P. Parrish - Paint It Black

Mobley surveyed the office and turned to Driggs. “Wait outside,” he said. He came in, shutting the door. He leaned back against it, folding his arms. “Okay, I’m here, Al. What’s this all about?”

Horton was sitting on the edge of his desk. With a glance at Wainwright, he looked at Mobley.

“We’re forming a task force, Lance,” he said.

Mobley’s eyes went from Wainwright to Louis, bounced across Emily, and came to rest back on Horton. He smiled.

“Okay. . ” he said.

“And I’m in charge,” Horton said.

Mobley’s smile faded. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Six dead men,” Horton said. “It’s time to start working together.”

“Six?” Mobley said.

“Yeah, six,” Wainwright said. “Not exactly up to speed, are you, Lance?”

“We found three related cases in New Jersey and over in Broward,” Emily said.

Mobley turned to Emily. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“FBI Agent Farentino. I’m a forensic psychologist.”

Mobley stared at Emily, then looked back at Horton. “Look, if you think I’m going to sit back and let a case like this be run by amateurs and psychics, you’re nuts.”

Louis and Wainwright got up. Horton slid off the desk.

“Sheriff Mobley, I think we should-” Emily began.

“Go play with your tarot cards, lady,” Mobley snapped. “And take Virgil Tibbs here with you.”

Louis started toward Mobley but Wainwright was quicker. In two strides he was chest-to-chest with Mobley. “Listen, you prick,” Wainwright said, his voice low. “While you’ve been baking in the tanning salon, this lady has been busting her hump plowing paper to track down three other cases. And Louis here has found a weapon and a suspect. If you got a problem with me, that’s fine.” He jabbed a finger into Mobley’s chest. “But until you have something to offer in this case, keep your fucking mouth shut.”

Mobley stared at Wainwright, his jaw muscles pulsating.

“You have a suspect?” he asked tightly.

Horton came forward and handed Mobley a copy of Gunther Mayo’s sheet.

“Where is he?” Mobley said, after scanning it quickly.

“He disappeared about a week ago,” Louis said.

Before Mobley could say anything else, there was a knock and the door opened a crack, hitting Mobley in the back. He moved and a woman’s face appeared.

“Chief, the press is here,” she said.

“Thanks, Karen. Put them in the briefing room. We’ll be right in.”

The door closed. Mobley stared at Horton. “You called a press conference?”

Horton nodded. “You in or out, Lance?”

Mobley’s eyes went to Wainwright and back to Horton. “All right,” he said quietly. “You’ll get every man I can give. But I get the collar.”

Horton glanced at Wainwright, who looked away. Horton nodded to Mobley. “I’ll take the lead here,” Horton said. “There are things we’re not telling them, you hear me, Lance?”

“I hear you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tin of Altoids. He popped one into his mouth, surveyed the room, and gave them a smile.

“Shall we?” he said.

The briefing room was not very large, and there were ten reporters, photographers, and cameramen waiting when Horton led them all in. Horton went to the lectern at the front of the room, motioning Wainwright and Mobley to his sides. Louis, Emily, Driggs, the Fort Myers Public Information Officer, and a few uniforms hovered in the background.

Horton glanced at the four mikes that had been set up on the lectern. All three local stations were here, WEVU, WBBH, WINK, plus the usual familiar faces from the News-Press, Sanibel Island Reporter, The Naples Daily News, and others.

“You guys ready?” Horton said.

“Sooner the better, Chief,” someone called out. “We’re trying to make the noon broadcast.”

The camera lights went on and Horton blinked in the glare. “Karen here has kept you all up to speed on the details so far in these three murder cases,” Horton began, nodding to his PIO.

“But I am here today to announce the formation of a task force,” he went on. “Its purpose is to better coordinate the efforts of the three law enforcement agencies involved in the case, and to make better use of our manpower. We’ve also established a hot line for tips, so we can coordinate our information. That number will be given to all of you at the conclusion of this press conference.”

Louis, standing behind Wainwright, watched as Horton went on to introduce Wainwright and Mobley. Wainwright stepped forward to add a few innocuous standard comments, looking ill at ease. Mobley took his turn before the mikes, cool as a Beltway pol, adding his assurances that the killer would be apprehended.

“Chief, who are your other players here?” a reporter asked, pointing a pencil at Louis and Emily.

Horton motioned to Wainwright. “This is Louis Kincaid, a special investigator temporarily attached to my office,” Wainwright said, drawing Louis forward by the arm.

Wainwright paused. “To my right is Agent Emily Farentino, a forensics psychologist with the FBI.”

Louis saw the cameras swing to Emily. “Spell the last name, please,” someone called out.

“F-a-r-r-e-n-t-i-n-o,” Wainwright said.

Emily leaned into the mike. “One R. Farentino with one R.” She backed away.

“Chief, do you have any new leads since Roscoe Webb’s escape?”

“We have a good lead on a new suspect we are looking at, but I can’t give you any details,” Horton said.

“Does he live here?”

Louis tensed, his eyes going to the Mayo sheet still in Mobley’s hand. He prayed Mobley had enough brains not to say anything. The last thing they needed now was for Gunther Mayo to get squirrelly and move on to new hunting grounds.

“No details,” Horton said.

Mobley didn’t move.

“Chief, have you figured out yet why all the murders have taken place on Tuesdays?”

“No, not yet. We’re still working on it.”

“Chief Horton,” a woman called out, “do you have any response to the NAACP charges that these are racially motivated crimes and your department is not doing enough?”

Louis could see Horton’s neck muscles tighten. “I gave you my response to that when it came out, Cheryl,” he said calmly. “This new task force is evidence that we are determined to do whatever it takes to catch this murderer. Now, if there’s nothing else-”

“I have a question for Agent Farentino.”

Louis blinked in the glare of the lights, finally seeing the source of the voice, a tall man standing in the back.

“What exactly is your role in this investigation?” the reporter asked.

Emily hesitated and slowly came to the mike. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach it. “My role is to assist the officers in any way I can,” she said.

Louis glanced at Wainwright. He was staring at the floor.

“You do what’s called profiling, right?”

All the heads in the room had swung to the reporter now. Louis heard a Nikon motor drive whir off a couple of frames.

“Profiling is a layman’s term,” Emily said. “I-”

“What kind of man do you think this killer is?”

Emily glanced at Wainwright, then cleared her throat. “Serial killers are usually white men, twenty to thirty years old, unskilled workers, and loners.”

“But what kind of man do you think this killer is?”

Emily hesitated again. Louis could see a bead of sweat on her forehead. Shit, they were all sweating. Stay cool, Farentino, stay cool.

“I think he is a man who will eventually make a mistake,” Emily said. “A mistake that will lead to his apprehension. That’s all I am prepared to say right now.”