Allison Brennan - Sudden Death

“His female partner lured Hackett to the room,” Dillon conjectured, “where Rosemont hamstrung him and then she shot him in the back.”

Hans wasn’t convinced. “That isn’t consistent.”

Jack asked Dillon, “How can you say that with certainty?”

“Because of Rosemont. I’ll write up a formal report for you, but here’s the nitty-gritty. The guy suffered from severe post-traumatic stress. He’d been tortured for three months, including needles in his nerves with the purpose of causing excruciating pain. Therefore, he wanted to cause pain to those he blamed for his captivity. He obviously couldn’t go back to Afghanistan and hurt those who held him, so he turned to the Delta team who were supposed to protect him.

“He acknowledged to his psychiatrist that he didn’t follow orders, and he alternately blamed himself and blamed the army. He was suicidal-had attempted suicide at least twice that the doctors knew about-and he was on medication. The psychological reports all indicated that Rosemont was a threat to himself and not others.”

“That’s bullshit,” Jack said. “Who are these idiots?”

“Let me finish, Jack.”

Jack crossed his arms. His phone vibrated and he looked down. Padre had sent a message. He clicked on it and it started to load.

Dillon continued. “But Rosemont still suffered from nightmares that were as real to him as if he were being tortured again. He also started hurting himself-cutting, poking, making himself relive the pain of captivity. I think, if he was left alone, he would have eventually been hospitalized or would have succeeded in killing himself.

“Shortly after he was ordered to start an intensive exercise program two years ago as part of therapy, he seemed to get better. But last June he disappeared and has never refilled his prescriptions.”

“You can get most drugs on the streets.”

“True, but psychopaths aren’t going to actively look for drugs that are supposed to make them calmer.”

“I thought psychopaths were born that way,” Jack said.

“Some. And some are made. I think Rosemont probably suffered from mild depression growing up-like millions of people-but this incident sent him down a deadly path. I don’t think revenge was his idea.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t have the aptitude to plan such an elaborate and detailed scheme. The two people at the rest stop? Yes, that screams an impulsive, explosive Rosemont to me. Sudden, violent, unexpected. The other murders? Controlled, well planned, organized. That’s the mind of his accomplice.”

“She’s the instigator?”

“You’re looking for a highly intelligent, extremely disciplined female between the ages of thirty-five and fifty-five. She will be attractive and a pathological liar. She is manipulative and has no remorse.”

“Why would this UNSUB want to help Rosemont kill these men?” Hans asked.

“A means to an end,” said Dillon.

Jack understood. “She wanted to play with his toys.”

“Bingo.”

Hans looked like he was still lost, so Jack added, “The needles. Torture. It takes a very specific personality to be able to torture another human being. Even if it’s for the right reason, torture itself can’t be done by someone who has a lot of empathy. She wanted to learn how to do it.”

“I suspect that’s right,” Dillon said. “This woman hooked up with Rosemont around the time he appeared to be improving. Found out who he was, what he went through, and then asked him to teach her. He didn’t want to, but she was very convincing, very manipulative. She orchestrated the murders and he went along with it. But don’t forget he had a very real psychosis culminating in the attack against the Hoffmans. Rosemont snapped at the rest stop, and I think his accomplice realized their games were drawing to a close, that if she didn’t kill him soon, he’d get them both captured or killed.”

Dillon continued, “That brings us back to Sacramento. You didn’t say that any other dog tags were sent to other law enforcement agencies, just the fed in Sacramento.”

“Megan,” Jack said, leaning forward.

“That’s the key to the case.”

“But the victim was a homeless John Doe.”

“Exactly. But absolutely killed by the same person, right? Same M.O., same caliber weapon, same method of torture. But everything else was different. John Doe was the only one not killed at his residence or where he was sleeping. He was the only one who wasn’t on the Delta Force team that Rosemont was attached to; he was the only victim who was left in a very public place to be found immediately. And he was the only victim the killer felt a need to communicate to the authorities about. But more significantly, why Sacramento? Why not a homeless guy, or anyone, in another major city? Two victims were in Texas, why not Dallas? Or Las Vegas? Or Los Angeles? Why Sacramento specifically? Why contact Agent Megan Elliott personally?”

Hans suddenly stood up. “They sent the tag to her apartment. We assumed the killers either followed her home or researched to locate her address. It isn’t difficult.”

“Very likely. But why her?”

“She was put in charge of the case.”

“How would he or she know that?” Dillon asked.

Jack slammed his fist on the table. “You’re saying that this psycho woman who wanted to learn how to torture by killing soldiers for this fucking lunatic has Megan’s home address?”

Hans said, “I thought you knew.”

“I assumed it had been sent to the publicly known FBI headquarters, not Megan’s private residence!”

Jack rose from the table. Years of training had made his body rigid, but he couldn’t keep his heart rate down like he did in the field. He leaned forward, fear for Megan’s life making his body cold with barely suppressed rage.

He slid his phone over to Hans, showing him the artist’s rendition e-mailed from Texas. “Do you know that woman? She’s the woman Padre saw Tuesday night before Scout was killed.”

Hans stared at the image, his face ashen. “Yes. She tried to kill Meg twelve years ago.”

A large e-mail was downloading to Megan’s BlackBerry while she and Officer Dodge were stuck in slow traffic in Santa Maria, about midway between SLO and Santa Barbara. Megan was antsy to get a look, suspecting the e-mailed file was from the sketch artist working with Padre. Finally, she thought, eager to put a face on the woman she was certain was Rosemont’s accomplice.

Her phone trilled with a call, and she almost sent it directly to voice mail when she saw the caller I.D. was from Orlando.

“Megan Elliott,” she answered.

“This is Paula Andrews from the Orlando Lakeside Adult Community. I just got your message.”

“Thank you so much for promptly returning my call.”

“It sounded important. I knew the Rubins well.”

“It’s about their daughter-”

The sound of a fist hitting wood radiated through the phone. “Is that woman using Hannah’s name again?”

“So you know of the woman who was living with the Rubins and calling herself Hannah?”

“Yes. I was so upset and angered by the whole thing!”

“Can you start from the beginning? Tell me about the Rubins, and how the woman who claimed to be their daughter got away with it for months.”

“Bernard and Millie were the sweetest people on earth, very private. They didn’t socialize much, but Bernard took Millie for walks every day and it was obvious he loved her dearly. One day, right after Christmas a year ago, Millie comes into the social center with a woman on her arm. Introduces her as her daughter, Hannah. I’d heard Millie talking about Hannah before, but I didn’t know anything about her or why she never visited. But at that point, I’d only been manager for a few months and I was still getting to know the residents.