Sam. I needed to tell him about what Kira had done now. His pain, the unfairness of it, tore through me. “That’s just not right. I knew exactly what I was saying, and it wasn’t the first time you’d heard it from me. If anything, your foresight and your Leatherman, saved my life that day.”
“You saved your own life that day. Your strength, your will to live, your courage.” He wiped at his eye.
“You did the right thing.” I softened my tone, hoping to send forgiveness and love his way. But he needed to hear my words. I sniffled.
He shook his head. “You stuck that knife into Kira and saved yourself and countless other potential victims that day. And your brave actions put a killer behind bars. You brought closure to families. That had nothing to do with me.”
“I forgive you, Nick—even though there’s nothing to forgive, I forgive you. And I’m asking you to do the same for me. Can you forgive me for pushing you away all this time?”
He cupped his right hand over my cheek. His eyes were a mystery to me. “I adore you, Jo Oliver. And I already forgave you. I just couldn’t forgive myself.”
“Kira’s not through with us yet, Nick.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s Sam—somehow Kira’s used her connections to throw a wrench in the adoption.”
He gripped the wheel. “What do you mean, a wrench?”
“I don’t know yet. I just got a letter a few days ago. They’ve put it on hold to assess my mental health or something. Who knows what she—”
Fog lifted in my brain. I couldn’t just let Sam be. I narrowed my eyes at him. “What did you say earlier? About Sam?”
He took a deep breath. Let it out. “Sam needed us. Needs us. I couldn’t just walk away from her, couldn’t just be another nameless, shapeless father figure shoving off in the night. I went to see her, Jo. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I went to see her. To let her know she can count on me. No matter what.” He spread his hands out wide, pressing them into his thighs.
He’d gone behind my back to see Sam. He’d gone above and beyond not to abandon a little girl, no matter the cost. He’d done the right thing—even if I wasn’t ready to admit it. I sighed, gathered his hands up into mine. “Can we drop this for a while? Can we get back to being partners again? Can’t we just be okay together?”
“Yeah. Sure. Back to the case.” He returned to the wheel, buckled himself in, and steered the car out onto the highway.
Chapter Fourteen
Nick pulled into an unmarked parking spot. He looked over at me, resting his eyes on mine. I drank him in, waves of sorrow pounding under his cloud of pride. Sorrow I had brought into his life.
I threw a mini prayer to God. Father, I can’t fix this. Please restore whatever it is we’re meant to be to each other. Make a way in the wilderness. Your will. Our lives. Amen.
“What are you looking at, handsome? Let’s go speak a little Feebaneese, shall we?” I winked at him, hoping to evoke the bravado of our youth. Back in the day when we thought there was nothing cooler than being a member of the FBI. We thought they’d have their own language, their own culture. We were right.
“You know the drill, beautiful. My world, my rules.” He slid out of the car, and I did the same. We reached the entrance together. He snuck a kiss. Smooth.
“You think they’ll let me in?” I put my arm through his.
“Better stay nice and close.” He leaned into me, opened the door and led the way. He breezed past the security booth and waved me toward a pair of agents tasked with screening the visitors.
I endured the security check, relieved to see Special Agent Dixon waiting patiently for us at the edge of the rotunda, several feet down the hallway. I hugged the slender blonde. “So great to see you, Amelia. You look amazing.”
“Right back at you. I wish we could’ve had a chance to catch up under better circumstances.” She nodded at Nick. “How you doing, hot stuff?”
He rolled his eyes with a slight shake of his head. “What, no hug for me? Isn’t that some sort of discrimination?”
“Not while your wildcat Josie’s in the house. If you’re asking me to put my life on the line for a hug from a hot special agent, I’m taking a rain check.” She winked at me and turned to lead us to a bank of elevators.
We crossed a marble floor emblazoned with the FBI crest. The rotunda was lined with busts and plaques of well-known special agents along with descriptions of their heroism. I loved walking through this building. It was a combination history lesson and patriotism booster shot all in one. These men and women risked their lives daily to keep our country safe. I never tired of learning more about them, past and present. We reached the elevator, and Amelia punched the top-floor button.
“Amelia?” Nick turned to her with wide eyes and an upturned hand. “Your mystery text brought me to you in record time. What’s up?”
She looked at us in confusion for a few seconds. “I see no one’s told you.” A dark expression turned her features into a cold mask.
The elevator opened into a huge expanse of a room that covered the entire floor of the building. Special Agent Dixon led Nick and me through a maze of cubicles into a glass-walled conference room at the center of the floor. Thick windows framed with equally thick steel bars screamed “bulletproof” even from here.
Inside, two Brooks Brothers–suited men were at the table, poring over laptops. They started to get to their feet as we entered.
“At ease, boys. These are friendlies.” Amelia waved them back down with one hand. With her girl-next-door good looks and cheerleader figure, it’d be easy to forget she was in charge of this operation. And it’d be a mistake.
“Hector, show us what you’ve got.” Amelia nodded toward the ceiling, and one of the men poked a button on a remote, releasing a large screen. She made the introductions as her agents set up shop.
“I take it you’ve got bad news for us?” Impatience was my strong suit.
“In a minute.” Amelia’s tone grew cooler.
“Where would you like us?” I smiled at her. You go, girl.
“How about you two sit here? You’ll have a great view of both the screen and our computers.”
I nudged Nick and sat down as directed. I could practically feel his irritation. I pulled out the chair next to mine and patted it. When in Rome …
Amelia waited, patient as a school marm, for Nick to sit down. “Okay, we know we had four male victims, from four different parts of Illinois, found in four different parts of Wisconsin.”
Hector handed her the remote. Pictures of each crime scene filled the screen. Even though I knew what to expect, there was always something I just couldn’t stomach about seeing crimes larger than life. No matter how many crime scenes I saw, my mind floated to their families, to their worlds, to the tragedy of a life cut short.
Compassion mixed with anger fueled my investigations—sometimes interfering with my professionalism. It’s what wouldn’t have made me a good special agent. It’s what also made me a great small town police chief.
Nick remained silent. Silence agreed with him.
“And what we know of the cause of death so far would not have linked these crimes together. As we all know, weapons matter. But if the killer’s message involves his choice of weapon, we haven’t cracked it yet.” She showed a picture of the icy hole and continued. “So far, we have a drowning, a beating, a long-distance rifle, and a man poisoned and buried up to his neck on a golf course. Each crime unique until now.”
Nick and I exchanged a glance. He forged ahead, honing in on the other important detail. “Until now?”
Amelia grimaced and nodded. Then, she hit the button to forward to another picture, one I’d never seen before. “Now we’ve got a fifth victim.”
I wheeled my chair away from the table to face the screen, landing me close enough to nudge Nick’s th
igh with my own. His nearness comforted me. I relaxed my shoulders, stretched out my neck and tightened and released my toes before looking up at the screen.
A long, lithe body was draped like a ragdoll, face down, across a wooden sign. It was bent at the waist, curly dark hair and dangling arms obscuring the sign’s white lettering. The grotesque diorama laid out on the screen above was one that I’d never be able to erase from my head. Ugh. I hate this part of the job.
Nick snapped into his professional-recorder mode. “What’s the body draped over, a Welcome to Reedsburg sign?”
Special Agent Dixon nodded slowly.
“Is that a male or a female?”
I’d been wondering the same thing in the more cognizant regions of my brain.
“Male, like the others. Thirty-six years old. Youngest victim so far. Tourist. No connections to the other victims, yet.” Dixon referred to her notes. “Kyle. Kyle Wirth. His cousin’s a fourth-generation pig farmer, just took over the family operation last fall. Divorced. Two young children. Says Kyle visited every year right about now.”
“Cause of death?” Nick’s thigh pressed against mine. I’m here for you, girl.
I noted a tremor in his leg. What was he seeing? “This connects to one of your theories, doesn’t it?” I asked.
His leg fell away. “Maybe. Cause of death, Special Agent?”
Dixon glanced at us, puzzled. Was she trying to figure out who we were to each other now? Join the club. She looked back down at her notes. “Also poisoned, but it’s the combination that interested me. The results aren’t official yet, but we’re pretty sure he was poisoned with chemicals common to his cousin’s pig-farming operation.”
“You’ll remember me.” Nick’s voice was trancelike.
“That’s what the killer’s telling us?” I translated in an instant. Eerie as it was, it felt good to be on the trail together.
“He’s getting bolder, but it’s more than bold. He’s telling us he’s above us. Untouchable.” Nick’s definite tone told me he was connecting the dots.
I turned to Amelia. “You’re certain this is the work of the same man?”
“Or woman.”
A light switched on. I turned to Amelia. “You said the vic’s a tourist? Like the others? From Illinois?”
Amelia shook her head. “That’s the oddity. This victim is from upstate New York.”
“Shoots our rivalry theory in the head.” I scowled. Now what? I stared at the screen, signature letters from each scene floating over each star on the map overhead.
“Speaking of letters, was there a letter left at this scene as well?” I had no idea what to make of the string of letters so far. Maybe another would be the key.
The two agents seated across the table from us came alive. Hector was the designated spokesman. “We have unofficial confirmation of a white bead with a capital letter A found in the victim’s pocket.”
“A?” What the heck? Impatience stomped on my nerves. I wanted to ask the difference between unofficial and official confirmation, but I let it slide. Who says you can’t teach an old girl new tricks?
I mentally reviewed the letters found so far: J, E, ME, H, and now A. Was it a name? An organization? An anagram? I came up with exactly … nothing.
Hector looked up from his laptop. “Special Agent Dixon, you’ll want to see this.”
She frowned at her colleagues. “Put it up on the screen.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hector’s fingers clicked the mouse at warp speed.
Several seconds later, a screen containing the death photos of all five men stared down at us. The room was quiet as we studied the faces. Listless fidgeting telegraphed when most of us reached the photo of the last victim. A bolt of lightning could not have made things any clearer. I turned to Nick, scanning his fine features, olive skin, thick black hair, knowing that Amelia and the other two agents in the room were following my lead.
Hector’s twin broke the ice. “Is it just my imagination, or do these guys look eerily similar? Think it’s just the camera angle, or the lighting or something?”
I didn’t break eye contact with Nick. “No. It’s not your imagination. It’s the color of their skin, the thickness of their wavy black hair.” I reached out to touch Nick’s close-cropped, ebony hair. “They look just like you.”
Chapter Fifteen
“You can’t go on hair color and skin tone and say you’ve got a pattern,” Nick objected. “Half the men in this state would look identical with such meager information.” Nick’s face was a mask, but I could sense his anger. And embarrassment.
“Right,” I said, “but when you add the same eye color and relatively same build, you’ve got to take it seriously. Nick, this could be it. Your class could have been his trigger. Now’s the time to tell them what you’re thinking.”
“Let’s talk about your class, Nick.” Amelia sat and rested her elbows on the table. “You gave us the names of two students you thought we should check out. Why don’t you fill us in?” The special agents in the room were silent, all eyes on Nick.
Things were breaking fast if this was a break. The FBI’s proverbial left hand hadn’t had time to inform the right hand of what had popped. The way my own neurons were firing, this had to be a break, or I’d have to turn in my shield. My inner horsepower strained against the bit, willing me to loosen the reins and let them have their head … and run into the hunt.
Nick put his phone on the table and stood up. “I’m teaching a profiling course through UW-Madison, as an adjunct. Less than an adjunct really, I’m a substitute. This was retired Special Agent Chase Lafferty’s course, and I was tapped to step in when he died.”
Nick looked into the middle distance, over Amelia’s left shoulder. The strain of rehashing events had etched a deep line across his brow. “Lafferty had an established curriculum. When I was tapped to fill in for him, I was encouraged to put my own spin on the class.”
Amelia shifted her weight from one pump to another and stared at him. “So, you took that as an invitation to share your own theories?”
I didn’t like her tone, or what she was implying. Sure, I called it Nick’s woo-woo theory, but that didn’t mean I didn’t respect it. Or him. She was playing dirty. Or it might’ve been my personal bias. I kept my hand on Nick’s thigh and my mouth shut.
“Yes.” Thick cables of muscle tightened under my hand. A hint of red appeared on Nick’s cheek.
“Enlighten me. Take it from the top. What exactly did you teach that class?”
Nick pulled in air, puffed out his cheeks and started jiggling his leg. I raised my hand off his leg and put it in my lap.
Nick formed a V with the index and second finger of his right hand and held it up. “I used this exact pattern as an example in class.” He snapped into teacher-mode. “Drop your smart board and pull up a map of Wisconsin, and I’ll show you.” He moved from teacher to bossy-mode. A step up.
Amelia complied.
Nick walked over to the smart board and grabbed a remote pen off the conference table. “I showed a large map of Wisconsin to the class. Then I picked out a spot from the northeast corner of the state and drew a dot. No name, not a real village or city, just a dot.” He demonstrated by drawing a dot on the map with the special marker.
“Okay.” Amelia must’ve known what was coming. Her eyes traveled down to where the next dot would soon be added.
“Then I drew another dot, arbitrarily, a way down from the first one.” He marked another dot. “And then I drew a third one, maybe half the distance between the first two.” He filled in a third dot. “And at half the distance between the third and the second dot, I drew a fourth dot, right about here.” He marked a fourth dot on the smart board. “And I basically explained that while every killer has his or her own motivation for doing what they do, they often fall into recognizable patterns. And it’s the patter
n that can lead us to the killer. I walked them through how to search for patterns. The Y pattern was just an example.”
“A little-known example taken from Quantico materials, though, if memory serves.” Amelia read my mind.
“I don’t know anymore. All I can tell you is I’d thrown a bunch of dots up to represent kill spots and told my students to imagine the mind of an organized killer who had a sense of symmetry and balance to his kills. I just spontaneously decided to use a letter of the alphabet as my organizing graphic—to illustrate my point. I connected the dots to show them how the kill spots could form the letter Y if you looked at the spots on a map. The whole point of the exercise was to help students think differently about a set of data points during an investigation, to help them start seeing patterns.” He set the marker on the table, waiting for Amelia to respond.
A snowplow of emotion slammed into me. The undeniable way in which his theoretical dots corresponded with actual murder sites hit me like two tons of slush. Beads of sweat broke out across my forehead.
Dixon’s face was white. “And if you were to put the murder sites in red on that map?” She plucked a red marker off the table and handed it to him.
Nick carefully underlined the names of the cities closest to the four murder sites on the map before us. They were nearly identical. His hands were steady. I was proud of him.
An idea snaked through me. “Profilers all over the country use similar theories to track their killers. Aren’t there a host of famous crimes easily accessible that would involve patterns of some sort?” I caught Nick’s gaze and held it. “This killer could have chosen to pattern his crimes after any one of them.”
Amelia cleared her throat. “Yes, duly noted, Chief.”
Nick isn’t going to bear the weight of this alone. Not if I can help it.
Nick averted his eyes. Was he mad I jumped into the water to try to bring him to safety? One more awesome layer of complication settling between us. His face was unreadable. “For each of the theoretical kill spots, I explained that all killers leave a signature, whether we discover it or not. It’s as individual as a fingerprint, and it’s what often leads to their capture.”
Anchored by Death (A Jo Oliver Thriller Book 3) Page 9