By whom? she wanted to ask, but instead she said, “I doubt it. The Bureau is like the Chinese Army: The personnel could march into the sea for a year and there'd still be plenty of warm bodies to fill the posts.”
Oblivious of the discomfort at the other end of the table, the mayor brought the meeting to order. The press conference was less than an hour away. The politicians needed to get their ducks in a row. Who would speak first. Who would stand where. Who would say what. The cops combed their mustaches and drummed their fingers on the table, impatient with the formalities.
“We need to make a strong statement,” Chief Greer said, warming up his orator's voice. “Let this creep know we won't rest until we get him. Let him know right up front we've got the FBI's leading profiler here, we've got the combined resources of four agencies working on this thing day and night.”
Edwyn Noble nodded. “Mr. Bondurant is establishing a reward of one hundred fifty thousand for information leading to an arrest.”
Quinn pulled his attention away from Kate and rose. “Actually, Chief, I wouldn't advise any of that just yet.”
Greer's face pinched. Edwyn Noble glared at him. The collective expression from the political end of the table was a frown.
“I haven't had the opportunity to thoroughly go over the case,” Quinn began, “which is reason enough to hold off. We need to get a handle on just who this killer might be, how his mind works. Making a blind show of strength at this point could be a move in the wrong direction.”
“And that would be based on what?” Greer asked, his bulky shoulders tensing beneath the weight of the chip he was carrying. “You've said yourself, you haven't reviewed the case.”
“We've got a killer who's putting on a show. I've seen the photos from this last crime scene. He brought the body to a public place, intending to shock. He drew attention to the scene with a fire. This probably means he wants an audience, and if that's what he wants, we have to be careful of just how we give it to him.
“My advice is to hold off today. Minimize this press conference. Assure the public you're doing everything you can to identify and arrest the killer, but don't go into details. Keep the number of people behind the podium down—Chief Greer, Mayor Noble, Mr. Sabin, that's it. Don't get into the specifics of the task force. Don't talk about Mr. Bondurant. Don't bring up the FBI. Don't mention my name at all. And don't take any questions.”
Predictably, eyebrows went up all around the table. He knew from experience some of them had been expecting him to try to take the limelight: the FBI bully jumping in to grab the headlines. And undoubtedly, some of them wanted to show him off at the press conference like a trophy—Look who we've got on our side. It's Super Agent! No one ever expected him to downplay his role.
“At this stage of the game we don't want to set up an adversarial situation where he may see me as a direct challenge to him,” he said, resting his hands at his waist, settling in for the inevitable arguments. “I'm in the background as much as I can be. I'll maintain a low profile with the media for as long as I can or until I deem it advantageous to do otherwise.”
The politicians looked crestfallen. They loved nothing so much as a public forum and the undivided attention of the media and thereby the masses. Greer obviously resented having his thunder stolen. The muscles in his jaw pulsed subtly.
“The people of this city are ready to panic,” the chief said. “We've got three women dead, one of them beheaded. The phones in my office are ringing off the hook. A statement needs to be made. People want to know we're going after this animal with everything we've got.”
The mayor nodded. “I'm inclined to agree with Dick. We've got business conferences in town, tourists coming in for plays, for concerts, for holiday shopping—”
“To say nothing of the anxiety of the general population over the growing crime rate in the city,” said the deputy mayor.
“It was bad enough with the two prostitute killings making the news,” a press secretary added. “Now we've got the daughter of a very prominent citizen dead. People start thinking if it could happen to her, it could happen to anyone. News like this creates an environment of fear.”
“Give this guy a sense of importance and power and this city may well have a reason to panic,” Quinn said bluntly.
“Isn't it just as likely that minimizing the case in the media could enrage him? Drive him to commit more crimes in order to draw more attention to himself?” Greer questioned. “How do you know coming out with a strong and public offensive won't scare him and flush him out?”
“I don't. I don't know what this guy might do—and neither do you. We need to take the time to try to figure that out. He's murdered three women that you know of, getting progressively bolder and more flamboyant. He won't scare easily, I can tell you that. We may eventually be able to draw him into the investigation—he's sure as hell watching—but we need to maintain tight control and keep our options open.” He turned toward Edwyn Noble. “And the reward is too large. I'd advise you to cut it back to no more than fifty thousand to start.”
“With all due respect, Agent Quinn,” the lawyer said tightly, “the choice is Mr. Bondurant's.”
“Yes, it is, and I'm sure he feels information about his daughter's murder is worth any price. My reasoning is this, Mr. Noble: People will come forward for a lot less than one hundred fifty thousand. An amount that extraordinary is going to bring in a flood of kooks and money-grubbing opportunists willing to sell their own mothers down the river. Start with fifty. Later we may want to use raising the amount as a strategic move.”
Noble breathed a measured sigh and pushed his chair back from the table. “I'll need to speak with Peter about this.” He unfolded his long body and walked across the room to a side table with a telephone.
“We've got every reporter in the Twin Cities camped out on the steps of city hall,” the mayor pointed out. “They're anticipating something more than a simple statement.”
“That's their problem,” Quinn said. “You have to think of them as tools rather than guests. They're not entitled to the details of an ongoing investigation. You called a press conference, you didn't promise them anything.”
The mayor's expression suggested otherwise. Quinn tightened his grip on the fraying threads of his patience. Play diplomat. Go easy. Don't lose your cool. Christ, he was tired of it.
“Did you?”
Grace Noble looked to Sabin. “We had hoped to have a composite sketch. . . .”
Sabin cut a nasty look at Kate. “Our witness is being less than cooperative.”
“Our witness is a scared kid who saw a psychopath set fire to a headless corpse,” Kate said sharply. “The last thing on her mind is accommodating your timetable . . . sir.”
“She got a good look at the guy?” Quinn asked.
Kate spread her hands. “She says she saw him. She's tired, she's afraid, she's angry—and rightfully so—at the treatment she's been given. Those factors tend not to create a spirit of cooperation.”
Sabin began to position himself for rebuttal. Quinn blocked the argument. “Bottom line: We have no composite.”
“We have no composite,” Kate said.
“Then don't bring it up,” Quinn said, turning back to the mayor. “Divert their attention to something else. Give them a photograph of Jillian Bondurant and one of her car and make an appeal for people to call the hotline if they've seen either one since Friday evening. Don't talk about the witness. Your first concern here has to be with how your actions and reactions will be perceived by the killer, not how they'll be perceived by the media.”