Chapter 5
Five
Lane
Tension has my shoulders tight as I stare down at the sketch in my hands.
I provoked The Poser, and they did the opposite of what I wanted. I wanted them to slip up and make a mistake. I wanted them to not plan their next kill thoroughly and get caught in the act, their victim still alive. Traumatized, maybe, but still alive. That’s not what happened.
We got the call an hour ago that a body was dumped at a construction site. The victim is dressed in black pants and a white shirt, a sock on one foot. Blood forms a halo around his head and saturates his shirt. His eyes are open, fear frozen on his face.
The sledgehammer used to end his life is lying beside him, placed there deliberately, I’m sure.
I want to ball up the thick sketch paper in my hands that I fished from the victim’s pocket, but I can’t ruin it, just in case there is DNA evidence on it.
There won’t be, as none of the sketches left behind have had so much as a partial print on them, but it’s worth trying.
We have to check every time, on the off chance we get a hit.
But I doubt we will. The Poser was just a methodical with him as they were with the other victims.
This victim is for me. I know he is.
For the first time, The Poser has left a message that wasn’t only the body and the sketch.
On the drawing, written in thick, bold block are three words:
COME GET ME.
Bristling, I fold the sketch and hand it to a crime scene tech, who places it in a Ziploc bag to be taken back to the field office for analysis.
Brock and our supervisory special agent, or SSA, step up to me, Brock looking like he’d rather be anywhere but in my shoes. My SSA’s face is red, his expression saying we’ll have words.
“Bauer,” SSA Fisher barks. “My office, as soon as you finish up here.”
Without waiting for acknowledgement, he walks over to the body and starts his own examination while Brock and I canvass the scene.
This is it for me. I don’t think I’ll be fired, but I’ll be taken off field duty and forbidden from talking to the press. We have press liaisons for a reason, and they never would have said what I did to that news reporter. They would have been tactful, so no one was in danger.
Even though I don’t want to admit it to myself, this death is my fault. I’m the reason our victim was killed so mercilessly and dumped like garbage for some innocent construction workers to find.
This will be on my conscience for years.
A few hours later, we finish at the crime scene and head back to our field office.
“I’m sorry,” Brock says, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “I tried to tell Fisher that—”
I hold up my hand to stop his apology. “It’s all good. I accept responsibility for what I did. You saw that message. In the three years we’ve been hunting The Poser, they’ve never written anything. The one time they do is after I taunted them on the news. Whatever Fisher does, I deserve it.”
Brock looks defeated but simply nods.
When we get back to the field office, I head straight for Fisher’s office. He lays into me, chewing me out for close to fifteen minutes, his face a puce color the entire time. I don’t try to defend my actions or excuse what I did. There’s no excusing it, so I simply listen and answer when prompted.
Pulling in a long breath after his tirade, Fisher says, “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Nothing,” I say in a clipped tone, though I’m not angry at him. I’m pissed at myself for not using my brain. “There’s nothing I can say.”
“Damn right, there isn’t.” He collapses in his chair as if he’s run out of steam.
“You’re off field duty for thirty days.” I nod slowly, not thrilled, but it’s better than being fired altogether.
“Dammit, Bauer. You’re the best agent we have.
I thought after the case with Wilson, you’d be over making mistakes like this.
But hear this and hear it fucking well. One more slipup and you’re done. Three strikes and you’re the fuck out.”
“Got it. Thank you,” I say, dipping my head and leaving his office.
A weight is lifted from my shoulders while, simultaneously, foreboding presses onto my chest, making it hard to pull in a deep breath.
I’m ten steps behind The Poser. They’re too smart, too fucking savvy for me to get my grips into them. Even with them knowing the full might of the FBI was on to them, they still returned my message and didn’t leave any evidence behind. The entire scene was spotless, showing me they are invincible.
Plopping down in my office chair, I loosen my tie and roll up my sleeves, trying not to lose my shit over the death I caused.
Brock watches me with wary eyes. “What happened?”
“Benched. Stuck on desk duty. But I have to work. I can’t let them get away with it.”
My partner curses. “I’m sorry, man. Listen, I’ll talk—”
“Don’t, okay?” I say, stopping him before he does something that will get him in trouble too. “I don’t mind being off field duty. It’ll keep me away from the press.” Brock gives me a small smile that vanishes almost immediately. “You good working solo?”
“Fisher’ll probably give me someone in the office to work with me. Rivera, hopefully. He’s good.” Roy Rivera is an agent that joined our team a few years after us. He has great instincts, and he knows when to shut the fuck up, unlike me.
We head to the forensics room and look through the evidence. I focus on the note that was left for me.
COME GET ME.
Now I’m being taunted, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t fucking like it.
“See anything?” Brock asks, stepping up beside me.
“Nothing but me getting called out.” I tap my finger on the sketch.
Brock exhales hard. We continue to check out the evidence that was collected today and with the last victim.
When we spot nothing new, Brock shakes his head and says, “Let’s go grab a drink. We’ve been at it all day, and you deserve one.”
Any other time, I’d want to put in a few more hours to uncover something that could bring us one step closer to the perp. But today, all I want to do is drown my sorrows in the bottom of a bottle.
“Yeah, okay,” I murmur, my head down.
I follow Brock out, and we take our civilian vehicles to Drag Dragon.
As soon as I take a seat at the bar, Emmy murmurs a quick hello and slides my usual order in front of me.
Before she can walk away, I toss back my first glass of Jack and hold up two fingers. The burn of the alcohol trailing down my throat feels good. It feels like forgetting, at least for tonight.
She ticks up a blonde eyebrow and holds out her hand. Sighing, I pull out my keys and pass them over. She places them in a bowl behind the bar before she pours my drinks.
“Tough day?” she asks.
“You have no idea.” I toss the second glass back, the burn still there, but it’ll dim as the night goes on.
“What happened?” she asks, leaning her elbows on the bar.
“Really fucking rough crime scene, and I got put on desk duty. I fucked up, and I’m taking my punishment.”
She gives me a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry. That first round is on me.”
I mouth a thanks, then chug half of my beer.
Brock pats me on the back, knocking me forward into the bar. “Thirty days will be over before you know it. Hopefully, there won’t be more bodies in that time. If there are, I’m sure Fisher will bring you back.”
I grunt, not believing him but not really caring.
My head is all fucked up, and it’s not just because of the calling card at the crime scene today. Someone was in my apartment this week. I’m not sure who or why, but someone was there.
I can’t tell anyone, least of all Brock, because I’ll get called insane.
Especially because the only thing done was my bed sheets were loosened.
Knowing Brock and Fisher, they’ll say I forgot to make my bed properly.
I’m already not the most trusted person after what happened today.
If I were to tell them my fucking bedsheets were untucked, Fisher would send me straight to psych.
After downing both drinks and my beer, Brock and I play a few drunken games of pool. That, coupled with the alcohol, helps take my mind off my shit day. It won’t last, but right now, it’s enough.