by Cat Connor
The officer stepped forward with a slight grimace on his face. “Sorry,” he said.
“It’s fine, Officer. I didn’t expect anyone to be behind me. You wanted me?”
“Special Agent Jackson would like you and your partner to join him outside.”
“Thank you. We’ll be right there.”
“I’ll escort you, ma’am.”
Here we go with the ma’am stuff. I felt I should enjoy it while I was relatively young and it was somewhat flattering.
I shot a glance at Mac to see how he was faring. His greenish pallor suggested we should leave. I didn’t want him to throw up and contaminate my crime scene.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said. “Sam is waiting.” I slipped my hand into Mac’s. “I needed to view the scene to satisfy myself we’re dealing with the same killer.”
Mac shook his head. “It’s so much worse in person.”
“Ain’t it, though?”
We followed the police officer out of the apartment, down the narrow walkway and into the open air. It was difficult not to gasp as the fresh air hit me. The wind forced the stench from our lungs.
Rain spattered onto my face mixing with tears I couldn’t suppress. I was grateful for the camouflage. I tried to lighten up by thinking of how something like crying would ruin my tough chick reputation. Well, it could, if I had one. That’s something I should cultivate; maybe it should be my goal for the year. I could fully embrace my new role as SSA with a fresh new don’t-fuck-with-me persona. My teeth sank into my lip as I curbed the urge to laugh. I didn’t think I could do cold-hearted bitch.
The officer stopped just in front of a mobile command center parked at the curb. I could’ve sworn it wasn’t there when we arrived. The door opened. A gust of wind caught it and flung it back against the side of the truck. The metal-on-metal clang vibrated through my head, setting my teeth on edge.
A booming voice came from inside. “Weather’s turning. Come in.”
Mac helped me up the steps, into shelter. The uniformed officer exerted a fair amount of effort and successfully closed the door behind us. I looked around the confined space. It was tight but reasonably comfortable. It was a good thing I’m not claustrophobic.
Sam handed us a coffee each and motioned for us to sit. Mac stepped to the side so I could reach a chair. It still amused me that none of them ever sat until I did. Chivalry was alive and well within Delta A; elsewhere it labored under emancipation. Sam gave Mac a light slap on the shoulder. I saw coffee slosh precariously in his mug.
“You okay?” he asked Mac, scrutinizing his still-pale face. It was rather unusual for Mac to appear pale. He had a hefty dose of Cherokee blood from his maternal grandmother and about the same amount of Black Irish from his paternal grandfather.
“Yeah.”
Sam nodded and moved on. “We have a witness who saw a male leaving the apartment.”
I closed my eyes for a second. It was good news.
“Where is our witness?”
“Lee has her through there …” he said and pointed to a door, partly open, about five feet from us. “They’re going through mug shots.”
“Credible?”
“Upstanding citizen, without as much as a parking violation in all her ninety-four years.”
“Ninety-four?” I felt my mind whir. Do people live that long? In real life, did they actually live that long? Imagine that! How awesome to live almost a century. She surely had some stories to tell.
“Yes, ninety-four.”
“Faculties?”
“Hearing aids; very strong prescription glasses; she was wearing them when she saw the male.” He managed to say this with a straight face.
“She’s sure about the male?”
“She said it was either a male or a butt-ugly woman.”
“I like our witness already.”
Without warning, my mind skidded over the appearance of the same writing on the walls, while trying not to take it personally. What if it was some kind of voodoo, hoodoo or black magic? What if using my poem could take something from me, part of my soul or something?
Sam gave me a knowing look. “Give!” He kicked my booted foot.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
Skirting the steaming verbal pile, I asked, “Who’s the victim, do we have a name?”
“Laura Amos, a thirty-year-old teacher’s aide.”
“Was there a note for me anywhere?” I hadn’t seen a note. Maybe he hadn’t written one this time.
Sam nodded.
Damn!
I felt Mac’s eyes boring into me. Maybe I should have said something about the last Post-it; I had pretended it didn’t exist. So far it had worked for me.
I moved on and hoped he would too. “Has anyone done a statewide on the signature?”
“Not yet.”
“I got a bad feeling.”
“You want go national?”
“Yes. Load this into the ViCAP database; who do we know over there?” I stared at Sam, hoping to jog my memory and it worked. The A-Team theme song roared into life, bringing screen shots of B.A. Baracus, Faceman, Hannibal and ‘Howling Mad’ Murdoch. “Special Agent Murdoch.”
Sam shook his head. For a split second I thought he’d heard the music too.
“Murdoch went, he’s training recruits now.”
“We know anyone else who can keep an eye on things for us?”
“Jamison went over from our division.”
I’d wondered where she’d gone. “Cool, get hold of her and explain the situation.”
“I’ll get on it, boss. Anything else?”
“Yeah, hit the backwater towns with faxes or emails or whatever they can cope with, circulate the signature as widely as you can within Virginia. I want to know if there are any unsolved cases involving gold ribbon, alcohol, rape or sexual assault, knife wounds and, most especially, any cases with poetry written around the crime scene. And chlorine … what’s with the chlorine?”
This killer had pulled together many elements to create something unique. These crime scenes didn’t just happen. It felt like he’d been at this for a while, tweaking, perfecting his skills, deciding what worked best for him. The ribbon and the poem were not necessary to commit the murder. They were an important part of his signature. I didn’t know if he needed the alcohol to commit the crime, if he drank any, forced his victims to drink any, or just liked to pour it around for effect. The chlorine was odd, could be signature, could be necessary – but I couldn’t think how – or could be coincidence.
“You smell more chlorine?” Sam asked.
“Yes. Stronger than on the previous victim. It was like a thin fog around her head.”
Mac spoke. “You are incredible; how you could smell anything over the bourbon and blood is beyond me.”
“It was under it. It was an underlying aroma. Think of the smells at the scene as layers. The chlorine was first.”
“Still amazes me that you can do that,” Mac replied.
It amazes me that no one else seems to notice the smells I do. “Do we know if our victim had kids?”
Sam spun to face a desk and grabbed his notebook. He turned back while flicking through several pages. He looked up and said, “The crime scene unit found evidence of children, two unfinished breakfasts and a school bag.”
I looked at my watch. The kids should be in school.
“Find the children; see if our witness knows which school they attend.”
A low buzz emanated from my belt. I stopped its vibration swiftly and checked the display on my phone. ‘Unknown Caller’ flashed above a number I didn’t recognize.
“Mac, any ideas?” I passed him the phone.
He grimaced and sighed. “My brother, that’s his work number.”
We let the call go unanswered. Mac voiced my thoughts, “It’s too early in the case for him to think he’s been targeted by the killer.”
We all sniggered unkindly. Now that’s something I nev
er wanted to see. An image of Eddie’s overweight donut-stuffed body tied up with golden ribbons!
“You’d think,” I replied. My mind was now playing reruns of the life of Eddie Connelly: Eddie the Hero; Eddie the Victim; Eddie on the Run; and all of it in his own private fantasy world. I halted the amusing memories; it wasn’t the time. “Where were we?”
“I’ll get on with a nationwide search on the signature,” Sam replied, “while we wait to hear back about any possible felons or similar unsolved cases in ViCAP.”
“Excellent. Stick a bulletin on LEO as well. Another agency or law enforcement community may have something that ties in.” In my opinion Law Enforcement Online is the best thing since Stephanie Kwolek invented Kevlar back in 1971. LEO is this groovy intranet for the law enforcement community. Everyone can keep in touch, send out bulletins and read updates to bulletins and announcements quickly. It probably saves as many lives as a bulletproof vest. I stood up and checked my watch. All morning I’d had this feeling there was something I had to do but couldn’t narrow it down to a particular thing.
“I’ll be somewhere,” I said, unsure as to where somewhere actually was.
Mac, with an indulgent smile, said, “We’ll be in Fairfax. You can reach us on Ellie’s cell phone.”
“Good to see you again, Mac.” Sam shook his hand firmly. “I mean it, man. It’s good to have you on board. You are in, yeah?”
“No formal request. It’s supposed to be our day off, so thought I’d tag along.”
“I’ll get something in writing.”
“Cheers, just let me know when you get sick of me … I’ll hustle on back to Cyber and get paid to spend all day on MySpace and Twitter.”
Sam gave Mac a friendly jab to the upper arm. I knew from experience it was some male bonding thing and given more time and different circumstances, they’d wrestle each other to the ground or something equally grown-up.
Mac drove again and again I didn’t mind. The radio hummed underneath the whine of traffic. Mac leaned forward, cranked the volume and sang along as Bon Jovi’s ‘Have a Nice Day’ blared forth. The volume did little to disguise Mac’s voice. The next American Idol he was not.
He broke off from singing a few times to curse fellow drivers. The song gave way to the latest offering from Grange. My two favorite bands in a row – we’d stumbled upon a good radio station. I let my mind wander happily with the song and drift with the hunky lead singers.
More cussing brought me back to the present.
The car stopped. I expected Mac to leap out and accost whoever it was he last swore at, instead he opened my door for me.
He announced, “We’re here.”
I half expected here to be his mom’s house but it was a parking lot. This was a confusing development. I looked around until I saw a sign that read Inova Fairfax Hospital. Which didn’t help my confusion any.
“Why?” I asked.
Mac gave me one of those disbelieving looks. “Your appointment with the neurologist.”
“On a Sunday?”
He may as well have spoken Manchurian for all the sense he made. I searched my memory and still had no idea what he was talking about, which I think he realized.
“Ellie … it’s a follow-up from your smack on the head last year.”
Damn, we still on that? I thought we were over the whole fractured skull/coma thing. I didn’t remember having an appointment.
“On a Sunday?”
“We thought Sunday would be better than midweek, and the doc works weekends; who knew?”
“Oh, right, now I remember,” I said, trying to sound convincing.
He grinned at me. “You still have no fuc’n idea, do you?”
“Not a one,” I replied. “Works Sundays? Sees patients? Man, he’s dedicated.”
“He’s seeing you. He’s usually only here Sundays to do rounds.”
We made our way to the doctor’s reception desk and then through to the waiting room.
I sat. Stood. Paced. Repeated the cycle several times.
My watch said we’d been waiting for half an hour. Thirty-minutes! Surely, it wasn’t that difficult to run on time; why didn’t they just allow the correct amount of time per patient? I remembered what Mac told me about Leon working weekends. If he was only here doing rounds and to see me, then I really expected punctuality.
I checked my watch again. “Five more minutes and we’re out of here. I don’t have time for this waiting shit.”
I leaned on the windowsill and glowered through the hazy film that had built up on the outside of the window. I knew Mac was grinning. I also knew he hated waiting as much as I did. My phone hummed once then silently vibrated on my hip. I checked it, hoping it would provide me with an excuse to leave.
“You’re not supposed to have your phone on inside the hospital,” Mac reprimanded, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Tough. I’m sure they’ll get over it. If we hadn’t waited so long we’d have been out of the hospital by the time he texted me anyway.”
He nodded, as if he agreed with me but I knew better; he was being agreeable.
“Who is it?”
“Caine, he wants us in the office A-sap.” I started for the door only to find Mac’s hand firmly on my elbow.
“No you don’t. You’re having this check-up.”
“A-sap,” I said, attempting to extradite my arm from his grip. “He said A-sap.”
“He’ll wait. He wouldn’t want you to miss this either.”
Damn! No escape.
A young nurse poked her head around the door. “Gabrielle Conway?”
Mac’s hand squeezed my arm, prompting me to reply to the nurse. “Yes,” I said.
She smiled, revealing teeth covered in colorful braces. “Dr. Kapowski will see you now.”
“Great.” I sucked in my impatience and tried to ignore the thoughts generated on seeing braces. Since when did they hire twelve-year-olds as nurses? “Excellent,” I said, and gave her a quick smile.
The theme song to Doogie Howser, M.D. rampaged through my mind as we followed the teeny-bopper nurse to the doctor’s office. I finally succeeded in quelling the dreadful music with a deep breath and an internal ‘Shut up!’
A door opened and the nurse stepped aside, allowing us room to enter. Leon Kapowski stood up to greet us.
“Mac, good to see you again.” He leaned forward and clasped Mac’s hand, giving it a good hearty shake, then turned to me. “Ellie, how are you?”
“Okay.”
Mac’s smile didn’t escape me. I gave his upper arm a flick.
Leon gestured to the chairs by his desk. “Sit.”
Surprisingly, his command wasn’t accompanied by a hand signal. I had a quick look at my own hands; yes, I had hands, not paws. Opposable thumbs. No fur. I hadn’t suddenly become a puppy in obedience school.
“Have a seat? Is that what you meant to say?” I spoke without barking.
“Ellie, please have a seat,” Leon corrected.
We sat. The chairs were close enough for Mac to take my hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. I don’t like doctors but Leon was almost okay. Maybe the green scrubs made him seem less scary. He looked very like Hawkeye.
Damn, I’d done it again. Now I’d be stuck in Korea. Rain, mud and misery, here we come. Why couldn’t I have flashes from Grey’s Anatomy or ER? Even Scrubs would be a step in the right direction. And why does it always have to be old television programs?
Leon sat behind his desk and read quickly over my notes. Then looked at me. “Is there anything unusual you’ve noticed, Ellie?”
“No.”
“Headaches gone?” He came around his desk, pulled a black pen-like object from his upper pocket and without warning, shone a super-strength light into my eyes.
“Until you did that.”
He stopped shining the annoying light. “Headaches gone?”
“Mostly.”
“You don’t make this easy, do you?”
�
��I’m answering your questions.”
“Tell me about these mostly-gone headaches.” He rested back on the edge of his desk.
“It’s no big deal … migraine-type headaches, occasionally.”
“Describe what happens.”
“Oh … I get a numb or tingling arm, some gaps in my vision, sometimes I feel sick, the pain is intense and usually only on the right side of my head.”
He nodded. “It’s not uncommon for migraines to follow a head injury.”
“So it’s no big deal, right?”
He frowned. “Normally it’s no big deal.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Normally’ had a nasty ring to it.
“Anything else I need to know about?”
Hawkeye never frowned like that. Doctors shouldn’t frown, it’s unprofessional. Why was he still frowning?
Leon reached for my file, flipped it around, and skimmed a few pages. He asked a series of questions. I answered as well as I could. If he’d asked them about Mac, I could answer in detail but I don’t take much notice of myself. I know I should, but who has time? And Mac’s so good at watching over me.
I nodded. “I’m fine.” Mac nudged me and mouthed the word ‘nightmares.’ I attempted to silence him with a single crushing look but failed. My heart plummeted. Now the doc would ask me more questions. We’d never get out of here.
“Ellie?”
My mouth opened then shut before the words could escape.
“Ellie?”
I tried again and this time succeeded. “I have been having nightmares.”
“I think that is understandable considering what you both went through.” He paused and seemed to scrutinize me. I’m sure he did: doctors do that penetrating look thing that makes it appear as though they can see inside you. “How are you walking up or down stairs?”
Wow, didn’t expect that.
“Stairs? Usually with my feet – one after the other in a vertical motion.”
“Usually?”
“What? You’ve never felt the need to crawl up the stairs?”
Leon smiled. “No, have you?”
“Only when I’m really toasted.” After a tequila session.
“Are you going to answer my question regarding the stairs?”
Mac squeezed my hand. Jeez! “Okay, look, a couple of weeks ago I had trouble walking down some stairs but that was because of a migraine the day before.”