Reaching out to local police departments has always been problematic for the bureau. Detective squads often accuse the FBI of scooping cases, sending out press releases before a crime is solved. And some cops even accuse the bureau of adding police-solved crimes to the FBI’s clearance reports. But at the same time, local authorities are integral to the bureau’s tactical operations. Regional investigators know their territories, have critical informants, and live on the streets. This is why a special unit called Reactive Crimes was established in the late 1960s to act as a specialized conduit between the bureau and local cops.
The Reactive Crimes Unit was designed to react to crimes that have already happened, such as bank robberies and motiveless spree murders, and maximize assistance and cooperation from individual police departments. Within this unit, a special squad known as UFAP (Unlawful Flight to Avoid Prosecution) had become the central command post for complex manhunts, handling all the bulletins, dispatches, communications, and logistical aspects of the physical pursuit.
At approximately 2:30 a.m. on that restless night of revelations, Tom Geisel placed a phone call to the director of UFAP, and briefed him on the latest developments of the Sun City case. He faxed him the case files along with all the materials Grove and Zorn had amassed on Ackerman. Within an hour, jpegs and PDF files zipped across Internet servers to hundreds of regional violent crime units. E-mails flooded FBI field office terminals. High-priority messages sizzled across phone lines, and dispatches crackled over radios. Photographs of Ackerman landed on the desks of every police captain or lieutenant in the western United States. Most major metro post offices received bulletins. Memos went out to every tactical unit. Even bounty hunters got calls.
Before the sun rose on the West Coast, Richard Ackerman was, as the old shamuses used to say, “number one on the hit parade.”
“Hold it down for a second, please—please!”
Ulysses Grove made a halting gesture with his hands, palms out, silencing the crowd of scientists. A few whispers trailed off in the rear, but mostly the hundred or so archaeologists settled and waited, the light from the chandeliers reflecting off bespectacled, expectant faces.
The profiler stood before them at a blackboard, his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up. His briefcase sat on a podium next to him, lid open, exposing its contents—a Blackberry Palm Pilot, notebooks, cell phone, tape recorder, rubber gloves, case folders, and a Polaroid camera. Not readily visible was a lucky key chain that Grove’s late wife, Hannah, had given him years ago as a Valentine’s Day present. Grove kept the trinket tucked into a pocket in the lining of the briefcase—a tiny magnifying glass on a two-inch spindle, attached to a worn leather pad. The word Sherlock was embossed in Old English letters across the little pad. Grove was not sure why he carried the thing with him. He was not superstitious. He just felt better having it in his briefcase at all times.
It was nearly dawn, and Grove had that wired, shaky, wrung-out feeling one gets after a rough night of work and too much coffee. Maura County sat behind him on a stool near the blackboard, her black turtleneck smudged with chalk dust. She had been keeping notes for the last hour or so, trying to keep track of it all, trying to make sense of all the data, but it wasn’t easy in this room full of clashing cultures and egos. At the moment, the board reflected in hastily scrawled bullet points the common causes of death among the remains:
• fatal wound—near 1 vert.
• undetermined pose
• supine pos. at death
• organs miss.
Terry Zorn stood by the door, arms crossed, nervously chewing his lip, his cowboy hat hanging off the doorknob. He had wandered into this hornet’s nest around two o’clock that morning. Around four o’clock they had brought in another silver urn full of Starbucks, and the attendees had sucked it down like dying patients receiving plasma. But the truth was, nobody really needed coffee to stay awake and alert and engaged. The exchange of information was more than enough to spike their collective adrenaline, the pattern repeating itself over and over.
Among those assembled that morning was Dame Edith Endecott, a blue-haired Scottish crone from Oxford who had discovered a perfectly preserved mummy in a bog outside Edinboro, dating back to the fifteenth century—same signature, same neck wound, same pose. Also present was the flamboyant Dr. Moses de Lourde, a fey, anachronistic old southerner from Vanderbilt, who had been involved in unearthing a two-thousand-year-old murder victim from a mound site at Poverty Point, Louisiana. There was also the dapper Indian gentleman, V.J. Armatraj, a professor at the University of Delhi, who had led the team that discovered the “Year Zero Mummy” high in the Italian Alps, a frozen specimen with evidence of a fatal neck injury dating back to the time of Christ. Adding to the din was one of Saudi Arabia’s infamous intelligentsia, Professor Akmin Narazi, who had amassed data on dozens of discoveries over the last five thousand years exhibiting evidence of wrongful deaths, many of them practically identical to the Mount Cairn Iceman.
Some of the scientists present already knew of the repeating pattern. They had corresponded with each other about it, drawing very few conclusions. But none had suspected such a pervasive repetition down through the ages.
“I need everybody to calm down and focus on one thing right now, the link, the connection,” Grove told the room. “What is the common ground here?”
“Is it not obvious!” Professor Narazi barked from across the room, his dark, olive eyes glittering with anger. He was a compact little brown man in his midsixties with luxurious silver hair.
Grove looked at the Saudi gentleman. “Sir?”
“We’ve given description for hour upon hour,” Narazi snapped at him. “Is it not obvious the pathology of the specimens is similar? What more is there to say?”
“Ostensibly, you’re right, that’s all there is to it,” Grove said, “but I’m looking for a deeper connection, something psychological, cultural—”
“Dear sir.” Edith Endecott spoke up, interrupting Grove with her soft burr. Her pear-shaped form was clad in an elegant navy blue dress, her cat’s-eye glasses riding low on her long aquiline nose. “There is perhaps a feeling among my distinguished colleagues that you’ve not been forthcoming. No offense to Miss County or to her fine publication . . . but surely you’ve not been grilling us all night for a mere article of general interest.”
Grove sighed, then gazed across the room at all the impatient faces. He glanced at Zorn, who said nothing, just nodded. It was time to tell them. “Okay . . . look,” Grove said finally. “I’ll admit we’re dealing with something a little more . . . specific.”
The Scottish woman cocked her head. “Yes. Specific. Please go on.”
After another pause, Grove swallowed hard and told the crowd everything.
He told them about the Sun City murders. He told them that the FBI was currently hunting for a “person of interest” who had come into contact with the Mount Cairn remains. He told them everything, and then implored them to keep the information strictly confidential. He told them he had just broken about a half dozen bureau regulations by disclosing details of an active investigation. As he spoke, he noticed rumblings out in the crowd, furtive whispers, worried glances. He figured he had lost about half the room. He figured that maybe fifty or more of them were now plotting their escape, planning to hop on the next flight out of San Francisco. These were, after all, merely academics, some of them still working on their doctorates.
Professor Armatraj, the Indian, was the first to break the uneasy silence. “Am I to understand, you believe this suspect is somehow recreating the mummy record?” The dusky-skinned professor wore a sedate linen suit and bow tie, and looked like a throwback to old Colonial India, as though he had emerged fully formed from an E.M. Forster novel.
Grove nodded. “In a manner of speaking, yeah.”
“Good Lord,” Armatraj exclaimed, more to himself than aloud.
A sudden eddy of whispers and low voices swirled through the room.
“What does this have to do with archaeology?” a jittery woman in the back called out.
Another voice: “This is not why we came here!”
More voices swelled, and Grove held up his hands in a calming gesture. “Folks, please!” The voices subsided slightly, and Grove took a breath. “I understand your concern. Why don’t we take a break? And those of you who need to get back home, or those of you who would prefer not to continue working with us . . . you’re certainly free to go. And we thank you. Anybody else who might have further information, or might be able to help us out, we’ll discuss this later today, after everybody’s had a chance to get something to eat and get some rest.”
Finally Grove thanked everybody once again, and asked those who were departing if they could possibly leave their documentation with Agent Zorn.
The exodus began on a rush of voices, squeaking chairs, and clanking coffee cups. Some of the attendees went over to Zorn, who had a stunned look on his face as they inundated him with manila envelopes, file folders, business cards, and loose documents. Most of those present milled their way out the door, then into the gathering throngs in the corridor. A dozen or so lingered.
Maura came over to Grove and said under her voice, “So what now?”
Grove shrugged. “We start going through the materials, see if we can learn anything else from the brave souls who stay with us.”
“Y’all certainly know how to clear a room,” said a voice to Grove’s immediate left.
Grove turned and came face-to-face with Dr. Moses de Lourde. The small thin man was dressed in a brilliant white suit with a red silk cravat tucked neatly in his pocket. He looked like he could be the fashionable author Tom Wolfe’s older gay brother.
“I’m sorry?” Grove said to the man.
Professors Endecott and Armatraj stood behind the southern gentleman, listening closely, each looking alternately worried and engrossed.
“I said y’all know how to clear a room, which unfortunately is somewhat akin to the effect I have on my own students,” de Lourde said with a smile, offering his delicate, manicured hand. “Moses de Lourde at your service, sir. Professor of Antiquities, Tulane University.”
“Pleasure, sir, thank you,” Grove said.
“I must say, Agent Grove, I detect the tip of an iceberg in your query regarding the psychological connection between your suspect and the mummy record.”
Grove gave de Lourde a weary smile. “Very perceptive, Professor, you got me.”
Edith Endecott spoke up then. “I must concur, Agent Grove. You’ve piqued my interest as well.”
Professor Armatraj, who stood next to her, said nothing, but appeared uneasy.
“May I be so bold,” de Lourde added, “as to inquire about your initial hypotheses regarding the deeper connections to the neolithic evidence?”
Grove thought it over for a moment, gazing around the emptying room. By that point, Maura and Zorn had both come over to listen. The banquet hall had almost completely cleared out. “Before I answer your question,” Grove said finally, “let me pose one to you and your colleagues.”
De Lourde gave his head a polite tilt. “Please.”
“Would you folks have any interest in some breakfast?”
The southerner glanced at his colleagues. A nod from Dame Edith Endecott and a shrug from Armatraj. De Lourde offered the profiler another grin. “I might be talked into some lightly poached eggs . . . that is, if you would be so kind as to procure a bottle of Tabasco.”
Grove smiled, glancing first at Zorn, then at Maura. “I think that can be arranged. C’mon.”
He led the five of them over to the door, and they were about to make their exit when a voice rang out behind them.
“Agent Grove!”
Grove froze in the doorway, the others pausing outside in the bustling corridor.
“If I might have a word with you!” said a feeble voice from inside the room.
Grove glanced over his shoulder and saw a slight, hunched old man in a priest collar and coat limping along with a cane, coming slowly toward him. “We haven’t had the pleasure yet,” the old clergyman wheezed as he approached. “My name is Father Carrigan. From the Jesuit Order of Santa Maria. In Brazil.”
“Sorry, I didn’t . . .” Grove stammered, not knowing exactly what to say. Behind him, the others huddled in the doorway, listening.
“I’m not an archaeologist,” the priest said. He spoke with the subtle rolled r’s of a Bostonian, and his wizened face twitched and blinked as he spoke, perhaps the result of a minor stroke. “One of the Brazilians from the university in Sao Paulo told me about the meeting here.”
“We’re happy to have you,” Grove told him, wondering what the agenda was here, why an old arthritic priest would travel all this way.
“This pattern you’ve been discussing . . . I’ve known about it for quite some time now.”
“No kidding. You an amateur criminologist, Father?”
“To paraphrase the Bard, there’s far more in heaven and earth than you’ve ever dreamed, Agent Grove.”
Grove smiled. “I’ve had some pretty wild dreams.”
The priest scowled suddenly. His milky eyes, buried in wrinkles, radiated gravity and sorrow, his neck wattle shaking as he tried to put into words what he had to say. “You are opening the proverbial Pandora’s box, Agent Grove, and I’m not sure you’re prepared for what will crawl out.”
Grove stared at the man for a moment. “Listen . . . Father Carrigan . . . why don’t you join us for breakfast? The magazine’s buying, and you can tell us what’s on your mind.”
The priest pursed his lips. There was an air of almost aristocratic dignity about the old man, the way he leaned on his burnished pearl-handled cane, the old tarnished signet ring on his crooked finger adorned with the symbols of some obscure secret society. Finally he gave a nod and said, “That would be lovely, thank you.”
There was very little pleasure on the priest’s face.
A casual observer—were there any left alive—might notice the first rays of sunlight streaming through the closed front blinds of the Regal Motel lobby, and maybe wonder why the blinds were shut (not to mention adorned with a CLOSED sign) at such a busy time of day for early-bird hunters a week into duck season. They might also notice the deep scarlet drag marks on the carpet leading across the reception area and then around the edge of the counter, as well as the metallic odors of drying blood and rotting meat beginning to permeate the stale air. They would surely notice the tall, gnarled figure standing behind the counter, as still as a dime-store Indian.
He had been standing there for nearly an hour now, disconnected from the pain gripping his back, staring straight ahead as though in some kind of trance, as though he were an android desk clerk waiting for a customer that would never come. The old Richard Ackerman never would have been able to stand motionless like that for over an hour. He would have folded to the floor in raging spasms within ten minutes, caterwauling at his wife for his Vicodin. But this was the New Richard Ackerman, and he had to push this body to its limits because the revelation had finally come.
The lobby sat in silent dust motes except for the faint sound of dripping. And the New Richard kept thinking.
In the Pacific Northwest, there’s a bird known as the peregrine falcon. A natural predator, this robust creature has a wingspan of five feet, talons like claw hammers, and an insatiable appetite for mice, smaller birds, even snakes and lizards. Ornithologists have even observed the peregrine attacking its own species. And not for food. Apparently the bird is one of the rare species currently in existence that seems to hunt and kill merely for the sport of it.
Way back in the early Copper Age, over six thousand years ago, there was an ancestral species to the peregrine—long since gone extinct—that was twice as big, with a nine-foot wingspan, and eyes like black pearls. This neolithic falcon had an added offensive mechanism of being able to disguise itself, sucking in its torso and feathers until it appeared sm
aller, weaker, perhaps even injured. In this fashion it would draw its prey into a chase, and ultimately, in a violent turning of tables, it would ambush its pursuer. The hunter would become the hunted, and the falcon would devour its prey with the greatest of ease. The thing inside Richard Ackerman was, in many ways, just like the peregrine. With one exception.
He had only one natural enemy.
The New Richard gazed out at the tawdry motel lobby through Ackerman’s eyes—scanning the room, thinking, pondering, imagining all the men who were searching for him. He kept wondering how to lure the dark-skinned one, the important one, the only one who mattered now, into the chase. Ulysses Grove. The name was bitter ash on the puppeteer’s palate. But the name also served as a powerful incantation. “Ulysses Grove” was the doorway. But how many victims would it take? What could the New Richard possibly do that would have enough impact to draw the brown hunter into the fray? It would have to be something on a scale much larger than a single killing. Something much grander than two dead cretins in a reeking motel lobby.
Head rotating on its axis with prehensile, almost insectlike jerks, the thing inside Ackerman glanced around the room for the thousandth time, searching for the key, an idea, some way to draw the hunter into the hunt.
The rays of steel-gray, overcast Oregon morning slanted across ratty furniture, refracting wisps of dust and painting the far wall with dull stripes of light. The misty dawn had barely shoved back the shadows, dimly illuminating the blood-streaked lobby. More objects were visible now than before, including the spray of old dog-eared magazines on the coffee table, the spindly rubber plant in one corner, the faded seascape painting on the far wall. The tall man’s gaze flitted from object to object. He looked at the flickering TV set, which was now broadcasting some inane program on weight loss, and he looked at the yellowed lamp shade. Finally his gaze fell on the black leather binder lying open on the counter in front of him.
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