Grave Instinct

TWELVE

Downtown New Orleans 9:20 P.M.

Officers Tony Labruto and Collin Doyle sat idling in their cruiser at Plymouth and Juniper, drinking coffee and eating burgers for their late dinner, when the FBI dispatch came over the radio. They had heard the news once before, at the debriefing before going out onto the streets of New Orleans. Labruto had even joked about it earlier. “Be on the look out for a newly painted dark green van. And, get this, license plate unknown-with a suspicious-looking character in the driver's seat. Suspected of killing two people in Hardscrabble, Mississippi. Oh, and suspect may possibly be the Skull-digger, but the people killed in Hardscrabble didn't lose their brains and were shot with a. 38 millimeter.”

“ What more do you need to go on, Tony?”

“ Oh, nothing I s'pose.”

The cab filled with the crackle of the police radio, a pleasant feminine dispatcher's voice calling out a ten-10, disturbance at a downtown address, skirting Bourbon Street in the French Quarter. Something to do with a fight between two men over a woman. “Hi-ho, Dispatch, this is Unit 112. We're on it,” said Labruto into the mic.

“ So much for dinner.” Doyle moaned. “Hit it.”

The lights began to spin and the siren wailed as the cruiser sped for the nearby destination. Labruto thought of his six years in New Orleans. He felt it was the finest force he had ever worked with, barring the military unit he had belonged to during Desert Storm. He liked New Orleans, the home of Cajun passions, great food, Mardi Gras, jazz and the Saints. The city had a throbbing fascination with life and lust, which suited the single cop just fine.

Doyle, on the other hand, was a family man with several children, and he missed his native home, Chicago. He was continually going on about being stuck in New Orleans. He had come here for higher rank and pay. Tony liked Collin's sense of humor and his skill with a gun, but he'd grown weary of the man's constant comparisons of how much better life in Chicago was than in New Orleans. He exaggerated his idyllic Back-of-the-Yards community and home and how wonderful everything in Chicago had been, from the food to his beloved Blackhawks, Bears, and the White Sox ad nauseam. Still, they managed to get along, and even visited the firing range together, where they competed with each shot.

As they barreled toward the scene of the incident, siren and lights roaring, Tony complained, “The city ought not to have moved Precinct Ten out of the French Quarter. We needed that presence there at all times, not just in peak seasons.”

“ You'll get no argument here,” agreed Doyle. “Can't figure NOPD sometimes. Not like you can the Chicago police force. Even if you dislike a decision, you still understand it there, even if it is crooked politics behind it.” As Labruto approached the intersection where he intended to turn, a large van came around a corner. Taking it wide, the man's headlights and grill came face-to-face with the squad car, heading straight for them.

“ Son of a bitch!” shouted Doyle.

Labruto held his breath and stirred. The weaving, shambling van, dark green in color, its headlights waving like two madmen with flashlights, almost rammed them. But at the last minute, it pulled right to Tony's pulling left. The two vehicles missed each other by inches, and Labruto joked, “Did you feel that, partner? Missed by an eye lash!”

“ That was a green van, Tony!”

“ Did you hear the metal constrict on my side? I didn't miss that guy, our unit dodged that last hair all on its own.”

“ No, Tony, that wasn't the car metal constricting to avoid a hit. The noise you heard was my stomach dodging the rest of my organs to jump out my goddamn mouth. Nothing supernatural about it.”

“ Same unit that saved my life three years ago, in that shootout at Nelson's Boat works.”

“ Have it your way, but right now, tell me just what the hell was that flying by us?”

Dispatch came back on, calling out, “Ten-10 now a possible kidnapping. Perpetrator is on the move, heading east on Grandview, away from the Quarter in a van, no plate ID.”

“ Kidnapping?” asked Doyle, now on the radio. “Dispatch, this is 112. Does the kidnapping involve a green van?”

“ Man on the line says yes. The vehicle is a Chrysler, dark green, possibly a '96 or '97 model.” The dispatch officer added, “Be advised 112. The perp has a hostage and is considered to be violent, possibly armed.”

Doyle reminded Labruto, “Remember the alert put out on the Skull-digger being in a dark green van?”

“ Course I do. You think it could be the guy the FBI's after?”

“ It’d make us heroes. Turn this can around.”

Labruto called in their location and added, “We've made visual with the van. We're in pursuit. Request backup.” He added for Doyle, “We'll just see what this car can do.”

Labruto violently twisted the wheel, turning the squad car completely around, sending up a scream of burning rubber to give chase, but as they sped up, they could see nothing. The pachyderm of a van had disappeared.

They peered down side streets as they slowed, searching for anything that resembled their prey, but it was gone. They cruised slowly for several more blocks. “How can he just disappear like that?” asked Doyle, a growing frustration coming over him.

They continued on in silence until Labruto asked, “What the fuck?”

Labruto finally said, “He's got to be heading for a safe location.”

“ No cheap hotels around here except for the Plaza.”

“ If he is the Digger, he's going to kill her in the van. Isn't that the word on the guy? How he operates?”

“ That's right.”

“ Then he'll be looking for a remote location to dump the body.”

“ Old Harbor walkway, along the Miss. That's the closest deserted rat hole I can think of.”

Turning off the siren and the overhead lights, Labruto eased the car around and headed back toward the river and where they had lost the van down any number of small streets and alleyways. New Orleans was dotted with small arteries, most one-way. The guy in the van could have turned down any one of them, but aside from a few vacant lots and construction sites, the broken-down Old Harbor walkway was a good guess.

They drove through the once-thriving business area, now a den of ghost saloons for long-gone and long-dead bikers. Isolated like an island amid the city palaces and pinnacles around it, the old place bordered an access street to the interstate. If the van had slipped onto the interstate, there would be no catching him without the help of the highway patrol, but they had no license plate number.

“ Can't believe we lost the fucker,” said Labruto.

“ The interstate would be the smartest move for the guy,” replied Doyle, pointing to a sign that led to the exchange.

“ Who said the creep was smart?”

“ If it's this brain whack-job, then he's evaded officials in what, six states already?”

Scanning ahead as they neared the interstate, they saw no one on-ramping in the grim area.

“ Take the ramp! Take the ramp!” shouted Doyle.

Labruto instead pulled beneath the interstate, winding through a bevy of pylons with bridge overpasses high above, following the ancient, cracked blacktop to its end, and onto a pitted, weedy path toward the river and the old warehouse district and the wharves. Doyle, realizing that Labruto was familiar with the area, lightly joked, “So, this is where you take your dates?”

“ Area's too creepy now, but yeah, in the old days.”

A light silver drizzle dappled the windshield. Lights off, the cruiser rolled almost silently toward its destination, both men squinting in the darkness for their prey.

Selese Montoya felt cold and clammy, her skin bristling, and she could not think straight. She felt helplessly tossed about like an object inside a bottle, but she felt no pain, only a dull ache against her left wrist. She felt disoriented, confused. What is it? she wondered. Something to do with her head, she imagined. Yes, her head, which felt like a spongy dull pumpkin. And while, from time to time, she felt a cold, weighted piece of steel against her left wrist and she heard the sound of a chain rattling, she did not connect it to the tug on her left wrist. Instead, she tried to think clearly about who she was and where she was and what had happened to her.

Her eyes-as if independent of her will-blinked, opening and closing on images passing the windshield. Images that went from dark to light, reflecting signs, telephone poles, bridges, buildings and an array of wide, staring windows.

“ I wanna go home.” She moaned, unsure if her words had traveled any distance beyond her tongue. In fact, the words seemed imprisoned in her head.

She only recalled having said good night to her employer at Farley's Whiskey Hole and walking out of the bar where she kept the records. She didn't serve or hustle drinks, not even from behind the bar; she didn't sell anything. She didn't sing in the band, and she didn't do floor shows. She maintained her own hours, working when she wanted on Farley's books, and she pet the cat from time to time.

She had plans to save enough money to move to California, tired of New Orleans and its tourists-crowded streets. In California, she meant to find a quiet place to live, far from any crowds.

She was alone and glad of it. Carl had proven a great disappointment in the end, and she hadn't any desire to get involved with another man, so she had kept herself immune to any overtures men made toward her. Ironically, since she had sworn off the opposite sex, they turned up everywhere. Farley had waved good night to her from the bar, and a few of the regular stiffs shouted her name as she left. She had a small dog at home to see to. Maybe she'd pick up a treat for him on the way, along with her much-needed cigarettes and gum. That's right. I was on my way home when something happened.

As she'd walked the familiar streets of the French Quarter, going toward the quieter apartment area to the north, she ran through her mind for anything else she might need at the little corner store near her house. She also thought about her sister in Texas who should be having that baby soon, her third. Selese wondered if she would ever have kids. She wanted to, but not now. Not the way things were.

Her mind had wandered. She needed to concentrate on the grocery store. Something had happened at the grocery store. But she didn't know what had happened. Her senses were not communicating with her. A broom flashed back and forth in her mind's unfocused eye. Something to do with a fight, and she had been in the midst of it. How unlikely. It had to be the rantings of her dream state.

Then she saw the broom flash across her mind's eye again, but it faded with every thought, as she settled into a blank, featureless sleep of nots: not hearing the siren behind them anymore, not feeling any tug on her wrist anymore and not feeling the pounding of the van as it yo-yoed into narrow spaces. Not caring who sat alongside her, not understanding the depth of her own terror as the death van bumped and maneuvered over potholes.

Grant still had the young woman secured in the back of the van where he had parked it behind and between dilapidated old buildings along a weed-infested backwater section of the Mississippi in the center of New Orleans. A large, verdant levy loomed over the van like a giant, sleeping dragon. He could hear boat whistles blaring in the near distance.

It had been a close encounter with authorities, too close. He thought them still in hot pursuit when he approached the interstate ramp. He had two ways to go, the interstate or the old wharf area. If they'd picked up the plate on his van, he could be spotted by other radio cars. If he drove into the backstreet area along the wharf, he would be dead-ended. It was a gamble either way. He stared ahead at the interstate ramp, but instead of taking it, he tore into the remote area that he had planned to use all along.

Things had become quiet after that. The siren that had been chasing him was silent now. He felt relatively safe that he had outfoxed his pursuers. Still, he sat for some time, listening to his drugged victim's heavy breathing, and staring out his rearview. Deciding that no one was following, he felt reasonably safe to continue with his work.

When he had first arrived in New Orleans, he had hoped to meet with a woman named Franklin, one of the contacts he'd made on the Internet, but Saundra Franklin, aka Sweet-touch had moved out, according to the landlord. Frustrated, Grant had begun cruising the old lamp-lit, famous French Quarter for a victim. When he saw the young woman who stepped from a Bourbon Street bar alone, he pulled into a side-street parking space and made his way on foot beneath the city lights to a corner store she had stepped into. Inside, he arranged to inch up to her side, and he whispered in her ear, “Hello there. My name's Phillip. I'm a professional photographer.”

“ Is that supposed to interest me?”

“ She's perfect,” Phillip said deep within Grant. “We must have her.” I take shots for a new magazine called Slinky.” He sported an expensive camera about his neck, a ruse he'd successfully used before. He handed her a card specifically created for such occasions.

“ Slinky? Never heard of it, but the name sounds appropriate for you. What is it? Another Viagra-endorsed male hormone magazine? Is that supposed to interest me?”

“ When I see a beautiful woman”-he tipped his Nikon at her-”naturally I think she must know the best local hot spots. That's what I'd like to photograph, the best local hot spots-and you, of course.”

“ I'm not interested, and I'm not that beautiful.”

“ Oh, but you are beautiful.”

“ You men. Do you really think lying is a turn on?”

“ Look, I'd pay you well.”

“ I have a job.”

“ Working for minimum wage?”

“ That's none of your business.”

“ Look, I'm new in the city and-”

“ Do you ever need a new line.”

“- and I don't know where to begin to find someone to show me around, to party, you know? I can see you know your way around.” He dared not tell her he'd been watching her since she stepped out of the bar on Bourbon Street.

“ I am not that someone,” she firmly told him.

“ Of course, as I said, I can pay you well.”

She hesitated a moment. “So you said, but I am not interested.” She was interested, if the pay helped her get out of New Orleans, but she didn't want him to think her over-eager.

“ When I say party, I mean with some good stuff, sweetheart.”

“ Oh? Really?” She showed a moment's interest, purchased her things, conversed with the grocer who had been staring at the two of them, listening to their talk.

Grant followed her out the door and onto the street, where she finally acquiesced. “I might like to make a purchase from you, but that is all.”

“ A purchase, sure…”

“ And that is all. We exchange goods, and you say goodbye.”

“ Of course, I could arrange that. But not here on the street. You'll have to come with me to my van.”

She followed him to the side street, far from Bourbon Street where all the pedestrian traffic herded together like cattle. At the van, she insisted, “I will not get inside this thing with you. I don't know you.”

“ Then just climb into the passenger seat. You can leave the door ajar.”

“ Not the seat, not getting in. No way am I going into your van.”

He argued, “I'm not conducting illegal business on the street, my dear, now come along.”

“ I am not, I repeat, going anywhere with you.”

From her dress and manner, he imagined she lived nearby, that she was a native to the city.

“ Your place then? How far is it?”

She had second thoughts. He was too pushy for her liking. “Just give me two packets of your best weed.”

“ Not out in the open like this.”

They continued to argue, and as it heated up, the grocer came out and, with a broom in hand, began to shoo him away as if he were a fly. Frustrated at the man's interference and the woman's determination, Phillip caused Grant to lash out and grab the broom, and he and the grocer began a tug of war for it. The broom flashed wildly before Selese's eyes. A handful of onlookers from windows overhead and a few children straddling bikes on the street looked on from a safe distance, some laughing when the broom slipped from the grocer's hand and hit the woman in the temple, causing her to shout, “You stupid bastard!”

Grant heedlessly grabbed her and forced her into the van at that point, handcuffing her to the seat. Her cries for help were cut off when he slammed the door shut. As he did so, the grocer tried to stop him, but Grant knocked him down, and the older man's head slammed into a metal pipe railing. More laughter erupted from the boys on the bikes.

That's when Grant heard sirens. Some meddling person had called the police. He quickly leapt into the van and tore away from the place, knowing it was time to change his license plate for the one he had stolen in a hotel lot in North Carolina.

He looked out his windshield to see a police car ap-proaching, lights and siren going. His immediate thought was to race by it, but Phillip said, “Calm down, pull over like a good citizen.” Just as the thought came to mind, however, the woman reached over and bit him in the neck, tearing wildly with her teeth, causing him to weave and almost hit the patrol car. He elbowed her in the gut, knocking the wind out of her, and she doubled over while he regained control of the van, missing the squad car by mere inches.

Now he found himself in a police chase. “Fucking stupid, Phillip!” he shouted. “Look what you've got us into now!”

Rounding a corner, he instantly wheeled the van into a dark little alleyway where he pulled in behind a large trash container. He next heard the approaching siren, and then saw the single set of flashing lights as the New Orleans police car raced by, missing him. She yelled out, but he covered her mouth and with his free hand, he stabbed her with the syringe and put her under with the Demoral.

He again cursed. “Phillip, you son of a bitch, look what you've gotten us into!” He tried to breathe but found his air coming up short. He knew he could not remain there, that he had to find a safer place, the place along the levy that he'd scouted out earlier. He looked at the features of the woman as she began to doze off. Taking her purse from her, he found her ID.

“ Well, Selese, that's a pretty name, Miss Montoya.”

He recalled how absolutely disinterested in him she had been, and he knew early on that he should have stepped away, apologized even. “Instead, I draw a fucking crowd and knock a man into a pipe. He's likely in a damned coma. Cops are all over my ass. Your fault, Phillip, your damned fault!”

“ My fault? How so?”

“ Bloody fool. You're getting so arrogant, so reckless that you don't care what happens to me.”

And now here they sat parked in a dead-end box canyon of a place within sight of the Super Dome with a victim, the tools that would mark him as the Skull-digger, and the police in pursuit. He thought his heart would burst.

“ Calm down,” Phillip told him. “Calm down and get to work.”

Grant replied, “You fool! You almost got us caught back there.”

“ Shhh… think I hear something.”

Grant listened intently. He heard it, too. A slow rumble over gravel and potholes, followed by silence; then the sound of a door squeaking ever so inaudibly open but not quite silent, followed by an even noisier second door squeak. A look in his rearview mirror told him the situation. “The cops. They're here.”

“ We've talked about when and if this day ever came, Grant. It's going to be OK. Just remember how to play it.”

He un cuffed the girl and quietly opened her door, telling her to run, that she was free. She moved like a zombie, but she did fall out and get up, attempting to escape in her heavily sedated state, creating the diversion Phillip knew she would.

Meanwhile, he reached for the shotgun attached to the sidewall, and gingerly crept back toward the rear. He'd secured the shotgun when he'd first outfitted the van for just such a moment. He called out that he was giving himself up and unlocking the door.

“ We put in your location and the license plate,” said Doyle to whoever was in the van. “You did call it in, didn't you, Tony?” he whispered to Labruto.

“ Yeah, but that was back a ways, when we were in Jackson Heights.”

“ Maybe you'd better call it in again-now!”

Labruto inched back toward the unit, but like Doyle, he watched the door latch jiggle and then came a thunderous pop, telling them the driver had suddenly unlocked it from the inside. Yet the doors remained closed. And the two officers remained anxious, their weapons pointed.

“ Open it up and come out with your hands on your head!” ordered Labruto.

Collin Doyle thought he heard a sound from the side of the van, and even as he shouted, “May be two of them, Tony!” his eyes darted from the rear door to the direction of the sound of clumsy footfalls. Labruto glanced for a moment, and, seeing a woman stumble into view, shouted, “Hold your fire, Doyle. It's the woman.” Just as Labruto said this, Grant viciously kicked open the rear doors, resulting in an explosion of noise as he sprayed both officers with one round each of buckshot to face and upper torso. Both Labruto and Doyle fell to the sodden earth and weeds, even as Grant reloaded both barrels. The crackle of the buckshot wafted out over the river and toward the Super Dome. Silence followed the two explosions. Seeing no movement, hearing not so much as a moan from either policeman, Grant believed the shotgun blasts at such close range had killed both men.

No doubt they had called in the plate, learning it was stolen. No doubt backup was on the way.

He grabbed Selese Montoya and shoved her unceremoniously into the rear of the van, leapt in and secured her completely-ankles, wrists, head. He then grabbed the new license plate and quickly changed it out. Tossing the old plate into the van, he closed the doors and went to check on the two cops.

Labruto had worked his way up to a sitting position, bloodied, dazed and attempting to steady his gun to fire. The noise he made against the gravel surface alerted Grant who turned from Doyle's silent body to find him self staring at Labruto's gun. Grant could not understand why the policeman did not fire, but it was written in his eyes. He hadn't the strength to pull the trigger.

Labruto fought to get the words out, bluffing. “Don't maa-kee me ffff.”

Grant grabbed up the shotgun and fired again, instantly killing Labruto this time. Doyle had not moved an inch since the first round. Grant let it be, rushing back to the driver's seat and tearing away from this place. To do so, he had to back over Labruto's body to get out of the dead end he found himself in.

He wound his way back toward the interstate ramp, hearing sirens on the way. He sped onto the ramp and blended in with a stream of dense traffic on the interstate.

Quantico The same hour

Everyone on Jessica's team was asked to pull a double shift, and no one balked. They had gotten word that AOC had lost the final and deciding round in their battle. Still, AOC found ways to delay, and so Jessica had asked all her people to stay on board. Phone calls to home were made, cots were set up, a catering service was called in for food, drink and coffee urns.

The doctor list was still being closely examined against what little they knew of the Skull-digger. A doctor named Simon Wells looked like a good candidate from his picture and a history of violent episodes that had lost him his career. Several others appeared good leads, inclpding a domestic disturbance arrest against Dr. Jervis Swantor. Jessica immediately recalled the man from the yacht in Florida, and J.T. reminded her of both his suspicious behavior at the crime scene, which Combs had told them about, and his having attended the Jacksonville victim's funeral. They had cleared him as a serious candidate when Lorena Combs had done a complete background check on him. They hadn't taken Swantor as a serious candidate then, and he didn't look any better now. No other suggestions that he was violent had been reported to law enforcement since his wife's complaint months before. There was no coincidence in his coming up on VICAP; it was the same report Combs had flagged earlier. “Still, if and whenever we get access to Cahil's vistors online, I'd like you to check for Swantor's name.”

One after the other doctor on the list fell to the wayside as alibis, time and geography cleared them. But Simon Wells still appeared worth a look, as his case was so curious.

Eriq Santiva's Cuban features looked particularly weary when he entered the task force unit. Everyone cheered on seeing him, knowing he had fought and won against AOC.

“ Yeah… finally…” he replied to them all, a bit embarrassed at the show of gratitude. “We finally have a victory over those damned AOC lawyers. The important thing is that we now have access to their database.”

This was met with mutterings and shakes of the head.

Eriq stared at Jessica and then J.T. “Don't tell me you're still waiting to hear from them?” asked Eriq. “The order was given over an hour ago.” He looked at his watch, which read 9:05 P.M.

“ Yeah, they're still stalling,” replied Jessica. “Now it's some nonsense about technical difficulties.”

“ The judge's order was plain enough.” Eriq found a chair and fell into it. “Tell me Jess, John, tell me that you've had some progress, that you've got something in the works.”

“ We've got a curious fellow here,” said Jessica, holding a readout of the information she had amassed on Simon Wells. “A tip from the ex-wife of a Dr. Simon Wells looks of interest. Wells was listed as a juvenile offender in VICAP-J.T.'s idea to check it. Anyway, Wells came under scrutiny when a high school student. He was put on a minor watch list for possible serial killer tendencies due to his cruelty to animals.”

“ Fits the profile,” commented J.T. “Not unlike Cahil.”

“ Really. Of course, the juvenile-offender program of violent criminal activity. Why didn't we go there sooner?”

“ It doesn't come up on its own with VICAP requests. You have to key it in separately,” said J.T.

“ Oversight,” said Jessica.

“ Perhaps it wouldn't have been if I'd been able to get you more help down here.”

“ In 1984, at the age of sixteen, he was at the American Academy for Young Men in Lauralie, Massachusetts, when that private boys' school had something of a scandal involving the ingesting of cooked cat brains. Some other students in the dorm objected to the odors coming from Wells's room, where he often cooked on a hot plate. While the American Academy downplayed the incident, the state wasn't so willing to sweep the incident under the official rug. Still, after some initial moves against Wells to try him in juvenile court, it was dropped. However, the DA contacted the closest FBI field office and reported the incident, which was placed in our files more than a year after the incident. The man who sent in a report, an agent named Alvin Degrasso, interviewed the kid.”

“ What did this Degrasso find?”

“ He found that Wells roamed the campus and town of Lauralie for its stray cats, offered them a home and soon they disappeared.”

“ Another cat eater like Cahil, huh?”

“ When confronted with it, the young man had confessed to the headmaster to killing the cats, skinning and cooking their flesh and eating them. This included eating their brains. He admitted to doing the same with a dog as well.”

Eriq asked, “Why wasn't he expelled and sent packing?”

“ He was-for one term. Wells later went on to medical school at Northwestern, concentrating on pathology and forensics “He got into med school?” asked J.T.

“ Must have somehow gotten his record expunged, and like I said, it never went to court.”

“ But Degrasso made sure,” added Eriq, “that VICAP had his number.”

“ Degrasso hounded Wells for a time. In later years, discovering that Wells was marrying, Degrasso made it his business to inform his fiancee of Wells's earlier habits. The young bride stood by her man at the time, and she and hubby threatened a lawsuit against the agent for harassment. Degrasso was reprimanded and soon retired from the bureau. Urged to do so,” Jessica added, “I imagine. The wife left Wells soon after.”

“ You've done some digging,” said Eriq. “So, where's Wells now? Do we have him in our sights?”

Wells's case had intrigued Jessica more than the others on the list because so many serial killers began their careers as children who harmed animals. “He's a general practitioner in Elixir, Mississippi, but he hasn't been practicing for a year. He was brought up on some ethics charge involving a scam on Medicare patients. He was out on bail when he disappeared. The wife divorced him seven years ago. At the moment, we don't know his whereabouts, which is another reason we're looking so hard at him for the Digger killings.”

“ Anything else?” asked Eriq.

“ Every new lead and a lot of old ones are being followed. Agents across the nation are questioning suspects, and we've urged them to ask our targets if they have ever logged on to Cahil's Isle of Brainsite, to see what the reaction might be. At the same time, we realize that the Digger is a moving target, not likely a homebody.”

“ Why are we still waiting on AOC?” asked Eriq, pacing the computer-analysis room now. Stating the obvious, angry. “What kind of technical difficulties are they saying?”

“ Something lame about a problem with getting all the IDs to us on a continuous flow. They thought it best for us that way…”

“ Thinking kindly of us now that we've killed their sorry asses before a federal court?” Eriq sarcastically replied.

J.T. said, “We know this Wells character owns a Dodge van, and that he may have relocated to the D.C. area, which would give him quick access to Richmond and the other early kill sites.” “Wait a moment… hold on,” Jessica suddenly interrupted.

“ What it is, Jess?” asked Eriq.

“ We've been going at this all wrong… backward. Suppose we have a doctor who comes up on the tip list but not on the violent criminals file?”

“ I thought the idea was to cross-reference the three lists, VICAP, civilian tips and AOC, and if not, the two lists.” Eriq scrunched features displayed his confusion.

“ Yeah, that's been the plan, but suppose this Seeker guy has absolutely no record of any sort? Nothing on file?”

“ A killer like this Digger… He has to have had some run-in with the law somewhere,” said Eriq.

“ Not if he's been careful and lucky. Just suppose it's possible.. that he's avoided and eluded everyone around him… then…”

“ Then he wouldn't be on the list we just developed,” said J.T.

Jessica went to the computer technician, Dana, and said, “I know this is redundant, but I need a list taken from the civilian tips only to be crossed with the words we've been matching.”

“ I saved that list already when creating the crossover list,” she replied. “No problem.” E›ana stroked a few keys and in a moment the printer erupted and the list from all the civilian tips with their key words encrypted was complete. “Here you are,” finished Dana.

Jessica lifted the list. Only those on the civilian tips who were doctors and butchers in which the tip used the words, “brain,” “mind,” “soul” “isle” or “island.” The list was hefty at forty plus names, but it was quickly reduced as Jessica, with J.T.'s help, began comparing it with the ones on the VICAP list as well. J.T. called out the names from his list, and Jessica pencil stroked them off her list. This seems counterproductive,” said Eriq. “Subtracting the men who made the VICAP list.”

Jessica asked for his patience. “Once more,” she added.

Simon Wells, along with most of the others on the original list, were now hand stricken from the new list. Simon Wells had been put into VICAP by Degrasso years ago, and now he had come in as a tip from his ex-wife, who had hounded a field agent in Mississippi to take her tip to the highest authorities involved with the Skull-digger case. This had him on two lists. Jervis Swantor was also on two lists. Such names then were stricken.

Jessica hesitated over Swantor's name for only a moment, seeing his boat marina address in Grand Isle, Louisiana. She wondered how close his tie-up was to New Orleans. Still, having met the man, she decided the civilian tip and the VICAP registry had come from the same source-Swantor's ex-wife. She wanted only those not on the violent criminal program.

“ We want only those names gleaned from a tip alone,” Jessica said, finishing the list with J.T. “Anyone without a criminal history.”

J.T. said, “Swantor and Wells aren't carrying what you'd call a long criminal history, Jess.”

“ All right, we'll keep them on a secondary list. For now, let's be strict on ourselves.”

As a result, a number of new names appeared that had previously been eliminated because they'd not been placed on VICAP, as Swantor and Wells had. Those doctors and butchers who were never listed with VICAP, some twenty-six in all, accounted for a significant reduction of suspects, if Jessica's theory held up.

The remaining names were then broken down into two lists according to profession. Jessica handed the lists to Eriq Here's some that almost got by us,” she said, “the doctors on the tips list who have no previous record.”

“ Bring up the actual files on each tip, please, Dana,” asked Eriq.

The tips appeared in all cases but one to be feeble. The best tip, in everyone's estimation, had come from another physician. A Dr. Mitchell Erdman who claimed that he had worked with a Dr. Grant Kenyon at Mt. Holyoke Memorial Hospital in New Jersey, where he witnessed the disappearance of brains from cadavers.

“ This could lead to something,” muttered Jessica, hopeful it was so.

“ Bingo time, if you ask me!” J.T. added.

“ Like Daryl, stealing brains from dead people,” said Eriq.

“ Another coincidence, New Jersey's home for this guy. Not far from Morristown. Cahil's stomping grounds,” said Jessica.

“ Place must breed brain-eaters,” replied J.T.

Jessica held her breath and read on. Erdman claimed that Kenyon lost his position at the hospital in mid-May. That's pretty close to when the first killing took place back in June. “Traumatic event like being fired could have triggered latent violent aggressiveness.”

They attempted to locate and speak to Erdman, but the hospital said that he had left with no forwarding address. Jessica identified herself as an FBI agent and pressed the operator to put her on with the senior most person at the hospital. After some confusion and several transfers, a Dr. Bondesen came on, saying that he could speak for Mt. Holyoke Hospital. She questioned him about Erdman's allegations against Dr. Kenyon. The man began stammering before he could say, “Neither of these gentlemen work here any longer and-”

“ Doctor, I want to know exactly what went on there. We are hunting a brain-stealing killer you know in the press as the Skull-digger. We need your complete and honest cooperation, sir.”

Bondesen cleared his throat and said, “Erdman found it difficult to work in the morgue where Dr. Kenyon had previously worked. Nightmares, you know, over what he allegedly saw.”

“ 'Allegedly? Did you or did you not fire Grant Kenyon over these allegations?”

“ We did fire him, but not due to Erdman's wild accusations. More to the point, he was fired because he was exhibiting shoddy work. His mind never seemed on the job at hand, you see.”

“ Didn't anyone there, aside from Erdman, think that Kenyon's behavior might be connected to the Skull-digger case?”

“ But you have someone in custody for those awful murders.”

“ There may be accomplices,” she gave the standard reply.

“ But you see, we… we sealed all information on the allegations against Kenyon as a courtesy to Dr. Kenyon, and we gave Grant's position to Dr. Erdman-all this in return for both men remaining silent.”

“ To protect the integrity of the hospital.”

“ And the families involved.”

Eriq picked up another phone and came on the line, bursting into the conversation, introducing himself and adding, “Well, now, Dr. Bondesen, you can expect all that was sealed regarding this case open to scrutiny by the FBI, the press and the world if you fail to cooperate now. I will have a field representative sent within the hour to take charge of both Kenyon's file and Erdman's. Is that clear?”

“ Ahhh, yes, quite clear.”

“ And I want social security numbers on both Kenyon and Erdman. Can you give them to me now please?” Eriq requested.

After hanging up, with the numbers in hand, Eriq turned to Dana, “Get us a location fix on a Dr. Mitchell Erdman. Also get a location on this guy Kenyon.”

Dana stroked in Erdman's number and began the search. “He's out of the country on a passport. Philippines, it appears.”

J.T. said, “I'll see what I can do to get in touch with him.”

Dana then attempted to locate Kenyon.

Eriq was on the phone with the closest FBI field office to Holyoke, New Jersey. He informed the agent there to immediately get to the hospital, speak to Bondesen only, and take charge of the two personnel files in question.

Jessica watched as Dana's screen instantly filled with information on Kenyon, down to a map of precisely where he lived in Holyoke, New Jersey. His telephone number was also listed.

Jessica returned to the phone and dialed the number. A woman answered.

After Jessica introduced herself, Mrs. Kenyon gasped into the phone and pleaded, “Have you found Grant? Have you? Is he alive… please tell me he's alive!”

“ Are you saying he is not currently at this residence, Mrs. Kenyon?”

“ I reported him missing months ago! I thought that's what you were calling about.”

“ This is the FBI ma'am. Do you know a Dr. Erdman, Mrs. Kenyon, a man who once worked with your husband?”

“ He was my husband's assistant, yes.”

“ And there was some unpleasantness between them to cause Dr. Kenyon to leave his position.” “Yes, but…”

“ And then Dr. Kenyon simply disappeared?”

“ Yes… yes, that's about it, yes.”

“ Can you give me any details about what happened at the hospital between your husband and Dr. Erdman?”

“ Erdman stole Grant's job. That's what he told me. Said Erdman had backstabbed him. I only know that he lied about Grant.”

“ About the brains you mean? Taking them from the morgue?”

“ Nothing mysterious, really. He was conducting a series of experiments. So he needed the… needed them for study.”

“ What sort of study?”

“ Something to do with some sort of bacterial infection and any number of debilitating diseases, like Lupus, Alzheimer's. Grant told me that men had within their skulls three brains, not one: the mammalian brain, the reptilian brain and the human brain. And that many brain disorders mimicked animal disorders, and he was out to find a cure.”

“ I see.” Jessica realized the woman was in denial.

“ Mrs. Kenyon, what kind of vehicle does your husband drive?”

“ He left me the car. He took the van.”

“ I'll need the license plate number, make and model of the van, and any distinguishing marks. A scratch, a dent or missing fender. And we'll need any credit card numbers you have that are his.”

“ What is this all about?”

“ We want to find your missing husband, Mrs. Kenyon, and we can do that if he uses a credit card. And if he contacts you, we want to know. Call me immediately at either of these numbers,” Jessica relayed her cell phone number and her office number. “And I'd like to send agents to your house to-”

“ My God… You people think he's the Skull-digger, don't you?”

“ Have you had such thoughts, Mrs. Kenyon?”

“ Is he a suspect?”

Jessica decided to be direct with her. “He's a suspect, yes.”

“ I thought so. It's that awful Dr. Erdman at work again. He's trying to ruin Grant. I know it. If anyone's a killer, it's Erdman.”

“ We suspect that your husband made numerous contacts via E-mail to a man named Cahil, a man we have in custody in connection with the murders, Mrs. Kenyon.”

“ Cahil? The man who robbed children's graves?”

“ How did you know?”

“ Ten years ago, it was all over the news. Grant was fascinated with the case.”

“ Mrs. Kenyon, exactly when did your husband disappear?”

“ Two days after losing his job, May eighteenth.”

Jessica thought, How perfect… two weeks before the discovery of the first victim. More and more, Jessica believed she had found the Seeker. “Mrs. Kenyon, do you have a computer in the house that your husband would have used? And do you know his password? Is he using the name Seeker when he logs on?”

“ I… no, he has a laptop, but he doesn't let me near it. Says all his research is in there, and no, he would never tell me his password or call name.”

“ We believe your husband is dangerous, Mrs. Kenyon, and we fear he will strike again. He already has in fact.”

“ That's sheer nonsense.” Mrs. Kenyon began weeping. She groaned. “I'm certain you people are wrong. I know Erdman must have lied to you, too. Grant would never harm anyone, ever. I'd stake my life on it.”

Jessica heard a child crying in the background. “And your child's life, Mrs. Kenyon? Would you take that risk?”

Mrs. Kenyon's tears erupted. Jessica had to calm her. “As long as he's out there, Mrs. Kenyon, he poses a danger to himself and others. We need your help and cooperation if he's to be safely brought in and questioned.” Even as she said it, Jessica knew that she'd rather see Kenyon killed in the field than get the kind of treatment Daryl had gotten at the taxpayers' expense.

“ We would like to post FBI men at your house, and put a tracer on your phone, in case he should call.”

“ All right, whatever you think is best, but in all this time, he hasn't bothered to contact us.”

Who knows. He may get homesick, Jessica thought but did not say. “I'm going to put you on with my associate, Dana. She's going to take down all the information I asked for on your husband. And can you find a recent photograph of your husband?”

“ I'm sure I can.”

“ Hand it over to the agent who comes to your door. He'll get it to us. And thank you, Mrs. Kenyon.”

She handed the phone to Dana, took a deep breath and wondered if she dared believe that they finally had something tangible to go on. Could Kenyon be the Seeker and the Seeker be the Skull-digger? Mrs. Kenyon had said her husband had been fascinated with Cahil's case; it would then figure that he would be a frequent visitor to the website.