Psychobyte

  For Rebekah …

  A man is a method, a progressive

  arrangement, a selecting principle, gathering

  his like unto him wherever he goes.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  One

  Some Nights

  Flinging open my door, I climbed out and hauled my backpack from the backseat and walked across the grass toward the dark-haired woman sporting a long ponytail and a Fairfax PD vest.

  “SSA Ellie Conway, FBI,” I said, extending my hand.

  “Detective Troy Fallon, Fairfax PD,” she replied, giving my hand a firm shake.

  “Did you make the call for FBI assistance?”

  She nodded. “That was me.”

  “Who made the initial nine-one-one call?”

  “A co-worker of the deceased, Emilio Herrera.”

  The name rolled around in my head for a moment. Familiar. Good or bad? I gave it a second. Good. Emilio Herrera worked for us. For the FBI. Images slithered into place until they hit the right combination and put Herrera in context. Administrative Services Division. Human Resources. Now I knew why the early call to Delta: as a co-worker of Herrera’s, the crime was committed against a federal employee.

  I sighed without intending to. “Give me a minute, Troy. I need to make a call.” Phone in my hand, I walked a few feet away and called Sandra at the office.

  “How can I help, O Mighty Leader of Delta?” Sandra replied with her usual zest.

  “I’m on scene at a murder of a federal employee. I need you to contact HR. Get two employee records released to Delta. Emilio Herrera and … one sec.” I moved the phone away from my mouth and called out to Troy. “Victim’s name?”

  “Jane Daughtry.”

  Not a name I recognized but that didn’t mean much. I smiled a thank you and carried on talking to Sandra. “Jane Daughtry is the victim. Also, Kurt, Lee, and Sam?”

  “Lee and Sam are helping Delta B with an arrest. Kurt is in a meeting with the Chief.”

  Just me for now. Okay. That’s fine.

  “Okay.”

  “You need backup?”

  “No. Got police on scene. I’m good.”

  “I’ll have those files waiting for you.” The familiar sound of Sandra’s fingers tapping on her keyboard at breakneck speed punctuated her words.

  “Thanks.”

  I hung up, pocketed my phone and rejoined Troy.

  “Everything okay?”

  I nodded. “Is Mr. Herrera here?”

  “Yes. Talking to one of my officers.” She turned and tipped her head to a marked car on the opposite curb. “We kept him here until you arrived.”

  Kept him here? I doubt he would’ve left. He’s FBI. He knows the drill.

  “Give me a minute, I need a quick word with Mr. Herrera.”

  I strode toward the marked car. Emilio clambered from the car and met me halfway.

  “Agent Conway.” Relief cocooned his words. “Thank God, you’re here.”

  “You all right?” I asked, noting his pallor. “They treating you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hang here. I’ll go see what’s what then we’ll talk.”

  His hand grabbed mine. I extracted my hand from his grip. Before I could move away, he grabbed my hand again. This time, I added a reassuring smile and gave his hand a small squeeze.

  “I need to do my job.” I withdrew my hand. Emilio rocked from foot to foot, wringing his hands, tears welling. I opted to hear him out. The victim couldn’t go anywhere. “Tell me what you can about this morning.”

  “We carpool.” He wiped a hand across his watery eyes. “She’s always waiting out front when I arrive …”

  “She?”

  “Jane,” he said, his voice breaking. “Jane Daughtry.”

  “Tell me what happened when you arrived.”

  He sniffed, took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “I arrived at seven. Parked there.” He pointed to his car by the curb. “Jane’s usually out front. I went and knocked on the door. There was no answer.” He blew his nose again.

  “Take your time,” I said. “There was no answer?”

  “No answer. I went back to the car. I thought she was, you know, indisposed, and would be out any minute.”

  “Of course.”

  “Ten minutes later, she was still not out. I called her cell phone. She didn’t answer and it went to voicemail. I tried her landline. Nothing. A few minutes later I texted her. She didn’t reply. I got out of the car and walked around to the side of the house.” He pointed. “And that’s when I saw the open windows and the crushed flowers in the bed below.”

  “Did you see anyone when you arrived?”

  “No.”

  “Open window, crushed flowers. Then what?”

  “I listened and heard water running. I called out. No answer. I rang nine-one-one.”

  “Thank you, Emilio.”

  “If I’d called sooner—”

  “That’s not helpful thinking. Go and sit in the car. I’ll be back.” I patted Emilio on the shoulder. “We’ll find out what happened.”

  Detective Fallon waited for me at the entrance to the apartment. Something about her made me uneasy. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. The cop at the door handed us disposable booties.

  “Let’s do this thing, Detective.”

  “Troy, please, Agent Conway.”

  I nodded. “Troy it is, as long as you call me Ellie and not Agent Conway.”

  She appeared friendlier than before. Maybe it was initial nerves I’d picked up on.

  “Come on through. I’ll think you’ll find this worthy of your time,” Troy said. Her mouth set in a grim line. She led the way past several officers. At the bathroom door, I stopped and patted my pockets.

  Damn. No gloves.

  I usually carried small black nitrile gloves. I swung my pack off my shoulder and checked the front pocket where my spare gloves lived. Growling internally, I remembered intending to replace the gloves but the box in my office had disappeared.

  “Troy, do you have nitrile or latex gloves on you?”

  “Sure.” Troy dipped her hand into her jacket pocket and handed me a pair of latex gloves.

  “Did Mr. Herrera come into the apartment at all?”

  “No. He waited outside for uniforms to arrive.”

  Good.

  “This is the cleanest murder scene I’ve attended. Our victim ...” she swung open the door and pointed to the shower, “… is in there.” Troy waited by the door while I entered the room.

  Yep, it was clean.

  At first glance, the victim’s body appeared awkward, crumpled yet leaning against the shower wall. It looked as though she wanted to curl up but prevented somehow or unable to. Strands of her long wet blonde hair stuck to her blanched cheek. My eyes skirted the slashes and stab wounds on her body, not yet ready to take in the extent of the injuries.

  “Jane Daughtry,” I said, “we’re not meeting under the nicest of circumstances.”

  “Did you need something?” Troy poked her head around the door.

  “Nope.” I bent down to Jane. “We’ll talk soon. I just need to have a look at your bathroom first.”

  A fresh towel hung on a rail within reach of the shower. A clothes hamper stood in the corner. I lifted the lid. Empty. A faint scent intrigued me. I bent down to the hamper and sniffed: musky, wet dirt. I dropped the lid. The cabinet under the sink contained four drawers and one cupboard. The drawers contained all manner of expected things; hair brushes, hair dryer, styling tools, tissues, body lotions. In the cupboard, the usual cleaning products, cloths, and a roll of paper towels. Folded towels, stacked in three groups of two, on a shelf beside the sink. Lime green, bright blue, lime green. I turned and looked at the towel she
’d chosen to use.

  Dark blue. Perhaps the stacked towels were for show?

  A vase containing bright blue and lime green skinny branches sat on the vanity countertop.

  Arty.

  Behind the large mirror above the sink was another cabinet, containing prescription medications, over-the-counter medications, hair products, and makeup. One of the pill bottles sat with the label obscured, yet all the others faced out. I lifted it out for closer inspection. Sleeping tablets. A new prescription dated three days prior. I opened the lid, expecting a month’s worth of tablets minus maybe three pills. Tipping the contents into my gloved hand, I counted ten pills.

  Ten.

  “Troy?” I called.

  She appeared next to me. “Problem?”

  “Did you look in the medicine cabinet?”

  She nodded. “Glanced more than looked. Very orderly cabinet.”

  Yes. Except for one bottle facing the wrong way.

  “Have you considered suicide?”

  Troy’s face clouded. “Suicide?”

  I showed her the pill bottle and the contents of my hand, then tipped the pills back in the container and placed it carefully on the shelf, the way I’d found it.

  “Something to think about,” I replied. “I’ll be right back.”

  I left her in the bathroom and did a quick tour of the rest of the house. Nothing out of place anywhere. Open windows in the living room, dining room, and the main bedroom. I checked the bedside table for something that might explain her state of mind.

  A notebook. I flipped through it and cold tendrils wound through my soul. A darkness in Jane emerged from the poetry on the pages. I held the book by the spine and shook it. A folded piece of paper floated to the ground.

  I bent down to retrieve it and saw another book under the bed. I took both and sat down on the edge of the meticulously made bed. First the piece of paper. I opened it to find a sentence: Don’t leave me.

  Comparing that sentence with the handwritten poems, even I could tell they were by the same person. Jane had also written her name inside the front cover of the notebook. I turned my attention to the book from under the bed. Familiar oranges on the cover set off a carillon of bells and whistles. Warning. Warning. I turned it over in my hand. Whispers in the Water.

  Ever since my brother, Aidan, found a publisher for it, unbeknownst to Mac and me, I’d been haunted by that book. I opened it and saw Mac’s handwriting: Dear Jane, keep writing. All the best, Mac Connelly.

  He’d dated it. I stared at the date and tried to remember what we’d done doing that day. Was it an official book signing? Did it matter? Probably not.

  I turned it over in my hands a few times. A much-read book, some pages marked. I let the book fall open at the first of the marked pages. Stolen. A shiver ran through me. I hated that poem. Hated what it became at the hands of a killer. Finding my poetry at another potential crime scene did not sit well with my last coffee.

  Troy’s voice rang out. “Agent Conway? Ellie?”

  “Master bedroom,” I called back.

  Footsteps approached. Troy walked through the doorway. “Find something?”

  “Yes, I did.” I cleared my head by reminding myself it was not about me. “She wrote some dark poetry.” I didn’t say she’d been reading it as well.

  “Could this be suicide?”

  Did I really think so, even though I’d asked the same question? No, but we’d have to explore it like everything else.

  “You wouldn’t have called me in if you thought this was suicide,” I replied. “What did you see that made you call me?”

  “Stab wounds and no blood.”

  “Weapon?”

  “No knife in the bathroom … unless it’s under the body. We haven’t moved her.”

  I stood up. The scene unnerved me. Judgment call time. “I’ll call our crime techs. You’ll get copies of the reports but I want our people involved.”

  She didn’t argue. I made the call to the techs and our medical examiner. Then I called Delta.

  “Let’s go back to Jane and see what she has to say,” I said, ushering Troy from the room. I left the book on the bed. The techs would get it along with everything else.

  The cleanliness of the bathroom bothered me. Nothing out of place. Not even a stray hair from a hair brush. I knelt by the shower, close to her head and whispered, “What happened, Jane? What do you need to tell me?”

  Her cloudy eyes stared at something. I wriggled around putting my head as close to hers as possible without contaminating the crime scene. Her fixed gaze pointed to the side of the vanity unit. A tiny triangle, out of place, poked out from behind it. Scrambling to my feet, I lurched toward the vanity. Looked like a small piece of paper. I pulled a packet containing sterile disposable forceps from my bag and tore it open. Carefully, I grasped the eighth of an inch of visible white paper and extracted it.

  “How did you see that?” Troy asked.

  “Jane told me,” I replied, dropping the paper into my hand. I handed Troy the forceps and inspected the paper, no bigger than a piece from a memo cube, white, and folded in quarters.

  “What is it?” Troy ignored the comment I made about the dead woman talking to me.

  Wise lady.

  “Paper,” It contained four words. “‘Don’t take it personally.’”

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s what it says, ‘Don’t take it personally.’” I showed her the note.

  “Wonder what it means?”

  “Nothing good,” I replied. “Good things are not usually hidden in a crime scene.”

  I held the note carefully by one corner and took an evidence bag out of my pack. Troy took it and opened it up, allowing me to drop the note into it.

  I wrote the date, time, and Jane Daughtry’s name on the chain of custody form printed on the evidence bag then added a description of the evidence and signed my name. I dropped it into my bag. My gut told me this would be our case, so I’d generate a case number back at the office.

  Turning to Jane Daughtry’s body, I started by counting and inspecting stab wounds. Most of them appeared shallow. The deep, life-ending gashes were down her wrists.

  Did someone want this to look like suicide? All the wounds could’ve been made by the victim, with none in difficult to reach places. But why would someone repeatedly stab themselves? Where was the blood? Who took all the sleeping pills?

  “There isn’t one drop of blood anywhere … why?” I said.

  “The shower was running hot when uniforms arrived. The shower head is removable and high-powered. You can see water drops high up on the walls.”

  “Disregarding the suicide idea for the moment, someone cleaned up.”

  Which didn’t rule out suicide; family members have been known to clean up after suicides. If you intended to murder someone, killing them in a shower was a good option. It confined the mess and made it easier to clean up.

  “So we have a clean killer?”

  Be nice if all killers were so considerate.

  What was missing? Smell. If the killer cleaned, he did so with water not with bleach or any other cleaning product. I breathed in through my nose. No residual chemical smells. I took a closer look at the cleaning products I’d seen in the cabinet under the sink and pulled out two spray bottles and a cream cleanser, all hypoallergenic non-scented cleaning products. One of the sprays was for glass, the other a general bathroom cleaner.

  “This stuff might have been used on the surfaces,” I said, checking each bottle for a residual smell, just in case. Sometimes non-scented wasn’t.

  Replacing the bottles, I noticed a roll of paper towels behind the stack of cleaning cloths. I opened the swing-top trash can next to the vanity. Scrunched paper towels.

  “So the Unsub hosed down the shower and the body, then wiped over all the external surfaces with paper towels and cleaning product?” Troy said, writing in her notebook.

  “Maybe. Or Jane cleaned the bathroom earlier.”
<
br />   It’s never straightforward. People complicate things.

  I bent down to Jane and said, “I’ll find out what happened here.” And smelled a warm scent rising from her skin. A fleeting, ethereal image filled my mind, of Jane stepping into the shower, reaching for shower gel from the caddy on the wall. My eyes swung to the caddy. No shower gel.

  So where was it?

  When I looked up, Troy was watching me.

  “Do you always talk to the dead?”

  “Yes. She’s the only one who knows what really happened here, apart from the killer and Jane won’t lie.”

  “I suppose,” Troy said.

  “There’s no shower gel or soap in the shower,” I said, breathing in the same scent again. It reminded me of something, a perfume I’d smelled before.

  Troy wrote in her notebook. “That’s odd. But you found hypoallergenic cleaning products so maybe she’s allergic to soaps and so forth.”

  I didn’t really want to say I saw her reach for the shower gel before she died.

  “Or, the killer took it,” I said.

  “A trophy?”

  “Possibly.”

  “What are your thoughts?”

  “I think our Unsub is just getting started.” The note created a special kind of disturbance in the force. One that told me we would see more notes and more death. “There’s something familiar about this scene. I’ll get back to you.”

  Bits and pieces of the crime scene and Jane’s home swirled in my mind. What happened to the missing sleeping pills? How many sex offenders lived in the area? Any sexual aspect to the killing? What happened to the shower gel she’d used? And I knew without a shadow of a doubt that the Unsub had left some kind of evidence in the house, we just had to find it. Every contact leaves a trace. There is no exception to that rule.

  A female voice I didn’t recognize spoke from deep within my head, telling me to start with the prescription bottle. I checked the bathroom cabinet again. That bottle was the only one from that particular doctor and the only one facing the wrong way. Using my phone, I photographed the label.

  Two

  That’s All

  “Where are you?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment and rested against the car, gathering strength from Mitch’s voice to tell him I would be late home. Things I’d discovered back at the office didn’t bode well for a speedy case resolution. The earlier feeling that the Unsub was just getting started wouldn’t go away.