Ivanek said, “This still doesn’t feel like a serial killer to me. Victimology doesn’t match — three men, one an African American, and one Latina female. Serial killers don’t usually break racial lines. Plus, these are impersonal kills. They could be hits, with nothing to tie the victims together. Beyond that, boss — I just don’t know.”
At his desk nearby, Hardesy was nodding. “Seems to me we’re treading water here. Feels like the Sharpshooter Fallacy.”
The Sharpshooter Fallacy was the psychologist’s example of a cowboy shooting random holes on the side of a barn and then painting a bull’s-eye target around the biggest cluster.
“It does,” Ivanek said, just faintly cranky, “if by that you mean superimposing your target over my words.”
A frowning Anne Nichols held up four fingers. “Four victims, different walks of life, all seemingly killed for no reason. No robbery, no enemies.”
“Coincidence,” Hardesy said.
Wade said, “Luke — did I just hear a law enforcement professional use the word ‘coincidence,’ as if there were such a thing?”
Shrugging, the ex-Army sergeant said, “Shit does happen.”
Rogers said, “Let’s key off Anne’s view here. The murders were clean, no mess. Professional.”
Bohannon said, “Double-taps don’t really sound like serial killer ritual.”
All the victims had died by twin bullets to the back of the head.
“Jerry,” Ivanek said, straining for patience, “there’s no template for serial killer ritual.”
“Could be he’s just one smart son of a bitch,” Wade offered. “Nobody’s looking into these murders as possibly related, except the people in this room.” He grinned. “Experts all, of course.”
“Experts,” Nichols said, “who can’t find a single damn thread that connects these victims.”
“Doesn’t have to be one,” Rogers said. “The killer may see some vague connection that seems significant to him or her. Look at eye color, hair color, age, hobbies, shared job aspects. What do we have? An accountant, a librarian, a congressional aide, and a factory supervisor—”
“Go into a bar,” Hardesy interrupted.
There were a couple of chuckles. And Rogers hid her irritation under a mild smile.
“Okay,” Rogers said. “So it sounds like a bad joke... but Deputy Director Fisk and I think that, somehow, these killings may well be connected. So... let’s keep digging. We’ll meet up at the end of the day and see if we’re anywhere closer.”
But when they met in the afternoon, they’d made zero progress tying in the four victims, finding a motive for the murders, or even identifying a possible killer from security footage from around the victims’ lives.
Rogers sat at her desk, a headache trying to win her attention and starting to succeed. She ran a hand over her face, lied to herself that the headache had gone away, then sat straight up and said “Shit,” remembering she hadn’t checked back with Miggie Altuve all day.
Quickly she found two e-mails, two text messages, and a voice mail, all from Miggie, all saying they needed to talk.
Finding him (no surprise) transfixed before his trio of monitors, she was about to knock at his open door when — without looking at her — Miggie said, “Should I have tried semaphores?”
“Sorry,” she said with a chagrined grin, still poised in the doorway. “Busy day... So, you found something?”
He turned to her and raised eyebrows that had been trimmed into submission, then took a sip of his latest cup of coffee. Free-trade Sumatran, most likely — that was how Miggie rolled these days.
“Quite a lot,” he said. “Also, nothing.”
She frowned. “Why don’t you connect those two dots for me.”
“Okay, I’ll give it a shot.”
They returned to the small conference table and sat.
The computer expert said, “Start with the burner phone. Once upon a time it was stolen from a brick-and-mortar. Day he died, Bryson probably bought it black market.”
“Any way to know who he bought it from?”
He shook his head. “On the street or from some dealer in such items. Maybe Bryson had somebody regular he used. No partner or coworker or even secretary to check with. Still, maybe there’s someone out there who might know who his contacts were. That would be a nice break.”
“Did he call anyone besides Reeder?”
“No. My guess? He bought it to call Reeder.”
“We got nothing from that phone?”
Miggie smiled, just a little. “Not exactly. That’s why I said a lot and nothing. Someone was tracking it.”
Rogers sat forward. “Who?”
“No idea, but they’re good. Someone remotely turned on that burner’s GPS without Bryson knowing. Tracking him the whole time he had it.”
She stared at her own clenched fists. “So they know who he bought it from. Or maybe who he bought it from turned the GPS on...?”
“Maybe. Or they could have been following him and saw him buy the burner and turned it on remotely.”
“How would they do that?”
He just looked at her.
She smirked. “Okay, so you smart computer guys can do anything.”
“Not anything, but... I saw a couple of footprints they left behind. They were careful, but few of us are ever careful enough.”
“Does that mean you have an idea of who they are, or might be?”
Another head shake. “No, but I can tell you this — they’re as good as I am... maybe better, hard as that might be to believe. Whoever this is has had extensive training in concealing themselves.”
“Training from where? By whom?”
He shrugged. “Maybe us, maybe Homeland, or NSA... could be anyone really. Wouldn’t have to be American, foreign government even... but this is no ordinary hacker.”
She waited for him to continue, and when he didn’t, she said, “Is that it?”
“That’s it for the burner phone. His personal phone, that’s off-line. Bryson probably smashed it to bits in some trash can, after an attack of righteous paranoia. It went off-line late the night before Bryson died... and never came back on.”
“Can you tell me anything about it?”
Miggie flipped a hand. “Normally, I could give you the cell’s search history, websites visited, all kinds of information.”
“But because it’s off-line you can’t?”
He gave her the sadly patronizing gaze of the computer geek. “No, Patti — it’s because Bryson only used the device as a phone. Like a lot of older guys, he didn’t use ten percent of the device’s capabilities. You gotta understand — this guy grew up in landline days.”
“Great — so there’s nothing there?”
“Just the call log.”
That was something at least. “Anything interesting?”
“Not really. Well... one item of possible interest — starting a couple of weeks before he died, Bryson got some calls from CSI.”
“From what CSI? Local cops?”
This amused him. “No, and not the old TV show, either — Common Sense Investments. Actually, it’s called CSII, if you add the ‘Incorporated’ on.”
She frowned. “Adam Benjamin’s investment company?”
“Right on the money. Literally.”
Benjamin was her generation’s Warren Buffett, just a regular guy who had parlayed his savings account into a billion-dollar investment firm by staying smart and keeping it simple. He had never fallen prey to the self-indulgences that usually come with wealth.
A childless widower for the last twenty-five of his nearly seventy years, all Benjamin did was make money, teach others how to make money, and donate money through several charities. Money, money, money. Yet he still lived in the same Defiance, Ohio, house that he and his late wife had bought almost fifty years ago.