Robin Burcell: The Bone Chamber

So who was the woman? Clearly someone of significance. Or a case of significance.

The photo had showed a woman who was made out to be a prostitute-or something similar, if the condoms were to be believed. Over the years, Sydney had seen dozens of sexual crimes, and this had all the earmarks of such a case. Until one thought of the overkill on security while she did her drawing.

Which certainly made her think twice when she unlocked her door, stepped into the room.

She tossed her bag on the twin bed, then shut and bolted the door behind her, slipping her phone from her belt and calling her former partner, Tony Carillo, back in San Francisco. He answered on the second ring, his voice sounding as though she’d woken him. She glanced at the clock, after two A.M. Eastern time.

“Sorry,” she said, then looked around the room, taking stock of the spartan surroundings. “Just missing everyone back home. How are you?”

A slight hesitation. “Fine. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just trying to unwind. You know. If I can’t sleep, why should you,” she said, walking into the bathroom, closing the door. She checked the door leading to the dorm room on the other side, made sure it was empty, told herself she was just being paranoid, then locked it, before turning the shower on full force, trying to keep her voice low. “You ever hear of a guy named Zachary Griffin? Special Agent?”

“For the Bureau?”

“So it seems. Do me a favor. Find out what you can on the guy? Code Two,” she said, giving the old cop term for “without delay.”

“Yeah, sure. What’s going on?”

“Other than they’ve got me locked up with this drawing tighter than an alchemist’s formula for gold at Fort Knox? I haven’t the foggiest. Call you tomorrow.”

She hung up, thought about calling Tasha to find out what she could offer on the case, but realized it was too late, she’d be in bed. Then again, Sydney could leave a message on her voice mail at her office, and called that number instead. When she heard the doctor’s voice mail kick in, she said, “Hey, Tasha. This is about that case I recommended you for. Give me a call on my cell. I have a couple questions. Oh, and if you’re free tomorrow, let’s do a late lunch, before I fly back to San Francisco.”

That done, she turned off the shower, exited the bathroom, tossed the phone on the bed, then began a top-to-bottom search of the room, finding nothing, and telling herself that she really was being paranoid if she thought they’d go to the trouble of placing a bug in her room when all she was here to do was a drawing.

The next morning, as she dressed in her running clothes, she decided her paranoia was merely a result of being tired, until she opened her door at ten A.M. and found Special Agent Griffin standing there as if he’d been waiting outside her room all morning. Then again, maybe there was some camera or listening device hidden somewhere. She almost laughed at the direction of her thoughts, then stepped into the hallway. He gave a questioning look at the sweats she wore.

“Sorry,” she said, with an apologetic shrug. “I’m not doing anything before I get in my run, then eat breakfast.”

“You can run after you finish.”

“My brain functions better this way,” she said, trying to keep her annoyance at bay. She failed. “And unless you want to jog along beside me and hold up that sketchbook, or you feel like employing another sketch artist, you’ll have to wait.”

She double-checked that her cell phone was clipped to the waist of her sweatpants, then swept past him. “Lock the door behind you,” she said, since there was nothing of interest in her things, in case he was so inclined to search through them.

Outside, the air was crisp, cool, but not too cold, even with the snow. Truth be told, she enjoyed the vast parklike grounds and the woods that surrounded Quantico’s academy, and missed the fireflies in the summer. What she didn’t miss was the summer humidity, she thought, choosing a path that led into the trees, away, she hoped, from prying eyes and ears, and allowing some shelter against the light, but melting snow. About ten minutes out, she slowed her pace, and phoned Carillo.

The first thing out of his mouth was, “What the hell are you working on?”

“Why?”

“I’m having a hard time finding any info on this guy. He seem familiar with the academy? Maybe he’s some muckety-muck investigator with the marines.”

“He was introduced as a special agent, so I doubt it.”

“Yeah? Well, there’s a lot of agencies out there that use that title. What sort of case is it?”

“At the moment, I can’t give you details, other than it looks like some ritualistic killer. Like I said, the security around it is tight, and they won’t let me talk about it. But when I can divulge anything, I’ll let you know.”

“If it’s your basic serial killer, why all the secrecy?”

“The million-dollar question.” Sydney thought she heard something behind her. “Hold on,” she said, then paused to listen. It was the slightest of sounds, but it sent a shiver through her. When she turned, she saw nothing.

“What is it?” Carillo asked.

“Probably a deer. Anyway, do me a favor, and keep checking on this guy. I get the feeling that he’s not one of ours.”

“Will do.”

She disconnected, started jogging, and again had that sensation of being watched. When she slowed, she heard nothing, so she quickened her pace, wanting out of the woods now that she no longer had need of privacy. Fifty yards later, she was sure someone was following her. She eyed a swath of needles on the ground where the snow had melted, veered off the path into the trees, making sure she left no tracks, then waited, trying to slow her breathing, hoping not to be overheard. A moment later the cadence of joggers approaching from the opposite direction caught her attention. Two young men wearing FBI Academy sweats ran into view. She stepped out, nodded. “Mind if I join you?”

“Feel free,” one of them said.

She fell in beside them, jogged for a bit, then looked back. And could’ve sworn she saw a figure slip into the woods.

Sydney showered, changed, then headed down to grab a bite to eat at the cafeteria, where Zachary Griffin was waiting. The dining hall wasn’t crowded, the morning rush long since past. No recruits in their blue shirts. Probably all in class. The patrons who remained were probably employees on a break. She recognized no one, and turned to her shadow. “You weren’t following me while I was out running, were you?”

“No. Why would you think that?”

“Thought I saw someone out on the trails. It’s a big base. Suppose it could’ve been anyone.”

His gaze flicked to the expanse of windows, then back to her. “I’d like you to finish as soon as possible.”

“That makes two of us.” She set an apple, juice, and yogurt onto her tray, then stopped for coffee. “You bring that autopsy photo?”

“You can eat downstairs while you work,” he said, ignoring her question.

“Or you can try drawing it yourself,” she replied, choosing a table at the far end of the hall near the windows. She opened her juice and took a sip. “The photo?” she asked again.

“It’s en route. Do you really need it when you have the other?”

“Maybe not,” she admitted. “What branch of the government do you work for?”

He didn’t respond.

“So this case is not a sexual assault? Or are you investigating some senator committing heinous serial murders on prostitutes that he’s paid for with federal tax funds?”

The slightest of smiles from him, and she thought: Not just a sense of humor, but a warped sense of humor. She was tempted to make a joke about looking for bugs in her room, but decided now wasn’t the time, and so she finished her yogurt, drank down her juice, then took her coffee and apple with her. “Ready when you are.”