something struck her hard, a roundhouse thump to the left side of her head, making her ear ring, and then there was something cold and reeking of ammonia pressing down on her mouth, and then the light dimmed.
And then there was nothing.
Â
Â
âThis guyâs on an escalating spree, believe me, De Lourdeâs murder was just the beginning.â
Ulysses Grove stood at the dry-erase board in the fluorescent-drenched conference room at the Louisiana Bureau of Investigationâs Baton Rouge field office. He wore his sedate, pin-striped, double-breasted Bill Blass suit with his charcoal-gray power tieâthe uniform of a CEO addressing his rank and file, or perhaps a dean of education giving a valedictory speech. In fact that was exactly what an FBI profiler was: a teacher, a highly trained consultant.
But over the past few years, Special Agent Ulysses Grove had become much more than a mere consultant; among bureau insiders heâd become a rock star. He was the man who had chased Richard Ackerman into the frozen tundra, the man who had faced off with the Happy Face Killer in a squalid truck stop restroom. But rock stars can also be flakes, and a lot of guys want to shove rock stars off their pedestals. Grove certainly had his share of detractors in the law enforcement community. Right now, in fact, he was having a hard time convincing the grizzled veterans sitting in front of him.
âAll due respect, Iâm hearing a lot of extrapolation here, a whole lotta theory ,â said a portly man in a seersucker jacket in the front row, his southern drawl dripping with skepticism. His named was Marvin Pilch, and he was an LBI section chief in charge of the Orleans and Jefferson Parish region. âI mean, assuming De Lourde was murdered, I donât even see a series here yet.â
The other men, all seated around the oval conference table, each holding a report folder that Grove had prepared for this very meeting, offered various nods and grunts of agreement. These men included Lieutenant Harry Brenniman, a skinny black detective with the New Orleans PD detective squad; Special Agent Arliss Simms, a heavyset bureau lifer who had worked the back alleys of the French Quarter for most of his adult life; and Dr. Maynard Nesbitt, the balding Orleans Parish coroner, who had a special aversion to Grove since it was Groveâs profile that was calling into question Nesbittâs original autopsy conclusions. In other words, this was a tough crowd.
A voice crackled out of the squawk box on the center of the table: âGentlemen, I think it might be best if we just hear Grove out before we comment.â
The disembodied voice belonged to Tom Geisel, avuncular head of the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico; Groveâs friend, boss, and mentor for nearly fifteen years. Thank God for Geisel. Thank God for that deep, stentorian tone coming out of that speaker. Grove didnât know where he would be without Geisel. Probably locked up in a rubber hotel somewhere.
âBelieve me, guys, I understand your concerns,â Grove told the room, glancing at each man, one at a time. âI had the same concerns when I started down this road, but a lot of times a break like this starts with intuition. Connections. A chain of inconsistencies. De Lourde would never have gone to that place, and he was calling me for help that night. I could be wrong about all this, but I donât think so. I think De Lourde was murdered, and I think he knew his murderer.â
Marvin Pilch stifled a burp. âSo ... explain to me again how the manâs eyeball got into your possession.â
Grove sighed and glanced up for a moment at the dry-erase board that he had positioned at the front of the room. Clipped to the top edge of the board was a forensic black-and-white blowup of the errant eyeball, which was currently sitting in a pathology lab at the parish morgue.
In extreme close-ups the human eye looks like an overdone
And then there was nothing.
Â
Â
âThis guyâs on an escalating spree, believe me, De Lourdeâs murder was just the beginning.â
Ulysses Grove stood at the dry-erase board in the fluorescent-drenched conference room at the Louisiana Bureau of Investigationâs Baton Rouge field office. He wore his sedate, pin-striped, double-breasted Bill Blass suit with his charcoal-gray power tieâthe uniform of a CEO addressing his rank and file, or perhaps a dean of education giving a valedictory speech. In fact that was exactly what an FBI profiler was: a teacher, a highly trained consultant.
But over the past few years, Special Agent Ulysses Grove had become much more than a mere consultant; among bureau insiders heâd become a rock star. He was the man who had chased Richard Ackerman into the frozen tundra, the man who had faced off with the Happy Face Killer in a squalid truck stop restroom. But rock stars can also be flakes, and a lot of guys want to shove rock stars off their pedestals. Grove certainly had his share of detractors in the law enforcement community. Right now, in fact, he was having a hard time convincing the grizzled veterans sitting in front of him.
âAll due respect, Iâm hearing a lot of extrapolation here, a whole lotta theory ,â said a portly man in a seersucker jacket in the front row, his southern drawl dripping with skepticism. His named was Marvin Pilch, and he was an LBI section chief in charge of the Orleans and Jefferson Parish region. âI mean, assuming De Lourde was murdered, I donât even see a series here yet.â
The other men, all seated around the oval conference table, each holding a report folder that Grove had prepared for this very meeting, offered various nods and grunts of agreement. These men included Lieutenant Harry Brenniman, a skinny black detective with the New Orleans PD detective squad; Special Agent Arliss Simms, a heavyset bureau lifer who had worked the back alleys of the French Quarter for most of his adult life; and Dr. Maynard Nesbitt, the balding Orleans Parish coroner, who had a special aversion to Grove since it was Groveâs profile that was calling into question Nesbittâs original autopsy conclusions. In other words, this was a tough crowd.
A voice crackled out of the squawk box on the center of the table: âGentlemen, I think it might be best if we just hear Grove out before we comment.â
The disembodied voice belonged to Tom Geisel, avuncular head of the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico; Groveâs friend, boss, and mentor for nearly fifteen years. Thank God for Geisel. Thank God for that deep, stentorian tone coming out of that speaker. Grove didnât know where he would be without Geisel. Probably locked up in a rubber hotel somewhere.
âBelieve me, guys, I understand your concerns,â Grove told the room, glancing at each man, one at a time. âI had the same concerns when I started down this road, but a lot of times a break like this starts with intuition. Connections. A chain of inconsistencies. De Lourde would never have gone to that place, and he was calling me for help that night. I could be wrong about all this, but I donât think so. I think De Lourde was murdered, and I think he knew his murderer.â
Marvin Pilch stifled a burp. âSo ... explain to me again how the manâs eyeball got into your possession.â
Grove sighed and glanced up for a moment at the dry-erase board that he had positioned at the front of the room. Clipped to the top edge of the board was a forensic black-and-white blowup of the errant eyeball, which was currently sitting in a pathology lab at the parish morgue.
In extreme close-ups the human eye looks like an overdone
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