The Soul Catcher (32 page)

When nobody spoke, Maggie said, “The evidence is inconclusive.”

Senator Brier stared at her, then shook his head. “You need not spare me. I need to know.”

Like hell he needed to know. Gwen stopped herself as Maggie caught her eyes. Maggie looked to Cunningham as if for permission to proceed. He sat, eyes straight ahead, his hands folded over each other on the table, no indication that he wanted her to stop.

Maggie continued, “We did find some vaginal semen, but there was no bruising, no tearing. Is it possible Ginny may have been with someone earlier in the evening?”

Gwen saw Cunningham shoot Maggie a look of warning. He obviously hadn’t expected her to ask the question. But now Maggie was no longer paying attention. Instead, she focused on the senator, waiting for his answer. Gwen wanted to smile. Good for you, Maggie. The senator looked flustered. He seemed more willing and comfortable talking about his daughter’s possible rape than he did about her normal sex life.

“I don’t know for sure. Some of her friends might know.”

“It would be helpful for us to find out,” Maggie continued, despite Cunningham fidgeting at the end of the table.

“You can’t possibly believe some boyfriend of hers did this to her, can you?” Senator Brier leaned forward, a hand twisting into a fist, crumpling a piece of paper. “That’s absolutely absurd.”

“No, we don’t believe that. Not at all, sir,” Cunningham said, jumping in. “That’s not what Agent O’Dell meant.” He looked at Maggie, and Gwen recognized the scowl that barely transformed his always stoic face. “Is it, Agent O’Dell?”

“No, of course not.” Maggie appeared calm and unflustered, and Gwen was relieved. “What I meant was that we will need to determine whether or not Virginia did, in fact, have consensual sex that evening. Otherwise the semen could be important evidence in finding her murderer.”

The senator finally nodded, then he sat back an inch, maybe two. Gwen imagined this was his style on the Senate floor, too, always ready, never relaxed.

“On that same note, Senator Brier,” Cunningham said, pushing up his glasses and planting his elbows on the table, “I have to ask you, is there anyone you know of who would want to hurt you or your daughter?”

The senator flinched, stunned by the question. He rubbed at his temple as if warding off a headache. When he finally spoke there was an unmistakable quiver. “So you
are
saying this wasn’t random? That it may have been someone Ginny knew?”

Chairs creaked with the shifting of uncomfortable bodies. Nervous fingers rustled papers. Without knowing much about the case, even Gwen realized that, whether it was a crazed boyfriend or not, no one around the table believed Virginia Brier had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. No one, that is, except for Senator Brier, who either believed it had been random, or wanted badly to convince himself that it had been. Gwen watched the man wring his hands as he waited for Cunningham to tell him the obvious.

“We don’t know anything for certain, Senator. We need to eliminate all possibilities. And, yes, we’ll need a list of all your daughter’s friends, anyone who may have seen or talked to her Saturday or even Friday.”

There was a muffled knock at the door and a tall, handsome black man came in, apologizing as he went to the senator’s side without waiting for an invitation. He leaned down and whispered something in his boss’s ear, a gesture that appeared familiar and comfortable for both men, despite the audience that waited quietly around the table.

The senator nodded and without looking up at his assistant said, “Thank you, Stephen.” Then he looked across the table to Cunningham while he stood, leaning on the young man’s outstretched arm. “I apologize, Kyle. I must get back to the Capitol. I expect you’ll keep me informed.”

“Of course, Senator. I’ll give you all the details you need to know, as soon as we know them.”

Senator Brier seemed satisfied. Gwen smiled at Cunningham’s choice of words—“all the details you
need
to know.” Cunningham should have been a politician. He was good at this, telling people what they wanted to hear while telling them absolutely nothing at all.

G
wen Patterson hurried up the steps of the Jefferson Building. As usual, she was late. Kyle Cunningham and BSU hadn’t called her in as a consultant on a case for more than a year. She knew this time it was probably only at Maggie’s request. In fact, it had been such a long time since her last visit to Quantico that she almost expected to be strip-searched at the guard hut. But apparently Maggie had seen to it that her credentials had been updated and kept on file. She stopped at the counter to sign in, but before she picked up the pen the young woman sitting at the computer stopped her.

“Dr. Patterson?”

“Yes.”

“Here you are.” The woman handed her a visitor’s badge. “I do still need for you to sign in with your check-in time.”

“Yes, of course.” Gwen signed the sheet as she noticed the badge. It had her name printed on it—Dr. and even Ph.D. at the end—instead of the standard Visitor. Okay, so Maggie was trying hard to make her feel at home. Gwen still wasn’t convinced, though, she’d be much help with the investigation.

That Cunningham had even agreed to Maggie’s request for Gwen to be a part of the case meant he was feeling desperate. He usually didn’t call in outsiders. In the early days, yes, but not now, not since the FBI had come under considerable scrutiny. Gwen knew Cunningham well enough to detect a hint of desperation in his voice yesterday when he called. He had asked if she would share her new research and expertise. Her response was that he had some amazing agents in his Behavioral Science Unit, including Maggie, who could tell him just as much, if not more, about the criminal workings of the adolescent male’s mind. She told him she wasn’t sure she could add much to the investigation.

“As an outsider, you might be able to point out things we’re missing,” he countered. “You’ve done that with some of our cases in the past. I’m hoping you’ll be able to work your magic on this one.”

Flattery. Gwen smiled as she clipped on her badge. The man could be charming as hell when he wanted to be. Then she read the words on the badge under her name and immediately frowned: Member, Special Task Force.

Task force.
Gwen hated the term. It reeked with bureaucracy and brought to mind visions of red tape. Already the media had trounced every tidbit of information that had been released on this case, hounding poor Senator Brier from outside his apartment to the Capitol. When Gwen checked her office this morning for messages, her assistant, Amelia, had already received calls from the
Washington Times
and the
Post
wanting to know about Gwen’s involvement. How the hell did they find out these things so quickly? It had been less than twelve hours since Cunningham had even called her.

Supposedly, it was one of the reasons they were meeting at Quantico instead of in the District. The murder of a senator’s daughter—let alone having it occur on federal property—warranted a federal investigation. Yet, it surprised Gwen that Cunningham had been asked to head the task force. Now she wished she had been able to get ahold of Maggie last night. Her friend may have answered some of the questions Cunningham wouldn’t.

“Gwen, you’re here.”

She leaned around the counter to find Maggie coming down the hall. She looked good, dressed in burgundy trousers, matching jacket and a white turtleneck sweater. Only now did Gwen notice that her friend had finally put back on some of the weight she had lost last winter. She looked more her athletically trim but strong self rather than the emaciated waif Albert Stucky had driven her to become.

“Hi, kiddo,” Gwen said while she managed a one-armed hug, her briefcase and umbrella occupying her other arm.

She knew Maggie only tolerated the gesture, but this morning she felt the younger woman hugging her back. As Maggie pulled away, Gwen kept a hand on her shoulder, keeping Maggie from escaping too quickly. The hand moved to Maggie’s face, gently lifting her chin for a closer inspection. Maggie put up with this, too, even managing a smile while Gwen examined the red lines in Maggie’s eyes and the puffiness underneath that was concealed with makeup to fool those who were less adept at reading this intensely personal and private woman.

“Are you okay? You look like you didn’t get much sleep.”

This time she casually shifted away from Gwen’s touch. “I’m fine.” There went the eyes—someplace, anyplace, as long as they could no longer be scrutinized.

“You didn’t return my call last night,” Gwen said, treating it like no big deal and trying to keep the concern from her voice.

“Harvey and I didn’t get back from our run until late.”

“Jesus! Maggie, I wish you wouldn’t go out running that late at night.”

“It’s not like I was alone.” She started back down the hall. “Come on, Cunningham’s waiting.

“I figured as much. I can feel him frowning at me through the walls.”

As they walked, Gwen found herself absently patting at her hair, which felt in place, and smoothing her skirt, which began the day without a single wrinkle, but after an hour-long drive…She caught Maggie watching her.

“You look sensational as always,” Maggie told her.

“Hey, it’s not every day I meet a United States senator.”

“Oh, right,” Maggie said with just enough sarcasm for Gwen to smile.

Of course, Maggie wouldn’t let her get away with a comment like that. Gwen’s past and present clients included enough embassy, White House and congressional members to start her own political caucus. Okay, so her friend was not getting enough sleep. Probably still upset about her fallen colleague—a certain amount of depression could develop from such a circumstance. But that Maggie was feeling up to some repartee was a good sign. Maybe Gwen had been worried for no reason.

Two blue-polo-shirt academy recruits held a set of doors open for them. Gwen smiled and thanked them. Maggie only nodded. They started down one of the walkways. Gwen knew they had a long way to go. What would it hurt to make another attempt at finding out if Maggie was, indeed, okay?

“How did breakfast go with your mom yesterday?”

“Fine.”

Too short, too easy. This was it. She knew it.

“It was fine? Really?”

“We didn’t actually have breakfast.”

A group of law enforcement officers in green polo shirts and khakis moved to the side of the walkway and let the two women pass. Used to living in the hustle and bustle of the District, Gwen always felt the treatment she received at Quantico was over the top on the polite-and-courteous Richter scale. Maggie waited for her at the next door before they started down another hallway.

“Let me guess,” Gwen continued as though there had been no interruption, “she didn’t show up.”

“No, she showed up. Boy, did she show up. But I had to leave early. For this case, as a matter of fact.”

Gwen felt that annoying maternal instinct begin to stir—the one that only reared its ugly head when she was feeling protective of her friend. She didn’t dare ask the question for fear she’d get the answer she expected. She asked, anyway. “What do you mean, boy, did she show up? She wasn’t drunk, was she?”

“Can we talk about this later?” Maggie said, then greeted a couple of official-looking men in suits.

Gwen recognized them as other agents. Yes, this probably wasn’t the best place to air the family laundry. They turned a corner and approached another walkway, this one empty. Gwen took advantage of it.

“Yes, we can talk later. But just tell me now what you meant, okay?”

“Jesus! Did anyone ever tell you you’re a pain in the ass?”

“Of course, but you must admit, it’s one of my more endearing qualities.”

She could see Maggie smile, though she kept her attention and her eyes ahead and safely away from Gwen’s.

“She wants us to have Thanksgiving together.”

It was the last thing Gwen expected. When the silence lasted too long, she felt Maggie glance over at her.

“That was sort of my response, too,” Maggie said with another smile.

“Well, you’ve been saying for some time now that she’s trying to change.”

“Yes, her friends and her clothes and her hair. Reverend Everett seems to have helped her change quite a few things in her life, many of them for the better. But no matter what she does, she can’t change history.”

They got to the end of the walkway, and Maggie pointed to the last door on their right. “We’re here.”

Gwen wished they had more time. If she wasn’t eternally late, maybe they would have. As they entered the conference room, the man at the end of the table stood, though it took effort and he leaned on a walking cane. His gesture prompted the other men around the table to stand, as well; Agent Tully, Keith Ganza, whom Gwen recognized as the head of the FBI crime lab, and Assistant Director Cunningham. Detective Julia Racine shifted impatiently in her chair. Maggie ignored her colleagues’ clumsy attempt at courtesy and walked ahead, directly to the senator, her hand outstretched to him.

“Senator Brier, I’m Special Agent Maggie O’Dell and this is Dr. Gwen Patterson. Please excuse us for being late.”

“That’s quite all right”

He shook both their hands with a brisk but bone-crushing strength, as if making up for his disabled left leg. It had been the result of a car accident, Gwen remembered, not a war injury as the media seemed quick to point out during the last election.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Senator,” Gwen said and immediately saw him flinch, uncomfortable with the rise of emotion her simple condolence seemed to spark.

“Thank you,” he said quietly in a tone that suddenly lacked the control and strength that his greeting had projected.

Other than the dark circles under his eyes, Senator Brier looked impeccable, dressed in an expensive navy suit, crisp white shirt and purple silk tie with an initialed gold tie bar. Hoping to put him back at ease, Gwen noticed four initials—WWJD—instead of the traditional three engraved there.

“That’s a lovely tie bar,” she said. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are the initials?”

He looked down as if needing a reminder. “Oh, no, I don’t mind at all. It was a gift from my assistant. He said it’s supposed to help me make important decisions. I’m not much of a spiritual man, but he is, and well, it was a gift.”

“And the initials?” Gwen insisted, despite Cunningham’s frown of impatience.

“I believe it’s the acronym for What Would Jesus Do.”

“Let’s get started,” Cunningham announced, waving them to their places before there could be any more wasted chitchat.

Gwen took a seat close to the senator and noticed that Maggie walked clear around the table, taking a seat next to Keith Ganza and avoiding the empty one next to Racine. However, in doing so, she now sat directly across from the detective. Racine smiled at her and nodded. Maggie looked away. Gwen had forgotten why Maggie disliked the woman so much. She was certain it had something to do with a previous case they had worked together, but there was something else. Something more. What was it? She studied Racine, trying to remember. The detective was a little younger than Maggie. Maybe in her middle or late twenties, fairly young for a detective.

“Senator, I know I speak for all of us when I say I’m sorry for your loss,” Cunningham said, interrupting Gwen’s thoughts and bringing her back to the group in front of her.

“I appreciate that, Kyle. I know having me here is out of the ordinary. I don’t want to get in the way, but I want to be involved.” He pulled at the cuffs of his shirt and leaned his arms on the table. A nervous gesture of a man trying to keep himself together. “I need to be involved.”

Cunningham nodded, began opening file folders and distributing handouts across the table to each of them. “This is what we know so far.”

Before looking at the papers, Gwen knew this would be a watered-down version of the real story. She would need to wait until later to be filled in on the details, which only made her fidget in her chair. She hated not being prepared and wondered why Cunningham hadn’t scheduled a later meeting with the senator, after the task force had had time to discuss the case. Or didn’t he have a choice? Already Gwen could feel there was something about this case that didn’t fit neatly into any of the regular rules and procedures. She glanced at Cunningham and found herself wondering if he really was in charge of this case.

Gwen flipped through the pages and with only a glance began picking out the ambiguous terms, the safe posts that specified approximate time and cause of death, giving information without giving details. Whatever clearance or special permission Senator Brier may have gotten from Director Mueller himself, Gwen knew he would be spared the real facts. Yes, Cunningham would do his best to dilute the gruesome details, no matter who might be calling the shots. And Gwen didn’t blame him. Senator or not, no father should hear about the frightening and brutal last minutes of his daughter’s life.

“There is one thing I need to ask up front.” The senator stopped riffling through the papers, but did not look up. “Was she…was she raped?”

Gwen watched all the men’s faces, their eyes avoiding the senator’s. This was something that fascinated her about men who were close to a victim, whether it be husband, father or son. Their loved one could have been beaten and stabbed beyond recognition, tortured, mutilated and brutally murdered, but somehow none of that was as awful to them as the mere thought that she may have been raped, that she may have been violated in a way incomprehensible to them.