Don't Look Away (Veronica Sloan) (6 page)

Finally, Johansen looked at the chief of the forensics team, inviting him to give a report. Before the science geek could say a word, however, Ronnie had to clear her throat. She just couldn’t stay quiet. Talking in generalities about site security was one thing. Specifics of the murder were quite another.

“You have something to say, Detective Sloan?” Johansen asked. Behind him, she saw Kilgore leaning forward in his chair, as if he’d stuck his hand up Johansen’s ass and was puppeting him through the conversation.

She kept her tone civil and even. “I was going to suggest that the civilians leave now.”

The construction supervisor, Frank something, nodded his head and leapt to his feet, obviously thrilled to get out of here. The architect looked just as relieved.

“I believe we made it clear that we need everyone’s input,” Johansen said, though he didn’t meet her eyes as he said it.

Okay. So Kilgore was definitely pulling his strings. Johansen wasn’t happy about it, either.

“Perhaps,” she said, “but considering the security clearance issues we will be discussing, don’t you think it’s better to close the loop?”

The security clearance issues--IE: The fact that Leanne was an O.E.P. participant. Something only a few people in this room had high enough clearance to know about.

Kilgore finally deigned to speak. “We won’t be discussing any top secret issues.” He hardened his gaze, staring at her in challenge. “Because there’s nothing to discuss at this point.”

Until the head was found. Check. She had been put firmly back in her place.

Yes, sir, that’s a mighty long one you’ve got there, I’m sure we’re all terribly impressed.

So, track two. “Sir, it’s just good police work to restrict discussions about the evidence to actual investigators,” she insisted, growing more frustrated at his inexplicable obstinacy. What the hell kind of law official was he? Keeping civilians—and potential witnesses—out of the case was Crime Solving 101. She had to wonder whose back he’d scratched to get to so high on the Secret Service’s ladder, because it sure didn’t seem like skill or intelligence had played a part.

“Look, miss,” the senior agent replied, his sneer audible, “the president wants the top people on this site involved in the investigation. Those orders came right from Camp David. Are you going to question the president’s orders?”

That’s when she pegged him. The guy had no imagination, was a goose-stepping, completely by-the-book, couldn’t-think-for-himself bureaucrat. He was apparently incapable of formulating judgments for himself.

“Are you sure he didn’t mean the top law enforcement people, Agent Kilgore?” she asked, wondering if he heard the rest of the sentence, the part she didn’t say:
you jackass
?

Johansen apparently heard it because she saw his head bob up and down in a tiny nod.

Kilgore opened his mouth, apparently about to release a full head of steam, when he was cut off by the only man in the room who could do it.

“I suspect that’s exactly what the president meant, Detective Sloan,” said Phineas Tate. “It’s idiotic to think otherwise.”

Kilgore blinked rapidly. His forehead furrowing, his head dropping, and his shoulders hunched, he looked like a bull lowering its head for a goring. A flush rose from his thick neck through his cheeks as he eventually realized he’d not only been contradicted, but also called an idiot.

“Shall we call the president to confirm?” Tate asked, his voice pleasant as he reached for his phone, acting like he had the commander in chief on speed dial. Ronnie had no idea if it was a bluff, but if so, it was a pretty convincing one. 

Kilgore muttered something to Johansen, then threw himself back in his seat.

“Very well,” said Johansen, “all those not directly involved in the investigation, thanks for your time. Please stay on site for further questioning.”

The civilians got up to leave. Everyone except the guy in the expensive suit, the one who looked like he’d been trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will. The victim’s supervisor, she recalled. Ronnie looked at him and lifted an eyebrow.

“I have top security clearance,” he insisted, settling deeper into his chair. “I’m also the head of the Phoenix Group, and the president himself called me to ask me to help with this investigation in any way I could.”

She frowned, not liking the idea, but Kilgore had apparently had enough. “Mr. Williams is staying,” he barked. His tone bordering on supplicating, he added, “Sorry, Jack.”

“That’s fine,” the executive said, offering Ronnie a weak smile. “Detective Sloan is right to err on the side of caution.”

The compliment didn’t improve her mood. God, this was not going well. She made a mental note to find out how well Kilgore and Williams knew each other. Given that Kilgore was the Special Agent In Charge of the Secret Service contingent on site, and Williams was in charge of the whole damn thing, they probably interacted on a daily basis.
Cozy
.

Outvoted, outgunned, Ronnie nodded and withdrew from the skirmish, knowing she had to pick and choose her battles when it came to megalomaniacs who liked to throw their weight around.

Once the room had been emptied of half its occupants, leaving just those in law enforcement, plus Tate, his son, and the victim’s boss, the chief of the electronic forensics team began to speak. “In evaluating the data from the identification implant in the victim’s arm, plus preliminary findings at the scene, we are able to extrapolate a good deal of information about the crime. The victim’s heart rate accelerated from its standard rate at eight minutes after two o’clock yesterday afternoon.”

Shortly after two o’clock. Just when things were gearing up in a frenzy. What would have made the woman come down to the White House when one of the biggest events of the decade would soon be getting underway further up on the square? And what made her nervous—what made her heart beat faster? Had she ventured down into the basement, realized how dark it was, begun to wonder if she’d been lured there for some ruthless purpose?

“At approximately two-ten, a surge of unidentified energy reverberates through her body.”

“A stun gun,” Ronnie murmured.

The officious little forensics guy, who obviously liked the sound of his own voice, spared her an annoyed glance. “The clenching of her muscular tissue could indicate that type of device.”

Yeah. So could sticking a metal hanger into an electrical socket, but she doubted Leanne had done that.

Zipping her lips, she nodded a conciliatory go-ahead to the expert.

“Her heart rate continues its accelerated rate for several minutes, and her blood pressure surges, then suddenly begins to drop at approximately two-twenty-five.” 

She’s bleeding.

The cutting had begun.

“Her respirations also follow this pattern, short, quick inhalations of oxygen for several minutes, growing more shallow as time progresses.”

Gasping in fear. Until her lungs had begun filling with her own blood?

“The pressure eventually slows to a level barely high enough to sustain life, then the respirations cease. The heart’s final contractions occur at approximately three-twenty with all electrical impulses in the brain ending shortly thereafter.”

Eighty minutes
.

God in heaven. The woman had survived for nearly an hour and a half of the assault, experiencing every second of it. Initial adrenaline had given way to fear, then terror. Pain, then incoherence and finally death.

Closing her eyes briefly, Ronnie let her mind suck in the images, and her experience and imagination fill in the blanks. She could almost see the killer watching intently as he split the woman’s flesh apart with his blade. Had he leaned close enough to feel her terrified breaths fall warm upon his skin? Had he delighted in breathing deeply to inhale the unmistakable scent of her blood as it gushed hot and hard out of her wounds?

Yes. Yes, she believed he had.

He would have begun slowly, wanting to savor his victim’s terror as an appetizer. When he had consumed every morsel of that, he’d have started in on the main course: Her physical pain, with her continuing fear adding spice to the meal. And the post-mortem mutilation had been his dessert.

Opening her eyes, she drew in a deep breath, instinctively certain of one thing. Their suspect had not merely caused this woman’s death, he’d made a banquet of it.

Everyone remained silent, absorbing the details…imagining the implications. Even the smooth, self-assured Philip Tate had grown a little pale during the report.

It was Tate senior who got back to business first. “Well, it appears in this instance that the implanted microchip was of some assistance in establishing the scene for all of us.”

The forensics guy leaned forward and finally showed some genuine emotion. He sure hadn’t spared any for the victim. “It’s brilliant, Dr. Tate. If I may, sir, please allow me to thank you. Your invention has enabled those in my profession to leap light-years ahead in crime scene evaluation.”

Tate didn’t smile, didn’t puff out his chest, he merely nodded once. But a brief flash in his intelligent blue eyes said he was pleased at the compliment.

He deserved it. That tiny little implant Americans had rioted against several years ago had saved a lot of lives by providing on-the-spot vitals and medical records during emergencies. It had also helped solve a lot of cases. Much as Tate’s latest invention, the Optic Evidence device, would do, if this phase of the testing was a success. The inability to jump into the first genuine investigation had to be frustrating Phineas Tate as much as it was Ronnie.

“Doctor Tate, I’m wondering if there is anything else you might be able to do to help us in this investigation if the optic device is not located,” one of the FBI agents said.

Funny how everyone referred to locating the device. Not Leanne Carr’s head.

Glancing around the table, Ronnie noticed a confused expression on the faces of a few of the players. Bailey, the female Secret Service agent and another security dude were scrunching their brows in confusion, the addition of the “optic device” element taking them by surprise.

Kilgore, you jerk. No discussing top secret issues my ass.

“I’m afraid my expertise is scientific. I’m no criminal expert. You fine people are all far more adept at that than I.” He then glanced at Ronnie. “Of course, having worked closely with Detective Sloan during her training, I can say I think that once the device
is
found, this investigation will be in excellent hands.”

A flush of warmth rose in her, like she was some kid who’d been praised by the teacher in front of the class. Probably earned her a few more hate-points from Kilgore and the other higher-ups, but she couldn’t deny she’d appreciated the words of support.

“Yes, but if that doesn’t happen?” Kilgore pressed, apparently wanting to stage another battle in the turf war.

Tate held up a hand and shook his head, his withdrawal from the conversation almost visible, though the man never left his chair. And that was that. No more questions. No more discussion. Ronnie would really like to learn that trick.

The others around the table hesitated for one moment, then began talking, voices raising decibel by decibel as each person strove to be heard above the rest. Kilgore fumed, but Johansen did a pretty good job of keeping a calm, patient expression while the others tried to spout excuses and reasons why they were not at fault for the lapse in security on the site.

What a waste of time. It was just more of the same bureaucratic garbage that had prevented Ronnie from ever even trying to go after a higher-level job with the department.

Absolutely the only thing she found interesting was watching Dr. Phineas Tate. He sat quietly, his hands folded on the table in front of him, his eyes cast downward, lashes half-lowered. He almost looked like he was taking a nap. But she knew better. She’d spent enough time with him during her training to recognize when the man was deep in thought.

One other thing that Ronnie found worth noting was the demeanor of the victim’s supervisor. Williams was obviously successful, well-dressed, well-spoken. Even handsome, in a white-bread, Ivy-league, middle-aged way. But he looked like he was trying to keep a tight reign on his emotions. During the forensic report, she’d seen his hands shake, and now, as the meeting’s velocity grew, he excused himself and left the room, as if wanting to be alone before tears could course from his eyes.

Of course, anyone would feel that way about a co-worker being brutally murdered. Still, being the skeptical person she was, Ronnie had to wonder exactly what their relationship had been like. Especially since he’d been so insistent about staying in the room. 

Daniels obviously noticed, too. Because while he listened just as intently, he was also busy scribbling notes onto the screen of his pocket computer then turning the thing so Ronnie could read them.

“Affair?” one of them read.

She nodded and jotted one back. “Possible. Tho he’s old enuf 2b her father.”

Her partner drew a large dollar sign on the screen.

Yeah. Definitely worth checking into the finances of Mr. Jack Williams, though, to be honest, he was probably attractive enough to catch the eye of a young woman Leanne’s age.