Terrorbyte (6 page)

“I don't know what I have, not yet anyway,” I said, taking the memory stick off my key ring. I plugged the stick into a USB card reader and opened all the pictures, one on top of the other. The last picture was a shot of the victim's face.

“Damn,” Mac said.

“Yeah. This is Christine Campbell. And this is not how she thought her day would go.”

“Damn,” he uttered again. It wasn't like him to be lost for words.

“Check there is photo paper in the printer, will you?”

Mac scooted to the far end of the desk. He removed the plain paper from the printer and replaced it with photo paper from the drawer underneath the desk.

“You're good to go.”

The printer hummed and whirred and the machine began to print.

Ten minutes later, we were studying the gruesome pile of photographs in silence. Twenty minutes later, my phone rang.

It was Sam.

“We have another similar crime scene. It's possible it's the same killer.”

The edge in his voice told me it was more feasible than he intimated.

“I'm on it. Where?”

“Herndon. I'm sending the map to your phone.”

“Thanks. Sam, notify local law enforcement. They invited us in on the other case, but now we need to direct this investigation. Let them know we're taking point on these murders. I think we have a sexual predator out there. Get someone to liaise with us from the local police. I want to make sure we keep everyone in the loop. We're going to need somewhere to work close to the scene. I want somewhere visible for anyone in the neighborhood to drop in with information.” What was I searching for? The words I needed: what were they? From the blank hole where they should've been, they emerged. Mobile command. “Set up a mobile command center.”

I leapt to my feet, dragging my jacket with me. By the time I'd struggled into it and was at the door I realized Mac was waiting with keys in his hand. “I'm driving.”

I didn't argue. The prospect of driving in the morning rush hour traffic wasn't a pleasant one.

“You got your cell phone?” I asked, as I passed him in the doorway.

“Nope.”

“But your mom …”

Mac smiled. “What? Won't be able to reach me?” He smacked himself lightly on the forehead with the heel of his hand. “Duh!”

I had to smile. “Just tell me she doesn't have my new number.”

Mac locked the door behind us. Spits of rain flew in the wind.

Revulsion washed over me, leaving a prickling sensation in my eyes. Mac turned slowly. His mouth opened then closed. His expression was one of horror, which he couldn't hide.

I squeezed my eyes shut, both to curb the sensation and to blur my vision. The smell of bourbon mingled with blood was overpowering and fresher than the last scene. The same spine-tingling feeling crawled over me. I looked at the deceased – maybe
she
was watching me. Kneeling on one knee next to the body, I breathed in. Chlorine again.

I whispered to the deceased woman, “Who did this to you?”

Gold ribbon was wrapped around her neck and tied in a pretty bow under her chin.

“Special Agent Conway?”

Startled, violently, I jumped to my feet. I stared at the woman's lifeless face, not convinced that she hadn't spoken. I half expected to see her mouth move as the voice repeated, “Special Agent Conway?”

As my heart thumped loudly I realized that the voice came from behind me. I looked over my shoulder and saw a uniformed officer. Not a ghost.

“Yes.”

The officer stepped forward with a slight grimace on his face. “Sorry,” he said.

“It's fine, Officer. I didn't expect anyone to be behind me. You wanted me?”

“Special Agent Jackson would like you and your partner to join him outside.”

“Thank you. We'll be right there.”

“I'll escort you, ma'am.”

Here we go with the ma'am stuff. I felt I should enjoy it while I was relatively young and it was somewhat flattering.

I shot a glance at Mac to see how he was faring. His greenish pallor suggested we should leave. I didn't want him to throw up and contaminate my crime scene.

“Let's get out of here,” I said. “Sam is waiting.” I slipped my hand into Mac's. “I needed to view the scene to satisfy myself we're dealing with the same killer.”

Mac shook his head. “It's so much worse in person.”

“Ain't it, though?”

We followed the police officer out of the apartment, down the narrow walkway and into the open air. It was difficult not to gasp as the fresh air hit me. The wind forced the stench from our lungs.

Rain spattered onto my face mixing with tears I couldn't suppress. I was grateful for the camouflage. I tried to lighten up by thinking of how something like crying would ruin my tough chick reputation. Well, it could, if I had one. That's something I should cultivate; maybe it should be my goal for the year. I could fully embrace my new role as SSA with a fresh new don't-fuck-with-me persona. My teeth sank into my lip as I curbed the urge to laugh. I didn't think I could do cold-hearted bitch.

The officer stopped just in front of a mobile command center parked at the curb. I could've sworn it wasn't there when we arrived. The door opened. A gust of wind caught it and flung it back against the side of the truck. The metal-on-metal clang vibrated through my head, setting my teeth on edge.

A booming voice came from inside. “Weather's turning. Come in.”

Mac helped me up the steps, into shelter. The uniformed officer exerted a fair amount of effort and successfully closed the door behind us. I looked around the confined space. It was tight but reasonably comfortable. It was a good thing I'm not claustrophobic.

Sam handed us a coffee each and motioned for us to sit. Mac stepped to the side so I could reach a chair. It still amused me that none of them ever sat until I did. Chivalry was alive and well within Delta A; elsewhere it labored under emancipation. Sam gave Mac a light slap on the shoulder. I saw coffee slosh precariously in his mug.

“You okay?” he asked Mac, scrutinizing his still-pale face. It was rather unusual for Mac to appear pale. He had a hefty dose of Cherokee blood from his maternal grandmother and about the same amount of Black Irish from his paternal grandfather.

“Yeah.”

Sam nodded and moved on. “We have a witness who saw a male leaving the apartment.”

I closed my eyes for a second. It was good news.

“Where is our witness?”

“Lee has her through there …” he said and pointed to a door, partly open, about five feet from us. “They're going through mug shots.”

“Credible?”

“Upstanding citizen, without as much as a parking violation in all her ninety-four years.”

“Ninety-four?” I felt my mind whir. Do people live that long? In real life, did they actually live that long? Imagine that! How awesome to live almost a century. She surely had some stories to tell.

“Yes, ninety-four.”

“Faculties?”

“Hearing aids; very strong prescription glasses; she was wearing them when she saw the male.” He managed to say this with a straight face.

“She's sure about the male?”

“She said it was either a male or a butt-ugly woman.”

“I like our witness already.”

Without warning, my mind skidded over the appearance of the same writing on the walls, while trying not to take it personally. What if it was some kind of voodoo, hoodoo or black magic? What if using my poem could take something from me, part of my soul or something?

Sam gave me a knowing look. “Give!” He kicked my booted foot.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

Skirting the steaming verbal pile, I asked, “Who's the victim, do we have a name?”

“Laura Amos, a thirty-year-old teacher's aide.”

“Was there a note for me anywhere?” I hadn't seen a note. Maybe he hadn't written one this time.

Sam nodded.

Damn!

I felt Mac's eyes boring into me. Maybe I should have said something about the last Post-it; I had pretended it didn't exist. So far it had worked for me.

I moved on and hoped he would too. “Has anyone done a statewide on the signature?”

“Not yet.”

“I got a bad feeling.”

“You want go national?”

“Yes. Load this into the ViCAP database; who do we know over there?” I stared at Sam, hoping to jog my memory and it worked. The
A-Team
theme song roared into life, bringing screen shots of B.A. Baracus, Faceman, Hannibal and ‘Howling Mad' Murdoch. “Special Agent Murdoch.”

Sam shook his head. For a split second I thought he'd heard the music too.

“Murdoch went, he's training recruits now.”

“We know anyone else who can keep an eye on things for us?”

“Jamison went over from our division.”

I'd wondered where she'd gone. “Cool, get hold of her and explain the situation.”

“I'll get on it, boss. Anything else?”

“Yeah, hit the backwater towns with faxes or emails or whatever they can cope with, circulate the signature as widely as you can within Virginia. I want to know if there are any unsolved cases involving gold ribbon, alcohol, rape or sexual assault, knife wounds and, most especially, any cases with poetry written around the crime scene. And chlorine … what's with the chlorine?”

This killer had pulled together many elements to create something unique. These crime scenes didn't just happen. It felt like he'd been at this for a while, tweaking, perfecting his skills, deciding what worked best for him. The ribbon and the poem were not necessary to commit the murder. They were an important part of his signature. I didn't know if he needed the alcohol to commit the crime, if he drank any, forced his victims to drink any, or just liked to pour it around for effect. The chlorine was odd, could be signature, could be necessary – but I couldn't think how – or could be coincidence.

“You smell more chlorine?” Sam asked.

“Yes. Stronger than on the previous victim. It was like a thin fog around her head.”

Mac spoke. “You are incredible; how you could smell anything over the bourbon and blood is beyond me.”

“It was under it. It was an underlying aroma. Think of the smells at the scene as layers. The chlorine was first.”

“Still amazes me that you can do that,” Mac replied.

It amazes me that no one else seems to notice the smells I do. “Do we know if our victim had kids?”

Sam spun to face a desk and grabbed his notebook. He turned back while flicking through several pages. He looked up and said, “The crime scene unit found evidence of children, two unfinished breakfasts and a school bag.”

I looked at my watch. The kids should be in school.

“Find the children; see if our witness knows which school they attend.”

A low buzz emanated from my belt. I stopped its vibration swiftly and checked the display on my phone. ‘Unknown Caller' flashed above a number I didn't recognize.

“Mac, any ideas?” I passed him the phone.

He grimaced and sighed. “My brother, that's his work number.”

We let the call go unanswered. Mac voiced my thoughts, “It's too early in the case for him to think he's been targeted by the killer.”

We all sniggered unkindly. Now that's something I never wanted to see. An image of Eddie's overweight donut-stuffed body tied up with golden ribbons!

“You'd think,” I replied. My mind was now playing reruns of the life of Eddie Connelly: Eddie the Hero; Eddie the Victim; Eddie on the Run; and all of it in his own private fantasy world. I halted the amusing memories; it wasn't the time. “Where were we?”

“I'll get on with a nationwide search on the signature,” Sam replied, “while we wait to hear back about any possible felons or similar unsolved cases in ViCAP.”

“Excellent. Stick a bulletin on LEO as well. Another agency or law enforcement community may have something that ties in.” In my opinion Law Enforcement Online is the best thing since Stephanie Kwolek invented Kevlar back in 1971. LEO is this groovy intranet for the law enforcement community. Everyone can keep in touch, send out bulletins and read updates to bulletins and announcements quickly. It probably saves as many lives as a bulletproof vest. I stood up and checked my watch. All morning I'd had this feeling there was something I had to do but couldn't narrow it down to a particular thing.

“I'll be somewhere,” I said, unsure as to where somewhere actually was.

Mac, with an indulgent smile, said, “We'll be in Fairfax. You can reach us on Ellie's cell phone.”

“Good to see you again, Mac.” Sam shook his hand firmly. “I mean it, man. It's good to have you on board. You are in, yeah?”

“No formal request. It's supposed to be our day off, so thought I'd tag along.”

“I'll get something in writing.”

“Cheers, just let me know when you get sick of me … I'll hustle on back to Cyber and get paid to spend all day on MySpace and Twitter.”

Sam gave Mac a friendly jab to the upper arm. I knew from experience it was some male bonding thing and given more time and different circumstances, they'd wrestle each other to the ground or something equally grown-up.

Mac drove again and again I didn't mind. The radio hummed underneath the whine of traffic. Mac leaned forward, cranked the volume and sang along as Bon Jovi's ‘Have a Nice Day' blared forth. The volume did little to disguise Mac's voice. The next
American Idol
he was not.

He broke off from singing a few times to curse fellow drivers. The song gave way to the latest offering from Grange. My two favorite bands in a row – we'd stumbled upon a good radio station. I let my mind wander happily with the song and drift with the hunky lead singers.