Authors: Mariah Stewart
“Do what you have to do, buddy,” she replied. “But we do miss you. The new guy isn’t as good as you were. Nor is he as much fun, either.” Miranda paused, then added, “At least, that’s what the other ladies are saying …”
Sam laughed again. “Speaking of the other ladies …”
“Right. Fiona Summers. Will said you might have a problem with her?”
“No, I don’t have a problem. At least, not yet. I’m working my first case for the Foundation, and it appears she’s been making inquiries about it, picked it up from one of the databases. I’m thinking she must have something she thinks could be related, or at least something similar enough for her to have taken notice.”
“So?”
“So I was just wondering how much they say about her is true, that’s all. I figured I’d call you guys, because between the two of you, you’ve worked with just about everyone.”
“Sad but true. Tell me what you’ve heard about Fiona.”
“I heard she always thinks she’s right and that she’s a pain in the ass.”
“Well, the part about her being right most of the time is probably true,” Miranda said. “She has uncanny instincts and is not afraid of following them. And when she thinks she’s right, it’s pretty hard to dissuade her. But does that make her a pain in the ass? I suppose it does, if you’re the type who also believes you’re always right. But, wait … that would mean one of you would be wrong. And when it comes to Fiona, it’s usually the other person who’s off base. I’d say her batting average is unusually high.”
“Will said you’ve worked with her.”
“Many cases over many years. And yes, I do think she’s that good, and no, I didn’t think she was a pain in the ass. But then again, I don’t always think I’m right.”
“That helps.”
“Fiona is a very self-assured woman, Sam. She knows her stuff and she takes her job very, very seriously. It’s probably the most important thing in her life.” She paused, as if thinking. “Actually, I believe it
is
the most important thing in her life.”
“I’d heard that, too.”
“Anything else?”
“That she’s great to look at but has no sense of humor.”
“Not true. Well, she is great to look at, but the humor thing? Definitely not true. She just doesn’t joke around on the job like some of the yahoos do.”
“Are you calling me a yahoo?” Sam pretended to sound wounded.
“Does the shoe fit?”
“I guess sometimes it does.” Sam had to admit to his own share of gallows humor from time to time. “Thanks, Miranda. I appreciate your insights.”
“So when are you going to invite us over to watch the home movies you took while you were on vacation?”
“You’re welcome anytime. Of course, for at least the next six weeks, home for me is going to be in a hotel in a little town in Pennsylvania, but if you feel like making the drive, I’ll provide the entertainment.”
“We’ll see if we can fit in a road trip,” she told him. A moment later, she asked, “Sam, how are you doing?”
“I’m doing a lot better. I think getting away for a while was the right thing to do. Just like I think staying away is probably good for me, too.”
“I understand.” Miranda sighed. “Just know that you can always come back, if you need to. Or want to. Your friends love and miss you. We’re always here for you.”
“You have been, and I thank you. Both of you.” Sam swallowed hard. “All of you.”
“That’s why we have friends, Sam. To be there when we need a little boost. And sooner or later, we all do. Now, do you want Will again, or are you good for now?”
“I’m good, Miranda. Thanks. And thank Will for me.”
“I’ll do that. And don’t be afraid of Fiona.”
“Afraid? Who said anything about being afraid …?”
Sam frowned, about to launch a protest, but Miranda had already hung up.
P
hotographs from three different crime scenes stood on the kitchen counter, propped up against pretty ceramic canisters with a French country theme—all empty. Flour? Fiona Summers had never baked in her life. Coffee? Best as takeout, normally on the fly. Tea? Too reminiscent of genteel ladies seated in comfy chairs before a roaring fire, chatting quietly, or at a table near a window on a snowy day enjoying a book of poems—neither a comfortable fit for Fiona. The canisters had been a housewarming gift from Fiona’s well-meaning sister who obviously failed to take into consideration the living habits of the twelve-year veteran of the FBI.
Fiona leaned her elbow on the counter, her chin resting in her palm, as she studied the photos before reaching forward to place them in order of date.
Photo number one: Ross Walker, age forty-three, construction supervisor from Lincoln, Nebraska. Cause of death: manual strangulation. Numerous postmortem stab wounds to the torso made with a one-and-one-quarter-inch blade. Hamburger from a popular fast food restaurant crammed into his
mouth, the wrapping partially peeled back. Date of death: February 10, 2008. Day of the week: Tuesday. Body found propped against a fence behind Pilgrim’s Place, a soup kitchen/mission. Status of investigation: open.
Photo number two: Joseph Edward Maynard, age twenty-two, student at Purdue, home for the summer in Kendall, Illinois. Cause of death: manual strangulation. Numerous postmortem stab wounds to the torso made with a one-and-one-quarter-inch blade. Nothing inserted into mouth. Date of death: August 15, 2008. Day of the week: Friday. Victim found in makeshift cardboard shelter under a bridge. Status of investigation: open.
Photo number three: Calvin Adams, age sixty-two, homeless from Dutton, Nebraska. Cause of death: manual strangulation. Numerous postmortem stab wounds to the torso made with a one-and-one-quarter-inch blade. Empty water bottle upright in the victim’s mouth. Date of death: February 9, 2009. Day of the week: Monday. Body found on park bench as if sleeping. Status of investigation: open.
There were unmistakable similarities, and yet the victims could not have been more different. Walker was Caucasian, in early middle age, blue collar, married with three kids, pillar of the community type. Adams was a homeless man who’d been on the streets for over fifteen years and had a severe mental disorder exacerbated by his drug usage. Maynard was a blue blood with a trust fund worth many times what Fiona could expect to earn over the course of her employment with the Bureau.
She turned on the small microphone she held in her
left hand to record her thoughts. “Victim selection appears to have been random. All in the Midwest, though. That might mean something. Killer could be from that area, now or at some time in the past. MO is identical. There’s a signature but I’m not sure how to interpret it—victims one and three had something placed in their mouths, though victim two did not. The staging of victim two, on the other hand, appears totally out of sync with the victim’s lifestyle. All victims were posed—I’m sure that means something but it’s lost on me.”
She turned off the recorder for a moment while she tried to think of what might have possibly lured Maynard under the bridge. Drugs? A girl? Unlikely. Maynard had no history of drug use and no drugs had been found in his system. As for girls, Fiona suspected that any girls Joseph Maynard may have been interested in—paid or unpaid—would not have been the type to spend time under a bridge.
“The victims would appear to have little in common other than the manner of their deaths. Oh, and the fact that two of the three—Walker and Maynard—had fought back hard enough to have gouged some skin from their attacker.”
She stopped the recording again and made a note on one of the cards stacked neatly on the counter.
Run MO and DNA profiles through all databases again for possible match and/or possible recent victim
.
“The murders were five to six months apart. Is there significance to the timeline?” she resumed. “The key to these killings appears to be in the props: the burger, the cardboard house that was erected
around Maynard’s corpse, the water bottle. Things brought in from somewhere else presumably by the killer. All three homicides took place in situ.”
She clicked off the microphone. There was no doubt in her mind that there was one killer; that had been confirmed when the DNA profiles of the skin found beneath the victims’ nails had matched. It vexed her to know that she’d been unable to interpret the message the killer was sending and for whom it was intended. She’d seen cases where serial killers had left a trail or message specifically for the police, or the FBI, but in all those cases, the killer had contacted the target agency and let them know he was talking to them. Not so in this case. In all three cases, there’d been no contact with anyone. Maddening.
Fiona took off her glasses and rubbed first her eyes and then her temples. She was bone tired, after having spent the last three days and two sleepless nights in Dutton gathering information on Calvin Adams, but for Fiona, fatigue was welcomed. It was her guarantee of a decent night’s sleep. She was packing up her photos when the phone rang.
“This is Sam DelVecchio,” a deep male voice announced. “I’m trying to get in touch with Fiona Summers.”
“This is Fiona.” She frowned.
“Agent Summers, I used to be with the Bureau, and now—”
“I know who you are.” Didn’t all the single—and some not-so-single—women at the Bureau know who Sam DelVecchio was? And didn’t every one of them know his sad story and long to comfort him? “How did you get this number?”
“From Miranda Cahill.” He paused. “I hope that was all right?”
“I guess it depends on why you’re calling. If you’re going to try to sell me something, then no, it’s not all right,” she said drolly.
“I’m not selling anything.”
Fiona rolled her eyes. Had he really thought she’d been serious?
“I wanted to talk about a case I’m handling for the Mercy Street Foundation.”
“Who?”
“My new employer.”
“Right. I did hear that you had resigned. Weren’t you on a trip or something? Extended vacation?”
“Yeah, but I came back and realized I needed a job.” He explained to her the way the Foundation worked.
When he finished, she said, “So what’s the case you’re handling for them, and what does it have to do with me at”—she glanced at the clock on her oven for the time—“eleven thirty at night.”
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t realize how late it had gotten. I apologize.”
“Accepted.” Fiona stifled a yawn. “So what’s the case?”
“My case involves a homicide in Lincoln, Nebraska, over a year ago. Volunteer at a soup kitchen found behind the building—”
“Ross Walker?” She snapped to attention. “Are you talking about Ross Walker?”
“Yes.”
“Explain to me how that is your case?”
“The victim’s widow requested that the Foundation become involved.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to become uninvolved. This case is part of a federal investigation.”
“Well, now it’s also a private investigation,” he told her.
“I’m sorry, Sam, but you’re going to have to back off.”
“I can’t do that. We have a contract with Lynne Walker.”
Fiona fell silent. “What exactly is the nature of your investigation?”
“Same as any investigation. We’re trying to get to the bottom of Walker’s death.” He cleared his throat, then asked, “This case is obviously connected to others. How many others?”
“What makes you think that there are others?” she asked guardedly.
“Fiona. You just said the case is part of an FBI investigation.
Part
implies one of several making up the
whole
. So what does it hurt to have me working one part?”
“Until I have a handle on this, I don’t want anyone else involved.” She bit her bottom lip. “I prefer to work alone, frankly.”
“Well, we have that much in common.”
When she didn’t respond, Sam’s voice softened. “Come on, Fiona. It’s no skin off your back to be nice to me. Maybe I have some information that might help you with your case.”
“Do you?”
“Not yet, but I will. I’m good at what I do.”
“So am I.”
“So maybe we’ll be even better if we share what we have. What we might have in the future.”
“What exactly do you want?”
“I want to know about the other cases. How many. Where. If the victims fit a profile.”
“I can tell you right now, they do not.” She reached into the envelope where she’d tucked the photos of the three victims and dumped them onto the counter. The lifeless eyes of Ross Walker stared blankly back at her. “As a matter of fact, I was just looking over the three cases, trying to figure out what I’m missing. Why I can’t get a handle on it.”
“Three? All male?”
She hesitated. There really was no good reason to cooperate with a private detective. Then again, this PI had the reputation of being one of the best profilers the Bureau had had, and she could use his insight. Add that to the fact that if he went to John Mancini, his former and her current boss, John would probably side with Sam and tell her to talk to him anyway. Might as well cut out the middleman.
“Three,” she told him. “Different ages, socioeconomics, you name it. They have nothing in common except the manner in which they died.”
“Can I meet you somewhere, Fiona? Can I see your files? Can we talk about this?” Sam sounded excited in a way that she, herself, could relate to. Nothing got her going like the nuts and bolts of a case.
“Where are you?”
“I’m about seventy miles from Philadelphia.”
“I need to be in Philly first thing on Monday on another matter. I was planning on driving up on Sunday. Maybe I could meet you someplace …”
“I can meet you in a restaurant partway between here and Philly, if you like. There’s a diner out on Route 30 …”
“If you’re thinking of looking at these photos—and you are going to want to do that, side by side—you’re going to want to do that in private. These are not pictures you want John Q. Public getting a glance at over his meat loaf and mashed potatoes. Maybe I should meet you at your office.”
“I’m not sure what goes on around here on Sundays. I’ve only been here for a week. Our offices are in Robert Magellan’s house,” he explained.
“You work in Robert Magellan’s house? Is it fabulous? What’s he like?”