Body Count (6 page)

Sam stands over the dining table. “Jean was ambitious. In fact, this baby wanted to work in front of the cameras. She was working her way up, trying to get noticed within WX40. She wanted to be an anchor someday and had a pretty good reel together.” Sam picks up her notepad. “Everyone who knew her described her as…” She reads from her notes, “‘Outgoing,' ‘fun,' ‘gregarious,' ‘funny,' ‘entertaining.'” Apparently she liked everyone and everything, and always saw the positive in any situation.”

“I wonder if she managed to do that on the table.”

Sam continues. “She was also very charming and quite a flirt. She had a boyfriend she saw a couple of times a week, but he says it was casual. Says Jean liked to play the field. Her female friends corroborate this.”

“So, did she flirt with our guy? Did she know him before he abducted her?” I say, not expecting any answers.

“They think he nabbed her from her apartment. Inside.”

“Forced entry?”

“Didn't look like it.”

“So we're thinking he knew her, or there was some other reason why she let him in.”

“Must be.”

“Any sign of a struggle?”

“No. But the guys found a bottle of wine, which was almost empty, and one glass with her lipstick.” Sam shuffles through the photos and finds the one of Jean's kitchen.
“There was enough saliva for a DNA test. It was positive for Jean. The glass on the sink—” she points to a wineglass that's upturned on the draining board, “—was clean—no prints, no saliva, no DNA. We don't know whether it was from the night before or if she was drinking with the killer and he had the good sense to wash the glass after him.”

“Could be either. What about the boyfriend? When did he last see her?”

“Two days before. His prints were at the apartment and we found a couple of hairs that have been confirmed through DNA as his. But he's got an alibi for the night she went missing.”

“Good one?”

“Solid.”

Sam glances at her watch. “It's getting late.”

I look at the clock. It's 11:30 p.m. “He's taking shape.”

“Yeah, I'm starting to get a real good picture.”

“Let's sleep on it. We can talk again in the morning.”

“Okay, Soph. Listen, thanks for your help. I know you've got a heavy load at the moment.”

“No problem. As the saying goes, two heads are better than one.”

She grins, a tired smile. “Can't argue with that. I'm going to work on the profile tomorrow, then you can have a look at it.”

“I'll see if I've got anything to add. God, we didn't even get to the dump sites. Where were the bodies found?”

“Jean was found dumped in a stolen car on Roosevelt Island, under the Keys Bridge.”

I know that area. The island is quite isolated and not many people visit it.

Sam gathers up the photos and documents and puts them back in the file. “Coroner estimates she died about four days earlier.”

“So the killer couldn't have been too worried about physical evidence.”

“No.”

“What about the stolen car? Whose was it?”

“The car belonged to some old lady in Garfield Heights. Looks like the car was dumped well before the body.”

“What about Teresa? Where'd they find her?”

“She was a bit different. She was found about four weeks after her death and farther out, in Cedarville State Forest.”

“That's strange. Nothing else turned up at Cedarville?”

“No bodies, if that's what you mean.” Sam yawns, puts the file in her briefcase and grabs her handbag. At the door she gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Good night, honey.”

She bobs her head back around the corner just before I close the door. “And Marco—go for it.”

I laugh. “Get out of here, you.”

“Sweet dreams.”

I don't respond. I wish I could dream about Marco instead of murder.

I close the door.

The apartment feels so empty now. I quickly do my pre-bed security check, even though Sam has been here, before collapsing on my bed. As soon as my head hits the pillow I see the redhead from my dream. But this time she's screaming.

The scream floods my ears. I slit her throat, silencing the bitch.

I only kept this one for three days. She wasn't worth any more than that. She seemed smart, strong, genuine and happy. But I was wrong. How could I have been so wrong? In the end she was a pain-inthe-ass, stuck-up bitch who wasn't even worth getting to know.

I can't believe I had sex with her. The thought repulses me. I'm guilty of what I often complain about—rushing into things without getting to know the person.

But I couldn't have kept her. This way the timing is perfect. Fate has worked in my favor and I have to make an impact. I want to see fear creep into their lives as they start looking over their shoulders. No one's untouchable.

It's time to get personal.

T
he next morning I sit in the meeting room waiting for the last of the team to file in. Rivers closes the door and I notice Sam is absent. Sick?

Rivers gets straight down to business, as usual. “Right, folks. Let's get an update. We'll make this a snappy one. We've all got work to do. Oh, and Wright won't be joining us. There's been another murder with the trademarks of the D.C. killer. The boys in blue called it in and she's checking the murder scene firsthand.” He glances around the room. “Let's start with James.”

Half an hour later I'm in my office when the phone rings.

“Agent Anderson speaking.”

“Soph, it's me. Sam. I think you better get up here.”

“Why? What's up?”

“He was watching me last night.”

“Who?” I ask, but even as I say the words I know.

“The killer. He left me a note at this crime scene.”

“It's definitely the same perp?”

“Looks that way. Unless we've got us a copycat. Multiple knife wounds in the slice-and-dice style, and the same body positioning with head turned, eyes open.”

I look at my watch—nine-thirty. Hopefully the I-95 and 395 won't be too busy. The trip to D.C. can take anywhere from half an hour to two hours or more, depending on traffic.

“I'm on my way.” I scribble down directions before gathering my stuff together.

When I pass Marco's office he's standing at his desk, putting things into his briefcase. I hesitate.

“Anything wrong?” He comes into the corridor.

“The D.C. killer left Sam a note at his latest crime scene. It seems he's been spying on her.”

“Does Rivers know?”

“No, we'll brief him when we get back.”

“He'll go ballistic.” He pauses. “I'm going to the D.C. Field Office in about ten minutes. Want a ride?”

I look at my watch, hesitant. Sam sounded unsettled.

Marco walks back to his desk. “Give me two minutes.”

I smile. “Okay, you're on.”

Marco rifles through his desk, quickly gathering a few more files and putting them into his briefcase. Next he hovers over his computer and types a hurried e-mail.

“Done,” he says, grabbing his briefcase and coat.

We jump into his car and forty minutes later we're pulling off Independence Avenue into East Potomac, a huge parkland area just south of D.C. West and East Potomac Parks, separated by D.C.'s Tidal Basin, and
taking up seven hundred and twenty acres of riverside land. I've been told on several occasions about the park's famous spring cherry blossoms. But will I be able to come back, after what I'm about to see?

I direct Marco toward the midwest point of the park, like Sam told me. Soon enough we're greeted by flashing lights and several cars. The coroner's black SUV is parked partly on the sidewalk and tilts to the side. There are two regular D.C. police squad cars and Flynn and Jones's unmarked car, a white Buick. Off to the corner I see Sam's Bureau-issue, and Marty's car is parked behind Sam's. Marco pulls up to the curb, behind the coroner. Except for the flashing lights the area is quiet.

“Thanks, Marco.”

“Anytime.”

I glance in the side mirror. Two TV vans pull up behind us…the peace will be short-lived.

“TV's here.” I open my door.

“Be careful, Soph.”

I get out of the car quickly and race the press, eager to get out of their view before they set up. I follow the meandering pathway near the cars. The route is lined with skeletal cherry blossom trees and I imagine what they'd look like in bloom. I keep walking. From this viewpoint the park looks peaceful. But over that ridge there's a dead body, with all the trimmings—police, forensics, morbid onlookers and, soon, the press. I come to the second park bench and take a right, up the hill, following Sam's instructions. My first step off the path is accompanied by the crisp sound of fall leaves crackling under my shoes. For a moment I let myself enjoy the sen
sation, knowing that soon my senses will be assaulted with very different sights, sounds and smells.

It's a steep walk, and as soon as I reach the crest I can see down into the crime scene. The police have cordoned off a large area, and around the tape a few curious onlookers gather. The main activity is off to the left slightly, in a scrublike area with dense foliage and bright flowers. The foliage hampers my view, but I can see movement and camera bulbs flashing. For the moment it's just the crime-scene photographers, but soon it will be the media, trying to get a glimpse of a body.

I make my way toward the cop who's obviously the point guy. He's young, fresh out of the Academy by the looks of him.

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” he says, holding out his hand, “this is official police business.” The words have a practiced ring.

I smile. I was that green once. I grab my ID from my handbag and hold it up. “I'm with the FBI. I've been called in to look at the crime scene.”

He blushes slightly but looks closely at my ID—perhaps a little thrown by my accent.

“Sorry, ma'am.”

“No need to apologize, you're just doing your job.” The poor kid's probably already had some egomaniac detective chew him out this morning.

He points to the activity. “She's just in there.”

The protective tone in his voice makes me wonder if it's his first dead body. He said “she” and not “the victim.” He
is
green, but I like it.

“Thanks, Officer.” I make my way toward the activity.
Again I flash my ID as I get closer, and then I spot Detective Flynn from homicide standing with Sam and the coroner. Flynn is in his late thirties and has a full head of black, slightly wavy hair. He's about the same height as Marco, but he hasn't got Marco's six-pack. He's tall with a sizable potbelly that is further accentuated by his otherwise thin frame. He usually sports a five o'clock shadow, no matter what time of day, and I'm sure today will be no exception.

The coroner and Flynn are engaged in intense discussion. From here I can see that they are hovering next to the body, which is resting in a flower bed in the middle of the foliage. The rest of the crime-scene area is taken up by forensics, including some FBI employees. Marty is working the scene, probably coordinating the forensics effort. At the moment he's crouching down on his knees about five feet away from the body. Maybe this time the perp's left us a shoe print. God knows we need something.

I hunch over and clamber into the undergrowth.

Flynn turns. “Agent Anderson. It doesn't let up, does it?”

“It's certainly been a busy six months. What have we got?”

I peer through a gap between Sam and Flynn and see the dead woman. It's her! Her face looks just as it did last night, when I saw her throat being slashed. My legs go weak. What the hell's going on?

“Her name's Susan Young. Twenty-nine years old, ran her own training firm,” Sam tells me, though I am barely listening.

I force myself back to the scene. “Who found the body?”

“We got a tip-off early this morning,” Flynn says.

I take my eyes away from the victim. “The perp call it in?” Killers like to get involved in the case, and sometimes they report the crime itself.

“Probably. The caller said he was a jogger, but it would be pretty hard, if not impossible, for a jogger to see into here from the path,” Flynn says.

“So why'd he want us to find this one so quickly?” I say, looking at Susan. A couple of strands of her long red hair lie across her face.

Flynn shrugs. “The note, I guess.”

Sam holds up an evidence bag with a pink envelope in it. “They found this in the victim's pocket.”

On the front is cursive writing addressed to:

“Handwriting. Maybe he's not as smart as we thought.”

“He is.”

I look at Sam questioningly.

“The note is handwritten, but he's printed and used caps.”

I nod. Printing and capital letters are harder for handwriting experts to analyze, or even to compare samples. It's not impossible, but it makes the going tough.

“What does it say?” I ask.

Sam and Flynn both flip open their notepads.

“You go,” Sam says.

“DEAR MS WRIGHT, I WAS DELITED TO HEAR MY CASE HAS BEEN ASSIGNED TO YOU. I'VE FOLLOWED
YOUR WORK CLOSELY AND AM IMPRESSED. I PARTICULARLY LIKED THE WAY YOU HANDLED THE MINNESOTA CASE IN 2002. YOU SHUT HIM UP GOOD, DIDN'T YOU?”

I wince. The Minnesota case was Sam's last in the field before coming to the BAU. It was a drug bust but the police hadn't told her they had someone on the inside. During an exchange of fire he pointed his gun at Sam. She shot him, naturally, but his gun had blanks. It caused lots of problems—official and emotional.

Sam gives me a tight smile.

“This is the really worrying bit.” Flynn doesn't notice the exchange and continues reading out the letter. “I LOOK FORWARD TO WORKING WITH YOU. WITH LOVE, ME. PS I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THE WINE LAST NIGHT.”

He flips the pad shut. “This is not good.”

A rush of images hits me. I'm standing at my window, pulling the curtains closed and there's a shadow on the street. Then I am that shadow, watching my living room. I see myself pull the living-room curtains closed and the shadow's angry. Angry that I've shut him out. The images bring with them a burning pain across my eyes and I stumble forward.

Flynn catches my elbow and steadies me. “Are you all right, Sophie?” He's never used my first name before.

“Yeah. Sorry. I think I've got a migraine coming on.”

This is getting creepy. Real creepy. The girl I saw in my dreams is lying in a flower bed only two feet away from me. Are they dreams, or could I be having premonitions? I immediately want to reject the notion.

Sam's voice breaks my train of thought. “Do you want to look around?”

I look up at her, still a little dazed.

“You sure you're all right?” she says.

I pull myself together. “Yeah, just a headache.”

“I'll send you both my report once I've done the autopsy,” the coroner says, addressing Flynn and Sam.

“Time of death around midnight last night?” I have to ask, to be sure, but I know that at precisely five after midnight, I somehow witnessed this woman's murder.

“Somewhere in that vicinity, yes. I'll pinpoint it back at the lab. How'd you know?”

I have to think fast. “Well, the perp had to have dumped her here sometime between two and five this morning, the quiet time, so he probably killed her just before. Between eleven and maybe three.”

The coroner is happy with my response.

“Let's check in with Marty before we go,” Sam says.

I'd rather get out of here and try to process everything that's happened, but I can't tell Sam that.

We join Marty, who's now examining some broken branches a few feet to our right. Two other people stand next to him, watching his every move.

“Anything?” Sam says.

Marty turns around. “Hi.” He smiles widely. Marty's tall with dark brown hair that he keeps short. His square jaw, freckles and deep brown eyes are highlights of his attractive face, although his eyes are often hidden by thick glasses. He keeps fit, even though he's not in the field.

I got to know Marty quite well when I was on the Henley case. Marco and I often worked nights at their place.

Marty pushes his gelled hair back with his hand.

“Not yet, but we're hopeful.” He motions to the man and woman next to him. “This is Jane Crompton and Bill Rust, they're studying at the Academy.”

The FBI Academy launched its Forensics Training Division at Quantico in 2003. They've got the best collection of experts and machinery in the country, and run a comprehensive training program. They cover basic forensics and also have a program for professionals who want to improve their skills.

“Learning with the master,” Sam says.

Marty smiles sheepishly, embarrassed by the compliment, but Jane and Bill seem happy with the notion that they're studying with the best.

“Did you get a footprint?” I ask Marty.

Marty puts his head down. “No, I'm afraid not. I thought it looked good for a partial, but it's not even a footprint.”

I try to hide my disappointment.

“I'm sorry, Sophie. We will get something on this guy,” Marty tries to reassure me. “If not today, then next time.”

The thought of next time turns my stomach. I want this woman, Susan, to be the asshole's last victim.

“The guy came through this way—” Marty points to a broken branch “—but he raked his footprints on the way out.”

“He brought a rake?”

“He did. Clever, isn't he?”

“Guess so.” I know the perp's smart, but I'm in no mood to flatter his handiwork.

Sam shakes her head. “Anything on the branches?”

Perhaps the perp snagged his jacket coming through and left us a fiber.

“Not so far.”

“Thanks, Marty.” Sam's disappointed but still polite. “Let me know if you find anything.”

“Will do.”

The forensics team will be here for at least another hour.

“Let's go,” Sam says.

We walk back the way we came, passing Susan's body. I peer into the undergrowth and look at her one more time, but then tear my eyes away from her. Could I really have dreamt about Susan's murder?

Sam and I walk toward the street. Over the ridge come two TV crews, each with a reporter and a camera operator.

We instinctively put our heads down, hoping to go unnoticed. But our ploy doesn't work. One of the reporters knows Sam.

“Agent Wright, is this the work of the Slasher?”

The press has christened our killer the D.C. Slasher. Descriptive, I guess.