If anyone else had said that, Rogers would have felt undermined. But Reeder was right, both in what he said and in gently guiding her onto the right track with her people.
Reeder continued: “That someone took Chris out of the game, before he could do anything about it, is worth our careful consideration. My guess is that those photos don’t represent an investigation for a client. Working on something else, Chris tumbled onto a situation that got his Spidey senses tingling. So he took a few pictures.”
Roger gave Reeder a tiny gesture that told him to join her. He rose, came up and stood beside her. Without a word, they were now sharing leadership of the team.
The four field agents traded looks, understanding very well what had just happened. Everyone seemed focused, even calm, except maybe Miggie, a chronic fidgeter due to his jones for imported coffee.
Ivanek was looking past Rogers and Reeder. “Have we identified that building?” the behaviorist asked, nodding toward the screen.
“No,” Rogers said.
Bohannon, in a well-cut gray suit probably picked out by partner Wade, said, “Small factory of some sort. Job shop, maybe.”
“Whatever it is,” Miggie said, “it’s not in DC. I’ve got software searching for it in concentric circles. Bryson may have downloaded it from the web — he took screenshots of the obits to get the victim photos. I’m searching, but with so little to work with, it may be a while.”
Wade, typically stylish in a tailored dark-green suit, looming even when he was sitting down, asked, “And the black cube?”
“No idea,” Miggie said with a shrug. “Nothing around it to provide context or perspective. No clue how big it is, where it is, what it is.”
Lovely Nichols — in a dark-taupe suit with black V-neck blouse (an ensemble Rogers would never have risked) — asked the computer guru, “What about our blond boy there?”
“Photo’s from the side,” Miggie said, “at a distance — a shot Bryson grabbed on the street. Facial rec no help so far.”
Ivanek asked, “What’s the story on the transvestite?”
Rogers nodded at Hardesy, saying, “Luke, take that, would you? You made the connection.”
“You got it, boss,” he said.
The other team members goggled at each other — though the behaviorist only allowed himself an arched eyebrow — as they tried to process this unlikely exchange between a pair of coworkers who to date had been adversarial.
Hardesy said, “DeShawn Davis, twenty-four. Worked as a dancer at Les Girls under the stage name Karma Sabich. Lived in Arlington. Night before last, found dead by a friend. Double-tapped. Sound familiar?”
“Familiar,” Ivanek said, “but not familiar enough. However scant the profile we’ve developed, it doesn’t leave room for a transvestite victim.”
“Why not?” Reeder asked offhandedly. “Agent Rogers says the other victims were all professionals.”
Now both of the behaviorist’s eyebrows went up. “You’re calling this person a professional?”
Reeder shrugged. “Did they pay her for what she did? And the comments at the Les Girls website are very favorable. She was a pro.”
“In the broadest definition.”
Reeder allowed himself a smile. “I hope that wasn’t a pun, Agent Ivanek.”
“No pun intended, or disrespect either. But also no apparent connection to previous victims, other than mode of death.”
“Mode of death,” Reeder said, “or mode of execution? The other person who’s a pro here — besides Karma Sabich and the other victims — would seem to be the killer. You can call this a serial killing if you like... and it’s useful labeling in that it allows the FBI to look into these crimes... but these are almost certainly contract killings.”
“A series of them,” Ivanek said, almost bristling.
“A series grouped close enough in time,” Reeder said, “to indicate a connection between victims.”
Rogers said, “A connection that we haven’t made yet. So let’s go over it again.”
The agents arranged their materials in front of them, ranging from field notes and printouts to tablets or laptops. No one bitched about going back to square one — that was common in any big case — but the team seemed especially alert, game faces on, perhaps because the celebrated Joe Reeder was present. Or maybe it was the additional victim, which seemed to say more bodies would be coming if they couldn’t stop this.
Whatever “this” was.
Bohannon was first to speak. “Still no ballistics match on the rounds. If one shooter is responsible for all these kills, he’s using a different gun each time.”
Reeder said, “I understood that these were all .45 double-taps.”
“They are,” Bohannon confirmed, “but from different weapons apparently.”
“Changing out the barrel maybe?”
“One possibility. A pro might do that routinely.”
Wade asked, “How about multiple shooters?”
Bohannon shrugged. “We have five known victims now. Do we think we have five killers, each using the same two-slugs-in-back-of-the-head MO? That’s a hell of a coincidence.”
Nichols asked, “What about a gang initiation? Five new members, five random victims?”
Wade said, “Bullet pattern is so closely placed, feels like one guy.”
Reeder asked, “Any shells found at the scenes?”
“Nope,” Bohannon said with a disgusted smirk. “He collects his brass.”
“So,” Rogers said, “most likely one shooter.”
“One very careful shooter.”
Still at Rogers’s side, Reeder said, “Let’s say this isn’t a professional assassin. For the sake of argument. Let’s say it’s a serial killer who saw a movie or a TV show with the double-tap thing and thought, wow, that’s cool. Now he’s randomly assassinating people.”
Ivanek leaned forward a little. “Random isn’t part of the serial killer playbook. There’s always a pattern.”
Pleasantly, Reeder said, “Random can’t be a pattern?”
“I couldn’t give you an example of one, Mr. Reeder.”
“Make it ‘Joe’... Trevor, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Ivanek said. “And I’m the guy who should be able to give you that pattern, but so far — unlike our killer — I’m shooting blanks. The victims don’t work in the same fields, they don’t live near each other, they’re not close in income, they’re not one race or gender. We just don’t have a bead yet.”
“Sounds random, anyway,” Reeder said.
The behaviorist said, “‘Natural selection is anything but random.’”
“You know your Richard Dawkins,” Reeder said with the slightest smile. “You think this is some kind of screwed-up social Darwinism?”
“No, but it’s not random. We just haven’t seen the pattern yet. Maybe as we accrue information on the new victim, it’ll finally become clear.”
“Okay,” Reeder said. “So we go back to contract killings.”
“In some respects,” Ivanek said, “that does make sense. In others, it doesn’t.”
“How so?”
“All the victims, prior to the transvestite, were good citizens, squeaky clean, no gang ties, no organized crime ties, no loan sharks in the mix, just plain nothing. And Karma Sabich or DeShawn Davis...”
“Rose by any other name,” Hardesy muttered.
“... may well have been a solid citizen, too, in the context of her, or his, world.”
Rogers said, “Trevor, take us through them one at a time, will you?”
All eyes returned to the faces on the big monitor.
Ivanek said, “Victim number one, September 12 of last year — Michael Balsin, congressional aide. Thirty-four years old, shot to death in his apartment, lived alone. No sign of struggle.”