of the Omaha Journal.” Hal unfolded the paper and held it up. The headline screamed in tall, bold letters, Boy’s Murder Echoes Jeffreys’ Style.
“What the fuck?” Weston ripped the paper from Hal and began reading out loud. “Last night, a boy’s body was found along the Platte River, off Old Church Road. Early reports suggest the still-unidentified boy was stabbed to death. A deputy at the scene, who will remain anonymous, said, ‘It looked like the bastard gutted him.’ Gaping chest wounds were a trademark of serial killer Ronald Jeffreys, who was executed in July of this year. Police have yet to make a statement concerning the boy’s identity and the cause of death.”
“Jesus,” Nick spat as the nausea infected his insides.
“Goddamn it, Morrelli. You’re gonna need to put a gag order on your men.”
“It gets worse,” Hal said, looking at Nick. “The byline is Christine Hamilton.”
“Who the fuck is Christine Hamilton?” Weston looked from Hal to Nick. “Oh, please don’t tell me she’s one of the little harem you’re bopping?”
Nick slid back into his chair. How could she do this to him? Had she even tried to warn him, to contact him? Both men stared at him, Weston waiting for an explanation.
“No,” Nick said slowly. “Christine Hamilton is my sister.”
CHAPTER 7
Maggie O’Dell kicked off her muddy running shoes in the foyer before her husband, Greg, reminded her to do so. She missed their tiny, cluttered apartment in Richmond, despite surrendering to the much-needed convenience of living between Quantico and Washington. But ever since they had bought the pricey condo in the expensive Crest Ridge area, Greg had developed an absurd obsession with image. He liked their condo spotless, an easy task since both their jobs kept them away. Yet, she resented coming home to a place that swallowed her monthly paycheck but felt like one of the hotels to which she had grown accustomed.
She peeled off the damp sweatshirt and immediately felt a pleasant chill. Though it was a crisp fall day, she had managed to work up a sweat after another night of tossing and turning. She balled up the sweatshirt and shot it into the laundry room as she passed on her way to the kitchen. How careless of her to miss the laundry basket.
She stood in front of the open refrigerator. A look inside revealed a pathetic view of their lack of domestic talents—a box of leftover Chinese food, half a bagel twisted in plastic wrap, a foam take-out container with unidentified gooey stuff. She grabbed a bottle of water and slammed the door, now shivering in only running shorts, a sweat-drenched T-shirt and sports bra that stuck to her like an extra layer of skin.
The phone rang. She searched the spotless counters and grabbed it off the unused microwave before the fourth ring.
“Hello.”
“O’Dell, it’s Cunningham.”
She ran her fingers through her wet mass of short, dark hair and stood up straight, his voice setting her at attention.
“Hi. What’s up?”
“I just received a phone call from the Omaha field office. They have a murder victim, a little boy. Some of the wounds are characteristic of a serial killer in the same area about six years ago.”
“He’s on the prowl again?” She began pacing.
“No, the serial killer was Ronald Jeffreys. I don’t know if you remember the case. He murdered three boys—”
“Yes, I remember,” she interrupted him, knowing he hated long explanations. “Wasn’t he executed in June or July?”
“Yes … yes, in July, I believe.” His voice sounded tired.
Though it was Saturday afternoon, Maggie imagined him in his office behind the stacks on his desk. She could hear him rustling through papers. Knowing Director Kyle Cunningham, he already had Jeffreys’ entire file spread out in front of him. Long before Maggie started working under him in the Behavioral Science Unit, he had been affectionately nicknamed the Hawk because nothing got past him. Lately, however, it looked as though the sharp vision came at the expense of puffy eyes, swollen from too little sleep.
“So this might be a copycat.” She stopped and opened several drawers looking for a pen and paper to jot down notes, only to find carefully folded kitchen towels, sterile utensils lined up in annoyingly neat rows. Even the odd utensils, a corkscrew and can opener, lay flat in their respective corners, not touching or overlapping. She picked up a shiny serving spoon and turned it in the wrong direction, making sure it crossed over several others. Satisfied, she closed the drawer and began pacing again.
“It could be a copycat,” Cunningham said in a distracted tone. She knew he was reading the file while he talked, that worried indent between his brows, his glasses low on his nose. “It could be a one-time thing. The point is, they requested a profiler. Matter of fact, Bob Weston requested you specifically.”
“So I’m a celebrity even in Nebraska?” She ignored the annoyance in his voice. A month ago, it wouldn’t have been there. A month ago, he would have been proud that a protégé of his had been requested. “When do I leave?”
“Not so fast, O’Dell.” She clutched the phone and waited for the lecture. “I’m sure Weston’s pile of glowing reports about you didn’t include the last case file.”
Maggie stopped and leaned against the counter. She pressed the palm of her hand against her stomach, waiting, preparing for the nausea. “I certainly hope you’re not going to hold the Stucky case over my head every time I go out into the field.” The quiver in her voice sounded angry. That was good—anger was good, better than weakness.
“You know that’s not what I’m doing, Maggie.”
Oh, God. He had used her first name. This would be a serious lecture. She stayed put and dug her nails into a nearby hand towel.
“I’m simply concerned,” he continued. “You never took a break after Stucky. You didn’t even see the bureau psychologist.”
“Kyle, I’m okay,” she lied, irritated with the sudden tremor invading her hand. “It’s not like it was the first time. I’ve seen plenty of blood and guts in the past eight years. There’s not much that shocks me anymore.”
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Maggie, you were in the middle of that bloodbath. It’s a miracle you weren’t killed. I don’t care how tough you think you are, when the blood and guts get sprayed all over you, it’s a little different than walking in on it.”
She didn’t need the reminder. Fact was, it didn’t take much to conjure up the image of Albert Stucky hacking those women to death—his bloody death play performed just for Maggie. His voice still came to her in the middle of the night: “I want you to watch. If you close your eyes, I’ll just kill another one and another and another.”
She had a degree in psychology. She didn’t need a psychologist to tell her why she couldn’t sleep at night, why the images still haunted her. She hadn’t even been able to tell Greg about that night; how could she tell a complete stranger?
Of course, Greg hadn’t been around when she had staggered back to her hotel room. He’d been miles away when she tore pieces of Lydia Barnett’s brain out of her hair and scrubbed Melissa Stonekey’s blood and skin out of her pores. When she had dressed her own wound, an unsightly slit across her abdomen. And it wasn’t the kind of thing you talked about over the phone.
“How was your day, dear? Mine? Oh, nothing too exciting. I just watched two women get gutted and bludgeoned to death.”
No, the real reason she hadn’t told Greg was that he would have gone nuts. He would have insisted she quit, or worse, promise to work only in the lab, examining the blood and guts safely under a microscope and not under her fingernails. He had ranted and raved once before when she had confided in him. It had been the last time she had talked about