The Silenced

The trials, the strain, the classes, the yearning—they were over. It was exhilarating, and it gave them all a flutter of fear. Time to go into the world as rookies. Time to prove themselves.

And, of course, it was time to move out of cadet housing and into places of their own.

That wasn’t a worry for Meg. She’d always believed she’d graduate, so she’d already made arrangements to rent a small town house just down the road from headquarters at Quantico. She was going to be assigned to the criminal division there. They had a few days to clear out and she simply had to switch from housing to her new home.

Awake, she lay in bed, a little dazed. This was really it. She had two weeks before heading in to her first assignment.

Her television, on a timer, sprang to life with the news. Meg paused, watching it, before she went in to shower. Police were still seeking clues in the brutal murder of a Jane Doe discovered by the Potomac a couple of weeks ago. More troops had been killed overseas. A truck had stalled on the beltway, causing a ten-car pileup. Investigations were still under way regarding the death of Garth Hubbard, the indie presidential hopeful beloved by so many that he might’ve been the first man to take the White House on such a ticket. The cause of his death had been deemed natural. He’d been at home with his wife, alone in their bedroom. Paramedics had been called; his family doctor had come, too, and signed the death certificate. But this was Washington, DC, so, of course, there was talk of conspiracy.

“Ah, yes, good morning!” she muttered to herself.

The news anchor—after waiting an appropriate beat or two—offered her viewing public a wide, toothy smile and went on to recount some of the good news of the day. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad morning. An attractive reporter related a story about the heroics of a young man as he dived after a woman, a stranger, who had nearly drowned while tubing in West Virginia. She then had another story about a young girl saved from an abusive teen by the intervention of a stray dog—the dog now, happily, had a home.

Meg realized she was just staring, somewhat hypnotized, at the television.

She had to get going. There was an orientation class she was required to attend and she wanted to get through it quickly so she could concentrate on moving into her little town house before her life began anew.

As she relished the hot water pouring over her in the shower, Meg considered the life she was about to start.

As a child, she’d dreamed of changing the world. That had meant to her that she had to be a policewoman or run for president. Maybe a policewoman—and then the president.

And when she was ten years old, her family had fallen victim to a horrible crime.

She would never forget it. She could still remember that time as clearly as if she’d just lived it. Her cousin, responsible and steadfast, had gone missing. Then the ransom note had come.

But Mary Elizabeth’s body had been found. Meg had known they’d find her before they did. Everything about those days, that experience, had been shattering and devastating, and for a long time, she’d thought she was crazy. But she hadn’t been.

And now...

Now, all she could only hope to do was put away some of the bad guys. Just as they’d put away the man who’d taken Mary Elizabeth.

In her classes, they’d recently had guest speakers, agents and scientists from the behavioral science units. Listening to what man was capable of doing to man had been horrifying, despite what she already knew. The academy classes lost students along the way because sometimes it was too much to bear.

In her case...

She was even more determined. She had every reason to be.

Because it hadn’t ended with Mary Elizabeth.

Sometimes she met people who’d been tortured.

And killed.

And she’d wanted to help.

She liked to feel that she’d grown strong. Her superiors and teachers knew about her past—about Mary Elizabeth being kidnapped and murdered. She was honest about her desire to be with the Bureau. She was careful not to dwell on the past in case someone believed that her previous experience might hinder her work.

It would never interfere with her work; she was sure of that.

Dressed and ready for the day, she checked her reflection in the mirror. She wore a blue pantsuit, very regulation. Her shirt was white, but she was allowed pinstripes, thin lines in a pale blue. Somehow, they made her feel a little brighter.

She was young, but at a height of five-ten she was often assumed to be older than her actual age of twenty-six. She had a wealth of thick, nearly black hair, which she’d pulled back into a bun. She almost turned away from the mirror, but then studied her reflection more closely. She thought her mouth was too big, as were her eyes. At least they were a clear, dark sky blue. She studied herself critically and decided she looked presentable. And especially dressed like this, she seemed to exude confidence, maybe even authority.

With a shake of her head, she finally turned away. She really wanted to believe that she had the right stuff. She’d gone through college, studying criminology, become a cop in Richmond for a couple of years and then been accepted to the academy. It was the career she wanted; she’d gone after it step-by-step.

She reached for her phone in the charger at her bedside and realized the message light was blinking.

Lara had called her. She frowned; the call had come in the middle of the night. Lara never called her that late. She listened to the message.

“Meg, it’s me, Lara. I wanted to let you know I’m going home. Home, as in getting out of DC. I’m going as soon as it’s daylight. I’ll talk to you when I can. Love you. Don’t say anything to anyone else, okay? I have to get out of here. Talk soon.”

There was a second call, a second message. But Meg heard nothing—except what sounded like a rush of wind and a muffled thump.

A purse dial?

Perplexed, Meg played the message again and tried to phone Lara back. The call went immediately to voice mail. Her friend had seemed breathless, so she’d probably been walking when she’d made the call.

But she’d sounded distracted—and a little frantic.

Meg left a message herself. “Call me back. You’ve got me really worried. Please, call me as soon as you possibly can.”

Disturbed, she added a last “Please!”

She told herself that Lara had just become disgusted with politics; many people did.

Not Lara! she thought.

Lara had been a media and research assistant in the offices of Congressman Ian Walker. Lara had admired the congressman from his first speeches, when they were still in high school in Richmond. Walker was passionate about equality, whether racial, religious or sexual. He was also critical of irresponsible spending, the unusual politician who managed to be both fiscally responsible and socially liberal. He fought hard for his causes on the house floor.

Why would Lara suddenly decide to go home? It didn’t make sense!

* * *

She lay on the silver gurney as if she were sleeping, and Agent Matt Bosworth believed that she’d once been a lovely young woman.

Death had not been kind. She was now a bloated, pallid corpse, ravaged by the river and creatures of the water. It was difficult to tell where the autopsy Y incision had actually been made; he knew she’d been ripped from throat to groin, disemboweled and stuffed with rocks. But time had caused the rocks to dislodge from their human cave and she had floated to the surface and then the riverbank, where she’d been found by the boat motor of a pleasure sailor on the Potomac.

Matt knew that another woman had been found at the beginning of June—but she’d washed up on the Maryland side of the river.

The woman now lying on the gurney before him had shown up on the DC side. She’d come to the office of the chief medical examiner, or OCME, for the District of Columbia. It was a relatively new, state-of-the-art facility that handled about seventeen hundred cases a year—of death by violence, death unattended by a physician, unexpected death or death with the possibility of spreading disease.

The offices were large and also housed forensic labs, reception areas to provide information to family and friends, and staff who offered counseling. The workers here were often distraught when the public thought—due to numerous television shows—that answers were revealed within the space of an hour.

Death was seldom so easy.

But Matt had faith that whatever could be learned about the deceased would be learned here. All in all, he was glad the FBI was involved—and that everything on these murders would be handled as one case. While Matt wasn’t surprised that it had so quickly become a federal case, he was surprised that the Krewe—a specialized unit—had been called in.

DC wasn’t geographically large, not compared to other major metropolises. But with Capitol police, District police, Maryland and Virginia police and the FBI, jurisdiction might have become a bit confused. However, since these two murders were in Maryland and the District, it seemed logical that the FBI would take the lead. There were dozens of elite units at headquarters that might’ve been called in.

But it had been the Krewe.

Matt hadn’t questioned the details yet. He’d come into work and Jackson Crow had informed him that they were heading out. In time he’d find out what had happened—and what was going on now.

He’d been with the Krewe for about eight months, invited in after he’d explained to his superiors that he’d been “lucky” when he’d wandered into the bar where a serial killer had stalked his victims. It had actually been the ghost of a young victim who’d shown him the way. Matt figured that Jackson—Special Agent in Charge Jackson Crow—and Adam Harrison, Krewe director, had watched his work.

And known that he’d be right for the unit.

Matt had never understood why he saw the dead—or why the dead seemed to talk to him. He hadn’t had a traumatic life; he’d had a good one, with great parents and a solid education. A family friend had assisted in getting him into Virginia Military Institute. He’d served in the military, and after that, he’d decided he wanted the FBI. He’d heard about the Krewe of Hunters and known he wanted in. He also knew that the Krewe invited its agents to join; it wasn’t something you applied for. So he’d waited patiently.

He’d seen and communicated with the dead since he was a kid, but he’d realized that others didn’t. And he’d also realized that if you wanted to be taken seriously, you didn’t tell anyone that you spoke to the dead.

After several years in the FBI and that one particular case, he’d been invited in. He’d been happy to be with the Krewe. No more pretense.

So, that morning, he hadn’t questioned Jackson. They’d find out soon enough exactly what they were looking at.

It hadn’t taken them long to reach the OCME; their offices in Alexandria weren’t that far from it. He liked their new location, a pair of beautiful old row houses that were also host to FBI internet personnel, other agents and some civilian employees. They could easily commute to the Capitol and the facilities at Quantico.

So far, Matt had learned that they’d been specifically called in when the second body was found. While three killings officially called for a serial killer investigation, the brutality done to both women had caused the captain of the Maryland force to alert the FBI. The assistant director at headquarters had called Adam Harrison, and Adam had directed Jackson to take the case.

But while the situation was grim and the perpetrator obviously a heinous killer, there didn’t seem to be much reason for the Krewe to be called in. Nothing seemed to hint at the paranormal; this was murder at its most brutal, but sadly, such killers had existed before and would again. He’d eventually learn the whys of this case. Right now, they needed to learn what they could from the body—and from the DC cop, Carl Hunter, who’d been the detective called to the scene.

“The cause of death was the slashed throat?” Matt asked, after the ME, Dr. Wong, finished listing the injuries to the body. He spoke through a paper mask, as had the doctor. The smell of decay was strong.

Wong was a bright man in his early forties, clear and concise in his manner. He looked at Matt and nodded. “The throat was slashed. It would’ve taken the victim time to exsanguinate, and some of the slicing on the body was performed before death, but she was so heavily drugged that I don’t think she felt anything, including the slash to her throat.”

“I understand it was a right-handed killer,” Detective Hunter said. “That’s correct, Dr. Wong?”

Carl’s voice sounded scratchy. Matt understood. Carl was a good guy; they’d met during a few earlier cases. The man was a dogged investigator, putting in long hours. He was nearing retirement, but hadn’t slacked off in the time or determination he gave a case.

He’d seen a lot.

This was still hard to tolerate.

“Yes,” Wong said. “He was right-handed and very certain in his movements. No hesitation marks at all. The guy’s done this before.”

“Were any organs taken?” Jackson Crow asked.

“The tongue is missing,” Wong said. He cleared his throat. “Bits of organs are missing—but that’s because the ripping of the stomach caused pieces to...fall out.”

Matt leaned forward to see the atrocity Wong showed them, setting a hand on the dead woman’s shoulder as he viewed her ruined mouth.

Her shoulder was cold, cold as ice. It was shocking what the body felt like when life was gone, so still and cold, as if the soul, the very essence of what had been human, had flown and left emptiness behind. “Same as the victim found on the Maryland shore,” Carl Hunter said, turning to Wong. “I talked to Jared Welch from the Maryland force before I came in. People might say that cops are territorial, but we’re both glad as hell that the feds are in. God knows, we might have got into this thing first, but we haven’t come up with anything. Both bodies brought in with no purses, no IDs, hell, no clothes. Just unidentified bodies, naked and ripped to shreds. We don’t have any leads at all and this killer...has to be stopped.”

Wong told them, “I haven’t seen the first body yet, but I have the report. The other victim will be transported here. As you requested, Special Agent Crow, we’re treating them as murders committed by the same perpetrator or perpetrators.”

“Right,” Jackson murmured. “The taking of the tongue—it’s a definite signature. I’m afraid it suggests this killer isn’t finished yet. We’ll need every law enforcement officer in the area on high alert.”

Two dead in less than a month, Matt thought.

“But we haven’t matched her up with anyone?” he asked.

“We’re working on fingerprints and X-rays and hope to have something soon,” Wong replied. “As I said, I didn’t perform the autopsy on the first Jane Doe, but I’ve studied the sheets. To summarize, I can tell you that the murders were performed the same way. I believe both women were taken by surprise—since there appear to be no defensive wounds. They were drugged with an inhalant, and then—” he paused to show them the inner right elbow “—injected with propofol, a drug commonly used in surgery. Actually, our tox reports aren’t back yet, but that’s what was used on the Maryland victim and I’m betting this is going to be the same.”

“Interesting. So you think they were unconscious when they were mutilated?”

Wong nodded.

“That means he didn’t get off on the cutting,” Jackson mused. “And no sexual assault?”

Matt knew that the first victim hadn’t been raped or molested. Not as far as they could tell. While the bodies were badly decomposed, medical science could still provide them with evidence.

Wong shook his head. “No. Probably not. Doesn’t fit what we’re seeing here. I’d say the killer takes them, sedates them, rips them from stem to stern, stuffs the bodies with stones and tosses them. They’re found naked and heavily compromised by immersion in the water. As you can see,” Wong said, lifting the sheet, “she’s been nibbled on by many creatures.”

Matt could see—far too plainly.

“She was about five-six or -seven in life.”

“Long blond hair, five-six and a half,” Wong said.

“Almost identical to the first girl, according to the Maryland reports,” Carl offered.

“So, that’s his type,” Jackson said. “We’ll get the warning out. Press conference. I’ll ask you to handle it, Matt. Dr. Wong, please keep us apprised of anything new.”

They left the autopsy room, discarding their masks in the proper bin. Matt felt as if the smell of decomposition clung to him.

Carl paused in the hallway. “I’m not shirking,” he muttered. “I know this might be my last case, and I’ll be out there, working it as hard as ever. But... God, I hate cases like this. Like I said, we’ve got nothing, and until we get identifications, we don’t even have anyone to question. The killer knew what he was doing, disposing of the bodies. No trace on them—or not any that forensics has found as yet. Dump ’em in the river and you pretty well destroy any clue there might’ve been.” He paused. “We all know that some killers get away with it. I sure as hell hope it isn’t this guy.”

“We won’t let it be,” Matt said quietly.

Hunter nodded, but his expression was uncomfortable. “Gotta tell you, I don’t get the shakes easy. But...”

Matt was curious. Carl was as practical as a man could be. He seemed jittery, though, and Matt sensed that it was due to something other—something more—than the sheer horror of the case.

“What is it?”

“I got this awful feeling that she...that she looked at me when I first got to the scene. Impossible, of course. Her eyes...well, soft tissue. You saw...”

Matt glanced over at Jackson.

He’d touched the body. Whatever soul, whatever essence of life there’d been, was gone.

Carl shrugged. “I’m on it—task force, anything you need. I seem to keep saying this, but I’m glad you guys are in on this one. And no, we can’t let him be the one who got away.” He lifted a hand in farewell and hurried down the hall.

Jackson turned to Matt. “Right now, we have to be careful. Really careful. We need to get on the air, though. Say as little as possible,” he said. “But we need a warning out there. And we don’t know whether he might choose another type, so all women in the District and the surrounding area should be especially careful.”

“You don’t want the media folk at headquarters to handle this?”

“I think we need to take it from the start. I’ll arrange for clearance.”

Matt nodded. Headquarters had a division to deal with the media. But sometimes the Krewe worked on their own. He knew that he was often chosen to give press conferences because, according to Jackson, he had the all-American football player look. He could seem both stern and stoic—and, most important, trustworthy, reassuring to a worried public.

He wasn’t sure how anything about this situation could be reassuring; whether it was their usual kind of case or not, it was exceptionally disturbing.

And now he knew why the Krewe had been called in. Carl Hunter would’ve been careful about what he said and to whom. His own coworkers would have ribbed him mercilessly if he’d said that a corpse had looked at him. But somehow, he’d gotten that information through to the right people.

“When is the press conference?” Matt asked Jackson.

“As soon as we can organize it,” Jackson told him. “We’ll call an emergency task force meeting, bringing reps from the area. Meeting won’t take long. We don’t have anything to say yet. Then we’ll get on the air. You’ll speak, along with representatives from the DC police, Virginia and Maryland. You won’t be on the hot seat alone.”

Matt didn’t care about being on the hot seat; he was used to it. There was the truth—and there was the matter of telling the truth so that it afforded the greatest protection to the public while suppressing enough details to make sure law enforcement knew more than any kooks or would-be psychics out there.

They’d keep a lot quiet, he was assuming. Grotesque details did nothing but stir up sensationalism—and sometimes provide a killer with the notoriety he sought.

Jackson and Matt reached the big black sedan set for their use. Jackson let Matt do the driving. He was one of the best things about the unit, in Matt’s opinion. He was half–Native American and well aware of the diversity of people and beliefs around the country. He also had an aura of calm about him and an ability to listen to those who worked with him. He wasn’t a micromanager, and yet he expected the best from those around him. If he trusted you, it was with complete confidence.

Matt liked to believe he’d earned the man’s trust.

He also liked to believe that he was worthy of it. He thought he was; while their backgrounds were dissimilar, they were also much alike.

He wondered if Jackson’s thoughts were similar to his. Jackson grinned over at him and said, “You still don’t look much like a Native American.” Matt grinned in return. He was, like many, many people in the United States, someone who could actually trace his ancestry back to Pocahontas.

“A heritage sadly diluted by time.”

“Let’s just hope we both have some of that mystic wisdom we’re supposed to have,” Jackson said wryly. “We’re going to need it.”

* * *

The day felt long to Meg as she attended her sessions. At every opportunity, she tried calling Lara’s number.

Her calls continued to go straight to voice mail.

She tried calling Nancy Cooper, Lara’s aunt in Richmond, but Nancy hadn’t heard from Lara, either. Meg ended the call quickly, not wanting to worry her.

She tried a few of the mutual friends they had in the area. She even tried Lara’s ex-boyfriend, Clark Walden, despite the fact that the two had split up at least six months earlier. Clark was in the military; she discovered he’d been deployed overseas a month ago.

She called Congressman Walker’s office and was informed that Lara no longer worked there. No, she’d left no other information.

Despite failing with her calls, it wasn’t until she’d finished for the day and was sitting in the cadets’ lounge that she really began to feel a sense of panic.

And that was when the TV news came on.

A second body had been discovered. She remembered hearing about the first woman, who’d been found a few weeks back. The case had seemed particularly sad to her. Police had discovered a young blonde woman between the ages of twenty-five and thirty. She’d stood about five-seven and, while alive, had weighed approximately a hundred and twenty pounds. She had yet to be identified. There were no suspects in the case, and police had begged the public for any help they could give.

The newscast that came on made her sit straight up and spill her coffee.

The second murder victim had also been about five-six or five-seven. And she’d also been blonde. Because of the condition of the body, forensic scientists were seeking her identity through dental records. Fingerprint identification was being attempted but, once again, the police were seeking help.

Meg’s heart began to flutter with fear.

The body had been discovered that morning.

She stood, stumbled around the lounge until she could grab the remote control and turned up the volume.

She listened to a lieutenant from the DC police issue warnings and inform the public that extra police officers would be on the streets. An officer from Maryland spoke next.

And an officer from Virginia.

And then, a rep from the FBI took the microphone.

He was tall, a striking man with sandy, close-cropped hair, the shoulders of a linebacker and a ruggedly chiseled face. His voice was rich and deep; she assumed he was a regular spokesman for the agency.

But as he finished his speech, hotline numbers were flashed on the screen. She heard the assurance in his voice when he added, “We at the FBI will not stop our intense hunt until this killer is apprehended. Until he is, however, responsibility lies with every man and woman out there. If possible, don’t go anywhere alone. As of now, he has selected two blondes. He has seen to it that identification is a difficult process. Keep in mind that his choice of victim could easily change. When Ted Bundy was stalking women, most that we know about had long, straight brown hair. Because of that, many thought they were safe by dying their hair. We have very little information on this killer as yet, and that means everyone could be in danger, blonde or not. Although the killer, whom we’re assuming to be male, has targeted only young women so far, it’s quite possible that women of all ages and descriptions—and conceivably men—could also be at risk. While you shouldn’t panic, you must be vigilant. You’ve been given the call number—any and all suspicious behavior needs to be reported. We are relying on the public for assistance. We need to combine public awareness and the dedication of every law enforcement officer out there. We vow not to hold back any pertinent information—and we’d appreciate it if the media refrained from affording this man a nickname, as a label or a title. He’s a vicious killer and deserves no recognition.”