The Immortals (9 page)

Quantico, Virginia
November 1
7:00 a.m.

“H
ey, Reever, it's Baldwin. Again. I'm here waiting for you. Where are you, buddy? Don't really want to go into this hearing without you. Call me, okay?”

Baldwin hung up and stashed his phone in his pocket. He should have just defended himself. He was licensed to practice in Virginia, had passed the bar there years ago. He'd gotten his J.D. at George Washington. Of course, that's what led him directly to the FBI, and Garrett Woods. Maybe if he hadn't wanted to be a medical ethicist, he wouldn't be in this situation now.

He could call Taylor. She'd certainly be sympathetic, take his mind off the situation. But she was knee-deep in her own murder investigation. He decided not to bother her. Too many bad memories were going to get dredged up—just having Taylor in his head would sully her.

How did it all end up here? All the years he spent working so hard to protect the innocent, to help his fellow law enforcement officers, to make a name in the FBI, to recover from his own personal trauma…was it all going to be for
naught? Would he be summarily thrown out of his position at the FBI? It would be ironic, considering how reluctant he'd been to return to the unit full-time.

Baldwin began to pace, wondering where in the hell his lawyer was. He looked at his watch. The hearing was supposed to start in less than five minutes, and Reever still hadn't shown. He flipped open his phone to call, again, but heard a flurry in the hallway. Reginald Harold Beauchamp, known as Reever to his friends and clients, came bustling around the corner.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. The third kid barfed on me as I was kissing her goodbye. I had to change, then I got stuck behind a tractor, and then I got waylaid by a train. This has not been my morning. Sorry.”

He skidded to a halt and stuck out his hand.

“How ya doing, Baldwin?”

“Better, now that you're finally here. I thought I was going to have to dust off my license.”

“Ha-ha. Like that would ever happen. I wouldn't desert you in your hour of need.” Reever tugged his arm, pulled him away from the wall. They walked a few steps together, heads bent conspiratorially. Baldwin smelled a variety of odors coming off of his lawyer, baby shit mingled with a subtle splash of cologne, sweat and an underlying note of sour milk. Great. That was going to be fun to sit next to all day.

“I've seen the charges, and it's gonna be fine.”

“So says you. I'm screwed, aren't I?” Baldwin asked.

Reever's brown eyes were full of concern. “Listen, Doc, I promise you, this is all just a formality. There's no real danger to your career. They're going to make you squirm, and make you admit how sorry you are. Probably throw a suspension at you, something temporary. Then we'll all go back to work happy. Okay? In and out, lickety-split.” He snapped his fingers.

“Yeah. Got it,” Baldwin said, not believing a word.
Reever was infamous for his pep talks, but the FBI didn't convene disciplinary hearings for their good health.

Baldwin heard shuffling inside the corridor, and a door opened. A man he didn't recognize said, “We're ready for you, Dr. Baldwin.”

Reever clapped him on the back. “Let's do it.”

He hid an overwhelming sigh, straightened his back and, eyes ahead, marched into the room. His heart was pounding harder than it should.
Stop it, Baldwin. You knew this would come up sooner or later. There's nothing to hide. You didn't do anything wrong. Not completely wrong, at least.

The room they entered was empty, devoid of personality, decorated only with FBI and American flags on golden stands, the oversize FBI seal framing the back wall, and a large picture of the president next to a photograph of the director himself. There was a wooden dais—similar to a small-scale Senate hearing room, all American oak-and-brass fixtures. Three men were waiting for them, their faces stern and forbidding, facing a table with two microphones. A clerk sat to one side, fingers poised over a stenotype machine. Just a subtle reminder that this hearing was on the record—the transcripts would be in his personnel jacket for life.

He got settled at the table, Reever at his side, pulling out pads of paper for them both, pens, basically making a show of it. Baldwin didn't know whether to laugh or scream. Reever was one of the best counsels in the FBI, and a good friend. Baldwin was very happy to have him on his side, helping him through this hearing. The fumbling around was a ploy, something to disarm the men sitting in judgment upon them. They all knew the farce for what it was. After an interminable few minutes, Reever nodded toward the dais.

“We're ready,” he said, his dirty-blond hair falling into his eyes. He shoved it back and grinned.

“At last.” The man at the center of the dais, Supervisory
Special Agent Perry Tucker, motioned to the clerk, who began typing.

“Dr. Baldwin, please raise your right hand. Do you swear that your forthcoming testimony will be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

“Yes, I do.” Baldwin didn't shift, kept his eyes focused straight ahead. The disciplinary procedures at the FBI had been recently scrutinized and revamped to make sure the higher-level executives and the lower-level workers all got a fair shake. Which meant your peers decided your fate, and the executives and SES-level agents were taking it on the nose in an attempt to show how impartial everything was.

All employees of the FBI, agents at every level, were required to serve their time on the disciplinary committee in six-month shifts. Baldwin had sat on the board just last year, and he knew this was far beyond a fact-finding mission. The committee had the power to chastise, censure and otherwise make an agent's life miserable, but it took seriously egregious actions to be stripped. He hadn't done anything that warranted losing his status as an agent, not yet. Not that they knew about, at least.

Regardless, the pallor of suspicion hung expectantly in the room. It was going to be a rough couple of days.

Tucker's chair squeaked in protest as he leaned back and rocked, staring Baldwin down. After a few moments of silence, he leaned forward, steepled his fingers against his chin and looked over his tortoiseshell reading glasses like a principal disappointed with the school quarterback.

“As you are aware, we are here to determine the truth in the matter of
U.S. versus Harold Arlen.
As a result of new information that has come to our attention, there have been allegations of wrongdoing specific to your involvement in this case. The charges filed include falsifying evidence, neglect, and involuntary manslaughter, conduct unbecoming an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and fraternization with a subordinate. The charges have been
leveled by former Special Agent Charlotte Douglas, who is sadly not with us to lay claim to her indictment. Her computer, as you know, has been the source of a great deal of information on the Arlen case. The accusations of misconduct were included in her copious notes.

“The main focus of our hearing today is to determine your culpability in the deaths of Agents Caleb Geroux, Jessamine Sparrow and Olen Butler. According to the files, Agent Douglas made it clear that their deaths were the direct result of your actions during the Arlen case. The panel takes these charges very seriously.”

Baldwin was about to say something, anything, to defend himself, but Reever came to life. “We take these accusations very seriously, as well. We all know what kind of agent Charlotte Douglas was, sir. She was a liar on her best days, and made a mockery of this entire department. We can't trust that anything she claims has any validity. And may I say, for the record, that any charges of wrongdoing against my client are ridiculous. Dr. Baldwin is one of the most decorated agents in the Bureau. His character is above reproach, and we have a multitude of witnesses willing to testify on his behalf.”

Tucker harrumphed, and the other two judges shifted in their chairs. Everyone knew that this was highly unusual. Charlotte Douglas wasn't exactly a trustworthy source. Baldwin felt some semblance of calm steal into him; while Tucker looked hell-bent on his destruction, the other two were obviously uncomfortable. A dead agent didn't make a very good witness, especially when her record was as sullied as Special Agent Douglas's.

“Be that as it may, we have to look at the entire case. Charges of this magnitude cannot go without scrutiny.” He shuffled his papers. “Dr. Baldwin. Since this matter is one of the highest delicacy, I think it would be best for you to start at the beginning, and walk us through the details of the case. Let me caution you—spare nothing. We will know if you're obfuscating. If you'd please start by answering this
question. What exactly was your relationship with Dr. Douglas?”

Baldwin couldn't help himself, his jaw clenched and his fists tightened. Just the mention of Charlotte could do that to him. Lying, conniving bitch that she was, this last echo from the grave was the ultimate slap in the face.

He cleared his throat, and glanced at his notes. Not for the first time, he was glad of his attentiveness to detail.

“We were…close.”

There weren't many shocked faces on the panel—this wasn't the first time two agents had gotten together.

The inquisitor raised an eyebrow, made a note on the sheet in front of him and continued.

“‘Close.' Could you expand on that, please?”

Reever nodded at Baldwin, his head moving almost imperceptibly.

Expand on that. Sure he could. He could give them gritty details all day long, but he wouldn't. Instead, he referred to his notes, straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat.

“It started on June 14, 2004. The day the fifth body was found.”

Nashville, Tennessee
November 1
7:00 a.m.

D
awn had passed and Taylor's stomach was growling viciously before she'd finished taking statements from all the victims' families. She was exhausted, and most of her questions remained unanswered. The facts were straightforward—someone had slipped into the home of each victim and marked their flesh. Each victim had ingested some sort of poison.

The one exception was Brandon Scott.

She and McKenzie were loading up on coffee at the Starbucks on West End. There was no sense in sleeping. Taylor knew Sam was going to be at it bright and early—she had seven autopsies today, and her team had worked through the night. So far the last victim, Brittany Carson, had been holding her own, though she was in a deep coma.

Tim Davis had stayed up all night running tests on the Ecstasy tablets Theo Howell had provided them. Theo's theory was wrong—the drugs he had collected weren't laced. Which meant the victims weren't random, proving Taylor's initial theory.

Preliminary toxicology reports showed a mishmash of chemical components: Ecstasy combined with high doses of PMA, codeine, Ritalin and Valium. Apart, none of the drugs were immediately fatal. Together, the combination was overwhelmingly deadly. There were many more tests to be run, and the results combined with autopsy would help define exactly what effect the drugs had on the children's systems.

Lincoln had been running through video feeds, looking for familiar or repeat faces. He had one, and he was waiting at the CJC for Taylor to look it over.

Marcus and McKenzie had taken statements from every kid at the party, all of whom had been honest and open about the events of the afternoon. They'd had the fear of God put into them, without a doubt. They weren't aware that the pills they had turned over to Theo Howell weren't deadly. As far as they knew, if they hadn't checked their text messages, had turned off their phones, gone to a movie, anything—any little tiny thing—might have sent them to their deaths. Mortality weighed heavily on the young—the entire school was deep in mourning. Worry, relief and extreme pain had caused all of them to come together. Taylor could only hope they'd had their fill of messing around with drugs.

Hillsboro High School was expecting them at 10:00 a.m. to discuss possible suspects among the students. Taylor had talked to the principal at three in the morning—she had grief counselors ready to be unleashed on the school. There was talk of canceling classes on Monday, but Taylor had advised against it. Normalcy was best. Plus, she would be able to walk the halls, talk to some other people, see if they could find out who this kid dealer might be, assuming he really was a Hillsboro student. No one at the party last night knew his real name.

Taylor needed a few minutes to regroup. She drank deeply from her triple-shot latte, hoping for strength from the meager caffeine the espresso beans provided. She probably should have gone with black coffee, but her
stomach wouldn't stand for that. She nibbled on a piece of lemon pound cake, realized she hadn't eaten the evening before. She was suddenly ravenously hungry and ate the rest of the cake in three bites.

McKenzie joined her, crashing in the chair next to hers. He had dark circles under his eyes, his sandy hair in total disarray. She could only imagine what she looked like.

“We've made serious progress, you know that,” McKenzie said.

“I do. Still, we need a quick solve on this. Tell me what else you're thinking about this mysterious drug dealer before we jump back into the fray.”

“Well, I hardly think a fourteen-year-old is running a drug cartel through Nashville. You should put the word out through the Specialized Investigative Unit, see who's selling to him. He's being run by someone on the outside.”

“Three steps ahead of you. I've already called my friend there. Lincoln said the same guy was on video at four of the crime scenes, and at the press conference, lingering in the background. He's trying to match it to people in the databases, sex offenders and the like.”

“I think the sex offender route is a solid one. Whoever's behind the drugs is an adult. Who else would be able to get that quantity and quality of drugs into the school? And we all know how much our friendly neighborhood pedophiles like to peddle drugs to their innocent prey.”

“That expands our suspect pool exponentially, you know that.”

“Yes, I do. Are you ready? Why don't we go take a look at those tapes.”

They gathered up their cups and coats. They'd just reached the parking lot when Taylor's phone rang. The caller ID read Tennessean. A reporter, no doubt. She let it go to voice mail. They got into her Lumina—she'd never made it back to headquarters to retrieve her 4Runner the night before.

She turned right on West End, past the stunning foliage
of Vanderbilt's campus. Fall had come late this year, the colors not reaching their peak until the last week of October. There were still plenty of leaves on the trees, but the reds and golds were starting to be muddled by dead, brown chunks. Soon it would be time to hire one of the neighborhood boys to collect and bag leaves, get their lawn ready for winter. My God, had she really just had that thought? Eight victims, all kids, and she was worried about the grass. Something was wrong with her.

Her phone rang again. This time it was Commander Huston.

“Morning, ma'am,” Taylor answered.

“Lieutenant, David Greenleaf is trying to reach you.”

Crap. So that was the phone call. She played dumb.

“The editor of
The Tennessean?
Why?”

“You need to go over there right now. I'm sending Tim Davis along, as well. They have a possible piece of evidence that pertains to your cases.”

“You're kidding. What is it?”

“A letter about the murders, apparently. You know they're good at sussing out the real from the fake. Greenleaf called me directly, said he'd tried you but you didn't answer. He didn't tell me what it said, just that they were in possession of a letter that seemed credible, and they thought an evidence technician would be a good idea.”

“That's interesting. Yes, I just got the call. I figured it was just another reporter. My apologies.”

“No matter, I wouldn't have answered it myself.”

Taylor smiled. One of the things she especially liked about Joan Huston was her inability to mince words.

“I'll head over there right now. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Check in with me when you get in the building.”

“Yes, ma'am.” She clicked off, looked over at McKenzie.

“
The Tennessean
has a letter that pertains to the case. We need to go there first.”

She was just crossing the interstate;
The Tennessean
building was on her left. She turned left into the parking lot and took the last space, sandwiching the Lumina into one of the too-small spots. The paper's parking left a lot to be desired.

She and McKenzie walked in, gave their names to the security desk and waited. The lobby had changed dramatically since the last time she'd been forced to make a visit, to tell then Managing Editor David Greenleaf his good friend Frank Richardson had been murdered.

Greenleaf himself came through the locked door off the lobby. They shook hands awkwardly, and Taylor introduced McKenzie.
The Tennessean
had dined out for weeks on her fall from grace, and she still smarted from the drubbing. But they'd been trying to make amends, had done a positive piece on her ascension back to the head of Homicide just a few days earlier. She couldn't blame them too much—they were in the business of news, and unfortunately she had been the lead story.

Greenleaf waved them into the hallway. He talked as they walked.

“How are you, Lieutenant?”

“Good, David. What's been going on here?”

“Oh, you know. Buyouts and layoffs. This building can be like a ghost town sometimes. Whoops, here we are.”

He led them into a conference room, where two people were standing with their backs to the door, staring at a single sheet of paper lying on the table.

“Lieutenant, you remember Daphne Beauchamp? She's our head archivist now, runs the morgue. And this is George Rodríguez, our head of security.”

Taylor did remember Daphne, with her funky glasses and her quiet strength. She'd been an intern in the archives when they'd first met, peripheral to a case. Her roommate had been kidnapped and held by the Snow White Killer, had barely escaped with her life. She was also quietly dating Marcus Wade, but Taylor knew they were keeping the seri
ousness of their relationship under wraps from both their employers.

“Daphne, good to see you again. Have you heard from Jane Macias recently?”

“You don't read the
New York Times,
do you, Lieutenant? Jane's making a name for herself as an investigative journalist. She's halfway to a Pulitzer by now. Detective McKenzie.” She shook his hand gravely. “I found the letter this morning when I came in. It was on the floor near the back door, the Porter Street entrance.”

Daphne had grown up a bit, the last vestiges of college coed replaced by a calm assurance. Close contact with violent crime did that to a person.

Taylor turned to the head of security, a short, stocky Hispanic man with eyes as black as jet. “Mr. Rodríguez. I'm Lieutenant Jackson. This is Detective Renn McKenzie. Perhaps you could pull the security tapes from the back lobby for us, see if we can identify who might have dropped the letter off.”

“Call me George. I've already got them queued, but I can't see anything amiss. There's the usual mishmash of people coming in and out of that back entrance. The camera faces the street, and I didn't see anyone out of place. It's entirely possible someone ducked under the camera and slipped it through the door.”

“Isn't there security at that entrance?”

“There's a security booth, yes. But it was unmanned. Cutbacks, you know.”

“We'll look at it more closely. Thanks for getting things set for us.” Taylor pulled a set of nitrile gloves out of her jacket pocket, snapped them on. “This is the letter?”

Greenleaf nodded. “Yes. I knew you needed to see it. I trust you'll let us print this. I have a right to tell this story.”

She ignored the last question. “Who all's touched it?”

“Security, Daphne, my assistant, too. It was addressed to me, so Daphne dropped it after she came in. My assistant opened it, saw what it was and set it on her desk. After that,
no one. We used another sheet of paper to bring it in here for you.”

“Okay. I've got a crime-scene tech on his way over. He'll need to take fingerprints for exclusion. Thanks for being so cautious—that helps.” She only had one more glove in her pocket—it was time to stock up. She handed it to McKenzie, then stepped closer.

The letter was typed, on regular white paper. What she read took her breath away.

The Immortals

Blood is intensity; it is all I can give you.

http://www.youtube.wearetheimmortals.com

 

The row of symbols was smeared, the edges ragged, the ink suspiciously crackly and imperfect, ranging from dark pink to deepest burgundy.

“Son of a bitch. Is that blood?” Taylor asked.