Steven James - The Bishop

On my phone I surfed to the Federal Digital Database and logged into the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration’s site. They might not record detailed data from every city in the US, but I was counting on the fact that they would track meteorological changes here in our country’s capital. I punched in my federal ID number then looked through the glass to one of the cameras above the central walkway. “Were the cameras on when you arrived?”

“Yeah.”

“And are they directed in the same position now as they were before the footage was lost?”

He looked a little confused. “The same position?”

I was getting frustrated by Tielman’s repeated need for clarification. “The cameras are all stationary; non-panning. I want to know if someone has reviewed the footage prior to 5:00 and confirmed that the angles at which the cameras are currently positioned are the same as they were before the footage was deleted.”

He let his eyes wander from me to his partner, a slim Hispanic woman, then back to me. “I would imagine they are.”

“Don’t imagine,” I said. “Find out.”

“Why would that matter?”

“Everything matters.”

“Go,” Ralph said, ending the discussion.

Tielman spoke to his partner, sent her to find out about the camera angles. He stayed behind as she passed out the door.

The NOAA precipitation data appeared on my screen in a series of condensed scrolling columns of numbers, organized by longitude and latitude coordinates.

A few more taps at my screen and I’d pulled up the defense satellite’s imagery of the city.

I went to a corner of the habitat, pushed a little straw aside to make room for my phone, laid it on the concrete, and opened the hologram program.

A moment later, the phone was projecting a 3-D hologram of downtown DC. It hovered a meter off the ground, half a meter in width and length.

Glimmering buildings, shimmering roads.

With this phone I had the capability to rotate the hologram, zoom in and out, and overlay data to highlight specific locations and travel routes. Although I wasn’t sure my idea would work, I transferred the precipitation stats and coordinates onto the city, overlaying them against the hologram’s 3-D imagery, just as I do with the travel routes of victims when I’m doing a geoprofile.

The precip levels were marked in layered, darkening shades of blue corresponding to the precipitation level recorded by NOAA’s satellites. Although it was difficult to discern the subtle changes in color, when I studied it closely I could just barely make out the differences. I began reviewing the levels at fifteen minute intervals starting at 4:00, when Mollie was last seen.

“It’s not a spectator sport,” Ralph growled. His words caught my attention, and when I glanced up, I saw that everyone in the habitat, except for Ralph and Lien-hua, was staring at the hologram.

“Get back to work.” When Ralph speaks, people obey. Within moments they’d all turned away from me.

Lien-hua leaned down, brushed at a small pile of blood-spattered straw.

I continued to scroll through the time markers until I came to 7:00 and saw what I was looking for.

“I need to see the parking garage,” I said.

“What is it?” Ralph asked.

I closed the program, the hologram disappeared. I pocketed the phone. “Shift change and the Metro station. It fits.” I started for the exit, but before I could leave, I met two members of the Bureau’s ERT crawling through the door.

First, Agent Tanner Cassidy, an old friend of mine, emerged. Medium build, brown hair. Soft spoken, meticulous, and dedicated. He introduced me to the attractive agent who, only a moment later, stood beside him. “This is Natasha Farraday. Transferred in from St. Louis.”

I introduced myself. “Pat Bowers.”

She shook my hand by squeezing my fingers lightly rather than by gripping my palm. “Good to meet you.” With a disarming smile and wide, shy eyes, she made me think of a twenty-five-year-old Christina Ricci.

“You too.”

“Agent Cassidy,” Lien-hua called, her voice grim. “Over here.”

“I’ve read your books, Dr. Bowers,” Natasha said to me.

I was studying the deep concern on Lien-hua’s face. “Okay.”

Cassidy and Tielman joined her. Knelt beside her. Cassidy called for a photographer and an evidence bag. “We’ve got Mollie’s eye here.”

A sweep of nausea.

“Excuse me,” I said to Natasha, indicating toward the door, but then realized I could probably use her help. “Wait. Can you join me in the parking garage?”

“Of course.”

I asked Ralph if he could come along, and he followed me, barely squeezing his massive shoulders through the doorway.

“Good thing it’s built for gorillas,” I said.

“Watch it.”

We took the stairs to the garage. If I was right, the killer’s car would still be here.

I was scanning the vehicles.

“Mollie’s car isn’t here,” Ralph said, somewhat impatiently. “We already checked.”

“I’m not looking for her car.” I’d expected only a handful of cars, but there were more than thirty here. “There was just a skeleton crew on hand here tonight; why all the vehicles?”

“I already went through this with the security guard.” He sounded annoyed; maybe at me, maybe at the conversation he’d had with the guard. “Since the facility provides free parking for its employees, lots of the staff leave their cars here and take the Metro around the city. Beats having to pay for a spot near their apartments.”

City life. Perks.

So these are only cars from employees… Good. That narrows it down.

Natasha stood beside me, waiting for instructions.

Ralph said, “Whose vehicle are you looking for?”

“The video would have caught the car leaving the parking garage. I was assuming that the killer was aware of that.”

“I thought you didn’t assume?”

A van would have been ideal for transporting an abducted woman. And, while I didn’t see any vans, I did see six minivans, but right away I could tell they hadn’t been used to transport Mollie. “Let’s call it an initial hypothesis.”

I let my eyes pass through the garage… eliminating possibilities… eliminating… “Look for cars that have trunks that are-”

Then I saw it.

“There.” I started jogging toward it, a sky blue ’09 Volvo sedan.

“How do you know?” Natasha called. I heard her and Ralph hurrying after me.

“Water.” I pointed. “Under the wheel wells.”

I arrived, used my MagLite to scan the wet concrete beneath the car, continued my explanation, “It started raining in DC at 5:06 p.m. and hasn’t stopped. Mollie is wearing cotton clothes that would absorb water, but they’re dry, so the killer had to have unloaded her inside here. Only three cars out of the thirty-two have water beneath them-two have monthly access stickers on them-one would be the security guard’s, the other the keeper’s. This one doesn’t have a sticker. It doesn’t belong.”

I still had on the latex gloves. I tried the doors. Locked.

Then the trunk.

Locked.

“Couldn’t it be someone else’s car?” Natasha asked.

Maybe…

I pointed at the car’s blue carpeting. “She had blue fibers caught on a broken fingernail.”

I pulled out my lock-pick set and peered into the car windows but couldn’t see anything unusual.

Beside me, Ralph had his phone out, already running the Virginia plates: 134-UU7.

“Why would the killer leave the vehicle here?” Natasha asked.

It was a good question, the obvious question.

Maybe to avoid being caught on camera…?

But even if he didn’t drive out, the cameras would have caught him walking out. Besides, the footage was deleted…