The Mile Marker Murders

by C. W. Saari

  “So someone knew both women,” Quattrone said.

  “Exactly. If the unknown caller is the killer, he somehow gained access to their cell phone numbers.”

  “So what about the cars?” Quattrone asked.

  “Lillian Wells probably wasn’t abducted at the shopping center where her car was found. I think she met the killer nearby and left in his vehicle. My guess is they met at a restaurant or someplace within walking distance of the Springfield Mall. Maybe at one of the adjacent strip malls. The killer then returned later and moved her car. He may have moved it before disposing of her body.”

  “That’s plausible.”

  “The big question for me is: Where was Williamson’s car between the time he was abducted and two weeks later when his Infiniti was found at the airport parking lot you guys already searched the week before?” Bannister asked.

  “That’s bothered Doug and me, too. The easiest way to stash a car is to do what bank robbers do: Steal a car and leave it at some large apartment complex for a week. If it’s still there a week later, it’s clean and you can use it for a getaway.”

  “Could be,” Bannister said.

  Quattrone waited for the steel gate to be lowered before driving into the FBI’s subterranean garage. “Or maybe the killer had access to a storage facility,” he said.

  “Exactly. My money’s on a storage facility. The killer is smart and knows something about police work. He knew leaving Cal’s car at the airport would throw the investigation off in different directions.”

  “And the killer used his vehicle to transport DiMatteo away from her apartment, right?”

  “Probably.”

  “So, where’re we going with this?” Quattrone asked.

  “I think we should identify storage locker facilities in Virginia, say in a twenty-mile radius from where the bodies were dumped. Later on, if we get a suspect’s name, we can check rental records.”

  “Let’s see what Doug and the others found,” Quattrone said as they headed toward the conference room.

  “Stacy DiMatteo’s body had a lethal dose of oxycodone and barbiturates. Our lab said the dosage would have been sufficient to kill ten people,” Gordon said to the task force assembled around the table.

  “What about the other two bodies?” Sergeant Bell asked.

  “Trace amounts were detected in the tissue of Caleb Williamson. There wasn’t sufficient soft tissue left on the first body to analyze,” Gordon said.

  Gordon then went around the room and asked for updates from each two-person team. Natalie Fowler, sitting next to Bannister, was the next to last to speak.

  “I’ll hand out a copy of our profile at the end of the meeting. This is a work in progress. We entered all the data we had about the victims, the crime scene, dates, location, manner in which the bodies were found, etc. Here’s what we got: The killer is a white male, single, between 38-48 years old, right handed, athletic, educated, and financially stable. He’s had some type of formal disciplinary training, maybe in law enforcement or the military. He’s employed in a job where he can control his hours or location. Are you with me so far?”

  They nodded.

  “Based on the victimology of Williamson and DiMatteo, we need to examine what drove the offender to choose them as victims. We think our killer has well-developed social skills, but his background will show he’s been detached in his relationship with his parents and siblings. He has a high IQ, avoids intimate relationships outside of the so-called one-night stands, doesn’t trust anyone, but is extremely convincing to other people. Finally, he holds himself to a high standard of authority.”

  “I’ve got a couple dozen questions, but I think I know what you’ll say,” Detective Huggins said, smiling.

  “If you’re implying that I probably won’t be able to give you simple answers, you’re right. But you can trust me that based on the totality of the facts, combined with our modeling, what I’ve given you might point in the right direction.” Fowler gave a quick smile and passed out the profile.

  “Ty, you’re up,” Doug Gordon said.

  “We came up with a name, ‘Andre,’ who is of interest. Williamson and Wells had both been assigned to Vienna. Andre had a sexual relationship with Lillian Wells in Vienna. He sent her an e-mail that said he was in Moscow, and that he would be coming to Washington, DC. That e-mail was sent three weeks before she was killed. He’s a possible link and needs to be identified.”

  “I agree,” Gordon said. “Why don’t you and Steve continue working the Vienna connection. Do a computer dump, using the keyword ‘Andre,’ of all State Department visas from the day Lillian and Felix Wells returned to the United States until she disappeared. Spencer can help you run his name against all international airline manifests for the same period. Everyone write up your interviews. We’ll meet again Thursday after all the victims have been laid to rest.”

  Driving to the Watergate, Bannister thought about what he’d wear to Cal’s memorial service in the morning.

  Thirty miles away, in an apartment off Beauregard Street in Alexandria, Virginia, Andre had already picked out the dark-blue blazer he intended to wear to Cal’s service.

  Bannister got to the church early, not to get a seat near the front, but to make sure he had a good seat in the rear. Gina and Cal’s parents, Millie and Frank Williamson, had invited him to sit with the family. Because he was working, he had to decline. The FBI had made arrangements to take photographs at all three churches where services for the murder victims were being held. The systems installed would result in time-lapse still photos, as well as videotaping. A surveillance team outside each church would record vehicle information.

  Carl Holmquist came into the church. Eyeing Bannister, he walked over and extended his hand. “This is a tough day for a lot of us. I know you and Cal were friends. These memorial services are supposed to bring closure, but this one won’t,” he said.

  “I know. It’s amazing how many people have been affected by Cal’s death. His family, co-workers, neighbors, and friends.”

  “So true,” Holmquist said. He took a seat on the opposite side of the church.

  Most of those attending came as couples. A few groups of conservatively dressed men showed up about the same time, probably having driven over directly from CIA Headquarters. Their arrival was preceded by a man in a blue blazer and dark, gray slacks, who quietly took a seat two rows in front of Carl Holmquist.

  Andre sat down in the church pew. He had come to observe the pain and suffering he had personally caused. He had come to witness his blow against American intelligence.

  Before the service began, Andre closed his eyes and relived Cal Williamson’s last day. It was two months after killing Lillian Wells when Andre had decided there would be additional victims. He wanted all of them to be members of US intelligence. He’d met the CIA’s new chief of the Russian desk three years earlier when Williamson had attended a diplomatic function in Vienna. He recalled the officer’s rugged appearance and confidant air. He’d been impressed with the way Williamson dressed and the easy way he’d asked him questions. When Andre, in response to one of those questions, explained his last name, Neff, was Swiss, he noted a slight gleam in the CIA man’s eyes, as if he knew Neff was a cover name.

  Through one of the Russian’s intelligence sources, Andre discovered Williamson’s new address in Arlington and confirmed Williamson had moved into his townhome on a Saturday. Andre assumed correctly that Williamson would report to CIA headquarters the following Monday.

  Andre’s plan had been simple. He had parked his car early Monday morning near a “kiss and ride” bus stop close to the Forest Hills area where his target lived. Dressed in a business suit and carrying a briefcase, he had merely waited across the street from Williamson’s townhome. As soon as he saw the garage door opening, he moved quickly.

  Andre walked up to the driver’s side door as Williamson’s car was halfway out of the garage. When Williamson stopped his car and lowered his window,
Andre smiled and said, “Mr. Williamson, I know who you are. I met you in Vienna. I am a Russian SVR officer, and I wish to defect. Please, may I talk to you inside?”

  Williamson said “yes” and pulled his Infiniti back into the garage. After Andre showed him his official identification and said he wanted to arrange a longer meeting at a safe location, Williamson closed the garage door. When asked if anyone else was in the house, Williamson said no. Andre said he had documents in his briefcase that would establish his bona fides with the CIA. However, he reached in and pulled out a stun gun instead. Williamson had reacted quickly, leaping sideward, but the darts had found their mark. Andre bent over his target’s helpless body and injected a fast-acting drug directly into his neck. The amount of drug used was sufficient to render his subject unconscious, but it was not fatal.

  After removing a plastic drop cloth from his briefcase and popping the trunk release to Williamson’s car, Andre spread the plastic inside the trunk. He removed a pager and cell phone from Williamson’s belt and took out the batteries. He glanced inside his victim’s briefcase and put it back on the passenger seat. He lifted Williamson’s body into the trunk.

  Andre noticed the alarm panel next to the door leading from the garage to the home was activated. He didn’t plan on entering the house. He pressed the garage door opener, backed out the car, and drove to his storage locker in Springfield. He then left the storage facility on foot and walked a half mile to the nearest bus stop. He rode the bus back to the “kiss and ride” near his target’s home, retrieved his own car, and arrived at work at the National Press Building in Washington, DC, at 9:30 a.m.

  That evening, Andre had checked the Internet for any information identifiable with Lillian Wells or the discovery of any Jane Doe bodies in Northern Virginia. Satisfied, he returned to the storage locker to finish what he’d started. Andre spread a second drop cloth on the floor and removed Williamson’s body from the trunk of the Infiniti. He stripped off the clothes, leaving only a watch on his victim’s left wrist.

  Williamson’s briefcase had a secretariat wallet with $350 in cash. Andre kept the money. In the briefcase, he’d found a CIA identification badge, two passports, and other documents. Monday’s copy of The Washington Post was folded neatly on top. Andre examined everything, then put the wallet, documents, pager, cell phone, and other items inside a double-plastic garbage bag. He wrapped his victim’s clothes around the briefcase and shoved the bundle into a separate bag.

  Andre had replaced Williamson’s body on the drop cloth in the trunk of the Infiniti. He drove his victim’s car, with a stolen Maryland license plate on the back, to mile marker 141. He carried Williamson’s body to the spot where the remains of Lillian Wells were located. He unrolled Williamson from the plastic, placing his body on its back, five feet from Wells’ remains. He injected a second needle into his victim’s neck. Death would occur within hours.

  He drove the Infiniti back to the storage locker where it would remain until he moved it two weeks later. On the way back to his own apartment, Andre had stopped at the adjacent apartment complex and threw two garbage bags into a partially filled dumpster.

  Andre opened his eyes, stood up in the pew, and let a young couple squeeze by him. Within twenty minutes, four hundred people were packed into the sanctuary. The minister stood, said a few words, then introduced a Defense Department representative who stepped behind the pulpit and gave the eulogy. His delivery was polished—not surprisingly, since this was mostly a gathering of professionals. Except for the family, there was no sobbing and little talking. No one mentioned how Cal Williamson had died. Everyone in the church knew.

  As the eulogy ended, Andre reverently bowed his head, perhaps to hide the slight smile on his lips.

  Forty-five minutes later, the service concluded with a piano rendition of Beautiful Aisle of Somewhere. Bannister wasn’t thinking of somewhere but tried to focus on someone—the person responsible for this. He swore to himself he’d do everything he could to make the killer pay.

  At Friday’s team meeting, Gordon passed out photos taken inside the churches. The teams would show these to designated family members and co-workers of the victims. All strangers needed to be identified.

  Spencer Crum said a review of visas as well as airline and ship manifests had identified almost three hundred “Andres” who’d entered the United States during the critical time period. The team determined ninety-three were possibly still in the country. Natalie Fowler, using special software, reduced that number to fifty-one men who fit the profile. Each of them would be further investigated. Additional leads were given out to the teams before the meeting ended. It was four days to Christmas.

  Bannister placed a call to Vienna for Kelly Owens, one of his fraternity brothers who had been on Dartmouth’s tennis team. Owens was with the World Bank, and had been working in Vienna for the past three years. Vienna was five hours ahead, and Bannister reached him at home.

  “Kelly, this is Ty Bannister.”

  “Ty! How the hell are you? Where you calling from?”

  “DC.”

  “Did the Bureau promote you?”

  “No, I’m working a case here. Hoping you could help.”

  “I’ll do what I can. What do you need?”

  “Is your tennis game still sharp?” Bannister asked.

  “I might have lost a step in the past ten years, but my serve and volley are as good as ever. Why the tennis question?”

  “We’re trying to track a guy who’s supposedly a good tennis player, and until about nine months ago, he was probably working in Vienna. His first name is Andre, and we believe he’s a foreign national, probably thirty-five- to forty-years-old. Could you discreetly check with some of the clubs and teams there and see if you can locate any possibilities for us?”

  “No problem. Can I assume this guy played competitively, or is good enough to give lessons?”

  “Yes, I think that’s probably a safe assumption. E-mail me with your results, okay?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Great. Next time we get together, the drinks are on Mr. Hoover.”

  Bannister had one more call to make. He dialed Robin’s room number at the FBI Academy. Although they’d e-mailed each other, he hadn’t talked to her during her first two weeks there.

  “So how’s my favorite student doing?” he asked.

  “I was just thinking about you. I’m stretched out on my bunk in my running gear. The last time I had this outfit on was when you and I ran that 10-K in Atlanta.”

  “So, did you make the right decision?” Bannister asked.

  “Absolutely. I’m so excited. As a matter of fact, I’m so pumped up I’m having a hard time falling asleep. Of course, having a roommate again takes some getting used to.”

  “Are you getting along with your roomie?”

  “We’re like sisters. But not the kind that fight. You’d like her. She was a pharmacist before signing up.”

  “No kidding? That’s unusual.”

  “We just had our first physical fitness test. I ranked second among the women. We have thirteen women and twenty-seven men.”

  “I guess I’ve got some competition.”

  “No you don’t. Trust me.”

  “What’s your schedule for the holidays?”

  “We have the week off. For Christmas, I’m meeting my parents in Colonial Williamsburg. My sister’s staying in California. I think I told you my father’s an executive with the National Preservation Trust, right?”

  “You mentioned it.”

  “Well, for Christmas my parents always go to some historic area and celebrate. Last year they were in St. Augustine.”

  “What about New Year’s?” Bannister asked.

  “I don’t have plans. I’ll be here in the dorm unless someone gives me an invitation I can’t turn down.”

  “Why don’t you be my guest for New Year’s Eve? I have a two bedroom suite here in DC. I could pay off that dinner I owe you, and maybe we could take in s
ome of the sights.”

  “I’d love that, Ty.” There was a pause. “Could that create any problems for me?”

  “No. When you sign out, just put my name and number down as a contact.”

  “Gosh, I’m looking forward to seeing you. Now I’ll have something to look forward to. And what a great way to start the new year.”

  “Merry Christmas, Robin. Enjoy Colonial Williamsburg and your visit with your folks. I’ll see you for New Year’s.” Bannister closed his phone and smiled. Finally, a bright spot.

  Victor Ivanov was leaning back in a black naugahyde office chair in the cramped office space of the Washington Bureau of Russia’s ITAR-TASS news agency. The view from the two windows on the tenth floor of the National Press Building wasn’t spectacular. Ivanov looked over the tops of his shoeless feet propped up on the corner of his desk. All he could see was another office building directly across 12th Street. If he had wanted to, he could stand up and look upward into the sky and tell what the weather in DC was doing. Ivanov wasn’t interested in the weather right now. It was exactly twelve noon and time for his daily ritual.

  Andre Kuznetsov, the other TASS correspondent, walked into the office just as Ivanov was removing his socks.

  “V-chome dela snogami? What’s wrong with your feet?” Andre asked, pulling out the chair at his desk, watching Ivanov as he slowly removed his socks, turned each one inside out, shook it, and put it back on.

  “Nyet problemi. There is nothing wrong with my feet.”

  “Well, I’ve walked in before and seen you shaking your socks. I thought maybe you had athlete’s foot,” Andre said.

  “My feet always get hot, whether it’s summer or winter. When I was in the Army, I learned to turn my socks inside out to keep the skin dry. I got in the habit of giving these piggies some air each day. I always do it at noon so I don’t have to remember.”