CHAPTER THREE
2228 Words
CHAPTER THREE
The BAU offices in Virginia were offset from the main building, occupying a smaller structure that might have resembled a quadplex if not for the metal detectors and armed guards behind the bulletproof glass doors.
Dakota's magnet-strip ID allowed her entry into the foyer, and she nodded at security as she passed through the metal detectors. It might just have been her imagination, but it felt as if the guards' nods in return were a bit stilted, their expressions cold.
She rubbed at her arms and moved towards the stairs instead of the elevators. The walk would give her some time to calm down. The movement would help her focus.
How many times, back in her fighting days, had she gone for runs before a big bout?
Something about physical exertion helped narrowed her attention. She took the stairs two at a time, hurrying up, breathing a bit more heavily than she would've liked by the time she reached the second floor.
Facing the long hall, Dakota felt a prickle of unease return. This was the first time she was actually stepping into the BAU headquarters after her time away. Everything felt... grayer, colder, darker.
Now she knew it was just her imagination.
She stared down the long hall, feeling horribly like a freshman on her first day of school. She'd dropped out of high school too, before finishing her GED.
“Dakota!” a familiar, friendly voice followed by a quick wave.
Her gaze focused, and she looked up from the long hall towards a figure standing at the end of it. A beaming, crescent smile curved the face of her giant partner, Marcus Clement. Now that they were back at the office, Marcus wore a suit and tie, but it failed to hide the very edge of the comic book t-shirt he wore underneath. At least this time it didn't have a mustard stain.
Dakota's outfit was perfectly pressed, without a visible crease. She'd brushed her hair, tastefully hiding the strand of premature gray streaking dirty blonde. Her cauliflower ear was mostly hidden by her chosen hairdo—a simple, work-efficient ponytail.
Appearances mattered in Dakota's mind. The long sleeves she wore and high-neck—not quite a turtleneck, but close—disguised the many tattoos she'd gotten in her youth and now mostly regretted. Marcus had never cared about the tattoos, though. And evidently, he didn't care about bedhead either.
His hair was disheveled, and his spectacles were streaked.
He greeted her with a grin, a quick side hug, and a single word. “Defenestration,” he said.
Dakota returned the hug but quickly disentangled lest Supervising Agent Carter was nearby and looking for any signs of a lack of professionalism. “I don't know,” she said. “What does it mean?”
“It means to throw someone out a window,” Marcus said, grinning. Then he turned, hooking his arm through Dakota's and leading her down the hall.
Marcus liked sharing his favorite pet words with her. Not only was he a comic book nerd, but he also self-styled himself a sesquipeda—dali... daley... something. Dakota couldn't remember the word for someone who loved long words, but whatever it was, Marcus was definitely that.
With Marcus's arm hooked through hers, the faint residue of warmth from his hug, and the effect of his smile whenever he saw her, Dakota found herself feeling a bit more at ease, moving down the hall with her old partner. It was Marcus who had flown to Rapid City to bring her back to Quantico. Marcus who'd gone to bat for her with Agent Carter. And Marcus whose tip she had ignored three months ago when the Watcher, the psychopathic killer, had murdered another young woman.
“Lovely to see you in the flesh,” Marcus said excitedly. “I didn't think you were coming into the office until next week.”
“I wasn't,” Dakota said. “But Carter wants me on this case.”
Marcus shot her a look, beaming. “Wonderful. She'd mentioned I wouldn't be partnering with a rookie this time.” He let out a long, satisfied sigh. “It's good to have you back, Steele.”
Dakota chuckled. “Appreciate it. I'm not sure the sentiment is going to be shared.”
“Oh, I wouldn't be so sure. Mark from downstairs has been asking about you.” Marcus wiggled his eyebrows over his glasses.
Dakota snorted, feeling the threat of a blush before looking away. She kept her expression calm and just shrugged. She had never been comfortable expressing her emotions and far preferred keeping a lid on it whenever possible.
“I don't have all day!” a voice snapped from a few doors down the hall.
Dakota stiffened. Marcus just sighed and rolled his eyes. “Camera in the stairwell,” he muttered.
Together, the two of them hastened towards a half-open door—the tinted glass marked with a golden nameplate that still read SA Drafuss.
Dakota stared, nudging Marcus. “Still haven't changed it?”
He shook his head. “Rumor is Agent Carter is only here on a trial run. Acting supervisor. Nothing permanent yet.”
Dakota frowned, thinking back to the strange voicemail she'd received from their previous supervisor. She hadn't shown Marcus the message yet. Hadn't had the time. And now certainly wasn't the opportunity.
The door pushed open, and the two of them stepped into the supervisor's office.
“Come in! Sit down,” a voice said curtly. A rasping, articulate voice, like that of a particularly stern librarian.
A woman with short-cut, white hair above dark, smooth skin was sitting behind a walnut desk. The windows in the room, Dakota noticed, were all tinted or covered. She noticed a vent above the desk had been closed and taped off. Instead, a small space heater and a miniature table fan sat on the walnut desk.
The desk, she noticed, had been moved from the spot it had previously occupied, and now centered the room, sitting smack-dab in the middle of the carpeted floor. Dakota also noticed two cameras above the desk with blinking red lights. A second later, she spotted a hidden camera in a large bookcase, concealed in the binding of a particularly large almanac. The small, glass eye wouldn't have been noticed except for the conspicuous blind spot created by the visible cameras, suggesting Dakota would find a third.
Dakota cataloged all of this dispassionately in a matter of seconds. She remained straight postured, standing in the doorway at attention. Her gaze flicked back towards Supervising Agent Carter. The pale-haired woman looked quite small sitting behind such a large desk. Her dark eyes held a hint of kindness, but her steely expression quickly dissuaded any notion of hugs or kisses from the agent in charge.
“Clement, Steele,” Carter rattled off. She peered at them over the desk. Two chairs sat in front of the table, but she made no indication towards them, so Dakota and Marcus maintained their standing position by the door.
“Agent Carter,” Marcus said, bobbing his head in greeting. “How are you?”
She glanced towards Marcus, and her icy expression melted somewhat. She smiled, her cheeks dimpling, and she nodded, “Fine, Clement. Doing fine. How about yourself?”
“Wonderful,” Marcus replied, beaming. “I checked that parking spot yesterday—the van checks out. It's a maintenance vehicle for the office complex.”
“Oh, good—good,” she nodded, folding her hands. “One can never be too careful,” she said. “Did you tell them they can't park overnight?”
“Yes. They'll move by noon.”
“Perfect.”
Dakota did her best not to glance at the tinted windows, the extra cameras, or the odd placement of the desk. She'd met paranoid agents before, as well as overly cautious ones. There was a fine line between careful and crazy.
Now, though, wasn't the time to pry into the supervisor's sense of self-protection.
Almost as if she'd sensed Dakota's thoughts, Carter glanced at her, and her expression hardened once more. “Agent Steele, glad to see you could make it to work today.” She didn't allow Dakota to respond before continuing, “Have you been compliant with d**g-testing and mandated therapy?”
She didn't even blink as she said it. Dakota shifted uncomfortably, but just as quickly covered herself by nodding a single time. “Yes, ma'am.” Marcus didn't so much as glance her way.
“Keep it up then,” Carter said with a sniff. “The agency is counting on you. Now,” she said, unfolding her hands and pressing them to the top of the table, “We've got two dead in the suburbs of Chicago.”
“Victim type?”
“Two women,” Carter said, frowning as if she took this part personally. “A college student taken from campus and a homeless woman attacked near an old train yard.”
“MO?” Dakota asked.
Carter looked at her, but then seemed to decide there was no reason to be annoyed at the question and answered, “Both killed by having their throats slit. Also, they were posed.”
“Posed how?” Marcus asked, frowning.
In answer, Agent Carter reached for her computer and spun it towards the agents. “The case file is in your inbox, Clement. Steele, your clearance is being reinstated but it might take a few days.”
Dakota would have been disgruntled by this announcement if she hadn't been distracted by the horrible images on the computer screen. At first, it was difficult to pick out the body in the first image on account of the piles of old vehicles and rusted automobiles behind her. There were stacks of dilapidated appliances and the like. It took Dakota a second to realize she was staring at a scrapyard.
She shifted uncomfortably, leaning in before going still.
A woman was dangling upside down with chains wrapped around her ankles. Her hands were encased in metal which—Dakota stared, trying to make sense—had been welded to one of the refrigerators, as a sort of base for a grotesque sculpture. The chains around her legs extended above and were hooked onto the end of a crane. Strangely, there were tree branches bonded to the crane's hook as well, spread out in both directions.
“Bizarre,” Marcus muttered.
Dakota nodded slowly. Her gaze was drawn to the second image. This time, a woman's upper body was encased in a metal sheath that spread out to form what could only be described as two wings. Bat-like, metal wings spread above her. The body was suspended by three metal legs holding the woman in a posture as if she were flying over a junk pile.
Dakota gave a faint, bemused shake of her head. “Is he posing them in junkyards?”
“The first one, yes,” Carter said, nodding. “The second is in a trainyard that also is used for scraps. Those branches in the first image were welded by metal couplings to the hook.”
“Welded?” Marcus said, quirking an eyebrow. “Odd. How did he get up there? No less with welding tools?”
“That,” said Agent Carter, “is precisely why we're sending you two. We need to find out who is behind this, why they're posing the victims in this fashion, and we need to find out quickly. Any questions?”
Marcus raised a hand and said, “The coroner reports are emailed also?”
“Everything is in your inbox,” she said.
“Then no more questions,” Marcus replied.
Dakota shifted uncomfortably, staring at the images on the computer. Already, she could feel a rising sense of unease. This wasn't an ordinary killer. The posing was bizarre, but far more chilling, in Dakota's opinion, was the sheer amount of time the killer had taken to weld the metal sculptures, to pose the victims. Almost... almost like an artist going the extra mile to complete their piece.
The killer had nerves of... well, steel, if he was willing to risk being caught just to put the finishing touches on his grotesque sculptures. Junkyards weren't exactly public spaces, but they had employees, visitors, and offered the opportunity at being discovered.
Evidently, though, judging by the images, the killer didn't care. He was bold. Brash. Two bodies within thirty-six hours. He was moving fast. No reason to think he was ready to stop now. Which meant he was only just getting started.
Dakota glanced towards Agent Carter, deciding now wasn't a good time to ask for permission to access the old case files. Clearly, she still had some proving to do. But while they'd gotten off on a bad foot, Dakota felt that solving this case would go a long way in earning some leeway.
“And you?” Agent Carter said, looking towards Dakota. Her tone was less harsh all of a sudden, and some of that lingering kindness in her gaze came to the surface. “Any questions?”
“I—just the one,” Dakota said. “When does our plane leave?”
- Writer
