Megan didn’t hear the question. Her face was clammy, her hands shaking, as she looked down at her Black-Berry screen to view the e-mail that had come in from the sketch artist in Texas.
Karin Standler had been Megan’s partner.
The woman who had shot her in the back twelve years ago stared at her from the BlackBerry screen.
Karin Standler was a sociopath.
Megan had come to the conclusion slowly, disbelieving. She’d ignored the signs because they were partners, friends, sisters. For three years they’d worked closely together, and Megan had learned so much from the senior agent. Karin was smart, sharp as a tack, and believed wholeheartedly in the job. “I love this job,” Karin said time and time again.
As it turned out, Megan realized, Karin loved it too much. She loved the badge, the power, the ability to scare people-criminals or not. True, she had clean cases, impeccable attention to detail, and her arrests had the highest rate of imprisonment through either confession or conviction.
Megan discounted Karin’s moodiness-Megan’s mother had been moody. Megan ignored Karin’s running commentary on the failings of the justice system, or the leniency of the courts. A lot of cops had a problem with a system that let violent criminals out early or let them plead to a lesser offense. Karin may have had extreme views of crime and punishment, but they weren’t any more extreme than the views of Megan’s own father, who, after drinking a bit too much on occasion, would lament a failing country he risked his life for. That he’d died defending the rights Americans hold dear wasn’t lost on Megan.
Karin slept around, but never had a steady boyfriend. She told Megan she was too independent and temperamental to live with someone. Megan felt like a prude around Karin.
But even with all of Karin s flamboyant acts, Megan saw the compassionate woman inside.
Or so she’d thought. After nearly three years, she’d realized it was an act. That Karin had been playing her all that time, and Megan had sucked it up because she wanted a big sister, a mentor, a friend.
It was two months before Karin shot her that Megan made the first turn toward suspecting that her partner was overzealous in her pursuit of criminals. They had been part of an annual drug raid in coordintion with the Washington, D.C., Police Department, DEA, and ATF. Megan and Karin were assigned to a periphery post and Karin was displeased with the position.
“They’re putting us here because we’re women,” Karin complained.
Megan had been nervous-this was only her third year in the Bureau, and she’d never worked the annual roundup. Last year, two cops had been shot, one seriously, even with all the vests and protection they wore.
At the time, Megan thought she was being a coward and perhaps Karin was right. After all, they had a lot of experience working the drug cases with the DEA.
As soon as Operation Wild Wild West-named for the location they were hitting that year in west D.C- began, Megan sensed they were in serious trouble. The cross streets they were assigned became the primary exit route of the criminals-mostly parolees who didn’t want to be caught with drugs or weapons and be sent immediately back to jail.
Megan had called for backup and Karin had a fit, but they didn’t have time to argue. Six gang members, notorious for trafficking drugs, ran down the alley toward a car parked half a block from Megan’s location. Karin immediately began pursuit, and Megan couldn’t let her partner go off without her, even though she felt it was too dangerous in this situation without having backup in place.
Five of them escaped in the car, leaving the slowest behind. The kid-Megan learned later he was sixteen and his older brother was one of the five who escaped-kept running.
Megan had to find cover as the car made a second, then third pass, trying to kill them and get the kid. Karin disappeared from view and Megan began to panic. She couldn’t leave her partner. The car finally left, and Megan ran toward where she saw Karin turn into an alley.
She didn’t see the shooting, but she heard it.
Megan had thought Karin was dead.
Instead, Karin was standing and the kid was dead, lying in a filthy alley in the worst part of Washington, D.C.
“Karin! Are you okay?”
Karin whirled around, her gun still out, and aimed at Megan, then she pulled it up and relaxed. “Just fine.”
It had been a righteous kill. The kid had a gun out; Karin had no choice but to fire.
Megan didn’t dispute that.
But in her mind, she couldn’t forget the look on Karin’s face when she turned around, gun drawn: excitement. Nor could Megan forget her calmness after the shooting. Megan questioned her own competence because she knew she wouldn’t be so calm and collected if she’d killed a human being-and that bore out the two times she was forced to draw her gun and fire. Megan had been calm on scene, but she’d been a basket case for two days afterward and grateful for the forty-eight-hour administrative leave.
Megan had done a little research after that incident and learned that Karin had killed or shot more suspects in the line of duty than any other active agent. Every shooting had been investigated and ruled unavoidable. Yet … Megan knew Karin was a good liar. She had caught her fibbing about little things. It had never bothered Megan too much because it hadn’t affected her. But suddenly Karin’s rages against the system and criminals who got off with a slap on the wrist took on a far more ominous meaning.
Her mistake-Megan had realized when she thought she was about to die in an alley two blocks from the D.C. jail-was not sharing her concerns with someone. Maybe they could have given Karin a psych test or counseling. Maybe Megan was wrong. She had hoped she was. She’d hoped she was very, very wrong. After all, the people Karin killed were criminals. They were wanted fugitives or suspects in violent crimes. She had no compassion for anyone. Her strength in the FBI had been her relentless and dogged pursuit of criminals. She worked extra hours, took extra training, volunteered for dangerous undercover missions, and turned in clean and prosecutable cases. The U.S. attorneys had loved her. She’d taught Megan to cover all the bases, not giving the bad guys any wiggle room.
But Karin was a sociopath. Because of their friendship, Megan had ignored or excused Karin’s actions for far too long. She couldn’t avoid the truth after the kid in D.C. was killed. Megan might have done the exact same thing in the same situation facing a gun, but it wasn’t the shooting itself that had disturbed her. It was the aftermath. The glee. The satisfaction on Karin’s face.
The day Megan almost died, Karin had confronted her about an in-depth report Megan had on her desk about officer-related shootings. It wasn’t an FBI article, but there were law enforcement statistics about drawing one’s weapon, firing, injuries, and fatalities. Big-city cops were in daily and consistent danger, more than the average FBI agent, but individual cops fired their guns less than half what Karin did.
Not proof of anything directly related to Karin, but enough that Megan wanted to keep an eye on her.
Megan lied about the article, but she was a pitiful liar and Karin didn’t say much the rest of the day. Megan was about to leave when Karin ran up to her, excited. “I have a location for Rentz! Let’s get him!”
Stanley Rentz, twenty-five, was a college dropout wanted for molesting prepubescent girls while traveling the country as part of the stage crew for an alternative rock band. When local and federal agencies figured out who the rapist was, they put together a sting, but Rentz had slipped out before it went down. He’d been hiding out for weeks, and his mother worked as a consultant in Congress. The FBI had received information that Rentz’s mother was helping him financially, so they had kept a close eye on her, her office, home, and commute route.
Megan followed Karin out. “Who’s our backup?”
“Marty and Ted. They’re meeting us at the station. My contact in the building said Rentz’s mother was acting nervous all day. I put a tail on her, and she’s waiting at a different Metro Stop, taking the blue
