“What are you saying, Rachel? You want to take the case over?”
She nodded vigorously.
“Why should I let you do that?”
“I’m tuned into this guy. I can catch him.”
“By yourself?”
“I’ll need the Broward police to help me. And you, of course.”
Linderman’s first reaction was to say no. Rachel did not have the experience to be taking on a case like this. During her time in Jacksonville, she’d worked the Forgery Unit; upon moving to North Miami to work for him, she’d handled child abductions and helped crack a baby-snatching ring. These were all good experiences, but they weren’t the same as chasing a serial killer. Rachel had never dealt with pure evil, and had no concept of what it might do to her. She didn’t know what it was like to stare into the abyss, and feel the heat scorch her soul. Nor did he think she’d ever woken up in the middle of the night yelling at the top of her lungs. Those were the things that happened to FBI agents who engaged serial killers, and there was no avoiding it.
But at the same time, he couldn’t deny the burning desire in her eyes. It was a look that told him that this was her time. Rachel was sick of being treated like a kid, and being judged based upon her gender and size. She wanted to prove herself, and this was her opportunity to do that. If denied, she might never get another chance, and would be stuck taking orders for the rest of her career.
He stared long and hard into her face, just to be sure he was making the right decision. He decided that he was.
“Let me see what I can do,” he said.
Chapter 4
Vick sat in the hallway outside Sheriff Moody’s office. Through the glass, she watched Linderman make his case for her to take over the investigation. If body language was any indication, it was not going well.
Moody, first name Lester, was a thick-headed man, short on temper and long on intolerance, who should never been made sheriff. Had his predecessor not been caught taking bribes, Moody wouldn’t have gotten the job. The world was funny that way. Morons ran things, while the truly qualified toiled in quiet desperation.
Moody spun in his fancy leather chair, and studied her through the glass. Then, he spoke to Linderman. Vick couldn’t read minds, but she could read body language. Moody was telling Linderman that she looked too young to be given this much responsibility. Too young, too small, too fragile, too pretty. All the strikes against her seemed to start with the word too. It made Vick mad just thinking about it.
Linderman said something that made Moody wince. Had Ken threatened him? It sure seemed like it. Ken was deceiving that way. He had the persona of a mild-mannered little league coach, but there was another side to him you dare not cross. He could be tough, yet she’d never regretted leaving Jacksonville to work for him.
Linderman came out, shutting the door behind him. Vick rose hesitantly.
“It’s your baby,” he said.
Her hands clenched into fists and she rose on her toes. Linderman smiled at her with his eyes.
“Moody wants you to brief his men on how you plan to trap our killer.”
“I’m game. When?”
“Right now.”
“But I’m not ready.”
“Then get ready. I’ll stall him for fifteen minutes. This is the big leagues, Rachel. Do it.”
He went into the office and closed the door behind him. Through the window, she saw Moody talking on his intercom, marshaling his troops. Her elation was replaced by a sickening sense of dread. What if she got tongue-tied, or made a fool of herself? What if she forgot what she wanted to say? Her stomach made a low gurgling sound. Hurrying down the hall, she banged open the door to the women’s restroom.
“Good morning,” Moody said to a conference room packed with plainclothes homicide detectives. “We are fortunate to have the FBI with us today. To my left, Supervisory Special Agent Ken Linderman, head of the Miami CARD unit. Next to him, Special Agent Rachel Vick, also with CARD. Because of the FBI’s experience in handling abduction cases, I’ve asked them to lead up this investigation. Please give them your undivided attention.”
Moody stepped to one side, and the conference room fell silent. Vick felt the eyes of every detective staring at her. There had to be at least fifty of them packed into the room. She had expected Linderman to kick things off, and was surprised when she felt his elbow nudge her rib cage.
“Knock “em dead,” he whispered.
Vick took the floor. In her hands were sheets she’d hurriedly photocopied and stapled together. Seeing DuCharme in the front row, she dropped them in his lap.
“Detective DuCharme, if you don’t mind, please distribute these.”
DuCharme went flush. A detective in the back of the room snickered. Vick found the culprit with her eyes.
“Please save your comments until I’m done,” she said.
She waited until DuCharme was finished before speaking. Her audience was mostly white males, just like the FBI’s North Miami office. Definitely a boy’s club.
“There is a serial killer on the loose in Broward County who is preying on violent teenage boys,” Vick began. “In your hands are photographs of his first two victims, Robert Nardelli, age 16, and Barrie Reedy, age 17. Both boys had murdered adults, and were entered into juvenile rehabilitation programs while serving house arrest.
“Nardelli and Reedy’s bodies surfaced one week after their abductions. Both had been shot in the right side of the temple with a.38 hollow point bullet at close range. Both bodies were discarded in fields not far from major highways. The FBI got interested in the case after Reedy’s body was found. The body was put by a No Dumping sign, which is indicative of the hostility toward society which many serial killers feel.
“This morning at 7:30 a.m., a third teenager, Wayne Ladd, was abducted in the parking lot of the Harmony juvenile rehabilitation program in Fort Lauderdale. Ladd is 17, and admitted to stabbing his mother’s boyfriend last year. Ladd was in a Harmony van, which the abductor also stole. The van’s driver got his throat slit.
“We were fortunate this time. A surveillance camera across the street captured the killing and abduction. Our suspect is a Cuban male between the ages of 35 and 50, about six-foot-two and powerfully built. He’s excessively vain, and likes to spend money on clothes. He may have once driven a van or a school bus for a living.”
Vick caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. Linderman stood next to the wall with Moody, and was motioning for her to slow down. She abruptly stopped talking. The sound of pencils scratching away on notepads filled the room. Every single detective was busily writing down notes. They’re listening to me, she thought.
In the back, a black female detective raised her hand.
“Yes, detective,” Vick said.
“Does our killer have a name?” the detective asked.
Vick thought back to the prostitutes they’d questioned that morning.
“Mr. Clean,” she said.
Everyone wrote it down.
“Mr. Clean is on a roll, and has become empowered by his crimes,” Vick continued. “More than likely, he believes the police will never apprehend him. With the sheriff department’s help, the FBI wants to set a trap, and see if we can catch him.”
Vick paused to let the detectives catch up. She had them now. It was her case.
“Our trap will be a special web site devoted to Mr. Clean’s crimes,” Vick went on. “The site will contain information about the three victims, and will invite viewers to share any thoughts or tips through a blog. This blog will have a special filter that will capture the IP addresses of anyone who visits it, along with the physical address of their computer.