Unnatural Instinct (Instinct thriller series)

by Robert W. Walker

  Now her standing with the department, her badge, her insurance package, it all meant a great deal to her.

  “Where's Kim Desinor? Isn't she still on this case?” asked J. T., who suddenly appeared at the table beside them. It appeared J. T. had already eaten, and out of the corner of her eye, Jessica saw others on the task force exiting the place.

  “Keep this between us, J. T., but I think she's somewhat burned out, at least on this case. Something she saw or felt. I think it was too much for her.”

  “Hence your fear for DeCampe.”

  “Frankly, I felt that fear long before I knew Kim held similar feelings. I've been trying to reach Kim, but she hasn't answered her messages, either at her office or at home. Getting a little worried about her.”

  “I see. But earlier, you did discuss your feelings with her, about DeCampe's fate, I mean?”

  “Yes, we discussed it somewhat.” He saw that she didn't want to go any deeper into it, so he switched to her favorite subject instead. “So, I understand Richard Sharpe wrote the book on stalkers and what goes on in the mind of a stalker.”

  “That is my forte, yes,” replied Richard, a smile creasing his features as he lifted the salt cellar on the table and idly twirled it about in his hand. The thing was a winking pirate with a similar grin. Richard had long since determined that while J. T. and Jessica had enjoyed a long professional and personal relationship, J. T. was a good man and to be trusted.

  Still, J. T. had remained a bit unsure of Sharpe, and he now took notice of Sharpe's interest in the salt cellar. This prompted Richard to comment, “Sorry, I'm one of those chaps who must keep hands busy at all times.”

  “Since taking on this case, I don't blame you.” J. T. slid into the booth alongside Jessica, informing her that everyone on the team had determined that her and Richard's talk of that morning had fired them up. They then sat for a moment in silence, the piped-in music wafting over them, the mild tones of the oldies playing softly, reminding Jessica how fleeting time actually was.

  J. T. broke into her thoughts with a question. “You two are absolutely convinced that we are working under the correct assumptions about the incident, right, Jess?”

  “That she was taken by someone who had carefully planned her abduction?”

  J. T. asked, “Perhaps that he stalked DeCampe for some time before acting?”

  “I think that's quite possible, J. T.”

  “And that she knew her abductor?”

  “Knowing DeCampe, I'd say that anyone else she drew a weapon on would most definitely be in the morgue with a .45 slug through him, and we'd be busy with autopsying him, rather than searching desperately for her.”

  J. T.'s laugh was light but genuine.

  “Hear! Hear!” commented Richard.

  J. T. agreed, adding, “Yeah. You've got that right. We'd be working to keep her out of prison for murder, and you know Santiva would be up our asses to find evidence to save her, no doubt.”

  “We're following every lead, J. T. Every possible suspect.”

  “And you've got Lew Clemmens reviewing every thread in every case DeCampe ever worked. What else can Santiva ask of you? Miracles?”

  “Every thread and every threat,” Sharpe replied.

  But Jessica said, “Santiva? Why're we discussing Eriq Santiva every other breath, John?”

  John Thorpe looked from Richard to Jessica, his eyes like those of an animal's just caught in the headlights. “Just think he and the top brass expect miracles from us, Jess, is all.” She sighed heavily and put her head in her hands for a moment, trying to fend off a headache. “Unfortunately, there've been hundreds of death threats made against DeCampe over her long career both as a prosecutor and a judge.”

  “Right, her career goes way back—”

  “All the way to Texas.”

  “And whoever snatched her here,” interjected Richard, “may have been a recent acquaintance, but he may well have been an old acquaintance from Texas who—”

  “Houston,” added J. T. “Am I right?”

  “He may have seen her in the newspapers here, one of her high-profile cases like that child murder case last fall,” Jessica said.

  “Bad business that one, I remember.”

  “Lew's still pulling off information.” Jessica sipped at her lemon tea and thumped the plaid tablecloth. “Maybe we'll get lucky.”

  Richard swilled down his iced tea as if it were beer. The Washington humidity had shot to eighty percent. Jessica thought she could water her flowers at home by simply wringing out her blouse.

  J. T. stood and excused himself, saying he'd see them later back at headquarters. After this, the waitress came with their hot sandwiches and refreshed their drinks. They had just begun their meal when someone's shadow fell across their table. Jessica at first assumed J. T. had returned, something on his mind that he'd perhaps forgotten.

  “What can you tell me about the disappearance of the judge, Dr. Coran?” It was Tim O'Brien of the Washington Post, the police beat reporter with whom both J. T. and Jessica had maintained a fairly good working relationship. He had on more than one occasion contacted them at Quantico either by phone or in person in pursuit of a story. The pursuit seemed all the man lived for.

  “Not a damn thing.” Jessica did not make eye contact with the reporter.

  “C'mon, Doc! My readers're going to want to know something by the evening edition. You gotta give me something.”

  “You're so wrong, Tim. You're interrupting our meal, and no, we don't owe you a damn living, thank you,” replied Jessica.

  “Hey, it's just an expression. Still, you gotta give me something, or my dildo of an editor is going to make my life hell.” His body language said that he wanted to sit down, but neither Richard, whom he glanced at—wanting an introduction but not getting one—nor Jessica responded to the silent request, neither budging over to allow him room to sit as Jessica had with John Thorpe.

  “That's your editor's problem, not ours,” Jessica replied. “Do you two have any clue, any idea? Do you understand the freaking enormity of this story? The feeding frenzy that's going on right now over Judge DeCampe's disappearance?” He paused for a breath. “I mean this goddamn business is big news—front-page stuff. Sidebar, every beat cop in the city who's ever been embarrassed by the woman in court is suspect.”

  “That's taking things a bit far, even for you, O'Brien,” she calmly but firmly replied.

  “What about you?” O'Brien turned to Richard Sharpe. “Obviously, you're working the case with Dr. Genius here, so what's the word? Guy's obviously a nutcase, but is he, you know, a sex pervert, or what?”

  “Yeah, yeah, that's it, Tim,” countered Jessica. “Our guy is definitely a pervert.”

  “So the judge was snatched by a pervert!”

  “That's all we know.”

  “Any leads?”

  Richard finally exploded with, “Yes indeed, we're canvassing all the perverts in the city at the moment, beginning with your relatives. Do you think you can concoct a story around that?”

  Jessica laughed, but O'Brien, picking up on Richard's English accent, only frowned, turned, and left, defeat written into his step.

  SOME four hours had passed since she and Richard had eaten at St. George's Potato, and since then, they had again walked the scene for anyone or anything that might shed some light. Jessica now paced the ready room where all pertinent information for the task force flowed, and she didn't like the fact that the river of communication had log- jammed.

  She dropped into a chair, exhausted, others watching her, reading a certain defeat into her body language, when Chief Eriq Santiva briskly walked in and came directly to her. He stared down at her, shook his head, frowned, and then slapped down an evening edition of the Washington Post with a front-page story by Tim O'Brien. “Who wrote this? You or O'Brien?”

  Jessica only had time to glance at the headline: “FBI Pursues Sex Pervert in DeCampe Disappearance.”

  “Where do yo
u get off, Agent Coran, in doling out information like this to the press before I get it? I have to read about the case in the papers?”

  “Chief, it didn't happen that way,” began Richard, coming nearer Jessica, attempting to defend her.

  “Then enlighten me!” he shouted.

  Everyone's eyes now riveted on Jessica for an answer. More than one on the task force sided with Santiva. But Eriq continued rampaging, not allowing her a word. “Jess, it says here you are hot on the trail of a sexual pervert who has Judge Maureen DeCampe at his mercy. You know what this will do to the family?”

  “I had nothing to do with O'Brien's fictional concoction.”

  Santiva didn't hear her or chose not to. “Says here you are following leads to every sex pervert in the city. Is that true? No one's shared this with me. I thought this was an abduction for revenge motive case, so tell me, just what the fuck's going on down here?”

  “What can I say, Eriq? O'Brien's misrepresented what I said.”

  Jessica gave Richard a stem look to tell him to keep out of it.

  “What precisely did you say to the press?” Eriq pursued.

  “Nothing, I tell you.”

  “All the same, now Sex Crimes at WPD wants in. Captain Halstrom in Sex Crimes is all over my head about this and—”

  “I told O'Brien nothing. Two words to shut him up.”

  “Oh, I see, and let me guess what those two words were.”

  “Man, this sucks,” Jessica roared while scanning the story. “He's managed to blow everything I said out of all proportion. Tim must've been on 'ludes when he wrote this shit.”

  “Any truth in it? This has got to sting the family, Jess. This is just thoughtless and insensitive.”

  “You can't blame me for O'Brien's actions.”

  “Are you and your team chasing a sex-lust-murderer here or not?”

  “Who knows? Maybe, maybe not. Frankly, I think not. We're of the same opinion as Richard. This creep is out for revenge-murder not lust-murder.”

  “Gene Halstrom is sending over a shrink-cop from his Sex Crimes Division at the WPD. Is that what I tell her?”

  'Turn the whole damn case over to them, Chief. They're a special unit. You can wash your hands of it quite easily, if that's what you want.”

  “Don't test me, Jessica, or I just might do that.”

  “It's not about sex,” shouted Sharpe, who came to stand beside Jessica, defending her. “We all know it.”

  J. T. joined in, standing behind Jessica. Others in the task force now did the same. It was a silent show of unity and conviction.

  Santiva replied, “So you are all of one mind now?”

  “We are,” said Sharpe.

  “That's good... good.”

  “And it's not all over the press,” Jessica replied firmly.

  “Thank your lucky stars, Jessica. Someone always runs interference for you. But this time, all our heads are on the block if we don't deliver and deliver quickly. So how do we know for certain that it's not a sexually motivated abduction?”

  “You tell him, Richard,” suggested Jessica. The others remained silent “Well? Give it to me straight.” Santiva stared into Sharpe's eyes. We believe there's... there was some history between Judge DeCampe and her abductor. It doesn't on the surface warrant the label of a sex crime. We are leaning toward a revenge or hate motive, and that the perpetrator carefully premeditated the abduction. We believe she's been targeted for some time out of revenge, hate.”

  “Hate... revenge... but no perversions of a sexual nature?”

  “We don't know enough yet, Chief,” J. T. confessed.

  Jessica offered an apology of sorts, lifting her shoulders. “I'm sorry for whatever I may have said that set O'Brien off, but at least our true investigation isn't being laid out in today's headlines.”

  “But they may well be in tomorrow's,” countered Santiva.

  “I have a full profile on the abductor,” Sharpe told him. “Sent a copy to you via interoffice a half hour ago. It has taken into account all we have, and the profile attempts to make sense of it.”

  “Look, Eriq,” said Jessica, her hands in the air, “I'm sorry if I screwed up, but my words were taken out of context, as usual.”

  Richard's stare at Jessica told her in no uncertain terms that he did not like it that she had assumed the brunt of Santiva's accusation when in fact it had been Richard who had chosen to throw the reporter a bone in order to get rid of the pesky fellow. Still, it was a rarity to hear her apologize for anything, and now she'd gotten herself in this deep, he held back.

  “I hope it doesn't hurt the family,” Jessica added.

  “Hers or ours?” he asked, referring to the FBI's reputation.

  “Theirs, of course. Please, tell them it's just to get a dig in at the abductor, maybe stir him to some foolish action, like perhaps contacting us or the newspaper.”

  “It already has hurt the family, Jessica,” replied Santiva. “It already has.” Santiva stared about the room, did a bit of pacing and rampaging, mostly muttering to himself. “So now you're all dug in here?” He didn't wait for a reply. “I just got heat from the police commissioner who just got the mayor off his back. Everyone upstairs wants results yesterday, people.” He lifted the newspaper and slapped it down again with a rifle shot result. “And this kind of crap can only worsen our public appearance, unless we're all in agreement on content that goes out of here. Is that clear? Say not a word to the press that isn't cleared through channels. Repeat it back, both of you.” His eyes settled on Sharpe and Jessica, even as murmured yes sirs wandered the room like so many blind birds.

  Jessica remained silent; Richard almost broke the silence, but Jessica jabbed him in the ribs. Santiva stormed off, a section of newspaper taking wing in his wake. Sharpe exchanged a long stare with Jessica before J. T. got between them, saying, “Gee willikers, you handled that well, Jess.” J. T. lifted the newspaper and began scanning the story for himself.

  Jessica laughed lightly, but it was a hollow laugh at best. Sharpe put an arm around her, bolstering her and saying, “All in a day's work, sweetheart.” She tilted her head upward and they kissed while J. T. gave them a firm frown. “Are we absolutely sure it isn't some sex pervert with sexual intentions on his mind?” asked one of the other agents. “Maybe we locked down on the notion of revenge motive too soon.”

  “Yeah? How do we know?” she replied. “Maybe that asshole O'Brien—the Newly Established Irish Anti-Sexual Perversion League—can define sexual perversion for us.”

  “What kind of game are you playing, here, Jess?”

  “Is that the best you can do, J. T.?”

  Now it was Sharpe's turn to frown at Jessica.

  J. T. asked, “What's-at supposed to mean?”

  “Hey, what if our guy reads the Post, or the Enquirer for that matter? What'll be his reaction to the news that he's being called a sex pervert?” Jessica asked her longtime friend and Richard. “You tricky devil, Jess,” replied J. T., squeezing her hand. “Smart move.” A big laugh escaped him. “You meant for O'Brien to plant this in the newspaper, didn't you?”

  “You were there, Richard; you heard what I gave O'Brien: nothing. I gave him zip. The fact he ran with it, well, he ran to my goal post is all.”

  Going along with things now, Richard added, “A newspaperman is easily guided when he's given to think an idea originated with him.”

  “Gotta handle him like you would Chief Santiva is all,” Jessica put in.

  “So if our abductor sees or hears the news that he's some kind of aberrant sex offender, you think it might shake something from the proverbial tree,” J. T. surmised aloud as if it would be clearer if he could vocalize it. “Not bad.”

  “I have a gut feeling that we don't have a lot of time for niceties or anything else where this guy is concerned, my friend,” Jessica replied. “We certainly don't have time for petty concerns and petty politics. Understood?”

  FIVE

  When is death not
within ourselves?

  HERACLEITUS (CA 540—CA 480 B.C.)

  HOME, her daughters, her son, family, friends, her passions, her work, her passion for her work, the safety of familiar surroundings, more about family, friends, full circle to home, then inside her home with the doors locked, roaming familiar corridors, loving a place of mortar and wood, windows drawn, a hot bath drawn—warm and soothing against her skin—music playing in her ear, the smell of candles and incense she'd bought on a trip to India, a teasing, pleasant incense—all of these wonderful thoughts felt now like lost treasures, promises. But could she believe the promise of ever seeing or feeling any of these special things again? Is that what heaven is comprised of, she asked herself, you get back all you've lost?

  Maureen DeCampe thought of everything that ever meant anything of real value to her, and all that had been stripped from her: all sense of security and faith in the ground beneath one's feet, replaced by fear, uncertainty, and horror in its rawest sense. She imagined having been drugged and kept in a state of unconsciousness, taken across country into a maze of farmland, hills, and paths, into a heartland that was crisscrossed by seemingly endless, anonymous blacktop roads. A place of wheat and cornfields that went on for endless miles, fields on a grand scale, a grand place to lay train track and raise children on little farms amid a paradise called Iowa; a place where nothing bad ever happened until now, and it was happening to her.

  He'd abducted her and had transported her from the nation's capital to here, somewhere Iowa... Iowa Falls, Iowa. Wasn't that where Jimmy Lee had been raised on a farm? She had never seen it on a map; she had no idea of the geography of Iowa, knowing only the cliched facts: Indian name, flat terrain, nothing to interest the casual traveler, sleep-inducing wheat fields, and close-knit neighbors who didn't bother locking doors or windows at night. In the midst of this, a dark little farmstead that reeked of animal slaughter and feces, a dark little place where she would die a horrid death not heard of in the modem world.

  How did I get here? How was I made so stupid? Turned into a victim—a g'damn victim, me! A thing I swore to never, ever become again after walking out on Stewart after three months of being the teen bride he so liked to victimize! How did I wind up thrashing atop a vile corpse in a black place in the middle of no-fucking-where?