Acts of Mercy

TWELVE

So. How are you doing?” It looked to Sam as if his former boss and longtime friend, John Mancini, was trying a little too hard to appear relaxed. John’s fingers were tapping on the side of his coffee mug, and Sam knew from experience that John rarely tapped on anything unless he was agitated, impatient, or tense. Given the circumstances, Sam was going with tense.

“I’m good, John. Going away for a while was a good move.”

“You get a chance to visit with your folks while you were in Italy?”

Sam nodded. “Spent the last two weeks there. What a life those two have. They’re living their dream.”

“Genna and I are planning a trip to Italy for October. We’re going to visit some of my father’s family this time-a cousin is getting married-but we’re thinking a few days in a villa in Tuscany would top off the trip quite nicely.”

“You should definitely go. Give my mom a call and tell her you want the second-floor suite with the balcony that overlooks the gardens.”

“I’ll do that. Do they miss Nebraska?”

“With its winters? What do you think?” Sam grinned. “My mom does miss her friends and her family, but the deal she and my dad made when they got married was that they’d do the Nebraska farm thing until the kids were off on their own and then they’d move to Italy and open a B and B. As far as I can see, they’re both really happy with the decision.”

“Gen and I saw the website. Villa DelVecchio looks beautiful. But it’s a long way from the corn farm.” John took a sip of coffee. “How’s your brother doing with the farm, by the way?”

“He and Kitty are still plugging away, though I think she’d be happy to sell it tomorrow. It’s a hard life, farming.” Sam remembered his growing-up years, before he left for college. He knew exactly how hard life on a farm could be. “On the one hand, I’d hate to see it sold. Mom’s family has owned that land since 1871. You can still see traces of the original sod house out near the barn. But on the other hand, like I said, it’s hard work, and I can’t blame anyone who doesn’t want that life. Tom figures he has about ten, fifteen more years there. Hopefully one of his boys will want to take it over so it can stay in the family.”

“Any chance you’d want it?”

“Me?” Sam laughed. “Uh-uh. Farming’s not my thing. Never was. I couldn’t wait to get to college and leave all those chores behind.”

“So how are you, really?”

“I’m doing fine, John.” Sam studied his old friend’s face and clearly read the tension there. “Seriously. I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.” John raised the mug halfway to his mouth before stopping to read it. KNOW THYSELF. SOCRATES. “I’ve known you too well for too long to buy that. There’s a lot going on here, buddy. I don’t know if I should pull you off this or not.”

“John.” Sam quietly put his own mug down on the tabletop. “I mean this with all respect for you, but, you know, I don’t work for you anymore. You can’t really pull me off this case.”

“Yeah, I know.” John sighed. “I was hoping I could just bluff you on this one.”

Sam laughed. “Nice try. Now why don’t you tell me why you’re here. And skip over the part about how much you miss me and go right to the truth.”

“Well, yeah, I do miss you. But that’s not why I came.” John averted his eyes for a moment. “I’m concerned about you.”

“I’m a big boy, John. I can take care of myself. I’m not afraid to take this guy on, whoever he is.”

“That’s not the part I’m concerned about.” John paused. “Do you own a gun?”

“Yeah, but I don’t have a license to carry in Pennsylvania yet. Thanks for reminding me that I need to take care of that.”

“It’s going to take a while to get that through. Maybe we can do something to expedite that.”

“I’d appreciate it. Thanks. But you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“Look, we’ve been friends for many years. I know how you are,” John told him. “I know how you think.”

“So, what am I thinking?”

“You’re thinking that this whole thing is somehow your fault. That somehow, you’re to blame for these murders.”

“John…” Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, thinking that the problem with people you’ve known for a long time is that they always seem to know where your head is.

“I’ve been where you are, Sam.” John’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “And it almost destroyed me.”

“Sheldon Woods.” Sam nodded. The child rapist/murderer who’d terrorized the East Coast for three full years had saved his best form of terror for the FBI agent who’d hunted him relentlessly. Woods had made a game of abducting a child, and then calling the agent and making him listen helplessly while he tortured the young boy. John Mancini had been that agent, and for six months after Woods’s trial, he’d been MIA while he tried to heal from the emotional trauma. John had almost lost his job, as well as the woman he loved. Sam knew the story all too well.

It wasn’t much of a stretch to see the parallels.

“Yeah. Sheldon Woods.” John swallowed hard. “For months after we caught him, I got the shakes every time my phone rang. I was afraid to fall asleep because of the nightmares. I had a hard time talking to people, even my family, even Genna-especially Genna. I had a hard time relating to anyone. I’d lost Genna, and nearly lost my mind.”

“Genna’s always loved you. She understood. That’s why she took you back.”

“I paid the price for walking away from her for those six months, believe me.” John smiled, as if he were making a joke, but they both knew better. There’d been nothing funny about the situation. “What you need to remember here is that this isn’t about you. It’s about the killer.”

“The killer is someone who’s pissed at me for some reason, and he’s taking it out on innocent people. So it very much is about me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. That’s the same mistake I made. I carried the weight of all those dead little boys for a long, long time before I realized I didn’t have to.” John leaned toward Sam slightly, closer, his voice lowering, as if sharing something very personal, which he was. “I could have been anyone. It just so happened that I was the one who was assigned to his case, so I was right there in his line of sight. But it was Woods making the decision to snatch those kids, Woods making the decision to kill them. It took me a long time to really understand that I had no control over what he was doing.”

“This is different. This is personal. Otherwise, why me? Why places, dates, that have a direct relation to me? I’m not even with the Bureau anymore.”

“But does he know that?”

“What?” Sam cocked his head to one side.

“Maybe the killer doesn’t know you aren’t with the Bureau anymore.” John let that sink in for a moment. “Let’s assume that somehow you got on this guy’s radar for some reason. For the purpose of this conversation, it doesn’t matter what that reason is. As best we know right now, he started over a year ago planning ways to get your attention.” John paused again. “It’s got to be someone who knows you, or knows of you, someone who would know you were working as a profiler in the unit that handles serial murders. Someone who would assume that the case would either be assigned to you, or that you’d be called in to consult because of the Nebraska locations.”

“That’s what I’m talking about.” Sam’s stomach clenched again. “He knows I handled cases like this. He knows the case will get my attention, that’s why he’s doing it. He wants my attention.”

“He’s doing it because he likes it, Sam,” John said softly. “You’re not the reason he kills. You’re just the excuse he gives himself.”

Sam fell silent. Intellectually, he knew John was right, yet he could not shake the feeling that there was something more to the killings than someone looking for an excuse to kill.

“In any case, I just wanted you to know that I know what it feels like to have someone use you to cause pain to other people. I know how heavy that burden is. If you let it, the guilt will destroy you. And then he’s won. He’s off the hook.” John looked straight at Sam. “Don’t let him have that peace of mind, Sam. For God’s sake, don’t let the killer know that you’re willing to accept responsibility for what he’s done. Work with Fiona. Between the two of you, figure it out. Find him. Kill him or bring him in. But do not let him ease his conscience by letting him know how willing you are to take on his guilt.”

“It’s hard to convince myself that it doesn’t fall on me.”

“I didn’t say it would be easy. But if you’re going to work on this case, you’re going to have to put your own feelings aside or you won’t be effective.”

Sam nodded slowly. He’d be saying the same things to John if the tables were turned. Come to think of it, he had said those same words to John, back when Woods was doing his best to make John crack.

“Fiona said Annie was coming with her,” Sam said. “Is she coming to read me, or the killer?”

“Probably both.” John smiled. “But mostly the killer. I think she figures you’re smart enough to figure out the rest of it yourself.”

“Apparently not.” Sam looked slightly chagrined. “Since you had to come all the way up here and point it out to me.”

“That’s what friends are for. And for the purpose of this meeting, we’re friends, not colleagues. Former colleagues,” he corrected himself. “By the way, did you get your annual love note from Laurie Heiss?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t open it. I was out of the country on August fifteenth, and when I came back, I did pick up my mail at the post office. But I know what her card says. I’m sure there’s nothing new there. I just haven’t been in the mood to read it.”

“When was the last time you saw Don Holland?”

“A month or so before I left on my trip.”

“He’s still denying that he had anything to do with Carly’s murder?”

“Yes,” Sam said, “and I don’t know why. His fingerprints were all over my house…”

“Which he explained by saying he’d broken in there when neither of you were home, just to prove he could, and that he could get away with it. That always bothered me.”

“What, that he admitted he was in my house a few days before the murder?” Sam snorted. “That’s just another way of tweaking me.”

“That’s the point I’m making. He’s giving you the finger.”

“And he’s still flipping me off by continuing to insist that he didn’t kill Carly. By having his wife tell me every year that the real killer is still out there.” Sam dragged a hand through his hair. “They want me to believe that someone is walking the streets free because no one is looking for him. That’s what pisses me off.”

“What if it’s true, Sam?”

“What if it’s…?” Sam stared at John as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “It’s not. He’s fucking with me from his prison cell and she’s helping him.”

Sam got up and smacked a hand on the back of the leather chair he’d been sitting in. “They’re lying.”

“Just stop and think for a moment.”

“I’ve thought about nothing else for the past three years. You know the evidence. Holland’s prints were in my house. He killed Carly in exactly the same way he killed all those other girls. Same MO, same signature.” Sam grimaced. “Right down to cutting off her fingertips.”

“Why weren’t hers with the others?” John swiveled around to face Sam. “You found the souvenirs Holland took from every other victim. Nothing from Carly. Why not?”

“Maybe he didn’t have time to put them with the others,” Sam snapped, annoyed that John would even question this. He must know that Sam needed to believe that the man who had taken his wife from him had been caught and punished. Sam had to believe that the system had worked for him, that Carly had gotten justice. Anything less was unthinkable.

“Maybe he didn’t have them.”

“Are you serious?”

“John Mancini is always serious,” a feminine voice floated into the room from the doorway. “He doesn’t have a nonserious bone in his body.”

Sam turned as Anne Marie McCall came into the room, accompanied by Fiona.

“Annie.” Sam opened his arms to hug his former colleague. “It’s really good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too, sport.” The petite blond profiler was, as always, impeccably dressed in a linen suit in spite of the ninety-degree weather.

“How’s the husband? Still holding on to his cop job?” Sam asked.

“Holding on with everything he has.” Anne Marie dropped her briefcase to the floor with a thud. “But not to worry. We’ll bring him around sooner or later.”

“I’ve been trying to lure Evan to the Bureau for the last few years without success,” John said. “He likes being a detective, so until I can offer him something better…” John shrugged. “Our loss.”

“Sam.” Fiona smiled a greeting. She wore white Capri pants and a black T-shirt and looked very tidy. Casual, but tidy. Sam wondered if she ever looked mussed or if a hair was ever out of place on her pretty head.

“I hope we’re not too early, that you two had time to finish your discussion. We were here with time to spare and were content to sit out in the car for another fifteen or twenty minutes, but the lovely woman who runs this fine home-hard to believe someone actually lives here, isn’t it?-well, she saw us out there and took pity.” Annie took a seat next to Sam and leaned down to open her briefcase. She took out several files and placed them on the table in front of her. “She forced us to come inside and have iced tea and the most delicious lemon cookies I ever tasted.”

“Ah, you met Trula.” Sam nodded knowingly. “She’s a rare gem.”

“And the little girl, Jill,” Fiona added. “She was darling.”

“You mean Chloe?” Sam asked. “Dark hair, dark skin?”

“Yes, but she said her name was Jill.” Fiona laughed. “But after she went outside, Trula confided that when Chloe found a name she liked, she tried it on for a while. Trula said she does it all the time. Today she’s Jill.”

“She is one funny little kid,” Sam agreed. “Her mom is an investigator here. Emme Caldwell. She was their first hire.”

“So she told us.” Annie opened a file. “Now. Business. Will Fletcher pulled up all your old cases and their dispositions.” She handed Sam a copy of a three-page report. “As you can see, just about every one of these characters who’s still living is still in prison. Most of them divorced, deserted by their families once their horrendous deeds became known. A number of them are dead, either by their own hand, a fellow inmate, or the state. So the field is narrowed considerably.”

“Maybe there’s a copycat, someone who wants to be like one of these guys.” Sam scanned the list.

“You knew them, Sam. Does any name stand out as someone who’d be wanting revenge on you for something? Anyone there who threatened to ‘make you pay’?”

“Annie, right now, looking at these names, it could be any one of them.”

“So it could just as likely be none,” she replied.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He frowned.

“You’ve been trained to pick out the aberrant. Remember those picture puzzles we used to get in school, where you’d have to look at several pictures and decide which one wasn’t like the others? Well, profiling, as you very well know from your own experience, is often like those picture puzzles,” Annie explained. “You look for the one who isn’t like the others. The one who stands out.” She held up the file. “None of these stood out to you.”

“So?”

“So I’m thinking the guy you’re after isn’t one of these people.”

Sam took another look at the list of names, going from page to page. It had to be one of them.

He paused over one name. “Here. Peter Longacre. Twelve years ago, I testified against him for…” His voice died away as he finished reading the information that followed Longacre’s name. “Oh. Died in the prison infirmary seven years ago.” He continued to check the list. “Well, then, here. This one. Frank Myles.” Sam waved the page. “He was convicted of a double rape and homicide nine years ago. I was the one who tracked him down. You think maybe he might have stored up a little resentment since he started serving those two life sentences? No chance for parole?”

“Sam, have you seen the book, My Life, Revisited? It’s been on all the bestseller lists.” Annie folded her arms calmly on the table.

“Sure.” He blinked. “Oh, shit. Frank Myles? He’s that Frank Myles?”

Annie nodded. “He’s totally turned his life around. He’s become a minister, counsels the other prisoners.”

Sam started to say something and Annie cut him off. “And yes, I know he isn’t entitled to any of the proceeds from the book, but he doesn’t want the money. He’s donated it all to a charity that provides college money for the children of victims of violent crimes.”

“That could all be bullshit, and you know it,” Sam said.

“It could be. I for one don’t believe it is. I’ve met with him. I’ve talked with him. I think he’s the real deal.”

“Annie, you of all people know how good these guys are at pulling off a con.”

“I do know that. But this time, I think it’s for real,” she insisted. “He has nothing to gain. He’ll never come up for parole. There won’t be any time off for good behavior, and he doesn’t want any. He wants to serve his sentence-his debt, he says-but he’s determined to do what little good he can do while he’s in prison. So no, Sam, I don’t think you have anything to worry about where Frank Myles is concerned.”

Sam sighed. “Okay, so no one pops out at me. That doesn’t mean that someone here”-he tapped on the folder-“isn’t behind the killings.”

“We’ll take a good hard look at each of those people,” John assured him, “but for now, I think we have to look beyond that list.”

“Why don’t you tell Sam what you’re thinking, Annie?” Fiona suggested.

Annie took off her reading glasses and set them on the table. “The fact that the killer has deliberately selected locales that are tied to you, and that he seeks his victims randomly on dates that are anything but random tells us a great deal about him. I’m sure it’s occurred to you that he’s very organized. He’s willing to wait for months to kill again because he needs the date and the place to be right. That tells me he’s patient, that he’s used to having to exercise patience. He has the will power to put off doing what he wants to do until the time and place are what they must be. So I’m thinking we need to go back in time, maybe even before you were with the FBI. Is there anyone back there who might have reason to blame you for something? More specifically, think about who might believe he has cause to blame you for something he himself might have done.”

Sam shook his head. “I can’t think of anyone like that, Annie.”

“Take your time. It could be something very subtle. Hopefully, it will come to you in time, but probably not today, which is fine. We have other things to discuss.” Annie pushed back her chair and stood. Sam knew within seconds she’d start to pace around the room, a habit of hers. She’d once said she thought better when she was moving.

“This latest murder.” Sam’s face went white. “Whoever this person is, he knows the details of my life. Well enough to know that Carly died on August fifteenth. Well enough to know that, even if I missed the others, killing someone on that date in that particular place is going to get my attention.”

“And that’s what this is all about, Sam. He’s waving a red flag in your face, challenging you. See me. Find me.”

“Stop me?” Fiona wondered aloud. “Is that what he wants? For Sam to find him and stop him? Maybe even kill him?”

“Death by cop? Or in this case, ex-FBI? Could be.” Annie stopped to ponder the possibility. “I actually like that a lot.” She leaned on the back of the chair. “So, Fiona, have you given any thought to trying your hand at profiling? I heard there’s an opening.”

“I thought it was filled. What’s his name?” Fiona frowned.

“Doesn’t matter. He quit. He wasn’t any good anyway,” John told her.

“Anyway, to get back to our actor. Okay, he has Sam’s attention. He has all our attention, though he doesn’t give a flying fuck about the rest of us. It’s Sam he’s challenging. So we have to ask ourselves, to what end?” Annie glanced around the room. “What now?”

“Well, he’s trying to draw Sam out, to engage him,” Fiona began, then stopped. “You said maybe he wants to be stopped, maybe even to be killed. Maybe by Sam’s hand.”

Annie agreed. “So the next question is, what has he done that was so horrible that he deserves to die? I don’t mean these current murders. These are all just means to an end to him. I believe there’s something in his past-way back, maybe-that he feels guilty about.” She turned to Sam. “John and I talked about this earlier this morning. We both know you feel personally responsible for these murders, but here’s the thing, Sam: this is all about his guilt, not yours. He’s projecting it onto you because he can’t face what he’s done-not what he’s doing now, but something he might have done a long time ago.”

“You’re saying someone he used to know did something that’s haunting him now, but he’s trying to get even with Sam for it? Like, somehow he holds Sam responsible, but only because he can’t admit to himself that he was the responsible party?” Fiona frowned. “Did that make any sense, Annie?”

“It made perfect sense. That’s exactly how I see it. Unfortunately, we have no way of knowing how far back we have to go to look for him. We’re going to have to rely on Sam to come up with a few possibilities.”

“Honestly, Annie, I can’t think of anyone.”

“We all have people in our past who we might have injured in some way without even knowing it. It could be someone like that,” John said.

“I’ll give it some thought, but I’ve made it a point all my life to just get along, let others live their lives, not judge. Shit, I can’t even remember the last time I had a real argument with anyone.”

“There’s someone there someplace,” Annie assured him. “I only wish I could help you sniff him out.”

“In the meantime, we have another murder,” Fiona reminded them.

“You didn’t give me any details on the phone,” Sam said.

“That’s what I’m going to do right now.” She passed around several photos of the crime scene. “These were taken by the medical examiner’s office.”

Sam stared at the pictures. The man’s body was dressed all in black and was propped up against a heavy chain fence.

“What’s this in his hands?” he asked.

“It’s a Bible,” Fiona told him. “And that building in the background is the Virginia State Correctional Institute at Calumet. It’s right outside of-”

“Yeah, Sanderson. I get that part. But I don’t get the Bible.” Sam stared at the photo.

“The victim is forty-seven-year-old Kenneth Wilke. He worked at a nearby convenience store,” Fiona said pointedly, “but he’s dressed like a-”

“Like a priest. Minister to the incarcerated,” Sam muttered. “One of the acts of mercy is to minister to prisoners.”

“Right. Wilke worked the late shift. Surveillance cameras show him leaving the store by the back door ten minutes after his shift ended. All the employees park behind the store. Wilke’s car was still there the following day, but he never showed up for work. They called his home number but his girlfriend said she hadn’t seen him since the day before.”

“She hadn’t called the store to find out if he was there?”

“She also works at night. She stocks produce at a local supermarket. She generally gets home before he does, so she hadn’t noticed until the next day that he wasn’t there.”

“So the theory is that he was taken as he exited the building, forced into the killer’s car and driven to…” Sam thought it through. “I’m guessing he wasn’t killed where he was found.”

“Right.” Fiona folded her hands in front of her on the table. “There’s a field on one side of the prison. The police found an area where the high grass has been tamped down and there are tire tracks leading into the field. They believe the killer drove into the field and got as close to the most remote section of fence as he could without being seen. They found the kill site in the field near where the tire marks stop. They also found a pair of jeans and a white shirt with the name of the convenience store on the front. They figure the killer made the victim change into the black clothes, then strangled him right there. That would have been easier than killing him first, then trying to undress and dress the dead body. The postmortem stab wounds were made after the body was posed at the fence. There’s no evidence the body had been dragged, so we’re figuring he must have picked the victim up and carried him.”

“How big was the victim?”

“Six feet, one hundred eighty pounds.”

Annie let that sink in before stating the obvious. “The man we’re looking for is one big, strong guy.”

“One big strong guy with a big nasty grudge, if your theory is correct,” Sam said.

“Big, strong, dangerous, and holding a grudge. Not a good combination,” Fiona noted.

“So what’s your next move?” John asked her.

“I’m going to Sanderson to see what I can find out about this latest victim.” Fiona turned to Sam. “I’ll give you a call and let you know what I find out.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Sam, you don’t have to do that. I’m sure you must have some very bad memories connected with Sanderson.”

“I’m coming with you,” he said levelly.

“If you’re sure-”

“I’m sure.”

“All right,” Annie said. “We have four deaths. Seven acts of mercy. Three acts left. Anyone know what they are?”

“I know them all. I looked them up.” Fiona ticked them off on her fingers. “We’ve already seen the killer run through feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, shelter the homeless, and this latest, minister to prisoners. The three remaining are heal the sick, clothe the naked, and-”

“Bury the dead,” Sam murmured, remembering, a chill running down his back.

Somewhere long ago, Sam had seen something that had depicted all of the acts, but where and when was locked in his memory. He had the uncomfortable feeling that somehow, that place, that time, was related to the killings. He tried to focus on it, but the image was elusive. He couldn’t call it back up.

Maybe Annie was right. Maybe the killer was from his distant past.

Maybe with any real luck, he’d put it together before someone else had to die.