And they didn’t disappoint me: 5. since the authorities begin by searching for people who would most likely be present at the time and place of the murder, it’s wise to counterintuitively break your habits rather than keep them when you commit the crime, 6. kill alone because as soon as you have an accomplice you have a loose end, 7. if possible, artificially, microscopically, fake the DNA evidence you leave. Ever since two years ago when Israeli researchers discovered how easy it is to do-that even first-year college biology students could do it-it’s become more and more common among educated criminals, and even with the Bureau’s technological advances over the last year, it’s still frustratingly hard to detect, 8. don’t kill close to your activity nodes (home, work, preferred recreational areas, and commercial businesses) or the travel routes between them.
“Good,” I said, building on the idea. “Very good. Most current research indicates that proximity of a series of crimes might be an even more accurate indicator of crime linkage than modus operandi or signature.”
Then a suggestion came from a man in the third row, a detective from Bangkok, a member of the Royal Thai Police: “Keep it simple.”
The door in the back of the room eased open and Cheyenne surreptitiously slipped into the room and took a seat in the back row.
Detective Nantakarn went on, “The more unique the crime, the more attention you’ll draw from investigators. And the more arrows will lead back to you.”
I nodded.
Annette suggested using an untraceable means of death, and because of the famous forensics dictum that whenever you leave a room you take something with you and leave something behind, the class debated about whether or not that was possible. However, I’d worked cases where the principle hadn’t borne out, so I let the suggestion stand.
“Anything else?”
Cheyenne lifted her hand, and I nodded to her.
“Don’t make your alibi airtight. Only a person with something to hide would remember the details of her whereabouts well enough to present a rock-solid alibi. The more perfect the alibi, the more suspicion it should draw.”
“Good.”
With Cheyenne we’d have another mind on Mollie Fischer’s murder. Another good mind… It shouldn’t be a problem clearing her to be part of the Joint Op program.
A quick look at the clock.
9:44.
I had a break scheduled at 10:00.
Yes. I would ask her then if she would like to join our team.
I was confident she would agree.
The two of us would work together again.
18
9:57 a.m.
“Time to get up.”
Brad gently shook the woman who, after being left alone in the pitch-black basement for nearly ten hours, had no doubt lost all sense of time.
She groaned.
“Come on, wake up.” He flicked on a heat lamp, and she cringed at the harsh, sudden light.
He smiled at her. He had some things to tell her, some advice for how to prepare for her death in just over five hours. “I thought we could talk for a few minutes,” he said. “Now that we’re alone.”
At the break, Cheyenne stepped into the hall before I could catch her, and hurrying after her seemed too middle-schoolish to me, so instead I fiddled around with my notes for a few minutes waiting for her to return, then decided to check my messages.
Missy Schuel had not returned my call.
I tried her number again but only reached an answering machine.
After evaluating things, I decided that if I didn’t hear from Ms. Schuel by noon I would look for someone a little more responsive to potential clients.
I did have one voicemail, however, from Tessa, bowing out of lunch: “It looks like things might take a little longer than I expected. Is it cool if we just connect tonight? That would rock. See you later.”
Brief. To the point.
All right.
I felt a little let down but not frustrated-it freed up the middle of my day, and without a trip to the city I wouldn’t need to rush out of my 11:30 meeting with Ralph. Maybe we could actually make some headway on the Fischer case.
The students were filtering back into the classroom.
Just before the end of the break, Cheyenne returned, followed closely by Annette. They sat in the back, and since we were about to start, I figured it would be best to wait until after class to speak with Cheyenne. Until then, it was back to getting away with murder.
Tessa found Paul Lansing waiting for her on the west steps of the Library of Congress’s Jefferson building.
For some reason, when she saw him, she thought of how Patrick would describe him: Caucasian. Late thirties. Brown hair. Beard. Six-foot-one. Two hundred pounds. Blue jeans, hiking boots, checkered shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
And then-even though she had to chastise herself for doing it-she thought of how she would: Paul Bunyan Visits the City. “Tessa,” he called. He was smiling. He ambled toward her and gave her a shoulder hug, then a kiss on the cheek, and even though he was her dad, he’d never kissed her before and it felt slightly awkward.
“Hey.” She gave him a sort of half hug, then backed away. “How was your flight?”
“Long. Got in last night, about 10:00. Two layovers. There aren’t any direct flights from Riverton, Wyoming, to Washington DC.”
“No, I guess not.”
All this just to see a sculpture your friend made?
She wondered what kind of friend this was.
But then, a realization that should have been obvious from the start: Duh, Tessa. He came to see you, not the sculptor. It’s not rocket science.
He was still smiling. “So what about you? Are you all settled in for the summer?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you guys staying?”
“In the country, at this house near the Academy.”
A nod. “Very good.”
So.
Her turn. “And you’re gonna be in town for a couple days, then?”
“I fly out Saturday,” he said.
“Okay.”
A pause. “So,” he said.
“So.”
She waited.
His turn.
“Oh!” His eyes lit up. “I brought you something.” He retrieved a North Face hip pack he’d set on the step before she arrived.
“You didn’t have to-”
“No, no. I know.” He was searching through the pack like a kid through a cereal box. “Here.”
He handed her a flat screen BlackBerry.
“A phone?”
“So we can stay in touch.” He patted his pocket. “Bought one for myself too.”
“I already have a phone.” She wasn’t trying to be rude, but from what she knew, Paul wasn’t rich and maybe he could return it and get his money back.
“Yes, I know. But this way-”
Patrick won’t be able to find out about the calls.
“-we can talk anytime we want to.”
“We can do that already.”
She could see the air slowly going out of his balloon. “It’s got that Google GPS thing on it so if we get separated we can find each other.”
Okay, that was just plain stupid. “You can just call me on my normal phone.”
He looked defeated, undercut by the obvious. “Sure, yeah.” A man-sized puppy whose tail had stopped wagging. “I should have thought of that.”
Oh, boy.
He held out his hand. “Here, I’ll see if I can-”
Go on, Tessa “Actually, you know what? This is way better than the phone I have.” Accepting the gift felt like another slight betrayal toward Patrick, but she didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with her dad. “Seriously, it’s sweet. Thanks.”
He waited for her to put the BlackBerry into her purse, then gestured toward the Capitol. “So are you up for a tour?”
“Listen, I was kinda wondering: how do you know someone who works here when you’ve lived in like the middle of Nowhere, USA, for six years?”
“It’s from another life.”
For a fraction of a second she thought he said “from another lie,” but then caught herself.