by L. T. Vargus
“Just trying to figure out if you’re all pensive and morose for a reason, or if it’s only jet lag.”
“I am not pensive and morose.”
Shrugging, Loshak reached for a bottle of Tabasco. He uncapped the lid and liberally splatted the red sauce over his plate.
“Why are you so worried about it, anyway? Shouldn’t you be using all that profiling brain power in a more productive way? Like, figuring out the best way to catch this guy?”
“Have it your way, Sullen Sally. I’m only trying to help,” he said, then wiggled his fingers at his head. “Besides, you gotta let this stuff stew sometimes, you know? Give it a chance to percolate.”
Yeah, right, Darger thought. Loshak was like a hound that was supposed to be duck hunting but caught the scent of a skunk and just couldn’t resist.
She shoveled a mound of hash browns into her mouth. Chewed. Swallowed.
Then again, he had asked. And it was bugging her.
“Don’t you get sick of being treated like the outsider wherever we go? I feel like every new case is another boulder stuck at the bottom of the hill. We’re on one side trying our damnedest to get it up the slope, and the locals are on the other side pushing back the other way.”
“Ah. So this is about Agent Baxter.”
“Not just him. Everyone.”
“You against the world. Is that it? You’re not the type that has to be liked by everyone, are you?”
“No. Nobody has to like me. But if they aren’t going to be productive, then the least they could do is stay the fuck out of my way. Our way.”
Loshak raised his coffee cup in a sort of toast.
“I do admire your tenacity.”
“But?”
“No buts,” he said. “Well, maybe a small one. Don’t get so fixated on proving people wrong that you forget what the real job is.”
“I won’t.”
“And look, if you’re upset about his little dig about the Vanity Fair article, don’t be. He’s probably jealous. I know you didn’t really want to do it.”
Darger narrowed her eyes across the table.
“You’re just trying to butter me up because you ditched me.”
“Ditched you?”
“We were both supposed to be in that feature, remember?”
He pursed his lips, the picture of innocence.
“Guess they must have decided they didn’t need me after all. I’m sure once they interviewed you, they realized they had all they need.”
She scoffed.
“You are so full of crap, Loshak. The reporter specifically asked me how to get in touch with you, because you weren’t answering your phone or returning her messages.”
“Messages? I didn’t get any messages.”
“Liar.”
“What do you want from me? A pound of flesh? A pint of blood? Name it.”
Darger squinted at him, then snatched a piece of bacon from his plate.
“This is a start,” she said and popped it into her mouth.
Violet stifled a yawn on the elevator ride up to her hotel room.
“You should try to get a little sleep before the meeting,” Loshak said. The bastard never missed anything, did he? “I have a feeling we’re going to be putting in some long hours on this one.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” she answered as they exited the elevator and moved into the hall.
She slid her key card through the scanner. The light turned green, and she heard the click of the door unlocking. Loshak gave a farewell wave before disappearing into his own room down the hall.
Inside, Violet didn’t bother to fully unpack. She only unzipped her suitcase to grab her toothbrush, and then she made a beeline for the shower. She felt a palpable sense of relief when she finally slid the bridesmaids dress off. Part of her had started to worry she might never be able to change clothes again.
As the hot water soaked into her hair and onto her scalp and down over her shoulders, it occurred to her that it had felt that way, in part, because these attacks seemed almost apocalyptic in nature. Chaos pushed to the nth degree. Violence and wrath raining down upon them as if from a vengeful god.
But the world wasn’t ending. Not yet.
The thought of trying to live out the rest of her days in a post-apocalyptic landscape dressed like a beauty pageant reject made Violet snort, and then the hot water lulled her into a daze for a time.
Fluffed and dried and dressed in fresh clothes, Darger flopped onto her bed. The memory foam squished pleasantly beneath her.
She closed her eyes and saw the red and white of the blood-stained sheet covering the woman from that morning’s crime scene. Her eyelids snapped open.
She’d have that image burned into her mind for a good long while.
She sat up, leaning her back against the scratched and pocked MDF headboard. So much for sleep.
Instead, she got her phone and did the same thing she’d done every spare minute for the past week: pored over Leonard Stump’s journal.
The remains of the first two Stump victims were found burned in the trunk of the family car, a mother and her teenage daughter. They were tourists, in town for the week at a ski resort in Telluride, Colorado. Presumably, they'd been abducted four days earlier in a parking lot outside of a nearby state park.
This set the pattern for Stump's crimes. Always pairs. Always abducted and held onto for three to four days before the murders were carried out and the bodies burned.
Over the next three years, Stump claimed twelve more victims officially, though speculation among law enforcement put the total as high as 37. Many of the bodies were never found, which made it difficult to be certain.
Of course, he discussed none of these details in his journal. He was, he claimed, an innocent man.
A sharp rap at the door startled her upright and out of her reading. A glance at the clock revealed that she’d been at it for over an hour and a half. Jesus, had she really lost that much time? She scolded herself. She needed to be focused on the active shooter. Not a serial killer from nearly twenty years ago.
The peephole showed an oddly distorted version of Loshak waiting in front of her door. She turned the handle and opened it wide.
“Manage to get any sleep?” he asked, handing her a cup of coffee before breezing past.
“A little,” she lied.
She didn’t know why, but she didn’t want Loshak to know how deep she’d gone into the Stump file. She had a feeling he wouldn’t approve. Not just because of the potential distraction from their current work. He would say something like, “We see enough, read enough, hear enough gruesome shit in our work life. You need boundaries or the work will consume you.”
As if he would apply that same rule to himself.
“Good,” he said and crossed the room to settle into a chair. “Ready to sketch out a profile before we head out?”
She picked up her phone and closed the Stump journal file.
“Ready.”
Chapter 10
Darger’s gaze flitted about the conference room. There were no windows, just the artificial glow of fluorescent lights. Rows of tables were arranged classroom style, all facing the front of the room, and Darger felt a little bit like she was back in one of her agent trainee classes at the Academy. At least the chairs were fairly comfortable, she thought, leaning into the padded backrest.
A flat screen monitor on the wall showed a map of Atlanta with red dots marking the two crime scenes. Assistant Special Agent in Charge, James Fitzgerald, gestured at the screen. He had a hooked nose that ended in a sharp point, a combination that brought to mind a bird’s beak. A pair of cold gray eyes peered out from beneath his heavy brow.
Again Darger’s eyes flicked to the people sitting around her. She picked out Agent Dawson and Agent Baxter, and from the ID badges affixed to every shirt and jacket in the group, she determined it was only FBI personnel, no police. She frowned and leaned over to Loshak.
“I thought this was
a multi-jurisdictional task force. Where’s the local PD? ATF? Why is it only us?”
“You got me,” Loshak said quietly.
ASAC Fitzgerald continued his briefing from the front of the room.
“Right now we’re channeling tips through our standard office lines, but we are setting up a dedicated call center for the shootings. I have been assured that it will be ready to go live first thing tomorrow morning. Local police have their media liaison contacting the TV stations, radio, and newspapers with that information as we speak. Because of the public nature of the attacks, coupled with the fact that we’re in a major metropolitan area, we’re expecting a high number of calls. To give some perspective, the FBI logged over 15,000 calls with the DC sniper case. Our hope, of course, is that we’ll catch these guys before we reach that volume.”
Fitzgerald’s fierce gaze fixed on her then, and Darger resisted the urge to twitch like a field mouse.
“Agents Loshak and Darger, I’d like you to take the lead on the call center. We’ll need to put together a screening process to assign priority to the calls, based on your profile. I understand you have some prior experience in this area.”
Loshak nodded assent for the both of them, and Fitzgerald went on.
“Quantico is sending us twelve trainees from the Academy to answer phones and log calls. You’ll also have a smaller team of four analysts to help you run through the high priority calls. If you find that you need more bodies or have any special requests, please let me know, and I’ll do my best to arrange it.”
Loshak cleared his throat.
“I actually have one request right off the bat. There’s a particular analyst in DC I’d like to have assigned to our team in addition to those already assigned. His name is Rodney Malenchuck.”
Fitzgerald pulled a silver pen from his pocket and took down the name.
“I’ll see to it.”
After verifying there were no further comments from either her or Loshak, Fitzgerald moved on to the next order of business. Darger watched those hawkish eyes scan back and forth over his notes.
“Local police are pulling security footage from all businesses that share the parking lot with the Publix store, as well as the available traffic cams in a quarter-mile radius. We’ll be running plates on all vehicles—”
Loshak raised his hand.
“I don’t mean to interrupt, but based on the profile, my suggestion would be to narrow that down to SUVs and pickups, starting from thirty minutes before the attack. If that brings up a goose egg, we can broaden the search.”
“Thank you, Agent Loshak. I’ll pass that on to Chief Hogaboom,” Fitzgerald said and made another note with a flourish of his pen.
“About that,” Darger cut in, “where is Atlanta PD? Aren’t we working together on this?”
Two lines formed in the center of Fitzgerald’s sharp brow line.
“We are. But Chief Hogaboom and I have agreed that we’ll each issue commands to our own people.”
“Right, but in terms of our profile, for example, isn’t that something everyone on the task force should hear?” Darger asked.
“As I made clear a moment ago, anything pertinent will be passed on to Atlanta PD.”
With a satisfied nod, Fitzgerald prepared to push on to the next order of business. But Darger wasn’t done yet.
“I mean no disrespect, sir, but that seems inefficient. And prone to error, in my opinion. A profile changes over time. Plus, the task force should be given the opportunity to ask questions. If we can’t offer clarification—”
Fitzgerald held his pen aloft now, as if it were some kind of magical staff or wand that gave him the power to speak above all others.
“I know that you and Agent Loshak are used to running your own show, but that’s not how it’s going to work here. As I said before, all coordination with the local PD will go through me. Should Chief Hogaboom and I decide at a later juncture that a joint meeting is required, we will revisit the topic at that point.”
Darger thought about pressing further, but it was obvious he wasn’t interested in hearing her out. She settled back in her seat.
Great. More bullshit.
Fitzgerald’s voice droned on.
“Early forensics: We found a black ski mask and jacket dumped in a garbage bin near the Publix.”
The screen switched from the map to a picture of the clothing laid out on a white table.
“Trace is going over both with a fine-toothed comb, and I know they’ve come up with some brown hairs. DNA will take a while, of course, if we can get it.”
Now the monitor flipped through a series of evidence photos.
“We’ve pinpointed the shooter’s location from the highway scene. One of the hills to the west that looks down on the overpass. We recovered some shell casings, and the muddy conditions left us with some good tire tracks and tread impressions. We also have a few boot prints. The lab is analyzing those now.”
Someone’s phone chirped out a ring tone, and Darger noticed Agent Dawson ducking into the hallway to take the call.
“What was he using?” Baxter asked, drawing the room’s attention back to Fitzgerald.
“Fifty-caliber BMGs.”
Baxter whistled then said, “Talk about overkill.”
The door opened and Dawson bustled back in. She signaled to Fitzgerald.
“What do you have, Agent Dawson?”
“That was the ballistics lab,” she said. “Ammo from this morning’s shooting is Speer Gold Dot. Jacketed hollow points, 124 grain weight. Fairly common among law enforcement, but it’s also popular with civilians for self-defense ammo. Obviously, everything is being run through IBIS to determine if either weapon was used in a previous crime. But the real kicker is the gun he was using this morning. The one he dropped in the scuffle.”
Darger thought she felt everyone in the room collectively hold their breath.
“He was packing a Glock-18c.”
“Well, well,” Fitzgerald said. “That does make things interesting.”
“What’s the big deal?” Darger asked.
“The Glock-18 is fully automatic,” Baxter explained, then turned to Dawson. “Capable of what? A thousand rounds a minute?”
“Twelve-hundred,” she answered. “Only legal for law enforcement, military, and Class III dealers. Though I think we can rule out our guy getting this gun through legitimate means.”
“How’s that?” Loshak asked.
“Serial numbers were filed off.”
“So he stole it,” Darger suggested.
After exchanging a knowing look with Dawson, Baxter said, “Or he bought it from someone who stole it.”
Loshak brought a hand up to his face and stroked his chin.
“Can I assume that suggestion means you have an idea of where one would acquire such a weapon?”
Before Agent Baxter could answer, Fitzgerald raised his hands in the air like a marching band conductor.
“Let’s not go down that rabbit hole just yet. I’d like to hear your profile first.”
She and Loshak stood and shuffled to the front of the room. Darger scooted behind the podium. She hated this part. Public speaking was not her forte.
Thankfully, Loshak started.
“Our subject is likely a white male, late twenties, which fits the witness statements from this morning. Works a blue collar job, maybe menial white collar. He’s probably been married at least once, possibly has children, but I would expect him to be estranged from his family, which is a major influence on his current behavior. A history of domestic violence wouldn’t be surprising.”
With the barest bob of his head, Loshak indicated it was her turn.
“He probably has a military history,” Darger said.
Though she kept her focus on her notes, she sensed Agent Baxter shifting in his seat. It wasn’t her fault if that was part of the profile. It just made sense.
“To narrow the search, especially when cross-checking the license plates fro
m the surveillance footage, look for someone with combat experience. Possibly a sharpshooter, but not necessarily. He may have attempted to join some sort of elite unit but probably would have washed out because of his underlying psych issues — paranoia, resentment of authority figures. Despite that, I’d expect that wherever he wound up, disciplinary problems would have been minor, and he would have been honorably discharged. He’s good at smoothing things over when he needs to.”
Loshak broke in again.
“He is extremely paranoid and antisocial, especially when it comes to the government and law enforcement. Anyone approaching a suspect should use special caution. He will not hesitate to use deadly force. In fact, he’s probably hoping he’ll get a chance to. To that end, he’ll contact us or the media at some point. He’ll want to taunt us, to make the public even more fearful. He’ll probably threaten to specifically target children and women in crowded places. The chaos in his personal life makes him feel out of control, so this is where he attempts to reclaim that power.”
Fitzgerald rubbed his palms together when they’d finished.
“Alright. I think we’re off to a good start. I’ll get this information to Atlanta PD so they know what to look for with the video footage. Assignments: Agent Baxter and Agent Dawson, I’d like you to put together a list of people that would have had legitimate access to that gun, just in case. We need to look at all angles. Agent Loshak and Agent Darger, you’ll meet your tip line team tomorrow morning, so start preparing a script for the operators and a means to separate the wheat from the chaff.”
Baxter raised his hand in the air.
“Excuse me, sir. I understand putting together that list, but shouldn’t we go straight to the most likely source? Our guy was carrying a Glock-18, a gun that by all rights he shouldn’t have access to. It’s not a big mystery where he probably got his hands on it.”
“Don’t get tunnel vision, Agent Baxter. We need to be thinking big picture,” Fitzgerald said.
Darger waited for someone to explain what the hell they were talking about. But the two men only stared at one another, and it brought to mind two rams preparing to bash their heads together in a battle for dominance.