Blood of Dawn (17 page)
Authors: Tami Dane
“That was easy enough to do. Aren’t we lucky?” I partially joked. “Your car was torched, thanks to some faulty wiring and a heavy rainstorm, and today it’s mine.”
“Maybe someone’s trying to tell us we need to start using public transit.”
“Like that’s possible. I put on almost five hundred miles last week, driving back and forth to Quantico.” I sighed. “On the bright side, with my folks away on their honeymoon, at least I have access to a car while I’m waiting for the insurance claim to be paid.”
“At least there’s that.” JT steered me back toward his vehicle. “How about we head over to the PBAU first? Before all of this, I think you had some information about the case?”
“Sure. We can work for a while. That’ll take my mind off this.”
An hour later, I wasn’t in my cubby, talking to JT about Mr. Hollerbach and his thing for teenage girls, like I’d expected to be. Instead, I was sitting in the chief’s office, informing her about the vehicle fire and the incident with Derik Sutton. The chief appeared sympathetic about the fire. The knee-in-the-nuts situation was entirely different.
When I told her, her lips clamped. She didn’t speak for several excruciating seconds. I took her silence as a bad, bad sign.
“Skye, you have every right to defend yourself if you feel threatened. However, you must be extremely cautious about using physical force when you’re working undercover—particularly when you’re dealing with underage minors.”
She kindly didn’t mention the fact that she had ordered me to withdraw from my undercover assignment prior to the incident.
I nodded. “I did think about that, Chief, but this individual has physically assaulted me more than once, and has a history—”
“And you were pulled from the assignment,” she interrupted, her jaw a little tighter.
And there it was.
I had no response. I had been pulled. And I decided to go back, which was in direct opposition to her command. “I take full responsibility for my poor judgment. However, because of my decision, I was able to gain some valuable information about the student in question, as well as a teacher who is rumored to have been in more than one affair with several others—”
“Skye, you disregarded my direct order. As a result, you put yourself in a position where you physically assaulted a minor. If anything comes of the assault—if charges are entered—I’ll be forced to terminate you. And you’ll have forfeited your chance to join our team as a full member. Please”—she leveled a serious look at me—“do not make that mistake again.”
“I’m so sorry. I promise, I won’t.”
“Good. I realize I’ve set a bad example by sending you out into the field, against my superior’s direct orders as well. But that’s ending right now. From this point forward, you’re to be either here or in the company of Thomas or myself during working hours. I screwed up. We were skating on thin ice by having you work the field. I trusted you to make wise decisions and limit your risk.”
Wow, I had really messed up. “But I registered for summer school, myself. Technically, you didn’t send me.”
“True. But—”
“I’d be happy to talk to anyone you want, explain how I decided to go to the school—”
“No, Sloan. That’s okay. It’s better if I handle this situation.”
“I’m sorry, Chief. I hope this doesn’t blow up into something really bad. I thought I was doing what was best for the team. And for the potential victims.”
“I know. Your heart was in the right place, but not your head.” She pointed at my forehead. “You need to think, Skye. Always think. I’m talking to myself here, too. There sometimes is a difference between doing what is best for the team and doing what is best for the victims. If you can’t recognize that line, or decide to cross it, anyway, you’ll eventually do something you’ll regret.”
“Got it. Think first, act second.”
“Yes. Now I’ll need a thorough report of the incident. And I also want a report of any information you’ve gained during the last twenty-four hours.” Her phone rang, and she glanced down at the glowing button. “I hope the risk was worth it, Skye.”
“I’ll get both written up today.”
I headed out of her office, feeling like I’d been thoroughly flogged.
What a mess I’d made. My first instinct was to call Jia and see if she would talk to Derik on my behalf, convince him not to report the incident to anyone. But if that backfired, I’d be in even more trouble.
No. As the chief had clearly stated, I needed to think carefully through every movement I made before I did anything.
I slumped into my chair and stared at my loaner laptop. I flipped the top up and hit the power button, waiting for the hard drive to start spinning.
“You look like your puppy has been stolen.” Sitting in his cubby, JT leaned back in his chair so he could peer into my cubicle.
“I feel like crap.” I was staring at the stupid, slow-as-a-slug computer. I couldn’t face him. I was ashamed, embarrassed.
“Everyone makes mistakes, Skye.”
“But I don’t. Not these kinds of mistakes.”
JT pulled his chair from his cubby and rolled it up next to mine. He sat, then grabbed my armrests, turning me to face him. “Nobody’s perfect.”
“I know. But I’ve always been the good student, the good daughter.”
“And you still are. You just let yourself get carried away. Every agent I’ve ever worked with has made that kind of mistake, at least once in his career. It happens. Especially when a case hits you personally, when you can relate to the victims on some level.”
I dropped my head into my hands. “We weren’t getting anywhere. I didn’t know what else to do. I hope the chief doesn’t get into trouble.”
JT set one hand on my shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up over this. It’ll blow over, and you’ll be back in the field.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t be in the field. Maybe I’m not capable of working a case without getting too emotionally involved?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. It’s too soon to say. Like I told you, we’ve all made the same mistake, me, the chief. Does that mean none of us should be agents? That none of us are cut out to do this job?”
He made a good point.
“I suppose not,” I said on a sigh.
“It’s tough work.”
“That it is.” I finally looked up. There wasn’t any hint of disappointment or condemnation in his eyes. I expected to see at least a little.
“Feel any better?” he asked.
“Not really.”
“Okay, how about if I tell you about the case I screwed up?”
“That probably won’t make me feel better, but you’ve stirred my curiosity.”
He leaned back and rested an ankle on his knee. “Get comfortable. This is going to take a while.”
To make no mistakes is not in the power of man; but from their errors and mistakes the wise and good learn wisdom for the future.
—Plutarch
17
Thursday morning—day number ten of this case—I was sitting in my cubicle alone. Just me. Nobody else. The chief was gone—meetings. Gabe Wagner was gone—with Fischer. JT was gone—interviewing some more students.
It was just me and the phones, which weren’t ringing.
I was bored.
I was lonely.
And for the first time since I started with the PBAU, I felt like a lowly intern. It sucked.
Trying to make good use of my time, I opened a new word-processing document and poised my fingers over the keys. Just as I was about to type the first word, the phone rang.
Hallelujah.
I had never answered a phone so fast. “PBAU, this is Sloan Skye speaking. How may I help you?”
“Hello, my name’s Fran Doonan. I’m calling for Agent Jordan Thomas. I got his card from a neighbor.”
“I’m sorry, he’s out of the office. May I help you?”
“I suppose so. I was told Agent Thomas is investigating the Fitzgerald High murderer. I have a photograph I need to show him. I live next door to Emma Walker. I was taking pictures of my cat, when I caught something on film. I was hoping he—or someone—could come to my home so I could show him the photograph.”
A few days ago, this would have been a simple situation. I would have taken the woman’s address and told her I’d be there within the hour.
Not so, now.
“May I please have your address and phone number, and I’ll try to reach Agent Thomas and give him the message?”
She rattled off the information, and I thanked her for calling. Then I ended the call with a promise to get back to her ASAP. I grabbed my cell phone and called JT.
It rang.
And rang.
And rang.
No answer.
Finally it clicked over to voice mail. I left him a message, giving him all the pertinent details; then I tried the chief.
Her phone rang.
And rang.
And rang.
No answer.
Same with Chad Fischer’s.
It seemed everyone was too busy to answer ringing cell phones.
There was nothing more I could do, though there was plenty I
wanted
to do.
wanted
to do.
Frustrated and annoyed, I went back to my blank word-processing page to write out our sketchy profile as it currently stood:
Gender: Male
Race: Caucasian
Age: Undetermined, though my gut tells me we aren’t dealing with an inexperienced teenager here. This killer has been killing for some time. There are no signs of inexperience or hesitation.
Species: Undetermined, possibly Homo sapiens
MO: Debilitate the victim with an electrical charge strong enough to cause cardiac arrest. Vampirism afterward.
Motivation: Possibly lust driven, deriving pleasure from the torture of the victims. Vampirism afterward for sexual gratification. As perverse as that sounds, there have been many such serial killers throughout history. It isn’t completely out of the scope of possibility.
Using the Internet, I delved deeper into the lust-driven, vampiric serial killer, reading biographies, looking for clues and commonalities that might be helpful. It appeared that a certain percentage of vampiric killers were psychotic—insane. They suffered from delusions and hallucinations.
This did not fit our profile. Psychotic killers left clues; they didn’t hide evidence. They chose their victims at random and used whatever means at hand to make their kill.
And then there was the story of Rod Ferrell, a teenager who had come to believe he was a vampire after becoming addicted to role-playing games. Ferrell had killed two people for the purpose of helping a friend and fellow vampire. Now, that was an interesting case. I could see some parallels there.
Were we dealing with a group of kids playing dangerous games?
As I read the biography, I was sickened by the violence, shocked by the horrific life the boy had led. But I came away with some valuable information, some things to look for.
Sudden lack of interest in school and notable change in behavior.
A heavy interest in role-playing games.
Cutting.
Bizarre behavior and knowledge of occult practices and rituals.
Drug use.
I added those elements to my in-process profile; then I went back to reading. After a while, my back grew achy and my butt numb. I stretched, checked the clock, and decided it was time to make a lunch run. I’d just gathered my keys and wallet when my cell phone rang.
JT.
Finally.
“Hey, Skye, what’s up?”
Finally.
“Hey, Skye, what’s up?”
“Did you listen to your message? I received a call from the neighbor of one of our victims. She said she obtained your card from Emma Walker’s parents. She caught something on film that she felt might be important to our case.”
“Interesting. I’ll head over. How are you doing?”
“I’m bored. But I’ve found some interesting stuff on the Internet about vampiric serial killers. I gathered a list of traits to add to our profile.”
“Excellent. I’m about to pull into the lot. How about you come with me? You can go over that list while we’re driving.”
“I’m ready to go.”
“Good. Meet me downstairs.”
I clicked off and dashed out the door.
It didn’t take me long to update JT on my Internet research. That left the rest of the trip for awkward silence, broken up by bits of uncomfortable small talk. Not since I’d started working with the PBAU had I felt so uncomfortable around JT. By the time we’d reached the Walkers’ street, I was jittery, had a bad case of car claustrophobia—not to mention, a full bladder. After taking a detour to make a pit stop at a local bagel shop for doughnuts, coffee, and a trip to the ladies’ room, I was ready to head over to Fran Doonan’s to see what this photograph thing was all about.
JT slanted his eyes at me when I climbed back into the car with my loot. “I thought you had to use the bathroom.”
“I did. But this place requires you to buy something in order to use the bathroom.”
His lips twitched. “I see.”
I shoved my hand in the bag, producing a custard-filled doughnut. “Want one?”
“Sure.”
We munched on custard-filled, deep-fried dough for the next few minutes, which was just long enough to get back to Fran Doonan’s street. I did a quick mirror check to make sure I didn’t have any crumbs on my chin or custard on my lips and then followed JT up the front walk.
The door swung open after the first knock. Fran Doonan had been waiting for us.
JT extended a hand. “Agent Jordan Thomas.”
The woman grabbed his hand; but instead of shaking it, she hauled him through the door. He tripped over the threshold on his way in. I followed, and the door was slammed shut and locked behind us.
Immediately sirens started shrieking in my head. This lady, who looked the epitome of a middle-class, suburban soccer mom, was either paranoid or terrified for her life.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” the woman said. She sounded like she’d just run a marathon. Her eyes were bugged. Her lips were the shade of milk.
“There was an accident on I-95,” JT said, sending a glance my way.
I motioned to her camera, sitting on the console table. “You said you had a photograph to show us?”
“I do.” The woman lifted the camera, picking up a large white envelope that was sitting under it. Her hands were visibly shaking. “Before I give this to you, I have to assure you it’s one hundred percent real. I had the print blown up so you can see the details better.”
Now I was really curious. “All right.” I extended an arm, but Fran Doonan handed the envelope to JT, instead. Her hands were clasped as she waited for JT to take a look.
His brows rose to the top of his forehead, then scrunched together. Saying nothing, he handed the print to me.
At first, I had no idea what I was looking at. But then, I saw it. It was the form of a bird. This bird was enormous—the height of a man, black, with white on its chest, with legs the deep scarlet color of blood.
“What is it?” the woman asked. “That bird is enormous. At least six feet tall.”
“We can’t say . . . yet.” I handed the picture back to JT.
He pointed at the window next to the bird’s head. “Is this the Walkers’ house?”
“It is.” She grabbed the camera and shoved it into JT’s hands. “There are more shots, but none as clear as that one. I had the shutter set to snap a series of shots a second apart, so you’ll see that there’s a brilliant blue flash, like lightning. Then the . . . bird . . . appears. It stands there for roughly ten seconds before another blue flash happens, and he’s gone. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Thank you. We can take the memory card out, and let you keep the camera—”
“No. Take it. I won’t touch that thing again. I mean, I realize that monster isn’t in there.” She waved her hands. “But I just can’t.”
“All right. Thank you.” JT cradled the camera in his hands and motioned to the door. “We should get going. We’ll give this to our technicians—see what they can make of it. Thank you.”
“Will you tell me what you find?”
“Sure.”
I knew that was a lie. We couldn’t tell her. That was against the bureau’s policy. But I was guessing JT said that so the poor woman might be able to sleep at night.
“Thank you.” Reaching around JT, she unlocked the door and opened it. “I haven’t stepped outside since I saw that picture. A six-foot-tall bird. I still can’t believe it’s possible. If anyone else had shown me that picture, I would’ve told them it was a fake. But the image is there, not just on the print, but on the memory card too. It isn’t fake.”
“We’ll check it out, Mrs. Doonan. Thank you again.” JT stepped outside.
I thanked her too, then followed him out.
The door slammed the minute we’d cleared the doorway.
JT rounded the front of the Doonans’ house. “Before we leave, I’d like to check out the spot where the bird appeared. Let’s see if we can find anything to prove it was really there.”
“Sure.”
We tromped up to the Walkers’ house and knocked. No answer.
JT looked at me. I looked at him. We shrugged, then circled the side of the house. Fortunately, we ran into no obstacles. No fence. No landscaping.
We stopped.
“What is that?” JT asked, staring at the strange mark on the grass. Neither of us had noticed it before.
I had a feeling I knew what it was.
I stepped around him, looking down at the center of the mark, where the grass was brown. Branching out from the central patch, almost like bent spokes on a wheel, were lines that looked like veins, with smaller lines branching off those.
I stooped. “Lightning strike. It looks just like the marks on the girls.”
JT glanced at the Doonans’ house, then back at the Walkers’ home. “What a strange coincidence that there was a lightning strike at the exact same spot Doonan had seen the giant bird.”
“It’s no coincidence. It can’t be.”
I started parting the grass, searching for something—anything—that would lead me to the answers I needed.
I had no doubt we were onto something here: the lightning strike, the man-sized bird, the victims, all showing signs of electrocution, and the burned-out appliances.
“Finally we have a break,” I said.
“What are you talking about? Did you find anything in the grass?”
“No. But, JT, that photo . . . It’s a picture of our unsub. Now all we have to do is profile him.”
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