CHAPTER TWO
“Easy, boy,” Faith said. “We’re not here to deal with that. We’re going to stay way over here and let the experts handle it.”
Turk gave Faith a confused look. Weren’t they the experts?
Faith reached down and patted his head. “Not this time, boy.”
Faith, Turk, and Jessica were parked across the street from the house. Vehicles from various agencies surrounded them: Baltimore PD SWAT and EOD teams, Baltimore City Fire Department, the TSA, and several different news channels, including—
“Oh, God damn it,” Jessica murmured.
She tried to turn away from the white and blue Channel Six van, but it was too late. A perky, petite woman with brilliant red hair (dyed) and equally striking green eyes (natural) gasped in excitement when she saw them, waved, and jogged over, her dutiful cameraman following.
“Faith, Jessica, hi!” Bridgette Thurston said as she pranced to a stop in front of them. She wore the plastic professional smile that Faith associated with reporters everywhere. “I’m so glad to see you!” Turk barked, and she beamed at him with a slightly less plastic smile. “And you too, Turk!”
“I’ll bet you are,” Jessica said drily.
“Okay, I just need a few words,” Bridgette said, fiddling with her hair and blouse.
“We can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” Jessica said.
“Of course you can, silly!” Bridgette reminded her. “You did last time.”
“Yeah, and I got a brand-new asshole when my boss tore me one after you aired that story.”
“But then your boss’s boss’s boss’s boss told your boss to shove it and reminded him that solving the Apostate case was the best thing for the FBI’s public image since your partner caught Franklin West.”
Bridgette delivered that not entirely accurate rebuttal with a sweet look that made no attempt to hide the sharpness in her eyes.
And while Faith wasn’t the one who actually caught the Copycat Killer, her persistence with the case when everyone else, even the Bureau, wanted to let it grow cold had provided exactly the publicity needed to pull Faith out of the doghouse (sorry, Turk) and place the Bureau in a positive light again.
And Bridgette was right about their last case. Without her help, the Apostate might very well have killed at least one more victim before he was caught, what could have been a PR disaster had instead become the FBI’s next great shining moment.
And it was exactly why Faith was here instead of at home with her husband trying to put an end to his investigation and the threat against his life.
“Fair enough,” Jessica said irritably. “We still can’t comment.”
“Mostly because we don’t know anything,” Faith said. “We just parked.”
“Oh, that’s all right. You just need to say things like, ‘Whatever’s going on, we’ll get to the bottom of this, crime doesn’t pay, Turk’s gonna catch the bad guy… Ooh! Yeah, say that!”
“Bridgette—”
“Good morning, Washington!” Bridgette said into her camera. Faith rolled her eyes. “We’re live on scene at 1211 Victory Lane in Baltimore, Maryland, where officials are investigating the suspicious death of—”
“A private citizen whose identity will not be released until it is confirmed and next of kin have been notified,” Faith interrupted.
Bridgette reddened slightly, but she maintained her cool. “Yes, of course. And informing us of the proper procedure in this case is FBI superstar Special Agent Faith Bold, here with her partner Special Agent Jessica Torres, and America’s favorite K9, Turk!”
Turk sat regally and barked formally into the camera. Faith couldn’t resist a smile at her dog. He was the good publicity more than she ever would be.
“Faith,” Bridgette said. “Is it true that there’s currently a live bomb threat inside the residence?”
“I’ve just arrived here,” Faith explained patiently. “My partner and I are going to speak to the officers on scene.”
So saying, she walked past Bridgette, leaving the spluttering reporter to figure out the rest of her story without their help. Ironically, her laconic response would probably help Bridgette’s ratings, a fact of which Faith was certain the reporter was completely aware.
“Thank God, that’s over,” Jessica said. “Is she going to follow us around to every case?”
“Probably,” Faith said. “Anything within driving distance, at least.”
“Wonderful.”
They approached a SWAT van parked on the curb in front of the house.
A cluster of a half-dozen officers gathered behind the van, counting on the armored vehicle to provide some protection in case the bomb detonated.
The ranking officer was a clean-shaven man in his early forties with the silver bar of a lieutenant on his formal dress uniform, an outfit he was almost certainly wearing for the benefit of the cameras. Everyone was showing out today.
He nodded at Faith as they approached. “Lieutenant Suresh, Baltimore Police. You’re the FBI agent helping us, right?”
“We’re the FBI agents who will take over should the Bureau choose to pursue this case,” Faith corrected.
“And should the Baltimore Police Department choose to cede jurisdiction,” Suresh replied.
My fault for starting the dick-waving, Faith thought. “Let’s table that until we figure out exactly what’s going on here.”
“Fair enough.” Suresh gestured through the vehicle at the house behind it. “Jackson Entwhistle is the victim’s name. He manages the TSA’s Explosives Detection Unit at Thurgood Marshall Airport. Or he did, anyway. He was found dead on his couch with an explosive device in his hands.”
“Cause of death?” Faith asked.
“We don’t know. There’s a considerable amount of blood, so we assume a cut or stab wound, but we can’t look until the bomb’s defused.”
“I don’t get why they would kill him and then place a bomb in his hands that isn’t likely to harm anyone else,” Jessica said. “I mean… Not that I’m suggesting we do this, but we could just blow the bomb from a distance, right? No one else would get hurt.”
“We could, and if EOD makes the call, we will rather than risk anyone else’s life,” Suresh replied. “But yeah, we want to not do that. As for why, your guess is as good as mine. This is definitely the most unusual call I’ve ever responded to.”
“Who called it in?” Faith asked.
“Anonymous tip. And before you ask, yes, we think it’s the killer. The caller’s voice was disguised, their attitude was calm, and they provided a very detailed location. Also before you ask, we traced the call to a payphone in Annapolis.”
“You guys still have payphones here?” Jessica asked.
“Apparently a few.”
“Where is this payphone?”
“On US 50. No, there’s no security camera nearby.”
Faith sighed. “Worth asking.”
“So this guy called you guys and said, ‘Hey, there’s a dead guy holding a bomb in his house’?” Jessica asked.
“No,” Suresh replied. “He didn’t mention the body. Just the bomb.”
Faith cocked her head. “Interesting. Maybe he had a message he wanted you guys to see on the body.”
“Well, we’ll find out soon enough.”
They stood there for a few minutes, listening to the hubbub of the crowd around them. Uniformed officers formed a wide cordon around the property, and emergency services waited just outside with a secondary cordon holding back the news channels, neighbors, and other civilians gathered at the scene.
Whoever this killer was, they knew their actions were going to gather an audience.
They had a message to deliver, and they wanted a lot of people to hear it.
Faith found a part of herself actually excited to look at the puzzle.
She was never excited for the deaths of innocents, but she enjoyed putting bad guys away, and whoever this guy was, he was definitely very bad.
“How long have they been in there?” Jessica asked, breaking the silence.
“We got the call three hours ago,” Suresh replied. “Bomb squad arrived on scene three minutes later.”
“Wow. Good response time.”
Suresh smiled grimly. “Explosions happen in an instant. We don’t mosey in these circumstances.”
Turk barked urgently, and a moment later, the hubbub behind them increased in volume.
Faith, Jessica, and Suresh stepped out from behind the SWAT vehicle to see the bomb disposal team leaving the house.
Two agents carried a heavy steel case in between them while a third gave the crowd a thumbs up and said something into his radio.
Faith overheard it from Suresh’s radio. “We’re clear. ”
“Outstanding work, sergeant,” Suresh said. “I’m gonna have to go deal with the vultures for a little bit, but I’ll have Prescott make sure you and your team can get out of here without being harassed.”
“Before he leaves,” Faith interjected, “I’d like to talk to him.”
“Givens, do you mind talking to the FBI?” Suresh asked.
“Sure,” the bomb squad sergeant replied. “Not sure what I have to tell her, but I’ll talk.”
“Thank you. Jessica, go with CSI to case the scene. Turk, go with Jessica.”
Turk didn’t look happy about being pulled away from the bomb, but he followed Jessica into the house to look at Jackson Entwhistle’s body.
Faith stepped to the bomb squad leader, who had removed the thick helmet of his outfit and was wiping a gloved hand across his sweaty brow.
“I’ll be quick,” Faith promised. “Just give me the basics. What kind of bomb was it, how sophisticated, and how dangerous?”
Givens chuckled. “It was a gasoline bomb, not at all sophisticated, and it would have taken out his living room and set his house and probably his lawn on fire. That’s about it.”
“A gasoline bomb?”
“Yep. That’s exactly what it sounds like. There was a copper wire floating in about a quart of good old eighty-seven octane. There was a timer that was supposed to go off and send an electrical signal through that wire, but the killer forgot to attach it.”
Faith’s brow furrowed. “He forgot to attach it?”
“Yep. Didn’t attach the wire to the timer. The timer went off about thirty minutes after we got there, but it didn’t do shit other than give us all a freaking heart attack.”
“So what were you doing in there all this time?” Faith asked. “No offense.”
“None taken. Honestly, I knew this thing was a dud twenty seconds after looking at it, but there are procedures we have to follow regardless.” He glanced over Faith’s shoulder, leaned close, and added, “Especially with the circus in town.”
“So you had to follow protocol so the press would understand that you took this seriously and executed your duty carefully.”
“Yep. Same reason the lieutenant is in his Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes. Gotta look good for the camera.”
Faith could sense irritation in Givens’s voice. “I take it you’re a little frustrated by the pretense.”
He chuckled. “I’m frustrated that I came all this way to play with a toy any two-year-old could have made. I’m exaggerating about that, obviously, but by a lot less than you’d think.”
“Did you find anything on the body or the bomb?” Faith asked. “A message or note of any kind? Anything out of place?”
“Well, other than the dead guy and the gas bomb, no. Looked like a normal suburban home.”
Faith nodded. “All right. Thank you, sergeant.”
“You betcha.” He grinned. “Caught the story about the guy killing chaplains. Good job with that one.”
Faith returned a professional smile. “Thank you.”
“You betcha,” Givens repeated.
He and the squad moved on to renewed cheers, and Faith stepped into the house.
It was, as Givens said, a normal suburban home.
Nice but inexpensive furniture, a dearth of decoration that was typical of a home occupied by a single male, and appliances that were on the older side but standard otherwise.
The only thing out of place was, as Givens had also said, the dead man sitting on the couch with his head drooped on his chest and blood soaking his body and the couch cushions underneath. Turk was sniffing carefully around the couch and the coffee table while Jessica examined the body.
She carefully lifted Jackson Entwhistle’s head with both hands. Jackson was a heavyset African American man of medium height with gray hair and a short gray beard. His eyes had filmed over, but before death, they would have been a striking silver gray.
“There’s our cause of death,” Jessica said, pointing at a thick puncture wound on the side of Jackson’s neck. A matching puncture decorated the opposite side. “Something thick and pointed.”
“Like a screwdriver?” Faith asked.
“Maybe. The coroner will take a closer look and find out for sure.”
She carefully lowered Jackson’s head and looked at Faith. “So what did you find out about the bomb.”
“It was a lure,” Faith said. “Nothing more. Killer didn’t even connect the detonator.”
Jessica raised her eyes. “Damn. So what was the point?”
Faith nodded at Jackson Entwhistle. “He was. This killer was trying to send a message. The bomb is related to that message, but his death? That’s personal.”
“It always is, isn’t it?”
Faith recalled something an instructor of hers had said once.
The most intimate thing you can do besides screw someone is kill them.
At the time, she’d been repulsed by that statement and dismissed it as a shock tactic designed to get people to pay attention in his class.
After nearly a decade and a half of experience, however, Faith had learned the hard way that to many killers, murder was indeed a substitute for intimacy.
But was this murder intimacy, or was it, like her instructor’s statement, designed to shock? And what was the truth hidden behind that shock?
Whatever the answer, Faith couldn’t argue with Smythe’s decision to put them on this case. This killer had received the attention they were looking for. Like any addict, once they developed a taste, they would always be looking for their next high.