Authors: Allison Brennan
Lucy couldn’t help but look at the wall of fifty-seven fallen agents on the far side of the room. Every FBI office in the country had the same wall—it didn’t matter where the agent served, anyone who died in the line of duty had his or her picture put on the Wall of Heroes in all fifty-six regional FBI offices, Quantico, and FBI national headquarters.
Would Victoria Sheffield be the next agent to grace the wall? It was a sobering thought.
Hart stood in the back while Candela took charge of the meeting. He introduced everyone to Lucy and Noah, including Supervisory Special Agent Marty Strong, who’d been Sheffield’s boss, and Supervisory Special Agent Dale Martinelli, who’d been the liaison with the joint task force that had taken down Paul Swain six years ago.
Candela said, “Based on what Ms. Kincaid told me yesterday, we believe the body she found in the Kelley Mine was Agent Sheffield. I’ve brought you all up to speed with what I know. Ms. Kincaid, have there been new developments since yesterday afternoon?”
Lucy didn’t expect to be put on the spot so quickly. She said, “We learned only a few minutes before we arrived that the deputy we suspected of being on the take was tortured and murdered in his home.”
Her announcement was met with silence, then three people asked questions simultaneously. Candela cut them off.
“Chris, what’s the situation with local law enforcement in St. Lawrence County?” Candela asked one of the other agents.
“Good relations with the Sheriff’s Department,” the agent said. “I spoke with the assistant sheriff this morning because the sheriff is out of town, and he assured me that they would be available to us. This was before they found out about their deputy being killed,” he added with a glance at Lucy.
“How certain are you that he was a bad cop?” Candela asked her.
“Very certain.” Lucy relayed the information they had, including the GPS tracking of his vehicle. She added, “He most likely went back to destroy evidence, but I collected some that I hope helps.”
Lucy took the sealed brown paper bag from her backpack. “Because blow flies have a very specific life cycle that’s impacted severely by the environment, I collected three maggots I found near where the body had been.”
“I think Ms. Kincaid should go back to the beginning,” Marty Strong said. “How certain are you that the body you found was actually dead?”
“I was an assistant forensic pathologist for the D.C. Medical Examiner; I know a dead body when I see one.” She sounded defensive, but she wasn’t expecting to walk into a quasi-hostile environment. She tried to remember that these people were grieving for their colleague. “The next day, when I realized the local cops weren’t taking me seriously, we went down to the mine to photograph the scene.”
“Yet you collected evidence.”
“As I explained, the life cycle—”
“You’re not an agent yet,” Strong said. “What qualifies you in evidence collection?”
Noah rose from his seat, hands on the table. “If you feel the need to inspect Ms. Kincaid’s credentials, talk to me after this meeting. For now, let her get through the facts of the case before you jump down her throat.” He looked around the table before sitting down.
Lucy appreciated the support, but it intimidated her as well. She’d been questioning her decisions the entire flight here.
She told them everything she’d told Candela yesterday. She explained how the body was positioned, why she believed that the body had been naturally frozen in the mine, and how she determined, because of the clothes she wore, that the victim had been killed elsewhere. It took her more than twenty minutes, with only a few questions for clarification.
Everyone was staring at her. She glanced at Noah. He gave her a barely perceptible nod.
“It was the flower that suggested that the killer showed remorse. Someone placed a flower on her chest. I found it on the floor.”
“Now she’s a profiler,” Marty Strong mumbled.
“Actually,” Lucy said clearly before Noah could admonish the agent, “I have a master’s in criminal psychology, and my brother is Dr. Dillon Kincaid, a renowned forensic psychiatrist who consults for the FBI and other agencies. I do appreciate the fact that everyone in this room has far more experience in the field than I do. But one thing I know better than most people is how killers think.”
She walked to the white board and picked up a marker. She was hardly an artist, but she drew the body as best she could. “She was flat on her back. Her arms were crossed like this.” She marked the drawing. “Crossed at the wrists. No one dies naturally that way.” She drew the flower between the victim’s hands.
As Lucy looked at her crude drawing, she had an epiphany. She didn’t know why she hadn’t seen it before, but it was clear now.
“Whoever put her body here felt a deep remorse. Not only did he have a religious upbringing, but he probably considers himself religious. He laid her out as if in a coffin because he couldn’t give her a proper burial. He went to the mine to visit her corpse, to pray and ask forgiveness for his crimes. She was his Snow White, but unlike the fairy tale, true love wouldn’t bring her back.”
Lucy’s skin tingled painfully, as if a million ants were trailing up her body. She could barely stop herself from shaking the imaginary bugs from her skin. She was being watched, and worse, she had lost herself in her analysis, forgetting where she was, forgetting that she was standing in front of her future colleagues. She was the freak show. There was no doubt in her mind that they would find out exactly who she was, if they didn’t already know what happened to her seven years ago.
Normal was so foreign to her she didn’t even know what it meant anymore. All she knew was that it wasn’t her.
She put down the marker and faced the room, even though she wanted to bolt. It was one of the hardest things she’d ever done—to stand there and be stared at.
Noah spoke, and Lucy quietly returned to her seat. He took her hand under the table and squeezed it, then let go. The gesture stunned her, and she didn’t know how to respond.
He’s just giving you a nonverbal pep talk
.
She must have looked terrified for Noah to be so bold.
“Remember,” he said, “besides Agent Sheffield, there was another victim to get out of the mine—the private investigator working the vandalism case was seriously injured when he fell down the mine shaft while pursuing an arsonist. As you all know, the rules of triage demand that we help the living before we deal with the dead.”
Candela nodded. “I’m satisfied at this point, and we have a lot to get through so we can find out who killed Agent Sheffield.” He motioned to the female agent sitting at the computer. “Tara has prepared a detailed list of all Agent Sheffield’s electronic contacts up until her silence on January second.” Papers were passed around. “And Agent Strong is handing out a list of key dates in the investigation.”
Strong avoided looking at Lucy and said, “We now believe that she called her parents under extreme duress. There was no reason for her to cancel her vacation. When I last saw her, she was heading home to pack and catch an early morning flight. However, she never boarded the plane and we haven’t found her car. Her personal car didn’t have GPS installed—it was a 1995 dark blue Nissan Pathfinder.”
Lucy was thankful that the focus had shifted from her and to the papers in front of them. Her stomach was so twisted she was in physical pain. She whispered to Noah, “I’m going to find the ladies’ room.”
He nodded, catching her eye. “You did good,” he mouthed.
She didn’t know why his praise didn’t make her feel better, though she knew he was sincere. She excused herself and stepped out of the room. She leaned against the wall and took a deep breath.
The door opened behind her. She straightened, feeling sheepish to be caught in a state of near panic.
It was the SAC, Elizabeth Hart. She was tall and stately. Not pretty in the traditional sense, but what Lucy thought of as a handsome woman.
“I knew Victoria must have been dead,” Hart said. “But I think they all were holding out hope. You understand this is a shock. Not simply because of where she was found, but because none of us knew what she was doing there. We’ve gone through all her records, emails, notes—she had no contact in Spruce Lake.”
“Maybe it was personal,” Lucy said.
“I saw the photo you brought. She looked happy.”
“I gather she didn’t mention if she was involved with Jon Callahan.”
Hart shook her head. “Why hide it?”
That was a good question, and Lucy didn’t have an answer.
TWENTY-NINE
Sean and Patrick sat in a small, windowless meeting room off the assistant warden’s office at the state prison in Ogdensburg, twenty minutes west of Canton, right on the St. Lawrence River. They’d been reviewing Paul Swain’s prison records for nearly an hour: Sean reading Swain’s file and Patrick scouring the visitor logs.
Swain had been a model prisoner at the beginning; then, after a year, he started getting into fights and spending more time in solitary than not. Authorities had confiscated more than a dozen cell phones over the six years he’d been in the prison, plus four handmade knives. He’d killed a fellow inmate in a prison riot, earning him another twenty years on his twenty-five-to-life sentence. It was only recently, in the last year or so, that he had stopped getting into trouble.
“Look,” Sean said to Patrick, “The first time he got into serious trouble was a week after his wife died.”
“Makes sense. Wanted to be a model prisoner and not lose visitation rights with his family. Abigail visited him twice a week, once alone and once with their son.”
“Did Ricky visit after she died?”
“No, but James Benson did.”
“That could be another reason for Paul acting up—Benson not bringing his son to visit.” Sean thought back to Ricky’s letters from his mom. Sean had only skimmed most of them, but he had the impression Abigail was constantly apologizing for her husband to her son. Had she been trying to fix a bad relationship before she died?
“Benson visited the first Saturday of every month like clockwork,” Patrick said.
“Any other regular visitors?”
“After Abigail Swain died—Reverend Carl Browne visited twice a year, until a year ago last March. That was his last visit.”
“March? That’s when Swain’s behavior took a dramatic turn for the better.”
“He had another visitor in March. A week before Browne.” Patrick paused. “Joe Hendrickson.”
“
Hendrickson
?”
“Stayed for ten minutes.”
Neither Tim nor Adam knew about a connection between their father and Swain. His sudden visitation was of definite interest.
“Who else that month?”
“Other than Benson, no one.” Patrick looked at the months before and after. “Except Jon Callahan. The last week of February, ten days before Hendrickson. Wait—” Patrick flipped through his notes, “Callahan also visited twice during the first year of Swain’s incarceration.”
If Callahan was as involved with Bobbie Swain as Sean thought, what was he doing meeting with Paul Swain? Were the brother and sister back on good terms? Perhaps Callahan was a messenger.
Sean’s phone vibrated. It was a text message from Dillard.
The divers found a body. We just made a positive ID of James Benson
.
“They found Benson’s body,” he told Patrick. He hadn’t known the guy, but he was saddened by the news.
He responded to Dillard.
Don’t forget his cell phone records. I’m particularly interested in the twenty-four hours after the arson fire
.
Dillard sent back:
Got the preliminary report. No effort made to stop, signs that he sped up then turned sharply off the bridge. Possible DWI, accident, or suicide. More later
.
Suicide? Sean hadn’t expected that. “Why would Benson protect Ricky Swain for years, then kill himself when things in town started heating up?”
Patrick didn’t have an answer.
“Anything else on Callahan?” Sean asked.
“He’s visited Swain two more times,” Patrick said. “February, two months later at the end of April, and again just after New Year’s.”
Sean frowned. Those dates seemed important. He pulled out the calendar on his cell phone. He’d already plugged in the important dates in the case. When Joe Hendrickson died, his funeral, when Tim and Adam moved back to Spruce Lake, their town hall meeting about the resort, each vandalism attack. And when Sheffield went missing.
“Let me see that,” Sean said, grabbing the visitor logs. He input Callahan’s recent visits and Hendrickson’s lone visit. “Look. Don’t tell me this is a coincidence.”
Patrick stared at the calendar. “Well, fuck.”
Last year, Callahan spent the full visitor’s hour on a Saturday with Swain ten days before Hendrickson came for his one and only ten-minute visit. Three days later, Browne came for his last visit. The next morning, Joe Hendrickson was found dead of a heart attack.
“Did Swain put a hit on Hendrickson?” Sean wondered out loud.
“Didn’t he die of a heart attack? He was in his sixties, right?”
“Sixty-four. And there was no autopsy. Tim said something about how he’d been under a doctor’s care. If it was the quack who stitched up my leg, I wouldn’t trust him with a Band-Aid.”
Patrick said, “Look here—Callahan came the day after Tim Hendrickson had that town hall meeting, end of last April.”
“When was his last visit? January of this year?”
“January third.” Ten days after Agent Sheffield disappeared. “Sean, you’re going to have to be extra wily with Swain. We’ve got nothing but theories, so the choice is between taking this information and running with it, and attempting to get something more out of him.”
Sean looked closely at the log. “What’s this?” he slid the file back over to Patrick. There was a five-digit number, not a name, on the printout. 19881. “No matter how I slice it, I can’t make a date out of it,” Sean said.
“I have no idea,” Patrick said.
Sean noted the date on the log. December 23. “Do we have phone records, Patrick?”