Drained (2 page)

“Calculating? What the hell does that mean?” I asked.

“What?” Kane asked.

“Nothing. My navigation is doing something I’ve never seen before and also apparently doing whatever it can to get me lost.”

The car behind me honked. I glanced into my rearview mirror and saw the grille of a sedan inches from my rear bumper. I looked down at my speedometer—I’d slowed to forty-five miles an hour. I exited the freeway on the ramp I’d been originally directed toward and pulled to the shoulder of the off-ramp. The guy in the sedan gave me the middle finger as he passed.

“Jerk,” I said.

“Freeway trouble?” Kane asked.

“Huh?”

“Sounded like someone was getting some use out of their horn.”

“Oh, yeah, whatever. Just someone who doesn’t know how to drive,” I said.

“You or the guy honking at you?”

I dismissed the jab. Kane had never been a fan of my motoring skills and always insisted on taking the driving duties when we were out on a case. “Yeah, yeah. So what’s up?” I asked.

“Nothing. Pushing a desk. Staring at spreadsheets,” he said.

“Sounds exciting. Did they find you a lieutenant yet?”

“Soon,” he said. “Jones and Donner both took the test. Plus a couple of guys from different districts. I should know something within a week or so.”

I caught the time on my watch. “Hey, let me give you a buzz tonight or tomorrow to shoot the shit. I’m going to need to run here to try to get to work on time.”

“Yeah, no problem. Whenever you get a minute,” Kane said.

“Tell the gang I said hi,” I said.

“Will do.”

I clicked off and slid my phone back into my pocket. Then I poked my finger at the car’s navigation screen. The Calculating message disappeared, and the screen lit back up with the map.

“Okay, let’s try this again.” I punched in the address for the Manassas, Virginia federal building. The route came up, and the robotic woman’s voice told me it was just two and a half miles away. I shifted the car back into drive and continued on. My new workplace came into view on my right just a couple minutes later. The federal complex consisted of two matching white five-story rectangular buildings separated by a six-story curved central building with a lannon-stone facade. I pulled into the complex and stopped at the guard building. One man, armed with a rifle, stood just outside the small building, and another slid open the building’s window.

“Identification,” the man said from inside the guard shack.

I pulled my credentials from my suit jacket’s inner pocket and handed them to him.

He scanned the bar code on the ID and handed it back. “New, huh?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Well, have a good day, Agent,” he said.

I gave him a nod, watched the guard shack’s security barrier rise, and proceeded to the parking lot. I found a spot, bounced off the parking curb, and killed the motor. Small shrubs and light posts lined the concrete walkway as I headed up the long curved sidewalk to the central building’s main entrance. I pulled open the front door and entered. My feet clacked against the white tile floor. The walls and ceiling were also white, the only color in the room coming from potted trees, more of the same lannon-stone facade carried over from the front of the building, and a blue section of wall with the FBI logo in the center. I made my way to the bank of elevators in the right corner, rode up to floor two, and stepped off. Agents in suits hustled back and forth around the cubicle-filled office. I was standing in the main room of the serial crimes unit. It looked more like a computer tech company or maybe a stock call center. It definitely didn’t resemble law enforcement—maybe it was all the suits instead of patrol uniforms. I headed toward my department, nodding hellos to those I passed. The homicide unit was across the office and through a door near the back. I made my way there, twisted the knob, and walked in. I closed the door behind me.

I looked left to right across the department. Immediately to my left was a large office with the blinds drawn. It belonged to Supervisory Special Agent Art Ball, my superior, who I’d met with the prior Friday. The office was dark. On the right wall were two rooms—the one closer to me was the tech center. That room was filled with computer monitors and desks. I saw no one inside. The second room to the right, where I’d been told the morning meetings would be conducted if necessary, was much larger. I walked toward it and glanced inside. The lights were on, with no one there. Standing bulletin boards filled with photos took up most of the back wall. A large rectangular table ran straight up the center. I rounded the corner to the right. Four agents’ desks, including mine, were lined against the left and right walls of the room. Another office with the door closed and the lights off took up the rear wall.

A single female was sitting and staring at a computer at the far desk on my right. She was gnawing on the end of a pen, but she set the pen down and spun in her chair to face me as I walked toward the empty desk I’d been assigned directly behind her. I showed her a smile. I’d seen the woman as I left the other day but hadn’t been introduced.

“I’m guessing you’re our newest addition?” she asked. “It’s Hank, right?” She stood from her desk and walked to me with her hand outstretched. She was strikingly attractive and looked to be in her late twenties or, at most, thirty. She had an athletic build—at least, it looked athletic from what I could tell. Her hair was a few inches past shoulder length and dark brown. The woman wore a gray pair of slacks and a matching gray blazer over a white top.

I’d been known to hold a stare a bit too long and felt that may have been one of those occasions. I quickly reached out and shook her hand. “Yup. Hank Rawlings. You are?”

“Beth Harper.”

“Nice to meet you, Agent Harper.”

“Just Beth. All of us in here keep it pretty casual.”

“That works for me,” I said.

“You were from Florida, right?” she asked.

“Tampa,” I said.

“And…” She paused in thought. “PD homicide sergeant?”

I nodded. “Seems like you’ve been informed about me.”

“It’s always good to know who you’ll be working with,” she said. “So did you get the position and then move up from Tampa, or…?”

“Well,” I said. “My wife works with the DEA. They transferred her to Arlington. As soon as we found out about the transfer, I started looking up here. Figured I’d try the Bureau before looking into local law enforcement.”

“Ah,” she said. “Well, you must be good. We don’t see a lot of people come straight into the more desirable units from law enforcement.”

“More desirable units?” I asked.

“Yeah, the serial crimes unit and subunits that fall under it are kind of what everyone wants. It took me like three years to get into this unit. Most of the other agents longer. What are your qualifications?” she asked.

I was silent… in thought. I wondered if I’d be resented for being underqualified in the eyes of my peers. The truth was, I had been granted an interview; had received a conditional offer of employment; had gone through all the processing, including polygraphs and medical; and had been offered the spot. I’d been checked and rechecked. The process took over two months. Apparently, those in charge thought I was qualified enough. Her asking about my qualifications was a little off-putting. I pushed the thoughts away and figured I’d do my best to show her I had enough background for the position.

“Well, I’ve been in homicide for a bit over ten years, and as far as college—”

She swatted my shoulder, interrupting me.

“I’m just screwing with you. Relax a bit, Hank. Ball likes his team to be bits and pieces from everywhere. If you’ve made it through everything, I’m sure you’ll be a great addition. I do have a serious question for you, though.”

“Shoot,” I said.

“When you got up this morning and got ready to come in, did you actively try to see how close to the stereotypical FBI-agent look you could get?”

I was quickly getting a better bead on Beth’s personality though I wouldn’t immediately tell her about Karen picking out my clothes for the day. I puffed up my chest and tightened my tie. “How am I doing?”

She smiled. “You’re damn well nailing it: a few inches over six foot, a few pounds under two hundred, early forties, dark hair with a touch of gray, clean shaved. The black suit and tie with a white dress shirt completes the look. You are one hundred percent the standard FBI agent to the T.”

“See, I’m already doing my job,” I said.

She laughed and walked past me. “Come on.”

“Where are we headed?”

“Do you drink coffee?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Let’s go grab one. I’ll show you a couple things around this place before the rest of the team gets here.”

“Sure,” I said.

She headed for the door. I pulled up my jacket sleeve and looked at the time on my watch—a few minutes past eight. “What time does everyone start filing in?” I asked.

She reached out for the doorknob. “About nine or so. No punch clocks in our division. Ball likes us in by nine thirty at the latest and likes us to stay until”—she deepened her voice and did a manly impression of our supervisor—“you can look yourself in the mirror and say, ‘I’ve done my job for the day.’” She chuckled. “Sorry, I don’t know how many times I’ve heard him say that. I usually leave around five. The other agents that show a little later stay a little later.”

“Sounds fine,” I said.

She opened the door and waved over her shoulder for me to follow. “That’s just if we’re cold. If we’re on something hot, well, that’s a different story.”

“I’m assuming cold and hot are in regards to cases?”

“Well, we call them investigations, but yeah, same thing.”

She turned left down a white hallway in the center of the large room filled with cubicles. I followed.

She continued speaking over her shoulder. “
Cold
is something where a new body hasn’t been found in over a year or where we suspect there is an active serial killer that may not be actively killing at the moment.
Hot
being we have active killings and need to be on location.”

“I see,” I said.

She made a right through a doorway. Four long rectangular tables filled the room. Behind the tables were various vending machines and a long counter. The counter was filled with boxes of donuts and bagels. A few dishes of fruit and a row of commercial-looking coffee machines spanned the wall. She headed toward the coffee.

“We go hot about once every other month,” she said.

“That often, huh?” I asked.

“Yup. Did you ever hear the thing that there are like fifty serial killers considered active inside of the United States at any given time?”

“Yeah, that sounds vaguely familiar,” I said.

She grabbed a cardboard coffee cup from the rack and nodded for me to do the same. I did and stuck it into the machine then pulled the lever down to fill the cup from the spout.

“Okay, well, that number is complete bullshit,” she said. “Maybe multiply that by five or ten. The truth is we don’t know for certain and never will. Our job is to do our damnedest to remove as many as we can from the population. Have you worked a serial-killer case before?”

“Multiple in the last year,” I said.

“Just Tampa?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“How long was each case?”

“A week or two, with all suspects in custody or deceased.” I pulled my full cup of coffee from the machine and blew across the top. When I took in a mouthful, the flavor was surprisingly good.

“Spree killers,” she said. “Well, technically, they are still serial killers, but they are a little different breed. Those get to us every now and again, but usually spree killers end up getting caught by local police or local branches of the bureau. When you dump a bunch of bodies in a short period of time in a single area, the odds of getting caught are pretty much a certainty. The cases we get generally have to pass through the local level. Basically, the killers have been active for longer without being found.” She pointed at the donuts and bagels. “Grab something.”

Beth took a seat at the table nearest us.

I patted a pocket in my suit jacket. “The wife sent me out with a couple of power bars.” I pulled one out, unwrapped it, and took a seat across from her. “So, what is the day-to-day like here?” I asked.

Beth sipped her coffee. “I guess you could say we operate like a cold-case division would unless we’re on something.”

I nodded. “How many in our unit?”

“Seven now… and Ball. Jim Robinson handles all of our records, paperwork, travel, warrants, and things of that nature—he’s mostly tied to his desk. Lewis and Marcus are our tech twins. Bill and Scott are field agents, along with you and me. Bill is off on vacation, though. I don’t think he comes back until sometime next week.”

I pulled out my notepad to jot down the names of my coworkers. I figured at least knowing their names would be a decent start at a first-day-of-work impression.

“How many units like us are out there?” I asked.

“You mean serial crime units with the specific homicide tag?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Serial crime units are everywhere,” Beth said. “As far as devoted to strictly homicide, just us and another unit on the west coast.”

We headed back into our unit office. The lights in Ball’s office were still out, but I caught movement inside the tech room. Beth headed for the door, turned the knob, and walked inside. I followed. The room consisted of two cherry-colored desks that took up the better part of both walls on the left and right. With a quick glance, I counted eight monitors per desk. A thin rectangular table with eight chairs ran down the center. The back wall of the room was four larger monitors at different angles, computer towers, and miscellaneous office equipment.

“Lewis, Marcus,” Beth said, “come meet our newest edition.”

The two rolled themselves away from their desks in their office chairs, stood, and walked over. I noticed that on their desks were what looked like matching iced coffees. As the pair approached, I saw why she called them the tech twins. Both looked to be in their midtwenties, both had short blond hair and blue eyes, and both wore dark polo shirts and khaki slacks. They looked as though they should be trying to sell me a television in an electronics store. The one on the right held out his hand toward me.