The Soul Catcher (31 page)

MONDAY
November 25
FBI Academy
Quantico, Virginia

M
aggie stole a glance at Agent Tully as they watched Agent Bobbi LaPlatz scratch several pencil lines. Magically the face on her sketch pad developed a thin, narrow nose.

“Does that look close?” she asked Emma Tully, who sat beside her, hands in her lap, her eyes examining the line drawing.

“I think so, but the lips aren’t quite right.” Emma glanced at her dad, as if waiting for him to comment. He only nodded at her.

“Too thin?” LaPlatz asked.

“Maybe it’s the mouth, not the lips. You know, like he never smiled. He sorta had this…um…frown, but not like he was mad. Just maybe like he was too tough to smile.” She flipped her hair back and gave her dad another glance. “Does that make sense?” she asked, turning back to Agent LaPlatz, her eyes darting back to check Tully’s face before returning to the paper.

“I think so. Let me give it a try.” And LaPlatz’s hand went to work, making quick, short movements. A line here, one there, transforming the entire face again with her simple number two pencil, a magic wand with teeth marks embedded in its sides.

Maggie could see Tully had that worried indent in his forehead. She had noticed it earlier, even before he now started rubbing at it as if he could make it disappear. Earlier when he stopped by her office he seemed more than just worried.
Disoriented
was the best word Maggie could come up with.

His daughter, Emma, had never been to Quantico before, and this morning, unfortunately, was not going to be one of those fun tours to see where Daddy worked. Emma seemed to be handling the situation just fine, but Tully was still fidgeting. His toe kept tapping. When he wasn’t rubbing the indent off his forehead, he was pushing up the bridge of his glasses. He remained silent, saying not a word since Agent LaPlatz had sat down. Once in a while his eyes strayed from the face materializing on the paper to Emma’s. Maggie watched as his fingers found a paper in his breast pocket and he began an accordion fold. His fingers worked without the aid of his eyes, as if on a mission of their own.

Maggie had a good idea why her normally laid-back partner looked like he had been injected with caffeine. It wasn’t just that Emma had known the dead girl, but that she had also been at the rally Ginny had supposedly attended. Some rally held at the monument Saturday evening. This was probably why he had been on edge at the crime scene and at the autopsy. Was Tully wondering how close Emma had come to being the killer’s target?

“How’s that?” LaPlatz asked.

“Close. Is there any way I can see it in color?” Emma looked back at Tully again, as if waiting for an answer from him.

“Sure.” LaPlatz stood. “Let me scan it into the computer. I like to use the old-fashioned method first, but if you think we’re close, we can let the computer mess around with what we have.” She started for the door with Emma alongside of her, but turned just as Tully was getting to his feet to follow. “Why don’t you two wait here,” LaPlatz said casually, but her eyes looked from Tully to Maggie.

When Tully looked like he might still follow, Maggie put a gentle hand on his arm. He looked down at it, a sleepwalker suddenly waking.

“We’ll wait here,” he said, and watched the door close before sitting down again. Maggie stood in front of him, leaning against the table, studying him. He didn’t seem to mind. If he even noticed. He was off somewhere else, if not in the other room with Emma, then back conjuring up that horrible murder scene.

“She’s doing an excellent job.”

“What?” He looked up at her as if only now realizing she was still there.

“Emma might be providing the only clue we have as to who this killer is.”

“Yeah. I know.” He rubbed his jaw, pushed up his glasses for the tenth time.

“Are you okay?”

“Me?” This time there was surprise in his tone.

“I know you’re worried about her, Tully, but she seems to be okay.”

He hesitated and took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. “I just worry about her.” Back went the glasses. The hands found the pamphlet again and the folds began in the other direction, putting new creases in a picture of a man’s face. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t have a clue how to do this parenting thing.”

“Emma’s a brave, smart girl, who came here today to help in a murder investigation. And she’s doing a great job while remaining calm and diligent. Judging from that alone, I’d say you’ve done a damn good job with her.”

He looked up at her, met her eyes and managed a weak smile. “Yeah? So you don’t think it’s totally obvious that I’m winging it?”

“If you are, it’ll be our secret. Okay? Hey, didn’t you tell me once that there are some things, some secrets, that only partners should share?”

Finally a real smile appeared. “I said that? I can’t believe I would ever encourage secrets or withholding information.”

“Maybe I’m becoming a bad influence on you.” She checked her watch and started to leave. “I need to go rescue Gwen from Security. I’ll see you in the conference room.”

“Hey, Maggie?”

“Yep?”

“Thanks.”

She stopped at the door and gave him a quick glance over her shoulder, just enough to check his eyes, and was immediately relieved to see that deer-in-the-headlights daze gone. “Any time, partner.”

G
wen Patterson hurried up the steps of the Jefferson Building. As usual, she was late. Kyle Cunningham and BSU hadn’t called her in as a consultant on a case for more than a year. She knew this time it was probably only at Maggie’s request. In fact, it had been such a long time since her last visit to Quantico that she almost expected to be strip-searched at the guard hut. But apparently Maggie had seen to it that her credentials had been updated and kept on file. She stopped at the counter to sign in, but before she picked up the pen the young woman sitting at the computer stopped her.

“Dr. Patterson?”

“Yes.”

“Here you are.” The woman handed her a visitor’s badge. “I do still need for you to sign in with your check-in time.”

“Yes, of course.” Gwen signed the sheet as she noticed the badge. It had her name printed on it—Dr. and even Ph.D. at the end—instead of the standard Visitor. Okay, so Maggie was trying hard to make her feel at home. Gwen still wasn’t convinced, though, she’d be much help with the investigation.

That Cunningham had even agreed to Maggie’s request for Gwen to be a part of the case meant he was feeling desperate. He usually didn’t call in outsiders. In the early days, yes, but not now, not since the FBI had come under considerable scrutiny. Gwen knew Cunningham well enough to detect a hint of desperation in his voice yesterday when he called. He had asked if she would share her new research and expertise. Her response was that he had some amazing agents in his Behavioral Science Unit, including Maggie, who could tell him just as much, if not more, about the criminal workings of the adolescent male’s mind. She told him she wasn’t sure she could add much to the investigation.

“As an outsider, you might be able to point out things we’re missing,” he countered. “You’ve done that with some of our cases in the past. I’m hoping you’ll be able to work your magic on this one.”

Flattery. Gwen smiled as she clipped on her badge. The man could be charming as hell when he wanted to be. Then she read the words on the badge under her name and immediately frowned: Member, Special Task Force.

Task force.
Gwen hated the term. It reeked with bureaucracy and brought to mind visions of red tape. Already the media had trounced every tidbit of information that had been released on this case, hounding poor Senator Brier from outside his apartment to the Capitol. When Gwen checked her office this morning for messages, her assistant, Amelia, had already received calls from the
Washington Times
and the
Post
wanting to know about Gwen’s involvement. How the hell did they find out these things so quickly? It had been less than twelve hours since Cunningham had even called her.

Supposedly, it was one of the reasons they were meeting at Quantico instead of in the District. The murder of a senator’s daughter—let alone having it occur on federal property—warranted a federal investigation. Yet, it surprised Gwen that Cunningham had been asked to head the task force. Now she wished she had been able to get ahold of Maggie last night. Her friend may have answered some of the questions Cunningham wouldn’t.

“Gwen, you’re here.”

She leaned around the counter to find Maggie coming down the hall. She looked good, dressed in burgundy trousers, matching jacket and a white turtleneck sweater. Only now did Gwen notice that her friend had finally put back on some of the weight she had lost last winter. She looked more her athletically trim but strong self rather than the emaciated waif Albert Stucky had driven her to become.

“Hi, kiddo,” Gwen said while she managed a one-armed hug, her briefcase and umbrella occupying her other arm.

She knew Maggie only tolerated the gesture, but this morning she felt the younger woman hugging her back. As Maggie pulled away, Gwen kept a hand on her shoulder, keeping Maggie from escaping too quickly. The hand moved to Maggie’s face, gently lifting her chin for a closer inspection. Maggie put up with this, too, even managing a smile while Gwen examined the red lines in Maggie’s eyes and the puffiness underneath that was concealed with makeup to fool those who were less adept at reading this intensely personal and private woman.

“Are you okay? You look like you didn’t get much sleep.”

This time she casually shifted away from Gwen’s touch. “I’m fine.” There went the eyes—someplace, anyplace, as long as they could no longer be scrutinized.

“You didn’t return my call last night,” Gwen said, treating it like no big deal and trying to keep the concern from her voice.

“Harvey and I didn’t get back from our run until late.”

“Jesus! Maggie, I wish you wouldn’t go out running that late at night.”

“It’s not like I was alone.” She started back down the hall. “Come on, Cunningham’s waiting.

“I figured as much. I can feel him frowning at me through the walls.”

As they walked, Gwen found herself absently patting at her hair, which felt in place, and smoothing her skirt, which began the day without a single wrinkle, but after an hour-long drive…She caught Maggie watching her.

“You look sensational as always,” Maggie told her.

“Hey, it’s not every day I meet a United States senator.”

“Oh, right,” Maggie said with just enough sarcasm for Gwen to smile.

Of course, Maggie wouldn’t let her get away with a comment like that. Gwen’s past and present clients included enough embassy, White House and congressional members to start her own political caucus. Okay, so her friend was not getting enough sleep. Probably still upset about her fallen colleague—a certain amount of depression could develop from such a circumstance. But that Maggie was feeling up to some repartee was a good sign. Maybe Gwen had been worried for no reason.

Two blue-polo-shirt academy recruits held a set of doors open for them. Gwen smiled and thanked them. Maggie only nodded. They started down one of the walkways. Gwen knew they had a long way to go. What would it hurt to make another attempt at finding out if Maggie was, indeed, okay?

“How did breakfast go with your mom yesterday?”

“Fine.”

Too short, too easy. This was it. She knew it.

“It was fine? Really?”

“We didn’t actually have breakfast.”

A group of law enforcement officers in green polo shirts and khakis moved to the side of the walkway and let the two women pass. Used to living in the hustle and bustle of the District, Gwen always felt the treatment she received at Quantico was over the top on the polite-and-courteous Richter scale. Maggie waited for her at the next door before they started down another hallway.

“Let me guess,” Gwen continued as though there had been no interruption, “she didn’t show up.”

“No, she showed up. Boy, did she show up. But I had to leave early. For this case, as a matter of fact.”

Gwen felt that annoying maternal instinct begin to stir—the one that only reared its ugly head when she was feeling protective of her friend. She didn’t dare ask the question for fear she’d get the answer she expected. She asked, anyway. “What do you mean, boy, did she show up? She wasn’t drunk, was she?”

“Can we talk about this later?” Maggie said, then greeted a couple of official-looking men in suits.

Gwen recognized them as other agents. Yes, this probably wasn’t the best place to air the family laundry. They turned a corner and approached another walkway, this one empty. Gwen took advantage of it.

“Yes, we can talk later. But just tell me now what you meant, okay?”

“Jesus! Did anyone ever tell you you’re a pain in the ass?”

“Of course, but you must admit, it’s one of my more endearing qualities.”

She could see Maggie smile, though she kept her attention and her eyes ahead and safely away from Gwen’s.

“She wants us to have Thanksgiving together.”

It was the last thing Gwen expected. When the silence lasted too long, she felt Maggie glance over at her.

“That was sort of my response, too,” Maggie said with another smile.

“Well, you’ve been saying for some time now that she’s trying to change.”

“Yes, her friends and her clothes and her hair. Reverend Everett seems to have helped her change quite a few things in her life, many of them for the better. But no matter what she does, she can’t change history.”

They got to the end of the walkway, and Maggie pointed to the last door on their right. “We’re here.”

Gwen wished they had more time. If she wasn’t eternally late, maybe they would have. As they entered the conference room, the man at the end of the table stood, though it took effort and he leaned on a walking cane. His gesture prompted the other men around the table to stand, as well; Agent Tully, Keith Ganza, whom Gwen recognized as the head of the FBI crime lab, and Assistant Director Cunningham. Detective Julia Racine shifted impatiently in her chair. Maggie ignored her colleagues’ clumsy attempt at courtesy and walked ahead, directly to the senator, her hand outstretched to him.

“Senator Brier, I’m Special Agent Maggie O’Dell and this is Dr. Gwen Patterson. Please excuse us for being late.”

“That’s quite all right”

He shook both their hands with a brisk but bone-crushing strength, as if making up for his disabled left leg. It had been the result of a car accident, Gwen remembered, not a war injury as the media seemed quick to point out during the last election.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Senator,” Gwen said and immediately saw him flinch, uncomfortable with the rise of emotion her simple condolence seemed to spark.

“Thank you,” he said quietly in a tone that suddenly lacked the control and strength that his greeting had projected.

Other than the dark circles under his eyes, Senator Brier looked impeccable, dressed in an expensive navy suit, crisp white shirt and purple silk tie with an initialed gold tie bar. Hoping to put him back at ease, Gwen noticed four initials—WWJD—instead of the traditional three engraved there.

“That’s a lovely tie bar,” she said. “If you don’t mind me asking, what are the initials?”

He looked down as if needing a reminder. “Oh, no, I don’t mind at all. It was a gift from my assistant. He said it’s supposed to help me make important decisions. I’m not much of a spiritual man, but he is, and well, it was a gift.”

“And the initials?” Gwen insisted, despite Cunningham’s frown of impatience.

“I believe it’s the acronym for What Would Jesus Do.”

“Let’s get started,” Cunningham announced, waving them to their places before there could be any more wasted chitchat.

Gwen took a seat close to the senator and noticed that Maggie walked clear around the table, taking a seat next to Keith Ganza and avoiding the empty one next to Racine. However, in doing so, she now sat directly across from the detective. Racine smiled at her and nodded. Maggie looked away. Gwen had forgotten why Maggie disliked the woman so much. She was certain it had something to do with a previous case they had worked together, but there was something else. Something more. What was it? She studied Racine, trying to remember. The detective was a little younger than Maggie. Maybe in her middle or late twenties, fairly young for a detective.

“Senator, I know I speak for all of us when I say I’m sorry for your loss,” Cunningham said, interrupting Gwen’s thoughts and bringing her back to the group in front of her.

“I appreciate that, Kyle. I know having me here is out of the ordinary. I don’t want to get in the way, but I want to be involved.” He pulled at the cuffs of his shirt and leaned his arms on the table. A nervous gesture of a man trying to keep himself together. “I need to be involved.”

Cunningham nodded, began opening file folders and distributing handouts across the table to each of them. “This is what we know so far.”

Before looking at the papers, Gwen knew this would be a watered-down version of the real story. She would need to wait until later to be filled in on the details, which only made her fidget in her chair. She hated not being prepared and wondered why Cunningham hadn’t scheduled a later meeting with the senator, after the task force had had time to discuss the case. Or didn’t he have a choice? Already Gwen could feel there was something about this case that didn’t fit neatly into any of the regular rules and procedures. She glanced at Cunningham and found herself wondering if he really was in charge of this case.

Gwen flipped through the pages and with only a glance began picking out the ambiguous terms, the safe posts that specified approximate time and cause of death, giving information without giving details. Whatever clearance or special permission Senator Brier may have gotten from Director Mueller himself, Gwen knew he would be spared the real facts. Yes, Cunningham would do his best to dilute the gruesome details, no matter who might be calling the shots. And Gwen didn’t blame him. Senator or not, no father should hear about the frightening and brutal last minutes of his daughter’s life.

“There is one thing I need to ask up front.” The senator stopped riffling through the papers, but did not look up. “Was she…was she raped?”

Gwen watched all the men’s faces, their eyes avoiding the senator’s. This was something that fascinated her about men who were close to a victim, whether it be husband, father or son. Their loved one could have been beaten and stabbed beyond recognition, tortured, mutilated and brutally murdered, but somehow none of that was as awful to them as the mere thought that she may have been raped, that she may have been violated in a way incomprehensible to them.