“Ben Tarkoff,” the middle-aged guy with bulldog features said. “Marshals Service. Been doing this fifteen years. Way I see it, you do the crime, you better be prepared to do the time. These assholes think the rules don’t apply to them. I’m here to make sure they do.” He turned to the man seated next to him, who took the cue and perked up.
“Jim Morrison, Secret Service.” He was one of two wearing a suit—a black one with a red tie. “Yeah. Jim Morrison, like The Doors lead. I’ve been known to do some songwriting but I can’t sing too good. Karaoke’s about it. I’d say I’m no Jim Morrison—but I can’t say that because I am.” That got some chuckles. “Anyway, I got my degree in finance from Louisiana State and hooked on with the Bureau, ended up working the Violent Gang Task Force in northwest Louisiana doing financial analysis before hooking on with the service. So among other things, I can definitely help with tracking down and analyzing Marcks’s financials.”
“Suits aren’t necessary here,” Hurdle said. “Cargo pants, jeans, khakis, any of that is fine. Doing what we’re gonna be doing, most of the time we don’t wanna stand out and be tagged as law enforcement from a mile away. Be comfortable. Casual professional. Concealed carry shirts are good. When we go operational, we’ll gear up with tactical clothing and vests. Got it?”
Morrison nodded.
“Good to have you on board. Whether or not you can carry a tune, your skills and contacts are going to be key. Next.” He nodded at the man to Morrison’s left, also wearing dress clothes—a tan sport coat that complimented his dark skin.
“Travis Walters. FBI.”
They waited a moment for Walters to add something, but he did not.
“How long you on the job, Walters?” Hurdle asked.
“Two years. First task force posting.”
Terrific.
“Same goes for you. No suits. Anything you want to tell us about yourself?”
“Not interested in discussing my personal life. I keep that separate from work.”
Hurdle shook his head, then gestured at Vail.
“Karen Vail. FBI. Started with NYPD, made detective, then moved to the Bureau and worked as a field agent before my promotion to the Behavioral Analysis Unit several years ago. I’ve got a son in college and a fiancé with the DEA. And I curse too much and I get pissed off too easily. And I tend to work too much. Trying to fix all that, lead a more normal life.”
“Good luck with that,” Hurdle said. “Anything else?”
“I play well with others and I’m easy to get along with.”
Curtis snorted.
Vail cut her eyes at him. “Fuck you.”
Curtis threw his hands up. “My point exactly.”
She managed to subdue her smile. “On a serious note, I handled the original Roscoe Lee Marcks case seven years ago when he was put away. Actually, the profiler who drew up the assessment that led to Marcks’s apprehension was Thomas Underwood. I came in right after that when Underwood retired. So I’m familiar with Jasmine Marcks, the daughter, as well as the offender. Hopefully I’ll be able to help with establishing his behavioral patterns and tendencies. We need anything from Jasmine, I’ve got a good relationship with her.” She turned to Curtis.
“Erik Curtis. Detective, Fairfax County Police, Criminal Investigations Bureau. Served on CARFTF a bunch of years ago, so I’m familiar with the drill. Plus, I worked the Marcks case. I was the arresting officer so I know this douche bag pretty damn well. Two grown kids, a younger brother who’s a detective in New Orleans, where I grew up. Oh, and I’m divorced. I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about that. Because you will anyway, no matter what I say.”
“Okay,” Hurdle said. “You’ve all met me and know who I am. Got a teenage daughter I don’t see enough and a wife I don’t see enough. And a bunch of friends like you I end up seeing way too much.”
Tarkoff and Ramos emitted a low groan of disapproval.
Hurdle reached over and gave Ramos a swat with the stack of papers. “We’ve got a bit of a new team here, so I’ll walk us through some of the things we’ll need to get up to speed. Think of me as the quarterback. We’ll huddle, I’ll call the plays, and you’ll go out and run the routes. If I hand the ball off to you, I expect you to run with it. No fumbles.
“Speaking of which, I run a tight ship. No penalties. By that I mean we follow the rules. And the law. When we can. You know some ways to bend shit, fine—as long as it’ll hold up in court. I don’t want any asshole going free because of some dipshitly stupid thing one of us did while under my command.”
“Is dipshitly a word?”
“It is now, Rambo. Know why?”
“Because you said it is, boss.”
“Right. Now, with that out of the way, let’s talk about this case.” He glanced down at his papers, then set them aside in favor of an iPad. “Marcks was incarcerated at Potter Correctional in West Virginia.” He stopped and turned to Curtis. “That’s a federal prison. Aren’t serials usually prosecuted by state or county?”