Before Evil Page 4

  “No, I can’t leave my name. He might come after me, too.”

  “Who do you think will come after you, sir?”

  “I’m just a concerned citizen. I can’t say anything more.”

  He’d give the address again and hang up. Simple as that. And then he’d tuck his vehicle into those trees—closer this time—and he’d hike to a place where he could wait and watch.

  But first he needed to introduce poor, restless Susan R. Fuller to her new home.

  8

  The next day

  Quantico

  “Agent O’Dell. Come in.”

  Assistant Director Cunningham waved for Maggie to come into his office even though he remained behind his desk and after only a glance in her direction. His head remained down, eyes focused on the yellow notepad that he continued to scribble on.

  Maggie had never been summoned to her boss’s office. Nicknamed “the Hawk,” Cunningham rarely missed a detail. He also didn’t smile. Now that she thought about it, she had never heard him raise his voice either. He didn’t need to. His agents knew when they disappointed him. And none of them wanted to do that. Maggie imagined disappointing Cunningham would be similar to losing your father’s trust. Once lost, an uphill battle to win it back.

  “Agent O’Dell.” He looked up this time.

  Only then did she realize she hadn’t come into the room yet. Instead, she hovered close to the door as if she wanted to keep open the option of escape. In her mind she tried to go over what she might have done wrong to deserve this summons? Usually Cunningham left her alone in her cramped windowless office. He stopped by to toss files on her overloaded desk on a regular basis. Otherwise there was a conference room meeting once a week. But if he wanted to reprimand her he’d do it in private . . . in his office.

  “You can sit,” he told her.

  She shook off her reluctance and took the lone chair that he pointed to in front of his desk.

  “I’ll be just a minute.” And his head went back down.

  She crossed her legs. Uncrossed them. Gathered her hands in her lap and intertwined her fingers. The chair was wooden. Hard back. Hard seat. Cunningham didn’t want his guests to be too comfortable or want them to stay long.

  This close she caught a glimpse at the open file folder on the corner of the desk’s pristine mahogany surface. Her name was up at the top. Her file.

  This couldn’t be good.

  He was scribbling again on the notepad. Blue ink, not black. Notes filled the margins. Block printing used for emphasis. Crazy the things she noticed. She wanted to shake her head. And once again she reminded herself that not everything needed to be analyzed. Maybe Greg was right. Her professional life was starting to consume, not just her private life, but perhaps her total consciousness. Even the simplest, day-to-day tasks spurred her mind into analytical mode.

  This morning she’d gotten to work early and decided to have breakfast in the cafeteria. She wanted to get a head start on Detective Hogan’s package. She hadn’t gotten back to it since Turner pulled her away for the autopsy. But at breakfast she realized she couldn’t order eggs without wondering if there was a correlation to the personality type of people and the way they liked their eggs prepared. Were hardboiled people more disciplined, for instance? It took fifteen to twenty minutes, after all, to boil an egg. Did the preference for sunny-side up suggest a more flexible personality? What about scrambled?

  “Agent O’Dell?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She sat up straight. Stopped short of flinching and giving away the fact that her mind had wandered. But Cunningham still caught it. She could see it in his eyes as he studied her, now giving her his full attention.

  “I don’t think I ever asked you where you’re from.”

  “From?”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  It wasn’t at all the question she expected and she waited a beat too long as if waiting for the real question.

  “I was born in Green Bay, Wisconsin.”

  That detail would be in her file, and she stopped her eyes from darting to the corner of his desk. She didn’t add the fact that she’d only lived there until she was twelve. That was the year her world fell apart. Her mother moved them to Richmond, Virginia, leaving behind all their friends, neighbors and family along with Maggie’s childhood.

  “Your father’s deceased.”

  Another unexpected question—not really a question but he was waiting for an answer. She wasn’t sure where he was going. Why all of a sudden ask about her childhood…and her father?

  “That’s correct.”

  This wasn’t a subject she wanted to discuss.

  “How did he die?”

  Definitely not a subject she wanted to discuss.

  “He was a firefighter. He died in the line of duty when I was twelve.”

  Maggie held his eyes as if daring him to ask more. She loved her father. No, she adored him. She hadn’t stopped wearing the medallion he had given her. Even now she could feel the chain around her neck, tucked inside her blouse, the small medal pressed against her skin.

  Over fifteen years had gone by and she missed her father terribly. She caught herself wondering if he’d be proud of her. She still watched the Green Bay Packers games every chance she got, usually wearing his oversized jersey. She’d never forget the morning she found that shirt in the dirty laundry basket—almost a week after his death.

  She’d grabbed it, rolled it up and hid it in various secret places where she knew her mother would never look. Then she’d take it out just to smell his scent. Some nights she wrapped herself in the shirt. It helped her sleep. But one morning she made the mistake of leaving it in her unmade bed when she went off to school. She panicked as soon as she realized her mother would find it. That afternoon she raced home relieved to see the jersey still on her bed. But then her heart sank. It was neatly folded and freshly laundered

  Thankfully, Cunningham’s eyes and attention were back on the contents of the file folder. He picked up the top sheet, giving it only a glance

  “Pre-med, masters in behavioral psychology, forensic fellowship here at Quantico, now special agent. All very impressive. And you’ve built quite the reputation using the skills you’ve acquired.”

  He was referring to the long-distance cases she had helped solve. Was that what this was all about? Had she been spending too much time on those? Was he going to shut her down?

  No, it couldn’t be. He had added to her pile. There had been several times he brought her a new case and told her, “Tell me what you see. Tell me who did this.”

  Cunningham actually seemed proud of her when she’d been able to supply investigators with specific details about the killer. What type of job he had, the model of car he drove, whether he lived close to the crime scene, or how old he might be. She’d like to believe her success was due to statistics and logic, but some of it was dumb luck. It certainly wasn’t magic, but Maggie knew that’s what a few of her colleagues said behind her back. Better that they called it magic, rather than voodoo. Whatever “it” was, she had garnered a reputation.

  Now as she sat across the desk from him she realized maybe she wasn’t here to be reprimanded. Perhaps he was getting ready to present her with another test.

  “It’s not just about skills,” he told her. “You have something special, Agent O’Dell. Something beyond your educational background. It has nothing to do with your childhood or the fact that you lost your heroic father.”

  He waved his hand over the file folder like it didn’t matter. Then he leaned forward, elbows rested on the desktop, fingertips together creating a steeple. He held her eyes again.

  “You have a talent for seeing what others miss. Details that appear insignificant to the rest of us. You have instincts about people . . . about killers. While all that is, indeed, a skill, a talent—whate
ver you want to call it—while it all seems like a good thing, I want you to be aware that oftentimes there’s a price to pay for climbing inside the mind of the evil.”

  She stayed quiet, not breaking eye contact, trying to take in his message. Still the good student wanting to learn. She’d heard Cunningham call murderers evil before. The first time, she had to admit that she was surprised. None of her psychology classes or other studies of criminal behavior used the term “evil” as an explanation. It seemed like something relegated to her childhood catechism lessons.

  When her father gave her the medallion he told her it would “help protect her from evil.” She could hear her twelve-year-old voice whispering in the back of her mind, “But it didn’t protect you, Daddy.”

  Evil. For Maggie it belonged only in the mythical realms of religion, like heaven and hell. Maybe that was the catch. In order to believe in evil, you had to believe in hell. And you needed to believe in heaven.

  All these years she wore the medallion not because she thought it might protect her. She wore it simply because it was a precious gift from her father.

  So she was always surprised to hear Cunningham use the word “evil” as if it were a term from one of the textbooks he’d co-written on criminal behavior. But before she had time to respond, he announced the reason she was here—why she had been summoned in the first place.

  “I think you’re ready for a real crime scene.”

  9

  Warren County, Virginia

  “I’ve never seen so much blood,” Sheriff Geller warned them. “It’s like a slaughterhouse in there.”

  Maggie knew he was referring to the double-wide trailer that sat in the middle of the acreage.

  “Smells like one, too,” he added.

  Hard to believe. From outside Maggie thought the property looked like picturesque rural Virginia. A forest lined one side of the long driveway. Tall pine trees grew and climbed up the hill, standing so close together it was impossible to see between them. Less than a hundred feet away she could see a riverbank and the shimmer of rolling water.

  Quiet and tranquil—the type of place people go to escape.

  “Your deputies didn’t touch anything?” Cunningham asked.

  Geller shook his head. “We didn’t go in. Saw enough from the doorway.”

  From the look on the sheriff’s face he wouldn’t be joining them.

  Maggie tried to take in everything. She made mental notes. The yard had two well-maintained berms with flowers in bloom and several ceramic gnomes. A cobbled-stone path led to the front door. In the back she caught a glimpse of bed sheets hung from a clothesline, flapping in the breeze. From somewhere she could hear the soft delicate tinkle of a wind chime. Someone had made this place a home. And now it was a crime scene with yellow tape stretched from tree to tree all the way to the poles of the clothesline.

  The sheriff and his deputy—introduced only as Deputy Steele—had parked a safe distance away as they waited for A.D. Cunningham and his three agents. Turner and Delaney were veterans. They didn’t flinch at Geller’s warning. They’d probably seen worse. Maggie had seen dozens of bloody crime scenes as well. But she’d viewed them secondhand from photographs or—if she was lucky—videotape. Autopsies didn’t count. So this crime scene would be her first real one.

  Of course, it didn’t take long for her to understand there were benefits to seeing crime scenes secondhand.

  The first thing she noticed was the smell. Then the heat.

  Agent Delaney opened the trailer’s door and the wave of hot foul air hit them all. No amount of training could have prepared Maggie for this. She fought her gag reflex. She didn’t want the men to notice. Didn’t want to remind them this was her first scene.

  “Whoa!” It was Delaney who complained.

  He pulled the door shut and took a step backward, delaying their entrance. Maggie tried to refocus, grateful for his hesitation and the opportunity to suck in a few more breaths of fresh air.

  She could do this. She had to be able to do this.

  She felt Cunningham tap her on the shoulder. Immediately, she thought he was prodding her forward, ready to observe her initial response. But when she glanced back, his hand stayed outstretched. It took her a few seconds to realize he was handing her shoe covers, latex gloves and a small jar of Vicks VapoRub.

  She took the covers and gloves but started to wave off the Vicks. The last thing she wanted was special treatment, but then she got a whiff and saw the greasy ointment smeared on his upper lip. Turner already had some, too, and out of the corner of her eye Maggie could see Delaney waiting for his turn. She swabbed on a layer and passed it on.

  When Delaney opened the front door to the trailer a second time, the dab of menthol under her nose made no difference.

  10

  At first glance, Maggie thought it looked as though every surface had been splattered with blood. The walls were a Jackson Pollock masterpiece of horror, spaghetti streaks that crisscrossed in layers. One of the victims hung from the ceiling. Electrical cord tied his feet and hands.

  Although the man’s body was now bloated, Maggie knew it was his blood on the walls. It didn’t take a blood spatter expert to speculate that his throat had been slashed after he had been hung upside down.

  “Looks like he fought for a while,” Turner said what the rest of them were thinking.

  She had to look away, and that’s when she noticed the bloody prints on the carpet.

  “Someone was barefooted.”

  All of them looked up at the man’s feet, corded together at the ceiling and still laced up in tennis shoes. Turner took off down the narrow hallway to the back of the trailer, careful where he stepped. Maggie could hear him opening doors.

  She tried to concentrate. She needed to look at this no differently than she would look at the photos she received of other crime scenes.

  Focus, she told herself.

  But the smell was overwhelming. Like suffocating inside a Dumpster filled with rotting meat. Sweat slid down her back. Strands of hair stuck to her damp forehead and she swiped it with the back of her arm. It didn’t help matters that she couldn’t shake an annoying buzz from inside her head. And the heat—she was burning up.

  “Feels like he cranked up the furnace,” Cunningham said.

  So it wasn’t just her. Little relief came with that revelation.

  “Heat accelerates decomp,” Maggie told them, all the while fighting the acid backing up from her stomach.

  “And speeds up the work of our little friends.” Delaney pointed at the mass of black, a stain on the victim’s T-shirt.

  She thought it was dried blood, a possible stab wound to the abdomen. But now she saw movement.

  Maggots! Oh God, she hated maggots.

  She swallowed bile. Tried to breathe.

  Stupid gag reflex.

  Yes, there were many advantages to observing a crime scene from photographs and video.

  Concentrate. Focus.

  Then she realized the buzzing wasn’t in her head.

  Flies. There had to be hundreds although she couldn’t see them. They had finished here and were working in the next room. Carefully watching her steps, she followed the sound. A mass of flies swarmed what looked like dinner left on the kitchen table. An open takeout container was black with flies. As were the melted puddles surrounding it.

  “Victim number two is in the bedroom,” Turner announced from down the hall. “Female.”

  Cunningham shot a glance at Maggie. If he was worried about protecting her sensibilities it was a little late.

  “Throat’s slashed. Clothes haven’t been pulled down or off. Her hands are tied in front. And she still has her shoes on. No bare feet.”

  “Electrical cord?” Maggie asked.

  Turner looked back into the bedroom then said, “Yah, looks like it. What a
re you thinking?”

  Maggie pointed to a capsized lamp. Its cord had been cut. “He didn’t bring rope or ties. He used what was already here.”

  Turner nodded.

  “The killer wasn’t organized. He didn’t come prepared,” she said.

  “Or is he cocky enough that he knows he could kill them without much preparation?” Cunningham asked.

  “No forced entry,” Delaney said as he examined the doorjamb.

  “I didn’t see any broken windows,” Turner added. “Back door’s not kicked in.”

  “So chances are they let him in,” Delaney said. “Someone they knew?”

  “Any signs of drugs?” Cunningham’s eyes darted around.

  Turner shook his head. “Not out in the open like a drug deal gone bad.”

  “So are the bloody footprints his?” Cunningham asked. “Could we be that lucky?”

  “If they are, he’s a small guy,” Delaney said.

  “Charlie Manson’s only five foot two,” she told them as her eyes tried to follow the smeared bloody steps.

  “Come on now,” Turner said, sliding his words into a jive on purpose. “Don’t it freak you guys out that she can come up with crap like that so casually?”

  Maggie smiled. The other two men ignored the comment. She walked back into the living room, following the bloody steps. They seemed to start at the upside down body. They backed up then they turned around in small smeared circles and headed in the other direction.

  “If he didn’t bring restraints maybe he didn’t bring a weapon either.” Maggie headed back to the kitchen.

  What were the chances he used a knife from the victims’ own utility drawer? It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. A wood block with knives sat on the counter by the sink. Several were missing from their slots.