Face of a Killer

22

Special Agent Vincent Pettigrew of the Houston field office was a tall, gray-haired man with a lined face that spoke of a love for the outdoors and the sun, and an expensive navy suit that spoke of a love for the finer things in life. If he thought anything of Sydney’s unusual biker garb, he didn’t mention it, nor did she offer an explanation. He picked her up from Intercontinental airport, drove her to Webster, where they did a quick check on the murder case that, who would’ve guessed, turned out not to be related to her case at all, and then started on their drive to Houston, where she queried him about how he got started in the Bureau. Apparently he owed his title of doctor to the Ph. D. he’d acquired before being lured to the FBI twenty-three years ago. They’d asked him for assistance in a stolen art case, and he’d discovered it was a lot more exciting than his first-year teaching job at the university in Virginia. “It was the guns,” he told Sydney after they’d stopped for much needed coffee. He checked his rearview mirror, changed lanes, merging onto the freeway. “I was fascinated by all these smart guys running around like 007. I got to hold an actual Renoir in my hands. Figured it was going to be all artwork, all the time, some sort of specialized art task force, so when one of the operatives on the case told me I should think about joining up, I jumped.”

“And how many art cases did you get to investigate?”

He glanced over at her, his brown eyes sparkling with amusement. “In the twenty-three years I’ve been with the Bureau? Quite a few, but only two that made me salivate over what was stolen. Consulted on several more. In the end, I’ll get the best of both worlds. I’ll be retiring in a few weeks, and I’ve just accepted a university teaching position in art history that could lead to tenure in Virginia, so all in all, can’t complain.”

“Not bad.”

“How about you? Why’d you go into law enforcement?” “Same as you. Fascinated by the guns.” She left it at that, too tired to do much talking herself. And as they drove, she couldn’t help but remember her stepfather, Jake, telling her that she’d let her father’s murder define her. Maybe it wasn’t the fascination of the gun as much as the knowledge that if she carried one, she’d have some power to protect those she loved. But how could she protect them against something she had no knowledge about? She’d called Carillo as soon as she’d landed, told him what Scotty had told her last night, asked him to look up anything and everything on the banking scandal Scotty had mentioned. And now she had to content herself with waiting, because what she was asking was no small feat. How much of her father’s murder, McKnight’s suicide, the hit on her life, was tied up in that old case?

“Except for the skyline, it’s not exactly the most inspiring of scenery,” Vince said several minutes later, looking over at her, perhaps seeing her eyes drift shut. “Most people think it should be wide open land with longhorns grazing.”

She smiled, tried to act interested, and only then noticed there was nothing to look at but strip malls and car dealerships that lined the freeway. The downtown skyline was impressive from this distance, though, as several high-rises actually reflected the blue sky and the puffy white clouds that graced it. “It’s a pretty city.”

“Clean, too. But somehow I don’t think you’re here for the travelogue…”

She laughed, appreciating his attempt to make her at ease. “So, what can you tell me about this matter?”

“Nothing, except it’s one hot potato. Someone came in, sanitized the entire case.”

“Why?”

“Right-wing Republicans taking the brunt of yet another scandal? Then again, maybe something bigger.”

“And if it is something bigger?”

“Whichever agency did the whitewashing, they’re higher up the food chain than us. You can’t just march into a police department the size of Houston and make a suicide note disappear.”

“It’s gone?”

“That’s the rumor. Every photocopy and mention of it. The report was computer generated, so if it was mentioned in the original, and we’ve got no reason to think otherwise, you couldn’t tell. And Hatcher, the agent who was first looking into the case because of that background he was doing? Well, he pretty much spooked Reynolds, the guy you first called, with his talk of national security Patriot Act stuff.”

“You think it really is a national security issue?”

“Knowing the way the gazillion branches of our government all fail to communicate with each other, who the hell knows? Me, I like the scandal theory, because it fits in with my all-top-government-officials-are-dirty theme.”

They arrived in downtown Houston, and just as Vince said, it was indeed a very clean city. The PD was in the heart of the city, located in a white and tan, twenty-six-story building on Travis Street. Vince pulled into a monitored parking garage, filled with undercover cars, numerous white marked police vehicles, and a few older-model sky-blue police cars, probably being phased out of the fleet.

Vince called from his cell phone, letting his contact know they’d arrived. “Alexander’s waiting for us at his office,” he said. Inside were two banks of elevators, and Vince hit the up button on one that covered floors one through sixteen, then held the door for Sydney to step in.

“What floor?” she asked.

“Six. Homicide.”

She hit the button and the door slid shut. Investigator Alexander Hilleary was waiting in the doorway of the homicide office when they got out, a manila folder tucked beneath one arm. He was about the same height as Sydney, five-nine, with brown hair and brown eyes, maybe in his thirties, wearing a gray suit and a burgundy tie. He walked up to them, shook hands with Vince and then Sydney, before leading them to his desk, and its collection of Yu-Gi-Oh!, Pokemon, and ninja figures that seemed out of place next to the odd assortment of books on homicide and forensics. The file cabinet next to it was filled with family photos, a number of them showing a young boy playing soccer.

Hilleary opened the file drawer, deposited his folder, then asked them, “You two want coffee or something?”

Sydney nodded. “That would be great.”

Vince declined, and Hilleary poured two Styrofoam cups, handed Sydney one. She sucked hers down, while Vince asked Hilleary, “So, what the hell’s going on in this place?”

“How about we go sit in one of the interview rooms. Get a little privacy.” He led them down the hall, showed them into what was commonly called a “soft” interview room, one with a couch and armchair, usually reserved for witness interviews as opposed to suspect interrogations.

Sydney asked, “You were on the McKnight suicide?”

“That’s right. We really didn’t do much, other than go in, look around, confirm that, yeah, it’s a suicide. Then get back to the real work.”

“You’re sure it’s a suicide?” she queried.

“Definitely. Got a neighbor who was trimming the hedge that’s between their properties. She just climbed up the ladder to get to the top, looked over, witnessed him drinking at his kitchen table, writing notes, talking on the phone with a gun right there beside him. Don’t ask me why she didn’t think that unusual enough to call in until she heard the gunshot, but there you have it.”

“Other than that, anything?”

“Nothing,” Hilleary said. “That’s what doesn’t make sense. I mean, until Vince here called me, asked me to take a look at that note, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought, even after the Feds came in, wanting the whole thing kept hush-hush, and removing the note from evidence. That part I figured had to do with the Senate confirmation stuff. No big, you know? Especially since it wasn’t murder.”

Vince asked, “You recall what the note said?”

“It’s like this. That guy had quite a few notes scattered around his kitchen table, apologies saying he wished it didn’t have to end this way, crumpled up like he was trying to get it just right. I lost track. Glanced at most of them, but didn’t really take notice, at least not until one of your guys called me up right after, asking about the guy. Even then it didn’t seem out of the ordinary.”

“Who from our office called you?” Vince asked.

“Some agent named Hatcher. Said he was doing a background on the guy for something. Wanted to know if I thought it was a legit suicide and if he left a note. I told him, yeah, that he left several notes, all booked into evidence. He wanted us to release the notes to him. They were booked by that time, so it was too late. He had to satisfy himself with the photocopies that were in the evidence file. I figured if it was a big deal, he’d pull the proper strings, get the originals. You know, if the Bureau was taking over the case, or something.”

“The photocopies,” Sydney said. “Can I see them?”

“Copies of the copies.” He opened the manila folder and handed them to her. The top sheet was a copy of the property record, showing, among other things, six suicide notes, along with a variety of other stuff found at the scene.

She read each note contained in the file, seeing nothing but the same words. “I’m sorry it had to end this way.” One was actually addressed to his ex-wife, Becky Lynn, and he’d signed it. The shadows and creases that appeared on each told her these had been the crumpled notes that were no doubt straightened by the CSI for copying. “This is it?” she asked.

“That’s all I saw, but like I said, I wasn’t really looking.” He ran his finger on the edge of the manila folder, eyeing it before turning his gaze on her. “Here’s the thing. We run a tight ship here, and it made some of the guys nervous, what with the Feds coming down on us saying no one discusses the case, because it’s a matter of national security. A bit overkill for a suicide, you ask me, but in this day and age, who are we to question it? Especially considering there isn’t shit here in the notes, or even in the investigation. I could see if there was, say, some big government conspiracy, kill him, make it look like a suicide, but like I said, his neighbor saw it. Of course, you want the real scoop about what was out there, I’d ask the crime scene investigator, Sandra Sechrest. If there was something there, something more than the nothing you got in those photocopies, she’ll be able to tell you. That woman’s got a memory for detail.”

“She here today?”

“Yeah. I can take you up to her office. She works in CSU on the twenty-fourth floor.”

It took two separate elevators to get up to the Crime Scene Unit’s level from the sixth floor. The first elevator took them to the sixteenth floor. “Chief’s office,” Hilleary said, indicating why the carpet seemed a bit nicer on that level. From there, they moved to the second elevator bank, rode up to the twenty-fourth floor. The firearms lab was on one side, the CSU offices on the other, accessed by a rather humblelooking wooden door.

Hilleary knocked and waited. “No one gets in or out, without being escorted,” he said. “Evidence.”

A few moments later, the door was opened by a young man wearing navy combat fatigues and a shoulder holster. “Hilleary. What’re you doing way up here?”

“Hey, George. Sandra in?”

“At her desk.” He stepped aside, revealing a large office of cubicles. Posters and Halloween decorations covered the walls, photos and knickknacks littered the desks where the investigators worked. Sydney scanned the room, saw the top of a snowy white head just on the other side of a cubicle; other than that, the office was empty. George escorted the three to the woman’s cluttered desk. A nameplate reading “Sandra Sechrest” sat atop a stack of reports, finding more use as a paperweight than a desk marker.

Officer Sechrest held a phone tucked beneath one ear, talking to someone as she rifled through a file cabinet, searching for something among the masses of hanging folders. She was a small woman, her white hair cut short, blue eyes that lit up when she saw Hilleary standing there with them. Sydney put the woman in her sixties, probably close to retiring sometime soon.

“Gotta go,” George said, waving at Sandra.

She nodded, and he walked out. “I’m telling you they’re wrong,” she said into the phone. “It’s in here somewhere, Evan. Copied it myself right before I went into court… Wait, wait. Got it!” She pulled out a file folder, opened it, and removed a printed document. “ Five latent print cards from the trunk portion of the victim’s car. I lifted those myself, so if they’re trying to tell you anything different, they’re full of- Yeah, yeah. I’ll have it here for you when you get in.”

She hung up, swiveled in her chair, and eyed the three of them waiting in front of her desk. “This looks a tad official…”

“Trust me,” Alexander Hilleary said. “It’s un official business.”

Sydney leaned across the desk, shook the officer’s hand. “Special Agent Fitzpatrick. Not really here.”

“Special Agent Pettigrew,” Vince said. “Not here, either.”

“Sandy Sechrest. Nice not to meet you.” Officer Sechrest leaned back in her chair, smiled. “So what can I do for you?”

Hilleary leaned forward, whispered, “The McKnight suicide. Now that you know that much, I gotta get back to work. But help ’em out, would ya?”

Sechrest raised her brows as he left. “Yeah. Sure…” The moment the door closed behind him, she said, “You do realize we were ordered not to discuss the case?”

“So Investigator Hilleary never mentioned,” Sydney replied. “Which is why we’re not really here…”

“Not sure what I can do for you. There wasn’t much there. Seemed pretty cut-and-dried.”

“In particular the suicide notes he left behind. What they said.”

“Mostly he was sorry it had to end that way. Every single one of them. Pretty much the same.”

“One in particular. One that might be missing from the files.”

“What do you mean missing?”

Vince glanced around the otherwise empty office, while Sydney replied, “We have reason to believe that… another government agency removed the original suicide note from the files, perhaps due to political reasons.”

Officer Sechrest shook her head, her smile bemused. “Removed them? This is that guy who was being looked into for some political appointment, right? I don’t know about anyone removing the notes, but I do remember the FBI agent I gave copies to. He said it was a matter of security. No discussing the case with anyone, no releasing copies to anyone. Heaven forbid something nasty makes it to the press in an election year.”

Sydney recalled Scotty mentioning his concern over things leaking to the press during elections. Somehow there had to be more to this than political scandals and swaying the voters. “So you think that maybe the notes are still there, that maybe they just didn’t want them somehow leaked to the press?”

“Sure they are. More than likely they removed the copies from records so some clerk wouldn’t accidentally set it in front of a reporter.”

“Can you check in evidence? See if their copies still exist?” Sydney asked.

Officer Sechrest seemed to consider it, then shrugged. “You’re the FBI, no reason I can’t discuss the case with you.” She picked up the phone, talked to someone, waited a couple of minutes, then said, “Thanks. I appreciate it. Hey, what about the photographs I took? The film…?” Her gaze narrowed as she listened to whatever the evidence clerk told her, then hung up. “It’s not there, and she checked with the film lab. The film was developed, and all photos of that note, including the negatives, are gone…”

Vince asked, “Any chance you recall what the notes said?”

“Not much. I mean, it really didn’t make much sense, but- Wait! The ME’s office. They get copies, SOP, for the autopsy. How did I not think of them?”

Officer Sechrest called the medical examiner’s office, her fingers tapping a cadence on her desk as she waited for them to check their files. Sydney knew what the result was by the way she’d hung up the phone. “Okay. This is really, really strange. The copy of that particular note is missing from their office as well…” And just when Sydney was beginning to despair that she’d ever find out what was in that note, Officer Sandy Sechrest smiled, grinned actually. “Ya know, I almost forgot we were dealing with a suicide here. That’s a whole different game.”

“Why is that?”

“The guy that just walked out when you got here, George? He studies suicide notes. Collects them in an unofficial capacity, much like your unofficial visit. A bit unusual as far as collections go, but you’d be surprised what you can learn from these things. Highly educational. And if we’re lucky, he snagged a copy for his file.”