by Rick Murcer
Alex, a talented forensics expert and Dean’s partner in that facet of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, was sitting directly across from Manny.
The balding, overweight man with the thick black glasses wore an expression that made him look like a candidate for the geek of the year award. But that look, and his appearance, belied his intellect and instinctive gift for crime scene analysis. He’d worked with Manny in Lansing for eight years before taking his talent to the Feds. There wasn’t anyone better at that science/art than his long-time friend.
“Nice visual there, Alex. That makes it unanimous. Nutless and gutless in the same minute,” said Dean, adjusting his green paisley driver’s cap. “Never mess with a woman and her child, especially her first born.”
The laughter from Manny’s circle of friends caused him to laugh as well. He remembered what his old, deceased friend, Gavin Crosby, used to say.
No one ever laughed too much.
The crew grew silent and Manny knew what was coming next and who it would come from.
“So did you mean to break his ankle? I mean, I understand the slap, but I wasn’t sure about the ankle,” said Sophie, searching his face.
Running his hand through his hair, an old nervous habit from his childhood, Manny glanced around the booth.
Did he? Did he really know? All he knew was that Chloe never had the opportunity to defend herself and Ian. His elevated anger had made that protection a non-issue.
“That’s a good question. I wrenched on his foot to get it loose from the chain-link fence, and then pulled him down. I may have had some intent. Who knows for sure if I don’t?”
“The perp says you did it on purpose,” said Chloe.
“Of course the piece of sh—errr, sorry, Ian—junk would say that. But you don’t work for the LPD anymore, so it shouldn’t be an issue,” said Sophie.
“He’s asleep,” said Chloe, grinning. “And you’re right about that. I suppose the FBI could sic the Office of Professional Responsibility on you, but they’ve got bigger fish to fry, don’t ya know.”
“I don’t think the OPR cares much. But I don’t think any of that’s the real question,” said Manny.
Sophie sighed. “I hate hanging around with savant profilers. You’re right. The real question is: were you pissed and out of control enough to break the man’s bones?”
There it was, the question that was on all of their minds, including his. The truth was he didn’t really know.
Manny laid his hands on the table. “Maybe. All I could see when I was chasing him down was the rollercoaster Jen and I had ridden over the last few years, including losing Louise. Losing Gavin and the Casnovskys. Losing Max Tucker. That asshole Argyle flashing across my mind. What Chloe’s mom had to endure with her ex, and Jen having to shoot a man to save her family, it was all too much, I suppose.”
He fought for control as the thoughts kept coming, found it, and continued.
“How the senseless killing of innocent folks by screwed-up serial killers have messed up every vacation we’ve tried to take. Then how the good things in life have helped us to rebound only to have this low-life threaten to take it all away with a couple swipes of a butcher knife. It wasn’t going to happen, that’s all. I wasn’t going to let it happen. Period. Not to us or anyone else.”
He fought the urge to run his hand through his hair. “So, yes. I suppose I was in a rage, but I’m not sure of the out-of-control part. I mean, he’s still alive, right?”
Chloe kissed him on the cheek.
“What was that for?”
“For keeping me out of prison. I probably would have killed him.”
“I wondered if I might,” said Manny.
“Hey, at least you could have gotten conjugal visits. I hear those trailers are pretty comfortable,” said Sophie.
Alex shook his head. “I’ve asked this before, but I really have to know. Is that all you think about? Sex?”
“Nope, Dough Boy. I just like to bring it up because I’m pretty sure you ain’t getting as much as me.”
“What? Shows you what you know. And stop calling me Dough Boy.”
“Always a treat with you two,” said Chloe. “Anyway, big Frank Wymer questioned the attacker in the hospital. He confessed that you backed off and then tweaked his nose. Then you carried him to the corner to get a ride to the hospital.”
“Did I?” asked Manny.
“You did. I saw the carrying part when I came to find you.”
“You know what, Big Boy? No matter what you think about losing it a little, you kept yourself together better than the rest of us who have gone through less,” said Sophie.
“She’s right,” said Alex. “Oh, shit. Did I just say that?”
“Can’t take it back, Dough Boy. We all heard it,” said Sophie.
“Damn that Dough Boy crap. Anyway, we get it, okay?” said Alex.
“Okay. Thanks, but let’s let this go. I’m tired, and I want to have dessert before we go home,” said Manny.
“Yeah, it’ll be my last one for a couple of weeks,” said Alex.
“Why? You going to lose fifty pounds?” asked Sophie.
“Bite me. No, as a matter of fact, the final approvals came down from Quantico to have my new bionic hand installed. Complete with the latest technology that we talked about before the shit went down in Las Vegas. I’m officially going to have the upgrade installed, so to speak, that I have been hoping for.”
There was no wiping the smile from Alex’s face. Even Sophie bit her tongue and had a certain spark of joy in her brown eyes. A true miracle when it came to the verbal sparring those two enjoyed.
Manny found himself relieved that the conversation had taken a different road. He’d spent enough time dwelling on his psyche.
“Well, it’s about time. I couldn’t be happier for you,” said Chloe.
To put an exclamation point on her thoughts, she got up, handed Ian to Manny, and slid around the booth. She then kissed Alex on the forehead and gave him a heartfelt hug.
Manny felt the same happiness for Alex, and appreciation for the man. He had lost his hand defending Chloe, and she wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t. His good friend had been willing to sacrifice everything for the both of them.
This new hand wouldn’t be like the real thing, but a geek like Alex had already researched the possibilities and was eagerly awaiting the opportunity to see what the Cadillac of prosthetic limbs could do.
His wife returned to his side.
“Aw, thanks, Chloe,” Alex said softly. “That’s way better than getting a hug from Williams.”
“So which type of hand is it?” asked Dean, his own geek persona shining though his eyes.
“Well, we talked about a couple of them, but this one has a certain number of electrodes around some thin metal cuffs that actually interface with nerve fibers from my arm to my hand, called axons, and then they send electrical pulses between the two, enabling my hand to feel what my arm says it should. Another thing—” he stopped, smiling. “Okay. Okay. I won’t bore you with the rest of this, but I’m looking forward to feeling things again. And I will, if this works.”
“Yeah, your right hand must be getting tired,” said Sophie.
Alex ignored her after a quick roll of his eyes.
“So when is the surgery?” asked Manny.
“I leave tomorrow for Walter Reed and I’ll be out of commission for a couple of weeks.”
He looked at Sophie.
“I’m bringing, Barb, you know, to make sure the hand works.”
“Oh good God, man, even I don’t want to deal with that image,” said Sophie.
“Deal with it anyway.”
More laughter circled the table.
After a few more minutes, Alex got up from the table. “I’ve got to go pack. The FBI’s jet will be at the airport bright and early, and I don’t want to miss that puppy.”
“And we don’t want you to,” said Dean. “I want a full report when you can talk, ok
ay?”
“You got it.”
Alex shook hands with Manny and Dean, gave Sophie a hug, kissed Chloe, and disappeared around the corner into the late spring air of Michigan.
“What if we get a case when he’s out?” said Sophie.
“We’ll be fine. That’s where Belle Simmons comes into play. She and Josh will have to help pick up the slack,” said Manny.
Belle Simmons, the BAU’s latest hire and maybe the most talented, had been great help on her first case when they were in Cozumel. She wasn’t just a profiler, and a damned good one, but she also understood the forensic world almost as well as Alex and Dean. Add in her quirky taste in music and a few personal demons, and the Whitney Houston look-a-like was a perfect fit.
“Well, there’s that. But hey, no cases yet, so maybe we can get some R and R to make up for the last shitty vacation we almost got to enjoy,” said Sophie.
“I couldn’t agree…”
Manny’s phone vibrated in his jean’s pocket. He took it out, read the ID, and answered.
“Hey Josh. Speak of the devil, we were just talking about you.”
“I hope it was positive.”
“No, we were wondering when we’d get a non-jerk for a boss.”
“Funny boy. That ain’t going to happen.”
“Fair enough.”
Josh grew serious. “You need to pack up the gang and meet Belle and me in Miami.”
“A case, I assume?”
“Yeah, not a vacation, I’m afraid. A case it is. And not a normal one.”
“We never have a normal one.”
Josh Corner hesitated, his strong voice growing softer. “I’ve got to tell you Manny. I’ve not seen anything like this since we met on the Ocean Duchess. And maybe not even then.”
Manny glanced at Chloe, then to Dean and Sophie.
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means Argyle had nothing up on this guy.”
Shifting the phone to his other hand, Manny felt his stomach twist.
He’d prayed he would never see anything like what he’d seen on and off that ship at the hands of the Good Doctor. Friends who were like family had died horribly. It wasn’t just the physical, but the mental games enjoyed by Argyle that caused him, and his unit, to lose sleep . . . still.
Josh hadn’t said that exactly, but Manny could sense it.
He exhaled. “How do you know the killer’s a man?”
“He left two rather pointed calling cards, according to the Miami-Dade Police Department detectives.”
“Which are?”
Josh cleared his throat. “What he did to the bodies was probably enough to deduce the killer was male, but then he left something else.”
“Again, what?”
“He left the set of knives he used to kill these poor people. He also carved his name into both of their chests and then onto their foreheads.”
The rest of the air ran from Manny’s lungs. “Name? Dammit. He gave a name and cut it twice into his victims?”
“Meet me in Florida. I’ll have the Jet pick you up in the morning, six a.m. You’ll have files showing what we and the Miami-Dade police have. Then you can meet Valentino.”
CHAPTER-4
Kristen Luppo looked at the half-eaten chicken salad sandwich on her desk and sighed.
A good job in this economy, no matter how America’s current set of politicians colored the employment market, was still hard to find. She’d taken this third shift position with the Miami-Dade Police Department’s research division, hating the idea of working from ten p.m. to seven a.m. with a passion, but with the implied promise that as soon as something opened on either of the other shifts, that job was hers. That had been two years ago, and here she sat, eating crappy food, missing Miami’s nightlife, and waiting hours, sometimes whole shifts, for something to do.
At least she was getting better at Words with Friends.
Her mom, Linda, had warned her to watch what comes out of people’s mouths, that some people would say anything to get a job, but others would say anything to get her to take one.
“Cops, and mayors, can’t be trusted,” she’d said.
“Yeah, neither can men who say they love you,” she whispered, answering her mother again.
She reached into her drawer, engaged in another quick look around the floor, not quite sure why. Only she and the damn mice knew she was there half of the time. She took a snort from her leather flask. Was there anything better than Caribbean rum?
She put the flask back in her drawer.
What choice did she have with this job anyway? She had to pay the bills, right? And, not to mention, she had to keep the wolves away from the door. God knew she had no sugar daddy to count on.
Dropping her feet to the floor, she rolled her chair closer to the twenty-two-inch computer monitor and caught her reflection. She ran a hand along her face, which was framed by her long auburn hair. She was still young and pretty enough to land a winner, a man who’d love her and take care of her. Maybe that wasn’t every woman’s dream, but to each his own. For her, a good man who’d take care of her would truly beat the hell out of this work arrangement.
Work? Hell, she wasn’t even getting anything interesting to dive into and research these days, from the blues or the detectives. That in itself was a miracle and a curse. The night only moved slower with nothing to do. She found herself wishing for work, even though it would probably be of the ilk to curl her hair.
Miami was beautiful, with its gorgeous skyline, cruise ship ports, and never-ending social arenas, but it had its ugly, violent side. She’d seen a few crime scene photos that made her reload her flask a time or two.
Just when she was getting ready to email her friend, Millie, her email alert popped up telling her she had a request. A second later, the phone rang.
“Wow. Suddenly it’s Grand Central Station around here,” she said, picking up the receiver. “Research, this is Kristen.”
She listened intently, felt her heart drop somewhere around her ankles, and then hung up the phone, her hand shaking.
Detective Duane James was an all-right guy, and not bad looking for being over sixty. Hey, he had most of his hair. But on the phone just now, she’d never heard him sound like that before. His voice was steady but not strong. He seemed . . . well, shaken. That in turn shook her, deeply.
His orders, however, had been explicit. She was to research all of the criminal databases available—international, federal, and local, including Interpol, VICAP, IAFIS, CODIS, and NCIC, for starters—for any mention, image, or wording that resembled the list he had just emailed her. And she was to get back to him pronto. He said the hotshots at the FBI’s BAU were coming in, and this was part of their shtick.
He warned her it wasn’t going to be easy to look at what he’d sent her, that the images were some of the very worst he’d ever witnessed, but that was how this cookie crumbled.
Cookie crumbled. She hadn’t heard that term since she was a kid. She didn’t like it now any more than she had then . . . because it meant there was no choice in the matter.
Reaching for her mouse, she inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled, and then opened the email from the detective. Attached were eleven photos and five documents. She typed in the password that would allow her access to them and clicked the first image.
Before she could stop it, she jerked her hand from the mouse and dove back into the sliding drawer again, this time taking a slug of rum that would make a sailor proud.
“Shit,” she said.
Kristen started to replace the flask, shook her head, and took another deep draw. She knew she was going to need the artificial courage and then some.
She stared at the first image and then gathered courage enough to run her finger over the jagged word, not bothering to wipe the tears from her face.
Who could do this to someone, dead or alive? But that was why she wanted to become a cop. She wanted to help put away freaks like this forever.
/> Freak. The word certainly has taken on a completely new meaning with this . . . freak.
It took her fifteen minutes to finally open every attachment, and the images didn’t get any easier to view. Once she had it all in front of her, her unique gift for spatial recognition and organizing took over.
She dragged the five documents to the top of her screen, using new interfacing software that allowed her to size them so that she could read a few lines at a time.
She took the pictures from the male victim first because it was obvious, even to a detective wannabe, that the perp had killed him first. Then she took the last five photos of the young woman’s body and placed those directly below the man’s.
After taking a few minutes to read the first document, she highlighted the words “Valentino” and “violent” then added “knives and cutting” and began the process of seeing if this bastard had raised his ugly head anywhere, anytime, in any state or any country before.
After about fifteen minutes of research, she realized she forgot to do something she always did this time of night. She pulled her cell phone from her blouse pocket and wrote a quick text to her mom. She told her good night and don’t let the bed bugs bite. She hesitated and then told her she loved her.
A moment later, her mom gave her typical response, saying she wouldn’t let anyone or anything in her bed except Kevin Costner, and then told Kristen she loved her too.
Going back to work, Kristen felt a little better. Mothers were the best protection against monsters, after all.
She was going to call on that protection tonight.
CHAPTER-5
The scent of Jen’s hair reminded Manny of her mom, as did almost everything else about her. His daughter was a teenager only in years these days. She’d matured into the young woman he always imagined she would be, only tougher. Hell, she had to be tough or she might have ended up in some dark corner of a padded room, right beside him.
Maybe having to shoot a man had accelerated Jen’s maturity; then again, maybe being able to make that decision had forced her to grow up, in an odd way.