Flash Point (3 page)

Jenna's neck muscles stiffened at the star-struck quality of the cop's voice. God, this had gotten old. ‘Yeah. I'm her, all right.'

He shook his head, a wide smile crossing his face. ‘I just can't believe I'm meeting you! I've heard so much about you!'

You and everyone else I've ever talked to.

He glanced from her, toward the crime scene, and back again. ‘So, you're going to … you're
really
gonna …'

‘Yes,' Jenna snapped, trying hard to keep the annoyance out of her voice. It wasn't his fault she was famous for being able to discern things about crimes based on the colors she associated with everything from letters and numbers to people and gut feelings. To him, grapheme-color synesthesia must sound like the cool super power everyone else thought it was.

‘We'd better go before you ask for her autograph, because I didn't bring a pen,' Saleda said, handing the bottle back to Jenna.

‘Right,' the cop said. He looked at Jenna, to the bank, and back again. ‘Well, um … good luck with … it.'

‘Thanks,' she said, even though the word was really meant for Saleda and her rescue.

A step away, Saleda leaned in toward her. ‘Don't mention it.'

They stopped right in front of the door.

‘Ready?' Saleda asked.

‘As I'll ever be,' Jenna replied.

With that, Saleda swung the door open.

Despite what she'd just said, Jenna
wasn't
ready for the sight that hit her. Two bodies were splayed out on the polished marble floors next to a cheery sign advertising mortgage loan services and free online checking accounts, another was slumped against the wall surrounded by scattered, blood-smeared deposit slips. Some body
parts
were strewn around at random, turning the scene of what would at any other time be the most mundane of errands into a sickening, bloody canvas. A dead woman's body was suspended awkwardly in the air over where, presumably, her waist had caught the velvet roping on its way to the floor. A man in a pool of red, the pen chained to the counter next to him dangling above his head.

But even the horrors of the blood and gore weren't the biggest problems.

The worst part of the scene was the way the colors seemed to fly at Jenna, changing and morphing with every direction she looked. Never had she experienced this sort of wild, chaotic display of hues in her own mind at a crime scene, been unable to organize and process what they could possibly mean.

Jenna closed her eyes, shutting them all down.

‘Saleda, I can't handle this. I've gotta get out of here.'

Outside the bank, Saleda handed Jenna a coffee, and Jenna took a few long, deep breaths. She took a quick sip, closed her eyes.

‘So, you want to tell me what happened in there?' Saleda asked, leaning against the stone wall outside the building next to Jenna.

Like I can explain this …

‘Too many colors,' she said, hoping for understanding and not a ton of questions.

‘Come again?'

‘I … um …' Jenna took another sip of the piping hot coffee, searching herself for words. ‘I couldn't handle the colors I started to associate with each murder I saw. There are a
lot
of different ones.'
To say the least.

Saleda let out a half-laugh. ‘Thank God. I thought for a minute you were going soft on me.'

Jenna smirked. ‘Hardly. I can handle the awful murder scene. It's just that the colors in my brain started making me dizzy. I'll be fine to go back in in a minute now that I'm ready for it. I think. I'm honestly not sure how to process this one. I could look at one segment of the room at a time, but I probably need to assess the crime as whole, too, if we want to get a feel for the full picture.'

Though if I knew more about the full picture, separating it would be more helpful.

A cop to their left cleared his throat, and Saleda looked toward him. ‘What can I do for you?'

‘I'm sorry, Special Agent Ovarez, but my commanding officer sent me out to tell you. Thought you'd want to know. We've found something else …'

‘Another body?' Saleda asked.

The guy with the short, dark crew cut shook his head. ‘No, ma'am. Well, kind of, maybe …'

‘Out with it,' Saleda said.

‘Another person,' the young officer replied. ‘A live person. One who says she was here when the attack started.'

Jenna sat down across from the female employee who'd been found by the local cops closed inside the bank vault. The woman wore a navy pants suit – smart, tailored to fit her. She was seated in a metal folding chair, but even so, Jenna could tell she was short in stature. Five-foot-three, maybe, at most.

The woman tucked a strand of her copper-blonde, shoulder-length hair behind her ear. Her eyes were wide and fearful, and her pupils darted toward the door. ‘Who are you? What happened to Officer Zarecki?'

‘Hi, Ashlee. My name is Dr Jenna Ramey. I'm a forensic psychiatrist with the FBI. I'd like to ask you a few questions.'

‘Psychiatrist?' Ashlee asked. She glanced at the door again, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

‘Don't worry, Ashlee. I'm not here to analyze
you
. It's my job to try to put together the things we know about the crime and give the police officers and the FBI any information I can that might help them understand the mind of the individuals they're looking for. Let's talk about the incident,' Jenna said, careful not to call the scene upstairs a crime or refer to the murders in any way. If this woman was downstairs, it was possible she had seen none of the crime, all of it, or anything in between, and Jenna needed this information straight from her without putting any ideas in her head. ‘Is that OK?'

Ashlee nodded wordlessly.

‘All right. Just try to tell me what you remember. That's all I need from you,' Jenna said. She'd had to give too many interviews just like this back when she'd been the sole reason her mother had been arrested. Even as a pre-teen, her nerves had felt over the edge. And that was with only one killer stalking around, never mind the gang of them that had taken the bank by storm. Ashlee had to be terrified, and her mind was probably clouded by fear and overwhelmed at best. ‘What was the first moment that you noticed something out of the everyday bank workings was going on?'

The woman sat there for a moment, quiet. She closed her eyes as though trying to see the scene in her mind. She winced. Folded her lips.

‘I heard someone scream. A woman. It sounded like she was near the door,' she said softly.

‘OK, good. Where were you when you heard the scream?'

‘In the drive-through teller room. Behind the teller line inside the bank,' Ashlee said, her words fast and clipped, a touch of panic in her tone.

‘OK. And what happened after you heard the scream?' Jenna asked, hoping for her own selfish purposes that the bank entrance had been within Ashlee's sightlines from where she was in the drive-through room and that Ashlee had looked toward it.

‘I turned in the direction of the scream as I backed up closer to the wall. The yells and rushing movement out of the corner of my eye scared me. I didn't even know what exactly was happening yet, but it was just a gut instinct,' Ashlee replied, her eyes still closed. ‘I couldn't see a lot from where I was pressed up by the wall, but I could make out lots of black figures moving, sprays of red. It took my brain a second to process that I was seeing people being killed.'

Damn.

‘How many black figures did you see?'

Ashlee shrugged, eyes squeezed tighter. ‘I have no idea. It was such a blur. But a lot. More than you'd expect. They seemed to be pouring in the door.'

‘Right,' Jenna said, nodding. ‘What happened after you realized what the figures were doing?'

‘I dropped down to my knees by the wall, but I knew sooner or later they'd notice me. I'd seen them, after all. I kept thinking the only way I'd be OK was if I could get out before they noticed me. I crawled out of the room and went under the teller counter for cover, then I crawled to the left, toward the exit that leads downstairs to here,' Ashlee said. ‘I stopped at the edge of the desk to try to peek out, see if I could make it without being seen.'

‘OK,' Jenna said, waiting patiently for the next piece of the story. Obviously, Ashlee had made it downstairs alive. This was one suspense story where they knew at least the end of the chapter. The main character in this particular portion had made it.

‘One of the figures grabbed my wrist,' she said.

Jenna forced herself not to react.

How the heck had she gotten away?

Jenna nodded. ‘What next?'

‘The person spoke. A man,' Ashlee replied.

Now she was wringing her hands in her lap, though her eyes remained shut. She shook her head profusely like she was trying to tell her own memory to forget, to not relive the nightmare.

‘I begged him not to kill me. I held my other arm over my face, like I could protect myself. He could've just stabbed my stomach. Stupid.'

‘Why did you think he would stab you?' Jenna asked.

‘He had a weapon. Some kind of knife.'

‘What did it look like?'

Ashlee squeezed her eyes tighter, and a tear trickled down her cheek. ‘Long. I don't know. I can't remember. He had something like a knife. All of them did. Only they were different, too.'

‘That's OK,' Jenna said. Eyewitnesses always made poor witnesses, unfortunately. ‘When he spoke, what did he say?'

‘He told me to take him to the safe. I kept begging him not to kill me. I figured I'd open the safe, let him clean it out. All I could think about was my family. They train us what to do during a robbery – how to call for help with silent alarms, stuff like that. But in the moment, I didn't think of any of that. I could only think about doing what he said so I could go home.'

‘Understandable,' Jenna replied, calm and smooth. She needed to give the witness confidence, help her trust her own instincts. If she didn't, Ashlee could clam up. ‘Anyone with half a brain would be sensitive to that. What happened next?'

‘I stood up. We walked to the stairs … went down. Got to the safe. I turned the combination into the lock and opened the door. God. I could hear his breathing behind me.'

‘Did he say anything else up to this point?'

She shook her head. ‘No. Just waited. I was so scared he'd stab me in the back. God, it was so fucking terrifying.'

Now Ashlee shook. She rocked herself a little, unclasped her hands and dried them on her pants.

‘When you opened the door, what happened?' Jenna asked.

‘He told me to close myself in the safe so I didn't get killed. He said I was lucky. That I'd been chosen to “start the dialogue”. Those were the words he used: “Start the dialogue”. He told me it was important to speak carefully when I talked to “investigators”. Said the police would come. That I should pass along their message.'

The redwood color Jenna associated with attention-seeking flashed in. They had kept a witness alive on
purpose
to transmit a message to the cops. The bold, chili pepper red of organization replaced the redwood. Then, narcissistic purple. Sometimes killers secretly
wanted
to be caught on some level. But the pathology of a
group
of killers? Not so simple …

A message to pass. An organized group of killers, yet mass murder without robbery motives, so the mafia moving money seemed out.

A message. Organized. Mass.

The deep, dark red of sangria blanketed her mind. A color she associated with violence rooted in causing fear. Terror.

‘What message did he ask you to pass on?' Jenna asked, swallowing hard. One of the killers had kept someone alive deliberately to tell her – to tell the
police
– something. And left a note that they would strike again. It could only mean one thing …

‘He said to tell you that you should “treat all trivial things in life very seriously—”'

‘Wait,' Jenna cut in. ‘Which of those were his words?'

‘What he said exactly was, “Tell the cops they should treat all trivial things in life very seriously. Tell them it is important to be earnest.”'

The words caused a wash of lapis lazuli to crash over Jenna, the deep blue permeating her thoughts. Intelligence. Classical intelligence.

‘Thank you, Ashlee,' she said, standing. ‘I may have some more questions for you in a bit, but that's all I need right now.'

Jenna left the downstairs conference room of the bank and closed the door behind her. Her eyes found Saleda's. ‘I want to do another walkthrough. Also, I think you'll want to get Homeland Security on the line.'

Jenna passed Saleda and headed down the hallway toward the stairs. She had to see the crime scene again. She could get so much more from it now that she knew what they were dealing with. Sort of.

In fact, she'd be able to look at each killing individually and learn even more about the group makeup, now that she knew what she was looking for.

She heard Saleda's heels clacking on the floor behind her. Her ranking officer fell into step with her. ‘Homeland Security? What the fuck for?'

‘Because this isn't a bank robbery gone wrong or a weird mafia-related hit,' Jenna said. ‘We're dealing with a terrorist group.'

Ah, visitors' day.

Isaac Keaton took a deep breath of the not-so-fresh air of the visiting area, where he was led to a little cubicle with flimsy walls. A few other supermax inmates were already here, sitting behind the fingerprint-covered Plexiglas while they talked over corded telephones to their wives, kids, parents, and legal aides. These men who had committed the worst of the worst violent crimes, who were so tough they were otherwise kept in single-occupancy control units twenty-three hours a day, would reach up to the window and mirror the palms of their five-year-old daughters, sometimes fight tears when their mother showed up for the very rare visit. The more Isaac came to this room ever since he'd started striving for good behavior points from the guards when he first set this plan into motion, the more he noticed that the air outside his cell might not be fresh, but it was full. Full of sweaty nerves, salty tears. The stench of body odor and farts and bad breath clashed distinctly with the need in the air, the hope, and the remorse.