Breaking Creed

14

O’Dell stopped in her office to collect copies from her printer. She used it as a detour to dilute her frustration before she confronted her boss. Everything about “the package in the Potomac”—from the tattoo to the driver’s license shoved down the victim’s throat to the dumping of the body in a public place — was adding up to be some kind of drug-related hit.

Why had she been sent? She specialized in profiling killers, tracking them, and stopping them before they killed again. But if this was a drug-cartel hit, it should be investigated by the DEA.

And that’s exactly what she intended to ask AD Kunze when she showed him a copy of Trevor Bagley’s driver’s license. She had obtained a printout from the Alabama Department of Motor Vehicles, but she included the copy Stan Wenhoff had e-mailed her of the crumpled, bloody original that he had removed from the man’s throat.

The creases in the laminated card made it difficult to identify Bagley. The bloodstains that had seeped behind the lamination suggested that the victim was still bleeding when his killer forced it down his throat. But Stan had confirmed the card alone would not have caused a suffocation that led to the man’s death. That, he still maintained, was due to the cocaine and the fire ants.

Still, O’Dell wanted AD Kunze to see the mess and had even used the color option on her printer to make a copy of the driver’s license, along with a photo of the bloated corpse and the shot she had of the tattoo.

She marched down the hallway, through the lobby, and headed for the assistant director’s closed door.

“He’s with someone,” his secretary told her. When she realized O’Dell wasn’t going to stop, she jumped out of her chair and shouted, “Someone is in there with him.”

O’Dell knocked, two short taps. Ignoring the secretary coming up quickly behind her, she pushed the door open before Kunze could respond. He looked up from behind his desk, surprise registering on his face before he scowled, first at O’Dell, then at his secretary, who had stayed back in the doorway. Across the desk from Kunze was, indeed, a visitor. And when the woman turned to look over her shoulder at the intruders, it was O’Dell’s turn to be surprised.

“Senator Delanor-Ramos?”

O’Dell saw the woman flinch and realized she should have left off the Ramos. The senator had been doing everything possible to disassociate herself from her ex-husband, and with good reason.

“Call me Ellie,” Senator Delanor said, standing and meeting O’Dell with an outstretched hand. “It’s good to see you again, Agent O’Dell.”

Less than a year ago the senator had used her political connections, including Assistant Director Kunze, when she was concerned about her then husband, George Ramos, and her two children. They had gone out in their houseboat on the Gulf of Mexico and gotten caught in a night of brutal thunderstorms.

But Ramos had fooled everyone: the authorities, his friends, his family, even his wife. He was using his kids and the storm as a cover to make a drug pickup in the middle of the Gulf. O’Dell and her partner, R. J. Tully, had been sent to rescue Ramos and his kids. Instead, they ended up arresting him.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” O’Dell said.

“Yes, you did.” AD Kunze glared at her. “Or you wouldn’t have barged into my office.”

“I’m so sorry, sir,” his secretary said. “I did tell her—”

“That’s fine, Ms. Holloway. I’m sure it must be something terribly important.” He continued to glare at O’Dell before he shifted his attention back to the senator. “I’m sorry for the interruption, Ellie.”

“No, not at all. I should let you all get to your work,” Senator Delanor said. “Raymond, perhaps you can call me later.”

He nodded, and O’Dell could swear she saw a look exchange between the two, one that seemed more intimate than professional. Nevertheless, Senator Delanor headed for the door, brisk, confident steps in three-inch heels. O’Dell couldn’t help thinking that the junior senator from Florida looked like a model, which probably caused some to underestimate her. The woman carried herself like a CEO for a Fortune 500 company, but she was still a politician, and O’Dell didn’t trust politicians.

Self-preservation seemed to trump everything else with them. O’Dell had stuck her neck out for this one’s family, and the senator’s presence here today only made O’Dell more suspicious of Kunze’s motives for sending her to oversee the retrieval of the package in the Potomac. Was he using her again to repay some political favor?

Raymond Kunze had been O’Dell’s boss for less than two years. He would never be able to fill the previous assistant director’s shoes. Kyle Cunningham had been an icon at Quantico. To O’Dell, he had been a mentor and, in some cases, even a father figure. His death had left the entire department feeling his absence. Perhaps Kunze came into the position with a chip on his shoulder, knowing he could never replace Cunningham.

Whatever the reason, he appeared to take it out on O’Dell over and over again, as if making her prove her worth. He had sent her into the eye of a hurricane to investigate a cooler full of body parts. Last fall he had her “stop off” in the Nebraska Sandhills to check on cow carcasses that had been mysteriously ravaged. And then there was the storm on the Gulf that he sent her into to retrieve Senator Delanor’s husband and children. Each and every time, O’Dell stumbled onto something murkier, uncovering secrets and even conspiracies — and in Senator Delanor’s husband’s case, illegal dealings. She no longer trusted her boss’s motives.

The door had barely closed and O’Dell continued her march to Kunze’s desk. Instead of slapping the sheets of paper down in front of him, she placed them respectfully on the desktop, her compensation for barging in and interrupting.

He glanced at the papers and shook his head. “So what is it that has you all hot under the collar?”

She bit her lower lip to stop a comeback. Every time she thought she had made some headway with this man, he erased it with another degrading comment like this.

“Why don’t you just tell me what you know and save me a bunch of time?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The package in the Potomac.” She pointed for him to take a closer look. “It’s a drug hit, isn’t it?”

He rubbed his square jaw and took a deep breath, glancing at the top copy of the mangled driver’s license. In another life, Raymond Kunze could have been an NFL defensive back. Probably where he got his witty repartee. Usually he wore blazers that fit him a size too small, emphasizing his massive shoulders and tight abs. But the colors he chose — today’s was a shiny emerald green — made him look more like a cheap bouncer at a nightclub.

“What makes you think it’s a drug hit?”

She pulled out the photo of the victim’s left shoulder blade and set it on top.

“A tattoo? That’s your proof?”

She pulled out the photocopy of the crumpled, bloody driver’s license and laid it next to the tattoo, as if they were cards in a deck and she was presenting him with a blackjack.

“A driver’s license? Why are you wasting my time with this, Agent O’Dell? It looks like you have plenty of pieces to the puzzle, so you might be able to do what I sent you to do—investigate.”

She stood still, watching him and trying to determine whether or not he already knew any of this. Had she jumped to conclusions?

“You’re making a serious judgment on poor”—he sorted through the pages again to find the man’s name—“Trevor Bagley.”

“Are you saying this isn’t a hit by a drug cartel?”

“I have no idea, Agent O’Dell.” But he didn’t look up at her. There was something he still wasn’t telling her. “I suggest you go do your job and find out.”

“Stan Wenhoff believes Bagley was restrained… tied down. There are ligature marks on his wrists and ankles. He thinks he spent some time lying on a mound of fire ants. His entire back”—she pointed out the photocopy—“is covered in tiny pustules.”

Kunze winced. “And why don’t you think this is the work of a serial killer?”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Crossed her arms over her chest.

“I don’t know that for sure.”

“That’s right, you don’t. I suggest you get back to work, Agent O’Dell.”

When she didn’t move he looked up at her and pointed to the door.

“Please shut it on your way out.” He pulled a file from his stack, shoving aside the pages she had placed on his desk and dismissing her with an exaggerated sigh of frustration.

She turned and left.