Terrorbyte (14 page)

Despite spending an hour and a half with Grange music, I was in no mood to hang about making chitchat once we arrived.

Mac hung back to talk with Sam who stood under a large black umbrella. The umbrella was one wind gust off being a collection of wire stalks and flapping torn nylon.

I scurried, head down, through the torrential rain to find Lee and entered the building, happy to be out of the rain. My pleasure was short lived and followed immediately by a heaving sensation in my gut.  I made my way into the house and located Lee in the kitchen. The stench turned my stomach slightly more than the scene in front of me. The underlying note of old garbage, with a hint of maggot-infested rotting meat, rose through the top notes of a now-familiar blend of blood and bourbon. Hidden under the stink was the more pleasing aroma of chlorine.

I tried not to breathe too deeply. “How long has she been dead?”

“Three to four hours.”

“Then what smells so freaking bad?” I turned on the spot, both to take in the entire scrawled wording around the cabinets and walls and survey the area. My answer lay all around us. “Her housekeeping skills were decidedly lacking.”

“Check this out.” Lee hit a button on a remote.
Fear Factor
blared from a television set on the counter.

“Maybe …” I gestured at the piles of rubbish and maggot infestation. “Maybe she was training for
Fear Factor
.”

He switched off the television.

“She got kids?” I saw a baby's bottle amongst the toxic waste and polluted dishes spilling out of the sink. I kept a weather eye out for rats.

“God, I hope not,” Lee replied.

My phone vibrated on my belt as Lee's phone rang. Seconds later, Lee's hand firmly gripped my elbow. “We're out of here, Chicky.”

I guessed his call said the same thing mine did. ‘We have received a credible threat.'

Two officers waited outside the front of the building and escorted us to two more officers standing by my car. I couldn't see Mac or Sam anywhere.

Lee held out his hand for the keys, indicating he would drive. I dropped the keys into his palm; they seemed insignificant in his enormous hand. I slid into the passenger seat and watched as Lee shoved the driver's seat of my Taurus hard against the backseat, giving himself as much leg room as possible. He still looked cramped. He'd look cramped in a Hummer.

“Where to?” I asked.

“Mac and Sam are meeting us back at your place.”

How did he know? I hadn't heard his phone or anyone say anything. At least there would be decent coffee. A white coiled wire was running from Lee's right ear down under his collar. Now that explained his insider knowledge; he was wearing an earpiece. I guessed Sam wore one too. I dragged my phone off my belt and called Caine.

“Have you any more information?”

“No. Not yet.” I could imagine his grim expression. “Bomb squad is going in, if there is a bomb they'll find it.”

“Where did the info come from?”

“Anonymous tip off: maybe the Unsub. Someone who knew unreleased details of the crime scenes.”

“Thanks. You want to take this case?”

“This is all yours. I'm not taking over just because some whacko wants to blow you skyward. You're capable.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

I closed my phone. Water poured from the blackened sky, wind tugged at the car, visibility dropped to mere feet. Luckily, we weren't terribly far from home. Lee parked up the driveway. We ran for the house and shelter.

Mac handed us a towel each, followed by welcome cups of coffee. The wet towels magically disappeared. Our dining room hummed with voices. Caine, Sam, Mac and Lee were talking while I still attempted to digest those two disturbing words. Bomb squad.

“Bomb squad,” I whispered to myself.

Caine's gray eyes drilled into me.

“Bomb squad,” he repeated. “Which of those two words is difficult for you?”

“Both of them.” I turned to the others. “Does this strike you as odd?”

They all nodded.

“As I thought. Why after six murders would our Unsub turn to bombs?”

“Maybe he couldn't think of anything new to write on the Post-it notes,” Mac replied.

Damn! Was there a note? I didn't recall a note. There was part of the same poem, out of order again. I'd seen it written on the kitchen walls.

“ ‘Flashing pictures on a screen. Unsure reality becomes a crazy glued dream.' He used a different part of the poem. He used the last two lines.”

“And he called in a bomb threat,” Mac added.

“Is he done?” Sam asked.

I poured myself more coffee; my head ached. There must've been a note.

“He's not done. Lee, note?” I asked again, “Lee, do you have a copy of the note?”

Lee smiled and passed me his notebook, open at the relevant page. There it was. ‘You probably think this is about you.'

Sam and Mac broke in, singing the chorus of ‘You're So Vain.' One thing for sure, neither of them will be getting through the auditions for
American Idol
. They'd probably make the blooper reel though.

I ignored the note for the time being. The poem bugged me, really bugged me. We'd missed something. ‘Flashing pictures on a screen.'

“Lee get on the phone, I want the television remote from the crime scene.”

He did as I asked, then reported, “They'll bag it.”

“Excellent.” I turned to Caine; with a wave of my hand, I said, “You can go.”

His mouth twitched. A note of incredulousness crept into his gruff voice, “Did you just dismiss me?”

“I did.” Imagine that: being all grown up and capable and running my own case.

“You know where I am, if you need anything.”

“Absolutely.”

Caine's mouth twitched; he bobbed his head once and then he left.

I turned to my team, quietly delighted to have
my
team but more elated to actually feel like I was in command and capable. The newfound positive energy of being a Supervising Special Agent felt good.

“He's not done. This is his game. And I suspect he was the one who had that television on
Fear Factor
.”

“I'm not liking this, Chicky,” Lee said, mimicking my style of speech.

“I'm not liking this, either,” Mac said.

These guys have been around me too long.

I waited for Sam.

He poured himself another coffee.

I waited.

He set his cup down.

I waited.

He smiled. His straight white teeth gleamed against the deep brown backdrop of his face. Move over, Denzel, there's a new hunk in town.

“Sam?”

“I'm with the boys on this. If his latest twist is bomb threats, he's going to make scene investigation difficult.”

“Difficult. Yeah, that's a good description.”

A call from the bomb squad interrupted the exchange and I listened carefully as Sergeant Taylor introduced himself and told me what they'd discovered.

They'd cleared the scene and found a suspicious package in the oven. Honestly, after seeing that house, a demolition order might be the only way to clean it.

“Taylor, did you view the package?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Any writing on it?”

“Two words, we photographed it before detonation. It said, ‘Filthy ho.' ”

“What was in the package?”

“C4.”

“Thank you very much.” I wished the bomber had used something more exotic than C4. “Any idea where the C4 came from?”

“There are several reports of stolen explosives from various demolition companies and military bases. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Good to know. Thank you.”

“You're welcome. The medical examiner has removed the body and the scene is secure.”

“Thank you.” I had another thought. “Have a security guard posted outside the scene for twenty-four hours.”

“Yes, ma'am. I'll see to it.”

“Thanks, bye.”

“Okay, boys.” I had a sultry Mae West moment. “The bomb was a message. It sounds like the Unsub had an issue with Marie's housekeeping too.”

Mac's phone rang with an insistent, tormenting whine. We knew that ring tone; Mother Connelly, crisis central calling.

“Hello, Mom.” He listened, then said, “Because I knew it was you. What do you need?”

Lee, Sam and I backed slowly from the room. There was no need for us to witness another calamity at the Connelly camp, entertaining though they were. As I started to close the door, I heard Mac say, with impressive patience, “Fourteen strings of lights are too many. You've overloaded the circuit. Dad can fix the fuse.”

Uh-oh! Any mention of Mac's dad during a maniac-mom episode resulted in ranting about how useless he was. He was nowhere near useless. She, however, was a nasty, crazy woman.

I shut the door, hoping to keep the crazy out. Lee and Sam waited in my office. My computer was humming. Lee had logged into our work system and was running background comparisons on the victims.

“We'll carry on. Mac will be a while.”

They grinned.

“What do you need, Chicky?” Sam asked.

“I need to rule out the possibility that someone else committed this last crime.” Judging by the stunned looks on their faces, they were surprised.

Sam folded his arms, rocked back on one heel, and gave me a thoughtful look. “No details of any of the crime scenes so far have been reported by the media.”

“You're absolutely sure?”

“Yes.” He nodded.

“Either of you think this could be the work of anyone else?”

“No,” they replied in unison.

“Then he's stepped up his attacks; this is the second today.”

Their expressions solidified into stone.

An urge to think aloud demanded I went with it. “These are not invisible crimes: someone knows our Unsub. Someone saw something. Or at least senses something is amiss. Did our Unsub go home wearing our victim's blood? Did he go home to someone: parents, partner, kids or roommates?” I stopped and sat at Mac's desk. “Get me a list of victims with a mental illness.”

Lee placed a crisp white 8½ x 11 inch sheet of paper in front of me. “Your list of mentally ill victims.”

As I read the list, the words from the first note in Richmond became more important: ‘Special Agent Conway, Gabrielle – We need more chlorine.'

This time the words were in a bold font splashed all over the inner workings of my mind; at that point I knew exactly what he meant. He meant I had the potential to be just like them. It's possible that I carry a mental illness. Mom was a nutter – no, more a raving lunatic than just nuts – and I could carry that gene. How did the Unsub know that? Didn't everybody know that? Didn't we start the Butterfly Foundation because we'd survived being children of the truly insane? There'd been more than one story in the media on the Foundation and how it came about.

I refocused on the task at hand and read the list again. All our victims to date fitted the mentally ill category. “So how is the Unsub connected to these women?”

“Damn, Chicky, you never said you wanted answers.” Lee produced another sheet of paper, laying it next to the first. He tapped it slowly.

I leaned over and read out the single sentence in the middle of the pristine white sheet, “ ‘I got fuc'n nothing. How about you?' ” I smiled at him. “Very funny.”

I passed the paper to Sam.

“We've got six murders and five of the victims had a mental illness. What about Marie Kline? What do we know?”

Lee pulled out his phone and made a call. Minutes later he had an answer for me, “Six now, Ellie; Marie was schizophrenic according to the medic alert bracelet she wore.”

“Thinking just on the Northern Virginia murders … could these women have a connection to the same mental health facility, or doctor, or psychologist, even pharmacist?” I paused. “But then what connects the Richmond murders to these northern ones?”

“Good question,” Sam said.

“Can you extend the parameters of the comparisons?”

“Sure,” Lee replied, as he opened a text box on the screen and added more data. “This will take a while.”

“Do we have confirmation of rape in each case?”

Sam's expression changed from bland to confused in a split second. “It'll be in the post mortem reports.”

“We have those now?”

Sam smiled. “We have the Richmond ones, plus two of the northern ones.” He nudged Lee. “Grab those reports.”

Lee pulled them up on the screen. I peered over their shoulders, scanning the first page. I touched Lee's hand and he surrendered the mouse and his chair to me. I read all the reports. Neither of the Richmond murders involved rape. So far, all the northern ones did.

I stood up and let Lee get back to what he was running.

“So the rape is a progression.” I said, not expecting an answer. “How long will the comparisons take, Lee?”

“A little while … hard to determine exactly.”

A while was good. I had other plans and a nagging feeling that wouldn't quit. This dreadful voice inside my head kept telling me there was more to this: winding me up and persistently throwing the Post-it notes and poem in my face. No matter how many times I tried to convince myself this was not personal, the voice came back with another note, my name and a reminder that it was my poem being used. The implication that I carried something was definitely personal.

I didn't want these words to escape and fall from my mouth but they did anyway. “Lee, when you've run that, I want you to run the same thing again but throw me in as the wild card.”

He stared at me as if he was hoping I hadn't spoken. Sam wore the same expression. Neither of them replied.

“I need a little bit of thinking time.”

“Where will you be?” Sam asked.