Sweet Dreams Boxed Set (118 page)

“Agent O’Dell?” He looked up this time

Only then did she realize she hadn’t yet come into the room yet. Her mind kept trying to think of what she had done wrong to deserve this summons? Usually everyone left her alone in her cramped windowless office. Cunningham tossed files on her overloaded desk on a regular basis. Otherwise there was a conference room meeting once every week. But if he wanted to reprimand her he’d do it in private…in his office.

“You can sit,” he told her.

Now that she had made it to the front of his desk he pointed to the lone chair.

“I’ll be just a minute.” And his head went back down.

She sat. Hard back chair. Hard seat. He didn’t want his guests to be comfortable nor did he want them to stay long.

This close she caught a glimpse at the open file folder on the corner of the desk’s pristine mahogany surface. Her name was up at the top. Her file.

This couldn’t be good.

He was scribbling again on the notepad. Blue ink, not black. Notes filled the margins. Block printing used for emphasis. Crazy the things she noticed. She wanted to shake her head. Not everything needed to be analyzed. Maybe her husband, Greg was right. Her professional life was starting to consume her private life.

This morning she couldn’t order eggs for breakfast without wondering if there was a correlation to the type of people and the way they liked their eggs prepared. Were hardboiled people more disciplined, for instance? It took fifteen to twenty minutes, after all to boil an egg. Did the preference for sunny-side up suggest a more flexible personality? What about scrambled?

“Agent O’Dell?”

“Yes, sir.”

She sat up straight. Stopped short of flinching and giving away the fact that her mind had wandered. But Cunningham still caught it. She could see it in his eyes as he studied her, now giving her his full attention.

“I don’t think I ever asked you where you’re from.”

“From?”

“Where did you grow up?”

It wasn’t at all the question she expected and she waited a beat too long as if waiting for the real question.

“I was born in Green Bay, Wisconsin.” That detail would be in her file, and she stopped her eyes from darting to the corner of his desk and the open file. She didn’t add the fact that she’d only lived there until she was twelve. That was the year her world fell apart. Her mother moved them to Richmond, Virginia, leaving behind all their friends, neighbors and family along with Maggie’s childhood.

“Your father’s deceased.”

Another question – not really a question but he was waiting for an answer. Again, she didn’t see it coming. Why was he doing this?

“That’s correct.”

This wasn’t a subject she wanted to discuss.

“How did he die?”

“He was a firefighter. He died in the line of duty when I was twelve.”

Maggie held his eyes as if daring him to ask more. She loved her father. No, she adored him. And she missed him every single day. How many times did she catch herself wondering what he would think about something? Wondering what he’d say. If he’d be proud of her. She still wore the medallion he had given her. She could feel the chain around her neck, tucked inside her blouse, the small medal pressed against her chest.

Thankfully Cunningham’s eyes released hers as he looked over at the file folder and picked up the top sheet, giving it only a glance.

“Pre-med, masters in behavioral psychology, forensic fellowship here at Quantico, now special agent…All very impressive. And you’ve been very successful in using the skills you’ve acquired.”

For almost two years now Maggie had been helping to solve murders from across the country. But she had been doing it without leaving her cramped, windowless office in the bowels of Quantico. Law enforcement officers sent her whatever they had – Polaroids, evidence bags of trace, written reports and autopsy findings.

“Tell me what you see,” Cunningham would ask her. “Tell me who did this.”

Time after time she’d been able to supply investigators things about the killer. What type of job he had, the model of car he drove, whether he lived close to the crime scene, or even how old he might be. She’d like to believe it was statistics and logic, but maybe some of it was dumb luck. It certainly wasn’t magic, but Maggie knew that’s what some of her colleagues called it behind her back. She guessed it was better they called it magic than voodoo. Whatever it was, she had garnered a reputation.

Profiling a murderer was as much a process of elimination as it was a fact finding mission. Motive, opportunity, signature – all pieces of the puzzle. Cunningham kept bringing her the cases, one test after another. As the head of the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico he had been her teacher, her mentor since she arrived as a forensic fellow.

Now as she sat across the desk from him she realized there wasn’t a reprimand. He was getting ready to present her with another test.

“It’s not just about skills,” he said. “You have something special, Agent O’Dell. Perhaps it has absolutely nothing to do with your background, your childhood or the fact that you lost your heroic father --” He waved his hand over the file folder like it didn’t matter.

Then he leaned forward, elbows rested on the desktop, fingers tented. He held her eyes again. “You have a talent for seeing things that others miss. Details that appear insignificant at first. Somehow you’re able to know things about people…about killers. While all that is, indeed, a skill, a talent – whatever you want to call it – while it all seems like a good thing…I want you to know there often times is a price to pay for climbing inside an evil man’s head.”

She stayed quiet, not breaking eye contact, trying to take in his message. Still the good student wanting to learn.

Until Maggie was twelve her father made sure she went to Catholic school and mass every Sunday. She remembered catechism lessons about evil. When her father gave her the medallion he told her it would “help protect her from evil.” It all seemed like part of the mythical realms of religion, like heaven and hell. You had to believe in heaven in order to believe in hell. Wasn’t that the same thing about evil? She didn’t wear the medallion because she actually believed it would protect her. She wore it simply because it was precious gift from her father.

And now, she was surprised to hear Cunningham use the word “evil” as if it were a term from one of the textbooks he’d co-written on criminal behavior. But before she had time to response he announced the reason she was here – why she had been summoned in the first place.

“I think you’re ready for a real crime scene.”

Chapter 3

Warren County, Virginia

“I’ve never seen so much blood,” Sheriff Geller warned them. “It’s like a slaughterhouse in there.”

Maggie knew he was referring to the double-wide trailer that sat in the middle of the acreage.

“Smells like one, too,” he added.

Hard to believe. From outside Maggie thought the property looked like picturesque rural Virginia. A forest lined one side of the long driveway. Tall pine trees grew so close it was impossible to see between them except for splashes of red and orange leaves. Less than a hundred feet away she could see a riverbank and the shimmer of rolling water.

Quiet and tranquil – the type of place people go to escape.

“Your deputies didn’t touch anything?” Cunningham asked.

Geller shook his head. “We didn’t go in. Saw enough from the doorway.”

From the look on his face he wouldn’t be joining them.

Maggie tried to take in everything. Mental notes. The yard had two well-maintained berms with mums still in bloom and several ceramic gnomes. A cobbled-stone path led to the front door. In the back she caught a glimpse of bed sheets hung from a clothesline, flapping in the breeze. From somewhere she could hear a windchime’s soft delicate tinkle. Someone had made this place a home. And now it was a crime scene with yellow tape stretched from tree to tree all the way to the poles of the clothesline.

The sheriff and his deputy – introduced only as Wilson – had parked a safe distance away as they waited for A.D. Cunningham and his three agents. Turner and Delaney were veterans. They didn’t flinch at Geller’s warning. They’d probably seen worse. Maggie had seen dozens of bloody crime scenes as well. But they had all been virtual, viewed from photographs or – if she was lucky – videotape. This crime scent – this one would be her first real one.

Of course, it didn’t take long for her to understand there were benefits to her virtual crime scenes.

The first thing she noticed was the smell. Then the heat.

Agent Delaney opened the trailer’s door and the wave of hot foul air hit them all. No amount of training could have prepared Maggie for this. She fought her gag reflex. She didn’t want the men to notice. Didn’t want to remind them this was her first scene.

“Whoa! Son of a bitch.” It was Delaney who complained.

When he took a step backward and delayed their entrance Maggie tried to refocus, grateful for his hesitation and the opportunity to suck in a few more breaths of fresh air.

She could do this. She had to be able to do this.

She felt Cunningham tap her on the shoulder. Immediately she thought he was prodding her forward, ready to observe her initial response. But when she glanced back his hand stayed outstretched. It took her a few seconds to realize he was handing her shoe covers, latex gloves and a small jar of Vicks Vapo Rub.

She took the covers and gloves but started to wave off the Vicks. The last thing she wanted was special treatment, but then she got a whiff and saw the greasy ointment smudged on his upper lip. Turner already had some, too, and out of the corner of her eye Maggie could see Delaney waiting for his turn.

When Delaney opened the front door to the trailer a second time, the smear of menthol under her nose made no difference.

Chapter 4

At first glance it looked as though every surface had been splattered with blood. The walls were a Jackson Pollack masterpiece of horror, spaghetti streaks that crisscrossed in layers. One of the victims hung from the ceiling. Electrical cord tied his feet and hands. Although his body was now bloated Maggie knew it was his blood on the walls. It didn’t take a blood spatter expert to speculate that his throat had been slashed after he was hung upside down.

“Looks like he fought for a while,” Turner said what the rest of them were thinking.

She had to look away and that’s when she noticed the bloody prints on the carpet.

“Someone was barefooted.”

All of them looked up at the man’s feet, corded together at the ceiling and still laced up in tennis shoes. Turner took off down the narrow hallway to the back of the trailer, careful where he stepped. Maggie could hear him opening doors.

She tried to concentrate. She needed to look at this no differently than she would look at the photos she received of other crime scenes.

Focus
, she told herself.

But the smell was overwhelming. Like suffocating inside a Dumpster filled with rotting meat. It didn’t help matters that she couldn’t shake an annoying buzz from inside her head. And the heat – she was burning up.

“Feels like he cranked up the furnace,” Cunningham said.

So it wasn’t just her. Little relief came with that revelation.

“Heat accelerates decomp,” Maggie told them, all the while fighting the acid backing up from her stomach.

“And speeds up the work of our little friends.” Delaney pointed at the mass of black, a stain on the victim’s T-shirt.

She thought it was dried blood, a possible stab wound to the abdomen. But now she saw movement.

Maggots! She hated maggots.

She swallowed bile. Tried to breathe.

Stupid gag reflex.

Yes, there were many advantages to observing a crime scene from photographs and video.

Concentrate. Focus.

Then she realized the buzzing wasn’t in her head.

Flies. There had to be hundreds although she couldn’t see them. They had finished here and were working in the next room. A mass of them swarmed what looked like dinner left on the kitchen table. One plate was black with flies. So was the melted puddles surrounding it.

“Victim number two is in the bedroom,” Turner announced from down the hall. “Female.”

Cunningham shot at glance a Maggie. If he was worried about protecting her sensibilities it was a little late.

“Throat’s slashed. Clothes haven’t been pulled down or off. Her hands are tied in front. And she still has her shoes on.”

“Electrical cord?” Maggie asked.

Turner looked back into the bedroom then said, “Yah, looks like it. What are you thinking?”

Maggie pointed to a capsized lamp. It’s cord had been cut. “He didn’t bring rope or ties. He used what was already here.”

Turner nodded.

“The killer wasn’t organized. He didn’t come prepared,” she said.

“Or is he cocky enough that he knows he could kill them without much preparation?” Cunningham asked.

“So are the bloody footprints his?” Turner asked. “Could we be that lucky?”

“If they are, he’s a small guy,” Cunningham said.

“Charlie Manson’s only five foot two,” she told them as she tried to follow the smeared bloody steps.

“Come on now,” Turner said, sliding the words into his jive on purpose. “Don’t it freak you guys out that she can come up with crap like that so casually?”

Maggie had worked with Preston Turner and Richard Delaney before. Turner was the charming one – linebacker frame that stopped the bad guys but a wide smile for the ladies and a knack of being the life of any party. Delaney was the quintessential Southern gentleman, crazy about his wife and two kids. His idea of relaxing was to loosen up his tie – not take off, of course. Just loosen it.

“No forced entry.” Delaney was examining the doorjamb. “I didn’t see any broken windows. Chances are they let him in.”

The bloody steps seemed to start at the upside down body. They backed up, they turned around in small smeared circles then headed in the other direction.