Fletcher’s mind immediately raised all sorts of questions—why do they have a file on Leighton, where did they get the DNA, why do they have DNA, what the hell is this?—but he flipped the page and started to digest.
The top sheet was a summary police file from 2004, a cold-case murder from Indianapolis, Indiana. Christine Hornby, age sixteen, found beaten and raped in a ditch off the side of a state road leading into town. No one was ever caught, despite a solid DNA profile put into the system.
Fletcher flipped further. There was another cold-case murder, this time from 2006. Diana Frank, seventeen, also from Indianapolis, Indiana. Another beating and rape. In 2008 there was one more, Brandy Thornberg, seventeen, from Terre Haute. Three in all. Christine Hornby, Diana Frank and Brandy Thornberg, all brunette teenagers murdered by the same person. DNA matched all three of their cases, and no killer had ever been identified.
A deep knot began building in his stomach. He turned back to the front sheet, the DNA profile.
Tried to fit the pieces together.
Peter Leighton—congressman, soldier, father—a serial killer?
He sat back in his chair and rubbed his face with his hands. What in the hell had he gotten himself into?
Bianco was back. She handed him a steaming cup of coffee, sat at the table next to him.
“Now you know why I wanted the gossip along with the facts. It started when he was making his first congressional run back in 2004.”
“This is hard to believe.”
“Trust me, I know. I received the report this evening, after the DNA profile matched.”
“Why was Leighton’s DNA run? And how did you get it?”
“He tossed out a soda with a straw last week. McDonald’s. It was retrieved. They extracted the DNA and sent it in to run through CODIS.”
“He was being investigated for the murders?”
“I don’t have all the details. Indiana Bureau of Investigation was handling this until three hours ago. I haven’t been fully briefed yet. All I know is it was brought to my attention the moment word got out that he was dead. We have to take into consideration that he knew about the investigation and used the attack this morning as a cover to commit suicide.”
“Suicide by asthma attack? Isn’t that a bit hard to manage?”
“You stated very clearly that the chief of staff had to find his inhaler and give it to him, and the autopsy found no evidence of use of an EpiPen. The briefcase where he normally carried these items is still missing. It’s not impossible to get yourself into respiratory distress if you’re already compromised.”
“Or that someone knew about this and decided to kill him.”
“Yes.”
“Or that this is just a wildly crazy coincidence.”
“That, too. What do you think?”
Fletcher closed the file and slid it back to her. “Too early to draw any sort of conclusion. If the samples from the three autopsies match, then we know it was a coincidence. If they don’t, then you can look at the other scenarios. But I’d make sure I crossed every T and dotted every I before I went forward with allegations like this.”
“I’d like you to look into this for me.”
Fletcher didn’t answer right away. He sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee. JTTF did a better job with their brew than his homicide office did, that was for sure. More funding, better coffee. He’d always thought that was hearsay, but here he was, in the exalted offices of the best of the best, finding out firsthand that the rumors were true.
And now he was starting to understand why they wanted him on the JTTF.
“What about the text message he received this morning? How does that fit into this?”
“Again, Darren, that’s under your purview. You have free rein to do whatever you feel is necessary to uncover the truth here. You will have all the resources you need to do a thorough investigation into the congressman’s every move for the past eighteen years. All we ask is that you keep your inquiries discreet, and not share your task with anyone. Even your bosses.”
Bianco was leaning forward, and the top of her blouse was gaping just the tiniest bit. He caught a hint of lace and cream, dutifully looked away and went back to his coffee.
“Well?” Bianco asked.
He sighed. “This could be a suicide mission, Andi. Can you imagine the headlines if we fuck up?”
“Can you imagine the headlines if you don’t? You’ll be a hero. Some would say this was a gift.”
He saw what she’d done. We to you. This is your problem now, Fletcher. We’re going to wash our hands of it and let you take the heat, keeping the JTTF’s nose clean in case somewhere along the way, someone else screwed up. Some would say this was a gift. He caught her meaning—who was he, a lowly homicide dick, to look a gift horse in the mouth? A huge story, earth-shattering news, at least a couple of weeks in the news cycle, Fletcher’s name and fingerprints all over the bloody mess.