killed by the Riddle Killer. The killer didn’t use a name, never had. Only a riddle. He’d asphyxiated his first four victims, striking once every six weeks or so. With Roy he used a bomb. She found his body in pieces five minutes after the explosion ripped it apart. Nothing could wash away the image.
After a couple final hours of sleep she’d headed for the station where she waited an hour for the rest to arrive.
With Roy’s death the fundamentals of life became stunningly vivid, while virtually all of her aspirations had died with him. She’d taken her relationship with him for granted, and when he was snatched away, she became desperate for every other thing she took for granted. The sweet smell of air. A burning hot shower on a cold morning. Sleep. The touch of another human. The simple things in life sustained her. Life wasn’t what it seemed, she’d learned that much, but she still wasn’t sure what life really was . The parties and the promotions felt plastic now. People rushing around, climbing imaginary ladders of success, fighting to be noticed.
Like Milton. Milton was a walking media package, right down to the bone, complete with a beige trench coat, which now hung in the corner. He was holding a news conference, of all things, just past sunup when she’d first entered the station.
There was no new news; they all knew that. His insistence that the media had a right to know at least that much was no more than smoke blowing. He wanted the camera eye, end of case. Not exactly her kind of man.
Her thinking wasn’t exactly professional; she knew that. He was a law enforcement officer with the same ultimate objective as hers. They were in this together, regardless of any personal differences. But Jennifer didn’t find the process of putting all the nonsense aside as easy as she had before Roy’s death. That was why the Bureau tended to distance agents in her situation from the front line, as Frank had attempted.
Never mind, she would rise above it all.
To her left sat Nancy Sterling, Long Beach’s most experienced forensic scientist. Next to her, Gary Swanson from the state police and Mike Bowen from the ATF. Cliff Bransford, CBI, rounded out the gathering. She’d worked with Cliff and found him exceptionally tedious, but smart enough. For him, everything was by the book. Best to stay clear of him unless he approached her.
“I know you all have varying interests in this case, but the FBI has clear jurisdiction—this guy’s rap includes kidnapping,” Jennifer said.
Milton didn’t bat an eye. “You may have jurisdiction, but I’ve got a city—”
“Don’t worry, I’m here to work with you. I’m recommending that we use your offices as a clearinghouse. That puts all the information at your fingertips. We’ll coordinate everything from here. I don’t know what the CBI or the ATF will want to do about personnel placement, but I would like to work out of this office. Fair enough?”
Milton didn’t respond.
“Sounds good to me,” Bransford said. “We’re fine out of our own offices. As far as I’m concerned, this is your case.”
Bransford knew about Roy and was giving her his support. She gave him a slight nod.
“We’ll stand off for the meantime,” the ATF agent said. “But if explosives show up again, we’ll want a larger role.”
“Granted,” Jennifer said. She faced Milton. “Sir?”
He stared her down and she knew then that her opinion of him wouldn’t change. Even if he’d linked this case to the Riddle Killer, which was likely given the profile of the killings in Sacramento, Jennifer doubted he knew of her personal stake in the case. Roy’s identity had not been circulated. Even so, she didn’t care for his arrogance.
“What’s your specialty, agent?” Milton asked.
“Forensic psychology, Detective.”
“Profiler.”
“Psychological profiles based on forensics,” she corrected. She almost spoke the rest of the thought: That’s why they put the
After a couple final hours of sleep she’d headed for the station where she waited an hour for the rest to arrive.
With Roy’s death the fundamentals of life became stunningly vivid, while virtually all of her aspirations had died with him. She’d taken her relationship with him for granted, and when he was snatched away, she became desperate for every other thing she took for granted. The sweet smell of air. A burning hot shower on a cold morning. Sleep. The touch of another human. The simple things in life sustained her. Life wasn’t what it seemed, she’d learned that much, but she still wasn’t sure what life really was . The parties and the promotions felt plastic now. People rushing around, climbing imaginary ladders of success, fighting to be noticed.
Like Milton. Milton was a walking media package, right down to the bone, complete with a beige trench coat, which now hung in the corner. He was holding a news conference, of all things, just past sunup when she’d first entered the station.
There was no new news; they all knew that. His insistence that the media had a right to know at least that much was no more than smoke blowing. He wanted the camera eye, end of case. Not exactly her kind of man.
Her thinking wasn’t exactly professional; she knew that. He was a law enforcement officer with the same ultimate objective as hers. They were in this together, regardless of any personal differences. But Jennifer didn’t find the process of putting all the nonsense aside as easy as she had before Roy’s death. That was why the Bureau tended to distance agents in her situation from the front line, as Frank had attempted.
Never mind, she would rise above it all.
To her left sat Nancy Sterling, Long Beach’s most experienced forensic scientist. Next to her, Gary Swanson from the state police and Mike Bowen from the ATF. Cliff Bransford, CBI, rounded out the gathering. She’d worked with Cliff and found him exceptionally tedious, but smart enough. For him, everything was by the book. Best to stay clear of him unless he approached her.
“I know you all have varying interests in this case, but the FBI has clear jurisdiction—this guy’s rap includes kidnapping,” Jennifer said.
Milton didn’t bat an eye. “You may have jurisdiction, but I’ve got a city—”
“Don’t worry, I’m here to work with you. I’m recommending that we use your offices as a clearinghouse. That puts all the information at your fingertips. We’ll coordinate everything from here. I don’t know what the CBI or the ATF will want to do about personnel placement, but I would like to work out of this office. Fair enough?”
Milton didn’t respond.
“Sounds good to me,” Bransford said. “We’re fine out of our own offices. As far as I’m concerned, this is your case.”
Bransford knew about Roy and was giving her his support. She gave him a slight nod.
“We’ll stand off for the meantime,” the ATF agent said. “But if explosives show up again, we’ll want a larger role.”
“Granted,” Jennifer said. She faced Milton. “Sir?”
He stared her down and she knew then that her opinion of him wouldn’t change. Even if he’d linked this case to the Riddle Killer, which was likely given the profile of the killings in Sacramento, Jennifer doubted he knew of her personal stake in the case. Roy’s identity had not been circulated. Even so, she didn’t care for his arrogance.
“What’s your specialty, agent?” Milton asked.
“Forensic psychology, Detective.”
“Profiler.”
“Psychological profiles based on forensics,” she corrected. She almost spoke the rest of the thought: That’s why they put the
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