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“Who do we deal with on the federal side in Virginia? Not Murdock?”
“I know the RA in Charlottesville,” Sean said, referring to the Resident FBI Agent. “He’s a good guy. Owes me a favor, in fact.”
“Lots of people seem to owe you. What’s his debt?”
“I wrote a recommendation letter for his daughter to get into UVA Law.”
“That’s all?”
“Well, I got him tickets to the Skins-Cowboys game in D.C. He’s originally from Dallas.”
“Now that is valuable.”
The FBI agent was suitably cooperative. And he told them something that was particularly intriguing.
“I know Brandon Murdock. He’s a good guy. But I don’t know why he would be involved in something like this.”
“Why’s that?” asked Sean.
“He doesn’t work VICAP,” the man said, referring to the Bureau’s Violent Crime Apprehension Program, which also dealt with serial killers.
“What does he do?”
“Went to D.C. a while back.”
“So, Hoover, WFO?” asked Michelle, referring to the FBI headquarters and the Bureau’s Washington Field Office, respectively.
“No.” He looked doubtful. “I shouldn’t be talking about this with you, Sean.”
“Come on, Barry. I’m not going to go blab it. You know me.”
“And he got you the Cowboy tickets,” Michelle reminded him.
The man grinned wryly. “Okay, Murdock is with the counterterrorism unit. Really specialized stuff.” He pointed a finger at Sean. “And I expect tickets for this. And better seats.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Next, Sean and Michelle spent time with the local prosecutor, who had heard about Hilary Cunningham’s death.
“You’re right, Sean,” the prosecutor had said. “This thing is really starting to stink.”
They were given copies of the file on the Roy case and then drove out to the farm. It was isolated, with one dirt road in and out, the Blue Ridge Mountains as a backdrop, and not another house, car, or even stray cow in sight. Michelle pulled her Land Cruiser to a dusty stop in front of the one-story, wood-planked house, and they stepped out.
Though the crime scene had long since been released, strands of yellow police tape still hung down from the front porch posts. Twenty yards west of the house was a two-story barn painted dark green with a cedar shake roof. In the back they could see a chicken coop and a small split-rail corral that looked far too small for horses.
“Pigsty,” noted Michelle, as she glanced at it.
“Thanks for the insight,” said Sean. “I thought they might have been breeding really small horses.”
“Bodies in the barn.”
“Six of them. All men. All white. All John Does as of now.”
They found the front door locked, but a minute later it was unlocked due to Michelle’s delicate manipulations of the deadbolt.
The house had a simple floor plan, and it didn’t take them long to make their way through it. Michelle picked out one of the books from a wall shelf full of them. She looked at the spine. “The only word I recognize in this title is the.”
“Well, you’re not a genius.”
