Silence: The Faces of Evil Christmas Prequel (2 page)

Charm or no, Jess liked him. “That saves us both some time, sir,” she agreed. “I have a stack of cases waiting on my desk.” Two months in the Behavioral Analysis Unit and she was either Miss Popular or simply low profiler on the food chain and got the cases no one else wanted. Didn’t bother her one little bit. She was more than happy to have a crack at the most challenging subjects.

Gant leaned back in his functional, government-issue chair. It squeaked. “You were handpicked to join this unit because when it comes to ferreting out an unsub you’re the best we’ve seen in a long time. Your instincts are spot on, Harris. Most agents can’t boast about solving the cases assigned to them in any given year, much less those assigned over their career to date. You have a perfect record.”

If he was hoping to butter her up, he was off to a stellar start. Jess beamed a smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” He studied her for a beat or two “I’m sure you’re familiar with the Zip Code Killer.”

Who wasn’t?
“Agent Taylor did the profile on that case last month.”

She would’ve given her first born for that assignment—not that she had any prospects of marriage much less children—but Taylor, having moved to BAU six months ahead of Jess, was senior so he’d landed it. The “good old boys club” remained alive and well in the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Since she wasn’t a “boy,” she’d had to work harder and wait longer. Case in point, she and Taylor had graduated from the academy together. Taylor was a damned fine agent but, as Gant said, her record spoke for itself. Still, Taylor had gotten the plum promotion and assignment ahead of her.

No big deal. She’d never been afraid of a little extra hard work. And patience was a virtue. That was the one thing from her southern upbringing she was immensely grateful for.

“The profile Taylor built helped Agent Bedford and local law enforcement over in Warrenton identify and arrest the unsub.”

Since northern Virginia fell under the jurisdiction of the DC field office, an agent assigned there, Bedford, had contacted BAU for support. Jess hadn’t worked with him before, but Bedford’s reputation was well regarded.

“Can’t ask for much more than that,” Jess offered though she suspected more was exactly what Gant hoped to attain. She’d kept up with the case. Nothing about it had gone down the way anyone had hoped.

Gant leaned forward, his chair complained again, and braced his forearms on his desk. “The problem is everyone involved, including the Bureau, is catching hell for not finding the bodies.”

Folks were most unhappy that the killer, a sixty-seven year old Caucasian, who stalked young women who rented mailboxes at the post office where he had a contract to provide janitorial services, refused to give up the locations of his victims. Melvin Aniston hadn’t said a single word since he was captured. Total silence.

Five young women had gone missing. The remains of one had been discovered on the property where Aniston lived. The others were presumed dead based on the length of time missing and photos found at the Aniston residence that showed the women caged, their bodies obviously abused. The families of those missing victims were left without closure. Christmas was only a couple days away and the community of Warrenton, Virginia, wanted a miracle.

Miracles weren’t Jess’s specialty but she was damned good with murder. She was itching to get a shot at nosing around in the case.

“You may also be aware there’s a witness, Delia Potter. We’ve kept her name and her relationship with Aniston out of the news to protect her.”

“Yes, sir.” Jess had heard about her all right. “She was pivotal to the investigation.”

Delia Potter, not Taylor or anyone in the field conducting the investigation, was the reason the unsub had been identified. Without Potter’s cooperation, Aniston might still be out there, stalking his next victim. The first of the women who’d gone missing, Shawna Johnston, had disappeared seven months ago. Larissa Stone vanished two months after that. Then Aniston suddenly got brave. His next two victims, Bonita and Marie Duncan, sisters, went missing the same day just three months ago. Victim number five, Valerie Prince, had disappeared a mere two weeks later.

No ransom demands. No bodies. No nothing. Just gone.

Until Delia Potter came forward the case had been at a standstill. She’d found photos in Aniston’s house. Those photos had led to a search warrant and a veritable lottery windfall of evidence. Valerie Prince’s remains had been stashed in the man’s smoke house. No forensic evidence was discovered to corroborate the other four had ever been at Aniston’s home. But hair and clothing fibers in the cargo area of his Subaru linked him to two more of the missing women.

They had him on one count of murder and four kidnapping charges. The death penalty was looming large. Still, the man said not a word. He had no intention of giving up the location of the other victims not even if it meant he kept breathing.

“The situation is a delicate one,” Gant confessed. “Potter knows she’ll be called as a witness at trial and she’s not a happy camper. Trouble is, it could be years before this case goes to trial. These families deserve to know what happened to their loved ones.” Gant shook his head, his expression grim. “The evidence proves he took those women—or at least was involved—but we can’t say for sure if they’re dead or alive. They could be dying at this very moment because their only connection to food and water is in custody.”

Unless Aniston had an accomplice
.

Taylor had created the profile on the unsub and advised on a course of action for those investigating the case. Bedford and the locals had turned Warrenton upside down in an attempt to find the missing women. Hotlines were still open for anyone who might have information.

No one wanted a sociopath like Aniston to get away with one final blow by refusing to give up the location of his other victims.

“Are we taking another stab at getting more information from Potter or from Aniston?” Jess crossed her legs to prevent her heel from tapping with her mounting anticipation. She would love the opportunity to square this for all involved.

If—enormous if—those women were still alive, they needed rescuing
. If they weren’t, the families deserved the opportunity to provide a proper burial. Jess wanted a chance to make one or the other happen.

“Aniston’s not going to talk.” Gant heaved an exasperated breath. “Agent Bedford believes Potter knows more than she’s shared so far. Taylor agrees. I spoke with the lead detective and the prosecutor. We’re all on the same page. You,” Gant set his full attention on Jess, “might be able to connect with Potter. You’re not a field agent anymore, Harris, but I need you to make this happen.”

Jess barely suppressed the urge to jump up and do a little victory dance. “Is there reason to believe Potter might be an accomplice?”

Gant mulled over her question. “That’s a possibility but no evidence has been found linking her to the women. No proof she was aware of Aniston’s activities.”

Something else for Jess to find out. “Will I be working with local law enforcement?”

Jurisdiction belonged to local law enforcement. At times the situation could prove a little prickly. She’d learned long ago that a thick skin was far more practical than a large ego. Rescuing or recovering the victims and solving the case were always the top priorities. As a profiler the goal was the same, she just tackled the case from a different angle with someone else doing the legwork. But she had plenty of experience in the field. If a road trip and an interview were in order, she was game.

Gant shook his head. “We’ve all agreed, this is your show, Harris. I want you to talk to Potter one-on-one. She’s a woman, you’re a woman. That could make all the difference.”

Funny how being a woman suddenly mattered in the grand scheme of things. “I appreciate the opportunity to help, sir.”

“Your interview skills were one of your strongest assets in the field,” Gant commented. “I’m convinced you’re just what we need to give these families the closure they deserve.”

“I’ll set up an appointment with Ms. Potter right now.” Jess stood. “For today if possible.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Gant pushed to his feet. “With the holidays I wasn’t sure about your plans.”

She smiled. “Work is my plan, sir.”

Gant cocked an eyebrow. “You and I should talk about that. Soon. We all need a vacation from time to time, Harris. Even those who aspire to be super heroes.”

Her smile widened. “Thank you, sir. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Warrenton, Virginia, 3:30 p.m.

Jess banged on the rickety door a third time before a female voice shouted for her to come in. There had been no answer at the house so Jess had moseyed on around to the garage turned workshop in the backyard. The car registered to Potter had been in the driveway. Made sense she was around here somewhere.

Grasping the knob, Jess gave it a twist. The door opened with hardly any effort. Inside, the pump and churn of a potter’s wheel provided background noise to the fifty-three year old woman’s deft hands on the clay. Jess couldn’t help wondering if the lady had chosen her occupation because of her name. Maybe it was a family trade handed down through the generations.

Delia Potter was unmarried and had no children. A former school bus driver, she had been unemployed for the past fourteen months. Her personal life was littered with a history of bad luck with men. When it came to relationships, it seemed as though dear old Delia got the short end of the stick every time.

“Ms. Potter?” Jess didn’t really have to ask. She recognized the woman from the photo in the case file. The blond hair surely came from a package and the inordinately pale skin suggested she preferred passing the time with indoor activities versus those done outdoors. She was tall and thin. Nothing at all like the dark, brooding man with whom she’d kept company before he was arrested for the murder of Valerie Prince and the abduction of four other young women less than half his age.

“I told the others all I know.” Potter’s hands glided over the wet clay, molding what appeared to be a vase. Her white tee-shirt and plaid apron was splattered with specks of clay. The jeans and sneakers she wore had seen better days. “I have nothing else to say,” she added.

Potter had said the same thing when Jess called before driving the forty-five miles over here. Hadn’t put Jess off in the least. People changed their minds all the time. She was counting on human nature. “I understand how you feel.”

Potter glanced at her but only for a second or two. Jess walked closer, pretending to be mesmerized by her work.

A half a minute or so of silence elapsed. If asked, most anyone would say that half a minute—thirty seconds—was nothing. But when the stakes were this high, it felt like an eternity. Ticked off like hours. During that time the images of the five young women Aniston had abducted sifted one after the other through Jess’s mind.

Potter was the first to break. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

Jess had spent the drive over here hashing out a scenario on how to approach the woman. “I want to protect
you
, Ms. Potter.”

She eyed Jess warily. “You mean the way your friends at the FBI did? They promised me I wouldn’t have to worry and now I find out I have to be a witness for the prosecution.” She withdrew her foot from the pedal. The wheel stopped and she squashed the wet clay, jamming her fist into the long slender neck of the vase. “I don’t need any more of that kind of help.”

“You know how men are,” Jess said with a little laugh. “No offense to my colleagues, but I do things a little different from them. When I say I want to protect you, I mean I actually have a plan that will do just that. There’s no need for you to fear the next phase of this case. You did your part already. You’re the hero in all this. They don’t see it but I do. I can help you, Ms. Potter. I want to make this right.”

She grabbed a towel and scrubbed at her hands. “I’m listening.”

“You help me find where he kept the women—”

“If I knew where he kept them,” Potter interrupted, throwing the towel against the damp pile of clay she’d mangled, “I would have said so right from the beginning.” She planted her hands on her hips. “
If
I had known where they were, I’d be in a cell right next to Melvin. The only thing I’m guilty of is picking the wrong guy just like every other time I’ve trusted a man.”

“I realize how hard this must be,” Jess went on. “You trusted him and he took advantage of you. But I’ll bet if you really think about it, you’ll remember some place Melvin liked to go. Maybe some place he mentioned in the past few months. He may have had a workshop or a storage rental. He doesn’t own any property other than his residence here in Warrenton but there might be another house he rented. Could be in a neighboring town or just down the street.”

When Potter continued to glare at her, Jess took a chance. “The truth is, Ms. Potter, we’re never going to stop looking. When we find them—and we will find them—that’s when the real trouble for you will start. What you may have known will come into question all over again.” The other woman’s gaze narrowed. “Anything at all you might forget to mention now could come back to haunt you later.”

“I said I don’t know anything else. Why won’t you leave me alone?” Potter crossed her arms over her chest. “I just want to be left alone.”

Jess gave her a second to calm down. “That’s a real shame.” She sighed. “What my colleagues may have failed to tell you is if we knew where the women were or where Aniston might have held them for a time, there’d probably be a lot of evidence that directly connects him to all four. With that much evidence we wouldn’t need a witness at all. There wouldn’t be any reason to even mention your name since his attorney would be begging the prosecutor for a deal to avoid the death penalty.”

This wasn’t exactly something the Bureau could offer. In fact, Jess was making it up as she went along. But the scenario she suggested was a logical one. With enough evidence, witnesses weren’t needed. They were considered unreliable more often than not. She’d certainly heard enough attorneys say as much.