Split Second (27 page)

T
ully reached under his glasses and tried to rub out the exhaustion. As though blaming them for lack of relief, he pulled the glasses off, tossing them onto one of the many piles on his desk. The glasses used to be for reading only. Now he found himself wearing them more often.

Ever since he’d hit forty three years ago, his body parts seemed to be failing him, one by one. Last year it was surgery on his knee, just a torn ligament, but it had put him out of commission for two weeks. Of course, it didn’t help matters having a fourteen-year-old daughter telling him how “out of sync” he was. It seemed as if he couldn’t do anything right as far as Emma was concerned.

Earlier she had been furious with him for having to spend another evening next door with Mrs. Lopez. Maybe that was part of the reason he was still here working, stalling, avoiding going home to his own daughter and the silence she wielded as punishment. Ironically, this was the same daughter he had fought so hard to keep near him.

Though it wasn’t much of a fight once Caroline realized what kind of freedom she might have without the responsibility of a teenage daughter. This was the same woman who couldn’t bear to be separated from her daughter and husband six or seven short years ago, when she took an account executive job at a national advertising firm. But as the high-profile clients rolled in and the promotions took her all the way to the top, somehow those expensive trips to New York City and London and Tokyo seemed to get a lot easier. By the final years of their marriage, she had become a stranger to him. A beautiful, sophisticated, ambitious woman, but a complete stranger.

Tully stretched back in his chair, lacing his fingers together behind his head. God, how he hated change! He glanced around the small fluorescent-lit room. He missed having an office with windows. In fact, if he even thought about being sixty feet under ground, he knew his claustrophobia would easily kick in. He had seriously considered turning down the position at Quantico, knowing the Investigative Support Unit was still located in what he considered the bowels of the training facility.

He was rubbing his eyes again when he heard the tap on his open door.

“Agent Tully, you’re here late.”

Assistant Director Cunningham wore shirtsleeves, but still carefully buttoned at the wrists and collar, whereas Tully’s sleeves were rolled up in uneven folds and shoved above his elbows. Cunningham’s tie was cinched tight at his neck, making Tully self-conscious about his own, now wrinkled and tossed aside somewhere on a file cabinet, leaving his collar unbuttoned and open.

“I was waiting for a phone call from the medical examiner,” Tully explained. “From Dr. Holmes.”

“And?”

The assistant director leaned against the door, and Tully wondered if he should clear off one of the chairs. Unlike his boss’s immaculately neat office, Tully’s looked like a storage closet, with piles of papers, scattered files and overflowing bookcases. He sorted through the stack of notes from his phone call, not wanting to depend on his memory, which at this time of night had shut down like a computer hard drive.

“The girl…the young woman had an incision in her left side that extended to the small of her back about four inches long. Dr. Holmes said it was very precise, almost as if he had performed surgery on her.”

“Sounds like our boy.”

“He removed her spleen.”

“A spleen isn’t very big, is it? It looked like there was much more in that pizza box.”

Tully reached for the copy of
Gray’s Anatomy
that he had borrowed from the library. He quickly thumbed to the place where he had used a gum wrapper as a bookmark. He grabbed his glasses.

“The spleen is about five inches in length, three inches in breadth and an inch or an inch and a half in thickness,” he read out loud, then closed the book and set it aside. “The book says the spleen weighs about seven ounces, but that depends on what stage of digestion it’s in. It can get much bigger. Our victim hadn’t eaten much that day, so her spleen was fairly small. Dr. Holmes said that some of the pancreas was also attached.”

“Were there fingerprints found anywhere at the scene?”

“Yes, we got two pretty good ones—a thumb and an index finger. But they’re not matching Stucky’s. It’s possible they may have been made accidentally by someone on the scene, but it sure seems as though they were left behind on purpose. The entire rim of the Dumpster was wiped down, and then there are these two fingerprints right smack in the middle.”

Cunningham frowned, his weathered brow creasing as if he remembered something. “Double-check Stucky’s early file. Make sure the prints haven’t been switched or altered or that there were any computer mistakes. If I remember correctly, Agent O’Dell was finally able to identify him because of a fingerprint Stucky left behind. He blatantly left it behind, too. But it took us a while to identify it at the time. Someone hacked into the county computer system and switched the prints on file.”

“I’ll double-check, sir, but we’re not dealing with a county sheriff department’s computer system here. We’re checking these against the ones AFIS has on Stucky, prints they’ve taken directly off Stucky. And with all due respect, I don’t think anyone can easily hack into the Bureau’s system.” AFIS (Automated Fingerprint Identification System) was the FBI’s master database. Though it networked with local, state and federal agencies, dozens of precautions were in place against computer hackers.

Cunningham sighed and scratched his jaw. “You’re probably right,” he conceded with a fatigue Tully hadn’t witnessed before.

“It may end up being a rookie cop’s,” he told his boss, as if hoping to relieve some of Cunningham’s exhaustion. “If it is, we’ll know in the next twenty-four hours. If they don’t make a match to any law enforcement officers, then I’ll have someone do a cold search.”

Tully kept his glasses in place, feeling more alert with them on and needing to appear in control. “Sir, I haven’t found anything that would suggest Stucky is trying to send some sort of message by which organ he extracts. I wonder if I’m missing something.”

“No, you’re not missing anything. Stucky does this for shock value and simply because he can,” Cunningham said as he came farther into Tully’s office, but remained standing.

“Did he study to be a surgeon at some point in his life?” Tully flipped through a file Agent O’Dell had put together on Stucky’s past. In many ways it read like a résumé for a Fortune 500 executive.

“His father was a doctor.” Cunningham wiped a hand over his jaw. Tully recognized the gesture as something his boss did when exhausted and trying to retrieve information from his vast memory bank. He took the opportunity to study his boss’s face, which seemed thinner, the hollows in his cheeks and eyes darker in the fluorescent light. Even exhausted, his posture remained straight, no hunched shoulders as he now leaned against the bookcase. Everything about the man spoke of a quiet dignity.

Finally he continued, “If I remember correctly, Stucky and his partner started one of the first Internet, online stock-trading companies. Made millions and has it stashed in foreign banks.”

“If we could track some of those accounts, maybe we could track him.”

“The problem is we’ve never been able to find out how many different accounts he has or what names he uses. Stucky’s sharp, Agent Tully. He’s cunning, very intelligent and almost always in control. He’s not quite like any of the others. He doesn’t kill because he needs to, or because it’s a mission or some urgency. Or even because he hears some inner voices. He kills for one major reason—because he enjoys it. It’s a game for him to manipulate, to break down the human spirit, to shock people with what he’s capable of doing, and also to thumb his nose at those of us who are trying to catch him.”

“Certainly even Albert Stucky makes mistakes.”

“Let’s hope so. Have you found anything on where the victim may have been taken?”

Again, Tully dug out his notes from a variety of stacks, not wanting to depend on his fatigued memory. Immediately he found himself self-conscious and a bit embarrassed. His notes were scrawled on everything from a deli napkin to a brown paper towel from the men’s rest room.

“We know she was taken before she finished her route. There were some customers who called complaining they hadn’t received their pizzas. The manager is working on getting me a list of the addresses she was to deliver to.”

“Why is that taking so long?”

“They write down the addresses in one place as the orders are phoned in. The delivery person takes the only copy.”

“You’re kidding,” Cunningham sighed, and for the first time Tully thought he saw that it was an effort for him to confine his frustration. “Doesn’t seem very efficient.”

“It’s probably never been a problem until now. The lab is trying to raise the addresses from the indentations on the notepad page underneath. Of course, our best bet is if we find the victim’s car. Maybe the lists will have been left behind.”

“Any luck finding the car?”

“Not yet. I got the make, model and plate number from DMV. Detective Rosen put out an APB. Nothing’s shown up so far.”

“Have Reagan National and Dulles airport security check their long-term parking lots.”

“Good idea.” Tully jotted another note to himself, this time using the cash-register receipt from his lunch. Why the hell didn’t he have notepads like the rest of the world?

“He had to take her someplace,” Cunningham said, staring over Tully’s head, lost in thought. “Somewhere he could have plenty of uninterrupted time with her. I’m guessing he didn’t go far from where he apprehended her. If we could get that list, we might be able to narrow down some possible locations.”

“The thing is, sir, I’ve driven around within a ten-mile radius of where the body was found. The whole area is this picture-book community. We’re not going to find any abandoned warehouses or condemned buildings.”

“It’s also easy to miss the most obvious place, Agent Tully. You can bet Stucky will be gambling on us doing just that. What else do you have?” he asked more brusquely now as he stood away from the bookcase, suddenly in a rush.

“There was a cellular phone recovered from the Dumpster. It was reported stolen a few days ago from a local shopping mall. I’m hoping once I get the phone record, maybe it’ll lead us someplace, depending on what calls were placed.”

“Good. Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.” Cunningham started to leave. “Let me know what help you need. Unfortunately, I can’t promise a whole task force again, but maybe I can pull a few people from other cases. Now, you need to go home, Agent Tully. Spend some time with your daughter.”

He pointed to the photo Tully kept on the edge of his desk. It was the only one he had. It included the three of them, arms wrapped around each other and smiling for the camera. It couldn’t have been taken that long ago, and yet he couldn’t remember them being that happy. It was the first time Cunningham had referred to Tully’s personal life. He was surprised his aloof boss remembered that his wife hadn’t made the move with him.

“Sir?”

Cunningham stopped halfway into the hall.

Tully wasn’t sure how to ask. “Should I give Agent O’Dell a call?”

“No.” The answer was brisk and firm.

“You want to wait until we’re sure it’s Stucky?”

“I’m ninety-nine percent certain it is Stucky.”

“Then shouldn’t we at least tell Agent O’Dell?”

“No.”

“But, sir, she might—”

“What part of my answer did you not understand, Agent Tully?” Again, his manner was firm without raising his voice. Then he turned and left.

O
nce again, Turner and Delaney dragged Maggie from her hotel room to join them for dinner. This time their new Kansas City friends, Detectives Ford and Milhaven, treated them to what they claimed was the best barbecue place in the city, located not far from the bar and grill they had visited the night before.

Maggie had never seen two men put away more ribs than her FBI buddies. Their compulsion to compete with each other was ridiculous and getting old. Although Maggie recognized it was no longer for her benefit, but was now extended to their new friends. Ford and Milhaven encouraged Turner and Delaney’s heartburn fest like spectators at a major sporting event. Ford had even placed a five-dollar bill on the table for the first man who would clean the current stack of ribs off his plate.

Maggie sat back, sipped her Scotch and tried to find something more interesting to watch through the dimly lit, smoke-filled restaurant. She found her eyes wandering to the entrance. She half expected to see Nick Morrelli walk in, and then realized she had no idea what she would do if he were to show up. Ford had told Maggie after class that he and Nick had gone to college together at the University of Nebraska. He said he had left a message at the hotel’s front desk for Nick to join them at dinner. Now hours later, Nick obviously hadn’t gotten the message or had other plans for the evening. Yet, Maggie found herself watching for him. It was ridiculous, but just knowing that he was at the conference had stirred up all those feelings she thought she had safely tucked away since the last time she had seen him.

That was over five months ago. To be more precise, it had been the Sunday after Halloween when she left Platte City, Nebraska, to go home to Virginia. She and Nick, who had been the county sheriff at the time, had spent exactly one week together, hunting a religious psychopath who had murdered four little boys. Two men had been captured and were awaiting trial, neither of whom Maggie was convinced was the real killer. Despite all the circumstantial evidence, Maggie still believed the real killer was a charismatic Catholic priest named Father Michael Keller. Only, Keller had disappeared somewhere in South America, and no one, not even the Catholic Church, seemed to know what had happened to him.

For the last five months, all Maggie had come up with were rumors of a handsome young priest who traveled from one small farming community to another, serving as their parish priest, though no assignment had officially been made. By the time Maggie tracked down the location, the elusive priest was gone, disappearing into the night with no explanation. Months later, the rumors would find him at another small parish, miles away. But again, by the time the location was narrowed down, Keller was gone. It was as though the communities protected him, keeping him safe like some fugitive unjustly accused. Or perhaps like some martyr.

The thought made Maggie sick to her stomach. That was what Maggie believed to be Keller’s motive for murdering boys he thought were abused. He had hoped to make martyrs of them, as though he could administer a perfectly evil salvation. It seemed unfair that Keller would now be protected like a martyr, instead of executed for the evil monster he was. She wondered how long it would take before these poor farmers would start to find their little boys dead along some riverbank, strangled and stabbed to death but washed clean and given their last rites.

Would they be willing to see Keller punished then? There seemed to be a problem with punishing evil these days, an evil that gained strength by conspiring with other evil. Maggie knew Keller had been the one who had visited Albert Stucky in a Florida prison. Several guards had later identified Keller from a photograph. And though she had no proof, she also knew it had been Keller who had given Stucky the wooden crucifix. It was that dagger-like crucifix Stucky had used to cut himself free of his restraints and stab a transport guard.

She shook the thought from her mind and gulped the remainder of her Scotch. Turner and Delaney looked as though they were finally at a standstill. Delaney looked miserable. Turner’s brown face had a greasy sheen to it, despite his efforts at wiping it clean. She was about to order another Scotch when Ford waved down the waitress for the check. Neither detective had allowed any of the FBI agents to pay. Maggie insisted on at least leaving the tip, which Ford did allow. Maybe he realized his detective’s salary would never be able to keep up with Turner and Delaney’s appetites.

Milhaven had driven them, but Maggie wished she could walk rather than be squashed once again into the Grand Am’s back seat between her two bodyguards. The night was clear but crisp enough to provoke a shiver. Before they got to the parking lot, they noticed a gathering in the alley. One uniformed cop stood in front of a metal Dumpster and attempted to keep a small crowd of well-dressed onlookers at a distance.

Without a word, the detectives and FBI agents made their way to the scene.

“What’s the problem here, Cooper?” Ford knew the frustrated officer.

“Let’s move out of the way,” Milhaven said to the onlookers as he and Delaney pushed them back into the parking lot that ran parallel to the alley.

The officer glanced at Maggie and Turner.

“It’s okay,” Ford reassured him. “They’re FBI. Here for the conference. So what’s going on?”

Officer Cooper pointed to the Dumpster behind him with a tilt of his head.

“Dishwasher at the Bistro took out the trash about a half hour ago. Noticed a hand sticking up out of the pile. Freaked. Called it in, but not before he announced it to the whole goddamn world.”

Maggie felt the familiar knot in her stomach. Turner was already at the Dumpster, his six-foot-three frame allowing him to look over the edge without assistance. Maggie dragged an empty milk crate and joined him. Now she wished she hadn’t drunk so much. She paused and waited for the brief spell of light-headedness to pass.

The first thing Maggie noticed was a red umbrella, its handle looped over the edge of the Dumpster as if the owner hadn’t meant for it to be mistaken for trash. Or had it purposely been left as evidence?

“Officer Cooper.” She waited for his attention. “You might mention to the detectives when they arrive that there’s an umbrella here. It probably should be bagged and taken in for fingerprints.”

“Will do.”

Without disturbing anything, Maggie could see the woman was naked and lying on her back. The patch of red pubic hair was a stark contrast to the white skin. Immediately, Maggie knew the scene had been tampered with. Officer Cooper said the dishwasher had noticed only a hand sticking up out of the pile, yet the woman’s entire torso was exposed. What looked like vegetable peels had been tossed onto her face. Her head was turned to the side, her brilliant red hair littered with pieces of leftovers.

Maggie could see the woman’s mouth, partially opened as though something may have been shoved inside. Then she noticed a dot, a beauty mark above the upper lip. The knot in her stomach tightened. She leaned forward, stretched on tiptoe, sending the crate wobbling while she reached in.

“O’Dell, what the hell are you doing?” Turner scolded her as he watched.

Gently, she swiped at a potato peel and a clump of angel-hair pasta that was stuck to the side of the woman’s face.

“It’s Rita,” she said, wishing she had been wrong.

“Rita? Rita who?”

Maggie waited, glanced at Turner and watched the recognition register on his face.

“Shit! You’re right.”

“You guys know her?” Ford asked as he looked over the top.

“She’s a waitress from the bar and grill down the street,” Maggie explained as her eyes continued to examine what she could of Rita’s body.

Her throat had been slashed, so deep it had nearly decapitated her. The rest of her body had few bruises and no punctures except for her wrists, which showed ligature marks. Whatever the method of capture, the struggle had been minimal, suggesting that hopefully death had come quickly. Maggie found herself relieved and at the same time disparaged to be relieved by such a thing.

Then she saw the bloody incision in Rita’s side underneath a mass of spaghetti. She shoved herself away from the Dumpster, half jumping, half falling off the crate. The light-headedness was quickly replaced by a dizzy buzz. She rushed a safe distance away before she wrapped her arms around herself to stop the wave of panic. Damn it! She never got sick at crime scenes anymore. But this was different. This was a mixture of dread and fear, not nausea.

“O’Dell, you okay?”

Turner was at her side. His large hand touched her shoulder, startling her. She avoided his eyes.

“Stucky did this,” she said, keeping her voice steady and free of the quiver invading her lower lip.

“O’Dell, come on now.”

“I thought I saw him when we were in the bar and grill last night.”

“As I remember, we all had plenty to drink.”

“No, Turner, you don’t understand. Stucky must have seen her. He must have noticed us talking, joking with her. He chose her because of me.”

“O’Dell, we’re in Kansas City. You’re not even on the conference roster. Stucky couldn’t possibly know you’re here.”

“I know you and Delaney think I’m losing it. But this is exactly Stucky’s M.O. We should start looking for a container, a take-out container, before someone else finds it.”

“Look, O’Dell. You’re just on edge.”

“It’s him, Turner. I know it. And whatever he sliced out of her is going to show up at some outdoor café table. Maybe even in front of this restaurant. We need to—”

“O’Dell, slow down,” he whispered, looking around as if to make sure he was the only one witnessing her hysteria. “I know you’re feeling like you need to be checking over your shoulder, thinking—”

“Damn it, Turner. This isn’t my imagination.”

He went to touch her shoulder again, and this time she jerked back just as she noticed a dark figure across the alley.

“O’Dell, relax.”

The man stood at the edge of the crowd, a crowd that had doubled in only a few minutes. He was too far away, and it was too dark for her to be certain, but he wore a black leather jacket, like the man she had seen last night.

“I think he’s here,” she whispered, and positioned herself behind Turner so she could look without being obvious. Her pulse quickened.

“O’Dell.” By the tone of his voice, she knew Turner was growing impatient.

“There’s a man in the crowd,” she explained, keeping her voice low, “tall, thin, dark, sharp features. From what I can see of his profile, it could be Stucky. My God, he’s even carrying what looks like a take-out container.”

“As are a whole bunch of others. Come on, O’Dell, this is a restaurant district.”

“It could be Stucky, Turner.”

“And it could be the mayor of Kansas City.”

“Fine—” she let him hear her anger “—I’ll just go talk to him myself.”

She started around him, but Turner grabbed her arm.

“Stay put and stay cool,” he said with an exaggerated sigh.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna talk to the man. Ask a few questions.”

“If it’s Stucky—”

“If it’s Stucky, I’ll recognize the bastard. If it’s not, you’re picking up the dinner tab tomorrow night. I’m thinking you better get your credit card ready for prime rib.”

She watched Turner while trying not to be obvious about it. She positioned herself behind Delaney and Milhaven, who were deep in discussion about baseball. Neither man seemed to notice her. Through the space between them, Maggie could see Turner walk with his casual yet authoritarian gait toward the crowd. She knew he wasn’t taking her seriously, and he wouldn’t be prepared if it was, indeed, Stucky.

She reached inside her jacket and unsnapped the restraint on her holster, then kept her hand on the butt of the gun. Already her heart was pounding against her rib cage. All other motion, all other conversation stood still as she concentrated on the man in the black leather jacket. Could it really be Stucky? Could the bastard be so arrogant to kill in a city crawling with law enforcement officers from across the country, then stand back and watch? Yes, Stucky would love the challenge. He’d love to be able to thumb his nose at them all. A shiver slid down her back as a night breeze swirled around her, wet and cold.

Turner didn’t reach the crowd before the man turned to leave.

“Hey, wait a minute.” Turner yelled at the man loud enough for even Delaney and Milhaven to look. “I want to talk to you.”

The man bolted and so did Turner. Delaney started to ask Maggie something, but she didn’t wait to hear. She raced across the parking lot, gun drawn, its nose to the ground. The crowd scattered out of her way with gasps and one scream.

All Maggie could think was this time Albert Stucky would not escape.