By Lindsay Livermore/livermore@bbt.org
Bloomfield Hills, MI
Wednesday, April 9
The rain fell softly, large soft drops of it tumbling to earth, slamming into the ground, spattering against the windowpanes. In the corner of the well-lit room, a middle-aged woman sat alone, watching the raindrops commit their pre-ordained suicides against the glass of the windows. Suddenly restless, she stood and walked the flight of stairs to the second-floor bedrooms, stopping at one which had been occupied until recently. She stared at the neatly made bed, the empty closets, and sighed. "Why?" she asked herself, more to add some life to the large, silent house than to ask a legitimate question.
There was a knock on the door, and she immediately went back downstairs to answer it. It was near one o'clock, after all, and the mailman always knocked before leaving a package on the doorstep. She undid the two heavy-duty deadbolts and the chain lock, throwing the door open. A young man stood there, dressed in casual clothes, carrying a large bouquet of flowers. "Hello, Catherine. I've waited a long time for this," he said as he dropped the bouquet to reveal a long, wickedly sharp hunting knife.
She screamed, but there was no one there to hear her.
OPI Headquarters
Washington, DC
Thursday, April 10
The scalpel sliced cleanly into a blood vessel and laid it neatly open. "An examination of the coronary arteries reveals severe atherosclerosis." Click. "Compaction is evident in the first few layers of coronary plaque, indicating that the subject had undergone several balloon angioplasties." Click. "The heart weighs approximately two hundred and nine grams and also contains numerous plaque deposits." Click. The stream of medical jargon was interrupted by only the clicking of the overhead tape recorder. "Note: Order toxicological screen for potassium chloride." Click. The blue-clad woman that stood over the steel table remained oblivious to the rhythmic clicking. "A section of vein has been grafted onto the coronary arteries, indicating a recent coronary bypass." Click.
An insistent beeping began to emanate from the intercom affixed to the wall. She sighed, stripped off her gloves and surgical mask, and walked over to the intercom box, keying the TALK switch. "What's up? This had better be good."
"Agent Tyler? Director Alexander's looking for you."
"On my way." She removed her gown and sterile cap, threw them in the biohazard bin, and left the autopsy bay.
The intercom in David Alexander's office beeped, and the perennially cheery voice of his secretary said, "Agent Tyler is here to see you." "Send her right in," he replied, cleaning case information off his desk as he spoke.
The door opened a moment later, and Lauren Tyler, still dressed in surgical greens, entered the office, carrying a thick sack of paper. "Sir, please excuse my appearance, but I came as fast as I could."
"Agent Tyler, please have a seat." Lauren complied, sitting in one of the two chairs that were positioned in front of the Director's desk. The Director cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and continued. "I called you here because we've received word that there's been aŠ family emergency."
"What sort of emergency?"
"Agent TylerŠ your mother was brutally attacked yesterday by an unknown assailant. She was pronounced dead at the scene." Pause. "Due to the nature of the attack, her death has been declared a homicide."
"Who has jurisdiction in the investigation?" Lauren replied, fighting to regain her composure.
"Since the crime bears characteristics of a serial crime, it's a Federal case. The FBI's Investigative Support Unit has been asked to assist, and you are to make yourself available for questioning. That will be all, Agent Tyler. Dismissed."
The rest of the day passed in a fugue of faces and voices. Having changed back into her working clothes, Lauren returned to her desk and found a "While You Were Out" memo lying in her "In" tray.
Tyler -
I heard about what happened to your mother, and we all offer our heartfelt condolences. I've authorized two weeks Personal Leave - go home, take some time. We'll be here when you get back.
-Kennedy
Dulles International Airport
2:45 PM
"I'd like a one-way ticket to Detroit, please."
I never should have left.
"I have one carry-on bag."
This is all my fault, dammit. I should have stayed the rest of my vacation. "I also need to declare a firearm."
No, scratch that. If I'd stayed, I'd more likely be dead than her.
"I'm a Federal agent. Here's my ID and my concealed-weapons permit."
Scratch that. If I'd stayed, I would have frightened him off.
"No, I'll be carrying it on me."
Either way, it's my fault.
"Thanks. You have a nice day too."
Northwest Airlines Flight 303
En route to Detroit, Michigan
4:30 PM
Unable to keep her mind from wandering, Lauren pulled her laptop from its carrying case and powered it up. Tears came to her eyes as she looked at it: an IBM ThinkPad. A gift from her mother when she joined the Bureau. She had been considering trading it up for a new model. She hastily shut off that line of thought - This is no time to be getting sentimental, Lauren - and opened the word processor. The crime scene notes were laid across the adjacent seat, and she began typing.
The victim is a woman, fifty-seven years of age. Police have positively identified the victim as Catherine Diane Tyler, of Bloomfield Hills, Michigan.
The body was found by crime-scene investigators in a fetal position, obviously moved and posed post-mortem. Whether or not this position has any significance to the UNSUB remains to be seen. The throat was found to be slashed; cause of death has been tentatively established as blood loss second to said wound, pending a full autopsy. A series of incisions in the shape of a Venus's hand-mirror (the symbol designating female) was found on the left chest. Another series of incisions in the shape of a shield and spear (designating male) was found on the lower abdomen. No evidence of sexual assault was found, which raises the possibility that staging took place.
Lauren saved the document and put the laptop away, leaning back in her seat. Mom's gone. The realization hit her like a lightning bolt, and unshed tears finally began their descent.
Tyler residence
Bloomfield Hills, MI
6:30 PM
"Excuse me, ma'am, this area is off limits."
"I'm Special Agent Lauren Tyler, OPI. I'm here to identify the body."
"It's been taken to the Oakland County Medical Examiner's office. Do you know how to get there?"
"Yes. Do you mind if I look around the crime scene?"
"Go ahead."
Donning a pair of latex gloves, Lauren ducked under the yellow crime-scene tape and walked into the house. The old familiar odors hit her again: Nantucket Briar potpourri, garlic and butter, and Murphy's Oil Soap - but there was a new smell to add to the list, that of violent death. She entered the front foyer, shuddering as she noticed the chalked body outline on the floor. She crouched near the crude drawing for some time, eyes closed. The doorbell rings - no, he uses the knocker - and she goes to answer it. It takes her a while to unfasten the locks I made her install, so he's getting antsy. He's holding something to cover up the knife--a box, maybe a bouquet of flowers, so she doesn't get suspicious. He drops the bouquet, and that's when she figures it out, only it's too late.
"Was there anything on the front porch when you got here? A box, a bouquet of flowers, anything like that?" Lauren asked the cop who now hovered near the entrance to the study. "Yes - a bouquet of white roses. How'd you know?"
"I do this for a living. Where are they now?" She knelt by the chalk outline again. "At the station house with the rest of the evidence."
She's an old woman, she doesn't put up much of a fight, but he's got to neutralize her fast before the neighbors get suspicious. He chokes her just enough to knock the wind out of her, not enough to render her totally unconscious. He wants her to be awake for everything he puts her through. He steadies himself by putting his hands on the floor- Lauren abruptly stood and looked at the floor where the chalk outline was. It was Pewabic tile, maybe, just maybe, glossy enough to hold a print. She abruptly grabbed a brush and some white fingerprint powder out of the nearby crime-scene kit and dusted the floor around the outline's neck, then sat back and looked at the results.
A single, perfectly white print could be seen in stark contrast to the dull brown of the floor tiles.
Bloomfield Hills Police Department
6:45 PM
Accompanied by the officer from the crime scene, Lauren walked into the police station. The cop led her past the booking desk, back past several rooms to the duty room, where several other officers were seated in various positions of relaxation. "Guys, this is Special Agent Tyler from D.C. Agent Tyler, these are Officers Gray, Murphy, Signora, and Bergeron," the cop said by way of introduction.
A big, heavyset cop in the corner - the one the scene cop had identified as Signora - piped up. "You that Fed they told us about?"
"Yes, I am. What'd they tell you about me?"
"Said you were the dead lady's daughter. Said you were one of those profilers, too. Like what's-her-face in The Silence of the Lambs."
"You're thinking of Clarice Starling, and that's not quite right. I used to be a profiler, though, so you're close enough."
The door opened noisily, and a slim, athletic man in his late thirties stepped into the room. "I take it you've all met our friend from Washington, so let's get down to brass tacks. We have a woman dead with obvious signs of psychotic behavior. Agent Tyler, what do you think?"
"First of all, he's definitely not psychotic. The scene shows all the characteristic hallmarks of what we call organized behavior. First, there was nothing spontaneous about this crime. I'm willing to bet he staked the house out for a few days prior to the murder, may have even tried to gain access by posing as a delivery clerk, maybe a meter reader or somesuch. Second, he did quite a good job of covering his tracks. He removed and disposed of the murder weapon; he didn't touch anything he didn't have to; and he wiped almost everything he did touch."
"Almost? Agent Tyler, what the hell are you talking about? We didn't find a single print there that wasn't your moth- oh, sorry, the victim's."
Lauren chose to ignore the man's slip, though a wave of pain shot through her at the memory. "He left this behind," she said, holding up the lifted print from the floor as she spoke. "Can we get this run through AFIS?"
"Sure," Bergeron said. "I'll get right on it." He took the proffered photograph and left the room at a run. Minutes later, he was back. "We got one hit, a thirty-two year old male named Brian Halleck. Only one prior offense, a juvenile DUI from 1983. No one ever filed a motion to expunge, so AFIS still has the prints."
Lauren turned to face the young cop, all business. "I want a full background check on him. Get everything you can possibly dredge up. I'll see what I can do."
Holiday Inn Express
Room 214
8:30 PM
Lauren pulled out the laptop and plugged it into a nearby Telco jack, then activated the dial-up networking program she'd installed for just such occasions. A dialog box flashed "CONNECTINGŠ VERIFYING USERNAME AND PASSWORD," then displayed a screen with the Department of Justice seal and several options. She selected "Background Search", then typed in the name Bergeron had come back with. The action icon in the corner of the screen spun furiously for a few minutes, then abruptly stopped as the screen began to spew forth information about the suspect.
One line caught her eye, under "Parentage". It read "Raised in St. John of the Cross Orphanage, 1965-1983." Intrigued, she took her glasses out of their case. Slipping them onto her nose, she continued reading. "Adopted as a ward of the State, 1965. Biological Father: Unknown. Biological Mother: Catherine Diane Connelly. Adoptive Parents: None." She sucked in an involuntary breath as she realized the full import of the words on the tiny screen before her.
Her mother had been brutally murdered by her half brother.
1:25 AM
The rain fell softly, large soft drops of it tumbling to earth, slamming into the ground, spattering against the windowpanes. In the center of the well-lit room, a young woman sat alone, watching the raindrops commit their pre-ordained suicides against the glass of the windows. Suddenly restless, she stood and walked the flight of stairs to the second-floor bedrooms, stopping at one the one she occupied. She stared at the neatly made bed, the perfectly organized closets, and sighed. "Why?" she asked herself, more to add some life to the large, silent house than to ask a legitimate question.
There was a knock on the door, and she immediately went back downstairs to answer it. It was near one o'clock, after all, and the mailman always knocked before leaving a package on the doorstep. She undid the two heavy-duty deadbolts and the chain lock, throwing the door open. A young man stood there, dressed in casual clothes, carrying a large bouquet of flowers. "Hello, Lauren. I've waited a long time for this. Mom was fun, but you were the one I really wanted," he said as he dropped the bouquet to reveal a long, wickedly sharp hunting knife.
She screamed, but there was no one there to hear her.
"Noooo!!!"
Bloomfield Hills Police Department
Friday, April 11
9:21 AM
Bergeron emerged from a back room, holding a thick stack of printouts. "This is the best I could do, Agent Tyler. I found out he was a State's ward, that he was a child of rape, but I couldn't get anything on the parents, either biological or adoptive." She drew in another deep breath, the turned the laptop's screen to face Bergeron. "My GodŠ it all makes sense. It's impossible, but everything fits."
"What's impossible? What are you talking about?"
"My search pulled up the names of the parents, yours got the circumstances of birth. You can see for yourself. He was a child of rape born of a woman named Catherine Diane Connelly, which as luck would have it was my mother's maiden name." She took off her glasses, and sighed heavily. "Brian Halleck is my half brother."
There was a knock at the door, and the cop that the scene officer had identified as Gray stepped in. "Burger, Agent Tyler, y'all might want to hear about this." He spoke with a soft Southern accent. "Troy PD just picked up a guy named Brian Halleck for DUI. He's at the station there now, but they don't know what he's wanted for yet."
Lauren abruptly shut off her laptop, stowed it in its case, and turned to face both officers. "Let's go."
Troy Police Department
9:45 PM
The trio marched into the police station like a horde of avenging angels, only to be stopped by a burly desk cop. "'Scuse me, you boys don't look like you're from around here. And who's the little lady?"
Lauren displayed her ID, as did the other two cops. "Special Agent Lauren Tyler with the OPI. These two are Bloomfield Hills police officers. We're here to interview a man you have in custody on a DUI."
"What'd he do that you want him so bad?"
"He's a suspect in a murder investigation. It would be in your best interest,‹" she looked at the cop's insignia and nametag‹ "Sergeant Cobb, to let us do our job."
"All right. He's in Interrogation Room One, first door down the hall and to your left."
* * *
Lauren looked through the glass inset mounted in the door, then opened the door and stepped inside. Moments later, she returned. "He's not in there. Either they released him or he left." Gray nodded once, and took off running down the hall. He returned in seconds with two Troy policemen. "They say he signed himself out on his own recognizance literally minutes before we got there, and the desk officer didn't check the logbook first."
"Shit." She drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly before speaking again. When she did begin speaking, it was with such a degree of control that it was chilling. "He's gone to the crime scene. We can catch him there if we hurry."
"How in the hell do you know that?"
"He's after me, that's why. He thinks he'll find me at the scene." She snapped the thumb catch off her holster, checked the clip in her gun, and replaced it. "Which is why we have to get there now, else he'll be on to our game."
Tyler residence
10:11 AM
Using the set of keys she kept for emergencies, Lauren unlocked the garage and back doors. She signaled the other two cops back to the car. "If I get into trouble, go in there. Do whatever you have to do. Whatever you do, don't negotiate with him. I'm not that important. Understood?" The cops nodded silently. She turned away, said a silent prayer, and walked away, towards the house. Bergeron watched her disappear inside, then turned to Gray. "Here goesŠ I just hope to God for her sake that she's right."
Lauren eased the door open silently, and stepped gingerly into the house. Pulling out her gun, she quickly checked the room she was in before moving on. The kitchen was empty, as the laundry room had been. A glance into the family room told her nothing, and a search of the formal dining room proved unsuccessful.
A shadow caught her eye, and she snapped her gaze in the direction of the front hallway. It was there, a clearly human shadow visible from the room in which she stood. She looked at the nearby plate window; it showed that Brian's back was clearly toward her. She gave herself a mental three-count, then faced around the corner, gun ready. "Don't move. Hands where I can see them, Brian. Now." He complied, moving his arms out to his sides. "All right. Now turn around, slowly. Keep your hands out." He turned to face her, and Lauren got her first look at her half-sibling.
He was tall, far taller than she was, but he had the same fair complexion, the same honey-brown hair. The main difference was the eyes‹cold, hard, calculating. Planning. It was obvious that he had the same intellectual capacity she had, too. "Hello, Lauren. It's funny, you know, I wouldn't have known you from Jane Doe on the street, but somehow I know you."
"Maybe it runs in the family. The family you destroyed."
He laughed, a harsh bark. "What family, Lauren? Dad‹your Dad, at any rate‹is dead, there are no other children, and Mom was an only child. And then there's MomŠ" The laugh ascended into a hysterical giggle. "She's, I'm sorry to say, out of the picture."
"You know something? You're right," she said, keeping the 1076 leveled at his chest. "I don't have any family left. Because you are no relation of mine."
"What??" He appeared thrown off guard. "What are you talking about? You know as well as I do that you're my half sister."
"Yes. I do know. I also know that while blood is thicker than water, it's not the only thing that makes a family."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I don't know about you, but where I come from family is more than 46 chromosomes. It's caring for others, being the best person you can be, and maybe touching a life in the process. It has nothing to do with accident of birth. It's about trust. And maybe love."
"You sicken me with your platitudes. It's time to end this charade, Lauren." He pulled back his jacket, removing a wickedly sharp hunting knife.
"Not this time." She fired two rounds at him, one catching him in the shoulder and throwing him off balance, the other slamming into his chest. He looked at her just once, then hit the floor with a sickening thud. Blood poured from his wounds, staining the brown tiles and washing away the powder from the print she had taken the day before. He rasped out one final word - "MomŠ" and died, in the same spot where another had been his victim three days ago.
Epilogue
OPI Headquarters
Washington, DC
One week later
Lauren walked into the offices, dumping her briefcase on her desk. Sorting through the mess that had collected there during her absence, she found a brief note. It consisted of a newspaper clipping, with a Post-It note attached. It had only three words on it: "There are others." She opened the folded newspaper, surprised to see herself on the front page of the Detroit Free Press. The headline read "Federal Agent Takes Care Of Family Matters." She didn't read any more of it; she didn't have to. She carefully re-folded the paper, then carried it into the mini-kitchen. Putting it in the sink, she took a match out of the drawer and lit it, touching it to the paper and watching as the fragile newsprint caught fire. The flame reflected in her eyes for only a moment, but remained there long after the paper had burnt itself out.
**END SIM**
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