“I’m sorry,” the young agent said, confusion marring his brow. “I still don’t understand the Nazi-Muslim connection.”
“Haj al-Husseini admired Hitler’s beliefs and protocol, and in turn provided soldiers to Hitler. They were part of the Waffen-SS division Handschar, which was the German word for scimitar—the swords the Muslim soldiers used to fight for Hitler.
“Our greatest concern is that Abel Bedan was responsible for the disappearance of biological weapon research notes when Operation Paperclip ended.”
“Excuse me?” another agent said, the possible magnitude of the result of such a theory clearly shaking him.
“Yes, though it is known by only a few key individuals, on a need-to-know basis, biowarfare research notes went missing after Operation Paperclip wrapped up.”
“And you believe Isaiah Bedan is in possession of the research notes Abel took?”
“That is correct.” Luke pulled up a stool and sat, propping his shoes on the rungs underneath. “Isaiah Bedan is brilliant, naturally gifted in all STEM fields, highly adaptable, and his knowledge of biowarfare is frightening. His research appears to be very similar to what the Nazi scientists were barbarically working on using the Jews as guinea pigs in concentration camps.”
An even younger agent—Luke was betting not long out of Quantico—raised his hand.
“Yes?” Luke said.
“So the Nazis did experiments with anthrax using concentration camp victims?”
“Absolutely.”
The agent shook his head. “I’d heard about Mengele’s experiments and most of what you just shared. . . .” He swallowed, his pronounced Adam’s apple dipping. “But I had no clue the Nazis worked with anthrax.”
“Yes, but as bad as the Nazis’ experiments with anthrax are, the country most infamous for their work with anthrax was Japan. Japanese Unit 731 was a covert biological and chemical warfare research-and-development unit of the Imperial Japanese Army. They undertook deadly human experiments during the war, primarily with anthrax. The unit was responsible for some of the most atrocious war crimes carried out during World War II, but the Nazis had access to the same diabolical research.”
“And Dr. Isaiah Bedan, who now has access to an extremely lethal amount of anthrax, has specific records and research notes of these Nazi biowarfare experiments via his grandfather’s stolen papers from Operation Paperclip?” the young man asked, looking rather peaked.
“I’m afraid that is correct.”
“Based on that terrifying knowledge, where do you suspect Bedan might attack? From on top of another building here in Baltimore, or in D.C., perhaps?”
“I’m afraid Bedan has a far wider-reaching plan in mind.”
9
Special Agent Thornton, I’m Detective Griffin McCray, and this is my wife, Dr. Finley Scott-McCray. You and I spoke on the phone.”
“Right.” Thornton dropped his files on the desk and pushed back in his rolling chair, interlocking his fingers over his abdomen. “You flew all the way here to discuss Chelsea Miller’s cold case.”
“Hers and the other women like hers.”
Thornton shook his head, pushed up on his armrests with a sigh, and stood. “Look, I know Burke was all bent out of shape over the theory of some serial killer—”
“Seven women across three states have been killed in a similar fashion over the past decade. I’d say that makes a pretty convincing starting point for an investigation into a common killer,” Griffin said.
“And you’re welcome to investigate all you like on your time and dime, but I’ve got a pile of active cases that I need to devote my time, energy, and the Bureau’s resources to. I hate that those women’s cases were never solved, but they have been deemed cold—even with what Burke brought to the table.”
“You looked into his findings?”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“In almost all of the cases, the police narrowed in on a suspect—boyfriend or lover the young lady was meeting for a late-night rendezvous, but she supposedly never made it to the meet-up or never returned home after it.”
Like Jenna had disappeared on the way to meet Parker. “And reexamining the cases while considering that similarity didn’t bring any new leads?” Griff asked.
“If anything, it only convinced me more that there isn’t a single killer.” Thornton exhaled. “Not with each case having a different lead suspect.”
“So all the boyfriends were different? There was no possibility one of the guys met up with more than one of the women?”
“Nope. All different men, and after reassessing the cases, I concluded there was no evidence to warrant reopening any of them.”
“What about Burke’s key words?”
“Murders with similar circumstances occur all the time. It doesn’t automatically indicate a single killer. Lots of women are killed with a large-caliber weapon. Lots are raped, I’m sorry to say. I’m sure you could search out each word singularly and you’d find hundreds of cases with hits.”
Perhaps for one or two similarities, but the combination that repeated— meeting up with a man, bound wrists, rape, large-caliber round, dumped in water—could hardly be a coincidence. If one of the boyfriends wasn’t the killer, then perhaps they needed to look at the circumstances differently. Maybe the fact the girls were meeting men late at night had sparked the killer’s motive or interest.
“Look,” Thornton said, raking a hand over his head, “even if there is one killer—which I highly doubt—the fact is, we have absolutely no idea who it could be or any concrete leads to follow.”
His hardened expression softened as he leaned forward, resting his hands on the desktop. “I hate that those women are dead, and I hate that their cases are cold, but there’s nothing more I can do at this point. I have too many active cases on my desk—boss’s orders. Any further work is going to have to be on your end, but I should warn you, I honestly believe you’re headed for a dead end.”
As they exited the Houston federal building, Finley released a belabored exhale. “Well, that was helpful.”
Griffin shook his head as he opened the car door for his wife. “I don’t believe all the cases’ leads are cold. With Burke’s enthusiasm for pursuing them, there has to be something there.”
Finley clasped his hand when he climbed into the rental car beside her. “Thornton may have given up on Chelsea and the rest of the women, including Jenna, but we won’t.”
He cupped her soft cheek and kissed her, then pulled back and warmed at her smiling face. “Thank you.”
Her nose crinkled. “For what?”
“Standing by my side and fighting as hard as I am to find Jenna’s killer.”
“We’re in this together.” She squeezed his hand. “And who knows, maybe we’ll get more help from our other interviews.”
“We can pray,” Griffin said, starting the car and pulling out of the lot, headed straight for Eason and Hood’s office about an hour and a half southwest. “Hood and Eason worked Ashley Carson’s case—the one just prior to Chelsea Miller’s.”
Luke took the rear as their small group headed back to Declan’s office following the task force briefing.
Everyone was stone silent, rocked to the core no doubt by the information Luke had shared.
Same with all the agents in the briefing room as he’d wrapped up. Stunned expressions blanketed their faces as they’d exited the briefing.
He wished he could say he hadn’t meant to scare them, but he absolutely had. With Isaiah Bedan in the country, six ounces of anthrax at his disposal, and Ebeid’s nearly unlimited funding, they should all be alarmed at what Bedan could concoct.
Something terrifyingly momentous was coming. So far, they’d been unable to locate Bedan or the anthrax, and it was beyond frustrating that the FBI didn’t have enough concrete evidence to arrest Ebeid, or at least to question him about his role in it all. Ebeid excelled at evading legal connection to his men, but the Bureau nee
ded to take a lesson from the CIA and be willing to cut through the mounds of red tape. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission. At least that’s what his overseas handler had always said before a mission. Luke had lived by that motto for longer than he cared to admit, but he wasn’t in that world anymore. He had to keep that in perspective. He was on U.S. soil. He was home, though he doubted the word home still applied.
Once they were all inside Declan’s office, Kate shut his door behind them. This would be his team until Bedan and Ebeid were stopped.
“Okay,” Kate said, sitting on Declan’s black sofa, one leg bent and hugged to her chest. “Tell us what you really think.”
“Meaning?” He cocked his head as he leaned against the wood-paneled wall, arms linked across his chest.
“Meaning, as frightening as everything you laid out in there was, you’re holding back.”
He arched a brow, curious though not surprised. Kate was never one to beat around the bush. She told it straight and expected the same in return. “Why do you say that?”
She tilted her head to the side, her soft blond hair brushing over her left shoulder. “Because I know you, and I can still tell when you are holding back.”
She was right on the holding back part, but could she possibly be right on the knowing him part? Was it even possible—after all the years, after the compromises he’d made and the shell of a man he’d become—for her to still know him? For that part of him to still exist?
“I have theories,” he said, pushing off the wall.
“And?”
“Theories aren’t concrete,” he said, explaining why he’d kept silent on this. “This is the Bureau. They work on facts and evidence, not gut feelings or personal theories.”
He looked at Declan. “Am I right?”
“Yes,” he said slowly, grinning at Tanner. “But there are exceptions.”
Tanner grinned back.
So Declan had changed from the strict, by-the-book idealist he’d been all through college—basically for the entirety of their growing-up years—and had at least some flexibility.
“So you’re saying if I go to Alan with my theory, he’ll listen?” Luke asked, not buying it.
“He’ll listen . . .” Declan hedged.
“But he won’t do anything about it?”
“Not when there are concrete leads to track down,” Declan explained.
“Such as?” Luke asked.
“Such as discovering who Ebeid’s inside snitch is. Is he or she at the CDC or Detrick? Until we find the mole, we’re constantly at risk of another theft like the anthrax—not to mention compromising the confidential nature of the work being done at both installations.”
Kate stood to pace. “You said Abel Bedan was brought to the United States after World War II?”
Luke nodded.
“Which means Isaiah Bedan grew up here?”
Luke nodded again.
“And I’m guessing he attended college . . . and grad school in the States?”
“Yes,” Luke said. “He got his undergrad in biology at Stanford. Masters and Ph.D. through a joint program between UCLA and Cal Tech. Emphasis in microbiology and medical research in virology.”
“And then at some point he left the country for . . . ?”
“Germany, right after he obtained his doctorate,” Luke explained. “Though he grew up here, it seems Bedan never viewed America as his home, only a place to service his needs. Once he believed those needs were met, he went to work as a professor of medical microbiology and director of the Institute of Medical Microbiology and Epidemiology at Hanover Medical School.”
“And his ties to Ebeid?”
“It appears Ebeid had been watching Bedan, admired his work, and soon after the Munich attack, the two met. Bedan needed to work off-grid, and Ebeid hired him to do so—and then smuggled him into the U.S.”
Tanner sighed. “Unbelievable.”
Kate stopped pacing. “But during Bedan’s time in the States, particularly his time working alongside other scientists at Stanford and Cal Tech, perhaps he formed a friendship there. And maybe that friend now works for the CDC in Atlanta.”
“Or here at Detrick,” Luke said. “Smart, Katie.”
She shrugged. “I have my moments.”
Declan stood, striding for the door. “I’ll have the techs start combing through the students attending Stanford and Cal Tech at the same time as Bedan, then cross-reference them with anyone currently working at the CDC or Detrick.” He paused in the doorway and looked at Luke. “Then I want to hear your theories, concrete or not.”
10
Griffin and Finley entered Detectives Hood and Eason’s precinct. Finley took a seat in the waiting area while Griffin stepped up to the intake desk.
A few minutes later, a tall, robust man with a friendly smile approached.
“Detective McCray?” he said as Griffin stood.
“Yes.”
“Detective Clint Eason.”
“Nice to meet you. And this is my wife, Dr. Scott-McCray.”
“I know it’s a mouthful,” Finley said.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” He shook her hand. “Why don’t you follow me back to my desk?”
He led them to a set of back-to-back desks in the center of the large room where another man, of similar build to Eason, sat flipping through a file. Phones were ringing, criminals in various stages of the booking process slouched in chairs, and Eason’s and, presumably, Hood’s desks sat smack in the center of all the commotion. How they could even think with all the noise was beyond Griffin, and yet hope sparked inside him for the first time since leaving Agent Thornton’s office. Maybe they’d get a lead here.
“This is my partner, Detective Joel Hood,” Eason said.
Hood politely stood. “Nice to meet you. I was just referring back to Ashley’s file. Clint said that’s why you’re here.”
“Primarily,” Griffin said, sparking interest in the man’s green eyes.
“Go ahead and take a seat. Make yourselves comfortable.” Eason gestured to the two chairs positioned on the right side of the two old-school black metal desks. The chairs were old-school as well, metal frame with brown tweed upholstery on the seat and back. Griffin pulled one back for his wife, the metal legs grating along the cheap, clearance-section flooring.
“So you’re here about Ashley Carson and . . . ?” Eason asked.
“And anything you might know about the other women.”
Eason’s face went slack. “Other women?”
“Didn’t Federal Agent Burke contact you about Ashley’s case?”
“Yes, Burke called asking about Ashley, but he didn’t say anything about other women,” Hood said, scooting his chair to better face them. “But you’ve definitely got our attention.”
Griffin shared all the pertinent details, and Eason and Hood both sat back, shock plastered across their faces.
“I had no idea,” Hood said. “Burke just asked about Ashley. Never said anything about a possible serial killer.”
That was strange. Griff would have led with that had he been Burke, but perhaps he hadn’t wanted to cloud the detectives’ judgment while he obtained information about Ashley’s case. Perhaps he wanted to know about each case individually before pursuing them as a whole—especially since Thornton was the one running that part of the investigation and it was in Bureau hands. Burke probably had zero desire to start a jurisdiction war.
“Are you looking into all the cases?” Eason asked.
Griffin nodded.
“And I assume you have a possible connected case you’re working from your jurisdiction?”
“I’m afraid so.” Jenna.
Eason and Hood filled them in on Ashley Carson’s case and how her boss had been the top suspect since the two were having an affair. She’d disappeared after meeting him at a hotel one night, supposedly headed for the bus stop, but she was never seen again.
“I assume you considered the boss, but there wasn
’t enough evidence to make it stick?” Griffin asked.
“Yes,” Hood said. “He said he stayed the night in the hotel. He ordered room service, and the attendant who delivered it a half hour later provided his alibi.”
“And no one else came up?”
“Afraid not.” Eason shook his head. “The case went cold quick. Stayed that way.”
“Any chance these words mean something to either of you?” He handed them a list of Burke’s code words.
Eason lifted the list, his eyes tracking across the words typed in Georgia font, size 14. He shifted forward, resting his forearms on the desk, and then handed the list to Hood, who read it aloud. “‘Barn. Leader. Agent. Handcuffed. Glock. Wrists. Message.’”
“Those are key words Burke compiled,” Griffin explained. “I believe they relate to the missing women’s cases and work together to form the killer’s M.O.”
Hood flicked the paper. “I never thought about it being part of an M.O., but Ashley Clark had marks on her wrists consistent with handcuffs.”
“And her body washed up on shore?”
“Yeah, three days after her reported disappearance,” Eason said.
That was the one thing that bugged Griffin. Why hadn’t Burke included the wash-up-on-shore factor to the killer’s M.O.? Surely, Burke had to see that key similarity. So why not add it to the list? Unfortunately, with Burke’s death, Griffin would never get to find out, or to thank the man for the first lead in Jenna’s case in eight years.
Three days. That was quicker than with Jenna. Though even if each case shared similarities and were committed by the same killer, they were unique. Each young lady’s case deserved individual attention and scrutiny. “My sister washed up after three weeks,” he said quietly.
Distress clouded Eason’s narrowed eyes. “Your sister?”
“My sister Jenna was killed in a similar fashion nearly eight years ago, when she was seventeen. We believe she was the killer’s first victim.”
“Oh man . . .” Hood swiped his brow. “I’m sorry. No wonder this case, these cases, mean so much to you.”