A bright light in the briefing room behind her brought her to the present and she turned to see the projection screen lit up with an electronic map. She followed Scott and Steelie to sit at the table.
Angie picked up a remote control and pointed it at the projector. The map on the screen switched to a photograph of a smiling woman. Her face was full, her brown hair showing white roots, and she looked as though she was laughing at being teased. Her shoulders were visible around her sleeveless flowered top.
It was Eric who gave the photo a caption. ‘Eleanor Patterson.’
Jayne and Steelie simultaneously sat up straighter in their chairs. It was a shock to see a photograph of the woman whose dismembered limbs they were so familiar with, whose surgical plate had led to her identification. Eleanor Patterson, of whom only her arms had been found so far.
Scott addressed the room. ‘Patterson is the only identified victim we can associate with the perp’s van so we need to do two things as a matter of priority: put her with him while she was still alive and determine if how they met will give us a lead on where he is now.’
Eric said, ‘Starting with what we know about Patterson: the Thirty-two One preliminary analysis suggested that she had been the victim of physical abuse but the misper report filed by her husband made no mention of any scars related to that nor was there any mention of the surgical plate we eventually used to ID her. So we had Carlisle PD talk to the husband. They just sent over their report.’
Eric held up a piece of paper that looked like an email print-out.
‘OK, the husband admits to the beating but said he didn’t report it because he didn’t realize it would be helpful. Didn’t expect her to be found dead because when she left, she didn’t take any of her belongings or clothes and left behind her credit cards. He presumed she’d gone off to start a new life with one of the men he alleged she was having affairs with. Oh, and he told the Carlisle cops that he didn’t want to have her body returned to him; that he’d only filed the misper report so she would come back and, quote-unquote, get her shit.’
Eric looked up at the group. ‘Apparently, he’s still got her “shit” kept perfectly in place in an upstairs room. Carlisle PD has no leads on how Patterson came to be outside of Oregon, let alone dead.’
Steelie cleared her throat. ‘I know Jayne and I are here about the body parts at the suspect’s house, but I’ve just had an idea about this woman.’
Eric gestured with his hand, inviting her to continue.
She glanced at the screen. ‘OK, you said she left without belongings, not even credit cards, and that you have confirmation that she was being beaten?’
Scott said, ‘Yes.’ He was looking at her intently.
‘OK. Our sense from the healed fractures on her arm bones was that the abuse had been taking place over a long period of time. So I’m thinking that maybe she finally decided to do something about it.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Eric. ‘She didn’t report the abuse.’
‘I don’t mean reporting. I mean she decided to get the hell out of Dodge. What about checking with shelters for battered women? And not in Oregon. She was probably trying to get as far away from her husband as possible. I don’t know that she came out here to Georgia but you already know she crossed the suspect’s path somewhere. You could start by looking at shelters here.’
There was a brief silence and then Eric jumped up from his chair. ‘That, my friends, is what I call a lead.’ He was at the end of the table in three long strides. ‘Angie?’
Angie had pushed back from the table and was gathering her papers. ‘I’m on it.’ She flashed Steelie a smile, and then followed Eric out of the room.
Scott chuckled quietly.
‘What?’ Steelie asked, sounding taken aback by the activity her comment had set off.
He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘I was just wondering if you wanted a job.’
Mark got up from the other side of the table and headed toward the food. Jayne joined him so she could get more coffee. She felt good because the agents had made her and Steelie part of their team. She turned back to the room as Scott was advancing the image on the screen.
‘All right. Here’s our suspect: a janitor at Atlanta Airport.’
Jayne looked over and then had to grab the back of the nearest chair.
It was Steelie who spoke. ‘Well, Jee-sus Christ. Or I should say, Gene King.’
TWENTY-THREE
Tripper understood the catalysts for the physical sensations breaking over his body like waves. One part was nerves and the other anger, but the zing brought on by the thought of that idiot Wayne’s sedan going to a police yard before he’d ensured it was clean was fear, pure fear. He clenched and unclenched his fingers. He knew he had to control fear. He must repeat in his mind that there was nothing to fear as long as he wasn’t Gene King.
Sure, that was King’s license plate on the car but he was Tripper full-time now. Indeed, he’d planned this day; it had just arrived sooner than he’d planned. That made him angry again. Who were the cops to dictate when he made The Transition? Which meant the real question was, did he leave anything of Tripper’s in that car? Zing. No! Control the fear. Clench, unclench.
‘You sure you want me to take Peachtree?’
Tripper looked up to see the taxi driver eyeing him in the rearview mirror. ‘Yes.’
‘The parkway will get you there in half the time.’
‘I said I don’t like that route.’
The driver shrugged. ‘It’s your dollar.’ His eyes went back to watching the traffic ahead of them and he turned up the AM radio.
Tripper refocused. The taxi was working. It kept him off both the streets and the public transit system while the cops might be searching for Gene King during the crucial hours before he completed The Transition. They’d only search hard for him if they knew he’d impersonated a cop, and they’d only know about the assault if that bitch he’d pulled over had reported it already. In case she had, he had done three things: ran until he put distance between him and the hospital, given his house a wide berth, and waited several hours before hailing a taxi. There would have been no point in getting a taxi near the hospital, and at a time of night when the driver would remember him if questioned by the cops later. And he wouldn’t take a taxi to the house. No, he was going to the storage unit.
The Transition Plan called for this, naturally, but it was supposed to be late at night when the front office was unattended and he could enter with his access code. But current circumstances dictated that he go during business hours when the gate was already open. He might be seen but would draw little attention to himself and his code would never be used, so it could never be tracked.
He would ask to be dropped off several blocks before the taxi reached the storage place, so the driver would have no idea of his destination. Then he would walk. Now that he’d discarded the uniform’s shirt, he knew he was unremarkable in a white t-shirt and dark pants. If anything, he looked like a waiter who’d just come off of a night shift.
Tripper dug his fingers down into his right sock and felt the money he’d hidden there when he’d dressed in the uniform at the beginning of the night. He was surprised to find the cash damp with sweat. He didn’t remember sweating. As he sat up straight again, he heard a police siren start up behind the taxi. It took extraordinary effort to not whip around in the seat as he watched the driver’s eyes looking in the rearview mirror to something behind Tripper’s head.