A Glimpse of Evil Page 3

  “Sounds like a bunch of politics.”

  Dutch winked. “Exactly.”

  I sighed. I’d never been good at office politics. To be well skilled in that area, you had to occasionally ignore it when someone fed you a line of buffalo chips. I wasn’t so good at that. I was much better at calling people out on their shih tzu.

  Which was why I was particularly anxious about going back to a corporate office setting. Still, the idea of solving some old cases and bringing closure to a family or two appealed to me. And, I’ll also admit, I was a wee bit excited about teaching some old FBI dogs a few new tricks.

  Dutch and I climbed the stairs to the third floor and pushed our way through a door marked only with the suite number into a brightly lit office with several desks arranged in pairs of twos, split by an aisle and flanked at the end by two glassed-in offices.

  To one side was a brand-new gleaming whiteboard with “WELCOME, AGENTS” written in large black letters. New filing cabinets lined the side walls, and boxes and boxes of files were stacked along the floor in front of them.

  Crouched down next to one of the boxes was a pretty woman with curly auburn hair who was busy arranging the boxes by date and grouping them next to the coordinating cabinet.

  Gathered around one of the desks were several men dressed in shirts and ties. I guessed they ranged in age from midthirties to early sixties. Everyone looked up when we entered and the place got quiet real fast.

  Gulp.

  “Good morning,” Dutch said to the men. He sounded confident, which helped stem my anxiety a little. “It’s good to see you all again.”

  The men nodded and a few muttered, “Good morning, sir.”

  Dutch turned slightly and introduced me to the group. “This is our new civilian profiler, Abigail Cooper.”

  Immediately there were exchanged glances and the faint buzz of mumbled commentary, none of it loud enough to reach my ears, but it was clear—these guys had heard about me and what I was supposedly bringing to the table, and if I’d hoped they’d be open-minded, it was obvious from their expressions that I’d hoped wrong.

  Feeling the heat rise to my cheeks, I was saved by the woman on the floor, who got up quickly and came directly over to us. “Good morning!” she said happily, sticking out her hand to shake mine. “I’m Mrs. Katherine Copperidge, the office manager here. It’s great to finally meet you, Ms. Cooper.”

  I shook her hand and attempted a smile. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Copperidge,” I said.

  Her smile widened. I could tell she saw my discomfort and was working hard to put me at ease. “Please, call me Katie.”

  “Abby,” I said, feeling a little better.

  “Hello, Katie,” Dutch said when she turned to him. “It’s great to see you again.”

  “Agent Rivers,” she said, taking his extended hand. “Special Agent Harrison is in his office, and he’d like to meet with you briefly before addressing the squad.”

  Dutch left me for Harrison’s office, and Katie took my elbow and led me to one of the desks closest to the whiteboard against the window. All I had to do was turn around to see the beautiful trees just outside. “This is your desk,” she said, pulling out the new chair for me to try. I sat down and swiveled from side to side. The chair was one of those ergonomic numbers meant to give optimum support to the back. It was actually pretty comfortable.

  “This is great,” I told her. “Thanks.”

  Katie placed a paper in front of me. It was a list of office supplies. “Just circle any items you’ll need from that list and I’ll have it on your desk by the end of the day.” Next she gave me a lanyard and pulled a small camera from her blazer pocket. “We’ll also need to take your photo for your civilian badge and key card. The security system for the doors is being installed today, so you’ll need to swipe in and out after tonight.”

  I plastered a smile on my face as she took the picture, and then, with a pat on my shoulder, she hurried off to make my ID.

  I looked again at the group of agents on the other side of the room, who were speaking softly but sneaking an occasional glance my way. Uncomfortable, I averted my own eyes and stared around at the big room. I’ll admit I had a moment of buyer’s remorse and seriously considered bolting for the door.

  My old office back in Michigan had been so comfortable and cozy. And most importantly—save for Candice in the next suite—it had been all mine. This sterile, stiff, and fluorescent-lit atmosphere was really going to take some getting used to.

  Brice and Dutch came out of the office at that point and Brice’s eyes caught mine. I swore I saw something like indecision there, and I wondered if he was now regretting offering me the post as much as I was regretting taking it.

  With nothing more than a nod to the other investigators and to me, he approached the whiteboard and began to erase the “WELCOME, AGENTS.” Dutch stood with his arms folded across his chest on the other side of the whiteboard, and a few of the other agents came forward to take their seats.

  The desk next to mine was taken up by one of the younger-looking investigators, a Hispanic man with jet-black hair and large brown eyes. I watched him covertly out of the corner of my eye. There was something in the way he moved, with the grace and stealth of a panther. I figured bad guys didn’t really stand a chance when he faced off with them.

  I avoided making eye contact with him and kept my expression neutral; I thought it best to wait until I figured out where I stood with these guys before I tried to make nice.

  Brice began writing a list on the whiteboard. The first item was labeled “CCS Introductions,” the next “Departmental Procedures,” then “Audits,” and finally “Stats.”

  Brice then turned to face us. He waited until he was sure he had everyone’s attention before he began speaking in a low, even tone, which was his trademark.

  “Good morning, agents and staff,” he said. “I would like to officially welcome you to the FBI’s newest office here in Austin. As you know, we’re a special group with our own budget and our own agenda. We’ve been located away from any other bureau office for the specific reason that when we begin investigating these cold cases, we don’t want any animosity reaching our squad from other departments. We’re not trying to show up other investigators, merely taking a second look at their dead files to make sure they meet the FBI’s investigative protocols.

  “Being located in Austin also allows us to operate from a central location in relation to all the other main cities in Texas. We’re within a three- hour drive to both Dallas and Houston, and only an hour and a half away from San Antonio.

  “Which brings me to my next point,” Harrison said, and he paused here to look around the room as if measuring us up. “This job will come with a lot of downtime and paperwork. Far more than you’re used to, in fact. You’ll be required to thoroughly audit these old files, looking for missed clues or leads that were not thoroughly vetted. Once we have determined that a case may be viable, it will be assigned to one or more of you for follow-up, which will require you to travel to wherever the case originated.

  “Airfare will only be approved for areas further than six hours away by car. I know you were briefed on these requirements before you committed to joining this squad, but I wanted to emphasize it again.”

  I let my eyes swivel around the room. No one seemed fazed by anything that Harrison had said, and he continued. “We’ve been given the official division name of the Cold Case Squad, or CCS, and if you haven’t already noticed, we’re a diverse group of some of the best investigators Texas has to offer.

  “Because we’re the first division of its kind, and something of a test case to my superiors, we’ve been allowed some leeway when it comes to our investigative techniques. As a department we will be relying heavily on gut instinct, and those of us already bearing a successful track record in that area will help mentor the rest of the group.”

  Harrison’s steely gaze settled on me and I felt my mouth go dry and my cheeks heat up. I was r
eally hoping that Harrison wouldn’t call any more attention to me and just allow me a few days to settle in with these gruff-looking men before he mentioned anything about my being psychic. I understood the squad already knew about my background, but having it called out the first day was going to make me uncomfortable.

  “Abigail Cooper joins our team with a rather unique set of skills. She’s been invaluable to the Troy, Michigan, field office, and has assisted us in the resolution of several cases that would otherwise have gone cold.”

  I could feel every pair of eyes in the room on me and I held my breath, hoping Harrison would move on quickly.

  “Ms. Cooper has been granted the official title of civilian profiler. By trade she’s a gifted intuitive, and for those of you in this room who do not believe in psychics—let me assure you, there was a time when I was far more skeptical than any of you. She won me over. In fact, she blew me away. And I have no doubt that within a very short period of time, she’ll do the same for you.”

  In any other situation I would have felt grateful for Harrison’s faith in me, but the polite silence was broken by a few mumblings and I knew these guys weren’t going to discard their individual doubts just because the boss told them to.

  Still, Brice’s eyes narrowed at the reaction from his agents. “Let me also state, ladies and gentlemen, that I will not tolerate any disrespect for any member of this squad. Do I make myself clear?”

  I nodded my head enthusiastically, but I was the only one who put a lot of effort into it. I had a feeling that I wasn’t the only person who would have to work at gaining the agents’ respect.

  “Excellent,” Harrison said, as if he hadn’t noticed their reluctance. He then turned to the boxes lining the walls. “Behind you are the cold cases sent to us from Houston, Dallas, Corpus Christi and San Antonio. We’ll be receiving El Paso’s and Lubbock’s cases in a few days.”

  We all turned and eyed the Bankers Boxes. They looked far too numerous for our little squad to tackle.

  “I believe the best way to proceed is one box at a time per investigator,” Harrison said. “CCS has been given the overall goal of a five percent solve ratio, but I’d like to push that closer to eight percent. If we audit at least one hundred files per month, I believe the six of you will be able to resolve five to eight of those cases. With the talent in this room I know we can achieve that goal.”

  There was a collective groan from several men in the room. I wondered why. Eight cases solved seemed like a really lowball number to me.

  Harrison held up his hands to settle everyone down. “I know that’s aggressive,” he said, “but we’ve got a lot riding on our success rate. If we overdeliver, that could mean more resources and money for our budget, not to mention possible promotions for all of you. And remember, we have a year to accomplish that. It’s going to take some time to get the momentum going, but I know we can do it.”

  My brow furrowed and I looked at Dutch to gauge his reaction, but he had his poker face on, so it was hard to tell if he was worried about hitting the goal or not.

  Harrison then signaled to Katie at the back of the room and she began handing out several stapled pieces of paper to the investigators. “Mrs. Copperidge is passing out the audit forms for the files. I’d like you each to take a box, audit each file, and turn them in to me. Those files with the highest percentage will get assigned out first, but we won’t assign an investigation into any case that does not score higher than a seventy- five. From there we can prioritize and decide which ones to focus on.”

  Katie appeared in front of my desk at that moment and handed me a thick stack of paper. “Here you go, Abby,” she said with a smile.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the pile and feeling a little overwhelmed by the volume of each individual form. I was also quickly realizing that I’d become the FBI’s most recent paper pusher. Whatever illusions I’d had about my glamorous new job had officially flown out the window.

  Dutch came over at that moment and stood close to me. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll do the first box of audits together. It’s not so bad once you get the hang of it.”

  I leveled a look at him that said I sincerely doubted that, before switching my attention back to Harrison.

  Our fearless leader was indicating the boxes by the filing cabinets again. “I’d like you all to select a box and begin the audit process. If you come across a case file that you personally worked on, please do not audit it. Bring it to me and I will do the audit for that file.”

  The agents in the room all moved in the general direction of the Bankers Boxes, and Dutch and I waited until most of them had collected theirs before I pointed one out to Dutch. “That one,” I said to him, pointing to one close to us labeled “March thru May of 2008.”

  Dutch smiled. “You like that box?”

  I nodded. “Feels lucky.”

  Dutch bent over and picked it up before motioning me to follow him to his office. “Bring the forms,” he instructed.

  I trailed after him and couldn’t help but notice the raised eyebrows of the agents as we passed by.

  I entered Dutch’s glass office and placed my chair in such a way as to have those prying eyes at my back. “Gotta love the warm, fuzzy feeling I get off that crowd,” I remarked sarcastically.

  “They’ll lighten up,” he assured me before removing the lid of the box and peeking inside.

  I sighed. “You never told me I was about to enter the riveting world of auditing.”

  Dutch extracted the first file. “What’d you think this was all about, Abs? Nine hours a day of shoot-outs with bad guys?”

  “Well, I didn’t think it’d be nine hours of impossibly dull paperwork,” I snapped. I didn’t really know whom I was more mad at: Dutch for not leveling with me about what the job was actually all about or myself for not asking more probing questions.

  My S.O. sat down and regarded me soberly. “Having second thoughts?”

  “No,” I lied. “It’s just that . . .” My voice trailed off and I looked at the box full of files and the stack of audits on Dutch’s desk.

  “What, doll?”

  “Is this really the way you guys do this? I mean, do these audits even work?”

  Dutch reached for one of the forms. “Not always,” he admitted. “But it’s the best system we’ve come up with so far.”

  “So how does filling out a bunch of forms ultimately indicate which cases to focus on and which ones to leave behind?”

  “Well,” Dutch said, flipping through an audit form, “we’ll go through and answer the questions here and put down the pertinent information. All the answers are assigned a value, and at the end of the audit we add up the total and do a few more equations to arrive at a percentage. Those case files that score seventy- five percent or higher are likely candidates for us to focus our efforts.”

  “And how many files typically score that high?”

  Dutch shrugged. “Usually only one out of ten or fifteen,” he said. “Give or take.”

  I was starting to understand why Harrison had assigned us such a low resolve rate. “There has to be a better way,” I muttered.

  At that moment Dutch’s phone bleeped. He hit the speaker button and Harrison’s voice crackled loudly through Dutch’s office. “Agent Rivers, I’ve got D.C. calling in for a status report. Can you please join me for this conference call?”

  “Right away, sir,” Dutch said, getting up and coming around to my side of the desk with the case file. “Here,” he said gently. “Why don’t you start this on your own and I’ll be back to help you when I’m off the call?”

  As soon as Dutch left, I opened the case file and stared at the most beautiful little girl with innocent brown eyes, caramel-colored skin, and a smile as big as Texas. The name under the photo read “Keisha LaSalle.” She was a native of Dallas, had lived for a short time in New Orleans, then moved back to Dallas after Katrina. The file indicated that she had gone missing in May of ’08. She was only nine years old
at the time. My heart sank when I looked at the sweet smiling face because even though the case file was labeled “Missing Persons,” I knew immediately that she was deceased. Her image appeared flat and lifeless to my third eye—and I also had the feeling that she’d been murdered in a most horrible fashion. “Oh, sweetie,” I said, running my fingers over the face in the photo. “I’m so sorry.”

  And that’s when my natural instincts took over and I did what I do best. I closed my eyes and began to collect information out of the ether. At some point I opened my eyes and used the back of one of the audit forms to take notes, and after about five minutes I knew without a doubt this was one of the cases we might be able to resolve.

  There wasn’t much to the file; Keisha was reported missing by her older brother and guardian, Antoine LaSalle, who told police and then the FBI investigator who’d followed up that his baby sister had gone to school on a Tuesday morning and never came back home.

  The neighborhood was canvassed, scent dogs were brought in, and a cursory check of all of Keisha’s relatives was conducted, but all roads led to nothing. It was as if the poor little girl had vanished into thin air.

  What I wrote on my notes was fuzzy at best. I kept coming back to images of paint cans and paintbrushes. I wondered if she’d been taken near a paint store, or if someone posing as a painter had grabbed her off the street. I also had a strong connection to a playground. I kept seeing a jungle gym in my mind’s eye. And something even odder, I swore that when I concentrated very hard, I could smell the scent of gasoline, but try as I might, I couldn’t put all these together to form a complete picture.

  Still, I knew these were relevant clues; otherwise, my intuition wouldn’t have brought them to me. So I wrote them all down and set the file aside, then leaned back thoughtfully in the chair and sneaked a glance through the blinds to the office next door, where Dutch and Harrison were still huddled over the phone talking to D.C. I looked again at the stack of audit forms on the desk, which I still felt were a complete waste of time, and made a decision.