Split Second (32 page)

T
ully checked his watch. It wasn’t like Assistant Director Cunningham to be late for a meeting. He sat back and waited. Maybe his watch was running fast again. According to Emma, it was ancient and uncool.

Tully stared at the huge map spread on the wall behind his boss’s desk. It was Cunningham’s personal log for his twenty years as head of the Investigative Support Unit. Each pushpin indicated a spot where a serial killer had struck. Each pushpin color designated a particular serial killer. Tully wondered how soon the assistant director would run out of colors. Already there were repeats: purple, light purple and translucent purple.

Tully knew his boss had worked on some of the most shocking cases, including John Wayne Gacy and the Green River Killer. By comparison, Tully was a rookie, with only six years’ experience in profiling and most of that on paper, not in the field. He wondered how anyone lived day in, day out for decades examining such brutality without becoming jaded or cynical.

He glanced around the office again. Everything on the desk—a leather appointment book, two Bic pens with the caps intact (a talent Tully had not yet perfected), a plain memo pad with no doodles in the corners and a brass nameplate—all of it was organized in straight lines, perpendicular to one another, almost as if Cunningham used a T square every morning. It occurred to Tully that the tidy but stark office contained not one single personal item. There were no sweatshirts wadded in the corner, no miniature basketballs, not a single photo. In fact, Tully knew very little of who his boss was outside the office.

He had noticed a wedding band, yet Assistant Director Cunningham seemed to live at Quantico. There was never any rearranging of appointments for Little League games or school plays or visits to kids in college. Before this morning, he had never even been late for an appointment. No, Tully knew absolutely nothing about the quiet, soft-spoken man who had become one of the most respected men in the FBI. But at what cost? Tully wondered.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Cunningham said as he breezed in, shedding his suit jacket and swinging it carefully over the back of his chair before sitting down. “What have you found out?”

In the beginning, that brisk, straight-to-the-point attitude had flustered Tully, who was accustomed to the courtesies of the Midwest. Now he appreciated getting down to business with no obligatory exchanges of chitchat or greetings. Though it also prevented the two men from knowing a single thing about each other’s personal lives.

“I just received the files faxed over from the Kansas City police.”

He pulled out the summary sheet from a group of folders he had brought along. He made certain it was the correct one and handed it across the desk. Cunningham pushed up his glasses.

Tully continued, “Early autopsy reports indicate a slashed throat as cause of death. No other defense wounds or injuries. There was one incision in the victim’s right side through which the right kidney was extracted.”

“Any sign of the organ?”

“No, not yet. But then the Kansas City cops weren’t looking for it right away. It’s quite possible someone found it, had no clue what it was and tossed it.”

Tully waited patiently, watching his boss as he finished reading. He laid the report on the desk, sat back and rubbed a hand over his jaw.

“What’s your perspective on this, Agent Tully?”

“The timing is off. It’s much too soon after the delivery girl. And it’s much too far away, entirely out of his territory. There was another latent fingerprint, a thumb. Again, it looks like it was deliberately left behind on an umbrella that belonged to the victim. Didn’t even have the victim’s fingerprints on it. It was definitely wiped down with the print left later. And again, it doesn’t match Albert Stucky.”

Cunningham frowned, squinting at the report and tapping his index finger to his lip. Tully thought the lines in his face seemed more pronounced this morning, his short hair peppered with more gray.

“So is it Stucky, or isn’t it?”

“The M.O. definitely matches Stucky’s,” Tully said. “And there hasn’t been enough in the news or even enough time for a copycat to get motivated. The print may belong to someone who came across the scene. A waiter found her. There’s some speculation the scene had been contaminated. KC’s faxing a copy of the print to the guys at CJIS in Clarksburg. We’ll see if it matches the unidentified one left in Newburgh Heights. There’s a good chance these belong to civilians coming across the scene after everything’s been wiped clean.”

“Okay, let’s say that’s the case. So what if it is Stucky?”

Tully knew exactly what Cunningham was thinking, but he evidently wanted or needed to hear it, to confirm what seemed to be the obvious.

“If it is Stucky, it’s more than likely he followed O’Dell to Kansas City. He may be looking for a way to drag her into this again.”

Cunningham glanced at his wristwatch. “She should be headed back right now.”

“Actually, I checked, sir. I thought I’d meet her at the airport. She changed to a flight later tonight.”

Cunningham shook his head and let out a sigh of frustration as he grabbed his phone and punched several buttons.

“Anita, do you have Special Agent Margaret O’Dell’s hotel phone number in Kansas City?” He sat back while he waited.

Tully imagined the methodical Anita quickly accessing her records. Assistant Director Cunningham had kept the same secretary, inheriting her from his predecessor and yielding to her experience and expertise on important matters he couldn’t saddle himself with. If such a thing was possible, Anita was even more meticulous than her boss.

“Good,” Cunningham said into the phone. “Would you please get in touch with her even if it’s through a message. Track her down if she’s already checked out. I want to see her in my office tomorrow morning at eight.”

He hesitated and listened as he rubbed the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “Oh yes, I forgot about that. Tell O’Dell nine o’clock then. Thanks, Anita.”

He replaced the receiver and looked up at Tully, waiting.

“How long do you intend to keep her off this case?” Tully finally asked what he thought was the obvious question.

“For as long as is necessary.”

Tully studied his boss’s face, but had no clue how to read the composed and reserved expression. He respected the man tremendously, but he didn’t know him well enough to know how far he could push him. He decided to take a chance anyway.

“You realize she’s checking this one out on her own? That’s more than likely why she’s taking a later flight.”

“All the more reason to get her back here.” Cunningham held Tully’s eyes, warning him to step carefully. “What else is happening in Newburgh Heights?”

“We found the pizza delivery girl’s car. It was left in long-term parking at the airport, right next to a telephone company van that was reported stolen a couple of weeks ago.”

“I knew it,” Cunningham sat back and began drumming his fingers on the desk. “Stucky’s done it before. He’ll steal a vehicle, or sometimes only the license plates, from the airport’s long-term parking. Chances are he has the plates or even the vehicle returned before the owner is back home. Has forensics impounded the van?”

Tully nodded, sorting through the information he had on both vehicles. “Not likely they’ll find anything. It’s pretty clean. However, we did find two delivery slips in the girl’s car.

He dug in the folder, pulling out one torn piece of paper and another creased with fold lines. Both had been recovered from the floor of the girl’s car. A red stain on one corner had tested as pizza sauce, not blood. Tully handed both over the desk. “The torn one is from her first route. Number four on the list is Agent O’Dell’s new home address.”

Cunningham sat forward, resting elbows on his desk. For the first time in Tully’s three months of working at Quantico, he saw anger on his boss’s face. The assistant director’s dark eyes narrowed and his hands clenched the paper.

“So the damn bastard not only knows where she lives, but he’s watching her.”

“It looks that way. When I talked to Agent Delaney, he said the waitress in Kansas City had joked and talked with the three of them Sunday evening while she served them. He may be choosing women O’Dell comes in contact with in hopes of making her feel responsible.”

“It’s another of his goddamn games. He’s still obsessed with O’Dell. I knew it. I knew he wouldn’t let it go.”

“It appears that way. May I say one more thing, sir?”

“Of course.”

“You’ve offered me another agent to help on this case. You’ve also offered a forensic psychologist, which O’Dell is. You even suggested we have someone on hand to answer medical-related questions. If I’m not mistaken, Agent O’Dell has a premed background.”

Tully hesitated, giving Cunningham a chance to cut him off. Instead, he only stared at Tully, his face back to its stoic expression as he simply waited.

“Rather than three or four people,” Tully continued, “I’m officially requesting Agent O’Dell. If Stucky is targeting her, she may be the only one who can help us catch him.”

Tully expected a flicker of anger or at least impatience. But Cunningham’s face remained unchanged.

“I’ll give your request careful consideration,” he said. “Let me know what else you find out from Kansas City.”

“Yes, sir,” Tully said as he stood to leave, recognizing the signs of dismissal. Before he reached the door, Cunningham was on the phone again, and Tully couldn’t help wondering if his request had also been dismissed.

M
aggie couldn’t wait to peel off her damp, smelly clothes. Everyone in the hotel lobby had confirmed her suspicions—she reeked. Two people insisted on getting off the elevator, and the brave souls who continued the ride up with her looked as though they had held their breath for all twenty-three floors.

Detective Ford had dropped her and Nick at the front door then drove home to explain to his wife why he smelled like garbage on his day off. Nick’s room was in the south tower of the huge hotel complex, explaining why they hadn’t run into each other before. Which meant both banks of elevators would need disinfecting.

The three of them had spent several hours digging through Dumpsters, sifting through trash cans and looking for discarded containers on outdoor tables, window ledges, fire escapes and flower boxes. Maggie hadn’t even noticed the thick, gray thunderheads that had rolled in until the rain came in sheets, forcing them to end their search and take shelter. She would have continued if she had been alone. The rain had felt good, slashing at her and perhaps peeling away the tension along with the rancid smells from her skin. But the cracks of thunder and flashes of lightning only made her more anxious and jumpy.

Detective Ford had assured her that Albert Stucky would, indeed, be considered a suspect in Rita’s murder, despite their not finding the missing kidney. Maggie couldn’t understand why Stucky would deviate from his game, or had some unsuspecting customer taken the container home? Was it possible someone could have placed it in his refrigerator without looking, without knowing what was inside? That seemed ridiculous, and Maggie didn’t even want to think about it. The fact was, there wasn’t anything more she could do.

As soon as she came into her room, she noticed the phone’s red message light flashing. She grabbed the receiver and punched in the necessary numbers to retrieve her voice messages. She was used to getting emergency messages about her mother who attempted suicide as often as other women her age treated themselves to a manicure. But weren’t her mother’s new friends supposed to be taking care of her? Who could be calling? There was only one message, and it was, indeed, marked urgent.

“Agent O’Dell. This is Anita Glasco calling for Assistant Director Cunningham. He needs to see you in his office tomorrow morning at nine. Please call me back if you won’t be able to make it. Thank you and have a safe trip home, Maggie.”

Maggie smiled at Anita’s soothing voice, though the message itself set her on edge. She listened to her options, punched the number to erase and hung up. She began pacing, trying to contain the anger before it grabbed hold of her. It was Cunningham’s way of seeing to it that she returned immediately. He knew she would never blow off a request to meet with him. She wondered what he already knew about Rita’s murder, or if he had even considered looking into it. After all, Delaney had probably made it sound as though she was losing her mind, simply imagining things.

She checked her wristwatch and scraped something dry and crusty from its face. She still had about six hours before her rescheduled evening flight. It was the last one to D.C. tonight. If she was to make the appointment with Cunningham in the morning, she couldn’t afford another delay. But how the hell could she leave Kansas City knowing Albert Stucky was here, lurking somewhere in the city? Maybe looking for his next victim right this very minute.

She double-checked the door, making sure it was locked. She added the chain and rammed the back of the wooden desk chair up under the knob, kicking the legs until she was satisfied it was secure. Then she stripped down to her underwear and bra and tossed her smelly clothes and shoes into one of the plastic dry-cleaning bags in the closet. Still smelling them, she triple-bagged them, until the scent seemed to be contained.

She brought her Smith & Wesson with her to the bathroom, leaving it close by on the counter. She left the bathroom door open, slipped out of her bra and panties, then crawled into the shower.

The water beat and massaged her skin. She turned the temperature as hot as she could stand it. She wanted to be rid not only of the smells, but of that crawly feeling just under her skin. That infestation of maggots that invaded her system every time she knew Albert Stucky was nearby. She scrubbed at her skin until it was red and raw. She wanted her mind to be swept clean, and her body to forget the scars.

When she stepped out of the shower, she wiped at the foggy mirror. The brown eyes stared back at her with that damn vulnerability so close to the surface. And the scars were still there, too. Her body was becoming a scrapbook.

The scar began just beneath her breast. With the tip of her index finger, she forced herself to touch it. To trace its puckered line down across her abdomen.

“I could gut you in seconds,” she remembered him telling her—no, promising, not telling. By then, she had resigned herself to death. He had already trapped her. He had already forced her to watch while he bludgeoned and gutted two women to death. He had threatened that if Maggie closed her eyes he would simply bring out another woman and start all over. And he had been true to his word.

There was still no escaping those images and sounds: bloodied breasts, the crack of bones, the hollow thud of a baseball bat against a skull. There had been so much blood from severed arteries and from knives sinking into flesh, into abdomens and vaginas—places where knives should never be allowed. No place was out of limits for Stucky. Nothing on a woman’s body was sacred. He carved and sliced, pleased and encouraged by the screams.

After feeling the splatters of blood, the pieces of bone and brain, after hearing the mind-shattering cries for help and smacks of bloodied flesh, what more could he have done to her? Death would have been a relief. So instead, he left her with a constant reminder of himself, a scar.

Maggie snatched a T-shirt and wrestled into it, anxious to cover herself despite her skin being damp. She marched to the dresser and pulled out clean underwear and khakis. Her hair was still dripping as she rummaged through the service butler, relieved to find two new miniature bottles of Scotch. Thank God for the hotel staff’s efficiency.

A soft tap on the door startled her. She stopped at the bathroom, retrieving her revolver. Before pulling the chair away, she checked the peephole. Nick’s hair was damp and tousled. He wore clean blue jeans and a crisp oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

She returned the chair to the desk and slipped the revolver into the back of her waistband. It wasn’t until she opened the door and his eyes slid down her body that she realized she had nothing on underneath the thin T-shirt that now clung to her damp body.

“That was fast,” she said, ignoring the flutter this man seemed to activate on sight.

“I was anxious to crawl out of those clothes.” He returned to her face, a hint of embarrassment coloring his own. “I think I might need to throw out my shoes. There’s gunk on them that I don’t even want to know about.”

They stared at each other. His presence, his scent seemed to dismantle her thought process. She felt hot and damp. She told herself it was from her shower and the extra-hot water she had used.

“I thought maybe we could get something to eat or drink,” he finally said. “You do still have time before your flight?”

“I should…um…put something else on.”

His eyes wouldn’t let her go. Suddenly it unnerved her how much she wanted to touch him. She needed to close the door, get control of her senses, pull herself together. Instead, she heard herself saying, “Why don’t you come in.”

He hesitated, enough so that she could have taken back the invitation. Instead, she moved away from the door. She retreated to the dresser again, pulling things out at random, pretending to be searching while giving herself any excuse not to look up at him.

He came in and closed the door behind him.

“We seem to spend a lot of time in hotel rooms.”

She glanced at him, immediately annoyed that the reminder brought a flush to her cheeks. In a small hotel room in Platte City, Nebraska, they had come dangerously close to making love. Five months later, she could still feel the same rush of heat. With all the emotions assaulting her over the past few days, how was it possible for Nick Morrelli to walk in and assault her with a whole new set?

She pulled out a white crew-neck sweater, the cotton knit cool but bulky and comfortable. She snatched a bra from the drawer as well.

“I’ll just be a minute,” she said as she disappeared into the steamy bathroom.

She changed quickly, avoiding any extra touches. She toweled the wetness out of her hair and brushed it back, grabbing the blow dryer, then deciding against it. She reached to remove her Smith & Wesson, hesitated, and left it in her waistband, pulling the loose sweater down and checking in the mirror to make sure it couldn’t be seen. She knew she’d have to grab her badge on the way out.

Nick was at the window and watched as she tugged on socks and slipped on shoes. She noticed he had both miniature bottles of Scotch in his hand.

“Still having nightmares?” His eyes searched hers as he returned the bottles to the small table.

“Yes,” she said quite simply, and gave him her back as she found her badge and some cash. She didn’t need Nick Morrelli barging into her life and thinking he had any right to share or expose her vulnerabilities.

“Ready?” she asked as she headed for the door and opened it before looking back at him. She almost tripped over the room-ser-vice tray that sat on the floor outside her door. She stared down at the single dinner plate covered by a silver insulator. The two empty glasses and accompanying silverware sparkled on a crisp, white linen napkin.

“Did you order something from room service?” she turned to ask, but Nick was already by her side.

“No. And I didn’t hear a knock, either.”

He stepped over the tray and out into the hallway to look in both directions. Maggie listened. There were no slamming doors, no footsteps, no wisping elevators.

“Probably just a mistake,” Nick said, but she could hear his tension.

Maggie kneeled next to the tray. Her pulse quickened. Carefully, she slipped the linen napkin out from under the silverware, using thumb and index finger. She unfolded it, then used it to grab the handle of the metal insulator. She lifted it slowly and immediately the smell filled the hall.

“Jesus,” Nick said, jerking back a step.

In the middle of the shiny dinner plate lay a bloody glob Maggie knew was Rita’s missing kidney.