CHAPTER ONE
2778 Words
CHAPTER ONE
Quantico, Virginia
The next morning
Agent Daniel Walker hurried up the steps of the FBI Headquarters administration building, ignoring the beautiful spring day and the greeting of a colleague going down. He was in trouble again; he just knew it. Roughing up that witness had been a bad idea.
But how the hell was he going to catch the Finger Man if people didn’t cooperate?
And hey, the guy was a ketamine dealer. He deserved a good toileting anyway.
Walker was being brought up for review. It was the only explanation for being called to a surprise meeting with the deputy director.
And to make matters worse, he was late.
Checking his watch, he went through the metal detector and checked in with the security officer at the front desk. Seeing a line in front of the elevator, he took the stairs three at a time up four stories to the deputy director’s office. He stopped long enough in the corridor to straighten his tie and flap his suit to cool himself off a bit. He really shouldn’t be so out of breath. He was only 40, but a taste for beer and fast food and a distaste for the gym, had begun to catch up with him.
Squaring his shoulders, he passed through the door marked “Deputy Director Burton.”
“You’re late, of course,” the deputy director’s personal assistant said. Flora Whitaker was a cool, professional woman approaching retirement age who had seen many administrations come and go. She had a droopy face, wore far too much makeup, and yet had a sharp gaze that took in everything. Invulnerable in her position, she had a habit of saying all the things other people were too polite or too politic to say.
“Sorry, got a new lead in the case.”
To Daniel, Deputy Director Burton’s front office, with its Ficus plant, photo of the president, and glaring personal assistant behind an expansive desk felt like the River Styx. And Flora Whitaker was Charon.
She narrowed her eyes in her classic “don’t try that on me” expression that had broken many an agent and nodded toward the door to a meeting room. “Pass on through. They’ve probably fallen asleep by now.”
They?
Glancing at the door to Burton’s office and wondering why he wasn’t going in there as he expected, he went over to the meeting room door, knocked, and was called to enter.
He opened the door and froze.
Deputy Director Burton sat at the head of a long black table, a couple of file folders lying in front of him. He was an erect, rugged man in his seventies who still retained the buzzcut he first sported in Vietnam. Flanking him were the hunched and paunchy Personnel Director, Daniel Walker’s direct boss, the Assistant Director for the Behavioral Analysis Unit who looked like a younger version of Burton, and … somebody else.
I didn’t drown the creep, did I?
The somebody else, an attractive woman in her forties who looked Japanese but spoke with a rather jarring Texas drawl, said, “Agent Walker, how kind of you to join us. Do please sit down.”
Crap. She’s probably not even FBI. She’s probably a lawyer or something bringing me up on assault charges. And the personnel director? He’s here to fire me.
Daniel sat warily at the end of the table, looking across a good ten feet of unoccupied space at the important figures clustered at the other end. This setup was what the psychologists called a “nonverbal cue of dominance.” He called it the prelude to the mother of all chewings out.
Deputy Director Burton gestured to the Japanese American woman. “This is Keiko Ochiai, Assistant Director of the Antiquities Division.”
Daniel nodded at the woman, confused. “Pleased to meet you, Professor Ochiai. Which university to you teach at?”
The woman smiled. “I’m not a professor, I’m an agent with the FBI just like you. I can understand your confusion. The Antiquities Division is a new branch of the FBI, established just last week.”
“Oh.”
“The Bureau decided to open the Antiquities Department due to a sharp rise in illegal antiquities smuggling. As I’m sure you are aware, many terror groups such as ISIS and Al Qaeda loot archaeological sites and sell the objects they find on the illegal antiquities market. They use the money to buy arms. While many other agencies already cover this area, the Bureau felt it would be good to have its own department because there wasn’t enough of a national focus on this problem. It’s seen as an international issue, but many of the buyers and dealers are right here in the United States. Sadly, so are some of the terror cells.”
“Sounds like it’s needed,” Daniel said, still unclear on where she was going with this. “I wish you the best of luck.”
Assistant Director Ochiai smiled. “I won’t need luck with a qualified agent such as you to help.”
Daniel blinked. “I don’t follow.”
Deputy Director Burton slid a file folder down the length of the table. It was one of his favorite tricks. The table was smooth, freshly waxed every morning, and he did not allow it to be cluttered with pitchers of water and coffee mugs like in so many other meeting rooms. Only work-related materials were allowed on his table. This gave him more room to slide documents.
The folder whooshed unerringly to Daniel’s waiting hands. A paperclip held it shut. Burton’s little trick wouldn’t be so impressive if the folder flew open and papers launched out like confetti.
Anytime Burton slid a folder down the table at a meeting, which was every meeting, Daniel felt like shouting “INCOMING!!!” to see if the deputy director would have a Nam flashback.
He had never dared. Despite being thirty years older, Burton could probably kick his a*s.
“A night watchman at the Glencairn Museum in Pennsylvania was murdered last night by an unknown intruder,” the deputy director said. “Although one object was broken, nothing was stolen.”
Daniel opened the folder to see a photo of an employee tag for someone named Ted Peterson. The photo showed a smiling, nondescript man in his late forties or early fifties.
“The intruder was a pro,” Burton went on. “Disabled a sophisticated alarm system and picked the lock on the service entrance. Once inside, he disabled the security cameras. We think the night watchman caught him in the act or got alerted by the sound of a breaking plaster bust, which was the only object that was disturbed.”
Daniel flipped through the pages, intrigued as he was any time he heard about a new case. Even the simplest murder always had some twist, some unusual element. There seemed to be no limit to how human drama could lead to deadly consequences.
He thumbed through several stills from the security footage, enlarged and digitally enhanced. They were in sequential order and showed a masked man in heavy boots and dressed all in black coming into view at the side of the building where a short flight of steps led down to the metal door of the service entrance. Some closeups showed him fiddling with the electronics of the alarm system before picking the lock. A final shot showed him just inside the service entrance working on the control box for the security cameras.
“Light-skinned male, strong build, six-foot-two, right-handed,” Daniel said.
“A good eye as always, Agent Walker,” Deputy Director Burton said.
Feeling more confident because of this compliment, Daniel flipped through more pages of the folder, mildly intrigued.
“Both the alarm and CCTV systems are top of the line,” Daniel went on. “The time tags reveal that he disabled those and unlocked the door all in less than five minutes. Your man knows what he’s doing.”
“Your man, Agent Walker,” the deputy director said.
Daniel looked up at him. “My man? I specialize in serial killers.”
So I’m not in trouble for putting a d**g dealer’s head in a toilet and flushing?
“This might be one.” Burton slid another folder down the table. Daniel stopped it, removed the paperclip, and examined the papers inside.
“The night before last, a security guard was killed at the Cloisters in New York City. It’s a medieval religious building brought over from France.”
“Actually, four different buildings,” Daniel said absently as he looked through the papers, which included security camera stills and a report from the NYPD. Same M.O. from what looked like the same perp. He had disabled the alarm and cameras, picked the lock on a back door, and entered. The guard was found dead with his throat slit next to a broken ivory figurine.
Daniel absentmindedly tapped the table with his thumb. Interesting. A highly motivated, skilled killer who had very specific targets. Shouldn’t be too hard to track down. Fascinating to interview, though. He made a mental note to review the recording once Ochiai’s team nabbed the guy.
“We think it’s the same man,” Ochiai said.
“It is,” Daniel said with a nod. “But he isn’t a serial killer. There’s too much deliberation, and no trophy taking. It says here nothing was stolen and he didn’t mutilate the bodies. Plus, serial killers usually go for the vulnerable. They don’t like to break and enter secure buildings. That takes too much planning for their rollercoaster of emotions. And there doesn’t appear to be any ritualistic aspect, not like Finger Man.”
“Finger Man?” Assistant Director Ochiai asked.
“That’s what my partner, Agent Nomellini, and I call the serial killer we’re tracking. He murders athletic young blonde males on their way out of late-night gyms. He always removes the middle finger of the right hand. So we call him Finger Man.”
Daniel studied the chief of the new Antiquities Division as he said all this, looking for a reaction. She showed no reaction at all.
Well, at least you’ve been around the block. Not like some of these pencil pushers. The personnel director looks like he’s going to lose his morning bagel.
“Your partner will have to get on without you,” Assistant Director Ochiai said. “From now on you’ll be working under me, effective immediately.”
“Wait. What? Finger Man has killed eight young men so far. We’re just beginning to close in on him. If I leave the case now—”
“Agent Nomellini is perfectly capable,” the deputy director said.
“She’s one of the best in the business.” Second only to me, Daniel added silently. “This is a highly complex case, though. Hundreds of strands of evidence. And the clock is ticking. He hasn’t killed in a month. He’s past due. If we don’t get him pretty soon there’s going to be a ninth victim.”
“We’re giving her Agent Dunning to help.”
Dunning? He’s out in the park half the time watching p**n on his phone. If Nomellini finds out, she’ll turn into Finger Woman.
Daniel managed not to say that. Barely. Instead, he said, “I’m more qualified than Dunning. Why don’t you give him this case? This looks pretty straightforward. Obviously, the perp’s got a grudge against museums for some reason. He doesn’t have the traits of a serial killer. In fact, he might be finished already if all he wanted to do was strike back at these two museums. Finger Man won’t stop until he’s caught.”
“We believe this to be the more complicated case,” Ochiai said. “And one suited to your special abilities.”
“I’m a profiler, not an antiquities expert.”
“You have a B.A. in history from Tufts. You dropped out of graduate school to join the FBI. If you hadn’t, judging from what your old professors say, you could have had tenure by now.”
“I didn’t want to be in academia.”
Not after Lyons. Or Rome. Or Aachen.
Not after she believed him instead of me.
“Nevertheless, you have a knack for solving historical puzzles. I read about the Colonial Williamsburg case.”
That old case? That was years ago. Damn, she does her homework.
“I solved that by profiling the killer and figuring out who among the staff fit the profile.”
“That and an intimate knowledge of black powder firearms,” Ochiai said with a smile.
Daniel shrugged. “A hobby of mine. I’m a bit old school. Hunting with a musket is a lot more challenging than hunting with a high-powered rifle fitted with a scope. Do you like venison?” he asked, hoping she was a vegetarian.
Assistant Director Ochiai grinned. “I prefer beef. I’m a Texas girl.”
“You also won the FBI marksmanship award three years running,” said Martin Bradshaw, the Assistant Director for the Behavioral Analysis Unit. His salt and pepper hair showed no sign of receding despite his being close to retirement age, but his craggy face was deeply seamed with worry lines.
“You beat me the fourth year,” Daniel told his boss. “Pity we weren’t using muskets.”
Bradshaw chuckled. Daniel liked the guy. He understood how investigations really had to be conducted, not what the FBI code of conduct said. He had covered for Daniel several times.
But it didn’t look like he was going to cover for him now.
Daniel addressed him directly, hoping his boss might throw him a lifeline. “Agent Nomellini and I are getting close. I can feel it. I really need to stay on this case.”
To his dismay, Bradshaw shook his head. “You’re much better placed in the Antiquities Division.”
The Personnel Director cut in, still looking queasy. A pencil pusher if there ever was one. “We don’t have anyone else who combines your background in history and behavioral analysis. You’re a good fit. We also feel …” he gave a sharp glance at Bradshaw, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat “… that the Behavioral Analysis Unit could do with a lighter touch.”
Daniel leaned back, all the fight gone out of him. So there it was. All those disciplinary reports, all those complaints from perps and witnesses. They’d all finally added up. He was getting transferred from one of the FBI’s most important and prestigious divisions to some new office that probably had little funding and zero prestige.
The Deputy Director leaned forward. “You’ll be flying to Philadelphia this afternoon. Mrs. Whitaker will email you all the travel details and contacts in Philly. Study those case files. We feel the killer might strike again, and soon. You need to get him before he does.”
“This is a chance to make good on the ground floor of a new division,” Ochiai said in her Texas drawl. “It’s a great opportunity for you.”
Make good? Yeah, right. I’m being demoted.
There was nothing more to say, so Daniel said nothing. He gathered his files, thanked the bigwigs in as sincere a tone as he could muster, and headed out.
He closed the door behind him, closing the door on a successful career as he did so. He’d caught three serial killers in the past four years, saving countless lives, and this was how they repaid him?
Daniel knew he could be hard to work with. He knew he shouldn’t snap at his superiors or show up his coworkers, but he saved lives damn it!
Daniel walked up to Flora Whitaker’s desk like a chastened schoolboy. She was busy typing on her computer.
“You have some travel documents for me?” he asked.
“I’ll send them over,” Whitaker said, still typing. “Go home and pack. Your flight is at two.”
“New division,” Daniel grunted, trying to get a response from her. Maybe she knew something the others hadn’t let on.
She looked up briefly. “It’s not a demotion.”
She got back to her typing.
“You could have fooled me,” Daniel growled, stalking out the door.
The moment he stepped out, his phone rang. His wife Veronica. Daniel groaned.
Just when he thought the day couldn’t get any worse.
- Writer
