The Bone Chamber

3

At precisely 9:53 P.M., Sydney’s plane touched down at the marine base at Quantico. She looked out the window and saw a lone jeep waiting on the tarmac. SAC Harcourt and Special Agent Griffin stood by the jeep. Other than that, the airstrip seemed surprisingly empty, especially considering the grounds were shared with the marines…
She grabbed her overnight bag and briefcase, exited the plane, bracing herself against the chill of the mid November air. Patches of dirty slush lined the runway, remnants from the early fall snow promising that it wasn’t about to get much warmer, even come morning. How had she ever thought of San Francisco as being cold during the few months she lived there? She was definitely going to miss the West Coast.
The men standing by the jeep watched her, and as she approached, SAC Harcourt put his hand on her shoulder. “Thanks for interrupting your vacation and coming at such short notice.”
“Not a problem,” she said. “So we’re starting first thing in the morning?”
“Tonight,” Griffin said. “A lot to cover and little time. You brought what you need for the sketch?”
“Never leave home without it.” She patted the soft-sided briefcase slung over her shoulder.
“Good,” Harcourt said. “We have a room ready for you.”
“I have a place in D.C.,” she said, slinging the overnight bag onto her shoulder, trying to sound pleasant. Okay, so it was the standard apartment in the standard building used for temporary housing for agents. But even with the bare white walls and rented furniture and still-packed boxes, it was a damned sight better than what they had at Quantico in the academy dorm, which consisted of a twin bed with a shared bathroom. “I’d rather be able to go home tonight.”
Griffin held the jeep door for her. “Like I said, very little time and a lot to get through, so if you can manage one night here…”
She stood there a moment, looked him right in the eye. “Just out of curiosity. Why me?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Of all the forensic artists, in all the towns, in all the world, you call me. Why?”
“The gin joints were closed, and you came recommended. Any more questions?”
“Not yet.” Unless one pointed out that there were plenty of good artists on the East Coast, so why the hell fly her all the way from the West when she was on vacation?
They drove her to the main building at the FBI Academy, had her check in her gun as was required with every agent, then escorted her to the basement, just down the hall from her own office. A sign on the door, one that hadn’t been there when she’d left for San Francisco, read: “Absolutely No Admittance.” Harcourt unlocked the door, allowing her to enter. Griffin stepped in behind her, placed his briefcase at his feet as she stopped before the only table in the center of the room where a skull sat, seemingly watching her.
“Something wrong?” Griffin asked, when she didn’t move for several seconds.
She shook her head, not willing to discuss her thoughts about working with the dead. In typical cases, when she was called, it was usually because the investigators had exhausted all leads in identifying the victim. She was often the victim’s last hope, the last voice. That was not something one explained easily—not without sounding like some narcissistic nutcase. For the obvious reasons, she kept her beliefs to herself. She’d worked from skulls before, but her instincts told her that all was not as it seemed. In fact these same instincts had been telling her so from the moment she stepped off the plane in San Francisco, then was flown back via special FBI transport.
Whatever was going on, she had no idea, and she eyed the room. There was only one chair. A coffeepot had been set up, and someone had thought to bring a box of granola bars. Other than that, the room was empty. If not for the skull, and the absence of a second chair, the place could double for a damned interrogation room, and she turned toward the men to ask what the hell was going on, but hesitated when Harcourt handed the keys to Mr. Federal, then made some excuse about being late for an appointment before rushing off.
Sydney set her overnight bag near the door, then walked to the table, depositing her briefcase at its base, examining the evidence before her. The skull had been boiled clean, a standard procedure that in her mind always seemed to depersonalize the victim, by removing the last vestiges of his or her being. What was left, the empty orbs and corporeal grin, were never recognizable as who the person had been—though often in far better shape than how that person had been found. Ever since she’d been trained in forensic art, she’d never looked at a skull or skeleton the same. Before, she’d seen them as bones, simply bones minus the flesh, never imagining who they were or what they’d been thinking. Not so anymore.
She pulled on a pair of latex gloves from a box on the table, picked up the skull, examined it. There were no obvious signs of trauma to the head. “I thought you’d lined up a forensic anthropologist,” she said, turning the skull about in her hands. “Dr. Gilbert.”
“We have her notes and measurements,” Griffin replied, handing over several sheets of paper, handwritten. “We just need you to do the drawing.”
“We usually work in concert.”
“In this case, we, uh, made other arrangements.”
She glanced at the papers he gave her, saw the notations in pencil, some of them haphazard, as though these were the notes from a report that had yet to be completed. “These are Natasha’s notes?”
“She was the forensic anthropologist you recommended.”
It took a moment for his answer to register. Tasha Gilbert was neat, fastidious. “Are you sure you have the right report? This isn’t like her, never mind she’d want to be here.”
“Like I said, we had to make other arrangements. Time is of the essence, so how soon can you have a drawing done?”
“Hard to say until I know what I have to work with.” She looked over Tasha’s notations, the measurements of skin and flesh thickness, based on height, weight, race and approximate age of the victim, all things that a forensic anthropologist would relay to Sydney through the examination of the skeleton or remains, helping her to proceed in re-creating the victim’s face. It was a complicated process, certainly not an exact science, but a science nonetheless. She flipped through the few pages, curious as to why Tasha, a perfectionist if there ever was one, would allow her rough draft report to be turned over. “Crime scene photos?”
“In another file.”
“This is highly irregular.”
And Special Agent Griffin said, “For a reason.”
She glanced over at him, and for all his calm exterior, there was something about him that made her think he was worried, harried, not so unruffled after all. Interesting. “Clothing? Hair? I need a photo of the body as it was found. Blow it up, eliminate whatever you don’t want me to see, just get it to me if you want me to do my job. If you can’t release that, a frontal shot of her, pre-autopsy, before the skull was cleaned, will suffice. Again, the same. It will help me finalize the drawing, make sure it’s accurate.”
He nodded, unlocked and opened his briefcase, and pulled a single photo from a manila folder. “Crime scene only. I can get you the other tomorrow. This I’ll need back.” He handed it to her, then started pacing the room.
Apparently this was a case that wasn’t to be discussed, wasn’t to leave this room. Maybe that’s why Tasha had agreed to pass on her notes as rough as they were. Even so, had Special Agent Griffin just presented the damned photo with the skull, then let Sydney do her drawing at a normal hour, she wouldn’t have given any of it a second thought—probably wouldn’t even remember it as anything significant. At least that was her train of thought up until she viewed the crime scene photograph. It wasn’t as if anyone could view such a photo with hopes the image would fade. One look made it easy to understand why it was necessary to boil the skull. The victim’s face—along with her fingertips—had literally been removed. Peeled away. And it was more than someone simply not wanting the victim ID’d. There was something clearly ritualistic about the way the face had been removed, the shape of the wound. A triangle with its point at the top of the forehead, its base at her chin.
Damned hard to make that pattern on a skull, but there was no doubt about the shape, and she forced herself to look beyond it to what she needed for her work. The woman had dark, wavy, shoulder-length hair. Her shirt had been ripped open, exposing well-developed breasts, which put her past the age of puberty. The condoms trailing from her front jeans pocket gave her the appearance of being at least near the age of consent, and Sydney glanced at Tasha’s report and found that the victim was probably in her mid-to-late twenties.
She took out a pad of lined paper, started writing her own notes, when Griffin stopped his pacing, looked at her. “What are you doing?”
“Taking notations for my drawing. From there I intend to do a rough sketch of the victim’s hair length, noting the color, details about it, as well as the clothing. If that’s okay?”
He stepped back, didn’t ask any more questions, and she told herself that it wasn’t her place to decide how the drawing was done, or why the drawing was done. She was here to follow orders—something she used to be good at.
Three hours and five cups of coffee later, leading to several escorted trips to the restroom, she decided there wasn’t enough caffeine in the world that was going to allow her to concentrate on the developing sketch. At the moment it resembled a scientific study one might find in a scholarly journal. She’d drawn the frontal view of the skull on her sketch pad, then overlaid it with vellum, upon which, with the aid of a small metric ruler, she drew precise markings to indicate the specific measurements given in Tasha’s report to note the thickness of the flesh upon the skull. The vellum, like tracing paper, would simply overlay the drawing of the skull, then once the sketch was finished, be removed for photocopying and distribution to the investigators—whoever they might be.
Sydney stifled her umpteenth yawn, stared at the skull, the orbs that seemed to watch her in return, wondering about the victim, hoping she hadn’t suffered greatly before death—before she’d been disfigured. One could only hope it had all been done postmortem. She thought of the condoms, wondered if they were brought there by the victim, or left by the suspect. “Was this a sexual assault?” she asked.
And just as Zachary Griffin had avoided answering every other question she’d posed that might directly lead to the case, he didn’t respond to this one, either.
Fine. He might not need sleep, but she did, and if he wasn’t willing to talk to her, help her keep awake, then tough. “I’m sorry,” she said, pushing her chair back. “I can’t work any longer tonight.”
“You’re certain?”
“So you do remember how to communicate?”
He didn’t reply.
“Yes, I’m certain. I’ll need several hours of rest if you want a decent drawing, and then I’m going running. I presume you want everything to remain here?”
“Yes.”
Sydney left her briefcase, drawing tools, and sketch pad behind, walked over, picked up her overnight bag, then stood there, waiting for him to unlock the door, let her out. When he hesitated, she held up her arms. “Either search me, or open the damned door. I’m tired.”
He glanced back at her things on the table, perhaps to assure himself she took nothing with her, then unlocked the door, letting her out before locking it behind him. And if that wasn’t secure enough, he escorted her to the elevator, then to the front lobby, where the guard who had taken her gun for safekeeping gave her the key to her room for the night. When it seemed her self-appointed escort intended to accompany her to her dorm, she held up her hand. “I can take it from here, thank you. Know the place well.”
A nod and he stepped back, allowing her to enter the elevator on her own. In her entire twelve years in law enforcement, the last four in the FBI, she wasn’t sure she’d ever experienced security this tight. Definitely not for a drawing, she thought, feeling the agent’s gaze on her even as the elevator door slid shut and she began her ascent.
Her room was on the third floor, a short walk through one of the many glass-enclosed hallways that connected each of the buildings. The glass enclosures reminded her of the tubes in a hamster cage and were often referred to as the same by the recruits housed there. Outside, a light dusting of snow covered the moonlit landscaping below, and all looked peaceful—as long as she didn’t think about the crime scene photo. It bothered her. She’d seen plenty of crimes over the years, plenty of violent scenes and photos. But this one was different. Forensic artists weren’t usually ushered into Quantico under cover of darkness, secreted away to a room where no one had entry, then guarded the entire time…
So who was the woman? Clearly someone of significance. Or a case of significance.
The photo had showed a woman who was made out to be a prostitute—or something similar, if the condoms were to be believed. Over the years, Sydney had seen dozens of sexual crimes, and this had all the earmarks of such a case. Until one thought of the overkill on security while she did her drawing.
Which certainly made her think twice when she unlocked her door, stepped into the room.
She tossed her bag on the twin bed, then shut and bolted the door behind her, slipping her phone from her belt and calling her former partner, Tony Carillo, back in San Francisco. He answered on the second ring, his voice sounding as though she’d woken him. She glanced at the clock, after two A.M. Eastern time.
“Sorry,” she said, then looked around the room, taking stock of the spartan surroundings. “Just missing everyone back home. How are you?”
A slight hesitation. “Fine. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just trying to unwind. You know. If I can’t sleep, why should you,” she said, walking into the bathroom, closing the door. She checked the door leading to the dorm room on the other side, made sure it was empty, told herself she was just being paranoid, then locked it, before turning the shower on full force, trying to keep her voice low. “You ever hear of a guy named Zachary Griffin? Special Agent?”
“For the Bureau?”
“So it seems. Do me a favor. Find out what you can on the guy? Code Two,” she said, giving the old cop term for “without delay.”
“Yeah, sure. What’s going on?”
“Other than they’ve got me locked up with this drawing tighter than an alchemist’s formula for gold at Fort Knox? I haven’t the foggiest. Call you tomorrow.”
She hung up, thought about calling Tasha to find out what she could offer on the case, but realized it was too late, she’d be in bed. Then again, Sydney could leave a message on her voice mail at her office, and called that number instead. When she heard the doctor’s voice mail kick in, she said, “Hey, Tasha. This is about that case I recommended you for. Give me a call on my cell. I have a couple questions. Oh, and if you’re free tomorrow, let’s do a late lunch, before I fly back to San Francisco.”
That done, she turned off the shower, exited the bathroom, tossed the phone on the bed, then began a top-to-bottom search of the room, finding nothing, and telling herself that she really was being paranoid if she thought they’d go to the trouble of placing a bug in her room when all she was here to do was a drawing.
The next morning, as she dressed in her running clothes, she decided her paranoia was merely a result of being tired, until she opened her door at ten A.M. and found Special Agent Griffin standing there as if he’d been waiting outside her room all morning. Then again, maybe there was some camera or listening device hidden somewhere. She almost laughed at the direction of her thoughts, then stepped into the hallway. He gave a questioning look at the sweats she wore.
“Sorry,” she said, with an apologetic shrug. “I’m not doing anything before I get in my run, then eat breakfast.”
“You can run after you finish.”
“My brain functions better this way,” she said, trying to keep her annoyance at bay. She failed. “And unless you want to jog along beside me and hold up that sketchbook, or you feel like employing another sketch artist, you’ll have to wait.”
She double-checked that her cell phone was clipped to the waist of her sweatpants, then swept past him. “Lock the door behind you,” she said, since there was nothing of interest in her things, in case he was so inclined to search through them.
Outside, the air was crisp, cool, but not too cold, even with the snow. Truth be told, she enjoyed the vast parklike grounds and the woods that surrounded Quantico’s academy, and missed the fireflies in the summer. What she didn’t miss was the summer humidity, she thought, choosing a path that led into the trees, away, she hoped, from prying eyes and ears, and allowing some shelter against the light, but melting snow. About ten minutes out, she slowed her pace, and phoned Carillo.
The first thing out of his mouth was, “What the hell are you working on?”
“Why?”
“I’m having a hard time finding any info on this guy. He seem familiar with the academy? Maybe he’s some muckety-muck investigator with the marines.”
“He was introduced as a special agent, so I doubt it.”
“Yeah? Well, there’s a lot of agencies out there that use that title. What sort of case is it?”
“At the moment, I can’t give you details, other than it looks like some ritualistic killer. Like I said, the security around it is tight, and they won’t let me talk about it. But when I can divulge anything, I’ll let you know.”
“If it’s your basic serial killer, why all the secrecy?”
“The million-dollar question.” Sydney thought she heard something behind her. “Hold on,” she said, then paused to listen. It was the slightest of sounds, but it sent a shiver through her. When she turned, she saw nothing.
“What is it?” Carillo asked.
“Probably a deer. Anyway, do me a favor, and keep checking on this guy. I get the feeling that he’s not one of ours.”
“Will do.”
She disconnected, started jogging, and again had that sensation of being watched. When she slowed, she heard nothing, so she quickened her pace, wanting out of the woods now that she no longer had need of privacy. Fifty yards later, she was sure someone was following her. She eyed a swath of needles on the ground where the snow had melted, veered off the path into the trees, making sure she left no tracks, then waited, trying to slow her breathing, hoping not to be overheard. A moment later the cadence of joggers approaching from the opposite direction caught her attention. Two young men wearing FBI Academy sweats ran into view. She stepped out, nodded. “Mind if I join you?”
“Feel free,” one of them said.
She fell in beside them, jogged for a bit, then looked back. And could’ve sworn she saw a figure slip into the woods.


Sydney showered, changed, then headed down to grab a bite to eat at the cafeteria, where Zachary Griffin was waiting. The dining hall wasn’t crowded, the morning rush long since past. No recruits in their blue shirts. Probably all in class. The patrons who remained were probably employees on a break. She recognized no one, and turned to her shadow. “You weren’t following me while I was out running, were you?”
“No. Why would you think that?”
“Thought I saw someone out on the trails. It’s a big base. Suppose it could’ve been anyone.”
His gaze flicked to the expanse of windows, then back to her. “I’d like you to finish as soon as possible.”
“That makes two of us.” She set an apple, juice, and yogurt onto her tray, then stopped for coffee. “You bring that autopsy photo?”
“You can eat downstairs while you work,” he said, ignoring her question.
“Or you can try drawing it yourself,” she replied, choosing a table at the far end of the hall near the windows. She opened her juice and took a sip. “The photo?” she asked again.
“It’s en route. Do you really need it when you have the other?”
“Maybe not,” she admitted. “What branch of the government do you work for?”
He didn’t respond.
“So this case is not a sexual assault? Or are you investigating some senator committing heinous serial murders on prostitutes that he’s paid for with federal tax funds?”
The slightest of smiles from him, and she thought: Not just a sense of humor, but a warped sense of humor. She was tempted to make a joke about looking for bugs in her room, but decided now wasn’t the time, and so she finished her yogurt, drank down her juice, then took her coffee and apple with her. “Ready when you are.”
He gave a slight tip of his head, then held out his hand, indicating she should precede him.
Down in the basement hallway, their footsteps echoed. She stopped at the door, waited for him to unlock it, stepped in, moved directly to her sketch while he secured the door behind them. And finally she had to ask. “Why all the secrecy?”
He leaned against the door, crossing his arms, saying nothing. Which was when she noticed that unlike her, he was armed.
“Wait, I know,” she said, picking up her pencil, eyeing her sketch. “If you told me, you’d have to kill me.”
“Actually,” he said, “if we told you, someone else might kill you.”
She looked up to see if he was joking.
Apparently he wasn’t.