Body Count (17 page)

I take my eyes from the pastel and focus on the room again. The office furniture is also different to the BAU look. Amanda has a large teak desk, which is covered in files and two coffee cups, with her computer squashed up in the corner. In front of the desk are two black leather armchairs, and to the side is a small wooden table. On the table sit two glasses of water and the standard box of tissues—something any good shrink always has at hand. The room is topped off by several potted plants, which help give the room a slight homey feel. No doubt it's all in the name of helping agents open up and feel relaxed. But it has the opposite effect on me.

I sit uncomfortably in the large armchair, with Amanda opposite me. Her dark brown hair curls around
her face and is tamed at the sides by two silver bobby pins. Her olive complexion looks smooth, despite her forty-odd years. Amanda's curvaceous figure is highlighted by her clothing. She wears a black V-neck, a purple-plum pencil skirt, black stockings and classy court shoes with a strap around her ankle.

Her full lips turn up in a smile and her dark brown eyes hold my gaze. Empathy.

“Sophie, I'm so sorry. Sorry about Sam and sorry we have to do this.”

“Thanks. I know. Besides, you're just doing your job.”

She smiles again, this time a tight smile.

“You guys are really close.”

“Yes.” I gaze down at my clasped hands on my lap. I turn my ring around, three hundred and sixty degrees.

“And you're part of the task force that's trying to find her.”

“Yep.”

“So how do you feel about that?”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. It's a textbook open-ended question. Necessary, but it seems so transparent to me.

“Amanda, you do remember that I'm a trained psychologist, right?”

“Yes. But it doesn't change the questions I'm going to ask you.” She sits back in her chair and crosses her legs. “It just means we don't have to beat around the bush. I need to assess your feelings and how you're coping, so let's get down to business.”

“Okay,” I say, but I'd rather be out there finding and chasing down leads.

“How do you feel about what's happened?”

I put my hands by my sides and answer in an even voice. “I'm upset. Sam's a good friend.”

“Have you made any other good friends since you've been here?”

“I get along with all the agents.”

“But you're closer to Sam?”

“Yes. As you know, Sam and I train together and socialize together.”

“Is she your only close friend in the Bureau?”

“Josh Marco.” I sigh and glance at the clock behind Amanda's head. “I'm good friends with Josh too.” I decide not to tell Amanda about the recent development in that relationship.

“That's good. It must be hard to be so far away from your family and friends.”

“It has its moments.”

“I bet it does. And Sam helped you fit in here? Feel more at home?”

Tightness takes hold of my throat. “Yes.”

“I'd like to explore that a bit with you. Explore your friendship with Sam and how her disappearance has made you feel.”

“Pretty damn crappy, obviously,” I say.

“We have to do this, Sophie.”

“Well, let's get it over with.”

“It's not only for Rivers and Pike, you know. It's important that you deal with this. I know how close you were to Sam.”

“You mean how close I
am
to Sam.” How dare she use past tense.

“Yes. Of course.” She presses on. “So, how do you feel about Sam?”

“Sam's great. You know that.”

“I know Sam fairly well, but not as well as you do. We're colleagues rather than friends.” She takes a sip of water. “So, what makes her great?”

“It's her attitude. She's a glass-is-half-full person. In fact, if Sam were given a half-full glass, she'd say it was just right. Just the amount she wanted.” I laugh. “That the glass was too big anyways.”

Amanda smiles. “Yeah, I get that impression all right.”

“She's the most lively yet down-to-earth person I've ever met. She's a blast, a party girl, but you can always talk to her too. About anything. You know, sometimes you've got friends you go to the gym with, friends you go out partying with, friends you share a pizza and a video with, and maybe friends you go out to dinner with?”

“Sure. You enjoy doing different things with different people.”

“But then sometimes you meet someone you click with. Someone you can do all of those things with and it feels right.”

“She's a good friend to you.”

“Yes. The best.” I pause. “I miss her.”

“Of course you do.”

I edge farther forward in my seat. “We have to find her.”

“How's the investigation going?”

I look up at the clock. “It would be a hell of a lot better if I was out there doing something.”

She's silent.

That's not the way I'm going to get out of here and
back on the case. “I'm sorry, Amanda. I didn't mean to bite your head off.”

“I know this is tough for you.”

I nod and rest my hands on my lap again. Tough? What an understatement.

“Your original pysch evaluation indicated that you have a tendency to repress your emotions.”

“Those tests aren't always right. We both know that.”

“True. But they can also be spot on.”

“You need a bit of repression in this job.”

She smiles. “Perhaps. A little bit can protect you. But it's a fine line, isn't it, Sophie?”

“I guess so.”

“You were with Sam the night she was attacked.”

“Yes,” I say, the tightness in my throat returning. “We were working on the D.C. Slasher profile at her place.”

“I bet you've got a lot of what-ifs happening at the moment.”

I narrow my eyes. “I've got a few.”

“Why don't you tell me about them.”

Again, I look at her, assessing. I can't tell her about my psychic episodes, but maybe I can tell her about some of the other stuff.

“I wish I'd stayed back that night. Stayed over.”

“Had you ever stayed the night at Sam's before?”

“No. We don't live that far from one another and there was never the occasion to.”

She nods and I know what she's doing—trying to help me release some of my guilt. Of course I'd have stayed with Sam if I'd known what was going to happen. But I didn't know.

But I should have known…I saw it with my own eyes when I was at Sam's place.

I look up and see Amanda's concerned face. A couple of minutes have passed since my last response.

“What else?” she says.

“I wish I'd taken the case from Hunter instead of Sam. I meant to put my hand up for it in the meeting, but I was…daydreaming.”

“So you wish you'd been abducted instead of Sam?”

I pause. Of course I don't want that, but in many ways I think I could deal with that better than Sam being taken.

“I wish neither of us was taken.”

Silence.

“So do you think you'll find him?”

“Yes,” I say quickly. “We've got some good leads. We've got definite matches from the VICAP database and I'm flying to Arizona in a couple of hours to investigate what looks like the perp's first murder. I'll find something. I know I'll find Sam.” The pitch of my voice rises with the last sentence.

“I hope you do, Sophie. I really hope you do. But—”

“No! Don't say it. I'm going to find her in time.”

“Like you save other victims?”

“Yes. That's right.”

“But it's possible you won't be able to save Sam,” she says. She looks at me intently.

“I am going to find this bastard,” I say through clenched teeth.

Silence.

“Sophie, it's clear to me, and I'm sure to you, that you're not coping very well.”

I open my mouth to argue but she raises her hand.

“Which is totally understandable. No one in your unit will be unaffected by this. You're worried about Sam. Worried about what will happen to her. And it brings the one thing you all like to ignore about your jobs into your conscious minds—your own mortality. This work can be dangerous. You're not invincible.”

I nod and twirl my ring.

“But what concerns me, Sophie, is the fact that you're involved in the investigation. I'm not convinced it's good for your emotional health.”

Her last words sting me. She's going to get me thrown off the task force.

“I can handle this.”

Amanda is silent.

“Amanda, please don't. It would be more of a strain on my emotional health if I were doing nothing. I can't just sit at home waiting, and work other cases. I can't do that. Don't make me do that!”

Silence.

“Sophie, this has to be my professional judgment, nothing else.”

“I know, Amanda. I do. But professionally, I can handle this.”

“Do you think you need to see me?”

“Yes. It will help me get through this if I have someone to talk to.”

She shakes her head. “To be honest, Sophie, I don't know if you really believe that or if you're just telling me what I want to hear.”

“A bit of both?”

She smiles and pauses. “I guess I can live with that. For the moment at least.”

I return the smile, thankful that I'm still on the case.

By the time I leave Dr. Rosen's office I feel a little better. And going over the case has actually helped me crystallize some of the details. For one thing, I'm going to have a much closer look at the photo of the pendant and the blowup of Jean's thigh. I'm convinced the Triquetra means something. It's part of his signature, just like the body positioning.

It must be on Jean, and all the other victims. I just have to find it.

O
n the plane I sit in the front end of the economy cabin. As soon as the takeoff procedure is complete, I put down my tray table and start looking at photos. The seat next to me is vacant, so I spread photos of the Arizona crime scenes out all around me, using the spare seat and tray table. After about ten minutes the flight attendant comes by.

“Drink?” she says and then her face freezes as she sees what's surrounding me. She turns her head away.

“Sorry. I'm FBI.”

She turns back but doesn't look at me or the photos. She looks behind me.

“Drink?” she repeats.

“I'll have a sparkling water, please.”

She hands me the small bottle and plastic cup, managing to keep her eyes averted. Sometimes I forget
other people don't look at dead bodies all day. Ignorance is bliss? I'm not sure which I'd prefer. At least this way I know what really happens in this world of ours.

The first leg of the flight, to Chicago, takes two hours, but because of the one-hour time difference our official landing is 2:00 p.m. Half an hour later I'm boarding the Tucson flight. Again the flight isn't full and my badge and Aussie charm help ensure I'm one of the lucky ones with two seats to myself. I spend another two hours going over every single detail of the Arizona case files, including the victimologies, coroner's reports and police files. By the time I'm finished I've got a much clearer picture of the murders and the murderer, although the second victim still strikes me as odd. If it wasn't for the signature of the body positioning, I'd think the perp was a different killer.

I spend the most time concentrating on Sally-Anne Raymond. She's our key. Most killers know their first victim. In fact, I'd put pretty good odds on our killer being on the police's original interview list. Another thing that caught my attention was the fact that Sally-Anne Raymond was missing a necklace when she was found. It was never recovered.

The plane touches down in Tucson at 5:00 p.m. local time, 7:00 p.m. Washington time. The airport terminal is warm in temperature but cold in atmosphere, like most airports. I walk quickly, and my overnight bag trails behind me. I pull my phone out of my handbag, switch it on and dial the D.C. office. I'm patched through on speakerphone for the end of the task force's evening meeting.

“So, Anderson, did you look at all the case files?” O'Donnell says.

We ended up getting in files from all the states before I left.

“No, just Arizona.” The other files weigh down my briefcase and overnight bag.

“So you haven't seen the Michigan photos?”

“No.”

“We've got definite visual links on some of the victims.” His excitement is obvious.

“Really? What?”

“That pendant shape was tattooed on the first two victims in Michigan,” O'Donnell says.

“Really?” I feign surprise, but I knew the symbol from the pendant and my dreams meant something. I couldn't tell anyone how, but I knew it.

The news also confirms my suspicions—the symbol is part of his signature. But that's not quite right, either. A signature is something a killer is compelled to do. He literally shouldn't be able to leave the crime scene without marking his territory and handiwork in this way.

“But none of the other victims?” I ask.

“No.” Josh's voice.

I'm still a little perplexed. “But it
is
signature stuff. Ritual. How could he resist doing it on all the victims?”

“I know, it's strange, isn't it,” Josh says.

I sense a hint of fascination in Josh's voice. We could have something new for the textbooks.

Regardless, the Celtic symbol is how we're going to nail him. I know it's important. Really important.

“Any news your end?” O'Donnell says.

“I've only just landed. Detective Carter from Tucson Homicide is picking me up.” I stop walking, look up at the signs and turn left. I edge past an old couple and maneuver my way through a family that's trying to deal with a two-year-old's tantrum.

“I want ice cream,” she screams, parking her small bottom on the polished floor.

I keep moving. “I'm going to see the first victim's parents tonight. Sally-Anne was missing a necklace. I'm wondering if it's the necklace we found at Sam's.”

I can see natural light. Excellent.

“Interesting…we've also narrowed down our college list of twenty-two, based on their programs. For some of them we've already got a list of enrolled students during the time frame.”

“And the lock-picking angle?”

“You were right about the time frames. Most of the Web sites started off around 2000, so if he picked up the lock-picking gun during the Arizona or Michigan murders he'd have had to buy it from a registered wholesaler.” He clears his throat. He sounds tired. “Arizona law states that owning lock-picking equipment with the intention to use it as a burglary tool is illegal.”

“Not very strict.”

“No, but the manufacturers are obliged to record buyers and ask for a photo ID. They only have to keep the records for one year, but we might get lucky.”

“Right…” It sounds like a long shot.

“Jones is trying to track down a list for Arizona.”

“And Michigan?” He may have added it to his MO later.

“Same deal—possession with intention—but the
manufacturers aren't required to keep records. It'll be hit-and-miss there. Some would have kept customer records, others wouldn't.”

“He might've had this thing for years,” I say. “If so, it's unlikely we'll find records on it. What about the locksmiths for the apartments?”

“All three victims' apartment blocks were done by different locksmiths, but Jones is going to chase down past employees, just in case our perp worked at them all and did get access to master keys that way.”

“It's hard to know when he started getting into their apartments.”

“We're looking at all the case files for that now. If there's evidence he was in their apartments, we might also be able to work out when he started picking the locks. I suggest you look into that in Arizona,” O'Donnell says. “Have I missed anything?” He's talking to the other team members.

“Wright's cell call.” It's Krip's voice. “It was routed through the Alexandria cell tower, so it must have been made either from her apartment or within about a five-mile radius. Beyond that distance it would have been routed through another tower.”

Silence. I think everyone's disheartened. If the call had been made from the perp's special place, we would have a radius on where Sam was being held. But we don't.

“The media.” Flynn breaks the disappointment. “I've spoken to Murray C at the
Post
and he's running a story tomorrow.”

I take another left, toward the natural light. “Josh, did you get a look at that?”

“He's sending it through in the next hour. I briefed him pretty thoroughly though. It's important we don't go over the top. We don't want to tip him off that it's a set-up story.”

“Good call,” I say. Our guy knows his stuff and he could be expecting something like this from us. “Anything else?”

“Nothing this end. Call me when you've met the parents,” O'Donnell says. It will be fairly late, especially with the time difference, but we're not nine-to-fivers.

“Oh, and Anderson, be careful out there,” O'Donnell adds.

“Will do. Speak to you later.” I hang up and stop walking. I need to find Carter. I want to get out to the scene of the first murder before we lose the light.

I search around the arrivals gate, looking for him. After a few minutes I spot someone else looking around. He's about five-eleven, skinny with a very gentle, good-looking baby face. Despite the baby face, I'd say he's in his early thirties. He wears black jeans, a blue shirt and a woolen overcoat.

We hesitantly approach each other.

“Carter?”

“Anderson?”

“Yes,” we both say.

We shake hands and I feel an instant electricity. From Carter's face I think he feels it too. I give him an awkward smile and push the feeling away. This is business. Besides, I'm with Josh now. I release Carter's hand.

“Thanks for all your help, Carter. It's great you're still interested in the case.”

“Interested? It was my first case in Homicide and it bugs the hell out of me that we never caught the guy.”

Perfect. Nothing better than a cop who's bothered by the one that got away. He'll give me loads of time, no matter what his caseload is like.

“Anyways, I've got you hooked up for tonight with Sally-Anne's folks. Thought we might visit the murder site first. Okay?”

“Sounds great.” I look at my watch.

“We've got time,” he says.

“Oh, it's not that. Remember I said the Slasher had another victim?”

“Uh-huh.”

“He's had her for sixty-nine hours now. We've got to catch him soon.” It's been nearly three days, the time he had Susan for.

“So you're close to catching the guy?” Carter starts moving and we walk as we talk.

“Yeah. Kind of.” But I don't know if it's true. I've been trying to convince myself it is, but in reality, we don't have much. We're on our way, definitely, but these things take time. First we'll have a list of thousands of students from 1997 to 2000, then we'll have to start the cross-referencing process and that is bound to take time, even with computers. Sure, hopefully by the end of it we'll have less than forty names. But how long will it take to get those forty names? I gulp, riding a wave of nausea. I focus on Carter's black shoes. They're real shiny. He wouldn't be happy if I threw up all over them.

“You all right?”

“Sure.” I want to explain that I know the guy's current victim. Partly in the hope it'll make Carter put in that extra effort, and partly because I feel the need to explain
my obvious attachment to the case. But I can't tell him the killer's got an FBI agent. The brass was pretty straight up about that.

Double glass doors slide open and we walk into the fresh air. It's a lot colder outside than in, but also noticeably warmer than D.C. A line of cabs hugs the curb and we step between two of them and make our way toward a secondary side road.

“This one got to me too,” Carter says.

He points his keys at an unmarked car. It's a navy blue Mercury Sable. “This is me.” He pops the trunk and throws my bag in. We clamber into the car.

“Your partner coming with us?”

“She just started with Homicide about six months ago. She didn't work this case.”

“Who did?”

“Bob Watson. My old partner,” Carter says. “He retired last year.”

“Can we catch up with him later?”

“Sure. I called and let him know FBI was looking at the Raymond case. He wants to solve it. In fact, he knows Sally-Anne's folks real well. Friend of the family.” Carter pauses and stares somewhat vacantly in front of him. He starts the car.

“We worked our asses off on this case. Day and night. And right up to the time Bob retired he still looked at the files on a regular basis. See if he couldn't turn up something new.”

“Perhaps I can talk to him tonight, after we've seen Sally-Anne's family.”

“I'll call him now.” Carter plucks his phone from his
shirt pocket and punches in a number. “Bob, it's Darren… Yeah, she's sitting right beside me… She'd like to talk to you… Yeah… Uh-huh…eight… About an hour… Okay, see you then.” Carter hangs up and turns to me. “He's going to meet us in a diner around the corner from the Raymond house. We can eat and talk over the case.”

“Thanks. I really need to work this one hard and fast.”

Carter nods. “You got any questions about the files?”

He starts driving.

“I wouldn't mind finding out more about your suspects. What they're doing now, that sort of stuff. Do you want to wait until tonight with Watson?”

“Yeah. Like I said, he tracked the case after it was officially closed. He might know a lot of that off the top of his head.”

About ten minutes later we arrive at a small park, surrounded by a housing estate. Sally-Anne's murder site.

We both get out of the car and survey the area.

“It was just a field at the time of the murder. Part of a farm. But the farmer died and his family sold the land to a housing-development crowd.” Carter's eyes drift my way, then he motions toward some houses on either side of the park. “These went up in 2000.”

“What about behind?” The park seems to finish on the top of a crest, and then the next crest only has a few houses on it.

“There's a river down there,” Carter says, pointing to the space between the two crests. We walk farther into the park. “Apparently at the time, the farmer often used to complain about kids coming down and having sex by
the river. Except for the odd occasion when he caught them, they were usually undisturbed. It made it an attractive spot. Marli, Sally-Anne's best friend, said they both used to come down here with guys, on and off.”

I nod, remembering that the autopsy showed Sally-Anne had had recent intercourse but there was no semen. A condom had been used.

“He had sex with her, then killed her,” Carter says. “Hard to know medically if he raped her, or if the sex was consensual. Given she was killed, we assume she was raped, even though there was no evidence of tearing or bruising.” We reach an inviting area of lush grass, daisies and tall trees, with a view of the river. He points to a large oak tree. “She was found right there.”

“I can see why the kids came here,” I say. “Before the housing, you'd need to be literally within twenty feet to see them in this dip.”

“Yep. No one saw them arrive or leave. No one even knew who Sally-Anne was meeting that day. There were several partial tire tracks left on the side of the road, near where Sally-Anne's car was found. But they weren't much good to us.”