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An FBI forensics van arrived before we even got to the yellowtape and the cruisers. A hundred yards ahead, two more cruisers were parked, lights flashing, cutting off traffic from that direction. Beyond them, the first satellite-news van was pulling in.
“And the games begin again,” Sampson said.
“This is the sickest game I’ve ever heard of,” I said angrily, showing my identification to the troopers.
Once we were beyond the police barrier, Sampson said, “We know numbers?”
I shook my head. “The maid saw the grandmother and backed out.”
A short man in his mid-forties with sandy hair and wearing a blue FBI windbreaker came down the driveway toward us.
“You been inside?” Sampson asked.
“Waiting for you,” said Ned Mahoney, FBI special agent in charge. “You’re the only ones who’ve been to all the earlier crime scenes, and I wanted your eyes on the place first. See if Family Man has finally made a mistake.”
“Hope springs eternal,” I said. We walked up the driveway and saw a white Porsche Cayenne in one bay of the carriage house and a red Corvette in another.
“Big money?” Sampson said.
“The whole neighborhood is big money,” Mahoney said.
“What’s the maid’s story?” I asked.
Mahoney said she’d arrived at six a.m., her normal time, and came in through the kitchen door to find the family dog whining. After feeding the dog, she went into the mother-in-law’s apartment, also her routine.
“The maid saw grandma and got so upset, she had chest pain and couldn’t breathe after she called 911,” Ned said. “She’s in the ER with a uniformed officer now.”
We put on hazmat suits, blue booties, latex gloves, surgicalmasks, and hairnets so as not to contaminate the house with our own DNA.
The assassin the media had dubbed “the Family Man” had attacked twice before in the DC area, and twice before, we and a great team of forensic investigators had scoured the crime scenes top to bottom and did not come up with a single strand of DNA that did not belong to the victims or their immediate families or friends.
There had been no unidentified fingerprints either. And no footprints. No alarms triggered. No signs of tinkering at the locks. And the killer had left no witnesses and no suspicious footage of any kind on the security cameras in the surrounding areas.
Mahoney adjusted his mask and said, “Let’s go catch the perfect killer.”
“There’s no such thing,” I said.
“I don’t know, Alex,” Sampson said. “He hasn’t thrown a ball off the plate yet.”
CHAPTER 4
I HAD GROWN TOhate entering the Family Man’s crime scenes.
In my line of work, it was normal to come upon a murdered adult. It was all too common to encounter multiple victims. And while it was always shocking and disheartening to face slain children, it wasn’t unusual.
But it was almost unheard of to find three and sometimes four generations of a single family murdered, one after another, in the same house over the course of the same night. So far, the killer had given no reason, left no note, offered no insight whatsoever into his mind.
It enraged me and everyone else assigned to the case. Indeed, as we went into the house, I could see grim anger in the faces of every agent, detective, and forensics expert on hand.
Who shoots old people and children like that? With no emotion? And why? Goddamn it, why?
I had never seen anything like this case. The killings were all cold, technical, no signs of passion or obsession.
The seven newest victims—Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter, Granny Pearl, twelve-year-old twins Alice and Mary, nine-year-old Nick, and five-year-old Alan—had all been executed the same way the others had: shot at close range through the upper part of the skull.
Seeing the victims angered me even more, especially the kids, particularly the boys. Nick was a year younger than my son Ali, and Nick’s younger brother, Alan, had cerebral palsy. Mahoney and Sampson were equally shocked.
“What kind of sick, unfeeling bastard executes a special-needs kid?” Ned said.
