Side Effects: An FBI Psychological Thriller (3 page)

“Come again?”

“Bastard dug a grave out in the middle of the woods. We think the kids interrupted him and he took off before he could finish burying the guy.”

I processed this. “Some things don’t add up.”

“Go.”

“Well, how about why bury him? He didn’t go to such lengths with his other victims.”

“My guess is he didn’t want this one found.”

“Maybe. But to haul a dead body into the woods, plop him down and start digging a hole? Hardly a time management guru, this guy.”

“He could’ve had the hole dug beforehand. Plus you’re assuming the guy was already dead when he took him out there.”

“Why wouldn’t I? Is he gonna drag a writhing body through the woods? Risky.”

“You’re forgetting the gag. If he was already dead, there’d be no need for a gag.”

True.

Morris started eyeing up the bar. “That and time of death. Wasn’t too far off from when the kids found him.”

I rolled my eyes, annoyed. “You could have just said, jackass.”

I saw the flash of a smirk. This was the old Morris—driving me nuts and loving it. I felt sad the smirk was so fleeting.

I said: “All right, so let’s say he drags the guy—
alive
—out to his grave in the woods. The guy’s bound and gagged. The hole is already dug; the shovel is already there.”

“Okay…”

“He’s getting ready to do…something, but the kids come along and ruin whatever it is. So he’s forced to bash the guy in the head quickly and take off, no typical caveman job, no chance to do whatever the hell he does to their right palms.”

Morris took his eyes off the bar, started playing. “He’s angry, frustrated now. He didn’t get to fulfill his fantasy.”

“And what
is
his fantasy? What was he planning to do to this guy that is similar to all the others? Was he planning to bury him alive?”

“He never bothered to bury the others. And alive? Pretty damn macabre.”

“Yeah, that would be mean.”

He grunted at my sarcasm.

I added: “Hell, my own brother used to cocoon me in a quilt and then stuff me in the closet because he knew I was claustrophobic.”

“Charming brother.”

“He was the nicest of the three.”

“So, is that why you’re such a big bad federal agent girl? Trying to fit in while growing up in such a patriarchal family? Please daddy and all that?”

“I can’t believe they let you lecture psych at the academy.”

“What was mom like?”

I hesitated before settling on: “Compliant.”

Morris could tell his ribbing had inadvertently struck a nerve. He went quiet for a moment and started eyeing up the bar again.

“No trophies,” I eventually said, eager to move on.

“None that we can tell.”

“So we’ve got six now. All men. All Caucasian?”

Morris let out a dejected chuckle. “Of course not. Fourth was a black guy from Maryland.”

I continued as though this news wasn’t the deterrent it was. “All men, no ethnic prejudice, and no age prejudice; you mentioned one was a college kid and one was an accountant in his sixties, right?”

He nodded.

“That alone could be significant,” I said.

“Tell me.”

“Well, he’s not going for easy ones, is he? College kid? Accountant? Hardly pros and drifters. What about the black guy from Maryland?”

“Software sales. Married with two kids.”

“And the other three?”

“They were not pros and drifters.”

I started to theorize a different picture, a picture I knew Morris would refuse: perhaps this was not serial murder we were dealing with after all. Maybe the motives were more financial or vengeful than hedonistic, the victims more assigned than chosen or opportunistic. Who’s to say college boy’s tuition wasn’t going up his nose? His tuition eventually runs out, but by then he’s already run up too big a tab on the wrong people.

Who’s to say the sixty-something accountant didn’t spend his off-season clutching a bookie’s ankle, begging for one more week to make good until they’d finally had enough?

And the software family man from Maryland. Perhaps his wife found out he wasn’t quite the family man he was pretending to be. Perhaps her rage at his infidelity saw her placing retribution into the hands of a professional.

And what, Maggie, the dealer, the bookie, and the scorned wife just happened to hire the same hitman? A guy who cuffed his targets behind the back before bashing their heads into goo? Left a crude hallmark on their right palms?

No. Ridiculous odds. Besides, a professional would never be so messy. True professionals are ghosts, at home and in bed before their victims hit the floor.

I then considered a visionary motive. A psychotic who believes he is doing something like God’s work perhaps. The victims were all demons in his eyes or some other crazy shit only he could understand.

Maybe.

Or maybe Morris’ gut—full of scotch as it was—had intended on extending its winning streak. He was tired, his SAC (Special Agent in Charge) was catching a lot of shit on this one (which, of course meant Morris was catching a lot of shit on this one), but a better agent in this field I didn’t know. If Morris had even the tiniest inkling that this was something other than serial murder we wouldn’t be here discussing it.

I sipped my chardonnay. “I’m just a consultant here, Tim.
Your
consultant. Hush, hush and all that for now if you want. It’s obvious you’re working up to something, so out with it.”

He stayed fixed on the bar.

I sighed, pushed back my chair and stood. “I’ll get you another.”

“No,” he said, eyes clicking back on me. It was then I realized that his constant gaze on the bar was entirely coincidental; his mind had been churning, plotting our first move. “Let’s head upstate and have a look at that grave.”

Hal turned the page but stopped reading. Someone was watching him; he was sure of it. Years of living on the street had given him the forewarning of a feral cat. He set the magazine aside and instinctively clutched the canvas backpack that held his life.

Hal scanned the alley. He saw no one at first—and that was the point for his being there really. It was nearly four o’clock and the alley emptied around this time; competition at the soup kitchen could be fierce the moment the doors opened for supper. Hal had chosen to stay behind today, wanted to read his People magazine in peace. Most of the guys he shared the alley with were young punks, disrespectful pigs—he knew what they’d do with the magazine and Jennifer Aniston’s pretty picture if they got hold of it. And for a moment, Hal thought that’s what this was all about; the feeling of being watched was someone keen to grab his magazine. After all, nobody looked at the homeless for more than a blink—except other homeless.

Hal quickly shoved the magazine into his bag and stood. He fixed his stare on the west end of the empty alley that led out into the street. “Who’s there?”

A silver Toyota Camry rolled into view. The window came down and revealed the face of a smiling, clean cut white man.

Lost
, Hal instantly thought. The only white boys around here were white boys like Hal—and this guy was not a white boy like Hal.

Someone from the soup kitchen maybe? Letting him know that if he waited much longer they wouldn’t be able to guarantee him a meal? No. They liked Hal at the kitchen, but they wouldn’t go to such lengths.

Cop? No. This guy was too wholesome looking, his smile too trusting.

That left lost or crazy. Hal wanted no parts of either.

“Evening,” the man said, still smiling.

Hal only nodded.

“I’m a little lost…” The man looked out his passenger window then back at Hal with a chuckle. “Actually,
a lot
lost.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Hal said. “Sun won’t be up much longer. You should leave now, mister.”

The man chuckled again. “Well, how can I leave if I don’t know where I am?”

“Not my problem.” Hal turned to leave.

“
Wait
. Money and a hot meal if you help me get out of here. Even a warm bed if you want.”

Hal turned back to the man. “I’m not into no rough trade, mister.”

The man held up a hand. “Whoa, you misunderstand, my friend. I’m not looking for anything like that. All I need is someone to get me outta here—I feel like I’ve been going in circles. I was just offering compensation if you helped me. I’ll pay you whatever you think’s fair.” The man’s smile finally left for a more appropriate look of anxiety.

“I’ll give you directions, mister, but I ain’t getting in your car.”

“I’ve already gotten directions—
three times
. You can see how good they did me. What I need is someone to
show
me.”

“Sorry, mister.” Hal turned to leave again.

“
Please
.”

Hal stopped, sighed, then turned back around. He pegged the man as a typical suburbanite who’d wandered too far from his picket fence. If he left a guy like that to continue driving around aimlessly in this part of town it would only be a matter of time until he was a statistic.

The man was offering a hot meal. Since Hal had chosen solitude over a good spot in line at the soup kitchen tonight, it was a damn tempting offer. Hal could get him to hit up a drive-thru and buy him half a dozen—heck, a
dozen
—burgers. Enough to last him the week. The man also said he’d pay whatever Hal wanted. That was nice. Cash was always nice.

Still, so many crazies around these days, so many perverts, suburbanite or not. In fact, it seemed like all the real crazies Hal read about were creepy white guys
from
the burbs.

“How much money we talking?” Hal asked.

The man quickly dug into his pocket and produced a thick wad of bills. “You can have it all. Just get me the heck out of here, please.”

Hal gaped at the wad as though it were Jennifer Aniston herself. Even if the wad contained all ones, it was more than Hal would see in months.

A dozen burgers and a pocket full of cash. If he didn’t take it, someone else would. And then a voice in his head, both genuine and with a selfish need for justification:
And that someone else just might kill the poor fool.

“I get all of that?” Hal asked.

“All of it.”

“Dinner too?”

“Absolutely.”

“You try and mess with me, it’ll be the last thing your lily-white ass ever does, mister.”

The man shook his head adamantly. “No, no, never—never.”

Hal nodded. “All right then, mister.”

The man started smiling again.

One of two officers on the scene left his partner and approached us. He was holding a notebook and a thick folder in his left hand. “You the guys who called ahead?”

“Agent Morris.” Morris shook his hand then paused for a second as he thought how to address me. “This is Maggie Allen…she’s a consultant on the case.”

“Detective Sill.” He finished with Morris and then took my hand. “You guys mind signing in?”

Morris and I both said no at the same time, then took turns signing our names in Detective Sill’s notebook. Sill thanked us, then handed the thick folder he’d been holding over to Morris. “Here’s the file.”

Morris smiled politely. “Thank you.”

Detective Sill flicked his chin back towards the other detective. “We were about to go grab a bite. You need anything before we go?”

Morris held up a hand. “I think we’re good, thanks.”

“We shouldn’t be long.”

“Take your time…” Morris scanned the full perimeter of the crime scene and gave an admiring little nod Detective Sill couldn’t miss. “Looks like you guys could
use
a break.”

“Got that right,” Detective Sill said. “Nice to meet you both. Let us know if you find anything, right?”

“Absolutely.”

Detective Sill rejoined the second detective. The two of them spoke in a huddle for a minute, the second detective shooting me, not Morris, a quick glance as he listened to Detective Sill.

When they were gone I asked Morris: “Your lips feeling chapped?”

“There’s a difference between kissing ass and greasing the wheels.”

“Since when do we have to grease local wheels?”

“You gonna make me come up with a whole rusty cog in the machine analogy? The days of federal and local being all tight-lipped to one another are pretty much over, but it still happens, you know that. I’d rather go in chummy. If they insist on being assholes and pocketing leads in order to get the collar,
then
we throw our weight around. That okay with you?”

“You see the way that other detective looked at me?”

“Probably has a thing for annoying redheads.”

“Or maybe they’re wondering just what the hell constitutes a consultant for this kind of thing.”

“Better I tell them you’re an agent currently on bereavement? I’m sure that wouldn’t cause a stir at their next briefing.”

“‘
Looks like you guys could
use
a break
’,” I mocked.

Morris shook his head and looked down into the grave. I bit back a smirk and looked down too. It felt good to be out in the field. Maybe it was the drug kicking in, or maybe it was because I was keeping my head busy, not allowing it to sit in bed for days at a time ruminating about Christopher, feeling as though I might literally succumb to heartache.

Morris glanced over at me as I was looking down. Dusk was still a good twenty or so minutes away, so I imagine he was using the light to get a good read on my face, a blended gaze of both professional and personal curiosity; he’d seen me take the drug on the drive here, and I think he was now studying me to see if and how I was going to pull a sudden Houdini out of my butt.