The Next Accident

  Except for this afternoon, when she merely wanted her pulse to slow and her breathing to ease and the bright spots in front of her eyes to disappear. Dr. Andrews had suggested trying biofeedback. She did that now, focusing on her hands and imagining them getting warm, warmer, hot.

  The world slowly opened up. The sky became blue again, the grass green, the streets bustling. The hair was no longer standing up at the nape of her neck. The sweat cooled on her brow.

  Kimberly finally relaxed her grip on her book bag. She let herself conduct a slow, sweeping circle of everything around her.

  “See now,” she murmured to herself. “Everyone’s just going about their business, having a perfectly usual day. There’s no one watching, there’s nothing to fear. It’s all in your head, Kimmy. It’s all in your head.”

  She resumed walking, but at the intersection she hesitated again. She paused. She turned. She felt that chill. And even though it was a hot July day. Even though she was smart and rational and the strong member of the Quincy family, she started running and she didn’t stop for a long, long time.

  5

  Quantico, Virginia

  Driving through Quantico, Quincy approached the FBI Academy’s guard post, located behind the Marines’ facilities, and finally slowed his car. He waited for the young security officer to spot his identifying window sticker, then nodded when the officer signaled for him to proceed. Quincy waved his thanks, but didn’t take it personally when the security officer remained grim. It was the guard’s job to appear intimidating at all times, he knew. On the other hand, it made an interesting start of work each day.

  Not much of a sleeper, Quincy had risen at three A.M. to drive to Seattle and catch a direct flight to DC. He’d spent so many years flying all over the country that layovers had become unbearable to him and he’d do just about anything to hasten the trip. Cars, he liked and his new thing was to avoid planes altogether and drive. He’d thought that might change after Mandy’s accident. It hadn’t.

  Reaching the outdoor lot next to the firing ranges, Quincy parked his car, then walked across the street to the back entrance of the building. He waved his ID card in front of the security scanner. It graciously let him in.

  Taking the stairs down two flights to the BSU offices, he passed a fellow agent. Quincy nodded in greeting. Special Agent Deacon nodded back while judiciously avoiding his gaze. It had been like that for the last four weeks; Quincy barely noticed anymore. His daughter had died tragically, which was awkward in the best of circumstances, let alone when you worked with people who made their living trying to thwart, and thus control, untimely death. Quincy now stood as a reminder that bad things could happen close to home, that crime-scene photos weren’t always of some stranger’s daughter. How rude of him to show his face in the office and rock their carefully compartmentalized worlds. Quincy had even heard rumblings that he was wrong to have gone from Mandy’s funeral straight to work. What kind of father could be so cold?

  He didn’t bother addressing those comments. When their own children died, they could figure it out for themselves.

  Quincy opened the metal fire door and walked into the BSU offices.

  Contrary to Hollywood images, the offices at the FBI Academy were purely functional, and the BSU offices even more so than most. Located in the second sublevel below the facility’s indoor firing range, the walls were comprised of cinder blocks painted an appropriate bone-white. As the offices were carved deep into the earth, there were no windows.

  The office of the Special Agent in Charge sat in the middle; the remaining offices formed a square perimeter around it. The floor plan reminded Quincy of most major prisons—central control office surrounded by maximum-security cells. Maybe the powers-that-be figured the ambience would help them enter the criminal mind.

  The BSU boasted one impressive feature. Its state-of-the-art technology room, closely resembling a TV studio, enabled the agents to do teleconferencing as well as make major presentations with as many bells and whistles as the individual agent could dream up. It always amused Quincy that his working space could be so dull, and his speaking space so sleek. The Bureau did have its priorities.

  Quincy hadn’t always worked with the BSU. He was one of the rare agents who’d crossed an unspoken line by going from the Child Abduction/Serial Killer Unit (CASKU) to the BSU years ago. It made him something of a novelty in both worlds. An academic who’d entered the glamorous world of profiling, to a glamorous profiler who’d entered the academic world of behavioral science. Both sides used his work. Neither side knew what to make of him.

  He hadn’t told anyone yet, not even Rainie, but he was considering rocking the boat once more. A month ago, he’d been approached about switching again. He would join what was now called the National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC) as a profiler. At nearly the age of fifty, he would resume working active cases and return to the field.

  Honestly, he’d missed it.

  When Quincy had first joined the Bureau, he’d told himself he was doing it for the greater good. He’d spent two years as a private-practice psychologist, and while the money was good (Bethie’s concern) and the work was interesting (his concern), it left him feeling restless. He’d quit policing to pursue an advanced degree because he felt it was psychology that held his primary interest. Now, he discovered that he genuinely missed detecting. The thrill of the chase, the camaraderie of fellow police officers, the comforting weight of his gun. When a friend in the Bureau approached him later that year, it wasn’t a hard sale.

  The next thing Quincy knew, he was working one hundred and twenty cases a year. He routinely traveled to four cities in five days. He carried a briefcase filled with photographs of the most savage crimes imaginable. He gave advice that saved lives, and sometimes, he missed clues that cost lives.

  While his girls grew up. And his marriage fell apart. And the man who’d once testified in custody hearings was so knee-deep in dead bodies he was the last one to see it coming.

  By the time Jim Beckett broke out of a Massachusetts prison by slaughtering two prison guards, Quincy was already a walking advertisement for burnout. By the end of that case, when he was done burying the bodies of various law enforcement officers he’d known and respected, he knew it was time for a change.

  He’d transferred to the BSU where he could scale back his travel schedule and make more time for his daughters. He’d missed their childhood. Now, he belatedly tried to catch their high school years.

  He designed and taught classes at Quantico while watching soccer games and school plays. He took up researching past cases, including the notorious child killer Russell Lee Holmes, for entry into the FBI’s database. He attended Mandy’s graduation from high school. He revisited the cold case files, examining records of serial killers who had never been caught. He helped Kimberly select the right college. He created a checklist for identifying potential mass murderers. He got a call to come to a hospital in Virginia, where he watched his older daughter die.

  Time had given Quincy regrets. It had also taught him honesty. He understood now that he no longer did what he did to save the world. He worked as an agent for the same reason people worked as accountants and lawyers and corporate clerks. Because he was good at it. Because he liked the challenge. Because when the job was done right, he felt good about himself.

  He had not been the husband he had wanted to be. He had not been the father he had hoped to be. Last year, however, he’d connected three mass murders that local officials had thought were one-off crimes.

  He was a damn good agent. And year by year, he was working on becoming a better person. He had honestly tried connecting with Mandy not long before the accident. He was definitely trying to connect with Kimberly now, though she seemed hell-bent on ignoring his calls. Last month, he’d even gone to the Rhode Island nursing home and spent an afternoon with his eighty-year-old father, who was so stricken with Alzheimer’s that he didn’t recognize Quincy anymore and had started the vi
sit by ordering Quincy to go away. Quincy had stayed. Eventually, Abraham Quincy had stopped yelling. Then, they sat in silence, and Quincy worked on remembering the other moments that they had shared, because he knew his father could not.

  Quincy was learning the hard way that isolation was not protection, that no number of crime scenes ever prepared you for the death of your own child, and that no matter how many nights passed, it was never any easier to sleep alone.

  Rainie had once accused him of being too polite. He had told her that there was enough ugliness in the world without him having to add to it, and he’d meant it.

  He had genuinely loved Mandy.

  And he was so sorry now that she never knew.

  Virginia

  When Rainie’s plane touched down at Ronald Reagan National Airport, she felt a little giddy. She grabbed her bag from the overhead compartment, collected the small suitcase containing her Glock .40 from baggage claim, and proceeded straight to the car rental agency where she secured the world’s tiniest economy car without a hitch. Not bad for her first trip—Dirty Harry, eat your heart out.

  Her stomach was rumbling; she hadn’t trusted the mystery meat they’d tried to serve her on the plane. It was already four o’clock however, rush hour traffic would be a bear, and she didn’t want to miss the change of shifts at the state police barracks. Dinner would have to wait.

  She headed straight for the Virginia state police station that had handled Mandy’s case, and hoped she got lucky.

  An hour and a half of cursing and swearing later, she found state trooper Vince Amity just striding out the door.

  “Officer Amity?” she called out, as the desk sergeant waved vaguely in his direction, then went back to reading the latest edition of the FBI Law Enforcement Bulletin.

  The officer in question paused, realized he was being waved down by an attractive young woman, and halted with more interest.

  Rainie seized the opportunity to give him her most charming smile. The smile didn’t get much practice, but it must have been good enough because Officer Amity walked back toward her. At six five, he was a big boy with broad shoulders, thick neck, and a jaw line only Jay Leno would love. Rainie was guessing Swedish ancestors and football. Lots of football.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” Big Boy had a southern drawl. Damn, she liked that. Before things got all warm and cuddly, however, Rainie flashed her PI’s license. Officer Amity’s face promptly fell. Another fine romance nipped in the bud.

  “I have some questions regarding an MVA homicide,” she started off. “You worked the case about a year ago.”

  No response.

  “The case is closed now—driver died at the hospital, but I’m clarifying some of the details for the family.”

  Officer Amity said, “I gotta go on patrol now.”

  “Great. I’ll go with you.”

  “No, ma’am. Civilians can’t accompany officers on patrol. Too much liability.”

  “I won’t sue.”

  “Ma’am—”

  “Officer. Look, I flew all the way here from Portland, Oregon, to get answers to my questions. The sooner you start talking, the sooner we can both move on with our lives.”

  Officer Amity scowled. Given his size, the look really worked for him. Rainie figured the minute he stepped out of his patrol car, most perps dropped obediently to the pavement and held out their wrists for the bracelets. As a woman, she’d never had his advantage. She’d had to wrestle most of her hostiles to the ground. The thing about that, however, was it meant she’d built her career by always being ready for a fight.

  Officer Amity was still working the scowl. She folded her arms. Waited. Waited. Big Boy caved with a sigh.

  “Let me check in with dispatch,” he said. “Then I’ll meet you at my desk.”

  Rainie nodded. Not being a dummy, she followed him to dispatch—police stations had back doors. Five minutes later, they sat across from each other at a beat-up desk, both armed with hot cups of coffee, and got into it.

  “April twenty-eight,” Rainie said. “Last year. Single-car accident. SUV versus man walking a dog versus a telephone pole. The SUV got the man and dog. The telephone pole got the SUV. Kind of like an obscene version of rock, paper, scissors.”

  “Female driver?”

  “Yep, Amanda Jane Quincy. The accident put her in a coma. Last month, her family pulled the plug. I have a copy of the police report right here.”

  Officer Amity closed his eyes. “Her father’s the fed, right?”

  “There you go.”

  “I should have known,” he muttered, and sighed again, a rumbling sound deep in his chest. He opened his desk, drew out a spiral notebook bearing last year’s date, and began flipping through the pages.

  Rainie waited for him to refresh his memory with his personal notations, then plunged in. “You were the only officer at the scene?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why?”

  “Everybody was pretty much dead. There’s not a whole lot police officers can do about that.”

  “The driver wasn’t dead. Plus, you have at least one fatality and preliminary signs that the driver was operating a vehicle while impaired. In Oregon, that’s already the makings of neg homicide if not manslaughter. Surely that’s worth calling out a traffic investigation team.”

  Officer Amity shook his head. “Ma’am, with all due respect, the driver wasn’t wearing a seat belt. She’d hit the rim of the windshield and lost half her brain. While she might not have been DOA, even I could tell it was only a matter of time. Now I don’t know how it is in Oregon, but in Virginia it doesn’t do us any good to build the case when we got no one left alive to charge with the crime.”

  Rainie eyed him shrewdly. She said two words. “Budget cuts.”

  Amity’s eyes widened in surprise. He nodded slowly, studying her with fresh interest. In most states, the minute an accident involves a fatality, particularly a pedestrian fatality, an accident investigation team will be called out regardless of the condition of the driver. But in the wonderful world of policing, accident investigation teams were the first to feel the sting of budget cuts, even though police officers spent the majority of their time dealing with MVAs and not homicides. Apparently, society couldn’t stand the thought of death by stranger, but demise by automobile was okay. Merely the cost of living in the modern age.

  “Tell me about the seat belt.” Rainie switched gears.

  “She wasn’t wearing one.”

  “In the report, it says the strap was ‘nonoperative.’ What does that mean?”

  Amity frowned, scratched his head, and flipped through his notes. “When I was checking for a pulse, I brushed against the seat belt and it pooled out onto the floor. No tension. Gears probably busted.”

  “The seat belt was defective?”

  “It was nonoperative.”

  “No kidding.” Rainie’s voice gained an edge. “Why was it nonoperative?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea,” Amity drawled evenly.

  “You didn’t examine it, disassemble it? Come on, Officer, if that seat belt had been working, it might have saved the driver’s life. That ought to make it worth some attention.”

  “A defective seat belt is a civil, not criminal, matter, ma’am. Being underworked cops with an unlimited budget, we would love to focus on things outside of our jurisdiction, of course, but that would entail spitting in the face of standard investigative procedures.”

  Rainie blinked twice, then scowled when she finally detected the sarcasm underlining his amiable drawl. Here was the difference between formal and informal police practices, she thought not for the first time. If she’d come across an accident like Mandy’s when she’d been a small-town cop, she would’ve checked out the seat belt. But small sheriff’s departments didn’t rigidly follow things like standard investigative procedures. Hell, half of their volunteer staff probably couldn’t spell investigative, let alone procedures.

  “I made a phone cal
l,” Officer Amity said abruptly. His face remained expressionless, but his voice dropped, as if he were about to confess a sin.

  “About the seat belt?” As long as they were being coconspirators, Rainie lowered her voice, too.

  “I didn’t like the fact that lack of seat belt made it a fatality,” Amity said, “and it just so happened that the seat belt was broken. So I called the garage that serviced the Explorer. Seems that the broken seat belt wasn’t new; it happened a month before. The driver called about having it replaced. Even made an appointment. But she never came in.”

  “When was the appointment?”

  “A week before the crash.”

  “Did the garage know why she canceled?”

  “She called to say something had come up, she’d reschedule shortly.” He shrugged. “So now we got a driver running around for four weeks without a proper harness system. Then she crawls behind the wheel dead drunk. I don’t know about suspicious, ma’am, but in my book the accident is looking stupider all the time.”

  Rainie chewed her bottom lip. “I still don’t like the nonoperative seat belt.”

  “Makes Daddy nervous,” Officer Amity shrewdly guessed.

  “Something like that. What about the pedestrian victim, the old man?”

  “Oliver Jenkins. Lived one mile from the crash site. According to his wife, he always walked his dog along the road and she always told him it was dangerous.”

  “Any chance this had something to do with him?”

  “Mr. Jenkins was a retired Korean War vet. He lived on a small pension from the state and loved butter pecan ice cream. No, I don’t think he did anything to deserve being run over by a Ford Explorer. The dog, on the other hand, had a long history of eating shoes.”

  Big Boy’s face remained so impassive; Rainie almost missed the sarcasm again. Were all Southern boys so charming, or was she just in for a special treat?

  “No sign of braking,” she tried, still working the suspicious angle.

  “Never met a drunk who did.”