She pulled her bare legs up, tucking her feet underneath her in an attempt to make herself comfortable in the hard chair. Her Green Bay Packers jersey had stretched and become misshapen from too many washes. It barely covered her thighs, yet it was still the softest nightshirt she owned. It had become a sort of security blanket that made her feel at home no matter how many miles away. She refused to get rid of it despite Greg’s constant complaints.
She looked at the clock again. She should have called Greg when she had gotten back to the hotel. Now it was too late. Perhaps it was just as well. They both needed some cooling-down time.
She sifted through the scattered papers and examined her notes, several pages of details, small observations, some that would probably seem insignificant to anyone else. Eventually, she would pull them all together and create a profile of the killer. She had done it many times before. Sometimes she could describe the killer right down to height, hair color and, in one case, even his aftershave lotion. This time, though, it was more difficult. Partly because the obvious suspect had already been executed. And partly because it was always difficult to crawl inside the sick, disgusting mind of a child killer.
She picked up the silver medallion and chain from the corner of the desk. It resembled the one Danny Alverez had worn. Though this one had been given to Maggie by her father for her first Holy Communion.
“As long as you wear this, God will protect you from any harm,” her father had told her. Though his own, identical medallion had not saved him. She wondered if he had gone into the burning building that night believing it would.
Until a month ago she had worn the medallion faithfully, perhaps out of routine and remembrance of her father rather than out of any sense of spirituality. She had stopped praying the day she watched her father’s casket lowered into the cold, hard earth. At twelve, none of her catechism teachings could explain why God had needed to take her father away.
In fact, she had put aside Catholicism until she joined the forensic lab at Quantico eight years ago. Suddenly, those crude drawings in her Baltimore Catechism of demons with horns and glowing red eyes had made sense. Evil did exist. She had seen it in the eyes of killers. She had seen it in the eyes of Albert Stucky. Ironically, it was that evil that had brought her closer to believing in God again. But it was Albert Stucky who made her wonder whether God simply didn’t care anymore. The night she watched Stucky slaughter two women, Maggie had gone home and removed the medallion from around her neck. And although she couldn’t bring herself to wear it anymore, she still carried it with her.
She ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the medal and wondered what Danny Alverez must have felt. What must he have thought when the madman ripped away what the small boy may have seen as his last protection? Like her father, had Danny Alverez put his final breath of faith in a silly metal object?
She clutched the medallion tightly in her fist, pulled back her arm and was ready to fling the worthless charm across the room when a soft tap on the door stopped her. The knock was barely audible. Instinctively, Maggie got to her feet and slipped out her Smith amp; Wesson.38 revolver from its holster. She padded quietly to the door in bare feet, feeling vulnerable in only the nightshirt and underpants. She gripped the revolver, waiting for its power to remove her sense of vulnerability. Through the peephole she could see Sheriff Morrelli, and the tension slid away from her shoulders. She opened the door, but just enough to look out at him.
“What’s going on, Sheriff?”
“Sorry. I tried to call, but the night desk clerk has been on the phone for over an hour.”
He looked exhausted, his blue eyes swollen and red, his short hair sticking up out of place and his face still unshaved. His shirt was untucked, the tails hanging out over his jeans and peeking out from under his denim jacket. She noticed that several of the top buttons were missing, and his twisted collar was open, exposing wisps of dark curly hair. Immediately, she looked away, annoyed with herself for noticing this last detail.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Another boy’s missing,” he said, swallowing hard as if it was difficult to get the words out.
“That’s impossible,” she said, but knew, in fact, that it wasn’t. Albert Stucky had taken his fourth victim less than an hour after his third victim was discovered. The beautiful, blond coed had been sliced in pieces, some of which were stuffed in takeout boxes and discarded in the Dumpster behind a restaurant Stucky had eaten at earlier that evening.
“I’ve got men going door-to-door in the neighborhood and searching alleys, parks, fields.” He rubbed his hand over his exhausted face and scratched his bristled jaw. His eyes were a watery blue. “The kid was walking home from a soccer game. He only had five blocks to walk.” His eyes darted down the hall, avoiding Maggie’s gaze while pretending to make sure no one else was in the deserted hallway.
“Maybe you should come in.”
Maggie held the door open for him. He hesitated, then walked in slowly, staying in the entrance as he glanced around the room. He turned back to Maggie, and his eyes dropped to her legs. She had forgotten about the short nightshirt. He looked up quickly, met her eyes and looked away. He was embarrassed. The charming, flirtatious Morrelli was embarrassed.
“Sorry. Did I wake you?” Another glance, and this time when his eyes found hers, she felt her face grow hot. As nonchalantly as possible, she squeezed past him and went to the dresser.
“No, I was still up.”
She slid her gun back into its holster, opened one of the dresser drawers and started digging for a pair of jeans. Finally, she found a pair and pulled them on while she watched Morrelli pace the small space between the bed and table.
“Did I mention that I tried to call first?”
She looked up in the mirror and caught him watching her. Their eyes met again, this time in the mirror.
“Yes, you did. It’s okay,” she said, struggling with the zipper. “Actually, I was going over my notes.”
“I was at that game,” he said softly, quietly.
“What game?”
“The soccer game. The one the boy was walking home from. My nephew played. Jesus, Timmy probably knows this kid.” He continued to pace the room, making the space seem even smaller with his long strides.
“Are you sure the boy didn’t go home with a friend?”
“We called other parents. His friends remember seeing him start walking up the sidewalk toward home. And we found his soccer ball. It’s autographed by some famous soccer player. His mom says it’s one of his most prized possessions. She insists he wouldn’t have just left it.”
He scraped a sleeve across his face. Maggie recognized the panic in his eyes. He wasn’t prepared to handle a situation like this. She wondered what experience he had in crisis management. She sighed and raked her fingers through her tangled hair. Already she regretted that it would be up to her to keep him focused.
“Sheriff, maybe you should sit down.”
“Bob Weston suggested I compile a list of pedophiles and known sex offenders. Do I start hauling them in for questioning? Can you give me any idea who I should be looking for?” He glanced over the papers spread out on the table in one of his passes.
“Sheriff Morrelli, why don’t you sit down?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“No, I insist.” She reached up and grabbed him by the shoulders, gently shoving him into a chair behind the table. He looked as though he’d stand up again, thought better of it, then stretched out his long legs.
“Did you have any suspects at all when the Alverez boy was taken?” Maggie asked.
“Just one. His father. His parents are divorced. The father was refused custody and visitation because of his drinking and abusiveness. We were never able to track him down. Hell, the air force can’t even find him. He was a major at the base, but went AWOL two months ago. He ran off with a sixteen-year-old girl he met over the Internet.”