Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

“Several weeks before, I had done a composite sketch from a witness description of the man who robbed the First Security Bank. We received an anonymous tip after the sketch appeared in the Chronicle, that our suspect was a Gerard Hagley, and that he was planning on robbing another bank near Union Square the following day. We staked out the banks in the area and waited until he showed up.”

“Is this the sketch?” he asked, holding up Sydney’s pencil drawing of a white male adult, short, curly brown hair and narrow, dark eyes. A damned good likeness to the defendant, Sydney thought, glancing over at the man who was trying his best to give her an intimidating glare.

“Yes.”

“What happened that afternoon?”

“I saw him walking into the Bay Trust Mutual. Our task force moved in, but he made us and took off running. Which is when I saw him drop something in the planter as he took off. He was arrested about a block away.”

“And where were you when this occurred?”

“In front of a store across the street.”

“What was it he dropped?”

“I recovered a note that read: Give me all the money. Now.”

“Thank you. No further questions.”

The defense attorney stood, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline, a crisp white shirt and red power tie beneath his navy suit coat, and a look that told Sydney she was pond scum. “Special Agent Fitzpatrick,” he said, checking his notes. “You say that you saw my client from across the street?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And approximately how far is that?”

“Fifty, seventy yards. I’m not sure.”

“Do you wear glasses?”

“Sometimes.” She had slight astigmatism, and really only wore the things if she was trying to do fine artwork, which lately in her abstract painting kick was a rarity.

“Were you wearing them that day?”

“No.”

She could swear he started salivating. He got up, walked toward the jury box, rubbing his chin as if in deep thought as he paced in front of the empty seats. Suddenly he stopped. “And yet…” He looked right at her, pausing for emphasis, before saying in a firm voice, “You say you saw my client from seventy yards away?”

“Yes.”

“And you saw a small scrap of paper being dropped. From seventy yards away?” He stressed each word as he eyed her. “That’s two hundred and ten feet.”

“I didn’t measure the exact distance.”

He started his pacing act again. “Just how far can you see without your glasses?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I can see the moon. How far is that?”

He stopped in his tracks. Opened his mouth, shut it again, then walked to the defendant’s table and sat. “Er, no further questions.”

She gained a smile from some sandy-haired man in a blue suit sitting behind the defense attorney-probably a cop, fairly good-looking one, too, but that seemed to be the extent of her cheering section. Judging from the expression on the AUSA’s face, Sydney scored zero points for her wit. Definitely not like her, but chalk it up to lack of sleep. She left the stand, then sat next to the fingerprint expert who was about to testify that the found note had not only the defendant’s prints on it, but also the prints of a teller from the last bank he’d robbed-a hazard of recycling his tools of the trade, or being too lazy to make up a new note. Either way, things weren’t looking good for Hagley, especially considering that when court was recessed for a break, his attorney was suggesting he change his plea before it was too late. Not that it mattered. What did were the fifteen other cases sitting on her desk, and the coffee she fully intended on getting when she walked out of the courtroom, dismissed for the day. She did not get far. About midway through the rather crowded federal courtroom lobby, she heard a woman calling her name.

“Agent Fitzpatrick!” The woman hurried in her direction.

Apparently she’d followed her from the courtroom. She was young, maybe early twenties, with long auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a tan blazer and matching slacks. Sydney figured DA fresh out of law school until she said, “I’m Officer Glynnis. Kim Glynnis. Hill City PD.” She held out her hand and Sydney shook it, feeling slightly guilty for not returning her call. “What can I do for you?” “You’re a forensic artist.”

“Among other things.”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, having to step aside to allow a number of people still filing out of a nearby courtroom to walk past. “Your supervisor, Agent Dixon, said you were here, and I have a case I was hoping you could help with. An unidentified murder victim. We’ve tried dental, checking the missing persons database, prints. Nothing’s come up. I was hoping you could do a forensic sketch for

ID purposes.”

“Are you the detective on the case?”

She reddened. “No.”

Sydney’s curiosity was piqued at her response. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Officer Glynnis took a deep breath, as though bracing herself against Sydney’s reaction. “I should probably tell you that I’m just a patrol officer and I’m going over the detective’s head. But it was necessary, or I wouldn’t be here,” she said in a rush. “I also heard about the case SFPD picked up the other night. I thought mine might be related, but the detective wouldn’t call you. He thinks she’s just a prostitute, and it happened here, not in Reno.” Her smile was hopeful. “I thought if I drove up here, presented you with what I think, that you might be able to help. I know you’ve done some drawings for other agencies, so I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.”

“How are you involved?”

“I was the officer who found her.”

Sydney noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes, which reminded her that the poor woman worked midnights. “Coffee?”

“Love some.”

“We have a cafe in the building. Nothing fancy.”

“Doesn’t matter to me, as long as it’s strong.”

“The cafe, then,” and they weaved their way through the crowd, to the elevator banks. There were four, each designated to a certain block of floors. One had a sign indicating the Midway Cafe, so named because out of twenty floors, it was situated on the tenth. Sydney jabbed the down button, then stood back, which was when she noticed the guy who had smiled at her joke in the courtroom standing behind them, holding a newspaper in one hand, then glancing at his watch. More than likely a cop, definitely cute, she thought before stepping onto the elevator with Officer Glynnis. Cute Guy got on as well, asked her what floor, pressed the requested button, and the door slid shut.

Other than that, the ride up to the cafe was uneventful. And disappointing when Sydney noticed that even though Cute Guy was also going to the cafe, he wore a wedding ring. She really needed to get a life, she thought, as she bought two coffees, then directed Kim Glynnis to a table by the window, not that there was much of a view. The state building across the street blocked most of it, unless you leaned out and looked to the left to catch a sliver of the bay. They sat in the corner, and Sydney listened to her story. Apparently Kim Glynnis was not only one of the first female officers at her department, and a rookie to boot, all of one and a half years on, but she also suffered from the typical if-it-comes-out-ofa-female’s-mouth-it-must-be-bullshit syndrome prevalent in some agencies where the good ol’ boys still ruled the roost. Unfortunately for her, many of these same agencies took a dim view of the Feds walking in and getting involved in their cases.

Even so, Sydney listened to her explain how, on patrol, she’d found the victim dumped in a marsh adjacent to a park in the outskirts of town. After several days in the water, the victim had lost most of her hair, and what was left of her prints hadn’t yielded a hit. She’d been stabbed several times, and a number of apparent defensive wounds marked her arms and hands. Though it was believed she was the victim of sexual assault, no seminal fluid had been found.