He looked over her body but could find no obvious signs of how she had died.
Then he turned and ran down the catwalk, reached the stairs, and hurtled down them. She couldn’t have been up there long. Whoever had done it might still be around. He pulled his phone and dialed 911. He told the dispatcher everything she needed to know in three succinct sentences. Then he called Lancaster. She answered on the fourth ring. It was three in the morning. She had no doubt been asleep. After his first sentence she was wide awake. After his second he could hear her fumbling for her clothes. He put his phone away and sprinted around the parking lot in front of the Residence Inn. He was looking and listening. Any vehicles starting up. Any feet running away.
He heard neither, only his own tortured breath. He stopped and bent over, trying to refill his lungs. He felt himself shaking, his stomach churning. When he looked up he saw them. The army of threes was charging him, knives raised, ready to kill. He knew they were not real, but this night the terror seized him, like it had the first time he had seen them.
He bent farther over and threw up on the asphalt, the sick splashing onto his bare and now frozen feet.
When he straightened he heard the first siren, and the army of threes seemed to dissolve with the sound. A minute later the first siren was joined by another. He walked unsteadily back up the steps to his room. He leaned against the catwalk railing facing Lafferty’s body. He wanted to close her eyes, lift her off the bracket and set her gently down on the concrete with her hands folded across her stomach. Peaceful. As if he could ever make violent death so. He certainly couldn’t do it for his family.
But he could do none of those things without corrupting the crime scene. So he just stood there. When the patrol cars lurched to a stop in the parking lot he slipped into his room and put his gun back in the nightstand. By the time he got back outside the officers had sprinted up the steps and come to a stop a few feet away.
Decker held up his lanyard. He didn’t recognize either patrolman and didn’t want them to think the wrong thing.
“Amos Decker. I’m the one who called it in. Detective Lancaster is on her way.”
The cops had their guns drawn and were scrutinizing him closely. One drew near to him and checked out his lanyard.
He said to his buddy, “I saw him at the school with the detectives yesterday. It’s okay.”
The cops holstered their weapons and stared up at the dead Lafferty.
“She’s FBI special agent Lafferty,” said Decker. “You might have seen her at the school too.”
Both cops shook their heads, but the first one said, “Shit, a Fed? How’d she die?”
“I don’t know. Nothing obvious that you can see.”
“Okay.”
Decker stepped back from the body. “Not telling you anything you don’t know, but I was a cop for twenty years. You should go ahead and secure the crime scene and call in the forensics team and the ME. I’m sure Detective Lancaster will also alert the proper people, but it’s a Fed like you said, and you need to follow the book tight on this one.”
The first cop said, “Good advice. I’ll phone it in.”
The other cop said, “I’ll get the perimeter tape.”
Decker pointed to the open door. “This is my room. I heard a noise and came outside to check. That’s when I saw her. I went down to the parking lot. But I saw no one. Didn’t hear a vehicle either. Or anyone running away. And the puke down in the parking lot belongs to me. I’m not used to running that fast or far anymore.”
“Okay, Mr. Decker. I’d like you to go inside your room. I’m sure Detective Lancaster will see you when she gets here.” He stared up at the body and suddenly looked uncertain. “We’re sure she’s dead?”
“No pulse. I checked. And she’s already cold. Been dead a while.”
Decker went inside his room, closed the door, went to the bathroom, washed his face and his feet, put on his shoes, sat on his bed, and waited.
He knew where Lancaster lived. He figured thirty minutes or so tops. Ten minutes later he heard activity start up outside his door.
Eighteen minutes after that there was a knock on his door. He opened it and there she was.
He looked past her. The body was on the concrete on top of a sheet designed to collect any and all trace evidence. A tech team was swarming the small area, taking pictures and measurements and looking for evidence in all the obvious places.
The ME, a small, bearded man in his sixties, was kneeling next to Lafferty. After doing his TOD test he looked up at Lancaster.
“She’s been dead about three hours.”
Decker said, “Puts her death at about half past midnight.”
“Cause of death?” asked Lancaster.
The ME lifted up her blouse. Underneath was a single stab wound.
“Up and in,” he said. “Right to the heart. Dead almost immediately. She obviously bled out somewhere else. But there wouldn’t have been much external bleeding. The knife pierced the heart. It would have stopped pumping.”
Something occurred to Decker. He said, “Did you check her genital area? Anything there?” Lancaster gave him a sharp glance and then looked at the ME.
The look on the ME’s face gave Decker the answer. He showed them the spot. “The killer used a very rough knife to do the mutilation.”
Lancaster looked at Decker. “Like before. With…”
Decker said, “Yeah. Like before.”
Three black SUVs pulled into the parking lot.
“Here come the Feds,” said Lancaster nervously. “I called them on the way over.”
Bogart headed the pack, taking the steps two at a time. His hair was disheveled and he was dressed in jeans and a pullover with canvas boaters on his feet and no socks. The men behind him were similarly dressed but wore their blue FBI windbreakers.
Bogart walked directly over to the body and looked down. Then he rubbed his eyes, then his chin, and looked away, over the railing at the darkness beyond.
Decker heard him mutter, “Shit.”
Then the FBI agent turned to them. “What do we know so far?”
Lancaster told him the time and cause of death. And also about the mutilation the ME had discovered.
“You see or hear anything?” asked an ashen-faced Bogart as he looked at Decker.
Decker told him what he knew. He added, “I was half-asleep. The scraping noise could have been going on for a while before I heard it.”
Lancaster said, “Do you know her movements this evening?”
Bogart didn’t seem to hear her.
Decker added, “If we can pinpoint her movements we might be able to get a lead on whoever did this.”
“I know that!” snapped Bogart.
Lancaster said, “We know this is extremely difficult, Agent Bogart—”
Decker cut her off. “But you know better than most that the sooner we get a lead the better our chances are. And the reverse is also true.”
Bogart glanced once more at Lafferty and motioned them down the stairs.
They climbed into one of the black SUVs, Bogart in front and Lancaster and Decker in the back. Bogart drank down a small bottle of water that was sitting in the front console, wiped his mouth with his hand, and turned to look at them.
“Lafferty was a good agent. A protégée of mine, in fact. Not just a note taker,” he added with a sharp glance at Decker, who said nothing in reply.
Bogart sat back, let out a long breath, and said, “I’ve never lost an agent. It’s difficult to process.”
“I’m sure,” said Lancaster.
“But her whereabouts?” said Decker. “Were you all staying at the same place?”
“Yes. The Century Hotel.”
“Were you all on the same floor?”
“No, we were spread over three separate floors. But Lafferty was next door to another agent.”
“When was the last time anyone saw her?” asked Lancaster.
“I asked everyone that on the way over.
It looks like nine-thirty. She was working in Agent Darrow’s room going over some files. She said good night and went back to her room.”
“But do we know that she actually went to her room?” asked Decker.
“As a matter of fact she mentioned to Darrow that she was running out for some things she needed.”
“Did she say what and where?”