Before Evil

by Alex Kava

  “Don’t you think the public deserves to know right now whether there’s some dangerous killer running around?”

  It was the short guy again, with the microphone. This time he didn’t stick it in her face, but he held it up to catch her comment.

  All of them waited for her response. The crowd had gone quiet, waiting, TV cameras rolling, tape recorders dangling from outstretched arms.

  “I don’t have the authority from the FBI or the victims’ family to discuss any of the details. While you’re waiting for someone to provide more information, I would hope that all of you would have the decency to understand this little girl deserves some privacy. And so does the family of the law enforcement officer.”

  That wasn’t what they expected to hear. But no one challenged her. Maggie turned to leave and this time several of the reporters moved out of her way. She was proud of herself. They could have caught her off guard. She had to bite her tongue to not correct the speculations they were tossing out, but now she understood they had lobbed the questions—even the ridiculous ones—in the hopes of making her want to correct the record.

  Before she got to her car she saw that the mass of reporters had already forgotten her. She glanced up and searched the third floor then did a double take. Cunningham was standing at the window of what must be Katie’s room. He was looking down, and despite being three stories up she could see him frowning at her.

  33

  Gainesville, Virginia

  “It’s sad, isn’t it?” Rita Burke pointed her chin at the corner television while she set down a tray of empty pilsners.

  Drew Nilsen only shrugged. He didn’t even bother to look at the screen. Just last week his aloofness drove Rita crazy. Now that she had decided he was dating material, she didn’t mind. Instead, she saw his brooding silence as sexy. He didn’t have time for the news.

  When he came in late this afternoon his hair was still wet, and he smelled so good like he had just stepped out of the shower. The only reason he was stuck bartending was so he could attend culinary school during the day. She liked how he looked in the tight, black T-shirts he wore, hinting at the six-pack abs. The hem of his shirt was tucked neatly into his blue jeans. She liked the way those fit him, too, hinting at more lean muscles and a nice bulge.

  She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand as she handed off her drink and grill orders. The back kitchen was heating up the place, again, as the trendy bar and restaurant filled with another packed evening crowd. They were right on the courtyard of Atlas Walk in the upscale Virginia Gateway Mall. Just off Interstate 66, every night seemed to be a mixture of tourists, travelers and locals. The place got crowded fast and they couldn’t open the doors to the outdoor patio seating because of the rain.

  But who was she fooling? The crowded bar and the gourmet burgers on the hot grill weren’t the only reason for the heat crawling through her body. It was ole blue eyes in his tight jeans. He had the prettiest blue eyes she’d ever seen. Sometimes they were almost turquoise, and when he looked at her it felt like he could see deep down inside her. She could feel the electricity just thinking about it.

  He was probably too young for her, but Rita knew she didn’t look her age. People were always shocked when they discovered she had a sixteen-year-old daughter. In public together, they often got mistaken for sisters. Thankfully her daughter, Carly thought it was cool and funny instead of weird or creepy. They were each other’s best friend, and that in itself was enough reward for putting her life on hold to raise Carly all by herself. However, Rita realized all those years of putting off dating and sex contributed to the heat she was feeling lately.

  She tried to get her mind off Drew, so she focused on the television while she waited for him to finish preparing her next round of drinks. She read the closed captions that crawled along the bottom of the screen. Nothing new from earlier. Just a rehash of what they already reported. The little girl was found at a bloody crime scene. Somewhere in rural Virginia. A double-wide trailer on a secluded acreage. The girl was still hospitalized.

  Rita had been obsessed with the news story since hearing about it on the radio. The girl—who they were calling Jane Doe, because her name and identity had not yet been released—was the lone survivor of what sounded like a bloody rampage. A man and woman had been murdered inside the trailer. Another man was found dead in the river. Unconfirmed reports claimed he was shot, but the victims inside the trailer had been tortured and stabbed to death.

  And now this poor little girl was left alone. Probably her entire family had been murdered. No one knew what kind of injuries she’d suffered. According to the closed captions, the little girl wasn’t talking and who could blame her.

  Rita glanced over to the kitchen counter to see if her order was ready. Drew was finishing the tray of drinks. Then she noticed the new guy leaning on his mop back in the corner where a customer had spilled a beer. His name was Morgan, but someone said he liked to be called by his initials, J.P.

  Give me a break.

  It sounded like a made up name. J.P. Morgan? He looked like an ordinary guy, but there was something about his eyes. She didn’t like the way his eyes wouldn’t meet hers, but didn’t hesitate to navigate the length of her body.

  He had stopped his cleaning to watch the television. Of course, he had. A reporter was trying to talk to a pretty woman in an FBI jacket as she came out of the hospital. Rita glanced at Drew to check her order and found him staring at her now.

  Oh great! Of course, he’d catch her watching the new guy.

  She tipped her head toward Morgan and rolled her eyes.

  Thankfully, Drew smiled. He brought the tray of drinks, handing it to her over the bar without saying a word. Then he winked at her, and damn it, her knees actually wobbled.

  34

  Quantico

  For the second time in as many days A.D. Cunningham had asked Maggie to stop by his office before their taskforce meeting. She had almost a half dozen messages from Detective Hogan and a couple of other law enforcement officers wanting updates on their case files. Was Cunningham going to tell her she wouldn’t be on this taskforce? That she needed to get back to her other cases?

  Before she got to his office she saw him at the other end of the hallway. He was carrying five large pizza boxes and trying to open the conference room door.

  “I’ve got it,” Maggie called out.

  “Agent O’Dell,” he said, stepping back and letting her help him. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting?”

  “No, I just got here.”

  He set the boxes on the table, pushed up his glasses and gestured for her to come in.

  “Go ahead and close the door.”

  His shirtsleeves were rolled up in careful folds and his tie was loosened, but she noticed his collar was still buttoned and his hair was neatly combed. This was as undone as Cunningham allowed his agents to see him.

  He took a plastic bag from his trouser pocket but he didn’t look at it. Nor did he hand it to her.

  “There’s something I wanted to tell you before the others arrive.”

  She braced herself. Would she argue with him? Try to convince him she could handle her cases and be on the taskforce? Why take her to the crime scene if he hadn’t intended for her to, at least, be a part of that case?

  “Keith Ganza found this earlier.” He lifted the plastic bag, and she could see there was a creased piece of paper with block printing inside. “It was in the takeout container. The one on Deputy Steele’s vehicle.”

  He handed it to her now.

  dear pretty fbi agent.

  hopefully my work will

  soon fascinate you

  instead of make you sick.

  Without looking up at Cunningham, she said, “He was there?”

  “Apparently.”

  When she glanced up she saw that he was studying her, watchi
ng for her reaction. She wasn’t sure what he expected. Truthfully, she wasn’t surprised the killer had been watching the double-wide trailer. During her drive back from D.C., she wondered if he had been up in that stand of trees, overlooking the hospital parking lot.

  “What else was in the container?” she asked.

  “The big toe from a left foot.”

  Now she stared at him as though she hadn’t heard correctly.

  “A toe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not Deputy Steele’s,” she said with certainty.

  “What makes you say that?” He wanted to know.

  “Two days ago Agent Turner and I attended an autopsy of a victim who was missing her big toe from her left foot.”

  “Is that the woman who was found in Devil’s Backbone?”

  “Yes.”

  But he didn’t seem to know about the specifics. Would he be upset that Turner had taken her to the autopsy?

  Cunningham rubbed at his jaw, and she could see his exhaustion though he tried to hide it. He crossed his arms, the plastic bag dangling from his left hand.

  “I don’t think the spleen we found in the trailer was from any of the victims inside the trailer,” she told him.

  “Did Stan Wenhoff tell you that?”

  “No. Just a gut feeling.”

  “And what does your gut tell you about this note, Agent O’Dell?”

  “He liked my reaction to his container.”

  Cunningham was examining her, again, as if he were looking for a crack in the veneer. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t want to give him an excuse to exclude her.

  Then he finally nodded and said, “Let’s hope it’s that simple.”

  35

  Maggie guessed Agent Turner was on his third slice of pizza by the time she had managed her first bite. Her appetite had taken a nosedive. The note bothered her more than she was willing to admit. Not only had the killer been watching but also he’d been pleased to see her emptying her stomach because of his “work.” It wasn’t unusual for a serial killer to want credit for his method or handiwork as if he were an artist or a performer. It was however, a bit nauseating to be singled out.

  Cunningham had already started marking his signature whiteboard with lines and bullet points, ready to fill them in. When Dr. Gwen Patterson walked into the conference room he stopped and turned. Maggie wondered if she was the only one who caught the look Cunningham and Gwen exchanged.

  Maybe she was mistaken. She did tend to overanalyze everything these days. She glanced around the table to see if anyone else had noticed. Agent Turner mumbled a greeting over a mouthful. Delaney stood and nodded to the doctor, asking how Katie was. Keith Ganza continued to jot notes on a yellow legal pad.

  From what Maggie knew, Dr. Patterson…Gwen. She needed to remember that she preferred to be called Gwen. The doctor had asked her to do so the last time they had briefly worked together. From what Maggie knew, Gwen had been with Katie at the hospital all last night and most of today. Other than a hint of exhaustion under her eyes, the woman looked good—always very stylish—impeccably dressed in designer slacks, a knit sweater and leather pumps with two-inch heels. Her jewelry was expensive but simple and tasteful—watch, bracelet, necklace, all gold. Her strawberry-blond hair was swept back to reveal diamond studs in her earlobes.

  Maggie went to great lengths to not stand out from her male counterparts. She chose blazers that draped rather than shaped, with straight-leg trousers and flat leather shoes. The male agents wore a watch and maybe a simple wedding band, so that’s what Maggie did. Now she folded her hands together, suddenly reminded that her only valuable piece of jewelry was missing, most likely at the bottom of a cold and murky river.

  “We have an active killer, folks.” Cunningham started the meeting. “Katie is being moved to a more secure facility while she recovers. At this point we must still consider her a potential victim of this killer. Agent Delaney was able to track down the girl’s grandmother. Her father’s name was Daniel Tanner. He was Louis Tanner’s brother.” He looked at Delaney. “Anything else you can tell us?”

  “The grandmother’s Lucille Tanner. She was pretty shook up. I didn’t want to push her too much. She just lost both her sons. I’m checking on Katie tomorrow after they transfer her. I figure I can talk more to Mrs. Tanner at that time.”

  Maggie knew Delaney’s “talking” skills as a trained negotiator had coaxed a jumper off the ledge of a high-rise just a few months ago. Last year, he convinced a bank robber into releasing all three of his hostages. If Lucille Tanner had any information that could answer why her sons were murdered, Delaney would get it.

  Cunningham gestured to Keith Ganza who stood at the other end of the table.

  “I’m going to have Ganza update us. There are a lot of strange pieces to this one.”

  Cunningham took his place alongside the whiteboard, ready to fill it while Ganza shuffled files and photographs.

  “Lets start with the double-wide trailer.” He seemed to wait for Cunningham to mark the top of each of his lists.

  Cunningham had divided the board into three columns. Now he wrote:

  Maggie realized he was separating the evidence and information according to each crime scene, and he was considering Devil’s Backbone State Forest as one of the scenes.

  Ganza continued, “Inside the takeout container was a human spleen. It was placed on top of a piece of pie. Pie à la mode, to be more specific. I now have confirmation from Stan Wenhoff that the spleen did not belong to any of the victims inside the trailer nor did it belong to the victim pulled from the river.”

  “So it was brought to the scene?”

  Maggie noticed Turner put down a slice of pizza as he asked the question.

  “That’s correct,” Ganza said, glancing at them over the wire-rimmed glasses at the end of his nose while he read his notes. “Under the piecrust I found a portion of a speeding ticket. It was issued to Louis Tanner the week before and signed by Deputy Steele.”

  “I thought Sheriff Geller and Steele told us they didn’t know the occupants of the trailer,” Delaney said.

  “It’s possible Deputy Steele may not have known Louis Tanner,” Maggie suggested.

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Ganza said as he tossed a plastic evidence bag across the table for them to take a look at. “This note was found in the trouser pocket of Deputy Steele.”

  The paper had been crumpled but immediately, Maggie recognized the same handwriting. It looked similar to the note Cunningham had shown her earlier.

  The note read:

  I saw what you did at the trailer.

  Meet me in the parking lot at your cruiser.

  “Son of a bitch!” Turner said dragging the phrase out and ending it with a whistle.

  36

  “So Deputy Steele was involved in the murders?” Maggie asked. Cunningham hadn’t shared this note with her. “He made it sound like he’d glanced inside the trailer before we all got there, but that was all.” Then she remembered something else. “Steele asked me if I thought the girl had seen anything.”

  “But he also looked surprised when I mentioned the piece of pie,” Turner said.

  “You told Deputy Steele about the container?” Cunningham wasn’t happy.

  “Sheriff’s department called us in. Usually we share information. Is that not the case?”

  “Not this time.” Cunningham pursed his lips and crossed his arms, emphasizing that was the end of the subject for now. Then he nodded for Ganza to continue.

  “Okay, so we know this killer was watching all of you when you were at the scene.”

  Ganza added another plastic bag with the second note. Maggie recognized it as the one Cunningham had shown her earlier.

  “There was another takeout container today on the hood of Deputy Steele’s police crui
ser. This note was left inside.”

  Maggie watched as Gwen carefully handled the bags, reading both notes and comparing them before she passed them on to Turner and Delaney. She glanced up at Cunningham then at Maggie. She held Maggie’s eyes as if looking for a reaction to being singled out. Maggie thought she saw more concern in the psychiatrist’s eyes than examination, but it still made her uncomfortable. It was Maggie who looked away first.

  “It’s unusual for a serial killer to leave a note, isn’t it?” Gwen asked. “This guy’s left two?”

  “Three,” Ganza said, “if you consider the speeding ticket a type of note.”

  “It’s unusual,” Maggie said, “but certainly not unheard of. David Berkowitz was the first to call himself Son of Sam in a note he left at one of his crime scenes. The Unabomber actually sent a 35,000-word manifesto to the New York Times and Washington Post. You can go back as far as Jack the Ripper who taunted police through letters. In fact, one of those letters included part of a kidney that he claimed he’d taken from one of his victims. That was the same note that he included, ‘Catch me when you can.’ The Beltway Snipers left a note on the back of a tarot card—the Death card, so yes, I think we need to consider the speeding ticket. He was trying to tell us Steele was involved.”

  Turner was looking at her, nodding and grinning. “You’re like a walking encyclopedia about serial killers. I love how you can remember all that crap.”

  “Okay, lets backup,” Delaney said. “So this note does make it sound like Deputy Steele was involved in the murders at the trailer.”

  “Not just involved,” Ganza said. “It makes it sound like Steele killed Louis and Beth Tanner. Possibly Katie’s father as well.”

  “And takeout guy watched him.” Turner pointed to the container Ganza had brought—it was also wrapped inside an evidence bag. “We need a different name for him. I don’t like Takeout Guy. You didn’t tell us, yet. What was in that second container?”