“From the first girl, we found a feather in her hair, a crushed flower beneath her body, traces of rock on her shoe, and a business card in her purse. The crime lab followed protocol and took samples of everything. And then . . . nothin’.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothin’. You ever been to a real crime lab, Kimberly? And by that, I don’t mean the FBI lab. The Feds have money, no doubt about it. I mean what the rest of us working stiffs get to use.”
Kimberly shook her head.
“We have equipment. Lots of equipment. But unless it’s fingerprints or DNA—God’s honest truth—it’s as worthless as an unmatched sock. We don’t have databases. So sure, we collect soil samples, but it’s not like we can scan them into some giant computer and have a matching location magically blip across the screen the way they do in some of those crime shows. Frankly, we operate on tight budgets and tight budgets mean forensics is mostly reactionary. You take samples and someday, if you have a suspect, then you have a reference sample to work with. You take your dirt from the crime scene and hope it matches dirt from the bad guy’s yard. That’s as good as it gets.
“In other words, we collected the rock sample, the feather, the flower and we knew they were worthless to us. So we sent them out to real experts who might be able to make something of them. And then we waited nine months.”
Kimberly closed her eyes. “Oh no,” she said.
“Nobody knew,” he said quietly. “You have to understand, nobody ever expected the likes of this man.”
“He abandoned the second girl in the gorge, didn’t he?”
“With a gallon jug of water. Wearing high heels. In nearly a hundred-degree heat.”
“But if you had interpreted the clues in time . . .”
“You mean, if we’d identified the white flower as persistent trillium, a rare herb found growing only in a five-point-three-square-mile area in all of Georgia—an area inside the Tallulah Gorge? Or if we’d realized the feather belonged to the peregrine falcon, which also makes its home in the gorge? Or if we’d understood that the granite in the rocks found ground into her shoes matched samples taken from the cliffs, or that the business card found in her purse belonged to a customer service representative from Georgia Power, the company that just so happens to own and manage the gorge? Sure, if we’d known that stuff, then maybe we could’ve found her. But most of those reports didn’t come in for months, and poor Deanna Wilson was dead and buried by then.”
Kimberly hung her head. She was thinking of a poor young girl lost and bewildered in the middle of a hostile forest. Trying to hike her way out over uneven terrain in party heels and a little black dress. The burning, scorching heat. She wondered if the girl had drunk the water quickly, convinced someone would find her soon. Or if she had rationed it from the start, already fearing the worst.
“And the second pair of girls?” she asked quietly.
Mac shrugged. His eyes were dark and somber. “We still didn’t know any better. The minute the first body appeared outside of the gorge, that’s the connection everyone made. We have someone who kidnaps girls and likes to hide ’em in the gorge. Given the extreme heat, the Rabun County Sheriff’s Office did the logical thing and threw all resources at searching the state park. It took another week to realize she wasn’t there, and even then, it was hard to be sure.”
“What were the clues?”
“Josie Anders had white lint on her red top, dried mud on her shoes, four kernels in her purse, and a phone number scribbled on a cocktail napkin wadded up in her front pocket.”
“The lint and kernels have something to do with cotton?” Kimberly guessed.
“Upon further examination, the lint proved to be linters, made from raw cottonseed. The kernels were cotton kernels. The mud turned out to be high in organic matter. And the phone number belonged to Lyle Burke, a sixty-five-year-old retired electrician, living in Savannah, who’d never heard of the two girls, let alone Roxie’s Bar, which was where they were last seen alive.”
“Burke County,” Kimberly said.
Mac nodded. “Cotton’s not a fair clue in a state like Georgia. There’s only ninety-seven counties that grow the stuff. But by throwing in the phone number . . . I think in his own way, the man considered it sporting. Now we had only eight hundred square miles to search. If we’d been paying attention—” He shrugged, his hand knotting and unknotting in a frustrated motion.
“When did you start putting it together?” Kimberly asked.
“Two months after Kasey Cooper was found in the cotton field. The last of the evidence reports came in, and we made the connections after the fact. Gee, we’ve had four girls disappear in pairs. In both instances, one girl is found right away, next to a major road. And in both instances, the second girl isn’t found for a long time, and when she is found, it’s in a remote and dangerous area. The first girls, however, have evidence that ties them to the second location. Gee, maybe if we figure out those clues sooner, we can find the second girls in time. Good golly, Miss Molly, that might make some sense.” Mac blew out a breath of air. He sounded disgusted, but then he got on with it.
“We assembled a task force. Not that the public knew. We worked behind the scenes at that point, identifying some of the best experts on Georgia—biologists, botanists, geologists, entomologists, etc., and getting them thinking about this guy and where he might strike next. The goal was to be proactive. Failing that, at least we’d already have the experts in place to give us real-time answers should the man strike again.”
“What happened?” Kimberly asked.
“The year two thousand,” he said bluntly. “The year we’d thought we’d gotten smart. Instead, everything went to hell in a hand basket. Two more kidnappings, three girls dead.” Mac glanced at his watch. He shook away the rest of what he was going to say, and startled them both by taking her hand instead. “But that was then. This is now. If this is the Eco-Killer, Kimberly, we don’t have much time. The clock is ticking. Now here is what I need you to do next.”
CHAPTER 10
Quantico, Virginia
2:03 P.M.
Temperature: 98 degrees
SPECIAL AGENT MAC MCCORMACK was going to get her kicked out of the FBI Academy. Kimberly thought about it dispassionately as she drove through Quantico’s winding roads on her way to the main highway. She’d showered after talking to Mac. She’d changed into the appropriate uniform of khaki cargo pants and a navy blue FBI Academy shirt. Then she’d tucked her good ol’ Crayola gun into a holster on the waistband of her pants and attached handcuffs to her belt. As long as she was going to trade in on the cachet of being a new agent, she might as well look the part.
She could’ve told Mac no. She thought about that, too, as she drove. She didn’t really know the man. Good looks and compelling blue eyes aside, he had no claim on her. She wasn’t even sure she believed his story yet. Oh sure, this Eco-Killer guy had probably ravaged the state of Georgia. But that was three years ago. In a state hundreds of miles away. Why would some Georgian nut suddenly turn up in Virginia? Better yet, why would a Georgian nut leave a dead body on the FBI’s doorstep?
It didn’t make sense to her. Mac saw what he needed to see. He wasn’t the first cop to be obsessed by a case and he wouldn’t be the last.
None of which explained why Kimberly had just blown off her afternoon classes, a violation that could get her written up. Or why she was now driving to a county ME’s office, after her supervisor had explicitly told her to stay away from the case. That little act of insubordination could get her kicked out.
And yet from the minute Mac had made his request, she’d agreed. She wanted to speak to the ME. She wanted to con her way into the autopsy of a poor young girl she’d never met.
She wanted . . . She wanted to know what happened. She wanted to know the girl’s name and the dreams she’d once had. She wanted to know if she’d suffered, or if it’d been quick. She wanted to know what mistakes the unidentified subject might have m
ade, so she could use those mistakes to track him down and find justice for a young girl who deserved better than to be abandoned like garbage in the woods.
In short, Kimberly was projecting. As a former psych student, she recognized the signs. As a young woman who’d lost her sister and mother to violent deaths, she couldn’t stop if she tried.
She had found the victim. She’d stood alone with her in the dark shadows of the woods. She couldn’t walk away from her now if she tried.
Kimberly followed the address she’d received from the Marine base. She’d asked about the NCIS investigator while there, only to discover he’d already left to observe the victim’s autopsy at the morgue.
In the good news department, Special Agent Kaplan’s presence at the autopsy gave Kimberly a better excuse for insinuating herself into the procedure. She’d just come to talk to him, but hey, as long as she was there . . .
In the bad news department, an experienced special agent was probably going to be a bit savvier about a new agent trying to horn in on his investigation than an overworked ME.
That’s why Mac had volunteered her for this mission after all. No one was going to let another cop into the case. A mere student, on the other hand . . . Play to your weaknesses, he’d advised her. No one ever suspects the small, bewildered rookie.
Kimberly parked her car outside the nondescript five-story building. She took a deep breath. She wondered if her father had ever felt this nervous before a case. Then again, had he ever gone off the beaten path? Risked everything to learn the truth for yet another dead girl in a world of so many murdered blondes?
Her cool remote father. She couldn’t picture it. Somehow that bolstered her spirits. She squared her shoulders and got on with it.
Inside, the odor hit her at once. Too antiseptic, too sterile. The smell of a place that definitely had things to hide. She went to the glass-enclosed receptionist area, made her request, and was grateful when the woman buzzed her straight through.
Kimberly followed a long corridor with stark walls and linoleum floors all the way to the back. Here and there metal gurneys were shoved up against bone-colored walls. Steel-gray doors led off other places, security boxes demanding access codes she didn’t have. The air was colder in here. Her footsteps rang out with a startling echo, while the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
Her hands were trembling at her sides. She could feel the first trickle of sweat slide stickily down her back. Being inside this cool place should’ve been a welcome relief from the stifling outdoor heat. It wasn’t.
At the end of the hallway, she pushed through a wooden door into a new lobby area. This is where the ME’s offices were housed. She pressed a buzzer, and wasn’t horribly surprised when a door cracked open, and Special Agent Kaplan poked out his head.
“You lookin’ for the ME? He’s busy.”
“Actually, I’m looking for you.”
Special Agent Kaplan straightened in the doorway. This close Kimberly could see the faint sheen of silver mixed into his dark, buzz-cut hair. He had a weathered face, stern eyes, and thin lips that reserved judgment before smiling. Not a cruel man, but a hard one. He was the guy, after all, who kept all of the Navy plus the Marines in line.
This was not going to be easy.
“New Agent Kimberly Quincy,” Kimberly said, and stuck out her hand.
He accepted the handshake. His grip was firm, his expression wary. “You had quite a ride.”
“I understand you have questions for me. Given my schedule, I thought it might be easier if I found you. At the Marine base, they said you were here. So I decided to make the drive.”
“Your supervisor know you left the Academy?”
“I didn’t mention it to him directly. When I spoke with him this morning, however, he underscored the importance of cooperating fully with NCIS’s investigation. Naturally I assured him I would do whatever I could to help.”
“Uh huh,” Kaplan said. And that was it. He stood, he stared, and he let the silence drag on and on and on. If this man had kids, they never snuck out at night.
Kimberly’s fingers desperately wanted to fidget. She stuck them into her pockets and wished once more she were carrying her Glock. It was tough to project confidence when you were armed with a red-painted toy.
“I understand you visited my crime scene,” Kaplan said abruptly.
“I stopped by.”
“Gave the boys quite a scare.”
“With all due respect, sir, your boys scare easily.”
Kaplan’s lips finally cracked into a ghostly semblance of a smile. “I told them the same,” he said, and for a moment they were coconspirators. Then the moment passed. “Why are you crowding my case, New Agent Quincy? Hasn’t your father taught you better than that?”
Kimberly’s shoulders immediately went rigid. She caught the motion, then forced herself to breathe easy. “I didn’t apply to the Academy because my interests ran to sewing.”
“So this is an academic study to you?”
“No.”
That made him frown. “I’ll ask one more time: why are you here, New Agent Quincy?”
“Because I found her, sir.”
“Because you found her?”
“Yes, sir. And what I start, I like to finish. My father taught me that.”
“It’s not your case to finish.”
“No, sir. It’s your case to finish. Absolutely. I’m just a student. But I’m hoping you’ll be kind enough to let me watch.”
“Kind? No one calls me kind.”
“Letting a green rookie watch an autopsy and puke her guts out won’t change your image, sir.”
Now he did smile. It changed the contours of his whole face, made him handsome, even approachable. The human in him came out, and Kimberly thought she had hope yet.
“You ever see an autopsy, New Agent Quincy?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s not the blood that will get you. It’s the smell. Or maybe the whine of the buzz saw when it hits the skull. Think you’re up to it?”
“I’m pretty sure I’ll be sick, sir.”
“Then by all means, come on back. The things I gotta do to educate the Feebies,” Kaplan muttered. He shook his head. Then he opened the door and let her into the cold, sterile room.
Tina was going to be sick. She was trying desperately to control the reflex. Her stomach was clenching, her throat tightening. Bile surged upward. Bitterly, harshly, she forced it back down.
Her mouth was duct-taped shut. If she started vomiting now, she was terrified she’d drown.
She curled up tighter in a ball. That seemed to alleviate some of the cramping in her lower abdomen. Maybe it bought her another few minutes. And then? She didn’t know anymore.
She lived in a black tomb of darkness. She saw nothing. She heard very little. Her hands were behind her back, but at least not taped too tight. Her ankles seemed bound as well. If she wiggled her feet, she could get the tape to make a squishy sound, and earn herself some extra room.
The tape didn’t really matter, though. She’d figured that out hours before. The real prison wasn’t the duct tape around her limbs. It was the locked plastic container that held her body. It was too dark to be sure, but given the approximate size, the metal gate in the front, and the holes that marked the top—where she could press her cheek—she had a feeling that she’d been thrown into a very large animal carrier. Honest to goodness. She was trapped in a dog crate.
She’d cried a bit in the beginning. Then she’d gotten so angry she’d thrashed against the plastic, hurling herself at the metal door. All she had to show for that tantrum was a bruised shoulder and banged-up knees.
She’d slept after that. Too exhausted by fear and pain to know what to do next. When she’d woken up, the duct tape had been removed from her mouth and a gallon jug of water was in the crate with her, along with an energy bar. She’d been tempted to refuse the offering out of spite—she was no trained monkey! But then she’d thought of her un
born baby, and she’d consumed the water greedily while eating the protein bar.
She thought the water might have been drugged, though. Because no sooner had she drunk it than she fell deeply asleep. When she woke up again, the tape was back over her mouth, and the wrapper from the energy bar had been taken away.
She’d wanted to cry again. Drugs couldn’t be good. Not for her. And not for her unborn child.
Funny, four weeks ago, she hadn’t even been sure she wanted a baby. But then Betsy had brought home the Mayo Clinic book on child development and together they’d looked at all the pictures. Tina knew now that, at six weeks past conception, her baby was already half an inch long. It had a big head with eyes but no eyelids and it had little arms and little legs with paddlelike hands and feet. In another week, her baby would double to being one inch long and the hands and feet would develop tiny webbed fingers and teensy little toes until her baby looked like the world’s cutest lima bean.
In other words, her baby was already a baby. A tiny, precious, something Tina couldn’t wait to hold one day in her arms. And Tina had better enjoy that moment because her mother would be killing her shortly thereafter.
Her mom. Oh God, even the thought of her mother made her want to weep. If anything happened to Tina . . . Life was too unfair sometimes to a grown woman who had worked so hard in the hope that her daughter would have a better life.
Tina had to be more alert. She had to pay more attention. She wasn’t going to just disappear like this, dammit. She refused to be a stupid statistic. She strained her ears again. Struggled for some hint of what might be going on.
Tina was pretty sure she was in a vehicle. She could feel movement, but it confused her that she couldn’t see. Maybe the crate was in the back of a covered pickup bed, or a blacked-out van. She didn’t think it was night, though without being able to glance at her watch she had no idea how much time had passed. She’d slept for a long while, she thought. The drugs, then the fear, having taken their toll.