Black Friday

CHAPTER 23

It was twilight by the time their motorcade of black SUVs idled at the first set of police barricades surrounding the mall. Maggie couldn't help but notice that the short ride from the airport yielded a breathtakingly beautiful sunset, the sky clear now except for the pink-purple streaks. The only evidence of a recent storm was the glittering snow that blanketed everything in sight. That and the cold, a bitter cold that you could see in breaths that streamed from brief greetings while getting in and out of vehicles.

"Looks like even the national vultures have already arrived," A.D. Kunze said as they passed by a lopsided line of vans and trucks with TV call letters on their sides and satellite receivers on their roofs. A helicopter flew overhead.

"It's all part of the process," Senator Foster told them, looking out at the reporters and cameramen assembling equipment as close to the action as possible.

Maggie noticed the senator straighten his tie in the reflection of the SUV's window. At first she thought she was mistaken. Perhaps it was an absentminded habit. But then he brushed a hand over his silver hair. She glanced at Deputy Director Wurth, expecting to exchange an eye roll and instead found him doing the same.

"This isn't gonna be pretty," Kunze warned. "I was on the site at Oklahoma City. I'm telling you, nothing smells worse than charred flesh." He pulled out of his pocket a small container of Vicks VapoRub, unscrewed the lid and offered it to the others.

Maggie declined. She had actually smelled charred flesh before.

"I didn't think anything could smell worse than bloated flesh," Wurth said, but dipped his finger in the proffered container and smeared a dab over his lip.

And she'd smelled bloated flesh, too. Maggie remembered without much prompting. She knew Wurth's experience had been with hurricane victims. Her own was from floaters, victims whose killers chose a watery grave hoping to dehumanize and impersonalize them even more.

Senator Foster hesitated at Kunze's offer, watching as the interim director rubbed a generous fingertipful over his own lip and even up into his nostrils.

"I certainly don't want to get in the way of people trying to do their jobs," Senator Foster finally said. "I'm here to show my support."

Kunze and Wurth nodded. Maggie refrained and kept herself from saying, "Sure, why not take advantage of some free reelection publicity without dealing with the gruesome reality." She watched A.D. Kunze and as they all got out of the SUV and made their way to the entrance she couldn't help wondering if that's exactly why Kunze was here. A high-profile case could turn his interim title into a permanent one. But why drag her along?

It was time to find out.

"I'll need someone from security to show me where I can view the tapes," she told Kunze as she trudged through the snow alongside him.

Maggie was grateful she remembered the slipover boots. Kunze jerked twice trying to keep his balance. It was good timing on her part. He didn't question or challenge her, instead he simply said, "Yeah, yeah, of course."

As soon as they got inside Kunze grabbed Wurth by the elbow, already taking control.

"We need access to those security tapes, Charlie."

"Not a problem." But Wurth's eyes were already upward along with his attention. Maggie realized the man couldn't wait to get to the third floor.

Kunze noticed the distraction, too. "The sooner we connect the bombers the sooner we can get some warrants."

"Of course," Wurth said, tugging off his gloves and stuffing them into his pocket with one hand while the other hand started punching numbers into his cell phone. "I'll get someone down here."

"And Charlie, I sure hope to hell your local guys thought to secure those videos," Kunze said.

"Not to worry. Of course they took care of everything. Just hang on, okay?"

"I'm just saying I better not see videos of those backpacks on the local news."

"We've got it taken care of, Ray."

Maggie stayed back. She'd been a part of these multijurisdictional cases before. She knew all the collegial talk from the flight here was over. It was time to let the pissing contest begin.