Drained, page 2
I looked left to right across the department. Immediately to my left was a large office with the blinds drawn. It belonged to Supervisory Special Agent Art Ball, my superior, who I’d met with the prior Friday. The office was dark. On the right wall were two rooms—the one closer to me was the tech center. That room was filled with computer monitors and desks. I saw no one inside. The second room to the right, where I’d been told the morning meetings would be conducted if necessary, was much larger. I walked toward it and glanced inside. The lights were on, with no one there. Standing bulletin boards filled with photos took up most of the back wall. A large rectangular table ran straight up the center. I rounded the corner to the right. Four agents’ desks, including mine, were lined against the left and right walls of the room. Another office with the door closed and the lights off took up the rear wall.
A single female was sitting and staring at a computer at the far desk on my right. She was gnawing on the end of a pen, but she set the pen down and spun in her chair to face me as I walked toward the empty desk I’d been assigned directly behind her. I showed her a smile. I’d seen the woman as I left the other day but hadn’t been introduced.
“I’m guessing you’re our newest addition?” she asked. “It’s Hank, right?” She stood from her desk and walked to me with her hand outstretched. She was strikingly attractive and looked to be in her late twenties or, at most, thirty. She had an athletic build—at least, it looked athletic from what I could tell. Her hair was a few inches past shoulder length and dark brown. The woman wore a gray pair of slacks and a matching gray blazer over a white top.
I’d been known to hold a stare a bit too long and felt that may have been one of those occasions. I quickly reached out and shook her hand. “Yup. Hank Rawlings. You are?”
“Beth Harper.”
“Nice to meet you, Agent Harper.”
“Just Beth. All of us in here keep it pretty casual.”
“That works for me,” I said.
“You were from Florida, right?” she asked.
“Tampa,” I said.
“And…” She paused in thought. “PD homicide sergeant?”
I nodded. “Seems like you’ve been informed about me.”
“It’s always good to know who you’ll be working with,” she said. “So did you get the position and then move up from Tampa, or…?”
“Well,” I said. “My wife works with the DEA. They transferred her to Arlington. As soon as we found out about the transfer, I started looking up here. Figured I’d try the Bureau before looking into local law enforcement.”
“Ah,” she said. “Well, you must be good. We don’t see a lot of people come straight into the more desirable units from law enforcement.”
“More desirable units?” I asked.
“Yeah, the serial crimes unit and subunits that fall under it are kind of what everyone wants. It took me like three years to get into this unit. Most of the other agents longer. What are your qualifications?” she asked.
I was silent… in thought. I wondered if I’d be resented for being underqualified in the eyes of my peers. The truth was, I had been granted an interview; had received a conditional offer of employment; had gone through all the processing, including polygraphs and medical; and had been offered the spot. I’d been checked and rechecked. The process took over two months. Apparently, those in charge thought I was qualified enough. Her asking about my qualifications was a little off-putting. I pushed the thoughts away and figured I’d do my best to show her I had enough background for the position.
“Well, I’ve been in homicide for a bit over ten years, and as far as college—”
She swatted my shoulder, interrupting me.
“I’m just screwing with you. Relax a bit, Hank. Ball likes his team to be bits and pieces from everywhere. If you’ve made it through everything, I’m sure you’ll be a great addition. I do have a serious question for you, though.”
“Shoot,” I said.
“When you got up this morning and got ready to come in, did you actively try to see how close to the stereotypical FBI-agent look you could get?”
I was quickly getting a better bead on Beth’s personality though I wouldn’t immediately tell her about Karen picking out my clothes for the day. I puffed up my chest and tightened my tie. “How am I doing?”
She smiled. “You’re damn well nailing it: a few inches over six foot, a few pounds under two hundred, early forties, dark hair with a touch of gray, clean shaved. The black suit and tie with a white dress shirt completes the look. You are one hundred percent the standard FBI agent to the T.”
“See, I’m already doing my job,” I said.
She laughed and walked past me. “Come on.”
“Where are we headed?”
“Do you drink coffee?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Let’s go grab one. I’ll show you a couple things around this place before the rest of the team gets here.”
“Sure,” I said.
She headed for the door. I pulled up my jacket sleeve and looked at the time on my watch—a few minutes past eight. “What time does everyone start filing in?” I asked.
She reached out for the doorknob. “About nine or so. No punch clocks in our division. Ball likes us in by nine thirty at the latest and likes us to stay until”—she deepened her voice and did a manly impression of our supervisor—“you can look yourself in the mirror and say, ‘I’ve done my job for the day.’” She chuckled. “Sorry, I don’t know how many times I’ve heard him say that. I usually leave around five. The other agents that show a little later stay a little later.”
“Sounds fine,” I said.
She opened the door and waved over her shoulder for me to follow. “That’s just if we’re cold. If we’re on something hot, well, that’s a different story.”
“I’m assuming cold and hot are in regards to cases?”
“Well, we call them investigations, but yeah, same thing.”
She turned left down a white hallway in the center of the large room filled with cubicles. I followed.
She continued speaking over her shoulder. “Cold is something where a new body hasn’t been found in over a year or where we suspect there is an active serial killer that may not be actively killing at the moment. Hot being we have active killings and need to be on location.”
“I see,” I said.
She made a right through a doorway. Four long rectangular tables filled the room. Behind the tables were various vending machines and a long counter. The counter was filled with boxes of donuts and bagels. A few dishes of fruit and a row of commercial-looking coffee machines spanned the wall. She headed toward the coffee.
“We go hot about once every other month,” she said.
“That often, huh?” I asked.
“Yup. Did you ever hear the thing that there are like fifty serial killers considered active inside of the United States at any given time?”
“Yeah, that sounds vaguely familiar,” I said.
She grabbed a cardboard coffee cup from the rack and nodded for me to do the same. I did and stuck it into the machine then pulled the lever down to fill the cup from the spout.
“Okay, well, that number is complete bullshit,” she said. “Maybe multiply that by five or ten. The truth is we don’t know for certain and never will. Our job is to do our damnedest to remove as many as we can from the population. Have you worked a serial-killer case before?”
“Multiple in the last year,” I said.
“Just Tampa?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
“How long was each case?”
“A week or two, with all suspects in custody or deceased.” I pulled my full cup of coffee from the machine and blew across the top. When I took in a mouthful, the flavor was surprisingly good.
“Spree killers,” she said. “Well, technically, they are still serial killers, but they are a little different breed. Those get to us every now and again, but usually spree killers end up getting caught by local police or local branches of the bureau. When you dump a bunch of bodies in a short period of time in a single area, the odds of getting caught are pretty much a certainty. The cases we get generally have to pass through the local level. Basically, the killers have been active for longer without being found.” She pointed at the donuts and bagels. “Grab something.”
Beth took a seat at the table nearest us.
I patted a pocket in my suit jacket. “The wife sent me out with a couple of power bars.” I pulled one out, unwrapped it, and took a seat across from her. “So, what is the day-to-day like here?” I asked.
Beth sipped her coffee. “I guess you could say we operate like a cold-case division would unless we’re on something.”
I nodded. “How many in our unit?”
“Seven now… and Ball. Jim Robinson handles all of our records, paperwork, travel, warrants, and things of that nature—he’s mostly tied to his desk. Lewis and Marcus are our tech twins. Bill and Scott are field agents, along with you and me. Bill is off on vacation, though. I don’t think he comes back until sometime next week.”
I pulled out my notepad to jot down the names of my coworkers. I figured at least knowing their names would be a decent start at a first-day-of-work impression.
“How many units like us are out there?” I asked.
“You mean serial crime units with the specific homicide tag?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Serial crime units are everywhere,” Beth said. “As far as devoted to strictly homicide, just us and another unit on the west coast.”
CHAPTER THREE
We headed back into our unit office. The lights in Ball’s office were still out, but I caught movement inside the tech room. Beth headed for the door, turned the knob, and walked inside. I followed. The room consisted of two cherry-colored desks that took up the better part of both walls on the left and right. With a quick glance, I counted eight monitors per desk. A thin rectangular table with eight chairs ran down the center. The back wall of the room was four larger monitors at different angles, computer towers, and miscellaneous office equipment.
“Lewis, Marcus,” Beth said, “come meet our newest edition.”
The two rolled themselves away from their desks in their office chairs, stood, and walked over. I noticed that on their desks were what looked like matching iced coffees. As the pair approached, I saw why she called them the tech twins. Both looked to be in their midtwenties, both had short blond hair and blue eyes, and both wore dark polo shirts and khaki slacks. They looked as though they should be trying to sell me a television in an electronics store. The one on the right held out his hand toward me.
“Marcus Phillips.”
I shook his hand. “Hank Rawlings.”
The one on the left held out his hand toward me next.
I took it. “Hank Rawlings,” I said again.
“Lewis Phillips.”
I looked at him and then the other. Hair matched, eye color matched, apparel matched, and last name matched.
“We’re not related,” Lewis said. “Just a coincidence that we have the same last name.”
“We actually think they may have been separated at birth,” Beth said. “We’re going to look into it one of these days.”
“Yeah, yeah, ha ha. We look nothing alike,” Marcus said.
“Keep telling yourselves that,” Beth said. “So what are you two on today?”
“Hunting down cell-phone coordinates for someone Scott was interested in. We’ll see where that goes,” Lewis said.
Beth turned her attention to Marcus.
“Still working on those credit-card purchases and associated video that you requested. I should have everything by the end of the day,” Marcus said.
“Thanks,” Beth said. “We’ll leave you guys to it.”
We walked from the tech office back toward our desks. “Seems like they keep busy,” I said.
“They’re surprisingly good when they’re not looking at dumb videos or reading tech articles online.”
“Sounds like my old tech department,” I said.
“I think it comes with the profession.”
She pointed at a man at the desk one over from mine as she took a seat at hers. “This is Scott. Scott, this is our newest, Hank.”
He stood from his desk. The man was roughly my size in height and weight though I imagined he had a few years on me, from the crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes. He wore a gray suit with a white undershirt and a maroon tie. His hair was dark and finger length on the top while the sides were shorter and graying. I stepped toward him and shook his hand.
“Scott Mathews,” he said.
“Hank Rawlings.”
“You were in law enforcement, correct?” His voice carried a northeastern New England accent.
“Tampa homicide sergeant,” I said.
“I used to work violent crimes in Boston until about two thousand five, when I came here. I was a detective.” He smiled. “I’m sure we’ll have some stories.”
“Without a doubt,” I said.
“Well, I was just heading off to grab a coffee. We’ll chat more later.”
I nodded. He passed me and walked out. I sat at my desk and took in my new surroundings. A computer monitor, mouse, and keyboard were directly before me though I had nothing to use the computer for. I continued checking out my work area, which was far nicer than my metal desk in the center of the Tampa PD bullpen. My workstation was cherry colored and the better part of five feet long. Slots for files and folders were attached to the wall—all empty. I slid out the drawer beneath the computer keyboard—also empty. I’d been given nothing to work on and had no clue what I should have been doing. I wasn’t a fan of the feeling. I turned in my chair. “Beth, do you need a hand with something?” I asked.
“Um, I think I’m good. Ball will give you a few things to start with when he gets in.” She responded without turning around.
I went back to staring at a blank work area. I wiggled the computer’s mouse. A blue screen with an FBI logo popped up. A rectangular box below the logo on the screen asked for a login and password—I had neither. I turned in my chair and looked toward Ball’s office. From my spot, I could just see the door and blinds of his office from around the corner. He still wasn’t in.
Someone rounded the corner as soon as I was about to go back to staring at my blank desk. His eyes locked on me. The man looked to be in his later sixties. He was African American with short white hair and a short white beard. He stood an inch or two over six foot. I put his weight around one eighty. The man wore a tan sports coat over a patterned shirt—no tie. Under his right arm was a folder. He walked directly toward me.
“Are you Agent Hank Rawlings?” he asked.
“I am,” I said.
“Good. I found you. We’re going to need to do a little follow-up here on your psych evaluation. It looks like we have an abnormality.”
“Um.” I paused. “Abnormality? What does that mean?”
“A few conflicting things on our test results that we’ll have to get ironed out before we can have you active.”
“All right. Well, what do we have to do to get this straightened out?” I asked.
“We’d like to administer another polygraph and have our panel compare the results against your previous one.” The man stood next to my chair, staring down at me as I was seated. His face showed no emotion.
I glanced over at Beth to see her spinning her chair back toward her computer. She appeared to want no part in the conversation the man and I were having.
“Um, okay, I guess,” I said.
“It should take about six hours,” he said.
“Yeah, sure, if we need to.”
Beth snorted. I glanced over at her and then back up at the man.
The corner of his mouth turned up into a smile. “Sorry,” he said. The man snickered. “What fun is life if you can’t mess with the new guy? Jim Robinson.” He reached out for a handshake.
I shook my head, smirked, and gave him a handshake. “Good to meet you,” I said.
“I take care of the records around here,” he said. “Well, that and pretty much everything else. Travel arrangements, hotel bookings, warrants, you name it.”
“Good to know,” I said.
He turned his attention to Beth. “Beth, Ball has something for you. You were on the bodies found drained of blood from years back, right?”
Beth spun on her chair and faced us. “Yeah. Why? Something new?”
“It looks like he’s active again.”
“What? No one told me anything about that,” she said. “There hasn’t been a new homicide that we could attribute to him for what, like eight years?”
“Ball just got the word early this morning, I guess. I passed him on the way in, and we spoke a bit. I’m sure he’ll be briefing you on it shortly.” He looked back at me. “Good to meet you again, Hank—and welcome.”
“Thanks,” I said.
He walked toward his office.
Beth flashed a concerned face and turned back toward her computer.
Scott returned from getting his coffee and took a seat beside me at his desk. The only agent I had yet to meet from the team was Bill, yet it had sounded as though that wouldn’t happen for a good week or so. I glanced down at my watch, and the time was inching up on nine thirty. I looked back up to see a man in his early fifties and of average build staring back at me. His suit was gray, his undershirt light blue, and his tie a darker shade of blue. An American-flag pin was affixed to his lapel of his suit jacket. He had styled gray hair and was clean shaven. He held a couple of folders under his right arm.
“Beth, Hank, meeting room,” Ball said. He turned and disappeared.
Beth scooted herself back from her desk, and I did the same. I followed her around the corner and into the conference room. Ball stood at the doorway and saw us in. “Grab a seat,” he said.
We funneled in and sat.
“We have more bodies drained of blood?” Beth asked. “Same guy?”
“It looks like it.” Agent Ball set down the folders he was carrying on the table and looked at me. “I’m assuming you’ve met Beth here?”
