by Ellie Marney
The man who arrives in response to this summons is about midforties, short and squat. He’s wearing a dapper suit with a wide tie; the pale collar of his shirt contrasts with his dark skin and hair. He has a mustache and a matching short beard, and his thick brows meet in the middle. His eyes are expressive, as bright and alert as a falcon’s.
“What’s up? What you got?”
“This young lady is postulating a theory, and we’re checking it out. Folks, this is Carlos Dixon, Comparison Analysis and Trace.”
“Hey, Carlos,” Cooper says. “How was court?”
“Great.” Dixon grins, wolfish. “We finally nailed Gower.”
“Good to hear.”
Westfall reclaims Dixon’s attention. “Carlos, you ever see someone debride tissue to conceal needle marks?”
“Sure. I trained in New York, I’ve seen everything. I’ve seen cigarette burns over needle marks. Tattoos, lacerations. One girl, her boyfriend said it was a dog bite.”
“This is abrasions at the ligature site,” Neilsen explains. “It’s Pennsylvania.”
“Ah, okay. Well, I’m not gonna say it’s outside the realm of possibility. You got the photos?”
“Yeah, you want both victims?”
“Can’t hurt.” Dixon finds himself a chair. He scans the visitors, smiles at Emma, then nods at Bell. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Bell replies.
Cooper thinks of something. “Glenn, have you got the matching shots from all four bodies?”
“Yup,” Neilsen says. “Lemme dig ’em out.”
Nielsen searches through his photo file again. The room is almost at capacity. Bell finds himself a chair near the wall. Emma, trying to take her mind off the pall of Westfall’s cigarette smoke, watches Carlos Dixon as he examines the photos.
“This would be easier if you had an internal ME, huh?” she offers.
Dixon nods. “Yeah, but then the case comes to court and the defense attorney nails the ME to the wall for cognitive bias.” He smiles. “It’s okay for us, we’re just lab grunts. But the coroner has to be impartial. So we have this curious little division of church and state.”
“I didn’t think about that.”
“Of course it could also just be because this is the FBI, and you know how government institutions love bureaucracy.” He grins at Cooper before turning to Bell. “This is pretty advanced work for a new LEO. You been doing this kind of thing awhile?”
Bell shakes his head. “Less than two weeks. And I don’t have my stripes yet, I’m still in training.”
“Yeah, I thought you seemed a little young to be this heavy.”
“It’s more hard-core than school, I’ll say that much,” Bell admits.
“Welcome to the real world, my friend.” Dixon turns to Neilsen. “Pass me the glass?”
Neilsen hands over the large, square-framed magnifying glass on his desk. Dixon spends a little time poring over the shots, then encourages Neilsen to move aside so he can spread the photos out. He turns on the desk lamp. Suddenly there they are, lit in stark relief: eight arms from four victims, all in various shades of gray. The insides of the elbow joints are scored with horizontal red lines, purple bruises, raw areas that bear a strong resemblance to ground beef.
“Hard to distinguish anything from the abrasions,” Westfall remarks.
“True. But look at the pattern.”
“What pattern?” Westfall cocks his head.
Dixon indicates the photos on the desk. “Left arms are more abraded than right arms.”
“What?”
There’s a bit of crowding around the desk—Neilsen pushes his chair aside and stands up. Dixon uses the handle of the magnifying glass as a pointer. “Left arm, right arm. That’s Ramirez. And here’s Barnes—left arm, right arm. You can see the tram-track bruising from the ligatures and some deep abrasions, but you’d expect the depth and severity to be consistent across both arms, right? Not here.”
“Shit,” Neilsen breathes.
“What is it?” Emma’s pulse quickens.
“Could it have been the way they were tied?” Cooper asks quickly.
Westfall answers first. “Nope. Otherwise you’d see angle variation in the bruising. And we got impressions off the posterior torsos—it looks as if all the knots were at the back. So the rope marks should be evenly distributed.”
“Shit,” Neilsen says again, more loudly this time. “He’s right. Here’s the shots for Lambton and Davis—same thing. Left cubital fossa is more damaged. Goddammit.”
“Hey, man, don’t feel bad,” Dixon consoles.
Emma frowns. “What does this mean?”
“It means our perp created deeper abrasions,” Dixon explains, “knowing that the debridement would disguise something in the elbow joint. Probably a needle mark, like you suggested. That much abrasion, it all bleeds together. It’s the old ‘forest for the trees’ strategy.”
“Would he have done it postmortem?” Cooper asks.
“Doesn’t matter. Before death, just after—it’d be hard to differentiate either way. He might’ve used a file or a rasp, or the same rope, maybe, so the abrasions would match with the ligature marks.”
“I’ll be damned,” Westfall says. He looks at Emma. “We’ll need to get the county MEs to dissect and confirm, but it seems like your theory might have legs, Miss Lewis.”
“So he is drawing blood.” Emma gets a rush of energy, but it fades when she considers the ramifications. “But why is he drawing blood, then, if it’s not to determine blood type?”
“Didn’t you say he could be drinking it?” Bell asks.
“That may not fit, I’m afraid,” Neilsen says. “Blood is toxic if you ingest more than a teaspoon or two. It can make you vomit, produce hemochromatosis.”
“Iron overload,” Westfall supplies.
“Maybe he’s only ingesting a little bit?” Emma suggests. “Gutmunsson compared it to a taste test.”
“You got this lead from Simon Gutmunsson? ¡Ay Santo!” Dixon raises and lowers his monobrow. “I guess blood-drinking is possible. But the Pennsylvania perp doesn’t have the disorganization you’d expect to see with that kind of paraphilia. Guys like Richard Chase, who think they’re vampires, tend to demonstrate heavy-duty schizophrenia—they’re completely chaotic.”
“Do the victims all have the same blood type?”
“Nope. Lambton and Ramirez were O-positive, Barnes was A-neg, and Davis was B-positive.”
Bell is looking at the photos under the harsh lamplight. “Could he be… I dunno, injecting it into himself? Something like that?”
“Like a transfusion?” Dixon asks.
He sees something glowing in them, something he wants to kindle inside himself.… Emma wants to shake off Simon Gutmunsson’s voice in this office, but it seems to follow her everywhere. “That would actually mesh very well with what we understand of the killer. We know he doesn’t kill the victims immediately—Gutmunsson suggested he waits for the blood to be largely clear of ether, to be rid of impurities. The killer seems to have a special relationship with the blood from the victims. I can see him wanting to make their blood a part of him somehow.”
“He’d have to be AB-positive, then,” Dixon remarks. “Or he’d be in a world of hurt.”
“AB-positive is the universal receiver, is that right?” Cooper asks.
“Right. Otherwise you’re looking at hemolytic transfusion reaction, cascade clotting—”
“He might know that. He always took blood from the left arm.” Cooper looks at Emma.
“Is that important?” she asks.
“The heart skews to the left, and the ventricles point left,” Westfall says. “It’s generally the preferred arm for blood samples.” He peers at Cooper. “You’re thinking medical training?”
“Maybe, yeah.” Cooper has a light in his eyes. “Access to ether, the abrasions to hide a needle mark, the left arms, a possible transfusion…”
“Jesus.” Somewhere in another office, a p
hone rings. Westfall ignores it. “It would actually work well with the analysis of the throat wounds—no hesitation marks, fine sharp blade. This guy is very efficient at cutting a jugular.”
Emma turns to Bell, vibrating a little with the energy of the dots connecting in her head. “Someone they think they can trust.”
His eyebrows bunch. “A doctor?”
“That seems unlikely, given we’re looking for a college-aged suspect,” Cooper says.
Emma nods. “I get that, and it’s rare—but possible. Especially if he was accelerated in high school. It would explain his control, and the idea of a grudge—a smart teenager, maybe socially isolated.…”
“Or he could be passing himself off as a doctor,” Westfall suggests. “It’s been done before.”
The phone is still ringing. Dixon looks around. “Anyone gonna get that?”
“I’ll take it.” Neilsen drags himself away to the door.
“Or he could be a medical intern.” Emma throws out more ideas. “An ambulance assistant, a trainee nurse, an army medic—”
Cooper has pulled out a notebook. He checks his watch. “Gerry, it’s going on six thirty—we need to call the ME in Harrisburg at home. Don’t let them release Barnes’s body until we’ve confirmed. And tell them we want closer shots of the elbow joints, the… What did Glenn call it? The cubital fossa. We want shots of Ramirez, too.”
“You thinking of exhuming the other two bodies?” Westfall asks.
“Maybe. Give me the department numbers for county health?”
Dixon smiles broadly at Emma. “You did good.” He turns to Bell and speaks in Spanish. Bell coughs a little, replies, and they both chuckle.
Emma frowns at Bell. “What did you say?”
“I just told him you were too smart for him,” Dixon says with a smile.
Bell’s cheeks flush, but he’s grinning. “And I said he’s got it wrong—that I’m the brains, and you’re the muscle.”
Emma snorts, looks left as Neilsen rushes back into the doorway.
“Ed.” Neilsen’s face is chalky. “That was Gerry’s line. Police in Clarke County just called it in. They’ve found another crime scene in Berryville.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cooper is on the phone in Neilsen’s office, using a voice of command that Emma hasn’t heard from him before.
“… until I arrive. Yes, the entire area. Tell Clarke County PD if anyone enters the building—I mean anyone—I will make it my personal mission to get them demoted to parking inspector for the rest of their career. No one touches anything until I get there with the team.… Yes, Gerry Westfall is coming, I’ll get him in the chopper somehow.…”
The other members of the Scientific Analysis unit are moving around, gathering equipment. Nobody rushes, but there’s an air of brisk efficiency. Westfall is in his own office, paging Linda Brown out of her daughter’s dance recital.
“What do we do now?” Emma stands with Bell by the wall in Neilsen’s office. The abrupt shift in her concentration, after the most recent discussions, has given her a sense of free fall.
Bell opens his mouth to speak, stops. Shakes his head.
Cooper finishes his call, begins dialing another immediately. Emma thinks it’s possible he’s forgotten they’re here.
“Agent Cooper—” she starts.
He holds up a finger, then his attention goes away. “Yes. Yeah, Don, it’s Berryville. I’m still in Washington so I’m leading the team. Betty’s organized a… No, sir. I don’t think that’s necessary. The people who’ve been working this from the start are the best.… No, sir. I appreciate the idea, but that is not my recommendation.… Okay. Yes, that would be better. Thanks, Don, I’ll keep you updated.”
He hangs up, his finger still pressed on the receiver like he’s thinking of where to call next. Then he pauses, turns to Emma and Bell. “Okay, it’s like this. DCPD is sending us a chopper, it’ll be on the roof in the next four minutes. I want you to go back to Quantico—”
“Are you kidding?” Emma blurts.
Cooper rounds on her. “Miss Lewis, this is not your fight.”
“What are you talking about, we just—”
“Miss Lewis.” Cooper composes himself with effort. “I am not taking you to an active crime scene. I applaud you and Mr. Bell for what you’ve contributed to this case so far, and we’ve turned up some important information as a result of your efforts, but now is not the time or place for this discussion.”
“Agent Cooper—”
“Lewis.” Bell touches her shoulder.
“Mr. Bell, take these.” Cooper fishes the car keys out of his pants pocket, tosses them into Bell’s catch. “Drive back to Quantico. I’ll meet up with you there, most likely sometime tomorrow.” He narrows his eyes at Emma. “I’ll give you all the information I receive. Don’t worry, you’ll be kept in the loop.”
Emma bites her lip hard. She nods.
“Good.” Cooper glances at the wall clock. “Time to get upstairs. Do you both understand my instructions?”
“Yes, sir,” Bell replies.
“Yes,” Emma mutters.
“Thank you. Remember you’ll need to be checked off at the escort desk. I already called them to say you’re on your way down. I’ll see you back at base.” Cooper grabs his notebook and heads for the door.
There are no rousing speeches as the unit makes for the roof. Westfall ushers Emma and Bell out of the offices with the rest of the personnel and everyone hustles to the elevators. Neilsen is chewing on a sandwich he’s got in one hand, with a hard case that looks like an outsized fishing tackle box in the other. Cooper is focused on something in his own brain and doesn’t even look their way. Dixon gives them a rueful smile and a nod as the doors close.
They have to wait for the next elevator. On the way down to the parking garage, Emma chafes her hands together until Bell looks over. Then she puts them in her pockets.
Forewarned by Cooper, the escort security desk staff member ticks their IDs off a list and informs them that they have to take the rear exit onto E Street NW, as the front exit is locked down for the evening.
When she and Bell are finally in the car, Emma can sense the energy of the last few hours circulating in the air around them, trapped in there with them by the windows and the body of the vehicle. She has a fierce awareness of what has happened, what is happening now, the tense stillness of Bell beside her in the driver’s seat, the sound of her own breathing.
Bell starts the car. He waits before pulling out of the parking space. Emma feels the shudder of the engine in the fillings of her teeth.
“I know this isn’t our job.” Her voice ricochets in the car’s interior. “I know our job is supposed to be different. To collect information.”
“We are collecting information.” Bell’s fingers are firm on the wheel while the car idles, while he stares forward. “Important information.”
“Yeah.”
He pauses. “Then why does this sting like I’ve been benched?”
Emma looks at him. “You know why.”
“Do you think we should be involved in this?”
“We’re already involved. We’ve been involved since Cooper first sent us to interview Simon Gutmunsson.”
“That’s right. We have as much connection to this case as anybody. We can’t back out now.” Bell sucks his teeth. “How far is it to Berryville?”
Something—her heart, she supposes—lurches inside Emma’s chest. “About an hour and a half. You basically follow the Potomac to Leesburg.” She heard Westfall say it when he and Cooper were arguing over whether Westfall could avoid the helicopter and go by road.
“Then take Route 7?” Bell is easing the car out of the parking space in the dark garage.
“Yep.” Emma buckles her seat belt. “Do you know how to get out of Washington?”
“No. I flew in from Wisconsin to Washington National and picked up the truck from there. I’m gonna be following my nose.”
“E
Street onto Tenth, I think. Head for Constitution Avenue.”
Bell raises his eyebrows. “Have you been to DC before? How do you know?”
“My dad drove us to see the Christmas tree about five years ago.”
“God help us.” Bell puffs out a breath. “This is probably a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“I guess we’ll have an hour and a half to think about that.”
They side-eye each other. Emma thinks if she tried to high-five with Bell now, he might actually reciprocate. Then it’s all focus as she tries to remember ancient directions that will get them out of the city.
It’s forty miles to Leesburg, where Emma buys chocolate and coffee—neither of them have eaten since lunch and they’re running on fumes—and Bell gases up the Diplomat. Bell has shucked his jacket and tie, opened his collar. The sun is preparing to close down the day by the time they get back on the road.
“Okay.” Emma sips from her to-go cup. “God, this coffee is awful. So we get there, stay on the perimeter—”
“Let’s try a different approach.” Bell opens a packet of peanut butter cups with his teeth while he drives. “We still have FBI credentials, that should get us most of the way in.”
“And then… what? You think Cooper will have his hands so full he won’t realize we’re there?”
“I think we should just, y’know. Front up to him.” Bell’s expression has an obstinate cast.
Emma shakes her head. “And folks say I’m game.”
“Cooper wants this killer caught. He wants Gutmunsson to stop writing to him. And he’s got enough smarts to work his advantages. One of those advantages is us, Lewis.”
Emma swallows another mouthful of burnt coffee. “So… how pissed do you think Cooper will be?”
“On a scale of one to ten, with one being mild frowning and ten being Mount St. Helens—”
“Right.”
Bell has settled back to drive the last twenty-five or so miles. “Man. Check out that sunset.”