“Tierney?” Special Agent in Charge Kent Begley repeated the name.
“That’s right, sir. T-i-e-r-n-e-y. First name Ben,” replied Special Agent Charlie Wise.
Everyone in the FBI office in Charlotte called Charlie Wise by his nickname, Hoot. Someone—no one could remember specifically who—had linked his last name to a hoot owl. The moniker was doubly apropos because he wore tortoiseshell eyeglasses with large, round lenses, making him resemble an owl.
Begley was peering through those lenses now, directly into Hoot’s unblinking eyes, giving him one of the incisive stares that his subordinates called nutcrackers. Behind Begley’s back, of course.
Begley was a staunch born-again believer, always having at hand the large Bible with his name engraved in gold lettering on the black leather binding. It had the worn look of being read frequently. He quoted from it often.
One of the notches on Begley’s rigid moral yardstick was the usage of foul or suggestive language. He had no tolerance for it and didn’t allow it from the men and women serving under him. He used it himself only when he felt it was absolutely necessary to getting his point across—which was about every ten seconds.
Hoot was a confident, capable, and unflappable agent. He quailed less than most beneath Begley’s nutcrackers. No one knew his accuracy on the firing range, but indisputably he was a quick draw on a computer. He excelled at research, and there his talent was unsurpassed. If Hoot couldn’t uproot needed data, the data didn’t exist.
He met his boss’s hard stare with aplomb. “I’ve been looking at Ben Tierney for several days now, sir, and some interesting facts have emerged.”
“I’m listening.”
Begley motioned him into the chair facing his desk, but since he was still giving Hoot the look that said the agent better not be wasting his time, Hoot began talking even before he sat down.
“Over the past couple of years, Ben Tierney has been drifting in and out of the area, specifically Cleary, every few months. He stays a few weeks, sometimes a month, then moves on.”
“Lots of weekenders up there. Vacationers,” Begley said.
“I’m aware of that, sir.”
“So what makes him special? Do his visits to Cleary coincide with the disappearances?”
“Yes, sir, they do. He stays in a lodge about two miles from the center of town. Private cabins with kitchenettes, decks overlooking a waterfall, and private lake.”
Begley nodded. He knew the type of place Hoot described. There were hundreds of them in that area of the state, where tourism was a main source of revenue for the small mountain communities. Outdoor activities like fishing, hiking, camping, and kayaking were huge draws.
“According to the lodge’s manager, Mr. Tierney always reserves the largest cabin. Number eight. Two bedrooms, living area with a fireplace. And this I think is significant. He does his own cleaning. No matter how long he stays, he picks up clean linens at the registration desk twice a week and declines the daily housekeeping service.”
“Hardly a smoking gun, Hoot.
”
“But odd.”
Begley left his desk and moved to the easel holding the corkboard that Hoot had brought into the office in advance of their meeting. On it were tacked photographs of the five women missing from the Cleary area, along with compiled data on each: DOB, driver’s license and Social Security numbers, date of disappearance, physical description, family members and close friends, interests and hobbies, religious affiliations, level of education, bank accounts or other sources of funds—none of which had been tapped—location of where she was last seen, and anything else that might help locate the woman or point to the unknown subject who had abducted her, who in this case had been nicknamed Blue.
“Does this Tierney fit the profile of a serial sex offender?”
Although it hadn’t been established that sexual offenses had been committed against the missing women, it was assumed that was the reason for their abductions. “Yes, sir. He’s white. More or less a loner. Married once, briefly. Currently divorced.”
“Ex-wife?”
“Remarried.”
“What do you know about the marriage and divorce?”
“Perkins is working on that angle for me. He’s digging.”
“Go on.”
“He’s forty-one. He has a U.S. passport and a Virginia driver’s license. Six feet three inches tall. Weight, one eighty-five. At least that’s what he weighed when he renewed his license two years ago. Hair, brown. Eyes, blue. No facial hair, tattoos, or visible scars.
“The manager of the lodge says he’s polite and undemanding, and he tips the housekeeper even though she doesn’t clean for him. He has one major credit card. Uses it for nearly everything and pays the total balance each month. No outstanding debts. No hassles with the IRS. He drives a late-model Jeep Cherokee. Registration and insurance are current.”