Any interaction with 037 felt like drawing the attention of a tamed tiger—a great opportunity to learn about the inner workings of a truly unusual mind, but also incredibly dangerous. A man like 037 could turn on her without warning.
“What was it about him that was so creepy?” another student asked.
Sayer was about to answer when her phone buzzed on the podium and she had never been so happy to be interrupted. Though she primarily worked as an FBI neuroscientist, she was also a field agent with the Critical Incident Response Group and she was always on call.
“Sorry, I have to take this.” She checked her phone and was surprised to read “Director Anderson” on the screen.
Sayer fumbled to answer.
“Agent Altair.” The man’s patrician voice did little to soften his harsh tone.
“Director Anderson…” Sayer waved apologetically to the students and hurried off the stage to the back room.
“There’s been a double murder downtown,” he continued without any small talk. “One victim is a D.C. police officer. They’ve got reason to believe that this might be a serial and they’ve requested that the FBI take the lead. Or, more specifically, your fans at the DCPD have requested you.” Blatant disapproval crept into Anderson’s voice. “Never one to disappoint local law enforcement, I’ve decided that you, as the media’s golden child, are lead.”
Ignoring the snide comment, Sayer read the incoming file on her phone. Officer interrupted the killer, shot in the chest. Single female body also found at the scene. Ritual elements.
“It says here ritual elements. Do you know what that means?” Sayer asked.
“Do I look like your dispatcher?” Anderson snapped. “This happened on the grounds of the National Academy of Sciences just across from the Mall. It’s the week after Christmas so the mayor is worried about spooking tourists. DCPD thinks the girl’s a teenager and there’s some kind of writing in blood. You’re on your own on this one. Keep me up to date.”
Anderson hung up with a click.
Sayer stared at the phone. Anderson’s comment about being on her own had been perfectly clear. Because she worked on her research most of the time, she didn’t have a full-time partner assigned and apparently she wasn’t getting one for this case. Which meant that no one would have her back. And the death of a police officer meant that this would be a high-stakes case from the get-go.
She let the weight of that heavy burden settle on her shoulders.
After a quick farewell to her old advisor and a thank-you to the students, Sayer grabbed her helmet and headed out into the cold night air.
She paused for a brief moment at the side of her motorcycle. The world felt perfectly still except for the snow drifting down around her, gathering along her eyelashes and in her short, dark curls. She enjoyed the silence knowing that she would probably not have another quiet moment for a very long time.
A dead girl and a dead cop. There would be families to notify, a heartrending job at any time, but this close to the holidays it would be even worse.
Shaking off the last bit of lingering warmth from the lecture hall, she yanked on her helmet and gunned her Matchless Silver Hawk so hard the back wheel skittered sideways before catching.
As she raced toward the scene, Sayer let herself dwell on what might be waiting up ahead.
ROAD TO THE NATIONAL ACADEMY OF SCIENCES, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Sayer drove through the sparkling tunnel of holiday lights along 14th Street. As she neared the scene, she called FBI data analyst and computer wizard, Ezra Coen.
“Ez, you heard about the murders in D.C.? I’m lead and I want you in charge of coordinating the data.”
“I knew you’d need me and I’m already heading to the office to gather info as it trickles in. I’ll crunch everything into something coherent by the time you get here.”
“Great. First thing, we’re going to need a small task force for this one. Get that approved and handpick a few field agents and analysts. Then I want you to focus on ID’ing our female victim. Sounds like she could be young.”
“Will do. Have them scan her prints and photo to me as soon as the medical examiner gets there.”
“You’re the best.”
“Damn straight I am,” Ezra said. “I actually just left in the middle of a date for this so you officially owe me. Your adulation can take the form of an invitation to Tino’s for dinner sometime soon.”
Sayer let out a small laugh. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“Always. See you when you get here.” He hung up.
Sayer was glad to see Ezra’s inner smart-ass emerging more and more every day. He had lost both of his legs in an explosion last year and the road to recovery was a rough one.
Across the National Mall, Sayer navigated her motorcycle onto Constitution Avenue and rolled past the cheerful glow of the National Christmas tree just as the sky cleared for the first time in a week. Something about the crisp air made the stars seem brighter than usual. Even the Milky Way made a rare appearance, arcing over the quiet city.
Winter in D.C. could be an endless slog of slushy rain and gray skies, but right now, between the stars, the powdery dusting of snow, and the glow of holiday lights, it felt like a fairy tale.
The illusion was shattered by the line of police cruisers along Constitution Avenue, their rolling lights creating a sharp red and blue strobe effect on the snow. All the action was on the southwestern corner of the grounds of the National Academy of Sciences.
The corner that housed Sayer’s favorite memorial in all of D.C.—the Albert Einstein Memorial.
She parked and made her way through the small gaggle of onlookers, their eyes alight with the familiar combination of disgust and fascination. It was the same at every crime scene, people riveted by the excitement of death so close to their own beating hearts.
A broad-shouldered D.C. police officer blocked her entry as she ducked under the police tape. “Whoa, lady. This is an active crime scene.”
Sayer realized how she must look, a damp, brown-skinned woman covered with road grit. “FBI, Senior Special Agent Altair.” She flipped open her badge.
“No kidding, Agent Altair!” He smiled. “Now I recognize you. You worked with my cousin on that Cage Killer case, Wilson Tooby. I’m Joe Tooby.”
Sayer gave him a curt nod. “How’s Wilson doing these days?” she managed to squeeze out, not really wanting to make small talk.
“He’s great. Retired last month. Spending time with his daughter before she leaves for college. Glad it’s you running this case. Detective Wyatt’s waiting to give you an update.” He gestured to a stout DCPD detective.
The hunched detective in a large puffy black jacket and a fuzzy red winter hat calmly jotted notes amid the chaos of the crime scene.
“Welcome to hell, Agent Altair,” he said as she approached.
“You must be Detective Wyatt.”
He glanced up from his notes. His youthful round face was aged by a deeply rueful expression. “Heard a lot about you. Nice to finally meet you.”
“I’m just sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
They both looked over at Officer Graham’s body.
“So, what’ve we got?” Sayer said.