Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

By the time she dressed, grabbed the envelope with the photo, then left for work, her mood was downright ugly, and she attributed it directly to stepping outside her routine. She cussed out two drivers who’d gotten in her way, and left the McDonald’s empty-handed when the poor clerk couldn’t figure out how to ring up a sausage sandwich without egg, something Sydney thought was a perfectly reasonable order. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind she realized that her temper was flaring at a pace that had all the earmarks of post-traumatic stress disorder. Probably nothing to do with the drinking or missing her run, and everything to do with revisiting her father’s murder case and the man who had been convicted of killing him. Not that she could forget Scotty’s bombshell and that damned photo McKnight had mailed to her. At least that’s what she told herself, when Lettie informed her that Dixon wanted her in his office for a briefing on the Jane Doe from Hill City.

She shoved the manila envelope in her top drawer, schooled her features, trying to appear calm, not let on that she was having any issues unconnected to the current cases. A moment later, Michael “Doc” Schermer walked in. Tall, slim, with white hair and dark eyes, he’d been given the nickname because he looked more like a doctor than an FBI agent. Rumor had it that he’d originally wanted to be an eye doctor, but somewhere along the way ended up at the FBI. And the Bureau took full advantage of that “look,” using him in any undercover operations that involved the medical field, including the Harrington insurance fraud case that Dixon was so anxious for her to finish.

“Morning, Fitz,” Schermer said, with a polite nod. “Morning, Doc.” She liked him for two reasons. He was nice and he’d never been friends with Scotty. That not only earned him bonus points in her book, it also meant that she could trust him not to feed info back to Scotty-which was a lot more than she could say about Scotty’s old roommate from the academy, Tony Carillo, who walked in a moment later. Carillo was just a few years older than she, late thirties, stood maybe an inch shorter than Schermer’s six-three.

Carillo was not an easy man to ignore, and for more reasons than his warped sense of humor and quick Italian temper. He had dark eyes and olive skin, with a perpetual five o’clock shadow, even at eight in the morning, which always gave her the feeling that he’d just climbed out of bed- leaving a very satisfied woman behind. She wasn’t sure he would’ve been amused at such a thought. Word had it that he’d recently taken up celibacy after discovering his wife was sleeping with another man.

That was not, however, the reason she’d done her best to avoid Carillo ever since she came to San Francisco. It was more to do with the fact she was a by-the-book agent. If Carillo followed any rules, they were of his own making, and sometimes she wondered how it was he and Scotty, polar opposites, ever became friends in the first place.

Carillo and Schermer flanked the doorway to Dixon’s office, and Schermer said, “Heard you think we have a serial killer working the area.”

She handed Dixon her notes on the case. “So it appears.”

“Yeah?” Carillo said, crossing his arms, eyeing her. “How’d you get it, when you weren’t even here the past couple days?”

Dixon replied, “The case isn’t hers. She was on a sketch down in Hill City. Found a Jane Doe with injuries similar to our kidnap victim, Tara Brown. Possible sexual assault, head wound, stab wounds, and a bite mark on her breast, which, I might add, wasn’t noted by the investigator, but was found in the autopsy.”

“They missed it?” Carillo asked. “How the hell do they miss something like that?”

“Could be an oversight,” Sydney replied. “Small department. Possibly the detective wasn’t advised at the autopsy.” Or possibly he was an idiot, but that thought she kept to herself. She briefed Carillo and Schermer on what she’d found. “If there’s nothing else,” she said, after finishing, “I have another case I need to finish up.”

“What?” Carillo said. “You’re not going to try to get assigned?”

“I’ve got cases of my own to work,” she replied.

“Thanks,” Dixon said. She left, glad to be out of Carillo’s company, and she overheard Dixon tell the two, “I agree with Fitzpatrick. Good possibility we’ve got a serial rapistmurderer on our hands. I want the two of you to head down to Hill City, see if they missed anything else of significance.”

She thought about warning Carillo and Schermer about the detective down there. Maybe she would after she got something to eat, then dug up a contact for Houston PD to see if she couldn’t get a copy of that suicide note. She took the elevator to the deli, realized she’d forgotten to get money, and managed to dig up enough change from the bottom of her purse to cover a bag of cookies. Some breakfast. She couldn’t even get the damned bag open. By the time she returned to the office, cookie bag still intact, Carillo and Schermer were back at their desks, talking with a few other guys. They were laughing about something, but shut up the moment they saw her, their expressions suddenly turning far too innocent.

She had bigger things to worry about, like breakfast, and the cop-proof bag it was contained in. The guys mumbled their faux greetings as though nothing were amiss, and their laughter gained momentum after she passed by.

She ignored them, reached her cubicle, gave one last tug on the bag, and cookies went flying, one of them rolling four cubicles down, landing at Schermer’s feet. “Crap!”

A burst of laughter followed, and Sydney could see them over the top of the divider. They were looking right at her, no doubt having seen the cookie debacle. Schermer leaned down, picked up the cookie, and tossed it back at her. Carillo was on the phone, trying to appear serious, and he turned his back on them and her, waving for everyone to be quiet-just as her phone rang.

On cue, they all shut up. Well, two could play this game, and Sydney picked up her phone and said in her cheeriest voice, “Special Agent Fitzpatrick.”

“Are you the agent who did the drawing? The one in the newspaper?” The voice was low, not a whisper, but definitely sounding as though the caller was trying to disguise his identity.

She brushed the cookies and crumbs into a pile on her blotter, then picked a broken one, eyed the men. “Which paper?”

“The Chronicle.”

“Yes.” Surely these guys could come up with something original?

“I like your drawing.”

“Do you have some information regarding the case?” Sydney asked in her best official voice. The guys were leaning over Schermer’s desk, and Carillo was still shushing them to be quiet.

“Yes,” came the voice. She looked at the cookie, couldn’t believe the thought that just crossed her mind, because it was totally out of character… Do it, a voice seemed to say, and for once, she listened. Threw the cookie. And was horrified when it hit Carillo on his back. Schermer nearly died laughing. That was when she realized she couldn’t hear the laughter on her phone, as the caller continued with, “I’m going to look for another one. And bite her, too. Just like the others. Just like the girl in the drawing. Maybe I’ll bite you. I really like your drawing.”

“ Who is this?”

A click, and then dial tone. And the cookie came flying back at her, bounced against her shoulder and onto the floor, just as Dixon stepped out of his office. “What’s going on?”

“I have no idea,” Carillo said, covering the phone receiver with one hand as everyone hightailed it back to their cubicles. Schermer wasn’t so lucky and tried to blend into the background.