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“I’m guessing that the ‘eventually’ you’re referring to is what resulted in your getting your hand carved up.”
“Yes.” This was the tough part, because Sloane would forever blame herself for underestimating her attacker. “At the end of the standoff, SWAT went in. They handcuffed two of the subjects, including the obnoxious ringleader. The youngest subject, who was barely eighteen and built like a wiry monkey, tried to escape. He squirmed his way out the bathroom window and took off. Based on my position outside the bank, I was the first one to see him running. So I took off after him. I was way ahead of backup. I cornered him in an alley a few blocks from the bank. When I yelled for him to drop his weapon and get down on his knees, he did. I walked over to him. It wasn’t until I was handcuffing him that I holstered my gun.”
She didn’t excuse herself or make light of her actions. “I should have waited for Jake, so he could cover me. But I didn’t. I thought I had things under control. I was wrong. The wiry monkey was quick. He reached down and whipped out a switchblade from inside his boot. He pivoted around on his knees, and went at me. He sliced up my right hand until I dropped the handcuffs. And even then he didn’t stop. He slashed my hand a few more times for good measure. I knew he’d severed some serious blood vessels. The pain was excruciating, my palm was gushing blood, and I was so weak I couldn’t stand up. I saw him running past me, heading back up the alley to escape.”
Pausing, Sloane took another swallow of water, then studied her scarred palm as she finished up the story. “I acted on instinct. I grabbed my weapon with my left hand. I fired three shots. The last one hit that little SOB in the back. I saw him jerk from the impact and collapse to the ground. An instant later, Jake came tearing around the corner of the alley. That’s when I passed out.”
“And?”
“And the wiry monkey came through surgery just fine. Better than I did.” Sloane’s jaw tightened. “They removed the bullet from his lung. He’s healed—and behind bars. I testified at his trial. But Jake—if he’d gotten there one second sooner, he might have caught one of my stray bullets. If anything had happened to him, I’d never have forgiven myself. I can’t believe how stupid and reckless I was. That will never happen again.”
Derek frowned. “You’re being way too hard on yourself. The kid still had a knife in his hands. He could have stabbed Jake as he rounded the corner. As for the little shit himself, if I’d been in your shoes, he’d be dead.”
“No, he wouldn’t be.” Sloane managed a small smile. “I’m better with my weak hand than you are. You’d have missed him altogether.”
“You’re probably right.” Derek was watching her expression. “So after you passed out, that’s when they rushed you to the closest hospital, where you had the emergency surgery.”
“Mm-hmm. And you know the rest of the story.”
“Not really. I know where the hospital was, since I tried to visit you there. And I know the snatches of information you blurted out to me in the Stockton parking lot the other day.”
“That’s enough. There’s no point in going over an entire year of surgeries and physical therapy. I think I answered your question about why knives freak me out. Whether you choose to understand it or dismiss it is up to you.”
“And whether you choose to stop blaming yourself for what happened is up to you.”
Sloane gave him a hard stare. “I was a good agent, and a good hostage negotiator. I’ve got great instincts. And I’m smart. But not that time. That time I royally fucked up. I should have waited for backup. Because I didn’t, my whole life changed. An agent’s life was put at risk. And me…let’s leave it at that.”
Before Derek could answer, a resonating bing sounded from his laptop.
“E-mail.” Derek was already on his feet, heading to the coffee table, where he’d set up his computer.
“Is it from your forensic engineer?” Sloane asked, following close behind.
“Yup. And there’s an attachment. That’ll be the finalized jpeg.” Derek waited until Sloane was perched on the arm of his chair before opening Joe’s e-mail.
It read:
Derek—This is the best I could come up with. The lens flare is definitely a knife. From the size and shape of it, I’d guess it to be a Bowie type. And, based on body mass and physique, the shadow is a man. You can’t tell from the still, but when I watch it in motion, it looks like he’s drawing the knife out of its sheath. So you’ve got a subject and a weapon. Hope that helps. Let me know if you need anything else.—Joe
“Open the jpeg,” Sloane urged.
Derek clicked on the attachment, and he and Sloane watched the jpeg appear on the screen.
“He’s right,” Derek stated. “There’s no doubt about it. That’s the kidnapper and the weapon.”
“Absolutely.” Sloane squinted, peering at the details of the photo.
“Let’s go for broke.” Derek leaned forward, and punched the reply button.
Quickly, he typed:
Great work, Joe. This is spot-on. One more favor. Can you switch your analysis to the cameras that face the lake, and do an in-depth search from ten minutes before through ten minutes after the time stamp on this jpeg? With our Unsub taking out his knife, there’s a pretty good chance he’d spotted his prey. I’m hoping you can do the same.
FYI, Penelope Truman is medium height, with black shoulder-length hair. She’ll look more styled and sophisticated than the college girls. And she was wearing a red pant suit, which should make it easier to pick her out of the crowd. If you find her, follow the footage. Maybe we can pinpoint the location where the Unsub grabbed her. It’s a wooded area. Check clusters of trees and less populated sections of the lake path. Let me know if you find anything. Thanks—Derek.
“Good thinking.” Sloane rose from the arm chair. “But even without that added bonus, we have three definable victims. Which means the BAU can classify two of the victims as no-body homicides, and our Unsub as a serial killer.”
Sloane’s phone rang. She picked it up, hoping it was Larry. “Hello?”
