Midnight Fear (2 page)

T
he cell phone woke him, a Justin Timberlake ring tone one of his nieces must have downloaded as a joke. Reid Novak squinted against the morning sunlight angling through the window blinds. He lay on the couch in his apartment in D.C.’s Adams Morgan neighborhood, the television on and turned to CNN. Running his hands over his face, he reached for the phone, desperate to shut off its electronic wail.

“Novak,” he muttered.

“Agent Novak, it’s SAC Johnston—”

Reid sat up, caught off guard by the SAC’s deep baritone. He hadn’t heard it in months, at least not in any official capacity.

“Sorry to be calling so early. I realize you’re still on medical leave for another three weeks. How are you feeling, Agent?”

He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I’m fine.”

“Good. We’ve been keeping up with your recovery at
the Bureau. If you’re up to it, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you. I need your professional analysis.”

Reid picked up his wristwatch, which rested on a stack of
Sports Illustrated
magazines. He looked at its face—7:32 a.m. “What is it?”

“A homicide investigation. The District police have referred it to us. Agents Tierney and Morehouse are at the scene now,” Johnston said, referring to Reid’s partner and the rookie agent he’d been paired with in his absence.

“What’s the reason for the referral?”

Johnston took a deliberate pause. “There are some notable similarities to the Cahill murders. I thought you should have a look.”

Reid felt his shoulders tense. The Capital Killer investigation had been particularly high profile, which was why the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit had gotten involved. “How similar?”

“I’d like you to get over there.”

He located a pen and notepad. Listening, he jotted down the street address in the city’s Columbia Heights neighborhood where the body had been found.

“You aren’t yet cleared for duty,” Johnston reminded. “I’m authorizing you to go to the scene and determine the threat level. See what stands out to you. I’m sure Agent Tierney will appreciate the assistance.”

“Yes, sir.” The SAC didn’t have to elaborate. He wanted to know if the specifics of the crime scene were merely coincidental, or if it indeed suggested a copycat
looking to emulate Cahill’s work. The only certainty was that it wasn’t Joshua Cahill himself—he was incarcerated, serving a life sentence without any possibility of parole. That fate had come about only after a roster of high-paid attorneys failed to have him declared mentally unable to stand trial. Reid’s own deposition had seen to that. Cahill was psychotic, yes—but he was also highly intelligent and an ordered, methodical killer as opposed to a disordered one. Those facts made him culpable for his crimes.

“Three weeks left on your leave isn’t very long,” Johnston noted. “Have you been to the firing range?”

“Not yet,” Reid admitted. “Soon.”

“See that you do. You’ll have to re-certify on firearms, as well as use of deadly force. No more blurred vision, I hope?”

He felt his face grow hot. “No.”

“That’s excellent news. You’re one of our best profilers.” He sounded sincere. “You’ve been missed by the VCU.”

After the call ended, Reid scrubbed a hand through his dark hair, grown back to its previous thickness after surgery for a benign but critically located glioma some six months earlier. At what point last night had he stumbled out of the bedroom and ended up on the couch? He didn’t often use the prescription sleeping pills Dr. Isrelsen had given him, but last night he’d been particularly restless.

I’m fine now.
The tumor was gone, and so were the
headaches and double vision that had been the first signs of his illness. He was working out at the gym regularly and felt back to his old self. His last two MRI scans were clean. Reid knew he was one of the lucky ones. But the health scare had changed him. For the first time since graduating top of his class at Quantico nine years ago and starting work for the FBI, his life hadn’t revolved around criminal violence. Instead, he’d had more personal problems to deal with, confronted with the very real possibility of his own death or incapacitation. Reid thought it ironic that with the dangers his job entailed, it wasn’t a homicidal maniac but his body’s own rebellion that had nearly killed him.

Without warning, an image of the woman in the abandoned factory—Cahill’s last victim—flashed inside his head in Technicolor clarity. He saw her terrified eyes and the glinting knife Cahill held to her throat. Then the bright spray of blood, the prim white blouse turning red and her body shuddering as she bled out in front of him. Reid’s bullet had been a half-second too late, his hesitation costing Julianne Hunter her life. She had been the wife of an up-and-coming prosecutor in the federal courts, with two small children who were now without a mother. His failure in stopping her death had cut him particularly deep.

His hand traveled over the sofa’s leather as he shook away the brutal recollection. Only to himself, Reid admitted that the one small benefit of his illness had been the temporary distance he’d gained from all that—the victims’ haunting faces, the shocking cruelty he’d been
witness to, his self-recrimination for not stopping the madness sooner.

Sometimes he wasn’t completely sure he wanted to go back there.

The row houses were being converted into condos in a newly revitalized area of Columbia Heights, an urban neighborhood just a few miles from the White House. Although the area still had a reputation for gang activity and drug-related crimes, it was slowly giving way to gentrification, evidenced by the smattering of upscale coffee shops and restaurants.

Reid pulled his Ford Explorer next to a semicircle of police cruisers blocking the end of the street.
Just like riding a bicycle,
he thought with a slow release of breath as he opened the door and climbed from the SUV. He pulled his shield from the pocket of his leather jacket and flashed it at the uniforms congregated outside the last unit. Then he ducked under the crisscrossed crime scene tape, went up the short flight of stairs that led to the stoop and entered the building.

Inside, the hardwood floors were battered and gang symbols had been spray-painted on dingy walls. A rickety staircase missing sections of its banister snaked up to the second floor. Just inside the front door, a barrel-chested cop with silver hair and a guard-dog expression stood sentry.

“What do you know, a fibby in jeans,” he mused, examining Reid’s shield. “Thought you boys had a dress code.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

He shrugged. “This 187’s getting its share of Fed attention. There’s two of your kind already back there.”

“Were you the first responder?”

The cop grunted in acknowledgment. “Carpenters arrived early this morning to start construction—this is the only building that isn’t pre-sold. They found the body and called 911.”

“You took their statement?”

“Tried to. So did the Ward One detectives. The workmen are Hispanic—big surprise—‘no speaky English,’” he said in a mimicked accent. “They’re still in the kitchen if you want to give it a go.”

He looked Reid over with a quizzical expression, his bushy eyebrows lifting. “You headed up that serial murder case a couple of years ago, right? The Capital Killer? Senator’s son turned Ted Bundy? I recognize you from the TV.”

Reid didn’t reply, instead heading down the dreary, windowless hallway. As he neared the back room, he heard Mitch Tierney’s booming voice.

“Hey, Reid. Johnston said he was sending you out here.”

His partner stood in what appeared to have once been a dining room, directing a forensics photographer on a series of shots being taken of a bloody footprint. Mitch was dressed in a navy suit that made his coarse, sandy hair stand out in contrast. He stepped forward and clapped Reid’s back with a large, latex-gloved hand. “You should’ve told him you were still on vacation.”

“Medical leave.”

“Whatever.” Mitch gave a goading grin. “Want to meet your replacement?”

“
Temporary
replacement,” agent Jimmy Morehouse emphasized, shaking hands with Reid. Blond and fresh-faced, he looked to be straight out of the academy. “SAC Johnston says I’m being reassigned once you’re ready for duty. You can have your old partner back.”

“You don’t want him?”

“Like you’d let me go,” Mitch wisecracked. “Novak and me are like Batman and Robin. Giving me up would be tantamount to losing his superpowers.”

He introduced Reid to the two D.C. homicide detectives also on the scene. Then, sending Morehouse in search of the crime scene log, Mitch grumbled privately. “Seriously? Johnston thinks I can’t handle this on my own? I worked the Cahill case right beside you.”

“I know,” Reid agreed.

“He forgets because the cameras preferred your pretty face over my Irish mug.”

“I think he just wants to ease me back into the job.”

“Or maybe he thinks I can’t walk and chew gum at the same time.” Mitch blew out a breath, his hand disappearing into his nape as he rubbed his muscular neck. “You know what? Forget it. My massive ego aside, it’s good to see you, Reid. I’m getting tired of wiping rookie ass. Morehouse can barely holster his gun. I keep threatening to take his bullets away from him.”

He punched Reid’s arm. “You look good. A hell of a lot better than when you were lying in the hospital
six months ago. And Johnston’s right about one thing. I’m going to need some
adult
assistance. Especially if we’re dealing with what I think we are.”

Dread knotted Reid’s gut. “Where’s the body?”

“Basement. You’re not going to like this.”

Reid waited in somber silence as Forensics finished its job, bagging the corpse’s hands so it could be moved to the M.E.’s office without disturbing evidence that might have been captured under the fingernails or in the hands clenched with rigor mortis. The basement was the secondary crime scene; lividity and the relative absence of blood indicated the body had been dumped there postmortem. The fetid odor of death permeated the space, causing Morehouse to excuse himself and escape back up the stairwell as soon as he could think of a reason.

“Forensics estimates she’s been dead twenty-four to twenty-eight hours.” Crossing his arms over his chest, Mitch leaned against the cinder block wall. “So what do you think? You’re the crack profiler—Johnston wants your opinion. Do we have a copycat on our hands?”

Reid’s gaze traveled again over the victim. Bruising was evident on the wrists and ankles, indicating that she’d been bound during the torture evident on her nude body. While the blackened ligature marks around the neck revealed strangulation, knife incisions were visible on the breasts, abdomen and thighs.

“There’re similarities,” he acknowledged quietly. “The use of restraints and pattern of mutilation.”

“Those are generalities. That’s not an answer.”

Reid looked at Mitch. “I think the pawn is your answer.”

Now in a cellophane evidence Baggie, the Staunton chess piece, a pawn, had been inserted into the mouth of the corpse. To Reid, it simply said
your move,
and its very presence made him feel as if a razor blade had slid over his nerves. Joshua Cahill had been a rated chess master.

“Anyone checked on Cahill at Springdale recently?” he asked.

“I called there an hour ago. Snug as a bug in a maximum security cell.”

Kneeling next to the corpse, Reid examined the small, circular marks on the pale skin of the right forearm. Joshua Cahill had claimed in testimony that his birth mother had burned him with cigarettes as a child, before he’d been remanded into foster care. It was an act he had repeated on his victims. “Sexual penetration?”

“Preliminary forensics suggests it. We’ll know post-autopsy. There might be DNA.”

“No condom? That wouldn’t match Cahill’s MO.”

“No,” Mitch conceded.

Reid studied the woman’s face. She had been attractive, that much he could tell despite the ravages of death. Her long hair was blond and well maintained. She might have been in her early to mid-thirties. Her bare feet appeared to have had a recent pedicure, her toenails painted with a tasteful neutral polish. She belonged to somebody, Reid thought, a mix of anger and
helplessness tightening his throat. They always did. There was a roommate, a husband, a mother, children somewhere—she hadn’t come home to. He tamped down his emotions.

“How did the unsub get the body inside?”

“There’s a service door in back,” Mitch said. “The direction of the footprints indicates it was the entrance point. The perp likely carried or dragged the body to the basement. Blood smears on the floor indicate the latter.”

“And no one saw anything?”

“Uniforms are conducting a door-to-door, but so far, nothing. This last unit’s been undisturbed for months.”

A dreadlocked member of the M.E.’s office interrupted them, asking if his team could start the process for removing the body. Reid left Mitch to attend to matters and went back up the stairs, feeling the need for daylight and fresh air.

A solarium was positioned to the right of the stairwell, although its windows had been boarded to discourage vagrants. Reid walked to the room’s far corner, the aged linoleum creaking under his feet. Cool autumn air seeped through a crack in the plywood covering the windows. Through the two-inch vertical slit he glimpsed a burst of bright yellow, a sugar maple in the house’s side yard. Morning sunlight worked its way through the crack, causing something to glint on the worn flooring. He bent to retrieve it.

“What’s that?” Mitch asked, entering the room.

“A horseshoe.”

“What?”

“A charm.” Using his gloved hand, Reid carefully picked up the U-shaped pendant by its edges. It was white gold or platinum, with a small diamond embedded in its arch.
Tiffany & Co
. was engraved on its back in small print.

“Was the victim wearing any jewelry? A charm bracelet?”

Mitch shook his head. “He probably dragged the vic through here on the way to the basement. The charm got torn off whatever he ended up taking as a souvenir. That or the Mexicans pocketed it before calling 911.”