Body Count Page 3

  Rivers is referring to his profiling sessions that I sat in on. The Victoria police sent me to the FBI Academy’s International Training Program, a six-week course at Quantico. One of the main subjects was profiling, an area my bosses wanted me to refine. I don’t think it had ever crossed their minds that I might end up leaving the force because of it. I still feel a little guilty about it too.

  Rivers took me aside after the course and asked me a few questions. When he found out I had dual citizenship, he offered me a job on the spot.

  “There’s something different about you,” Rivers says.

  A slight chill rises slowly up my spine. The problem is, I vaguely know what he’s talking about. I feel it myself sometimes. But I can’t explain it.

  “It’s—” He is interrupted by Sam.

  “Let me guess, you filed it?” she says, pulling in close enough to talk.

  “Yep. Files are ready to go.” I notice, with some amusement, that Sam has several disappointed men looking at her back, but I don’t think she would ever mix business with pleasure.

  “Were you giving her a pep talk, boss?” Sam says.

  “Of sorts.” Rivers smiles at me and only slight creases form around his mouth. His dark skin is smooth and looks like a thirty-year-old, yet I’d place him at around forty-five. Like many African-American men, he wears his age well and even the small patches of gray near his temples add distinction rather than age.

  “So what dragged you away from your filing?” Sam asks me.

  “Marco. He was insistent.”

  Sam discreetly gives me a conspiring look. She knows me well. In fact, so far she’s the only person I’d say was a good friend, besides Marco. That’s no mean feat when you move countries. Nothing can replace ten or more years of friendship. Of history. But with Sam we clicked straightaway. History has to start somewhere.

  “Well, ladies, I’m off,” Rivers says.

  “Why don’t you stay, sir,” I say, even though I’ve never seen him stay. He has a beer or two and that’s it.

  “No…” He drags out the “o.” “Besides, I have to let any would-be thieves know that the house isn’t abandoned.”

  He does work hard. Long hours.

  “Have a good night but don’t forget our eight o’clock meeting,” he says.

  Sam and I look at each other and respond in unison. “We won’t.”

  Rivers comes in close but doesn’t lower his voice. “She’ll be a bad influence on you, that one.” He points his finger at Sam.

  “Me?” Sam winks at me.

  Rivers raises his hand in a saluting goodbye. “Good night all,” he yells over his shoulder and then disappears out the door.

  Sam’s admirers soon join us and I watch Sam enthrall her captive audience. One night, about a month ago, she insisted we go clubbing. But instead of going out in our normal clothes, she managed to convince me to dress up in cheerleading garb. We pretended we were up from Texas for cheerleading tryouts—Sam’s from there anyway—and I even attempted a Texan accent. The guys were all over us, thinking they’d stumbled onto easy marks. I went along with it for about two hours before one of the guys spotted my gun in my handbag. Suddenly we didn’t look like “easy lays” and they were gone, moving on to a couple of women at the bar.

  The gun scares off lots of men. It probably doesn’t help that I carry it with me everywhere. Perhaps I’m paranoid, but you never know when you’ll need it. In Australia I used to carry my gun and badge all the time too. The problem is, I know what, or should I say who, is out there. I see their handiwork every day. At least here I’ve got an excuse—it’s Bureau policy that we’re armed at all times.

  Sam’s telling the guys a story but I’m only half listening. Tonight I don’t feel like joining in on the fun. I think about the case and the victims. I find it hard to party with Christine Henley and the others staring at me with wide, frightened eyes. I see so much in a victim’s eyes.

  Marco brings me back. “Thinking about home?”

  “No. Not home…” I pause. “Do you think we should have—”

  “We got him, Sophie. That’s all that matters now. That’s all you can think about.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

  Everyone else seems so good at separating the horror from their everyday lives. Everyone except me. Or maybe they’re just better at putting on the front. The BAU has one of the highest burnout rates in the FBI. It’s easy to get too close, too absorbed in a killer’s mind.

  A few hours later Marco and I walk out of the smoke-filled bar. I take in a deep breath of fresh air, already regretting the late night.

  Marco walks me to my car, not saying much, but it’s a comfortable silence. I’m glad of his company. I say good-night to him and bundle into my car. I jump on the I75 to Alexandria, where my apartment is. It’s between the unit’s base in Quantico and D.C.

  I walk into my apartment and dump my bag and keys on the hall table.

  “Hi, honey, I’m home.”

  Silence.

  I took this job knowing I was leaving my boyfriend of seven years, Matt, and my friends and family. I couldn’t pass up the chance to work at the FBI. The real deal. It had been my dream since…well, as long as I can remember. I guess that’s what happens when you grow up on Charlie’s Angels, James Bond and The X-Files. But it’s hard coming home to an empty house, knowing the people you love are on the other side of the world. I look at the two clocks on the wall, which I’ve labeled Washington and Melbourne. It’s just past midnight here, which makes it around 2:00 p.m. in Melbourne. I consider ringing home but then decide I’m too tired to have an intelligent conversation.

  Before I go to bed I perform my nightly ritual. You’re never really safe, especially not in your own home. Perps wait until your guard’s down, and what better place than when you’re at home, or fast asleep.

  Gun in hand, I check out my apartment, starting with my tiny kitchen, even though it’s hard enough to prepare a meal in it, let alone find a hiding spot. But to satisfy my inner demons I check it anyway. I move to the living area. It’s a large, open space and I’ve managed to fit a small dining table with four chairs in one corner and a two-seater couch, coffee table, bookshelf and stereo system across the room. A few potted plants liven up the place and four black-and-white photos give the room a personal touch. All the photos are of Melbourne: a tram, Luna Park, Flinders Street Station, a sculpture on Swanston Street. The space is roomy, despite the furniture. I check this area quickly and then move on to the linen closet in the hallway, one of the few good hiding spots in the apartment.

  With the linen closet clear, I move down the hallway toward the bathroom and my bedroom. Bathroom first. Large white tiles cover the floor and halfway up the walls. The sink is a large frosted-glass dish. This one feature transforms an otherwise standard bathroom into something a little different. I check behind the shower curtain and then head to my bedroom, which is at the end of the hall. I’ve given the room a Japanese flavor, with a dark wood slatted bed, matching bedside tables and a dressing table. A small Buddha sits in the corner, and next to that I’ve placed a Japanese screen. I check underneath the bed and inside the built-in wardrobe.

  Satisfied that I’m alone, I return to the living room, check the locks on the doors and windows, then put on a Sarah Vaughan CD. The last part of my ritual is to close the curtains.

  I hit the mattress and my body sinks in appreciation. I’d like to go straight to sleep, but experience has taught me to read first; it seems to help the nightmares. Something light and escapist like fantasy is the best. I become absorbed in the fantasy world, rather than my world of violence and bodies. I used to get the nightmares back in Australia if a case was really getting to me, but since I’ve been profiling here the nightmares have been worse. I don’t know why.

  Tonight I read Julia Gray’s The Dark Moon and give myself over to the world of the floating islands.

  I wake with a start at 4:00 a.m., my left calf muscle cramping
hard. I reach down and grab my calf, wanting to stop the pain. But I just have to ride it out. As I stretch against the spasm, I have a vague recollection of a nightmare…

  A naked girl, lying down. Her eyes are open, her head turned. She looks at me. But she’s dead, her body still and cold. A symbol flashes big and bold, then I see the dead girl again. On her leg I see the symbol. It’s a tattoo on her upper thigh.

  Then a different girl, a redhead, walks to a car. We’re in a parking lot and it’s deserted. I watch her in my side mirror as she gets closer. But I’m not me. I’m watching her through someone else’s eyes. I feel the desire to kill bubbling through this person.

  Then I run. I’m running for my life.

  I like to get to know my girls. It’s important. That’s the problem with the world these days. Everyone’s in a hurry. But there’s no need. Life takes…well, a lifetime, so why rush through a day and speed the process up? Especially when it may be the last day of your life.

  People don’t like to wait—for anything, including sex. But they should. People jump into intimacy way too fast. Not me. She has to be special, and it takes time to know if she’s worthy. I like to breathe in her scent. Her flesh. I know what perfume she wears, what shampoo and brand of makeup she uses. I absorb it all.

  Sometimes I even talk to her. But usually I watch her from afar first, until it’s time. What sort of person is she? Hurried and annoyed, or courteous and kind? Does she smile? Is she worthy of my special love? Not many of them are in the end, but I try. And I’ll keep trying until I find the one. Someone who truly appreciates me.

  But regardless of who she is, when I see her I smile charmingly, smug in the knowledge that soon she’ll be mine. Mine to touch, mine to hold. Mine to love.

  CHAPTER 03

  At 6:00 a.m. my alarm goes off. I fight the tiredness and swing my legs over the side of the bed, forcing myself into an upright position. I remember waking up at 4:00 a.m., and I remember some sort of nightmare. But the additional two hours of sleep has pulled a thick veil over the memory. Someone was killed, but that’s what most of my nightmares are about—murder.

  I chop up two carrots, peel two oranges and cut them into quarters. My noisy juicer screens out the sounds of next door’s television and within a couple of minutes a nice thick, bright orange mixture is in my glass. I dish out some fruit salad from a large Tupperware bowl in the fridge and sit down at the table to read the Washington Post. I flick through the news section while I eat.

  Fifteen minutes later I pull the couch across to one side of the room and roll out my Pilates mat. My thirtyminute DVD routine consists mainly of abdominal work, with some leg and butt work. I notice with triumph that my flexibility seems to be improving. I was always pretty flexible from kung fu, but through Pilates the stretches are becoming easier. By the end of the routine I’m sweaty but happy with my healthy start to the day. Perhaps the good start, with the help of one or ten coffees, will make up for my late night.

  I stumble into headquarters right at 7:59 a.m., coffee in hand. I open my office, dump my bag and grab my notebook and a pile of files from the top of my in-tray. I’ve tagged ten in all as higher-priority cases out of the forty waiting for my attention. We have to prioritize, but every file that is pushed back in line could mean another life. It’s overwhelming. That’s partly why the unit has such a high burnout rate…and a high divorce rate.

  Some of the files have been sitting on my desk for weeks. We’re not supposed to take them home—it’s Bureau policy that no files leave the building—but we do. You have to when so much is at stake.

  My slight heels make a clip-clop sound as I hurriedly move through the Bureau corridors to meeting room 2 in the center of the building. I rush in and take a seat next to Sam. I’m not the last, not quite, but Rivers is just about to start. He glances at me, a look I can’t decipher. He removes his glasses and starts.

  “Since our meeting last week, two cases have been closed. Congratulations to Agents Anderson and Marco for their work on the Henley case.” He pauses. “Also, the Night Fever case Agent Hammerston profiled a couple of months ago has been closed. The LAPD caught their guy on the weekend and got the confession too.”

  He looks to his left, at me. “Anderson, you go first.” He waits, pen poised and glasses back on.

  I start my rundown. “I’ve picked out ten cases for the next two weeks. Two of the cases look like they’re a perp’s first kill, but both of them will kill again. We need to get the perps now.”

  Heads nod around the room in acknowledgment. First-time murderers often make mistakes and it’s good to get them early before they become better at hiding their tracks.

  “The other eight I’ve selected are longer-term cases, but some of them are particularly nasty. Like the Whistler case in Canada. The perp’s escalating big-time.”

  Rivers scribbles something in his notepad and keeps his head down as he talks. “The media love that case, even though it’s in Canada.”

  “Yeah. It’s a hot one all right.” I glance around the room, conscious of keeping the pace moving. “I’ve also got to do a few follow-ups for the profiles I did before the Henley case.”

  Rivers stops scrawling, looks up and nods.

  We continue around the room, with each profiler running through their caseload in turn. I sip my double-shot coffee hoping the caffeine will kick in soon. But concentration seems impossible…how nice it would be to be lying on a beach somewhere. I close my eyes, imagining hot sand on my skin. But this relaxing image is suddenly replaced by a naked dead girl. My dream comes flooding into my conscious mind. I open my eyes with a start and the girl fades.

  I tune in to the meeting again and am shocked to hear Sam finishing off the run-through of her workload. Had we gotten around everyone?

  “Okay, people. Sounds like you’re all busy, but that’s nothing new,” Rivers says. “And I’m afraid we’re going to have to shuffle some cases around, but I’ll let Pike explain.” Rivers is unable to hide the hint of gruffness. “He’ll be here in a moment. Now, I’ve also got three new cases. We’ve got a child killer in Texas. A strangler on the loose in Boston—”

  A ripple of grim laughter fills the room.

  “I kid you not,” Rivers says, acknowledging the absurdity of another Boston Strangler. “And we’ve got a request from the French police for a profile of a band of bank robbers.” Rivers looks down at his notepad again, “James—”

  Peter James stops flicking his pen against his notebook and looks up.

  “—you can have the strangler. Tuldoon, you’ve got the Texas case—”

  Jim Tuldoon, always a stickler for paperwork, writes furiously in his notebook. What could he be writing at this stage other than “killer in Texas”?

  “—and Wright, you’ve got the bank heists.”

  Sam looks up, winks and clicks her mouth at Rivers. Only Sam could get away with it.

  I think a smile plays on Rivers’s lips before he moves on. “No surprises there. So—”

  Rivers is interrupted by the entrance of the director of the unit, Jonathan Pike. Pike wears his standard well-tailored dark gray suit, which provides a contrasting surface for his dandruff. He hovers at the door.

  “Sorry, Andy. Do you want to finish up?”

  “No, no. I was done anyways.” Rivers says the right words, but his tone implies something altogether different. I’ve never noticed any animosity between the two before.

  Pike takes the podium. “Okay. Well, first off I’d like to congratulate Agents Marco and Anderson for their work on the Henley case.” Pike motions his right hand toward us in a stiff manner. “As you know, it became a high-priority case for us and I’m glad to say we delivered for the politicians, yet again. So thanks to you both for the long hours.” He pauses, withdrawing his right hand, and for a minute it looks like he’s going to give us a round of applause. Instead, his arm returns to his side. “Now, I’m afraid I’ve got some other news that won’t thrill you.”

&nb
sp; Everyone groans. I knew it. No wonder Rivers is pissed.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. It’s Hunter this time. He’s been reassigned to the Counterterrorism Unit. I know things are getting tough for us over here, and I’m doing everything I can to keep as many resources as possible. But we can’t afford another 9/11. Director Mueller has to answer to the American public.” He looks at his unconvinced audience. “Rest assured he does value what we do here. I’m sorry, people, I know you’re already busy, but there’s not much I, or we, can do about it. Andy?” And with that Pike hands it back to Rivers and leaves the meeting.

  The unit had twenty people in it before September 11 and now there are only twelve of us. Eleven after Hunter leaves.

  “Any cases in Hunter’s load that appeal?” Rivers says, eyeing the rest of us.

  “I’d like those religious murders down in Arkansas,” James says, furiously tapping his pen against his notebook again. The man drinks too much coffee. Not that I can talk.

  “And I’ll take the kidnapping in Rhode Island,” Hammerston says.

  I missed Hunter’s case rundown. I should have paid attention. As the other agents call out their preferences, I try to remember at least one of his top-priority cases. My mind is sluggish and refuses to respond.

  “I’ll take the D.C. one,” I finally say. I can’t remember the case, but Hunter had one on the go in the city. A serial killer, just my style, and only two known murders to date…I think. At least, that’s what I remember from last week’s meeting.

  Everyone turns their heads and looks at me. The room falls silent. I’ve said or done something foolish.

  “What?”

  Sam breaks the silence with a lighthearted laugh, taking the impatient eyes away from me. “I just asked for that one, honey.”

  “Oh.” I feel suitably dense.

  “Do you want it?” Sam says.

  “No, no, I’ll take—” and there I stop, because for the life of me I can’t remember any of Hunter’s other cases.