Before Evil

Chapter 2

2 Quantico, VirginiaSpecial Agent Maggie O’Dell escaped into her cramped office and closed the door. The mailing envelope she had tucked under her arm was bulging and much thicker than she expected. The slight surge in adrenaline irritated her. At least she recognized that, yes, it was strange—and some would say morbid—for her to be excited about the package’s contents.

For several years now law enforcement officers from across the country had been sending her information on cases they couldn’t solve. Usually they sent very little—scraps of evidence, blurry Polaroids and rudimentary copies of coroner reports—all in the hopes that Maggie could take those bits and pieces and put them together like a jigsaw puzzle.

More times than not, she’d been successful producing comprehensive profiles. And she did it without ever stepping foot onto an actual crime scene. From her small office in the depths of the Behavioral Science Unit, she had managed to develop criminal profiles that helped lead to the apprehension and arrest of eight—possibly nine—murderers in the last twenty-six months. She’d built up quite a reputation, but with that success came an insurmountable amount of requests.

Lately she carried around a file or two with her. Over lunch, in between meetings, or curled up on her sofa at home, she found herself sifting, reviewing, searching for pieces she may have missed. The cases filled almost every waking hour. Her husband, Greg accused her of being obsessed, and in the last couple of months she began to worry that he might be right. Even today she’d skipped lunch, anxious to see the details of this new case.

The fact was she had stopped killers from adding victims to their lists. With each apprehension came a sense of power. But with that power came an overwhelming obligation and responsibility. So much so, that she hated turning down a single request, hated having to be so selective, picking and choosing. Unfortunately—or perhaps for the sake of her mental and physical health she should consider it fortunate—her boss, Assistant Director Cunningham restricted her caseload.

“You need to take a break every once in while, Agent O’Dell,” he had told her when she first started. “I can’t have you burning out before you reach thirty.”

Now alone in her office, Maggie opened the envelope carefully and slid the contents onto her desk. Immediately, her eyes caught a glimpse of the photos. These weren’t blurry Polaroids. A close-up of the victim’s neck showed what could be rope burns. Another captured bite-marks, red gashes in the soft flesh of the inner arm.

She stopped herself from picking up any of these for a closer look. Instead she left everything where it landed when it slid out of the envelope. She stood back, restraining her hands, keeping them on her hips as she c****d her head to take in an overview of the contents.

She focused in on the medical examiner’s report without swooping. Instead, she scanned it all the way to the middle of the first page before she found what she was looking for. This victim’s name was David Robards. Twenty-one. Five feet, nine inches tall. A hundred and fifty pounds.

The autopsy listed the manner of death as “undetermined,” but Maggie already knew that early police reports indicated that Robards’ death “appeared to be alcohol-related drowning.” Those were the few things Maggie had allowed Detective Michael Hogan to tell her. He seemed stunned when she stopped him from providing more details.

“I need to see the photos first,” she had explained. “The next time we talk I’ll ask you to take me through the crime scene as if I’m walking right beside you.”

Hogan accepted this without argument. They all did. Sometimes it surprised her how few of them questioned any of her process, almost as if she were clairvoyant and they dared not disrupt the magic they didn’t understand but respected.

She was impressed and maybe a bit too excited to see that Hogan provided a good deal of documents, photos and even several plastic bags of trace evidence. This was more than she usually received.

Again before digging in, Maggie went over the details she had committed to memory. David Robards was one of three victims in nine months. All of them were young, white males. College students but not from the same universities. Each had been drinking with friends before they disappeared only to be found in a river days—sometimes weeks—later.

Maggie glanced at the array of photos. “Alcohol related” didn’t exactly explain the rope burns left on Robards’ neck or what appeared to be a bite-mark left on the inside of his upper arm.

A knock on her door startled her.

“Come in,” she said when she really wanted to say, go away.

Preston Turner eased the door open just enough to tuck his huge head and right shoulder in between. The agent reminded her of an ex-linebacker, and she was sure he could crush his way through the door if he chose.

“O’Dell, boy, am I glad you’re here.” He grinned at her. “Delaney has a family thing. Wanna go with me to an autopsy?”

She hesitated, not because of the interruption but because of the unexpected invitation. None of the guys ever invited her to come along.

“Sure,” she said trying to sound casual. Trying to sound like one of the guys—that’s how she needed to react. With all that in mind, she decided to add, “Can we stop on the way and pick up lunch?”

She carefully slid all of Hogan’s case back into its package, so her back was to Turner when he said, “Very funny, O’Dell. So Delaney already tipped you off.”

“Tipped me off?”

“About how much I hate autopsies.”

She turned to look at him and now saw his clenched jaw and his right hand fisted over the door handle. Agents Turner and Delaney had been treating her like their little sister ever since she helped them break open a three-year old serial arson case. Last week they waved her over to join them and three other male agents at the coveted “guys’ table” in the cafeteria for lunch. Delaney had even stopped by a couple of times to see what she was working on.

She didn’t mind. Both were well-respected and in this male-dominated department it was a relief to have some of her male counterparts more interested in her profiling skills rather than how she filled out her navy blue suit. However, she never would have guessed that the tough, but charming, Preston Turner had a queasy stomach when it came to autopsies.

“Delaney never told me.”

“He didn’t? Huh.” Turner pretended it wasn’t a big deal, now glancing at his watch as if suddenly the time was more important.

“I skipped lunch,” she explained.

“Then by all means, we’ll drive through and get you some lunch.” He held the door open for her. “Actually I wouldn’t mind if we were a little late getting there.”