“Front row, two over from the end, there’s a girl holding a stack of books. Under them, she’s got a concert flyer.”
“Good eye, Agent Barrois.” He stepped behind the lectern and spread two fingers on his laptop screen to enlarge and recenter the flyer. “Pearl Jam. Salzburg. June 18, 2000.” Rotating back to the whiteboard, he sketched another smaller box. “So we’re talking Duke Law, Summer 2000, in Europe.” He shuffled the slides back to the class rosters, to the one in question—and powered off the screen. “And we’ll find out who the lady in red is when we return to this lesson next month.”
Laughs, groans, and more than a few no fair protests came at him. As did a line of trainees afterward, each of them trying to extract more clues from him. It boded well for an interactive class. Caught up in their enthusiasm, Lincoln forgot about his other audience until Beverley appeared at the bottom of the raised classroom’s steps. Lincoln finished giving Barrois the list of additional resources she requested, then once she’d exited, removed his glasses and turned to Beverley. “Sorry about that, sir.”
“Was worth it for the My Cousin Vinny reference.” Beverley smiled, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening. But the amused expression faded as quickly as it had come, the director stoic again in a blink.
“Guessin’ you’re not here for nineties nostalgia,” Lincoln said.
“’Fraid not. And I’m afraid your class isn’t going to learn the identity of the lady in red.”
Fuck. Lincoln mentally rewound the events of the past few months again. No major infractions he could recall. Whatever he’d done, it had to have been relatively minor. Surely not severe enough to cost him his job. “Look, whatever I did?—”
“We need your help on a case, Agent Monroe.”
Lincoln snapped his mouth shut. Not the direction he’d anticipated—his mind tended to jump to worst-case scenarios—but this wasn’t an unfamiliar swerve. He’d been pulled onto cases more often lately, especially those involving forensic genealogy. A colleague’s instrumental role in catching the Golden State Killer had brought increased attention to their specialty. Judging by the grim countenance on Beverley’s face, the case he was here about today was on that same level.
Lincoln suspected he knew which one. It had been all over the news this week, and he had a file cabinet full of research about this particular killer. He had wanted to offer his assistance earlier, especially given his personal connection to the latest pair of victims, but he’d been with the Bureau long enough to know the protocol. And to know his personal connection could work against him. The higher-ups would rope him in if and when he was needed. And now here stood Beverley.
“Which case?” he asked.
“Dr. Fear,” the director confirmed.
Lincoln’s old friend stage fright nipped at his heels, but along with it was excitement, bubbling out to his fingers and toes. The same excitement that carried him into this lecture hall every day, that made him eager instead of terrified to stand in front of each new class of future agents and share what he had learned and the methods he had perfected. But he wasn’t only here for the Bureau’s trainees. There were field agents to support, his own curiosity to assuage, and mentors he owed his badge to. Beverley was offering him the chance to put all of his knowledge to work on a career-making case.
Stage fright could fuck right off. “How can I help?”
Lincoln would be lying if he said he hadn’t walked past the Dr. Fear situation room a time or twenty since news broke of the serial killer’s reemergence. Yes, he understood how protocol worked, but he was a trained investigator, same as every agent at Quantico, and according to his daughter, he had the disposition of a lovable-yet-pissy house cat. Curiosity went hand in hand with his kind. Maybe, he’d thought, someone would notice him pacing outside the situation room. Would ask him in and request his input on the subject of his thesis, who had struck again after a dozen years of dormancy.
But no one had ever asked him inside, and today no one asked his opinion as Beverley ushered him into the room. The case agents, several from Violent Crimes, acknowledged them with cursory nods, then those around the table returned to their laptops and those in front of the television flipped the channel to another news program. Five sets of photos flashed on-screen, all of them couples. Three of the pairs were the last set of Dr. Fear’s victims from twelve years ago, a different pair were the victims found earlier this week, and the last pair were the couple who’d disappeared yesterday: Chase Wyatt and his fiancée, Ruby Kirk, the latter the daughter of Senator Oliver Kirk, the former federal agent who’d last tracked Dr. Fear.
And Lincoln’s mentor.
“Is there a new development?” Lincoln asked as Beverley led him toward a door at the far end of the situation room. Something had to have prompted the director to finally bring him in.
“We’re not sure yet.”
Was that the first time he’d ever heard Beverley utter an equivocation? Confused the shit out of Lincoln. “I’m sorry, I don’t?—”
Beverley opened the door, and Lincoln promptly shut the fuck up. Standing around the table in the smaller conference room was a who’s who of DC Metro law enforcement—FBI DC’s Special Agent in Charge, MPD’s chief of police, the top US marshal for DC—and a haggard-looking Senator Oliver Kirk. Beverley closed the door behind them, and despite six men shoved into a room suited for four, it was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. “What’s going on?” Lincoln asked, his voice megaphone-loud in the eerie silence.
Oliver lifted his gaze, meeting Lincoln’s from across the room. “I need your help, L.”
Lincoln didn’t hesitate. Shoving aside anyone in his way, he rounded the table and dragged the senator into a crushing hug. Probably not Lincoln’s most professional moment, but this was the one person who, in a time when Lincoln hadn’t been sure of anything, had been sure of him. By the force of the embrace returned, Oliver needed the comfort too. “Anything, Ollie, you know that.” Lincoln drew back and patted his mentor’s scruffy cheek. “I’m honestly a little ticked it took you this long to bring me in.”
“Not my call.” Oliver sank into his chair and pushed out the adjacent empty one for Lincoln. “I would have assigned you as soon as the first bodies dropped.”
“That was my call,” the DC SAC said as the rest of the men took their seats. “Those bodies were in our jurisdiction.”
“Technically, ours,” the chief of police countered.
Lincoln side-eyed the marshal, awaiting his useless contribution to the pissing match.
The marshal shrugged. “I’m just the referee.” Maybe not so useless.
“Violent Crimes has been coordinating here,” Beverley added.
Lovely, an interagency pissing match too.
