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“We heard he’d died,” Logan said. “But it was made to sound as if he’d died of natural causes. Maybe something like a heart attack.”
Alex had been saddened when the man’s death was announced, and like Logan, she’d assumed he died of some kind of physical problem. But murdered?
John Davis was instrumental in forming the BAU. She’d read every book he’d written about the cases he’d worked. Most books several times. He was almost a father figure to behavioral analysts. He really understood the job. Understood the agents who dealt with crimes they couldn’t mention to anyone because they were too awful. Too graphic. She’d also read D. J. Harper’s books. Great mystery novels that stayed on point with the facts. He did his research, and it showed.
“The police have kept the circumstances under wraps,” Jeff said, “although they may not be able to keep them quiet for long.”
“So the police have asked for our help,” Logan said, stating the obvious. “I take it they have no suspects?”
“Correct. The door to his hotel room was locked from the inside. No fingerprints on the knife except Davis’s. The knife was delivered by room service with his breakfast of steak and eggs early Saturday morning.”
“Maybe he was trying to pull the knife out,” Alex said.
“If he was, he failed. It was plunged deep into his chest up to the handle.”
“Are you trying to tell us Davis killed himself?” Monty asked.
“No one could have entered that room,” Jeff said. “Not when it was locked from the inside and on the third floor.”
“No balcony?” Kaely asked.
“No. Nor did any of the rooms on either side or above or below have one.”
The room was silent as the agents looked at each other.
“What’s going on, Jeff?” Alex said slowly. “We don’t get called in to help with suicides.”
Jeff didn’t answer, just turned toward a large TV on the wall. He picked up a remote, pointed it at the screen, and turned it on. Alex stared at the TV, where she saw a screenshot from an email message: Those in law enforcement pay a heavy price when they constantly look into the dark minds of evil.
“Davis received this email Saturday night after the close of the convention.”
“Do we know who sent it?” Monty asked.
“It’s being investigated now, but so far no one’s been able to track it.”
“I’m fairly certain that’s a line from one of Davis’s books,” Alex said. “It was at the beginning. You know, like an introduction.” Alex had practically memorized his books.
Jeff frowned at her. “That’s right,” he said. He clicked the remote, and a photo of John Davis’s body appeared on the screen. He was lying on top of a bed. Alex would have thought he was sleeping except for the knife sticking out of his chest.
“If this was murder, it was personal,” Kaely said. “Stabbing someone means you have to get close to them. We all know that kind of killer wants to enjoy the experience, wants to look their victim in the eye and make sure they know why they’re going to die. But you’re telling us no one was in the room except Davis? Yet you don’t think this was suicide?”
“Hang on,” Jeff said. He clicked the remote again, and another image that looked like a page from a book came on the screen. He enlarged it so it could be easily read. Some of the sentences had been highlighted: In those early days, I worked with several great agents. The success we had didn’t belong to one person. We were a team, each agent bringing his special skills to our efforts.
“That’s also from Davis’s book,” Alex said. “Where did this come from?”
“It was in an envelope on the nightstand. The police suspect someone shoved it under Davis’s door.”
Alex shook her head and stared at Jeff. “So the police want us to go to Bethesda and create a profile of someone who can get into locked rooms and kill people? Someone who also likes to quote from Davis’s book?” She shook her head. “Are we to consider a ghostly bookworm?”
The sides of Jeff’s mouth quirked up. “No, no ghosts. But the police want you to help them find the person responsible. And there’s more.”
He clicked another button, and a shaky video popped up. Someone was pointing what appeared to be a phone’s camera toward a window. Inside the room, a woman sat near a fireplace. She appeared to be reading. Then a deep voice—clearly altered electronically—said, “Thank you for joining me, John. As you can see, I’m here with Susan.” Suddenly, the barrel of a gun filled the screen. “I’m a great shot, and if you don’t do exactly as I say, your dear wife will die.”
The person speaking laughed. It was awful. High-pitched and cold.
“I’m going to count to thirty, and by the time I’ve finished, you must be dead. Thirty seconds doesn’t give you enough time to call your friends at the FBI to help Susan. They’ll never make it in time. It just gives you enough time to do what I say. I think by now you realize you’re being watched, that I know exactly what you’re doing. I want you to die. I want you to know I outsmarted you, so don’t try to block my view. Don’t try to hide in the bathroom. And don’t bother begging for your life. I have no compassion. If you pick up that phone by your bed or do anything except what I’ve told you to do, Susan dies.”
The speaker paused a moment, then began to count. “One ... two ... three ... four ... five ... six ... seven...” When the speaker reached the number thirty, the screen went dark.
