The Extraction Page 2

  Sampson takes the proffered evidence. “Let me run this up to the lab, then let’s talk.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Once Sampson returns from her errand, she and I crowd around her desk. I show her my screenshot of the poem she just submitted to the forensics lab.

  “What does it mean?” she asks, chewing on the end of her pen. “Begin at the end of your previous life?”

  “I was thinking about that. You know as well I as do how different the life of an agent is from anyone else. I think ‘previous life’ refers to my working here. So beginning at the end of that life would mean looking into something that happened around the time I left the Bureau.”

  Sampson nods in her old manner, a ponderous motion for one eight years my junior. “It makes sense.”

  “That’s the easy part. What I’m not sure about is the next part: where four runs to five, and six fall in an arc. Have any idea what that means?”

  Sampson gnaws her pen again, harder this time. “Do those numbers mean anything to you?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Is there a highway or interstate that ends in four that runs into another that ends in five?” she asks.

  “Not that I can think of, but let’s check.”

  In silence, we both work the question—she on her desktop computer, me on my iPhone—but neither of us can find a set of roads that match the criteria.

  “Maybe those numbers are meaningful to someone else,” says Sampson at last.

  “But if that’s the case, how would I ever figure out the clue? The note was addressed to me. It seems like I should be able to figure it out.”

  “Could those numbers be meaningful to a perp in one of your past cases—especially one of your last ones, around the time of the end of your previous life?”

  I rub my chin. “It’s possible, but I don’t remember them having any particular significance to anyone.”

  Sampson grunts. “Well, if they were important, you’d remember. I’ve never seen anyone remember as much minute detail as you.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right. So if ‘four runs to five’ doesn’t refer to a past case, what does it mean?”

  “What about your life just after leaving the Bureau? Besides Trin, did anyone else play a prominent role during that time? Someone who might attach importance to those numbers?”

  “I didn’t meet Trin until a year after I left the Bureau, so I don’t think she’d know even if she were here. I can’t think of anyone else—”

  Sampson’s desk phone rings. She picks it up, uh-huhs a few times in acknowledgement, and replaces the receiver. “The analysis on your note is done.”

  “Already?”

  She cracks a half smile. “Hey, you said rush.”

  The forensics lab is only one floor up, so like the old days, we take the stairs rather than wait for an elevator. Funny…mounting these concrete steps, the years slip away. It almost feels like I never left.

  We move down a long hallway and approach Reynolds, the chief forensics agent. The middle-aged man’s balding pate and ample girth belie a keen mind. If anyone can tease evidence from that note, it’s him.

  “What’cha got?” I ask.

  He shakes his head in disappointment. “No prints. Whoever made these notes wiped them clean. Both messages are printed in twelve point, using a Times New Roman font. The paper itself is cheap stock you could buy anywhere. Nothing remarkable about it.”

  “What about the ink?”

  “A standard HP blend. There’s millions of printers that could have produced these notes.”

  “So what you’re telling me is there’s nothing helpful about either one.”

  Reynolds shrugs. “Other than the messages themselves, no.”

  “Thanks for trying.”

  We leave and begin to retrace our steps back to Sampson’s desk. Given our lack of forensic evidence, cracking the first note’s message is more urgent than ever. It’s our only hope of tracking down Trin short of deducing the criminal behind it.

  We descend a flight of stairs. On the wall outside the stairwell door, a gray circle of metal with “4” stamped in the middle identifies the floor.

  I freeze.

  “What is it?” asks Sampson.

  “See that?” I ask, pointing to the circle of metal. “The fifth floor has the same metallic disk. When we went to the lab, we walked from floor four to floor five. Could that be the ‘four runs to five’ in the note?”

  “Maybe. But the note’s author would have to know the layout of this building: where your desk was and where the lab is. Did any of your perps ever come in here?”

  The thought sends a shiver down my spine. “Not that I’m aware of. But considering what’s written in this note, it’s a good bet someone did—either recently or in the past. Again, it could be a perp’s family member. They came here sometimes to give statements.”

  “So you’re thinking the first box could be here in the building somewhere?”

  “It looks that way. But to find it, we have to figure out what ‘six fall in an arc’ means. And I have no idea.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Back at Sampson’s desk, I stare at the words in the note, hoping the sight of them will produce some kind of insight.

  Six fall in an arc. What does that mean?

  I rarely traveled to the sixth floor—didn’t have much use for forensic accounting. Besides, the reference to six in the note was different from four and five: “in an arc.” Like it’s referring to something different from floor numbers. But what?

  The note also said, “Begin at the end of your previous life.” What about the very last case I worked before retiring? That saga, involving an ass-wipe with feelings of inferiority who boosted his ego by killing kids, took its toll. But how would the number six tie in? The perp killed five kids. He had only one family member, his domineering father.

  That case was the final straw. I went to my boss and told her I was through, that trying to unravel the minds of these twisted fuckers was taking too much of a toll on me. Our on-site counselor showed up a few minutes later and asked if I wanted to talk about it. Leaving the cubicles and chemicals and case files behind, we strolled out to the recreation area, where nature conferred a normalcy my job didn’t.

  We wandered past a softball diamond and picnic tables and took seats at the blackened fire pit. I spoke in quiet tones, explaining how constant exposure to the worst of humanity had left me feeling disconnected from myself…and how every new case exacerbated this effect. If I didn’t quit now, I told her, I might become permanently unmoored from my true personality.

  Saying nothing, she nodded. As we rose from the fire circle…

  My heart races. Fire circle. How many seats were positioned around the pit, bolted to the ground to prevent them from disappearing? I tally them in my mind.

  Six.

  ‘Six fall in an arc.’

  I turn to Sampson. “I know where the first box is. At least I think I know. Follow me.”

  After taking the elevator to the ground floor, we break into a jog across the lobby and out the main door, racing into the private rec facilities maintained around the FBI office for employees and their families.

  Between breaths, I explain the memory of the day I spoke with the counselor, the day I quit. “That has to be where the box is. The seats form a circle, an arc, around the fire pit.”

  “Could be,” gasps Sampson, whose doesn’t look to have maintained her exercise routine as much as I have.

  Finally, a break! Given that the FBI secures only the building’s entrance and not its grounds, we both know that leaving a clue out here would be child’s play.

  We arrive at the spot and begin a frantic search for anything resembling a box. Two minutes of probing turns up nothing.

  Sampson rises from looking underneath the furthest seat. She stretches her back into an arch, then relaxes. “Now what?”

  I scan the grassy field that surrounds the pit. There aren’t any other pla
ces to hide a box.

  My gaze lands on the pile of the charred logs inside the ring. Maybe…

  A quick dig through the logs reveals a square box constructed of unburnt, rough pine. It’s small—about a foot in each direction and half-a-foot deep. I pull it out and remove a clasp holding the top shut.

  Inside lies a single note with “Farr” written across the top.

  “Gloves,” says Sampson, taking a pair out of her jacket pocket and handing them over.

  With trembling hands, I don the gloves and remove the note from the box.

  Don’t be too proud of finding this box.

  Its location was purposefully easy this time.

  The rest will be harder, and remember, detective

  Each box contains two, not just one, crucial rhymes.

  The next box requires a logical mind.

  Something you flattered yourself you possessed.

  But will it unravel the second location?

  Will you track down where I’ve laid it to rest?

  “Is this a vendetta?” you’re asking yourself.

  Or is Trin’s disappearance a random event?

  The hallowed grounds beckon you come through their gates

  And see for yourself where history’s bent.

  CHAPTER 7

  Trin Beasley’s head pounds. She manages to crack open her bleary eyes in the dim lighting.

  Why does the room insist on tipping to the right?

  She leans her head forward to look around. A wave of nausea radiates out from her stomach, washing across her entire torso and threatening to end with a stream of vomit.

  She closes her eyes and rests her head on her outstretched arm.

  The nausea passes.

  Raising her head, she tries to move her arm but finds it obstructed.

  No, not obstructed—tied down. She twists her head around to take a look. Leather straps secure her wrists to posts on either side of an enormous wooden headboard. Two more straps bind each ankle to thick canopy posts at the foot of the bed.

  She pulls against the restraints, ignoring the fresh surge of nausea the effort produces.

  Nothing—she’s held fast. But why?

  She struggles to recall the last events before waking up here. Her mind seems enshrouded in fog, incapable of focusing. She woke up, began preparing her usual breakfast, and then…found herself here.

  How did she get here? It didn’t seem likely she had fainted and then experienced the bad luck to be discovered by some weirdo who decided to bring her here as a captive. No, she must have been drugged and taken away, but why? If only her memory weren’t so cloudy. That must be another effect of the drug—short-term, retrograde amnesia. She can only hope her memories will return in time. If so, perhaps they’ll offer insight into her journey here…and suggest a possible means of escape.

  How long has she been here? Her growling stomach suggests at least a few hours. But then again, she didn’t eat much last night. Perhaps not long.

  She studies the place of her captivity. Deep in shadow, the bedroom’s plain wooden bed and dresser reveal little insight into the owner. A coating of dust on flat surfaces suggests the place hasn’t been used in months or years. This is some out-of-the-way place, unlikely to be disturbed by uninvited guests. No wonder the kidnapper chose it.

  Trin pushes down a surge of panic and turns her mind to the question she’s been avoiding. Who has kidnapped her? The premeditation required to drug someone and cart them off suggests malicious intent. But no one she can think of would have such a motive. She has no enemies or long-standing feuds. And none of her family or friends are wealthy, so kidnapping for ransom seems an unlikely reason.

  She falls into a fugue, dwelling on the question without success. The room’s silence feels deafening…smothering.

  Does she dare hope the kidnapper will appear and reveal the motive for her abduction, or would such action usher in greater danger? For the moment, she’s helpless to turn from the course of events this criminal has laid out for her future.

  CHAPTER 8

  Sampson has already taken the fire-ring note to the lab, but neither of us expect it to reveal much. We already know this perp is careful to leave no trace evidence behind.

  There are no security cameras at the fire pit, nothing to reveal who hid the box there. Did the perp know that, or did he just get lucky?”

  “Hallowed grounds?” says Sampson, pacing beside her desk. “What the hell does that mean?” She usually keeps an even keel. The time pressure to solve these clues is getting to her, too.

  “It sounds like a cemetery, doesn’t it?” I reply.

  “Yeah, could be. But good Lord!” she exclaims. “How many cemeteries have your perps been responsible for populating with their victims? It’d take days to search them all.”

  “We said before this could be a family member seeking revenge for someone in lockup. Maybe we were off track a little. What if it’s a family member whose criminal relative is in a cemetery? That might make it hallowed ground for them.”

  “That’d be a smaller list,” says Sampson, nodding. “I could ask Williams to pull the list of cemeteries where your perps are buried.”

  “Agreed.”

  Bev Williams is the Atlanta office’s lead systems analyst, the statistician who pulls data according to whatever criteria we throw at her. This task won’t take her more than a few minutes.

  Sampson places a call and makes the request. When she hangs up, she wears a mask of uncertainty.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “It’s just…the first note said to expect two clues. I only see one: the reference to hallowed grounds.”

  “There must be another one buried in there somewhere. What did the first note say exactly?” I bring up the image of the note on my cellphone. “Each box has two clues: one easy, one not. You mustn’t proceed until both are revealed. Two hints are required to find the next box and uncover the clues I’ve already concealed. We’d better figure out both clues before we head too far down the cemetery route. Otherwise, we could end up wasting precious time.”

  Now it’s my turn to pace. The movement fails to vent the nervous energy accumulating in my body like an electric charge.

  “What’s the easy clue?” I say, more to myself than to Sampson. “Maybe I’ve lost my edge, but nothing here seems all that easy.”

  I bring up the image of the most recent note and scan the last stanza.

  “Is this a vendetta?” you’re asking yourself.

  Or is Trin’s disappearance a random event?

  The hallowed grounds beckon you come through their gates

  And see for yourself where history’s bent.

  “Is this a vendetta?” I repeat. “What kind of stupid question is that? I wasn’t asking myself that at all. It’s obviously a vendetta of some sort.”

  Then it hits me. I stop pacing.

  “What is it?” asks Sampson.

  “What if that’s a clue. This perp is smart. He’s clearly researched me, so he knows I’m not loaded. That’s why there’s been no ransom demand. He has to know I’ve already figured out this is some sort of revenge kidnapping. So maybe that line itself is one of the clues.”

  “Okay,” says Sampson, looking skeptical. “What does it mean?”

  The vendetta theme…it does sound vaguely familiar. But why? I sit and rest a hand on my forehead, lost in thought.

  “I’ve got it,” I announce. “The Pritchard case.”

  “Great…but how does that help us?”

  “The meaning of the second clue must have something to do with that case.” Pressing fingers to my temples in concentration, I lean back in my chair and recall the details of that investigation, one that fell early in my profiling career.

  An intelligent criminal was executing a string of home invasions. After identifying his victims, he’d defeat their home security systems—a pretty neat trick for the mansions he targeted—then tie up the family at gunpoint and rob them. This is a
fairly typical type of crime with a fairly typical MO. Normally, that consistency is good, because it suggests to investigators how to track down the criminal. So they looked for someone unloading the goods stolen from these homes at pawn shops or on the street. Funny thing is that none of the stolen property ever appeared, even after the investigators spread their search to include other cities and online sites. And the perp showed an above-average knack for covering his tracks—always wore tight, leather gloves and a hat so he’d never leave behind fingerprints or hair that could reveal his DNA.

  And the distinguishing feature of the robberies, the way we knew it was the same guy each time, was the disguise he wore to conceal his identity: a copy of the grinning cavalier mask worn by the hero vigilante in the “V for Vendetta” movie.

  After a couple of months with no success tracking down this guy, the Atlanta PD asked if I could lend a hand. It wasn’t the type of case I normally worked, but the victims were all wealthy. Some of them had high-level contacts in Georgia’s government. They asked for ‘special consideration,’ and before you knew it, I had a new assignment. If I’m being honest, I got the nod not because I’d built my reputation yet…more because I had the time. I’d just wrapped up a case, and the only other Atlanta profiler at the time had just started one.

  The PD investigators gave me the case files, and I hunkered down to review them. For a criminal profiler, studying means looking for patterns and similarities in the crime scene and the victims’ backgrounds, then hypothesizing the characteristics of the offender who would be drawn to this type of victim and crime. You examine as many aspects of the crime pattern as you can: modus operandi—MO, for short—any ritual or fantasy behavior, unique actions, the criminal’s degree of organization and planning…whatever stands out. It all paints a picture—a signature, if you will.

  And if I’m being completely honest, I should mention that as logical as this technique sounds, it’s not the one I always used. My “Grinder” nickname notwithstanding, all profilers I know are perseverant. If they weren’t willing to put in long hours, often against even longer odds, they wouldn’t have become profilers in the first place. Where I differed from my profiling colleagues was in my technique, which didn’t exactly represent the kind of by-the-book approach I just described.