The FBI Profiler Series 6-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  She had found the victim. She’d stood alone with her in the dark shadows of the woods. She couldn’t walk away from her now if she tried.

  Kimberly followed the address she’d received from the Marine base. She’d asked about the NCIS investigator while there, only to discover he’d already left to observe the victim’s autopsy at the morgue.

  In the good news department, Special Agent Kaplan’s presence at the autopsy gave Kimberly a better excuse for insinuating herself into the procedure. She’d just come to talk to him, but hey, as long as she was there …

  In the bad news department, an experienced special agent was probably going to be a bit savvier about a new agent trying to horn in on his investigation than an overworked ME.

  That’s why Mac had volunteered her for this mission after all. No one was going to let another cop into the case. A mere student, on the other hand … Play to your weaknesses, he’d advised her. No one ever suspects the small, bewildered rookie.

  Kimberly parked her car outside the nondescript five-story building. She took a deep breath. She wondered if her father had ever felt this nervous before a case. Then again, had he ever gone off the beaten path? Risked everything to learn the truth for yet another dead girl in a world of so many murdered blondes?

  Her cool remote father. She couldn’t picture it. Somehow that bolstered her spirits. She squared her shoulders and got on with it.

  Inside, the odor hit her at once. Too antiseptic, too sterile. The smell of a place that definitely had things to hide. She went to the glass-enclosed receptionist area, made her request, and was grateful when the woman buzzed her straight through.

  Kimberly followed a long corridor with stark walls and linoleum floors all the way to the back. Here and there metal gurneys were shoved up against bone-colored walls. Steel-gray doors led off other places, security boxes demanding access codes she didn’t have. The air was colder in here. Her footsteps rang out with a startling echo, while the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

  Her hands were trembling at her sides. She could feel the first trickle of sweat slide stickily down her back. Being inside this cool place should’ve been a welcome relief from the stifling outdoor heat. It wasn’t.

  At the end of the hallway, she pushed through a wooden door into a new lobby area. This is where the ME’s offices were housed. She pressed a buzzer, and wasn’t horribly surprised when a door cracked open, and Special Agent Kaplan poked out his head.

  “You lookin’ for the ME? He’s busy.”

  “Actually, I’m looking for you.”

  Special Agent Kaplan straightened in the doorway. This close Kimberly could see the faint sheen of silver mixed into his dark, buzz-cut hair. He had a weathered face, stern eyes, and thin lips that reserved judgment before smiling. Not a cruel man, but a hard one. He was the guy, after all, who kept all of the Navy plus the Marines in line.

  This was not going to be easy.

  “New Agent Kimberly Quincy,” Kimberly said, and stuck out her hand.

  He accepted the handshake. His grip was firm, his expression wary. “You had quite a ride.”

  “I understand you have questions for me. Given my schedule, I thought it might be easier if I found you. At the Marine base, they said you were here. So I decided to make the drive.”

  “Your supervisor know you left the Academy?”

  “I didn’t mention it to him directly. When I spoke with him this morning, however, he underscored the importance of cooperating fully with NCIS’s investigation. Naturally I assured him I would do whatever I could to help.”

  “Uh huh,” Kaplan said. And that was it. He stood, he stared, and he let the silence drag on and on and on. If this man had kids, they never snuck out at night.

  Kimberly’s fingers desperately wanted to fidget. She stuck them into her pockets and wished once more she were carrying her Glock. It was tough to project confidence when you were armed with a red-painted toy.

  “I understand you visited my crime scene,” Kaplan said abruptly.

  “I stopped by.”

  “Gave the boys quite a scare.”

  “With all due respect, sir, your boys scare easily.”

  Kaplan’s lips finally cracked into a ghostly semblance of a smile. “I told them the same,” he said, and for a moment they were coconspirators. Then the moment passed. “Why are you crowding my case, New Agent Quincy? Hasn’t your father taught you better than that?”

  Kimberly’s shoulders immediately went rigid. She caught the motion, then forced herself to breathe easy. “I didn’t apply to the Academy because my interests ran to sewing.”

  “So this is an academic study to you?”

  “No.”

  That made him frown. “I’ll ask one more time: why are you here, New Agent Quincy?”

  “Because I found her, sir.”

  “Because you found her?”

  “Yes, sir. And what I start, I like to finish. My father taught me that.”

  “It’s not your case to finish.”

  “No, sir. It’s your case to finish. Absolutely. I’m just a student. But I’m hoping you’ll be kind enough to let me watch.”

  “Kind? No one calls me kind.”

  “Letting a green rookie watch an autopsy and puke her guts out won’t change your image, sir.”

  Now he did smile. It changed the contours of his whole face, made him handsome, even approachable. The human in him came out, and Kimberly thought she had hope yet.

  “You ever see an autopsy, New Agent Quincy?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s not the blood that will get you. It’s the smell. Or maybe the whine of the buzz saw when it hits the skull. Think you’re up to it?”

  “I’m pretty sure I’ll be sick, sir.”

  “Then by all means, come on back. The things I gotta do to educate the Feebies,” Kaplan muttered. He shook his head. Then he opened the door and let her into the cold, sterile room.

  Tina was going to be sick. She was trying desperately to control the reflex. Her stomach was clenching, her throat tightening. Bile surged upward. Bitterly, harshly, she forced it back down.

  Her mouth was duct-taped shut. If she started vomiting now, she was terrified she’d drown.

  She curled up tighter in a ball. That seemed to alleviate some of the cramping in her lower abdomen. Maybe it bought her another few minutes. And then? She didn’t know anymore.

  She lived in a black tomb of darkness. She saw nothing. She heard very little. Her hands were behind her back, but at least not taped too tight. Her ankles seemed bound as well. If she wiggled her feet, she could get the tape to make a squishy sound, and earn herself some extra room.

  The tape didn’t really matter, though. She’d figured that out hours before. The real prison wasn’t the duct tape around her limbs. It was the locked plastic container that held her body. It was too dark to be sure, but given the approximate size, the metal gate in the front, and the holes that marked the top—where she could press her cheek—she had a feeling that she’d been thrown into a very large animal carrier. Honest to goodness. She was trapped in a dog crate.

  She’d cried a bit in the beginning. Then she’d gotten so angry she’d thrashed against the plastic, hurling herself at the metal door. All she had to show for that tantrum was a bruised shoulder and banged-up knees.

  She’d slept after that. Too exhausted by fear and pain to know what to do next. When she’d woken up, the duct tape had been removed from her mouth and a gallon jug of water was in the crate with her, along with an energy bar. She’d been tempted to refuse the offering out of spite—she was no trained monkey! But then she’d thought of her unborn baby, and she’d consumed the water greedily while eating the protein bar.

  She thought the water might have been drugged, though. Because no sooner had she drunk it than she fell deeply asleep. When she woke up again, the tape was back over her mouth, and the wrapper from the energy bar had been taken away.

  She’d wanted to c
ry again. Drugs couldn’t be good. Not for her. And not for her unborn child.

  Funny, four weeks ago, she hadn’t even been sure she wanted a baby. But then Betsy had brought home the Mayo Clinic book on child development and together they’d looked at all the pictures. Tina knew now that, at six weeks past conception, her baby was already half an inch long. It had a big head with eyes but no eyelids and it had little arms and little legs with paddlelike hands and feet. In another week, her baby would double to being one inch long and the hands and feet would develop tiny webbed fingers and teensy little toes until her baby looked like the world’s cutest lima bean.

  In other words, her baby was already a baby. A tiny, precious, something Tina couldn’t wait to hold one day in her arms. And Tina had better enjoy that moment because her mother would be killing her shortly thereafter.

  Her mom. Oh God, even the thought of her mother made her want to weep. If anything happened to Tina … Life was too unfair sometimes to a grown woman who had worked so hard in the hope that her daughter would have a better life.

  Tina had to be more alert. She had to pay more attention. She wasn’t going to just disappear like this, dammit. She refused to be a stupid statistic. She strained her ears again. Struggled for some hint of what might be going on.

  Tina was pretty sure she was in a vehicle. She could feel movement, but it confused her that she couldn’t see. Maybe the crate was in the back of a covered pickup bed, or a blacked-out van. She didn’t think it was night, though without being able to glance at her watch she had no idea how much time had passed. She’d slept for a long while, she thought. The drugs, then the fear, having taken their toll.

  She felt isolated. The pitch black was too sterile, devoid of even the soft whisper of someone else’s breath, let alone whimpers of fear. Whatever else was back here, she was pretty sure she was the only living thing. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe she was the only person he’d kidnapped then. He’d taken just her.

  But somehow, she doubted that and it made her want to weep.

  She didn’t know why he was doing this. Was he a pervert who kidnapped college girls to take them to his sick hideaway, where he would do unspeakable things? She was still fully clothed, however. Down to her three-inch sandals. He’d also left her her purse. She didn’t think a pervert would do such a thing.

  Maybe he was a slave trader. She’d heard stories. A white girl could fetch a lot of money overseas. Maybe she’d end up in a harem, or working in some sleazy bar in Bangkok. Well, wouldn’t they be in for a big surprise when their pretty young thing suddenly grew big and fat. That would teach them to snatch first and talk later.

  Her child born into slavery, prostitution, porn …

  The bile rose up in her throat again. She grimly fought it back.

  I can’t be sick, she tried telling her tummy. You have to give me a break. We’re in this together. I’ll figure out a way to get out of the crate. You have to hold down all food and water. We don’t have much to work with here, you know. We have to make these calories count.

  Which was very important actually, because as perverse as it sounded, the less Tina had to eat, the worse her nausea became. Basically, food made her sick and lack of food made her sicker.

  Belatedly, Tina was aware that the motion was decelerating. She strained her ears and detected the slight squeak of brakes. The vehicle had stopped.

  Immediately her body tensed. Her hands fumbled behind her. They found her black shoulder bag, gripping it tight like a weapon. Not that it would do her any good with her hands bound behind her back. But she had to do something. Anything was better than simply waiting for what would happen next.…

  A door suddenly rolled back. Bright sunlight penetrated the vehicle, making her blink owlishly, and in the next instant, she was aware of an intense wall of heat. Oh God, it was boiling outside. She shrank back, but couldn’t avoid the scorching air.

  A man stood in the open doorway. His features were a black shroud haloed by the sunlight behind him. His arm came up and a cellophane package fell between the plastic bars. Then another and another.

  “Do you have water?” he asked.

  She tried to speak, then remembered the tape over her mouth. She did have water, but she wanted more, so she shook her head.

  “You should ration your supplies more carefully,” the man scolded.

  She wanted to spit at him. She shrugged instead.

  “I’ll give you another jug. But that’s it. Understood?”

  What did he mean by “that’s it”? That’s it before he set her free? Or that’s it before he raped her, killed her, or sold her to a bunch of sick twisted men?

  Her stomach was roiling again. She closed her eyes to savagely fight it back.

  Next thing she felt was a prick on the arm. A damn needle. The drugs, oh no …

  Her muscles melted as if trained. She slumped against the side of the dog crate, the world already fading away. The kennel door opened. A jug of water materialized in her crate. A hand casually ripped the tape from her mouth. Her lips stung. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.

  “Eat, drink,” the man said quietly. “By nightfall, you’re going to need your strength.”

  The kennel door snapped shut. The van door rolled closed. No more sunlight. No more heat.

  Tina slid down to the floor of the dog crate. Her legs came up. Her body curled up protectively around her belly. Then the drugs won this battle and swept her far away.

  CHAPTER 11

  Quantico, Virginia

  3:14 P.M.

  Temperature: 98 degrees

  They hadn’t gotten very far with the postmortem. Kimberly wasn’t surprised. Most autopsies were scheduled for days after the recovery of the body, not hours. Either things were slow at the moment, or an NCIS investigation carried some hefty weight.

  Special Agent Kaplan introduced her to the medical examiner, Dr. Corben, and then to his assistant, Gina Nitsche.

  “Your first post?” Nitsche asked, wheeling in the body with quick efficiency.

  Kimberly nodded.

  “If you’re gonna puke, don’t ask, just leave,” Nitsche said cheerfully. “I got enough to clean up after this.” She continued talking briskly, while unzipping the body bag and folding back the plastic. “I’m called a diener. Technically speaking, Dr. Corben is the prosector. He’ll handle all the protocol and I’ll do what I’m told. Usual procedure is that the body arrives a day or two earlier and is logged in, in a separate area. We inventory clothes and possessions, take the weight, give the body an official tag with an ID number. Given time constraints, however,” Nitsche shot Kaplan a look, “this time we’re doing it all as we go. Oh, and while I’m thinking about it, there’s a box of gloves on the side table. The cupboard has extra caps and gowns. Help yourself.”

  Kimberly glanced toward the cupboard uncertainly, and Nitsche, as if she were reading her mind, added, “You know, ’cause sometimes they splatter.”

  Kimberly went to the cupboard and found herself a cap to cover her short feathery hair and a gown to cover her clothes. She noticed that Special Agent Kaplan followed her over and also snagged a set of protective gear. He’d brought his own pair of gloves. She borrowed her pair from the ME’s supply.

  Nitsche had finished unwrapping the body now. First she’d pulled back the external layer of heavy-duty plastic. Next, she’d unfolded a plain white sheet. Finally, she unpeeled the internal layer of plastic, much like a dry cleaning bag, which was what came into contact with the corpse’s skin. Nitsche folded each layer down around the base of the gurney. Then she methodically inventoried the dead girl’s clothing and jewelry, while Dr. Corben prepped the autopsy table.

  “I inventoried her purse before coming in,” Nitsche said conversationally. “Poor thing had brochures from a travel agency for Hawaii. I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii. Do you think she was going with a boyfriend? Because if she was going with a boyfriend, well then, he’s available again, and God knows I need s
omeone to take me away from here. All right. We’re ready.”

  She wheeled the gurney over to the cutting table. She and Dr. Corben had obviously done this many times before. He moved to the head. She moved to the feet. On the count of three, they slid the now naked corpse from the gurney onto the metal slab. Then Nitsche wheeled the gurney away.

  “Testing, testing,” Dr. Corben said into his recording equipment. Satisfied that it was working, he got down to business.

  First, the ME catalogued the victim’s naked body. He described her sex, age, height, weight, and hair and eye color. He commented that she appeared in good health (other than the fact that she was dead? Kimberly thought). He also listed the presence of a tattoo, shape of a rose, approximately one inch in size, on the deceased’s upper left breast.

  Victim and deceased. Dr. Corben used those words a lot. Kimberly began to think this was the heart of her problem. She never thought in terms of victim or deceased. Instead, she thought in terms such as young, pretty, blond, girl. If she was supposed to be a dispassionate, world-weary death investigator, she hadn’t achieved it yet.

  Dr. Corben had moved on to perceived injuries. He described the large bruise on the girl’s—the victim’s—upper left hip, his gloved hand poking and prodding at the waxy skin. “Victim has presence of large ecchymosis, approximately four inches in diameter, on the upper left thigh. Center area is red and swollen, approximately one and a half inches around puncture site. It’s an abnormal amount of bruising for an intramuscular injection. Perhaps the result of inexperience or a large-bore needle.”

  Special Agent Kaplan frowned at that and made a gesture with his hand. Dr. Corben snapped off the minirecorder in his hand. “What do you mean, a large-bore needle?” Kaplan asked.

  “Different needle gauges have different thicknesses. For example, in the medical community, when we give injections we use an eighteen-gauge needle, which slides very easily into a vein. Administered correctly, it can be done with relatively little bruising. Now, this injection site has a great deal of bruising. And not just of the muscle area. This center spot where it’s red and swollen—that’s where the needle punctured the skin. The size of the aggravation leads me to believe that either it was a needle wielded with a fair amount of force, really, truly stabbed into the thigh, or it was an abnormally large needle.”