The Killing League

60.

Mack

Mack held up his FBI badge to the security guard at the J. Edgar Hoover FBI building in Washington, D.C.

Of late, whenever he’d come to headquarters, he always half-expected the guard to swipe his card, frown, and tell him it was no longer valid.

But not this time.

The guard waved him through and Mack took a brief detour to the men’s room. It had been a short flight from Florida, but he had a feeling it was going to be a long meeting.

He took the elevator to the fifth floor, showed his badge again and found Reznor near the coffee pot, filling up a mug that said, “Life, liberty and the pursuit of chocolate.”

She raised the pot toward him but he shook his head. His stomach was already on edge, knowing what he was about to encounter.

“Let’s go,” Reznor said. She scooped up a thick file, and led Mack to a conference room. She walked in, flicked the lights on and dropped her files on the big oval table.

Neither took a seat, but stood side by side.

Mack set his briefcase in a chair, and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers, which he spread out next to Reznor’s folders.

A moment later, Mack smelled obnoxiously strong cologne. Assistant Director Paul Whidby strolled into the room. He carried no folders, no pen, no notepads. Just a Blackberry phone in his large, finely manicured hand.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting with the Director in twenty minutes.” He plopped into the chair at the head of the table. Mack and Reznor sat on each side.

Reznor wasted no time. “Mack, you go first.”

Mack took out a pen and a notepad.

“What I’ve got is a murder in Chicago,” Mack said. He briefly described the untimely demise of former homicide detective William Dragger.

Whidby looked at his Blackberry, then back up at Mack, as if to say… “Yeah?”

Mack ignored Whidby’s obvious contemptuous tone. “The murder weapon was a lethal combination of drugs injected into his right thigh. The specific drugs and their respective quantities are identical to what was found in the deaths of six people at the Charleston Municipal Hospital in Charleston, South Carolina.”

Whidby set his Blackberry down and stared at the ceiling, then glanced at Reznor. “Please tell me this is going somewhere.”

Mack bit his tongue. “Two days ago, in San Francisco, former district attorney Deborah Nahler was murdered in the parking garage of her law firm. Fibers found at the scene of the crime match fibers found in four of the victims associated with the serial murderer operating along the I-75 corridor in Georgia and Florida.”

Mack pushed a stack of papers across the table to Whidby. “Here are the results from the respective crime labs. I’ve highlighted the essential parts.”

Whidby ignored the paperwork.

“My turn,” Reznor said.

She pointed at one of the folders. “Less than 36 hours ago, the journalist Patrick Tomlinson was found murdered in a hotel room in Philadelphia.”

She pointed at a second folder. “Less than 24 hours ago, the body of Judge Arthur Lyons was found on his boat in San Diego. He’d been strangled.”

Another folder. “Psychologist and courtroom expert Dr. Frank Mueller. While jogging yesterday in his neighborhood outside Kansas City he was struck by a hit-and-run driver. But before the driver took off, he or she slit the doctor’s throat.”

Reznor reached out and tapped the last folder. “Victoria Pugh. Bestselling crime novelist. Shot to death at a book signing last night in Seattle.”

Mack saw a subtle change in Whidby’s demeanor. At first, Mack wasn’t sure what it meant, but then he got it.

For the first time, Mack realized, the man was actually paying attention.