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I noticed that my supervisor, Gordon Nooney, wasn’t in the room of at least fifty agents. Then the meeting began on White Girl.
A senior agent named Walter Zelras stood in the front and started to show slides. He was professional but very dry. I almost felt as if I’d joined IBM or Chase Manhattan Bank instead of the FBI. Monnie whispered, “Don’t worry, it’ll get worse. He’s just warming up.”
Zelras had a droning speaking voice that reminded me of a professor I’d had a long time ago at Hopkins. Both Zelras and my former professor gave everything equal weight, never seemed excited or disturbed about the material they were presenting. Zelras’s subject was the connection the Connolly abduction might have had to several others in the past months, so it ought to have been spellbinding.
“Gerrold Gottlieb,” Monnie Donnelley whispered again. I smiled, almost laughed out loud. Gottlieb was the professor who used to drone on at Hopkins.
“Upscale, attractive white women,” Zelras was saying, “have been disappearing at a rate a little over three times the statistical norm over the past year. This is true both here in the States and in Eastern Europe. I’m going to pass around an actual catalogue showing women who were up for sale about three months ago. Unfortunately, we were unable to trace the catalogue back to whoever manufactured it. There was a Miami link, but it never went anywhere.”
When the catalogue got to me, I saw that it was black and white, the pages probably printed off the Internet. I quickly leafed through it. There were seventeen women shown, nude shots, along with details such as breast and waist size, “true” color of hair, and color of eyes. The women had unlikely nicknames like Candy, Sable, Foxy, Madonna, and Ripe. The prices ranged from $3,500 to $150,000. There was no further biographical information on any of the women and nothing at all about their personalities.
“We’ve been working closely with Interpol on what we suspect could be ‘white slave’ trading. FYI, ‘white slave’ refers to women bought and sold specifically for the purpose of prostitution. These days, the women are usually Asian, Mexican, and South American, not white, except in Eastern Europe. You should also note that at this time slavery is more globalized and technologized than ever in history. Some countries in Asia look the other way as women, and children, are sold—especially into Japan and India.
“In the past couple of years, a market has opened up for white women, particularly blondes. These women are sold for prices ranging from a few hundred up into the mid five figures and possibly higher. As I said, a significant market is Japan. Another is the Middle East, of course. The Saudis are the biggest buyers. Believe it or not, there’s even a market in Iraq and Iran. Questions at this point?”
There were several, mostly good ones, which showed me this was a savvy group that had been brought together.
I finally asked a question, though I was reluctant to as the FNG. “Why do we think Elizabeth Connolly is connected to the others?” I gestured around the room. “I mean, this connected?”
Zelras answered quickly. “A team took her. Kidnapping gangs are very common in the slave trade, especially in Eastern Europe. They’re experienced and very efficient at the abductions, and they’re connected into a pipeline. There’s usually a buyer before they take a woman like Mrs. Connolly. She would be high risk but very high reward. What makes this kind of abduction attractive is that there’s no ransom exchange. The Connolly abduction fits our profile.”
Someone asked, “Could a buyer request a specific woman? Is that a possibility?”
Zelras nodded. “If the money is right, yes, absolutely. The price might go into the six figures. We’re working that angle.”
Most of the remainder of the long meeting was taken up with discussion about Mrs. Connolly and whether we could find her quickly. The consensus was no. One detail was particularly perplexing: Why would the UNSUBS kidnap the victim in such a public place? Profit / ransom seemed the logical possibility, but there had been no ransom note. Had somebody specifically asked for Mrs. Elizabeth Connolly? If so—who? What was special about her? And why the mall? Surely there were easier abduction locations.
As we talked about her, a photograph of Mrs. Connolly and her three daughters remained on the screen at the front of the conference room. The four of them looked so close-knit and happy. It was scary, sad. I found myself thinking about being with Jannie on our front porch the night before.
Someone asked, “These women who’ve been abducted, have any of them been found?”
“Not one,” said Agent Zelras. “Our fear is that they’re dead. That the kidnappers—or whoever the kidnappers deliver them to—consider them disposable.”
Chapter 20
I RETURNED TO my orientation classes that day after the lunch break, and just in time for another of SSA Horowitz’s awful jokes. He held up a clipboard for us to see his material. “The official list of David Koresh’s theme songs. ‘You Light Up My Life,’ ‘I’m Burning Up,’ ‘Great Balls of Fire.’ My personal favorite: ‘Burning Down the House.’ Love the Talking Heads.” Dr. Horowitz seemed
to know that his jokes were bad, but black humor works with police officers, and his deadpan delivery was decent. Plus, he knew who had recorded “Burning Down the House.”
We had an hour session on “Management of Integrated Cases,” followed by “Law Enforcement Communication,” then “Dynamics of the Pattern Killer.” In the last course we were told that serial killers change, that they are “dynamic.” In other words, they get smarter and better at killing. Only the “ritual characteristics” remain the same. I didn’t bother to take notes.
The next class took place outdoors. We were all dressed in sport jackets, but with padded throat and face protectors for a “practical” at Hogans Alley. The exercise involved three cars in hot pursuit of a fourth. Sirens blared and echoed. Loudspeakers barked commands: “Stop! Pull over! Come out of the car with your hands up.” Our ammo, Simunition, consisted of cartridges with pink-paint-infused tips.
It was five o’clock by the time we finished the exercise. I showered and dressed, and as I was leaving the training building to go over to the dining hall building, where I had a cubicle, I saw SSA Nooney. He motioned for me to come over. What if I don’t want to?
“You headed back to D.C.?” he asked.
I nodded and bit down on my tongue. “In a while. I have some reports to read first. The abduction in Atlanta.”
“Big stuff. I’m impressed. The rest of your classmates spend their nights here. Some of them think it helps build camaraderie. I think so too. Are you an agent of change?”
I shook my head, then tried a smile on Nooney. Didn’t work.
“I was told from the start that I could go home nights. That isn’t possible for most of the others.”
Then Nooney began to push hard, trying to stir up old anger.
“I heard you had some problems with your chief of detectives in D.C. too,” he said.
