“I still think so. But I’m also smart enough to know that I don’t know everything, especially when it comes to biblical history. I imagine that has something to do with this latest scientist Adami picked up, Dr. Balraj. His specialty is in the evolution of plagues.” He shook the paper out, then turned the page. “I just don’t get this. How is it this girl hasn’t been reported missing? I have plans for this when she is identified, and it would be nice if it made the news. Are you sure there’s nothing?”
“It’s like the entire government has closed ranks around this case.”
“That can’t be good.”
“There is one small lead.”
“About?”
“Her skull,” Westgate said, taking a long drag from the cigarette, then exhaling a plume of smoke against the cold windowpane. He looked out to the street below. Pedestrians hurried across the intersection, stepping over shallow snowdrifts from the previous night’s storm. “My source thinks they’ll take it to Quantico. We’re looking into it.”
“I want to know everyone who is even remotely connected to this case.”
Westgate opened the window, flicked his cigarette into the dirty slush in the street below. “Arrangements are already being made.”
Sydney Fitzpatrick stepped off the plane that Sunday at San Francisco airport, looking forward to time with her family, especially her eleven-year-old sister. Her vision of two weeks of relaxation culminating in a home-cooked turkey dinner evaporated the moment she was greeted by SFO airport police.
“Special Agent Fitzpatrick?” the uniformed man asked her, after the flight attendant pointed her out.
“Yes.”
“You need to call Quantico at once.” He checked a piece of paper he held. “Contact SAC Harcourt.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking out her phone and powering it on, then hitting speed dial for Harcourt’s cell phone.
“Hate to cut your vacation short,” Harcourt said, once they connected. “But we need you for that drawing.”
“What happened to that spiel about the full list of artists available at a moment’s notice?” she asked.
“Think of it this way. You come do the drawing, and you’re back in San Francisco before the turkey’s thawing on the counter.”
As much as she wanted to decline the job, if they’d gone to this much trouble to get her, she knew she couldn’t. She’d accepted the transfer to Quantico for a reason. True, she needed the rest and respite from her last case that almost ended her career, never mind her life. She’d gone out of her comfort zone on that last assignment, and she wasn’t about to venture out again. But the hard truth she didn’t want to face was that she’d pushed the envelope so far, the Bureau was watching her, and wanted to know if she was a team player. Besides, Thanksgiving was nearly two weeks away. A drawing with a forensic anthropologist couldn’t take more than a day, maybe two, depending on the condition of the body. “Let me check on flights and I’ll call you back.”
“We have a plane standing by. The officer will take you to it.”
And that didn’t make any sense. Since when did the Bureau have private planes waiting for something that could have,
Something was up.
3
At precisely 9:53 P.M., Sydney’s plane touched down at the marine base at Quantico. She looked out the window and saw a lone jeep waiting on the tarmac. SAC Harcourt and Special Agent Griffin stood by the jeep. Other than that, the airstrip seemed surprisingly empty, especially considering the grounds were shared with the marines…
She grabbed her overnight bag and briefcase, exited the plane, bracing herself against the chill of the mid November air. Patches of dirty slush lined the runway, remnants from the early fall snow promising that it wasn’t about to get much warmer, even come morning. How had she ever thought of San Francisco as being cold during the few months she lived there? She was definitely going to miss the West Coast.
The men standing by the jeep watched her, and as she approached, SAC Harcourt put his hand on her shoulder. “Thanks for interrupting your vacation and coming at such short notice.”
“Not a problem,” she said. “So we’re starting first thing in the morning?”
“Tonight,” Griffin said. “A lot to cover and little time. You brought what you need for the sketch?”
“Never leave home without it.” She patted the soft-sided briefcase slung over her shoulder.
“Good,” Harcourt said. “We have a room ready for you.”
“I have a place in D.C.,” she said, slinging the overnight bag onto her shoulder, trying to sound pleasant. Okay, so it was the standard apartment in the standard building used for temporary housing for agents. But even with the bare white walls and rented furniture and still-packed boxes, it was a damned sight better than what they had at Quantico in the academy dorm, which consisted of a twin bed with a shared bathroom. “I’d rather be able to go home tonight.”
Griffin held the jeep door for her. “Like I said, very little time and a lot to get through, so if you can manage one night here…”
She stood there a moment, looked him right in the eye. “Just out of curiosity. Why me?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Of all the forensic artists, in all the towns, in all the world, you call me. Why?”
“The gin joints were closed, and you came recommended. Any more questions?”
“Not yet.” Unless one pointed out that there were plenty of good artists on the East Coast, so why the hell fly her all the way from the West when she was on vacation?
They drove her to the main building at the FBI Academy, had her check in her gun as was required with every agent, then escorted her to the basement, just down the hall from her own office. A sign on the door, one that hadn’t been there when she’d left for San Francisco, read: “Absolutely No Admittance.” Harcourt unlocked the door, allowing her to enter. Griffin stepped in behind her, placed his briefcase at his feet as she stopped before the only table in the center of the room where a skull sat, seemingly watching her.
“Something wrong?” Griffin asked, when she didn’t move for several seconds.
She shook her head, not willing to discuss her thoughts about working with the dead. In typical cases, when she was called, it was usually because the investigators had exhausted all leads in identifying the victim. She was often the victim’s last hope, the last voice. That was not something one explained easily-not without sounding like some narcissistic nutcase. For the obvious reasons, she kept her beliefs to herself. She’d worked from skulls before, but her instincts told her that all was not as it seemed. In fact these same instincts had been telling her so from the moment she stepped off the plane in San Francisco, then was flown back via special FBI transport.
Whatever was going on, she had no idea, and she eyed the room. There was only one chair. A coffeepot had been set up, and someone had thought to bring a box of granola bars. Other than that, the room was empty. If not for the skull, and the absence of a second chair, the place could double for a damned interrogation room, and she turned toward the men to ask what the hell was going on, but hesitated when Harcourt handed the keys to Mr. Federal, then made some excuse about being late for an appointment before rushing off.
Sydney set her overnight bag near the door, then walked to the table, depositing her briefcase at its base, examining the evidence before her. The skull had been boiled clean, a standard procedure that in her mind always seemed to depersonalize the victim, by removing the last vestiges of his or her being. What was left, the empty orbs and corporeal grin, were never recognizable as who the person had been-though often in far better shape than how that person had been found. Ever since she’d been trained in forensic art, she’d never looked at a skull or skeleton the same. Before, she’d seen them as bones, simply bones minus the flesh, never imagining who they were or what they’d been thinking. Not so anymore.
She pulled on a pair of latex gloves from a box on the table, picked up the skull, examined it. There were no
