Agent Tucker paused and listened in evident satisfaction to the murmurs of the European police officers. The next set of images was of excellent quality. Even an untrained observer would be able to see these were taken by a professional.
“If the rescuers had followed the same procedures with the Jones family as were followed with the Masons,” Agent Tucker continued, “these murders might easily have escaped detection. The entire family was found in what had been the living room. The bodies were in decent shape, and the trauma that had destroyed their skulls could easily have been attributed to falling rafters or beams.”
The French officer next to Amaia spoke up. “These death scenes resemble each other. We see that the first one did not provoke suspicion among local and state authorities. The photographs suggest the first investigation was not the responsibility of the FBI. What was the reason to see the second case in a different manner?”
Agent Tucker let the silence settle in to make sure she had everyone’s attention.
“A witness,” she said in a whisper perfectly audible from her place in the back of the room.
Amaia smiled. This Agent Tucker clearly knew exactly how to capture their attention.
“A twelve-year-old boy, a friend of one of the farmer’s children,” the agent added in her normal voice. “Despite the weather alerts, he sneaked off to see his friend. The storm hit before he could get to a shelter, so he hid in the chicken house. The tornado that struck the farmhouse didn’t touch the nearby barn, but it did blow down the coop. The boy wasn’t seriously injured, but he was trapped for hours by a heavy wood panel. He was able to breathe, but he was immobilized, and the weight on his chest kept him from calling for help. He said he heard the family come out of the storm shelter by the barn after the storm had passed. He couldn’t see them from where he was, but he knew their voices. Then he saw a man cross the field toward the house.
“Soon after that, he heard shots, screams, and more shots, followed by a terrible silence. Terrified, he heard someone shifting the debris, then nothing. He described the man as tall and thin, with the gait of a young man, and carrying a briefcase. He had some sort of badge. The boy said the man came out into the yard, put his little case on the ground, stood before the wreckage of the farmhouse, and raised his arms. In silence he waved his arms slowly and rhythmically as if conducting an orchestra. The witness said he looked like a composer, so that’s the name the investigators have adopted.”
Everyone in the room was quiet, but they tensed like bloodhounds suddenly catching a scent.
Amaia turned and looked for Agent Tucker. Her face was scarcely visible in the dark, but Amaia saw her satisfaction at their reaction.
“Contrary to what you might expect, the killer didn’t remove the weapon. We found it next to the bodies. A Smith & Wesson 617, twenty-two caliber, registered to the father. The autopsy established that they’d been shot in the head and then the bodies were struck with a blunt object or objects in an attempt to make it look as if they’d been killed by falling debris. We found evidence to support the boy’s version of events: the family took refuge in the storm shelter by the barn and they’d all been executed at close range. The rubble-strewn scene in the house was staged to suggest the fatal wounds occurred when the house collapsed.
“One of the Oklahoma investigators recalled a front-page newspaper photo published a month earlier of the Mason family. Remember: the Masons were buried without autopsies. The sheriff who’d handled that case said a pistol was found by the bodies, a twenty-two caliber owned by the father, but they thought it was irrelevant. We obtained an exhumation order. Postmortems confirmed that gunshot wounds, concealed by blows to the head, were the causes of death.”
Autopsy close-ups showed the injuries and abrasions.
Tucker left her place in the back of the room, stepped to the door, and turned on the lights. The grisly images faded and almost disappeared. Amaia and her classmates blinked, trying to adjust to the sudden brilliance.
Tucker paused theatrically and looked around the group. Amaia sensed the agent was trying to provoke a strong reaction. “The sheer violence of gales of more than 250 miles an hour makes any flying object a potentially lethal projectile. The killer was certainly aware of this, for all the wounds were inflicted postmortem. In two victims he plugged the bullet holes with stone fragments. In others he used wood splinters.”
Amaia, seated closest to the door, was near Tucker. She saw the hint of a smile on Tucker’s face as class members murmured among themselves. Tucker saw Amaia looking at her and the smile vanished instantly.
Tucker pointed to the thick folder in front of Amaia. “The Oklahoma investigators suspected this was a case of kidnapping, a federal crime, because the victims had been held in their own home; that’s why they called in the FBI. The documents on the desk before you contain all the details we have—information from the neighbors, the witness statement, photos of the crime scenes, short biographies of both families. To keep you from just groping around in the dark, we’ve given you the entire case file as it stands. It describes our efforts to establish links between the two crime scenes and the two families, which have been unsuccessful so far except for the obvious correspondences of sex, age, and family structure. This is an open case, and we are actively investigating. This file is confidential. Nothing in it has been made public. We believe the perpetrator’s goal is to remain undetected. We don’t think he’s seeking notoriety; he is apparently satisfied that his crimes haven’t been recognized.
“Our greatest advantage is that he thinks we don’t know he exists.”
Gertha objected. “Is it not reprehensible to wait for him to strike again and abstain from informing the press—thereby encouraging him to continue?”
“We’re convinced he’s not going to stop. Publicizing our investigation will only make him change his modus operandi. Given the vast area across which the killer moves, we’d never be able to catch him if he did. Our only chance is to get there ahead of him. Your mentors will assist you as needed, but they will offer no suggestions or comment on your work. They’ll provide digital access to any relevant information or data in our systems. You will draw up three profiles: the first behavioral, the second geographic, and the third victimological. You will deliver your written conclusions no later than noon tomorrow.”
Barbagallo, the Italian inspector from the Carabinieri, waved his folder. “Excuse, please, Agent Tucker, not to complain about your presentation, but the schedule states Agent Dupree is to present this class . . .”
Amaia smiled and silently shook her head, remembering how Dupree had deliberately ignored her in the hall.
Agent Tucker, already at the door, paused with her hand on the knob. She clearly relished the moment. “He already did. Who do you think prepared the lecture?”
4
WARD FUNERAL HOME
Cape May, New Jersey
The cadaver was in terrible shape. Mary Ward pinched its cheek with her bare fingers. The layer of skin over the cheekbone peeled away, leaving a raw spot that looked like a patch of bad sunburn. She rolled the epidermis in her fingers. It had the gummy texture of old rubber cement. She sighed. Frozen cadavers were always bad news, and this one was no exception. She wiped the remains with a damp sponge and leaned over to check the reservoir of the dehumidifier she’d left running overnight next to the treatment table. She emptied the collected water into the sink and decided to leave the machine running, despite the noise, as she worked on poor Mrs. Miller.