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  The Federal Bureau of Investigation. A crucial part of Simon’s plan. He knows the FBI will have to get involved at some point. This part is for certain. But they are taking too long. Simon would not have cared if the FBI had come into the picture after the first, second, or even third job. But he definitely expected them by now. Where are they? Why is there nothing in the news? Where are the warnings to the vulnerable public of the USA? Maybe it is time for a more direct approach—to leave a note, to invite them in.

  He gazes out his window at a flock of geese while he plays with this new idea.

  Maybe it could say, “I want you to know that I want you to know about me.” Or, “Well, hello there, what’s taking so long? I’ve been waiting for you.” Something whimsical. An invitation.

  Chapter 4

  My MEMOIR by Lola Englemann

  I was born in the city of Propoc, not far from Kosice, when it was originally part of Slovakia, in the year 1921. I remember the sun and how it felt on those hot summer days in Slovakia. The warm air mixed with the smell of rain on the wind. My best friend, Mary, who lived across the street from our home, and I would traverse around those back hills picking flowers and making mud pies. Edit, my older cousin, would sometimes play with us during the summers when her family came to visit ours from Prague.

  We would pretend to be birds flying through the hills as the wind blew through our long braided hair. Sometimes we would play hide-and-go-seek in the nearby woods, or follow a stream as far as we dared. There was a group of boys in the town, who my older brother was a part, and they would chase us. It was one of my brother’s friends that would change my life forever.

  Chapter 5

  As they arrive back at Jamie’s apartment, Seth broaches, “So…did you talk with Chris this morning?”

  “No, he’s usually gone before I wake up. It’s a long drive to D.C. from my place. Plus traffic. Of course, it could be worse,” Jamie concedes. “Things are pretty good between us, I guess.”

  “Good.” Seth sets aside feelings and switches to logic. He had hoped that things would disintegrate long ago between Jamie and Chris, giving him a chance to move in. He is still hoping, waiting.

  While trying to think of a way to extract relationship details, Seth realizes that Jamie’s look is pensive—she is holding something back. As Jamie’s best friend of several years, he knows that, if he gives her enough time, Jamie will tell him whatever is on her mind. After a few moments, she obliges.

  "I've always seen myself as a low-maintenance. I don’t do romantic nonsense. No swooning or primping, no flowers, no jewelry. That’s not me. So why are things so complicated with Chris? I’m not jealous of his work. I want him to work. Besides, my job is also demanding. I think I just want him to make more of an effort."

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Something special, I guess. Exciting, you know? As for Chris, I’m not breaking up with him. And maybe, with time, he can prove to me that we have a deeper connection. I mean, I have feelings for him. I have to give him a chance.” Jamie chuckles after she finishes explaining. “Thanks, Seth. Sometimes it helps to talk these things out. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  “Let’s see, no FBI job that I helped you get. I think then you wouldn’t have that nice apartment you live in. And you might have never even graduated without my help in Bio.” Seth playfully counts off the reasons on his fingers, his eyes twinkling with the delight of anticipating Jamie’s reaction.

  “Hey, hey, hey. I know I owe you for so much. Believe me, you are my best friend.” Jamie smiles. She teasingly pushes Seth in the shoulder.

  "What time is it?”

  Jamie looks down at her running watch. “Oh! About six-forty. I’ve gotta get moving.”

  “We both do. I’ll see you around.” Seth turns to make the short walk down the street to his house.

  “Later!” Jamie waves and disappears into her apartment stairwell.

  After a quick shower, she takes only seconds to apply a coat of mascara and a tasteful smidge of black eyeliner. That’s all the makeup she ever needs. Jamie had roommates in college who would take hours to get ready for a date. Jamie would rather spend her time productively.

  She enters the kitchen and grabs a yogurt from the fridge. Thanks to Chris, the coffee pot sits warm and ready. She takes both coffee and yogurt to the table. It is then that she spots a note on her tiny kitchen table. She must have missed it earlier.

  Dearest Jamie,

  Would you please save a place for me on your calendar for a special date this Monday? I have made a very nice reservation at Bistro L’Hermitage restaurant. I’ll pick you up at seven. Hopefully there will not be any work interference this time. Really looking forward to this.

  Love,

  Chris

  Jamie sighs and shoves the note into her purse. All she can think of is the last time Chris arranged a romantic dinner. Jamie found herself sipping a cup of white wine alone for an hour. When she finally received a text from Chris, it said he would not make it. He had to stay late to fix a hip fracture. “I can’t control what time they fall and break their hips,” was his justification. The worst part was that she could not argue.

  Okay. Time to focus on work. That’s what really matters to Jamie. Doing her utmost at the job she loves. Jamie slings her bag over one shoulder, picks up the coffee mug, and heads to Quantico, Virginia.

  Chapter 6

  Jamie pushes back a long strand of black hair and uses a key card to enter the main offices of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC). She presents her badge in order to bypass the scanners and metal detectors that screen visitors.

  “Mornin’, Ms. Golding,” the young security guard salutes her with a wide grin.

  “Hey, Jimmy. How's your son?”

  “Becoming a basketball champ. He's got another game this afternoon!”

  “Let me know how it turns out.”

  “You got it.”

  With a nod, she joins the rest of the employees heading toward the elevators, but she soon veers away from the crowd. Jamie prefers the stairs. The mingled colognes and perfumes of her coworkers make her dizzy. She takes a quick sip from her coffee cup to fortify her for the upward trek.

  “Jamie!”

  She turns to see the strawberry-blond Tyler ascending behind her. “Hi, Tyler. What’s up?”

  “Question for you,” Tyler begins, falling into step with Jamie. “Is it because I’m new that Mr. Whitehouse is always that...”

  “Grumpy, standoffish, and stiff?” Jamie laughs at her own descriptors, and at Tyler’s conundrum. “Remember, he is not only your secretary. He has to serve six agents.”

  “No wonder he was so mad when I asked him to get me a Frappuccino from Starbucks,” Tyler muses, a little breathless from the climb.

  “You what?” Jamie wonders aloud, keeping step as she stares incredulously at Tyler. His face twists into bewilderment. Jamie looks back ahead and laughs heartily; Francis Whitehouse will never forgive poor Tyler for that. Tyler deflates a little, but Jamie goes on to advise him sincerely, “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto, this is the NCAVC. You should be careful from now on. You have to get back on his good side, and it might take a while."

  The key card gives them access to the inside offices. The wing is a large, open room, populated by cubicles. On the outer perimeter are offices that block the outside light from the cubes. Jamie makes her way through the maze to her own office. She is relieved to finally have an office with a view, instead of the repressive gray walls of the cubicles.

  She unlocks the door identified as hers: “Special Agent Jamie Golding.” The office itself holds only a heavy black desk, some office chairs, and a bookshelf. Prominently displayed on the top of the bookshelf is a picture of her crossing the finish line of the Potomac River Run Marathon. On the opposite wall is a motivational poster with a runner on a seemingly unending trail. The caption reads "TENACITY: Never lo
ok back. Just keep going."

  Jamie finds a note conspicuously displayed on her desk: “0830, Conference Room A.”

  It is going to be an interesting Wednesday.

  She sits in her chair and boots up her computer. She takes another sip of coffee. But before Jamie can even type in her password, a short man with thinning brown hair and a stern face leans in on her door frame.

  “Did you get my note?” he drones, as if annoyed by the simple task.

  “Yeah, what's up?”

  “You know, they hardly tell me anything,” Whitehouse responds with an eye roll. “I know it’s something important, though. I was told to call Mr. Fredericks if I didn't see you by 8:10.”

  “What? Like I'm ever late? What's his problem?”

  “You'll find out soon enough. Just be there early. I don't want him getting on my case. Mr. Fredericks is adamant about the 8:30 part.” Whitehouse commands her as though he is her superior and not a secretary.

  “Don't worry, I'll be plenty early.”

  “Anything you need in the interim?”

  “No, I'm good, thanks.”

  Jamie knows very well what Francis Whitehouse’s problem is. He has a Napoleon complex and is bitter about his male “Betty Bureau” status. He has worked in the same position for eighteen years and has watched agents come and go. He is good at what he does but lives with a chip on his shoulder.

  Jamie heads to Conference Room A. Special Agent Joey Hughes sits at the long, cherry table. Joey grew up in Brooklyn with an Italian mother and American father. He is very street-smart, but he is also cocky, arrogant, and a self-perceived playboy. He is a seasoned agent who recounts his best stories over and over. Everything about him rubs Jamie the wrong way.

  Across from Joey is Special Agent Phil Clark. Phil is a tall, lean, and handsome African-American with a near-genius IQ. He is laid back and would never tell anyone he has been a member of MENSA since the age of seven. He is very sociable, and his breadth of knowledge allows him talk to just about anybody. He has been with the Bureau a few years longer than Jamie, and he showed her the ropes when she began as an agent.

  “Looking delicious this morning, Jamie,” Joey sasses at her. His dark brown eyes watch carefully for a response. Jamie proudly displays her middle finger.

  “You better watch it, Joey, I think you’re beginning to recycle lines.”

  Jamie seats herself in the nearest chair (and farthest from Joey). Arranging her tablet and coffee mug on the conference table, she tries to ignore his continued attempts to engage her. “I should have known that you two would be here for a special meeting. I guess we are the best of the best, huh?”

  At least he doesn’t think of me as a “clagent” any more. That is what they call FBI agents that move up from clerical positions.

  “Anyone know what happened between Whitehouse and that new kid Tyler? Phil asks sincerely, addressing the table at large. “I overheard some heated give-and-take yesterday.”

  “He asked Whitehouse to run to Starbucks for a Frappuccino.” Jamie divulges, although she immediately regrets giving Tyler’s problem away.

  “He didn’t!” Joey’s shock rapidly dissolves into hysterical laughter.

  Phil also starts laughing the moment Jamie says the words. He pauses long enough between gasps of laughter to add, “I would have loved—to see Whitehouse’s face—at that moment!”

  Phil’s words make Joey laugh even harder. Even Jamie cannot help chuckling as she imagines Whitehouse’s reaction to Tyler’s absurd request.

  Phil wipes a tear from his eye and jokes, “Let Tyler know he’s gotta sleep in the bed he’s made.”

  “Yeah, I basically told him the same thing,” Jamie confirms, trying to control her own laughter.

  A blonde woman enters the room. “Good, you are all early, and...happy.” She wears a curve-defining red dress and matching red heels and nail polish. “Mr. Fredericks will be pleased you are all here already.” She begins setting up a laptop and preparing the overhead projector.

  “Morning, Cynthia! Looking delicious as always. How are we?” Joey grins widely, clearly undressing her with his eyes. There is a near-collective eye roll.

  “Busy. Mr. Fredericks will be here soon. You should move closer to this side of the room, Joey, but leave a chair open.”

  Joey watches her as she moves around the room, further preparing for Fredericks’s arrival by pulling down the white projector screen. He makes no effort to hide his thoughts.

  Jamie makes little attempt to mask her disgust. She turns her attention to a new email from Chris.

  Good Morning Sweetheart,

  I hope you found the note I left you this morning. It was tough not to kiss my sleeping beauty awake before I left. I’m on call this weekend, but I really want to do a special dinner on Monday. Please dress up for the occasion.

  Love,

  Chris

  Interesting, Jamie thinks. He does not usually send her e-mails. Has she ever e-mailed him before? How would she address him? If she skipped playing the cutesy stuff (not her style), would Chris be offended? Of course, replying more formally could be even more insulting. Her better option is just to answer him with a phone call. Yes, that will be safer.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Jamie spies a tall, thin man entering the room briskly. She could recognize her boss anywhere, with his purposeful stride and commanding posture. Howard Fredericks is in his early forties, but the stress and worry etched into his gaunt face say otherwise. He is Special Agent in Charge and Jamie’s direct supervisor. He adjusts his glasses as he stares down the room. Satisfied with what he sees, he turns and, with a nod and a wave, introduces the man who stands expectantly behind him.

  “You all know Larry Thompson, the Assistant Director in Charge of the NCAVC.”

  Jamie and Phil shoot each other looks of surprise to see the ADIC. Larry Thompson is none other than Fredericks’s boss. The ADIC does not usually sit in on case discussions. Thompson takes the open seat next to Joey, and they exchange polite smiles. Joey sits up a little straighter.

  “I apologize for the short notice, but Thompson needs to report to H.Q. in D.C. at 10 a.m. We have no time for small talk. So let’s get straight to the point. This is a sensitive matter. We have a serial killer. The victims are all elderly white males. There is hardly any physical evidence. At each crime scene, a single cryptic note is found.”

  Thompson clears his throat and continues, “The media is currently unaware that the murders are connected, since they are scattered around the country, and the victims are

  old men. Two of the murders actually occurred in nursing homes. We need to either solve this case quickly or go to the media ourselves. Otherwise it will reflect very poorly on the Bureau.”

  “Exactly!” Fredericks agrees, staring down at Jamie, Phil, and Joey.

  Thompson resumes his overview as if there had been no interruption. “The most recent murder occurred this past Sunday. The local detective in charge of the case asked for our help. Apparently the crime scene was abnormally clean—too clean. The Chicago office located three other murders that match the same M.O. over a three-year period. There are no leads in those cases either. And we must assume that there will be more murders to come.

  “Let’s hope the perp eventually slips up.” Thompson looks slowly around the table, letting his gaze pause on each agent. He finishes by staring at Fredericks, who recognizes the signal that Thompson is finished.

  “Cynthia,” Fredericks directs, not missing a beat.

  She jumps to start the PowerPoint slide presentation.

  “The murders have been spread out over the last two-and-a-half years,” she opens.

  The screen reads, “Sep 29, 2010; Mar. 20, 2011; Mar 8, 2012; Feb 24, 2013.” The next slide shows a map of the United States with red dots marking the places where the murders occurred.

  “As you can see, we have victims in Salem, New York; Abilene, Texas; Flint, Michigan; and the latest one right outside Chicago, Illinoi
s,” Mr. Fredericks lists, using a laser pointer to indicate each of the already-highlighted cities.

  “All four victims died in the same manner, strangled with wire, approximately ten-gauge.” The slide shows four pictures of neck wounds. They appear to be identical. Fredericks continues, “All four had a note in the left hand with two or three large letters and a series of words across the bottom. We think they may be initials of some sort, but each set is different.”

  The slide changes to show a picture of an elderly man, an obvious postmortem.

  “The first victim is Jules Henning, 88. He was apparently driven from his home in Schenectady, New York, almost fifty miles, to Salem, New York.

  Another map, demonstrating the distance between Schenectady and Salem, appears on the screen. The next slide is of an elderly man, lying in front of a red building clearly identified as, “United States Postal Services, Post Office of Shushan, New York, 12873.” The old man lying in the mud looks like a peacefully-sleeping homeless man.

  “Here is the fatal wound on his neck.” A new slide of the victim shows a close-up of the place where the wire bit into the skin, leaving angry red lacerations.

  The next slide pictures a square note with the large, carefully-typed letters “J.V.R.” right in the middle. In the bottom left-hand corner of the note, it says, “Pars”, then “Hon” in the middle, and “Dota” in the right corner.

  “No fingerprints or fibers—the notes are clear of any trace evidence. The other three victims had similar notes. Different words and letters, but the same format."

  “Survived by wife and daughter. No possible motives for either. His daughter is unmarried, quite the cat enthusiast, but also a financially-stable librarian and dedicated child. Wife now lives with the daughter.”