20
TULLY was trying to rub the exhaustion from his eyes when he heard the tap on his open door.
“Agent Tully, you’re here late.”
Assistant Director Cunningham wore shirtsleeves, but still carefully buttoned at the wrists and collar, whereas Tully’s sleeves were rolled up in uneven folds.
“I was waiting for a phone call from the medical examiner,” Tully explained.
“And?”
The assistant director leaned against the door, and Tully wondered if he should clear off one of the chairs. He sorted through his stack of notes, not wanting to depend on his memory, which at this time of night had shut down like a computer hard drive.
“The girl…the young woman had an incision in her left side that extended to the small of her back about four inches long. Dr. Holmes said it was very precise, almost as if he had performed surgery on her.”
“Sounds like our boy.”
“He removed her spleen.”
“A spleen isn’t very big, is it? It looked like there was much more in that pizza box.”
“Our victim hadn’t eaten much that day, so her spleen was fairly small. Dr. Holmes said that some of the pancreas was also attached.”
“Were there fingerprints found anywhere at the scene?”
“Yes, we got two pretty good ones—a thumb and an index finger. But they’re not matching Stucky’s. It seems as though they were left behind on purpose. The entire rim of the Dumpster was wiped down, and then there are these two fingerprints right smack in the middle. It may end up being a rookie cop’s. If it is, we’ll know in the next twenty-four hours.”
Cunningham frowned. “Double-check Stucky’s file. Make sure the prints haven’t been altered or that there were any computer mistakes. If I remember correctly, Agent O’Dell was finally able to identify him because of a fingerprint Stucky left behind. But it took us a while to identify it at the time. Someone hacked into the county computer system and switched the prints on file.”
“I’ll double-check, sir, but we’re not dealing with a county sheriff’s computer here. We’re checking these against prints on AFIS, taken directly off Stucky.” Automated Fingerprint Identification System was the FBI’s master database. Though it networked with local, state and federal agencies, dozens of precautions were in place against computer hackers.
“You’re probably right,” Cunningham conceded with a fatigue Tully hadn’t witnessed before.
“Sir, I haven’t found anything that would suggest Stucky is trying to send some sort of message by which organ he extracts. I wonder if I’m missing something.”
“No, you’re not missing anything. Stucky does this for shock value,” Cunningham said.
“Did he study to be a surgeon at some point?” Tully flipped through a file Agent O’Dell had put together on Stucky’s past. In many ways it read like a résumé for a Fortune 500 executive.
“His father was a doctor.” Cunningham wiped a hand over his jaw. Tully recognized the gesture as something his boss did when exhausted and trying to retrieve information from his vast memory bank. “If I remember correctly, Stucky and his partner started one of the first online stock-trading companies. Made millions and has it stashed in foreign banks.”
“If we could track some of those accounts, maybe we could track him.”
“The problem is we’ve never been able to find out how many different accounts he has or what names he uses. Stucky’s sharp.”
“Even Albert Stucky makes mistakes.”
“Let’s hope so. Have you found anything on where the victim may have been taken?”
Again, Tully dug out his notes, scrawled on everything from a napkin to a paper towel from the restroom.
“We know she was taken before she finished her route. There were some customers who called complaining they hadn’t received their pizzas. The manager is working on getting me a list of the addresses she was to deliver to.”
“Why is that taking so long?”
“They write down the addresses as the orders are phoned in. The delivery person takes the only copy.”
“Doesn’t seem very efficient.”
“It’s probably never been a problem until now. The lab is trying to raise the addresses from the indentations on the notepad page underneath. Of course, our best bet is if we find the victim’s car. Maybe the lists will have been left behind.”
“Any luck finding the car?”
“Not yet. I got the make, model and plate number from DMV. Detective Rosen put out an APB. Nothing’s shown up so far.”
“Have Reagan National and Dulles airport security check their long-term parking lots.”
“Good idea.” Tully jotted another note to himself, this time using the cash-register receipt from his lunch.
“He had to take her someplace,” Cunningham said, lost in thought. “Somewhere he could have plenty of uninterrupted time with her. I’m guessing he didn’t go far from where he apprehended her.”
“The thing is, sir, I’ve driven around within a ten-mile radius of where the body was found. The whole area is this picture-book community. We’re not going to find any abandoned warehouses or condemned buildings.”
“It’s also easy to miss the most obvious place. You can bet Stucky will be gambling on us doing just that. What else do you have?” he asked more brusquely now, suddenly in a rush.
“There was a cell phone recovered from the Dumpster. It was reported stolen a few days ago from a local mall. I’m hoping it’ll lead us someplace, depending on what calls were placed.”
“Good. Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.” Cunningham started to leave. “Now, you need to go home, Agent Tully. Spend some time with your daughter.”
“Sir?”
Cunningham stopped halfway into the hall.
Tully wasn’t sure how to ask. “Should I give Agent O’Dell a call?”
“No.” The answer was brisk and firm.
“What part of my answer did you not understand, Agent Tully?”
Again, his manner was firm without raising his voice. Then he turned and left.