head and clucked his tongue in a genuine
reaction of resignation and despair. "Sick bastard," he wheezed.
"Very," Fiona said, exchanging glances with
Prentiss, who nodded her head in agreement.
They were sitting in the Eggplant's office, the dust-laden
window behind his desk darkening. Beyond his closed door she could hear the
ceaseless ringing of the telephones, blaring out their cacophony of death.
Prentiss sat beside her in one of the chief's mismatched
office chairs, her notebook on her lap. Throughout the day, she had been a
whirlwind of activity, scribbling furiously in her notebook, her head cocked to
one side, her shoulder bracing the phone against her ear.
"Give him the rundown, Gail," Fiona said, turning
to Prentiss.
Gail's eyes met hers, somewhat surprised. She had, of
course, expected Fiona, as the senior detective in charge of the scene, to make
the first report to the chief. But Fiona felt drained. It had taken all her
energy to cope with her recollections.
Worse, she feared that she would not have the strength to
keep her secret hidden, that some errant word or phrase would spark their
suspicion that she was keeping something from them. Above all, she did not want
them to know that she was pursuing a private agenda. She had made calls, worked
the computer feverishly looking for similar cases in the area.
She had met with some success in ferreting out some
similarities but there was always just enough of a difference in modus
operandi to reject the possibility of a match. She wondered if she secretly
enjoyed these rejections, as if each elimination brought her closer to what she
really wanted ... that the finger of suspicion be pointed directly at Farley
Lipscomb.
As if to professionalize the idea, she actually called his
office to determine whether or not her suspicion had any merit at all. There
was always the possibility that he was on some extended vacation in some
distant land, which would knock any presumption of guilt into a cocked hat.
The Supreme Court was in session and Justice Lipscomb was
very much in evidence. It was, in fact, only two weeks past the second Monday
in October. She did not give the receptionist her name.
"Phyla Herbert," Gail began with a crisp economy
of language and presention. "Caucasian, twenty-four years old. Recent
graduate of University of Chicago Law School. Apparently a whiz kid. Magna
Cum Laude. Phi Beta Kappa . Law Review. Father with a prestigious law firm.
Mother died when she was a teenager. She came to town Thursday night for a
series of interviews. Met with people Friday at the Justice Department,
Interior, the Energy Department. Also had scheduled appointments on Capitol
Hill with two Illinois congressmen. Also had interviews set tomorrow and was
scheduled to head home on Wednesday."
Gail paused for a moment and looked up, possibly to
reassure herself of the chief's full attention, which was quickly confirmed.
"Based upon Flannagan's assessment, the victim probably died late Saturday
night. The rooms on either side of hers were not booked through the weekend.
None of the other guests we managed to track down who were booked into rooms
further down the corridor heard any uncommon sounds worth mentioning. She never
used room service."
"Flannagan get anything more?" the Eggplant
asked.
"Reports should be coming in shortly," Gail said.
"Did we get a modus operandi match?" the
Eggplant asked. Gail turned to look at Fiona.
"Nothing of significance, Captain. A few open cases in
southern Virginia, but they are prostitute kills, a completely different
formula."
"Next-of-kin notified?"
"Afraid so," Gail sighed. "Always the worst
part. The father is flying in from Chicago. I must warn you. He is very
angry."
Ignoring the comment, the Eggplant fired a question at
Fiona.
"Autopsy results?"
"Coming," Fiona said.
Earlier she had talked to Dr. Benson, whose caseload on
this Monday was extraordinary. As she had known, he was going to do the job
himself. The Herbert
reaction of resignation and despair. "Sick bastard," he wheezed.
"Very," Fiona said, exchanging glances with
Prentiss, who nodded her head in agreement.
They were sitting in the Eggplant's office, the dust-laden
window behind his desk darkening. Beyond his closed door she could hear the
ceaseless ringing of the telephones, blaring out their cacophony of death.
Prentiss sat beside her in one of the chief's mismatched
office chairs, her notebook on her lap. Throughout the day, she had been a
whirlwind of activity, scribbling furiously in her notebook, her head cocked to
one side, her shoulder bracing the phone against her ear.
"Give him the rundown, Gail," Fiona said, turning
to Prentiss.
Gail's eyes met hers, somewhat surprised. She had, of
course, expected Fiona, as the senior detective in charge of the scene, to make
the first report to the chief. But Fiona felt drained. It had taken all her
energy to cope with her recollections.
Worse, she feared that she would not have the strength to
keep her secret hidden, that some errant word or phrase would spark their
suspicion that she was keeping something from them. Above all, she did not want
them to know that she was pursuing a private agenda. She had made calls, worked
the computer feverishly looking for similar cases in the area.
She had met with some success in ferreting out some
similarities but there was always just enough of a difference in modus
operandi to reject the possibility of a match. She wondered if she secretly
enjoyed these rejections, as if each elimination brought her closer to what she
really wanted ... that the finger of suspicion be pointed directly at Farley
Lipscomb.
As if to professionalize the idea, she actually called his
office to determine whether or not her suspicion had any merit at all. There
was always the possibility that he was on some extended vacation in some
distant land, which would knock any presumption of guilt into a cocked hat.
The Supreme Court was in session and Justice Lipscomb was
very much in evidence. It was, in fact, only two weeks past the second Monday
in October. She did not give the receptionist her name.
"Phyla Herbert," Gail began with a crisp economy
of language and presention. "Caucasian, twenty-four years old. Recent
graduate of University of Chicago Law School. Apparently a whiz kid. Magna
Cum Laude. Phi Beta Kappa . Law Review. Father with a prestigious law firm.
Mother died when she was a teenager. She came to town Thursday night for a
series of interviews. Met with people Friday at the Justice Department,
Interior, the Energy Department. Also had scheduled appointments on Capitol
Hill with two Illinois congressmen. Also had interviews set tomorrow and was
scheduled to head home on Wednesday."
Gail paused for a moment and looked up, possibly to
reassure herself of the chief's full attention, which was quickly confirmed.
"Based upon Flannagan's assessment, the victim probably died late Saturday
night. The rooms on either side of hers were not booked through the weekend.
None of the other guests we managed to track down who were booked into rooms
further down the corridor heard any uncommon sounds worth mentioning. She never
used room service."
"Flannagan get anything more?" the Eggplant
asked.
"Reports should be coming in shortly," Gail said.
"Did we get a modus operandi match?" the
Eggplant asked. Gail turned to look at Fiona.
"Nothing of significance, Captain. A few open cases in
southern Virginia, but they are prostitute kills, a completely different
formula."
"Next-of-kin notified?"
"Afraid so," Gail sighed. "Always the worst
part. The father is flying in from Chicago. I must warn you. He is very
angry."
Ignoring the comment, the Eggplant fired a question at
Fiona.
"Autopsy results?"
"Coming," Fiona said.
Earlier she had talked to Dr. Benson, whose caseload on
this Monday was extraordinary. As she had known, he was going to do the job
himself. The Herbert
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