“Some friend I’ve been,” John muttered beneath his breath.
It said a lot for Quentin’s nature that he had remained a loyal friend, both humorous and unoffended all these years despite John’s patent disbelief. John wasn’t so sure what it said about his own nature. That he was incredibly stubborn, perhaps?
Perhaps.
“John.”
He straightened away from the doorjamb, surprised that he’d been so preoccupied he hadn’t heard Maggie approach. As soon as he saw her face, he took a quick step toward her almost instinctively.
“What is it? What’s happened?”
She tucked her sketch pad under one arm and reached for her phone, her smile a little strained. “Hollis thought she might have remembered something, but it’s nothing we didn’t already know.” The lie came easily to her lips, but she went on immediately just in case John’s acute perception where she was concerned told him more than she wanted him to know. “I’m worried about her, though. She and Ellen Randall are the only surviving victims so far; Ellen’s still blind and no threat to this animal, but Hollis might be able to see again, and I’m afraid that would disturb him enough that he might try to come after her again. Even though the surgeon and the staff here have agreed not to publicize the operation, the news is bound to get out sooner rather than later. I think she should be guarded, just in case he finds out about it.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
“Yeah. Andy? It’s Maggie. Are you guys making a night of it? I know, I’d just as soon work as try to sleep too. Listen, do you have somebody you can post here at the hospital, outside Hollis’s room? I don’t want to scare her, but I think she should be protected. No, but if this bastard finds out she might be able to see again—yeah, she could be a threat to him. Clear it with the hospital, okay? Thanks.”
She listened for a moment, then closed her eyes briefly, and they were bleak when she opened them again. “I see. So he’s not giving them even a chance to survive now. And not wasting much time between victims. He must have grabbed Tara Jameson within hours of killing Samantha Mitchell. Yeah . . . a whole new ball game. No, John’s still with me, so we’ll come together. Right.”
She listened a moment longer, then frowned and said, “Is that Luke I hear?” Her face tightened, and she said in a voice John remembered from their first meeting, “Do me a favor, and tell him I’d appreciate it if he hung around until I got there. I want to talk to him. Yeah. Thanks, Andy.”
Watching her drop the phone back into her pocket, John said, “Do you think Drummond will listen to you?”
It didn’t even occur to Maggie that John hadn’t needed to ask what she had in mind. “I think he’d damned well better. Stubborn is one thing, but this has gone way too far to keep bumping up against Luke’s pride.”
“Even he has to see that much now. I gather they found Samantha Mitchell’s body?”
“Yes. He’d killed her outright.” She drew a breath. “Cut her throat.”
John watched her steadily. “Then I’d say it’s way past time to pool our resources and manpower and work together.”
Maggie nodded. “Definitely. Whether Luke Drummond likes it or not.”
“You’ve got my vote. And I have a hunch Andy is going to agree with you too.”
She nodded. “I’ll make sure first, okay it with Andy, and then I’ve got a few home truths for Luke. If I have to, I’ll go to the chief—and I’ll make sure Luke knows it.”
“Blame me for the fact that Quentin and Kendra are already in town,” he told her. “He can bitch at me all he wants without hurting any of the rest of you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. And if you need any extra ammo, you might try telling him the governor owes me a favor that I’ve been very hesitant to call in. So far.”
“Is that true?”
“Yeah. I was saving it in case Drummond got nasty and tried to shut me out of the investigation entirely, but we might as well play every card we’ve got.”
Maggie nodded again. “Okay. I’ll use it if I have to.”
John put an arm around her, partly because she looked exhausted and partly because he needed to touch her, and said, “Let’s go.”
Scott came into the conference room and sat down in a chair across from Jennifer. “Beats me what’s going on, but it looks serious. Andy’s in a huddle with John at his desk, and Maggie is in Drummond’s office. The door is closed—but you can still hear Drummond.”
Jennifer grimaced. “If he’s pissed enough to be yelling at Maggie, it must really be serious. He’s more careful with her than he is with any of us.”
“Because the chief is so high on her.”
“Yeah.” Jennifer looked at her watch. “Nearly eleven. Andy said we should put ourselves back on the clock if we’re planning to hang around.”
“Suits me,” Scott said. “All I do at home is stare at the walls trying to figure this thing out.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Any luck finding that transient?”
“Not so far. I called some of the other shelters in the area, but they don’t have anybody matching his description or claiming the name David Robson.”
“You don’t really think this guy saw a ghost, do you, Jenn?”
“I think he might have seen something. At the very least, something that shook him up.”
“Because Terry Lynch says so?”
“He’s a good cop, Scott.”
“Sure he is. I’m just wondering what a drunken transient could possibly have seen to make him believe he’d seen a ghost. Smoke? Light hitting a patch of mist just right? Somebody dressed all in white?”
“All good possibilities,” she admitted. “But maybe he saw something else, Scott. From what little we do know, this bastard may be wearing a mask at least while he’s with the victims—one of those hard plastic masks. I’d think that would look plenty creepy even if you were cold sober.”
“I guess.”
Jennifer sighed. “I know it’s a long shot, but what have we got to lose checking it out?”
Scott sighed as well. “Nothing.”
“Exactly.” Jennifer reached for the phone. “I have a couple more shelters on my list that should be taking calls even this late. Besides—even long shots finish first every once in a while.”
“Not when you bet on them,” Scott replied in a voice of wry experience.
“I don’t like being threatened, Maggie.” Drummond’s voice was level, a distinct change from his roaring of only moments before.
On her feet in front of his desk, she leaned forward and planted her hands squarely on his blotter. “No? Then stop making it necessary, Luke. This thing has gotten way out of hand, and if you were honest with yourself instead of so bullheaded you refuse to see reason, you’d admit it.”
“My people can—”
“Your people are out of their league. They’re damned good cops, every one of them, but they’ve never had to deal with this kind of monster before. Nothing in their training or experience has prepared them for it.”
“If you’d just produce a sketch—”
She straightened and half laughed. “Fine, blame it on me. I don’t give a shit. Say your sketch artist just couldn’t do her job, and that’s why you can’t catch this animal.”
He had the grace to flush, but his eyes remained angry. “We’re doing everything in our power, everything that can possibly be done. And the chief agrees with me; why call in the FBI when we don’t have so much as a piece of conclusive evidence for them to fucking investigate?”
“Listen to me. You’re a hunter—think about it. What’s the logical thing to do when you’re after a particular kind of animal? You look for experienced hunters. When you have a bear problem, you damned well find somebody who knows how to hunt bears.”
“Cops hunt criminals. And—hey, surprise!—we catch them too.”
Maggie deliberately dropped her voice to a conversational tone, unthreate
ning, even unemotional. “Yes, you do. But this isn’t just another criminal, Luke— that’s where you’re misjudging the situation. This is an animal, a human monster going to inhuman extremes to hide his evil face even from his dying victims. And when you go after a monster, you need somebody who knows how to hunt them.”
“Like the FBI.”
“No, like a very specialized unit within the FBI.” She allowed her voice to sharpen. “A group of highly skilled, trained, and dedicated people who don’t care what the headlines read after they’ve done their job and gone. They don’t care who gets the political points. All they care about is putting monsters in cages where they belong.”
Again, Drummond flushed slightly, this time at the biting comment about his political aspirations, but all he said was “I’ve never heard of this specialized unit.”
“No, you probably haven’t. Like I said, they don’t seek publicity—the opposite, if anything.” She watched that sink in, and added, “But if you’ll check back through the law-enforcement agency bulletins the Bureau sends out, I’m sure you’ll find them mentioned a few times. They’re the Special Crimes Unit— SCU. Formed to assist local law enforcement to handle unusually challenging violent crimes. Their success record is quite impressive. They have a mandate never to interfere with local law enforcement, only to advise and provide support and assistance— when requested to do so.”
“How come you know so much about them?”
“Someone I know nearly joined that unit a couple of years ago.” She shrugged. “What I can tell you is that they’re good, Luke. They’re very, very good.”
“I still don’t see what they could do that we can’t,” Drummond muttered.
Maggie knew he was going to give in—however grudgingly—so she kept her response matter-of-fact. “Like I said, they’ve hunted monsters before; maybe they’ll have a take on this the rest of us would never think of. But even if they don’t, the murder of Samantha Mitchell raises the stakes, doesn’t it, Luke? People are going to be asking what more you’re doing to stop a sadistic rapist who has now become a brutal murderer. Call these expert monster hunters in, and you’ve got an answer for them.”
“Shit.” He leaned back in his chair until it creaked, scowling.
“You know it’s the right thing to do. Even more, it’s the smart thing to do. Luke, a few days ago you asked me to try harder to give you a picture of this monster. Now I’m telling you that I can’t do it alone. I can’t do it just by talking to blinded victims. I need help. I need people who can help me to understand the way he thinks.”
“Is that why you’re so cozy with Garrett these days?” he asked sourly.
Ignoring the implication, she said, “As a matter of fact, John decided a few days ago that if you couldn’t use the resources of this FBI unit, then maybe he could. You know how determined he is to find the man who attacked his sister, whatever it takes. He happens to have a friend in the unit, and the friend is here in Seattle along with his partner, on their own time and off the books. We have them to thank for how quickly Samantha Mitchell’s body was found.”
She had been reasonably sure that last would keep him from exploding, and she was right. But she nevertheless didn’t give him time to start sputtering.
“Nobody’s stepping on your authority, Luke, and all of us have only one goal in mind. We just want to stop this monster before he kills again. Give us all the tools we need to do that. Be a smart politician as well as a smart cop and call the unit in officially. Give Andy the okay to open up the investigation to them. I promise you won’t regret it.”
“I’d better not,” he growled. “Send him in.”
Maggie didn’t allow a shadow of triumph to show and didn’t waste time leaving the office. The bullpen was less busy than usual at this late hour, but she was still aware of considerable covert attention as she made her way to Andy’s desk, where he and John waited. Not that she was surprised by the interest—Drummond’s voice had rattled the windows, so it had undoubtedly been heard out here.
“He wants you,” she told Andy. “He’ll probably bluster a bit, but bottom line you’ll get the okay to bring Quentin and Kendra in officially.”
“Did you have to promise your first child?” Andy asked dryly as he rose.
“No. But I may be pouring brimstone out of my shoes tonight.”
He grinned at her, then headed for Drummond’s office.
“Well done,” John said. “Here—sit down.” He decided not to add that she looked very tired and he was worried about her.
She did, taking the other visitor’s chair. “I think I’d almost rather interview a dozen witnesses than argue with Luke. He’s about as bullheaded as they come.”
John smiled faintly. “You convinced him. That’s the important thing.”
“Let’s hope so.” She smiled in return. “Are Quentin and Kendra likely to be up?”
“Oh, yeah, they’re both night owls, especially during an ongoing investigation. Are you sure enough of Drummond to call them in right now?”
Maggie nodded. “I don’t think we have any time to lose, do you?”
John reached for the phone.
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 7
By the time they were all assembled in the conference room, it was after midnight. Drummond had left for home some time before, saying he’d meet “those agents” the following day, and many of the detectives who had been working on the investigation were also absent, either off duty and home or else out doing what they could to find the latest missing woman, Tara Jameson.
So it was what had become the core of the police investigative team—Andy, Scott, and Jennifer—who were introduced to Quentin and Kendra. And they wasted no time in getting to work.
Quentin prowled around studying the photos, sketches, and descriptions pinned to the bulletin board, while Kendra reported that their search of every available database for similar crimes going back more than six months had turned up nothing even remotely close anywhere in the country, indicating that he had indeed begun attacking women only six months ago.
“But there’s this,” Quentin said, tapping one of the bulletin boards. “Absolutely amazing. Who took the intuitive leap and dug these up?”
Andy nodded to Scott and Jennifer. “They did.”
Scott explained their thinking about a rapist with a too-developed ritual.
When he was finished, Quentin was the first to speak, saying thoughtfully, “You colored outside the lines when you were a kid, didn’t you?”
Scott stared at him for a moment, then caught the twinkle in the agent’s eyes and grinned reluctantly. “Well, yeah.”
“I’m not surprised. Very creative and intuitive thinking. And it is a perfectly rational explanation given the facts as we know them. Copycats are getting depressingly common these days. So maybe the guy did decide to borrow someone else’s ritual and used a series of old, unsolved crimes to learn from.”
John glanced at Maggie, but she was listening gravely and showed no inclination to interrupt. And he wasn’t about to. Even if she was right in her incredible claim that they were dealing with an evil mind reborn, John didn’t see how that knowledge could do anything except confuse the investigation. Assuming it was even believed.
No, they were after a flesh-and-blood killer now, whatever else he was, and that was the quarry they had to hunt down.
Andy said, “Jenn’s trying to run down a witness who might have seen something in the area where Hollis Templeton was found, but he’s a transient, so finding him won’t be easy. The only other new point we have is Maggie’s belief that this bastard knows the latest victim, Tara Jameson.”
Jennifer frowned at her. “What makes you think that?”
Maggie glanced at Andy, hesitated, then shrugged. “Sometimes I feel things. A sixth sense, if you will. They call it an empathic sense.”
“Which explains a lot,” Andy said to the other two detectives after a moment. “That’s how she gets those incredibly accurate s
ketches, how she . . . communicates . . . so well with victims. Isn’t it, Maggie? When you tell them you know how they feel, you mean it literally.”
“Usually. It’s stronger with some people than others. But most victims of violent crime are . . . they’re traumatized, their emotions much more powerful than normal. I pick that up pretty easily.”
“Do you know what we’re feeling right now?” Jennifer demanded.
Maggie shrugged. “In a general sense, yes. That’s all I get without physical contact, just a faint impression— not much more than I’d get anyway from watching your expressions or listening to your voices.”
“Tell them the rest,” Quentin murmured.
She looked at him, then at the others. “Violent emotion is just another kind of energy. And it . . . lingers in some places, almost as if it soaks into the walls and floors, at least for a while. Sometimes, if I walk through a place where something violent has happened, I . . . connect with the victim or attacker. Feel a lot of what they felt at the time.”
“Which is why you picked up on the arguments and stuff at the Mitchell house,” Andy said and, when she nodded, quickly listed the impressions Maggie had gained from walking through that house, so that his detectives understood what they were talking about.
Maggie said, “In each case, one or both of the Mitchells were experiencing emotions more intensely than usual. The argument about the parrot was pretty fierce, as was the one Thomas Mitchell had with his father-in-law. And the broken mirror cut Samantha’s hand, which caused her a lot of pain.”
Jennifer said, “There’ve been a lot of violent emotions in this building; do you feel that?”
Grimacing slightly, Maggie said, “Until recently, all I felt was a kind of . . . skin-tingling sensation, like the way you feel when there’s too much static electricity in the air. But it’s getting more intense as time passes. At the hospital too.”
“You didn’t say anything,” John said, not quite accusingly.
“What could I say?” She shrugged. “It’s almost like background noise now, a low hum of energy just beneath the level of consciousness. Usually, anyway. Sometimes a particular impression gets through more strongly.”