of a drug overdose and who was most likely tortured by being tied down on top of a massive mound of fire ants . . . well, it wouldn’t take a stretch of the imagination to guess this is drug-related.”
“Dumping the body in the river could be a warning, but why in the Potomac? You said you believe he died somewhere down South. Do you still believe that?”
“You’re free to double-check, but my recollection is that fire ants don’t exist in areas that periodically have temperatures below freezing. Messes up their whole colonization thing. Besides, I’m guessing he probably died closer to his home.”
“And you know where that is?”
“Yes. I can even tell you his name.”
The offer surprised O’Dell enough that she hesitated before asking, “How are you magically able to do that?”
“Actually, no magic at all. I found a driver’s license shoved halfway down his throat. And despite the fact that he is currently a bit bloated, the resemblance is enough that I’m quite certain it’s his.”
14
O’D ELL STOPPED IN HER OFFICE to collect copies from her printer. She used it as a detour to dilute her frustration before she confronted her boss. Everything about “the package in the Potomac”—from the tattoo to the driver’s license shoved down the victim’s throat to the dumping of the body in a public place—was adding up to be some kind of drug-related hit.
Why had she been sent? She specialized in profiling killers, tracking them, and stopping them before they killed again. But if this was a drug-cartel hit, it should be investigated by the DEA.
And that’s exactly what she intended to ask AD Kunze when she showed him a copy of Trevor Bagley’s driver’s license. She had obtained a printout from the Alabama Department of Motor Vehicles, but she included the copy Stan Wenhoff had e-mailed her of the crumpled, bloody original that he had removed from the man’s throat.
The creases in the laminated card made it difficult to identify Bagley. The bloodstains that had seeped behind the lamination suggested that the victim was still bleeding when his killer forced it down his throat. But Stan had confirmed the card alone would not have caused a suffocation that led to the man’s death. That, he still maintained, was due to the cocaine and the fire ants.
Still, O’Dell wanted AD Kunze to see the mess and had even used the color option on her printer to make a copy of the driver’s license, along with a photo of the bloated corpse and the shot she had of the tattoo.
She marched down the hallway, through the lobby, and headed for the assistant director’s closed door.
“He’s with someone,” his secretary told her. When she realized O’Dell wasn’t going to stop, she jumped out of her chair and shouted, “Someone is in there with him.”
O’Dell knocked, two short taps. Ignoring the secretary coming up quickly behind her, she pushed the door open before Kunze could respond. He looked up from behind his desk, surprise registering on his face before he scowled, first at O’Dell, then at his secretary, who had stayed back in the doorway. Across the desk from Kunze was, indeed, a visitor. And when the woman turned to look over her shoulder at the intruders, it was O’Dell’s turn to be surprised.
“Senator Delanor-Ramos?”
O’Dell saw the woman flinch and realized she should have left off the Ramos. The senator had been doing everything possible to disassociate herself from her ex-husband, and with good reason.
“Call me Ellie,” Senator Delanor said, standing and meeting O’Dell with an outstretched hand. “It’s good to see you again, Agent O’Dell.”
Less than a year ago the senator had used her political connections, including Assistant Director Kunze, when she was concernedabout her then husband, George Ramos, and her two children. They had gone out in their houseboat on the Gulf of Mexico and gotten caught in a night of brutal thunderstorms.
But Ramos had fooled
“Dumping the body in the river could be a warning, but why in the Potomac? You said you believe he died somewhere down South. Do you still believe that?”
“You’re free to double-check, but my recollection is that fire ants don’t exist in areas that periodically have temperatures below freezing. Messes up their whole colonization thing. Besides, I’m guessing he probably died closer to his home.”
“And you know where that is?”
“Yes. I can even tell you his name.”
The offer surprised O’Dell enough that she hesitated before asking, “How are you magically able to do that?”
“Actually, no magic at all. I found a driver’s license shoved halfway down his throat. And despite the fact that he is currently a bit bloated, the resemblance is enough that I’m quite certain it’s his.”
14
O’D ELL STOPPED IN HER OFFICE to collect copies from her printer. She used it as a detour to dilute her frustration before she confronted her boss. Everything about “the package in the Potomac”—from the tattoo to the driver’s license shoved down the victim’s throat to the dumping of the body in a public place—was adding up to be some kind of drug-related hit.
Why had she been sent? She specialized in profiling killers, tracking them, and stopping them before they killed again. But if this was a drug-cartel hit, it should be investigated by the DEA.
And that’s exactly what she intended to ask AD Kunze when she showed him a copy of Trevor Bagley’s driver’s license. She had obtained a printout from the Alabama Department of Motor Vehicles, but she included the copy Stan Wenhoff had e-mailed her of the crumpled, bloody original that he had removed from the man’s throat.
The creases in the laminated card made it difficult to identify Bagley. The bloodstains that had seeped behind the lamination suggested that the victim was still bleeding when his killer forced it down his throat. But Stan had confirmed the card alone would not have caused a suffocation that led to the man’s death. That, he still maintained, was due to the cocaine and the fire ants.
Still, O’Dell wanted AD Kunze to see the mess and had even used the color option on her printer to make a copy of the driver’s license, along with a photo of the bloated corpse and the shot she had of the tattoo.
She marched down the hallway, through the lobby, and headed for the assistant director’s closed door.
“He’s with someone,” his secretary told her. When she realized O’Dell wasn’t going to stop, she jumped out of her chair and shouted, “Someone is in there with him.”
O’Dell knocked, two short taps. Ignoring the secretary coming up quickly behind her, she pushed the door open before Kunze could respond. He looked up from behind his desk, surprise registering on his face before he scowled, first at O’Dell, then at his secretary, who had stayed back in the doorway. Across the desk from Kunze was, indeed, a visitor. And when the woman turned to look over her shoulder at the intruders, it was O’Dell’s turn to be surprised.
“Senator Delanor-Ramos?”
O’Dell saw the woman flinch and realized she should have left off the Ramos. The senator had been doing everything possible to disassociate herself from her ex-husband, and with good reason.
“Call me Ellie,” Senator Delanor said, standing and meeting O’Dell with an outstretched hand. “It’s good to see you again, Agent O’Dell.”
Less than a year ago the senator had used her political connections, including Assistant Director Kunze, when she was concernedabout her then husband, George Ramos, and her two children. They had gone out in their houseboat on the Gulf of Mexico and gotten caught in a night of brutal thunderstorms.
But Ramos had fooled
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