Authors: Cody McFadyen
16
“WHY DON’T THEY EVER REPLACE OUR CARPETS?” ALAN
grouses as we head down the hallway to our offices.
“Because no one is allowed up here that the Bureau is trying to impress,” I reply.
Callie and I had run into Alan on the elevator.
“If that’s true,” she says, “then the carpets can stay. I prefer them to the media.”
The truth is, there’s nothing much wrong with the carpeting. It’s a thin tight weave, built for heavy traffic, a little worn but more than serviceable. But we’d had to pass through reception on the way to the elevators, and Alan had noticed they were replacing the marble backdrop behind the large reception desk for the second time in five years.
“Be fair, Alan,” I say. “The last time they had to fix the lobby was because of us.”
Two years ago a man burst into reception and lobbed a few grenades. He followed this up with automatic-weapons fire before making his escape. He had been connected to a man that we were hunting, so it was kind of our fault.
“Yeah, yeah. But look.” He points to a small stain with a hint of outrage. “New marble down there, but I have to see that stain every time I walk to my office for the last four years. It’s not right.”
“I didn’t know you were such a priss,” Callie teases.
We take the final left to get to our offices, known within the building as “Death Central.”
The current title for my position is NCAVC coordinator. NCAVC stands for the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. It’s headquartered in DC. Each Bureau office has a person in charge of NCAVC activities for that geographical area. Death’s representative, so to speak. In Podunk that might be a single agent who also carries numerous other responsibilities. Here in Los Angeles we rate a full-time coordinator-in-charge—me—and a multi-agent team. I guess serial killers are like the rest of us: they enjoy the sunny California climate.
“Speaking of not being let up here,” Alan remarks.
Kirby is standing outside the door to the offices, twirling a lock of blonde hair around a finger. Her eyes light up as she sees us.
“Hey, guys! How’s it going? How was it out East? Too cold for this girl, I can tell you that. I need to know I can have beer on the beach when I want it, you know? Anyway, I have to confer with Callie-babe about some wedding stuff.”
This is how Kirby talks, like a runaway freight train without a care in the world.
“How’d you get up here, anyway?” Alan asks.
“Hey, I have my ways, remember?” She winks at him and makes to give him a friendly punch, but he puts up a hand in protest. “Don’t need another bruise there, Kirby.”
She’s only five-seven but her “playful punch” apparently packs a wallop. She grins at him.
“Don’t be a wuss. But okay, because your wife makes a heck of a cupcake. I had a few yesterday and—”
“What?!” Callie cries.
“Relax, Callie-babe, they were just the test run. I didn’t down any of the chosen ones.”
“Hm,” Callie says. “And stop calling me that.”
She’s wasting her breath. Kirby will call her that and “Red Sonja” and whatever else she feels like. She’s just not afraid of Callie. Or anyone else, for that matter.
“Hey, sorry about the cake guy.” She rolls her eyes. “Who knew that an accidental flash of my weapon would make him so jittery?”
“Accidental, huh?” Alan asks. The disbelief in his voice is stark and mirrors my own.
“Hey,” she says, reproachful, “I’m not a barbarian.” She smiles till she dimples. “I just know how to hold a negotiating position.”
He smirks. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
Kirby’s fist shoots out and lands a pretty good one on Alan’s biceps. He winces and rubs it as he glowers at her.
“Men are such babies.” She turns her attention to Callie. “So the reason I’m here. The tailor wanted to charge us an extra five hundred dollars because of the color changes on the bridesmaid dresses. I told him that just didn’t seem fair, but he wasn’t budging, so then I told him I would really appreciate it if he’d learn some better manners, and you know what? He agreed.” She smiles like a child who’s just handed you an A+ report card.
“Just like that?” Callie asks.
“Well, no, that’s the abridged version, but I think the details of diplomacy are pretty boring, don’t you? As long as no one’s killing each other or going to jail, mission accomplished, I always say.”
Callie decides to let it go. “What else?”
“The florist is cute. I mean super cute. I’ve been curling his toes for the last few nights—and he’s been curling mine too, let me tell you. Anyway, point is—he’s giving us a deeper discount now. I don’t want to brag or anything, but”—she bumps her hip into mine—“I’m pretty sure it’s because of the deep discount I’ve been giving him.” She giggles, almost girlish. “Deep discount. Get it?”
Alan groans. I shake my head and smile. Callie takes it in stride; the pragmatism of a bride to be.
“Slut it up if it will save me another few hundred dollars,” she chirps. “Anything else?”
“Nope.”
“Thanks for the update. Keep me apprised, please.”
“Yep.” She turns away and heads back down the hall.
“Oh, and, Kirby?” Callie calls after her. “Keep the gun out of sight for any expense under a thousand dollars.”
“You got it, Callie-babe.”
Alan shakes his head. “Doesn’t it bother you that she’s fucking your florist for a discount?”
Callie reaches up and pats him on the cheek. “Alan. Flowers are expensive.”
“NICE OF EVERYONE TO SHOW
up.”
James is glaring at us all in disapproval.
“Don’t get your pink panties in a twist,” Callie replies, breezing past him. “I got as much sleep as you did. Besides, it’s Smoky’s fault.”
“And?” he challenges Alan. “What’s your excuse?”
“Same answer as always: none of your business.”
“I imagine the AD is going to be calling soon,” I say, interrupting this friendly chatter, “so let’s have a meeting in five minutes.”
James glowers, but shuts up. I head to my office.
Death Central is really just two big rooms. The largest is a wide open space where James, Callie, and Alan have their desks. I rate a small office with a door. The arrangements are spartan but functional.
I sit down in my chair and dial Bonnie’s cell phone number.
“Hi, Smoky!”
Bonnie’s voice gives me the lift I had searched for last night in work and a tequila bottle. She sounds so happy to hear from me, her pleasure is so genuine and unconditional. Men can come and go, but your child is forever.
“Hi, honey. How are you?”
“Pretty good. Elaina and I are about to start my math lesson. Bo-ring.”
“Hey, no dissing the three R’s.”
I can almost hear her eyes rolling at my attempt to speak the lingo. Dissing, indeed.
“Are you going to come and get me today? I want to see you. Besides, we’re supposed to try that steak recipe thingie.”
Bonnie and I made a pact a few months ago. We agreed that the microwave, while wondrous, was a limited tool when it comes to food. We decided we would take a night a week—it didn’t matter which one—and try to actually cook something. I purchased a bunch of cookbooks and we’ve had a good time filling the house with smoke and the smell of burning meat. We’ve even managed to create something edible a few times.
“I’ll get the steaks before I come and pick you up, sweetheart.”
“Cool.”
“Back to math, honey. I’ll see you this evening.”
A noisy sigh. I am heartened by it, as I am by any sign of normal behavior in Bonnie. When she’s an official teen and starts to talk back to me, I’ll probably rejoice.
“Okay. ’Bye.”
I consider giving Tommy a quick call, but decide against it. I want to talk to him just a little too much right now.
I leave my office and head into the main room. We have a large dry-erase board that we use when we’re brainstorming. I uncap a marker while the others look on.
“First let’s go over what we know,” I say. “We know we have two victims: Lisa Reid and Rosemary Sonnenfeld.” I write their names on the board. “We know that they are in different geographical areas.”
“Means he travels,” Alan says. “Question is, why?”
James nods. “Right. Does he travel because he likes to spread his destruction over a wide area, or because he followed his victims there?”
“I think it’s the latter,” I say. I tell them about my theory, the sin collector.
“Creepy,” Callie offers. “But interesting.”
“Strip away the non-commonalities,” I say. “One was a woman, one was a man transitioning into a woman. Lisa Reid was the daughter of a wealthy, connected family, while Rosemary was an ex-prostitute ex-drug addict. Rosemary was a blonde, Lisa was a brunette. The only things they had in common were manner of death, and, perhaps, things from their past.”
“Explain that again?” James asks.
“Lisa’s diary. She mentions some big secret, is about to reveal what it was, and then the pages are torn out. He leaves his little message. We already know that Rosemary led a questionable life before her conversion.”
“You’re saying the only thing they have in common is that they were sinners?” Alan asks.
“Well, that narrows the victim pool,” Callie mutters.
“What about forensics?”
“I have bupkes at the moment. We have a bag of trace we vacuumed up from the plane. We have the bloody cushions, but I imagine all the blood will turn out to be Lisa’s. We have smudges but no prints from the armrests. Perhaps the trace will show something, but…”
“Probably not,” I say. “He’s older and he’s practiced. I don’t see him making stupid mistakes.”
“I’m going to have the cross analyzed,” she continues. “Metallurgy is virtually untraceable, but it is our most direct connection to the perp.”
She’s right. The cross is his symbol. It’s important to him. When we touch it, we are touching him.
“Good. What else?”
“You know,” James muses, “going with the religious motivation—which I agree with, for now—there’s another ‘known’ that’s very significant. The manner of death.”
“Stuck in the side,” Alan offers.
“Stuck in the right side,” James corrects. “From a religious perspective, that’s relevant.”
I stare at him in sudden understanding. I wonder why I hadn’t thought of it myself.
“The lance, Longinus,” I say.
“Very good,” James replies.
“Sorry,” Callie says, “but you’ve lost me. Can you explain it for the heathens in the room?”
“Longinus was the Roman soldier who pierced Christ’s side with a lance to make sure he was dead,” James explains.
“‘But one of the soldiers pierced his side with a lance, and immediately there came out blood and water,’” Alan intones.
I look at him and raise an eyebrow.
He grins. “Sunday school, Baptist-style. My friends and I liked Revelation and the story of the crucifixion the best. Dramatic and bloody.”
“Kind of missing the deeper meaning,” I say.
“I was ten. Sue me.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” James continues, impatient. “The point is, it’s generally agreed that Longinus pierced the right side of Christ with the lance.”
“Just like our victims,” Callie observes.
“The biggest question remains,” he continues. “Why is he killing them?”
“Easy,” Alan offers. “Because they’re sinners.”
James shakes his head. “But they’re not if they confessed. Which, per the debrief you gave us on your interview with Father Yates, Rosemary did.”
“Whoa,” I say. “Lot of assumptions there. Maybe he just thinks Rosemary was a sinner because she used to be a hooker. Lisa Reid was changing her sex, which I’m pretty sure is a universal abomination.”
“True,” James says, “but that doesn’t fit with his methodology. If he’s outraged by their actions, why is there so little violence? The killings are neat, functional, and symbolic. They lack passion.”
“No torture either,” Callie muses. “It’s almost as if the victims were
necessary
more than anything else. Props in the play.”
The lack of anger continues to resonate. Sex crimes violate the victim; our victims were not violated. Rosemary was posed, but not in a degrading way. The fact of their deaths were more important to him than anything else.
“So,” James says, “different victim types, not sexually motivated, religious theme, what does that tell us?”
“If it’s not about sex,” I muse, “then it’s either about revenge or sending a message. He’s either getting back at someone, or he’s telling us something by killing them.”
“It’s not revenge,” James says. He delivers it as a flat statement of fact.
“I agree,” I say. “There’d be more anger.”
“So what’s he telling us?” Alan asks.
“I don’t know. Something important to him, though. Did anything else come up on the VICAP search for similar crimes, Alan?”
“No.”
Callie whistles. “Wow. We’re nowhere.”
I scowl at her. “Very helpful.”
“I call it as I see it.”
My frustration is not caused by Callie so much as the truth of what she’s saying. And its consequences.
“You know he’s already picked his next victim,” James remarks, reading my mind. “Maybe the one after that.”
I give him a sour look.
“You and Callie should hit the forensic bricks.”
“And us? Or me?” Alan asks.
“I need to fill in AD Jones and do a follow-up call to Rosario Reid. After that you and I are going back to see Father Yates. I want to interview anyone and everyone that knew Rosemary and had anything to do with her in the last few years.”
He gives an approving nod. “Good detective finds his own leads.”
“That old chestnut,” Callie says with faux scorn. “You two have fun. Damien and I are going to the lab.”
“Stop calling me that, you drug addict,” James says.
It’s hard to tell with James. Is he poking fun at Callie? Or really trying to skewer her?
Callie takes it in stride.
“Touché, Priscilla. Now get those ruby slippers in gear and let’s go to work.”
They head out the door insulting each other.
“He seems to be adjusting to Callie harassing him about being gay,” Alan observes.