“Sorry,” Saleda muttered from the driver’s seat of the black SUV.
“No worries. I get that all the time,” Jenna answered truthfully. Her name had been in psychiatry journals across the country for articles she’d published, but everyone in the field knew her more from stories of her teenage years that had made her a national legend. She’d used her unique skill set of associating days, numbers, even people and gut feelings, with colors in order to help the police catch a black widow killer—her mother, Claudia. Grapheme–color synesthesia had made Jenna famous, put her on the path to her career, and influenced countless cases since then. Either she embraced it or shunned it, and only one of the two would do her any good in life.
“Where’s Dodd, by the way?” Jenna ventured. Whoever the remaining team member was, he’d be due for a thwacking when he did show.
“No idea. And it’s his first day, too, if you can believe it,” Saleda said, a hint of disdain in her voice. “Rebuilding’s a bitch.”
Jenna’s cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She reached in and removed her Droid. Yancy. She’d texted to let him know she was en route to a scene, not to count on her for lunch, dinner, or any subsequent meals today because this one sounded huge.
Now she glanced at his message.
I know I’m not allowed to ask, but I’m gonna. Is it what I think it is?
With anyone but him, she’d doubt it, but given their history of being on the same page for random, inexplicable reasons, no telling. Besides, she’d dated him long enough and through enough investigations to know she could trust him with a detail or two.
She texted back:
Tell me the store thing hasn’t hit the news already.
His reply came back in less than twenty seconds.
Yes, it’s already on the news, but that’s not how I knew about it. I took the call.
Shit. Jenna typed back:
Anything worth knowing?
Definitely. Find a kid named Molly.
Jenna relayed Yancy’s information to Saleda as she flashed her credentials at the barrier set up by the local cops in front of the Lowman’s parking lot. One of the cops manning the blockade nodded, scooted the sawhorse aside for Saleda to drive through. Normally a massacre like this would be a case for the locals, but when two elected government officials were shot, it got high priority. Technically, this was still a local case, but the BAU had already been called in for a consult.
“We didn’t know the nine-one-one call came from a kid?” Jenna asked.
Saleda shook her head. “Still processing all the nine-one-one calls. They apparently got upward of a dozen from cell phones in the store. Why find the kid?”
Jenna shrugged. If Yancy thought she should talk to this kid, he must have a good reason. He knew the game—and how Jenna worked—well enough to know what she’d find useful. “We’ll see, I guess.”
Most of the cop cars in the city seemed to be in this parking lot, which meant the manhunt for the shooter couldn’t be high on the priority list.
Are the locals not used to dealing with this much blood, or do they have reason to think this shooter isn’t a danger? A dead suspect? One in custody? Jenna hopped out of the SUV and followed Saleda toward the store’s entrance.
“Special Agent in Charge Saleda Ovarez. This is Dr. Jenna Ramey, Special Agent Teva Williams, Special Agent Porter Jameson,” Saleda said to the cop who greeted them out front.
The reed of a man shook her hand.
“Lieutenant Daly, DCPD. Thanks for coming. S.A. Dodd is already inside.”
Uh-oh.
“What?” Saleda said, half question, half exclamation.
“He’s walking the grid,” Officer Daly replied, confused.
“Aha,” Saleda answered, and Jenna detected the way Saleda forced the anger back down in her throat. Already this Dodd character was a piece of work.
“Walk us through?” Saleda asked.
“Sure thing,” Daly replied. The team followed him into the store.
As Jenna entered the grocery store, the scene that met her eyes seared into her brain, keeping company with all of the other horrific crime scenes she’d taken in over the years. Smears of blood across the floor, footprints. Please let the CSIs have gotten to all this before the locals contaminated it to hell and back.
The first three victims were in the produce section of the store. The first two were close together in front of the apple and orange display, victim one’s head apparently at victim two’s feet.
“One and two, Clovis Carter and Lily Ross. Both female, fifty-eight and fifty-five, respectively,” Saleda recapped for the team.
The shooter had to have come in, turned right, and killed the first people he saw. Unafraid to shoot or so afraid that if he didn’t go ahead, he might not? Excited? In a rage?
“Cold,” Porter mumbled. “Ordered hit?”
“Too soon to say, I think,” Saleda replied.
Nearer to the back of the produce section lay victim three, Sherman Frost. The sixty-seven-year-old had originally been found draped over the summer squash, but someone had moved him to try to get him to safety. The bullet in his back made him bleed out before help arrived.
Next the shooter had hit the canned goods aisle, which Jenna now traveled quietly behind Officer Daly like it was a strange tourist attraction and he her tour guide. From the blood-spray angles of the shot to Miriam Holman’s face, the shooter had taken the shot from the end of the aisle. Her face was clipped on the left side, and the blood had shot over her left shoulder into a shelf of ramen noodles. Weird.
“From the shot to the third victim, the shooter seemed shorter,” Teva commented.
Seemed.
The shooter had also fired at the first two victims at an angle consistent with a right-handed shooter. This shot, however, listed to the left. If he’d come here to kill this specific target—the governor—he sure did take a bad shot to do it. The job was done, but still . . .
“If you were the shooter, wouldn’t you be more precise with someone you showed up to pop?” Jenna asked.
“Where’s your head at?” Saleda asked.
Jenna bit her lip. “He’s not taller than the shot at the third victim made him seem. This one’s just different. He took out the first three victims with the gun in front of him. This almost looks like . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“He shot it over his shoulder,” Porter filled in.
Jenna nodded. “Almost like an afterthought.”
“Could he have not seen her at first? Was afraid she’d get away?”
“Hm. Maybe,” Jenna replied. If he had seen her and didn’t want her to get away, it lent credibility to the idea that he was afraid of the shooting, lacked confidence. That told a different story from a killer who enjoyed the rampage. And yet . . .
Jenna didn’t attempt to pull up the colors trying to rise in her brain. She had feelings, but she’d wait for them to solidify.
“Next,” Saleda instructed.
Officer Daly led them to the right, past the cereal, baking, and cookie aisles. At the deli toward the end of the store, opposite the produce section, lay the body of victim five, Mayor Frank Kuncaitis.
“He was shot point-blank in the face,” Officer Daly reminded them.
“And we’re positive the mayor couldn’t be a target?” Teva asked.
“Never say never,” Jenna mumbled. Something about all this was so off. She forced herself to ignore the royal blue tones that tried to crash in. No analyzing colors until she’d had time to process.
Victim six was back toward the checkout line, a bullet between her shoulder blades that came from behind. Rita Keegan had landed facedown on the tile, though her blood had clearly been run through and dragged all over the front of the store by panicked customers, maybe even the shooter.
“Why head back toward the exit?”
Porter asked. “His pattern of movement makes no sense.”
Saleda’s eyes trailed from victim six to the door. “And where’s victim seven?”
Officer Daly pointed toward the cereal aisle, which they’d passed earlier. “Back that way.”
“Paranoid that his shot at the governor didn’t do the job? Was going back to make sure?” Porter ventured.
Teva shook her head. “But why keep moving deeper into the store for the mayor and then come back for her? If she was your target, walk up to her, put one between her eyes, and leave.”
“For that matter, why not wait and shoot her while she’s talking in the library. She’d be a sitting duck,” Jenna mumbled. “Sure, there’d be a security team, but for a planned hit, it’s easier. Predictable. If the security was an issue there but not here, for that matter, wait until she’s walking into the library. You know she’s going in.”
“Maybe it’s more to do with the mayor than we thought,” Saleda said, standing up from where she’d been kneeling beside Rita Keegan, examining the angle of the blood spray. “Onward.”
In aisle seven, body number seven, Blake Spiegel, had been shot straight on, too, only he seemed to have been facing the shooter. He fell backward from the bullet to his chest, which had gone directly through him and lodged into a wall at the back of the store.
Some shots to backs, chests. Others hit faces, but not cleanly. “Training seems minimal. He hits seven for seven shots, but none of them executed perfectly. I’d say military background is doubtful.”
“The angle of the bullet that went through Spiegel was odd, too. It went through him, but entry point was a bit left of exit point. He seems to have shot him from a bit to the side the same way he did the governor,” Porter said.
The inconsistency of the shots, the victim order. Something about this whole thing didn’t mesh. Jenna wasn’t ready for colors to show so strong yet. In the past, crime-associated colors burned in her mind based on gut feelings, but only when she had enough information to resolve those feelings. This time, though, purple surrounded the shooting in the cereal aisle before she had seen or heard enough to trust it. An entirely different color from the blue that permeated the rest of the scene.
“This is the only young guy,” Teva pointed out. “The others were all over fifty.”
“Well, it is senior citizens’ day,” Officer Daly said.
Good point. But that didn’t mean this victim’s age should be discounted. In fact, the more Jenna looked at this scene, the more she wondered if the initial idea of the governor being the motive for the shooting wasn’t way off base. The first or last victims should be looked at harder, for sure. Chronological order was important to victim profiling, even if one of the victims was in political office. The vics could be random, but they could not be random, too.
Saleda was on her phone. “Irv, we need workups on the victims, more in depth than what we currently have. Backgrounds, family, friends. We’ll call with more specifics, but for now take the names and break down the usual on each—military, financial, occupation, stressors, etc.”
She hung up with the technical analyst, turned to the team. “Teva, you start with the witnesses in the parking lot. Porter, see what CSI has that might be of interest. Jenna and I will break down the witnesses who actually saw the shooter.”
“Any recommendations for my team as far as the manhunt?” Daly asked.
Saleda glanced at Jenna.
“Not yet. Keep looking, but proceed with caution. Suspect is armed and dangerous,” Jenna replied. She glanced at the seventh victim on the floor, pictured the bullet sailing through his chest at a strange angle toward the back of the store. As an afterthought, she added, “Armed, dangerous, and possibly unstable.”
3
Eldred sat in the parking lot of the grocery store, confused. The police told him he had to stay, but he didn’t understand why. Had he done something wrong? Was he being arrested?
More and more had changed for him lately. First, Nancy told him he couldn’t stay at home alone anymore, and she’d brought in a nice lady nurse to stay with him on evenings when she couldn’t be there. Then his daughter had changed his living arrangements a second time. She said it wouldn’t work, staying home with the nurse. He would have to live in a group home, that it was for his own safety.
Pish. His own safety. He knew how to keep himself safe, for crying out loud. He wasn’t a baby, after all! He’d been on this earth taking care of himself for over seventy years, dang it! He knew darn well how to take care of himself!
And yet . . . he was at a grocery store. How had he gotten to the grocery store? Lately, his days were fuzzy, distorted like the reflection in a funhouse mirror.
“Sir?” a tall, brown-haired girl said, touching him on the shoulder.
“Who are you?”
“Sir, my name is Special Agent Teva Williams. I’m with the FBI. Can you tell me your name?”
Of course he could tell her his name! Eldred. Eldred. Oh, drat it. Eldred . . . “Eldred Beasley.”
“Thank you, Mr. Beasley,” she replied, and she jotted his name down in a notebook. My, she looked a lot like Nancy. In her twenties, surely. Maybe thirties, that long hair swishing in the wind. “Mr. Beasley, can you tell me where you were in the store when you heard or saw that something was wrong?”
Wrong?
Concentrate.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Sir, where were you when the shots were fired? Can you remember?”
Of course I can remember! “Shots?”
“Dad!”
Eldred turned to see his daughter behind an orange and white sawhorse, jumping up and down and waving to him, frantic. She talked heatedly with the officer in front, though Eldred couldn’t make out what she was saying.
“Mr. Beasley?” the girl in front of him said again.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Beasley, when the shots sounded, which part of the store were you in?”
He stared at this girl, who might be crazy. Shots. There weren’t any shots. “I . . . I don’t know what you’re asking . . .”
A moment later, a cop sidled up to the girl. “That’s this guy’s daughter at the barricade. Says her father has Alzheimer’s disease, that he might not be aware of where or who he is. She’d like to come through . . .”
The girl glanced at Eldred, then back toward Nancy. “Let her in.”
Alzheimer’s disease? That was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard! He was perfectly fine!
Nancy closed the gap between the two of them, ran toward him. Hugged him. “Oh, thank God you’re all right!”
“What are you doing here, Nan?” He pulled back from her to look in her eyes. Her face was . . . different somehow. “Have you done something new with your makeup?”
Nancy’s eyes clouded over; her face dropped. “No, Dad, I . . .” She stopped, turned to the girl. “Nancy. I’m Eldred’s daughter.”
“Nice to meet you. S.A. Teva Williams,” the girl said. She shook Nancy’s hand.
Now that he could see them up close, it was obvious to Eldred that Nancy and this girl looked nothing alike. This girl was much younger, Nancy more mature than he was thinking. Maybe that was the way of fathers. You always held only the most flattering mental picture of your child in mind.
“May I speak with you for a moment?” Nancy asked the girl.
“Sure,” the girl replied.
They stepped to the side, and Eldred watched as Nancy and the girl exchanged quick, hushed words. He looked around, the parking lot seeming to come into view for the first time. Police cars everywhere, other people sitting with blankets wrapped around them, hugging. Crying.
A thought niggled the back of Eldred’s mind. What was happening?
Then, the next moment, Nancy was beside him, her hand on his arm. “I’m going to s
it here with you, Dad. We have to wait a little longer. Then you’re going to come back home with me for a while. How would that be?”
“What for?” Please explain all this.
Nancy squeezed his shoulder. “I just don’t want you away from me right now because I can’t . . . Dad, do you remember what happened inside?”
Heat climbed up Eldred’s face. “Remember? Of course I remember! I was just . . .”
Then, before he could say anything else, the tears stung his eyes. He bit his lip hard, trying to stifle them, but Nancy’s frown told him she’d already seen.
“Oh, Dad,” she said, pulling him into a tight hug.
He watched a few tears dribble onto his daughter’s neck before squeezing his eyes shut. With them closed, she felt like Sarah. Smelled like her. His wife was one of the few things he could remember distinctly, even if it had been years since she passed on somewhere he couldn’t follow.
God help him if he ever lost her. He could lose everything else and still make it, but if he lost Sarah . . .
He couldn’t lose her. Not again.
Blood. Gunshots. Running. A monster.
Eldred pulled away from his daughter, looked into Nancy’s eyes. “There was blood.”
Nancy blinked. “Did you see anything, Dad? Did you see the shooter?”
What was she talking about? “What shooter?”
She sighed, shook her head. “Never mind.”
And she hugged him again.
4
Officer Daly led Jenna and Saleda to the back warehouse where the witnesses who said they’d actually seen the shooter had been sequestered. Sniffles permeated the air, soft muttering as some of the less traumatized of the group whispered among themselves.
“I’ll be out front if you need me,” Daly said.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Jenna leaned in to Saleda. “You find Dodd, I find Molly?”
Double Vision Page 2