by Blake Pierce
Maynard Sanderson complained, “We brought you here to develop a profile. Instead, you’re just confusing the issue.”
Rigby shot the team leader a look that shut him up. Then he turned to Bill.
“And you?” Rigby demanded.
“No solid profile yet,” Bill said. “But I’ve learned to trust my partner’s instincts.”
Riley heard Havens snort with derision. Sanderson was obviously struggling to keep quiet.
Rigby snapped, “Interview Gannon. Get on it right away. That will be all.”
Riley had seldom heard orders more terse and blunt. Everybody was shifting in their chairs, getting ready to carry out Rigby’s command. But Sanderson seemed to have summoned up the courage to complain directly to his boss.
“Before we leave, I want to say for the record that Agents Jeffreys and Paige have insinuated themselves into this case much more than I’d expected—or wanted. When you said you were bringing in BAU people to help, I expected them to advise, not investigate. I’m not at all pleased—especially with Paige’s behavior yesterday.”
Rigby nodded.
“Agent Sanderson, your displeasure is noted. And disregarded.”
Sanderson looked punctured like a balloon. Riley almost felt sorry for him.
Rigby added, “If you and your team had come up with anything resembling a profile, I wouldn’t have had to ask the BAU for help. You have yourself and your subordinates to blame. Agents Jeffreys and Paige have carte blanche here in Seattle as far as I’m concerned. I expect you to follow their lead.”
As Rigby turned to leave, he stopped and locked gazes with Riley.
His look conveyed an unmistakable message.
I’d better watch my step from now on, Riley thought.
Without another word, Rigby strode out of the room. Wingert and Havens were hanging their heads like scolded puppies.
Riley exchanged looks with Bill. She could see that he was as dumbfounded as she was.
Sanderson was struggling to regain his dignity and some semblance of command.
“You’ve heard your orders,” he said to all present. “Find out where Keith Gannon is and interview him right away.”
Riley didn’t much look forward to charging into someone else’s house with Wingert and Havens. Besides, she felt a hunch coming on.
“Agent Sanderson, I’d like to take some time to pursue a theory of my own,” she said.
Sanderson growled, “Hell, go right ahead. You heard what Rigby said. Carte blanche. You’re like royalty here. Go ahead and waste your own time. My people will solve the case.”
Sanderson shoved his notes into his briefcase and strode out of the room. Wingert and Havens conferred with Roff, who was searching for Keith Gannon’s address and contact information.
Bill leaned over to Riley.
“Coming up with an idea?” he asked quietly.
“Nothing solid yet,” she said.
“Want my help?”
Riley was about to say yes, but after a glance at Wingert and Havens decided otherwise.
“I think you’d better stick with Tweedledum and Tweedledee and make sure they don’t screw things up,” she said. “Keith Gannon might be a viable suspect or he might have some sort of connection to the killer, but I don’t trust them to find out on their own.”
Bill nodded and joined the group talking to Roff.
Riley stepped out of the FBI meeting room and into the hallway. She took out her cell phone and called the Seattle medical examiner’s office. The receptionist quickly connected her with Prisha Shankar. The chief medical examiner’s calm, professional voice came as a relief after the tense meeting.
“Hello, Agent Paige,” Shankar said. “How is the case going?”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Are you navigating the political waters successfully?” Shankar asked.
Riley smiled a little. She hadn’t planned to discuss the local power plays, but she was glad Shankar had brought the matter up.
“It’s pretty tricky going,” Riley said. “I just came out of a meeting with Sean Rigby and Maynard Sanderson.”
Riley thought she detected a hint of a chuckle.
“Oh, dear,” Shankar said. “Those two are like oil and water.”
“What’s the problem between them?”
“They’ve been rivals for years, ever since they were rookies. Rigby recently got promoted to division chief, the top of one food chain. He’s determined to lord it over Sanderson. He wants to make sure that Sanderson never gets to be more than a team leader. He’d just love to find an excuse to bust him down to a lowly field agent. Just try to stay out of their crossfire. You’ll be OK.”
Riley sighed.
“Easier said than done. Rigby wants us here, Sanderson doesn’t. We’re right in the middle. I’m afraid they think of Agent Jeffreys and me as pieces in their little chess game.”
“I see. Well, just remember, you’re a pair of BAU hotshots and they’re just a couple of local flunkies.”
Riley laughed a little. Seattle was a major city and the FBI agents were hardly powerless. Even so, Shankar’s dryly irreverent tone was somehow reassuring. Riley wished that a thoroughgoing professional like Shankar was in charge of the investigation.
“I don’t assume you called me to talk about all that,” Shankar said.
“No,” Riley said. “I just wanted to pick your brain a little.”
“I’d love to help.”
Riley paused to think for a moment.
“I’ve never worked a case just like this before,” Riley said. “Do you think it’s possible that our serial killer is a healthcare professional?”
“Could be,” Shankar said. “I’m not the best person to ask, though. The person you want to talk to is Solange Landis. She’s the director of the Tate School of Nursing here in town. I’ll put you in touch with her.”
“She’s familiar with this question?”
“She’s studied it long and hard,” Shankar assured her. “Landis has presented papers at academic conferences and even served as an FBI consultant.”
“Well then, thanks for the contact,” Riley said.
Shankar added, “Ask her to tell you all about the Angel of Death.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The cafe where Solange Landis had agreed to meet Riley was a pleasant change after the turbulent atmosphere at the FBI building. Riley gazed around at the large images of water and sky painted on the walls. Live flowers in a vase on their table added to the feeling that they were sitting outdoors on a sunny day. She sipped her coffee and waited patiently for the information she was seeking.
“So you want to know about the Angel of Death,” Landis said. She seemed to savor the phrase.
The nursing school director was a sharp-dressed woman, wearing a business suit rather than a uniform. Her dark hair was carefully styled and showed no sign of gray. It was clear to Riley that this woman had gone to some trouble to create an efficient and ageless appearance.
“Dr. Shankar said you had some knowledge of the subject,” Riley said.
“Indeed I have. I’ve given it quite a lot of study.”
“The ‘Angel of Death’ refers to a certain type of killer,” she said. “A killer who poses as a medical caregiver—or if you prefer, a caregiver who abuses his or her trusted role in order to kill. And I take it you think that this killer you’re looking for might fit that profile.”
“It’s only a theory,” Riley said. “Hardly even that yet. Little more than a hunch. And it’s out of my area of expertise. The FBI doesn’t get called in on such cases often. I’ve been told that’s because medical co-workers go into denial while the killings are going on. They don’t want to believe that such a thing is happening right under their noses.”
Solange Landis nodded in agreement.
“Yes, and by the time they have to admit what’s going on, the identity of the killer is pretty obvious. There’s not much investigating left to do. S
uch cases are very rare, of course. My guess is that your hunch is a real long shot.”
“Could you tell me about some specific cases?” Riley asked.
Landis shrugged. “Well, the most notorious case is surely Dr. Josef Mengele, the Nazi concentration camp physician who performed hideous experiments on prisoners. He was said to whistle happy tunes while committing his crimes, and charmed his child victims with smiles and candy, getting them to call him ‘Uncle Mengele’ before he tortured and killed them.”
Riley shuddered at the thought.
“You look shocked,” Landis said with a note of curiosity. “I wonder why.”
“That kind of evil is hard to fathom.”
Landis smiled.
“Even for a seasoned FBI agent?” she asked. “Tell me, how was Dr. Mengele any different from other monsters that you’ve known?”
Riley was startled. She had to admit it was a valid question. Just during the last year, she’d hunted killers who had whipped and starved victims, tormented others with chains, or humiliated women even in death by grotesquely posing their naked corpses.
“Of course, Mengele tortured and killed thousands,” Landis said. “The criminals you bring to justice aren’t nearly so prolific. But I think it’s wise not to try to quantify evil—to say that one monster is more evil than another just because of the numbers of people they kill. The thing that most strikes me about evil is its sameness. It seems to me that monsters are pretty much alike. But you’ve had much more hands-on experience with monsters than I. What do you think?”
Riley didn’t know what to say. The conversation had taken a turn that she hadn’t expected—a strange turn that somehow bothered her.
“I suppose I scare you a little bit,” Landis said with a rather dark grin. “I tend to have that effect on people. After all, I run a school that teaches the healing arts. You’re probably wondering why I should be fascinated by so-called healers who abuse their trust to torture and kill. Why do I go to so much trouble to learn about them?”
“That question did cross my mind,” Riley said.
Landis squinted in thought for a moment.
“I’m sure you know the motto of my profession,” she said. “‘First, do no harm.’ I take that motto very much to heart. I teach my students to do so as well. But I think that the saying ‘Know thyself’ is just as important. Evil creeps up on us unawares, and before we know it, we become complicit in it.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Riley said.
Landis took another slow sip of her coffee, then said, “Consider the case of Genene Jones, the pediatric nurse who killed babies in Texas hospitals. At one of those hospitals, the staff noticed that an unusual number of babies were dying. But the staff fell prey to that denial we just talked about. They just couldn’t bring the truth out in the open. So instead of tracking down the killer, they got rid of all their children’s intensive care nurses and restaffed the unit. Genene just moved on to another hospital, where she killed six more babies before she was caught. Was that negligent staff any less guilty of those murders than Genene Jones herself?”
Landis leaned toward Riley and spoke with quiet passion.
“I truly believe that denial is our most dangerous enemy. And that motto—‘First, do no harm’—doesn’t it suggest that even the kindest and gentlest of us has a capacity to do harm? And how can we heal others when we also harbor the desire to hurt? Because we do, you know. Cruel demons reside in all of us.”
Landis paused, holding Riley’s gaze.
“You must know quite a lot about demons,” she said. “I imagine you have a few demons of your own.”
Riley shivered as a memory came flooding back.
She had caught up with Peterson.
He was monster who had kept both Riley and April in cages.
He had tormented them in the dark with a propane torch.
Riley’s lust for revenge was overwhelming—as cold and cruel as the shallow river where they both stood knee-deep in water.
She lifted a sharp, heavy rock and smashed him in the head with it.
He fell down, and she struck him again and again.
She crushed his face as the river turned red with blood.
She snapped herself out of her memory. Solange Landis was still gazing at her intently.
“The most terrible thing about evil is that it’s easy,” Landis said.
Riley was deeply unsettled now. She sensed that Landis also harbored some memory of inflicting harm, of deliberate cruelty.
What might it be? Riley wondered.
Suddenly, Landis smiled that disarming, impish smile of hers.
“Of course, some Angels of Death pose as Angels of Mercy. You’ve probably heard of Richard Angelo, who poisoned patients in West Islip, New York, during the 1980s. His goal was to save their lives and convince the world that he was a hero. But more of his patients died than were saved. Do you think your killer might be of that type?”
Riley shook her head.
“I don’t think so. Ours administers his poisons and then leaves the patients to die. He’s got no interest in saving them. The lag between poisonings and death is part of why he’s proving so elusive.”
“I see,” Landis said. “But you haven’t told me what substances he uses.”
“Thallium seems to be his poison of choice.”
Landis looked surprised.
“Thallium? Oh, then I wonder if you’re looking for a medical caregiver at all. Thallium has almost no medical uses to speak of. Angels of Death tend to use medications that they have at hand—muscle relaxants, painkillers, and the like. I’m afraid you might be wasting your time even talking to me.”
“It doesn’t seem to be pure thallium,” Riley said. “It’s some kind of a cocktail. Dr. Shankar said that it contained traces of Prussian blue—an antidote to thallium. Are Angels of Death ever inclined toward experimenting on their victims?”
“Very rarely, but …”
Landis fell silent for a moment.
“Someone comes to mind … but I’m reluctant to say anything.”
Landis fell silent, staring into space.
“I really need to know,” Riley urged her.
“Well …” the nursing director said, then stopped again. After a moment she looked directly at Riley and continued, “There’s a former student of mine, Maxine Crowe. She graduated several years ago. I was fond of her, and she was very bright. But lately, she’s been in some trouble. She got fired from a hospital job. I gather it was because she experimented with medications. She’s still working—doing home care work, I believe. I hate to think that she might be your killer, and I don’t want to get her into further trouble. But she always had an odd streak, and there have been rumors. I can help you find her. I’ll call my secretary.”
Landis took out her cell phone and dialed a number. She asked her secretary for Maxine Crowe’s contact information, then waited.
Riley felt skeptical.
“I don’t know about this, Landis,” Riley said. “An ‘odd streak’ isn’t much of a reason to suspect someone of murder.”
Landis’s smile faded away.
“Is that true, Agent Paige? How do you know? My guess is that most murders go completely undetected. Who knows who might commit them?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Bill watched closely as Agents Wingert and Havens fired questions at the suspect. The man sitting on a box in the corner glared up at them, an adolescent sneer on his face. Bill guessed him to be about thirty, but he had the manner of a snotty high school kid who’d just been hauled into the principal’s office.
They were in the stockroom of a convenience store interviewing Keith Gannon, whose ex-wife had once accused him of trying to poison her. Bill stood back and gave Wingert and Havens room to work. At least they weren’t making a mess of things this time and he wanted to observe how the suspect responded.
“We hear that you’ve got a short temper,” Havens told Gannon.
&
nbsp; “Yeah, we hear that it’s what got you fired from your job as a hospital orderly,” Wingert added.
“That’s right,” Gannon replied. “I punched out another orderly.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I didn’t like him. Why does anybody punch out anybody? Hey, are you going to haul me down to the station or someplace for questioning? Because I sure hate this job, and I’d love to have an excuse to clock out early.”
Havens took a step toward him.
“Did you poison your wife?” he asked.
Gannon shrugged.
“You asked me that question three times already,” he said.
“And you still haven’t answered,” Wingert said.
Gannon let out a rude snort of laughter.
“Look, I keep saying. First, she’s not my wife anymore. We’re divorced. Second, she’s alive, isn’t she? What more do you need to know about it?”
Bill crossed his arms and listened as Gannon kept playing games with Wingert and Havens. So far, Bill wasn’t sure whether the guy was actually a viable suspect. And of course, Riley seemed to be sure the killer wasn’t a guy at all.
Bill decided to just let Wingert and Havens keep doing what they were doing. But the whole case was troubling him … the discussion of poisoning triggered terrible memories that he’d been keeping at bay for days now.
Bill and his brother were standing at the base of the stairs. Dad was helping Mom come down the stairs. Her whole weight was on him, and she couldn’t support herself, she was so weak from an hour of vomiting and nausea. She was pale and sweating and crying from the pain.
There was panic in Dad’s eyes.
“We’re going to the hospital,” he said.
Bill shoved the memory from his mind. He tried to focus on the man being questioned. The one who had worked in a hospital.
But he heard himself say aloud, “She was crying from the pain.”
“What?” Wingert asked. Both he and Havens jerked around to face Bill.
Bill shook his head to try to clear it. An idea was forming and he couldn’t push it aside. He stepped forward and grabbed Gannon by the front of his shirt, pulling him to his feet.