One
That morning, due to a broken-down truck partially blocking one of the slip roads on US Route 58, it took Jordan Weaver exactly twenty-eight minutes and thirty-one seconds to drive the almost nine miles between his house and his work place; about twelve minutes longer than usual. Parking and the walk from his car to the staff entry door cost him another one minute and twenty-two seconds. Security check, clocking in, dumping his bag in his locker and a quick trip to the bathroom added another eight minutes and forty-nine seconds to his time. Grabbing a quick cup of coffee at the staff cafeteria and the final walk down the long, L-shaped, west-wing corridor that led to his station – one minute and twenty-seven seconds, which meant that in total it took Jordan Weaver, an infirmary control-room guard at Lee high-security federal prison in Virginia, exactly forty minutes and nine seconds to go from his front door to the worst day of his life.
As he rounded the hallway corner and his eyes settled on the squared control station just ahead of him, Weaver felt his throat constrict and his heart pick up speed inside his chest. The station, which was encased in large bulletproof-glass windows, was never, ever left unattended, but from where he was standing Weaver could see no one inside the control room, which was worrying fact number one. Worrying fact number two was that the room’s assault-proof door had been left wide open, an absolute no-no according to the rulebook, but what really sent a shiver of fear down Weaver’s spine, making him drop his cup of coffee and pray to God that this was just a horrible dream, were the blood splatters and smears that he could see running down the inside of the windows.
‘No, no, no . . .’
Weaver’s voice got louder as he went from walking to the fastest sprint he’d ever done. With each step, the large ball of keys that hung from his belt bounced loudly against his right hip. He reached the control-room door in four seconds flat and nightmare became reality.
On the floor, inside the bulletproof enclosure, the bodies of Guards Vargas and Bates lay in one massive pool of blood, both of their heads twisted back awkwardly, revealing the extent of the injuries to their throats – thick, crude lacerations that ran the width of their entire necks, slicing through the internal jugular vein, the common carotid artery and even the thyroid cartilage.
‘Fuck!’
Across the room from the two guards was Nurse Frank Wilson – a 24-year-old Asian American who had recently graduated from Old Dominion University in Norfolk. His body was draped out of shape over a swivel chair. His throat had been slashed so ferociously, it was a miracle he hadn’t been decapitated, but unlike Vargas and Bates, Wilson’s eyes were still wide open and full of terror. Oddly, given the angle in which his head had fallen, Wilson seemed to be staring straight back at Weaver, as if even after death he was still begging for help. All three bodies had been stripped of all their clothes, with the exception of their underwear. The guards’ weapons were also missing.
‘Jesus H. Christ! What the hell happened here?’
Confused and shaken, Weaver had to step over Vargas’s body to reach the main control console and the alarm button. As he slammed his right palm against it, the entire complex was instantly enveloped by the deafening screams of sirens.
The facility’s west-wing infirmary housed eight individual medical cells and according to the daily manifest, only one prisoner had stayed overnight – the prisoner in medical cell number one. Weaver’s eyes immediately moved to the blood-splattered monitors just above the central console, more specifically to the one on the far left – cell one.
The cell was empty, its door wide open.
‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’
Weaver felt his legs weaken under him. He’d been an infirmary guard at Lee federal prison for nine long years and in that time, not a single prisoner had ever escaped.
‘Shit!’ Weaver yelled at the top of his voice. ‘How the hell did this happen?’
His gaze rounded the control room one more time. Weaver had never seen that much blood before and despite the perils of being a maximum-security prison guard, he’d never lost a colleague to the job.
‘Shiiiiiiiiiit!’
Suddenly Weaver paused, his brain at last registering something that it had somehow missed until then.
A blinking faint white light that was coming from inside a semi-open drawer.
‘What the hell?’
Once again, Weaver had to step over Vargas’s body to get to where he needed to go. As his right foot touched the ground, the thick film of blood that lay between his sole and the linoleum floor caused his foot to slip. Instinctively, Weaver’s hands shot forward, desperately searching for something to hold on to. His left hand found nothing, but his right one managed to grab hold of the semi-open drawer, where the blinking light was coming from,. As he tried to steady himself, his foot slipped again. As a consequence, his grip tightened on the drawer, fully pulling it open.
Even through the loud shriek of sirens, Weaver heard the odd ‘click’ that came as the drawer was pulled open.
It was the last sound he ever heard before his entire head exploded into a mess of blood, bone and gray matter.
Two
The National Center for Analysis of Violent Crimes (NCAVC) was a specialist FBI department conceived in 1981, but only officially established in June 1984. Its main mission was to provide assistance in investigations of unusual or repetitive violent crimes to law-enforcement agencies not only inside US territory, but also across the globe.
The head of the NCAVC, Adrian Kennedy, coordinated most of the division’s investigations either from the department’s headquarters, located at the FBI training academy near the town of Quantico in Virginia, or from his spacious office on the top floor of the famous J. Edgar Hoover Building in northwest Washington DC. That morning though, as luck would have it, when his cellphone rang inside his breast pocket, Kennedy was in neither of his offices. He had flown to Los Angeles to conclude a joint serial-murder investigation between the FBI and the Los Angeles Police Department.
‘Special Agent Larry Williams’ funeral will be in two days’ time,’ Kennedy said, addressing Detectives Robert Hunter and Carlos Garcia of the LAPD. His naturally hoarse voice, made worse from decades of smoking, sounded fatigued. ‘It will be held in Washington DC. I just thought you’d like to know, in case you guys can make it.’
‘We’ll make arrangements and we’ll be there,’ Hunter said in return. He too sounded tired, the heavy bags under his eyes giving away how little sleep he’d had in the past few days.
Garcia nodded his agreement. ‘We’ll definitely be there. Special Agent Williams was a great agent.’
‘One of my best,’ Kennedy confirmed, his voice coated by sadness. ‘He was also a good friend.’
‘It was an honor to work with him,’ Hunter added.
Kennedy paused, his stare distant and unfocused, as if he was reflecting on something. It was right then that he felt his work cellphone vibrate inside his pocket. He lifted his left index finger, asking both detectives to give him a minute, before bringing the phone to his ear.
‘Adrian Kennedy,’ the NCAVC director said into the mouthpiece. The next few moments were spent listening. Within the first couple of seconds, Kennedy’s facial expression morphed into a confused one. Two seconds later, it went from confused to disbelief. Two seconds after that, from disbelief to shock.