Panic

Coleman’s face hardened and Leopold could see the muscles in his jaw bulge as he clenched his teeth. “My office. Now.”

Leopold followed Coleman to his office and sat down on the spare seat with his back to the door. The room was modestly sized, and almost every spare surface was crowded with plaques and trophies engraved with Coleman’s name. The special agent took the chair on the other side of the desk and sat partially silhouetted by the light coming in from the tall window behind him. On the right side of the window hung the blue and gold flag of the FBI, and on the left side hung the stars and stripes. Leopold chuckled softly and imagined himself on a corny television show.

“Something fu

“No, nothing. Nothing at all.” Leopold wondered whether the man was wearing FBI socks and slept with a picture of J. Edgar Hoover under his pillow. He held back another chuckle.

“You said you wanted to talk. So talk.”

“You told the journalists out there that you hadn’t determined cause of death,” said Leopold. “Why lie to them like that?”

“Cause of death can’t be determined, to any degree of certainty, until evidence comes to light that can prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. That’s how we work here.”

“Yes, that’s the official line. I’ll catch the evening news for your sound bites. But you and I both know these three deaths were murders. And we both know they were committed by the same person.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Coleman, scowling.

“I was there. I know a serial killer’s work when I see it.”

The FBI agent leaned forward in his chair and jabbed his index finger at Leopold.

“Now listen here. The NYPD might have every faith in your abilities, but as far as I’m concerned, there’s no place for amateurs in a murder investigation.”

Leopold reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a selection of photographs. He turned the first one face up and slapped it onto the table. “State Senator Wilson. Killed earlier this week. Single gunshot wound to the head. Made to look like a suicide, but the killer got sloppy.”

“Yes, I’ve read the –”

Leopold slapped a second photo down. “State Senator Carrera. She was found hanged in a hotel room with no signs of a struggle. Another suicide note, this time with a signature. I also found rope fibers on her wrists, which made me wonder how she managed to untie her hands and dispose of the cord after her death.”

“This isn’t necessary.”

A third photo.

“State Senator Hague, found dead in his garage. This is my favorite. He had apparently hooked up a hose to his car exhaust and committed suicide by inhaling half a tank’s worth of carbon monoxide. Problem is, he died with both hands gripping the steering wheel, which is very difficult to do if you’re in the process of gradually passing out.”

Coleman didn’t respond.

“In short: three senators plus three murders plus three staged suicides equals one killer. And you’re right.”

“Right about what?”

“There is no place for amateurs in a murder investigation.”

Coleman leant back in his chair again and held his hands together in his lap. “Like I said, Blake, there’s no evidence to suggest homicide, let alone a serial killer. This isn’t police work, this is just your particular brand of conjecture.”

“I was at all three scenes. There’s a consistent M.O. and a consistent demographic of targets. What more could you possibly need?”

Leopold’s voice caught the attention of one of the office interns as she passed by carrying a tower of paper files. The special agent waved her away and let out a long sigh.

“We need forensic evidence putting the same person at each scene, a credible witness who is willing to make a statement, or even a sensible motive that fits all three victims. We currently have none of those things, so until such evidence materializes, there’s no need to cause u

Leopold looked Coleman in the eye and smiled. “And that’s it, isn’t it?” He continued, “You want to keep this as quiet as possible. You know as well as I that these deaths are co

Coleman broke eye contact shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. “The FBI will not release statements of record that are based on the opinion of one consultant,” he said, in a tone that clearly signaled the end of the meeting.

“You’re making a mistake. There are people in danger.”

“We’re done here, Blake,” grunted Coleman, gesturing toward the door. “I have work to do. I don’t have time to entertain these unsubstantiated theories. Come back to me with some solid evidence, and maybe we’ll talk. Please see yourself out.”

Leopold nodded a brisk goodbye before stalking out of the office back to the elevators. He paused at the lobby desk and leaned over to speak to the middle-aged receptionist, whispering just loud enough for her to hear him over the television that had been bolted to the wall to keep visitors entertained as they waited. A news anchor mentioned something about stolen military weapons before the video feed cut to a busty weather girl for the day’s forecast. Talk about priorities.

“Madeline, thank you again for your help this morning,” said Leopold, grasping her hand and smiling broadly.

“Any time, Leopold,” replied Madeline, blushing slightly. “I hope the meeting went well. And thank you again for getting me this job. I can’t tell you how much it’s helped me out.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“And good luck this morning at the University.”

Leopold kissed the back of her hand before saying goodbye and heading to the elevators. As he rode the thirty stories down to the ground floor, his cell phone rang.

“Yes, hello?”

“Blake. This is Bradley. I just got a phone call from Coleman and he’s not pleased. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I needed to speak to Coleman in person, seeing as how he doesn’t return my phone calls.”

“Can you blame him? How the hell did you get in?”

“The secret to getting what one wants,” said Leopold, “is to have friends in high places.”

“What the hell are you – ”

He gri

Chapter 6

Mary eyed the clock on the wall of her office and groaned. It was nearly eight a.m., and she hadn’t taken a break since she’d been called out in the middle of the night. Her report glared at her from her monitor – yet another case with no leads. Nobody had witnessed the attack, and the area had been wiped clean, not so much as a speck of dust out of place. Which meant Mary had no blood spatter, fiber, or DNA evidence to work with. Which also meant that Captain Oakes would bust a blood vessel when he found out. Mary put her head in her hands and closed her eyes. Shit.

She raised her head again and stared at the screen, watching the cursor blink impatiently. Her headache returned, throbbing behind her eyes and squeezing the inside of her skull like a vice. She reached for the coffee cup. Empty.

“Jordan! What the hell is going on?”

Captain Oakes burst into the room, slamming the door into the wall as he came. The cheap shutters on the windows rattled in protest. He crossed the tiny office in one step and slapped both palms down onto the edge of Mary’s flimsy desk. His considerable weight caused the whole thing to rock side to side. Oakes smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne and wore a thick moustache that, at this range, Mary could see was stained with coffee. His fat face was red and sweaty, as it always was when he got angry about something. Which was pretty often.