, all right. The punch Charlie threw landed with a satisfying wet smack as Gerty’s nose erupted in a gush of blood. Charlie spun his crutch around and took a baseball swing at the back of Gerty’s right knee. The man dropped to the ground, alternately holding his knee and wiping away the blood draining down his face.

  Charlie had felt such rage at the thought of Gerty forcing himself on Allison that he didn’t give a damn about whether it was McNeil or Davenport, or whether everything she had said to him had been a lie. At that moment, gripping the crutch in his hand, with Gerty sniveling on the ground in front of him, all Charlie could think about was how justified he would be to keep beating on Gerty, beating and beating until the sick fuck couldn’t pose a threat to a woman ever again.