The Killing Hour (18 page)

“Have any search-and-rescue workers been hurt?”

“Hell, yes. In the Tallulah Gorge we had several falls and broken limbs. The cotton field caused two volunteers to succumb to heatstroke. Then we had a wonderful search along the Savannah River, where one guy tangled with a gator, and two people were bitten by cottonmouth snakes.”

“Fatalities?” she asked sharply.

Mac looked back out at the vast, plunging terrain. He murmured, “Well, honey, not yet.”

CHAPTER 22

Shenandoah National Park, Virginia
1:44
P
.
M
.
Temperature: 97 degrees

KATHY LEVINE WAS A PETITE, NO-NONSENSE WOMAN
with short-cropped red hair and a dash of freckles across her nose. She greeted Mac and Kimberly briskly as they entered the glass-and-beam expanse of Big Meadows Lodge and beckoned them immediately toward a back office.

“Ray said you had a picture of a leaf. Not a real leaf, mind you, but a picture.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mac dutifully provided the scanned image. Kathy plopped it down on the desk in front of her and snapped on a bright overhead light. It barely made a dent in a room already lit by an entire wall of sunshine.

“It could be a gray birch,” the botanist said at last. “It would be better if you had the real leaf.”

“Are you a dendrologist?” Kimberly asked curiously.

“No, but I know what’s in my park.” The woman snapped off the light and regarded them both frankly. “Are you two familiar with refugia?”

“Refugee what?” Mac said.

“That’s what I thought.
Refugia
is a term for plants that exist as glacial relics in a climate where they no longer belong. Essentially, millions of years ago, this whole area was ice. But then the ice melted and certain plants got left behind. In most cases, those plants moved high up in the mountains, seeking the cool conditions they need to survive. Balsam fir and red cedar are both examples of refugia found in this park. And so is gray birch.”

“Ray said it was only found in one area.” Mac spoke up intently.

“Yes. Right outside the door. Let me get a map.” The botanist climbed out of her chair and rifled the bookshelf along the wall. Then, she proceeded to unfold the largest map Kimberly had ever seen. It was labeled Geologic Map of Shenandoah County, and it was filled with enough streaks of bright purple, deep fuchsia, and neon orange to hurt a person’s eyes.

“This is the geologic map which includes this section of the park. We are here.” Levine plopped the massive spread of paper on the jumbled surface of the desk, and promptly tapped a lime-green spot near the bottom of the page. “Now, gray birch grows thickest in the swampy plateau across from the Big Meadows camp, but can also be found here and there in this whole one-mile area. So basically, if you’re looking for the only gray birch in Virginia, you’re standing in the middle of it.”

“Wonderful,” Mac murmured. “Now if only we were sure we were looking for gray birch. How populated is this area this time of year?”

“You mean campers? We have thirty or so people signed in at the moment. Generally it would be more, but the heat has chased a lot away. Also we get a fair number of day hikers and the like. Of course, in this weather, we’re probably getting mostly drive-throughs—people coming to the park, but never leaving the air-conditioned comfort of their cars.”

“Do guests have to sign in?”

“No.”

“Do you have park rangers or any kind of monitors working the area?”

“We have enough personnel if trouble should come up, but we don’t go looking for it, if that’s what you mean.”

“So a person could come and go, and you’d never know he’d been here?”

“I would imagine most people come and go, and we never know they were here.”

“Damn.”

“You want to tell me what this is about?” Levine nodded toward Kimberly. “I can already tell she’s armed. You might as well fill in the rest.”

Mac seemed to consider it. He looked at Kimberly, but she didn’t know what to tell him. He might be out of his jurisdiction, but at least he was still a special agent. As of six
A
.
M
. this morning she had become no one at all.

“We’re working a case,” Mac told Levine tersely. “We have reason to believe this leaf may tie into the disappearance of a local girl. Find where the leaf came from, and we’ll find her.”

“You’re saying this girl may be somewhere in my park? Lost? In this kind of heat?”

“It’s a possibility.”

Levine crossed her arms over her chest while regarding both of them intently. “You know,” she said at last, “right about now, I think I’d like to see some ID.”

Mac reached into his back pocket and pulled out his credentials. Kimberly just stood there. She had nothing to show, nothing to say. For the first time, the enormity of what she had done struck her. For all of her life, she’d wanted to be one thing. And now?

She turned away from both of them. Through the windows, the bright sunlight burned her eyes. She closed them tightly, trying to focus on the feel of heat on her face. A girl was out there. A girl needed her.

And her mother was still dead and her sister was still dead. And Mac was right after all. Nothing she did would change anything, so what was she really trying to prove? That she could self-destruct as completely as Mandy?

Or that just once, she wanted to get something right. Just once, she wanted to find the girl, save the day. Because anything had to be better than this six-year ache.

“This says Georgia Bureau of Investigation,” Levine was saying to Mac.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If my memory serves, we’re still in Virginia.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ray didn’t ask you nearly enough questions now, did he?”

“Ray was very helpful in our investigation. We appreciate his efforts and are happy you were able to talk to us.”

Levine wasn’t fooled. She drew a bead on Kimberly. “I’m guessing you have no ID at all.”

Kimberly turned back around. She kept her voice even. “No, I don’t.”

“Look, it’s gotta be a good hundred degrees in the shade right now, and while I’m not a big fan of doing field work in this kind of heat, that’s my lot in life. So you both had better start talking fast, because I’m not amused to be yanked from my federally required duties to talk to two wanna-be cops who seem to be way out of their jurisdiction.”

“I am pursuing a case,” Mac said crisply. “The killer started in Georgia, where he attacked eight girls. You wanna see photos, I can give you all your stomach can take. I have reason to believe he’s now operating in Virginia. The FBI is involved, but by the time they figure out who did what to whom, this girl will probably have fed ten bears for a week. I, on the other hand, have been working this case for years. I know this man. And I have legitimate reason to believe that he has kidnapped a young woman and abandoned her all alone in the middle of your park. Yes, it’s hot outside. Yes, she is lost. And no, I don’t plan on standing idly by and waiting for a bunch of Feds to complete all the required paperwork. I plan on finding this girl, Ms. Levine, and Ms. Quincy has agreed to assist. So that’s why we’re here and that’s what we’re doing. And if that offends you, well, too bad. Because this girl probably is in your park, and boy oh boy, does she need some help.”

Kathy Levine appeared troubled. “Do you have references?” she asked at last.

“I can give you the name of my supervisor in Georgia.”

“He knows about this case?”

“He sent me here to pursue it.”

“If I cooperate with you, what does that mean?”

“I have no jurisdiction, ma’am. Officially speaking, I can’t ask you to do anything.”

“But you think the girl might be here. For how long?”

“He would’ve abandoned her yesterday.”

“It was nearly a hundred degrees yesterday,” Levine said curtly.

“I know.”

“Does she have gear?”

“He kidnaps women from bars. The best she has is her purse and her party clothes.”

Levine blinked twice. “Sweet Jesus. And he’s done this before?”

“Eight girls. So far, only one has survived. Today, I’d like to make that two.”

“We have a search-and-rescue team for the park,” Levine said
briskly. “If . . . if you had strong reason to believe there was, say, a lost hiker in the Big Meadows area, and if you reported that lost hiker, I would have authority to call the team.”

Mac stilled. The offer was both unexpected and desperately needed. A search-and-rescue team. Multiple people. Trained experts. In other words, the first genuine chance at success they’d had all day.

“Are you sure?” Mac asked sharply. “It could be a wild-goose chase. I could be wrong.”

“Are you wrong often?”

“Not about this.”

“Well, then . . .”

“I’d like to report a lost hiker,” Mac said immediately.

And Kathy Levine said, “Let me make a call.”

CHAPTER 23

Quantico, Virginia
2:23
P
.
M
.
Temperature: 99 degrees

KAPLAN HAD SCHEDULED A TWO-THIRTY MEETING
with Dr. Ennunzio to follow up on Mac’s conversations with the forensic linguist. Rainie didn’t think Kaplan believed Dr. Ennunzio was a link to Georgia’s Eco-Killer, as much as he wanted to grill a new person about the various doings of Special Agent McCormack.

Still, she and Quincy followed gamely along. Kaplan had his questions, they would have theirs. Besides, the BSU offices would probably be only eighty degrees, and that sure as hell beat the places they’d been thus far.

The offices of the Behavioral Science Unit were located in the basement of the indoor firing ranges building. Rainie had only been there once before, but she always thought it was a little funny. Not just because people were literally firing weapons two floors above you, which should give anyone pause, but because the elevators going down to the highly esteemed BSU offices were tucked in an isolated corner next to the laundry room. Walk by bins of dirty linens and used flak vests. Go to work for the day.

In the basement, the elevator door opened to a wood-paneled lobby area, with corridors going off every which way. Here, visitors could sit on the leather sofa while admiring various posters advertising BSU projects. “Domestic Violence by Police Officers,” declared one, promoting an upcoming seminar. “Suicide and Law Enforcement,” said another. “Futuristics and Law Enforcement: The Millennium Conference,” advertised a third.

When Rainie had first met Quincy seven years ago, he’d been conducting research for the BSU. His project of choice—developing a schema for the effective profiling of juvenile mass murderers. Never let it be said that the BSU researchers were a bunch of lightweights.

And just in case someone thought the group was without a sense of humor, a new addition had been included in the lineup of agent photographs adorning the wall. Last photo in the middle row—a lovingly framed headshot of an extraterrestrial. Complete with a cone-shaped head and big black eyes. Really, it was the best-looking photo of the bunch.

Kaplan took off down the middle corridor and Rainie and Quincy followed in his wake.

“Miss it?” Rainie whispered in Quincy’s ear.

“Not in the least.”

“It’s never as dreary as I expect.”

“Wait until you’ve spent an entire week working without any natural light.”

“Whiner.”

“Be nice, or I’ll lock you in the bomb shelter.”

“Promises, promises,” Rainie murmured. Quincy squeezed her hand, the first contact he’d made with her all day.

From what Rainie could determine, the space down here was basically a large square, bisected by three rows of hallways sprouting narrow offices. Kaplan came to the last door of the middle row, knocked twice and a man promptly opened it as if he were expecting them. “Special Agent Kaplan?” he asked.

Rainie bit her lower lip just in time. Wow, she thought. A Quincy clone.

Dr. Ennunzio wore a trim-fitting navy blue suit with proper Republican-red tie. In his mid-forties, he had the lean build of an avid runner and the intense gaze of an academic who always took work home at night. His short-cropped hair was dark, but beginning to gray at the temples. His manner was direct, his expression slightly impatient, and Rainie already had a feeling he considered this meeting a waste of his very valuable time.

Kaplan made the introductions. Ennunzio shook Rainie’s hand briefly, but paused with genuine sincerity in front of Quincy. Apparently, he was familiar with the former agent’s work.

Rainie simply kept gazing from the linguist to Quincy, back to the linguist. Maybe it was an FBI hiring requirement, she thought. You must wear these suits and have eyes this intense to ride this ride. That could be.

Ennunzio gestured to his cramped office, much too small to hold four grown adults, then ushered them back down the hallway to an unused conference room.

“This used to be the director’s office,” he explained, his attention returning to Quincy. “Back in your day. Now it’s a conference room, while the bigwigs are across the way. It’s not so hard to find their new offices. Just follow all the posters for the
Silence of the Lambs
.”

“Everyone loves Hollywood,” Quincy murmured.

“Now then,” Ennunzio said, taking a seat and placing a manila folder in front of him, “you had questions about Special Agent McCormack from the GBI?”

“Yes,” Kaplan spoke up. “We understand you were supposed to meet with him.”

“Tuesday afternoon. It didn’t happen. I got held up at a conference in D.C., sponsored by the Forensic Linguistics Institute.”

“A conference for linguists,” Rainie muttered. “That had to be a blast.”

“Actually it was quite fascinating,” Ennunzio told her. “We had a special presentation on the anthrax envelopes sent to Senator Tom Daschle and Tom Brokaw. Were the envelopes sent by someone whose first language was English or Arabic? It’s an extremely interesting analysis.”

Rainie startled, intrigued in spite of herself. “Which one was it?”

“Almost certainly a native English speaker trying to impersonate an Arabic speaker. We call that ‘trick mail,’ when the sender attempts certain devices to mislead the receiver. In this case, the definitive evidence is the seemingly random mix of uppercase and lowercase letters throughout the text on the envelope, as well as a mixing of large and small caps. While this is meant to appear sloppy and childlike—someone uncomfortable with proper English syntax—in fact, it indicates someone so comfortable with the Roman alphabet he can manipulate it at will. Otherwise, it would be difficult to construct such a varied combination of letter styles. And while the messages in the two envelopes are short and filled with misspellings, this is again an attempt to deceive. Short missives actually involve a very concise use of the English language and are consistent with someone of higher, not lower, education. All in all, it was a first-rate presentation.”

“Okay,” Rainie said. She looked at Kaplan helplessly.

“So you didn’t actually see Special Agent McCormack on Tuesday?” Kaplan asked.

“No.”

“But you had spoken to him before?”

“When Special Agent McCormack arrived at the National Academy, he stopped by my office asking if I would have time to consult on an old homicide case. He had copies of some letters that had been sent to the editor, and he wanted any information on them I could provide.”

“Did he give you copies of the letters?” Quincy spoke up.

“He gave me what he had. Unfortunately the GBI was only able to recover the original document for the last letter, and frankly, there’s not much I can do with published versions. The newspapers sanitize too much.”

“You wanted to see if the guy also mixed small and large caps?” Rainie asked.

“Something like that. Look, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Special Agent McCormack. Forensic linguistics is a broad field. As an expert, I’m trained to study language, syntax, spelling, grammar. I don’t analyze penmanship per se—you need a handwriting expert for that—but how a document is prepared and presented provides context for my own analysis, so it is relevant. Now, within the field, we all have our own domains. Some linguists pride themselves on a sort of forensic profiling—you give them a document, and they can tell you the probable race, gender, age, education, and street address of who wrote it. I can do that to a certain degree, but my own subspecialty is authorship. You give me two samples of text and I can tell you if the person who wrote the threatening letter is the same person who wrote that second note to his mom.”

“How do you do that?” Rainie quizzed him.

“In part, I look at format. Mostly, however, I’m looking at word choice, sentence structure, and repeated errors or phrases. Everyone has certain expressions they favor, and these phrases have a tendency to appear over and over again in their writings. Are you familiar with the cartoon sitcom
The Simpsons
?”

Rainie nodded.

“All right, if you were the chief of police in Springfield and you received a ransom note including repeated uses of the expression ‘D’oh!,’ you’d probably want to start your investigation with Homer Simpson. If, on the other hand, the letter contained the phrase ‘Eat my shorts,’ you’d be better off looking at the younger Simpson, Bart. All people have phrases they like to use. When writing text, they are even more likely to repeat these catchphrases. The same goes for grammatical mistakes and spelling errors.”

“And in the case of the Eco-Killer?” Quincy spoke up again.

“Not enough data points. Special Agent McCormack presented me with three copies and one original. With only one original, I can’t compare penmanship, ink, or paper choice. In terms of content, all four letters contain the exact same message: ‘Clock ticking . . . planet
dying . . . animals weeping . . . rivers screaming. Can’t you hear it? Heat kills . . .’ Frankly, to compare authorship, I need additional material, say another letter you believe may have been written by the suspect, or a longer document. Are you familiar with Ted Kaczynski?”

“The Unabomber? Of course.”

“That case was largely broken on the writings of Mr. Kaczynski. Not only did we have the writing on the packages he used to mail out his bombs, but we also had several notes he included in the packages, many letters he wrote to the press, and finally the manifesto he demanded be run in the papers. Even then, it wasn’t a forensic linguist who made the connections, but Kaczynski’s own brother. He recognized parts of the manifesto from his brother’s letters to him. Without such an extensive amount of material to analyze, who knows if we ever would have identified the Unabomber?”

“But this guy hasn’t given the police much to work with,” Rainie said. “Isn’t that unusual? I mean, according to your own example, once these guys get talking, they have a lot to say. But this guy is implying he’s earnest about the environment, while on the other hand, he’s pretty quiet on the subject.”

“That is actually the one thing that jumped out at me,” Ennunzio said, his gaze going to Quincy. “This is getting more into your domain than mine, but four short, identical messages are unusual. Once a killer makes contact with the press, or someone in authority, generally the communication becomes more expansive. I was a little surprised that by the last letter to the editor, at least, the message didn’t include more.”

Quincy nodded. “Communication by a killer with either the press or an officer in charge of the investigation is almost always about power. Sending letters and watching those messages be retold by the media gives certain subjects the same kind of vicarious thrill other killers experience when revisiting the scene of the crime or handling a souvenir from one of their victims. Killers will generally start small—an initial note or phone call—but once they know they have everyone’s attention, the communication becomes about boasting, bragging, and constantly reasserting their sense of control. It’s all part of their ego trip. This message . . .” Quincy frowned. “It’s different.”

“He distances himself from the act,” Ennunzio said. “Notice the phrase, ‘heat kills.’ Not that he kills, that
heat
kills. It’s as if he has nothing to do with it.”

“Yet the message is filled with short phrases, which you said earlier indicates a higher level of intelligence.”

“He’s smart, but guilty,” Ennunzio told them. “He doesn’t want to kill, but feels driven to do it, and thus seeks to lay the blame elsewhere. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t written more. For him, the letters aren’t about establishing power, but seeking absolution.”

“There’s another possibility,” Quincy said shortly. “Berkowitz also wrote extensively to the press in an attempt to explain his crimes. Berkowitz, however, suffered from mental illness; he falls into a different category from the organized killer. Now, people suffering from some kind of mental incapacity such as delusions or schizophrenia—”

“Often repeat a phrase,” Ennunzio filled in. “You also see that in stroke victims or people with brain tumors. They’ll have anything from a word to a mantra they repeat over and over again.”

“You’re saying this guy is insane?” Rainie spoke up sharply.

“It’s one possibility.”

“But if he’s nuts, how has he successfully eluded the police while kidnapping and killing eight women?”

“I didn’t say he was stupid,” Quincy countered mildly. “It’s possible that he’s still functional in many ways. People close to him, however, would know there was something ‘not right’ about him. He’s probably a loner and ill at ease with others. It could help explain why he has spent so much time outdoors, and also why he employs an ambush style of attack. A Ted Bundy–style killer would rely on his social skills to smooth-talk his way inside a prey’s defenses. This man knows he can’t.”

“This man builds elaborate riddles,” Rainie said flatly. “He targets strangers, communicates with the press, and plays games with the police. That sounds like a good old-fashioned organized psychopath to me.”

Kaplan held up a hand. “Okay, okay, okay. We’re getting a little off track here. This so-called Eco-Killer is Georgia’s problem. We’re here about Special Agent McCormack.”

“What about him?” Dr. Ennunzio asked with a frown.

“Do you think McCormack could’ve written these notes?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to give me something else he’s written. Why are you looking at Special Agent McCormack?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what? I’ve been out of town at the conference. I haven’t even had time to clear all my voice mail yet.”

“A body was found yesterday,” Kaplan said curtly. “Of a young girl. On the Marine PT course. We have reason to believe McCormack might be involved.”

“There are elements of the case similar to the Eco-Killer,” Rainie added, ignoring Kaplan’s dark look. “Special Agent McCormack thinks the murder is the work of the Eco-Killer, starting over here in Virginia. Special Agent Kaplan thinks maybe McCormack is our guy, and merely staged the scene to match an old case.”