Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

Being a supervisor, he had his own agenda, because the first thing he said was “Thought you might like to discuss what happened the other night with the drawing.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t.”

“ Pretend you would.”

“I had my mind on something else at the time?” “Like what?”

The million-dollar question, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to throw it out there now. “The usual, wondering if SFPD had any leads, was Reno PD doing the follow-up?”

“No, they haven’t. And Reno PD doesn’t have anything, either.”

“Which means whoever you assign is going to have a lot to do on the case,” she said, trying to deflect his attention.

“It’s not like you to feed me bullshit, Fitzpatrick. What the hell is going on?”

If a lie would get her out of this, and she was any good at it, she would have concocted one on the spot. And the truth sure as hell wasn’t going to work. Then again, maybe part of the truth… “Don’t suppose you caught the article in the Chronicle. The one on the death penalty?”

“I scanned it briefly. Why?”

“One of the cases they detailed is the guy convicted of killing my father.” Dixon put down his pen, gave her his full attention. “He’s due to be executed, but claims he’s innocent. It was twenty years yesterday, so it got to me. The anniversary.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s why you asked for leave.”

That and the hangover she’d been anticipating. “In a nutshell.”

“You going to be okay? Or you need more time off?”

His more-time-off question was double-edged, something Sydney knew from experience, and she decided right then and there that she wasn’t about to reveal her visit to San Quentin and definitely not Scotty’s news, either. Not yet. Dixon didn’t want to hear that any agent working for him was having issues, was emotionally involved in anything that would take time from real work. Bottom line, he had to make reports to HQ in Washington, and her caseload was part of his stats. She gave a casual shrug. “I’ll be fine.”

He stared at her for several seconds, perhaps to ensure that she really would be okay, then, finally, “You talk to that officer from Hill City who drove up here about a sketch?”

“Case is a couple weeks old. Partly decomposed body, no available ID, though the officer thought it might be related to our case we picked up last night.”

“I agree with her.”

“Since it’s cold-”

“I don’t like coincidences. I’d like you to go down today, see what can be done.”

“Today?”

“You have something else that’s more important?”

“The Harrington report.” That particular report was due on his desk last week, and his expression told her she’d just given the wrong answer. She quickly added, “But it’s almost done.”

“Get to the point where the ‘almost’ part is eliminated from the ‘done’ part when you come back tomorrow. I’d like that guy sitting in a jail cell.”

“First thing in the morning,” Sydney said, hightailing it out of there. She wanted the time to contact Houston PD, find out about that suicide. But between the sketch and the Harrington report, she wondered when she’d have the time. The Harrington report was left over from her last assignment working white-collar crimes, an insurance fraud operation that was about to result in the arrest of more than ten individuals, including a prominent doctor, George Harrington, who had masterminded the ring that had netted his medical practice several million dollars.

Unfortunately for George Harrington, he was caught when his office billed an insurance company for a procedure his patient didn’t need. An appendectomy. The insurance company brought it to the Bureau’s attention, pointing out that said patient had already had his appendix removed several years before.

If Sydney wanted any peace in looking into the matters involving her father, she’d need to get on that sketch and get the Harrington report turned in. Lucky for her, the case was virtually done, which meant she could devote her full attention to turning in a sketch on the Hill City victim. Well, devote as much attention as her swirling thoughts would allow.

Hill City, located just north of San Mateo, was a quaint town of middle-class homes that were probably worth a small fortune, thanks to their proximity to San Francisco. The police department was located in an antiquated building in the center of town, where a large sign posted out front depicted the new building forthcoming once a bond was passed.

Sydney walked up to the glass double doors, pushed one open, then stepped into a small lobby. To the left was a door that led to the police department, where Sydney was greeted by a woman at the front counter.

Credentials in hand, Sydney said, “I’m Special Agent Fitzpatrick. Is the detective who is handling the Jane Doe working here?”

“Jane Doe?”

“Body found out in a marsh.”

“Oh. That’d be Detective Rodale. I’ll call him for you. Just have a seat.”

She directed Sydney to a very small waiting room consisting of four chairs just off the records section. Sydney sat, waited. About five minutes later, the detective walked in. He was wearing tan slacks and cowboy boots, and a navy sport coat that did little to hide the belly that protruded over his large silver belt buckle, the sort given out as trophies for a rodeo.

“You’re with the FBI?” he asked, his tone implying he was anything but impressed.

“Yes. I understand you have a Jane Doe that needs to be identified.”

“How’d you come about that info?”

Call it intuition, call it her previous eight years on the force before becoming a special agent-it was clear he wasn’t thrilled about her presence. There were two strikes against her. One, she was a woman. Two, she was a federal agent. Thank God not all officers were of similar mind. That same intuition told her, however, that if he knew Officer Glynnis had tipped her, Glynnis would bear the brunt of his anger. “National database. That’s why we have y’all entering every tiny detail from your reports.” She gave him her sweetest smile.

He seemed to buy it. “Yeah. Okay. Right this way.” And so Sydney followed him back to the detective bureau, which consisted of about six desks in a large room. He sat at his desk, didn’t offer her a seat, then hefted a thick black binder from a shelf behind him. “Everything’s in here.”

Sydney pulled up a chair from beside the desk, sat, opened the binder. “What’s your take on it?”

“Probably a hooker got mixed up with someone who didn’t like what she was charging. Or you Feds got a better scenario? I’m assuming that’s why you’re here? To take over the case?”

She flipped through the pages, trying to see if it might be related to the case they picked up the other night. The injuries were so much more severe, she couldn’t judge on that factor. “I’m here only to do a forensic drawing to assist you. For identification purposes.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to post her picture?” He crossed his arms. “Maybe one of her clients will recognize her.”

She examined the close-up photo of the victim. “If you think someone can get past the caved-in skull, filmy eyes, and the fact there are only a few strands of hair left on her head because of decomposition. And did you plan to show the neck stab wounds with it?”

He didn’t respond, which made her wonder if he was truly contemplating such a thing. For the public to view a photo of a victim in that manner was incomprehensible, and Sydney glanced at him to see if he was serious.

She decided he was, and figured she’d move on. “Dental?” “Negative.”

“Prints?”

“Only partials left. Submerged too long. Nothing came back. Not one lead panned out, so you can say this is one cold case. Which doesn’t change the fact that we don’t want or need you here.”