The Bishop pbf-4 Read online

  Sometimes I wonder how many women actually succeed in exchanging sex for survival. I’ve only seen the videos of those who failed.

  In my classes I’ve seen even the most hardened cops, the most experienced investigators from around the world, break in half when they see these videos.

  Almost always, whether the victim is compliant or struggling, praying or begging, there’s that moment when he realizes what is about to happen. You see the knowledge of the inevitable pass across his face.

  The undeniable truth we spend our lives denying has finally sunk in: death is coming.

  The end is here, only moments away.

  That look, when he comes to that final chilling revelation, is the most heartbreaking of all to see. The race is over. Life has lost.

  I turned on the video projector to cue up today’s first video-a man in San Francisco who did to prepubescent boys the things that nightmares are made of.

  For me, the hardest videos to watch are the ones in which people pray, because in so many cases you can see that they really do believe that God will hear them, will intervene, will save them. But in the videos we have here at the Academy, he invariably chose not to.

  I often wonder if his silence is proof that he isn’t there. That’s the easy answer, of course. The intellectually facile one, but still, it’s tempting to retreat into skepticism when you see such suffering responded to with silence.

  Sometimes I envy people who find a way to live in quiet denial of what we as a species are capable of doing to each other. It’d be so much easier to live with that kind of naivety, closing one eye to the tears of the world, thinking that everything has a Disneyfied ending, a silver lining, a sunset to ride into.

  A few months ago when I was speaking with Lien-hua about this, she told me not to dwell on the negative so much.

  “I can’t pretend that the world isn’t what it is,” I’d said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That these things I see don’t happen, that life is better than this.”

  A small pause. “But can you stop pretending that it’s worse?”

  It took me a long time to reply. “I’ll try,” I’d said.

  And I still am.

  I turned on the projector, tapped the DVD’s play button, but the first frame-the one in which the killer zoomed in on the young boy’s frightened eyes staring into the camera-today that image alone was too much for me.

  I couldn’t do this. I needed to look away from suffering, at least for the moment.

  So I shut off the projector.

  Plan B.

  Astrid knew that Brad had money; he’d never kept that a secret, although he hadn’t explained where it was from, and she’d never pried.

  She’d suspected he’d stolen or extorted it until she saw him working on the computer system at the research facility yesterday. Now she began to wonder if he might actually have earned it as a computer programmer.

  Well, what mattered was not where it had come from but what they could do with it if they needed to.

  Disappear.

  Or, if she needed to, she could do that herself.

  Yes, she knew his bank account’s pin number. She’d found it jotted on one of his statements two months ago. And this secret knowledge was a sweet and subtle thing.

  Now, as she pulled into the parking lot at work, she thought of what would happen to the woman at 3:00 p.m. as the game moved toward its climax.

  Tessa had agreed to meet Paul Lansing on the steps of the Library of Congress at 10:30 sharp. And now as she stepped onto the Amtrak train that would take her to the city, she felt somewhat like she was running away.

  She told herself that as soon as she got some answers to the questions she hadn’t felt comfortable bringing up while Patrick was around, she would explain everything to him and things would get back to normal between them.

  Through Paul’s emails over the last few weeks she’d found out where he grew up-St. Paul, Minnesota. His pastimes-sculpture (pretty cool), hunting (definitely uncool), hiking, carpentry, and organic gardening (that’s better). His birthday-September 9. And so on.

  And on.

  But the core stuff went a lot deeper.

  That’s the stuff she needed to know.

  The train doors closed, and she took a seat.

  She’d chosen a T-shirt that left the scars on her right arm visible, the scars she’d given to herself when she was into cutting. A man stared at her now, his eyes lingering on her arm, and then on the oxymoronic words on her shirt: “Anarchy Rules.”

  She handled his curiosity with a steady gaze, locking eyes with him until he looked away.

  Tessa had saved the biggest questions for a face-to-face meeting with her dad: How long did you date Mom before you slept with her? Did you love her? How come you live by yourself in the mountains? What are you running away from?

  It seemed beyond weird to her that a man who lived without a phone or running water, a guy who’d been emailing her from a six-year-old borrowed laptop, had suddenly decided to hop on a plane and fly to the nation’s capital just to see some sculptures that one of his friends had made. She’d have to ask him about that too.

  He’d said he didn’t know that Christie ever had her child, that he thought she’d gone through with the abortion she’d been planning. That’s what he’d said, but Tessa didn’t believe him. She’d found the postcard he sent to her mother only a few years ago. If he kept tabs on her mom, how could he not have known about her?

  And so, perhaps the most important question of all: why didn’t you ever come to see me after you two broke up?

  And then there was Patrick.

  She tried to think of a way to politely cancel lunch with him without making him suspicious. And without lying. She’d done enough of that already.

  With a lurch, the train left to take Tessa Bernice Ellis to her father.

  Class had started five minutes ago.

  There were a number of seminars running concurrently this morning, and though officially the National Academy course didn’t begin until Monday, the NA students who’d already arrived were invited to attend any of the lectures this week that they thought would be most helpful to them.

  I’d been hoping Cheyenne might sit in on my class so I could thank her for taking Tessa home last night-at least that’s the reason I told myself. But when class began and she wasn’t in the room, I realized it was probably a good thing, since she has a way of monopolizing my attention and there was already plenty on my mind.

  So, no videos today. Just discussion.

  I’d kicked things off by telling my students that understanding the process an offender undertakes in planning and carrying out his crime is vital to eliminating suspects.

  “Excuse me,” a woman in the front row said, two fingers flagged in the air. I’d met her earlier in the week: Annette Larotte, a National Academy student from Houston. A homicide detective. Tall-5'11". Brunette. Deep, reflective eyes.

  “Yes?”

  “What was number four? From last night?”

  “Number four?”

  “At the panel discussion you said there were four premises underlying geospatial investigation. But you only had time to list three before the discussion was cut short. What was number four?”

  I quickly reviewed the first three: “Number one-timing and location. Most crimes occur in the offender’s awareness space. Two-rational decisions lead to the criminal act. Three-least amount of effort principle.”

  When I paused to take a breath, Annette finished my thought for me: “Offenders try to save time and money just like everyone.”

  I nodded. “Exactly. So here’s number four: progression. With each successive crime, offenders become more efficient and experienced, learn from their mistakes, develop tastes and preferences for specific activities over others. They also learn from other people-criminal associates, research, observations-and as they do, two things happen: they become more competent, and typically, they become ove
rconfident, which can lead to carelessness.”

  A few people took notes, Annette nodded her thanks to me, and I went on, “So to get us rolling today, tell me: what are the secrets to committing a perfect murder?”

  The students began by noting the obvious: 1. take precautions to avoid leaving physical evidence, 2. contaminate the scene with other people’s skin cells, bodily fluids, or DNA to confound investigators, 3. dispose of the body outdoors where insect activity, scavengers, and the weather will help disperse and destroy physical evidence-or better yet, don’t allow the body to be found at all, 4. never murder someone you have a close relationship with, but rather choose someone whose disappearance will go unnoticed (runaways, transients, vagrants, hitchhikers, prostitutes, etc.).

  Self-evident, rudimentary ideas.

  I knew that the students in my class could do better, and I challenged them to go deeper.

  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 ball
oon. “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.

  What is wrong with you? Just chill!

  “I lived in this area for a while,” he added, “a long time ago.”

  “Oh, cool.”

  He gave her a curious look. “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Sorry. Um…” She pointed to the Library of Congress’s Madison building. “As long as we’re here, let me get a reader’s card first. Then maybe we can go do the tour thing or check out your friend’s sculptures.” She wasn’t exactly into sculpture because so much of it was sophomoric or abstruse, but she knew it was important to her dad. “I’m sure they’re cool.”

  “So, a reader’s card.” He held out his hand to indicate that she could go first, and she started down the steps with him beside her but slightly behind her.

  “I’m really glad you could make it today,” he said. She could tell he was trying overly hard to be friendly, but she didn’t hold it against him. It would take them time to connect. It’d taken Patrick and her almost a year to feel natural around each other. “Ever since you and your stepfather showed up at my-”