CHAPTER THREE

The jet the FBI chartered wasn't opulent, but they had legroom and a table between their side-facing chairs. It was a little disconcerting to be in a plane that was barely larger than Michael's SUV, but the takeoff was smooth enough.

"Besides," Michael said, pulling out a bottle of champagne and two glasses. "They have a mini fridge."

"You know they're going to charge the Bureau for that," Faith reminded him.

"The Bureau should know that I will milk them for every dime they're worth by now," Michael said. He poured both of them a glass and placed hers in front of her.

She sighed and took a sip.

"See?" Michael said. "You're just as bad as me."

"Grumble, grumble, go to hell," Faith said dismissively. "So talk to me. What do we think about these murders?"

"They're sick," Michael replied.

She rolled her eyes. "Astute analysis, Special Agent."

He shrugged. "That's an important observation. These are not natural ways to pose a body. If both of them were starfished, I'd say this was entirely a sex thing. You know, leaving them vulnerable and ‘open.' God, I hate having to talk about this so clinically."

"McDonalds is hiring if you want a different job," Faith quipped. "But I agree with you. I'm not ready to say that there's no sexual component since both victims are attractive women stripped naked and left unblemished, but I agree that the poses aren't meant to be sexual."

"So what are they meant to be?"

"That's an excellent question," Faith replied, "and one we should answer. Another question we should answer is why the powder?"

"And why is the powder on Cassidy Holt black while the powder on Samantha Reynard is white?"

The two of them fell silent for a moment and studied the pictures. Turk trotted over and looked at the images himself. "See anything boy?" Faith asked.

Turk snorted and trotted back to his place in between the two front-facing seats at the front of the cabin.

"Yeah, me either," Faith said. She cocked her head. "Actually, I do. The bodies are posed carefully, but the powder is sprinkled randomly around the victims."

"So the powder is less important?"

"Or it's less important that the powder be arranged meticulously. Maybe it just needs to be on the body."

"What's the significance of that?"

"I don't know," Faith admitted. "Maybe nothing. But I'm pointing it out in case it means something."

Michael leaned back and crossed his arms thoughtfully. "The powder might not be meticulously placed, but the body was, just like you said. I think that pose matters more than the powder."

"At least the exactness of the pose," Faith agreed. "So tell me about Cassidy Holt."

"She was a freelance graphic designer. Not so much an artist as a content creator."

"What do you mean content creator?"

"Focused on practical business applications rather than making things look pretty," Michael explained. "An artist might arrange something creatively to evoke a certain emotion or to deliver something unique. A graphic designer is trying to accomplish a business purpose. There's a lot of overlap between the terms, but specifically in Cassidy's case, she made her clients' websites eye-catching, simple to understand and conducive to sales."

"What was she doing in the Chicago Botanic Garden at night?"

"She received permission to take some pictures of the garden at night."

"For a client?"

"If so, that client isn't named in the file."

Faith took a sip of her champagne and let the sparkling liquid dance across her tastebuds. "So she was alone. Our killer would have had to know that."

"We'll make sure to talk to the manager of the garden," Michael said. "Chicago P.D.'s already warned him to expect us."

"Good. What about Samantha Reynard?"

"Yoga instructor for a place called Lake Yoga. The studio's about ten miles south of the garden. Both places are located within a mile of Lake Michigan. Not sure if that means anything."

"It might. We'll need to find out if anyone knew both women. Maybe one of Samantha's students works at the garden."

"Or maybe Cassidy Holt was one of Samantha's students too."

Faith nodded. "So we'll follow up on that connection. In the meantime, we have two women in the same age group, both attractive and stripped naked, then posed. No sign of sexual assault, but I will be surprised if sex isn't a component somehow."

"They're both attractive," Michael agreed, "but both very different. Cassidy is petite and has long brunette hair and a curvier body type. Samantha is tall and athletic with a slender body type. Short hair too, close to a bob cut." Faith glanced up at him. "What? If sex is a component of this crime, then those differences will matter. People usually have a preferred body type they're attracted to. We have two different body types here. Both attractive, but a different kind of attractive."

Faith shrugged. "I'll allow the speculation. But it's just as possible that our guy doesn't feel attractive. He might not have had any success with women. If that's the case, he won't be picky."

"I don't buy that," Michael challenged. "Serial killers can be indiscriminate, but I don't think this guy's indiscriminate."

"He is in some ways," Faith countered, "and not in others. Bodies posed carefully; powder scattered carelessly. Women stripped naked but different body types."

"Good point," Michael conceded. "What about the cause of death? Snapping someone's neck is pretty vicious."

"Yes," Faith agreed. "It's also clean and quick."

"He wanted to avoid soiling the bodies?"

"Maybe. Probably. If he stripped them naked, then their forms were important to him. He wouldn't want them marred."

"Except for the ugly purple bruising and the misshapen lumps in their neck."

"Everything's a compromise."

Michael sighed. "Well, whoever this guy is, let's get him off the streets before more people end up exhibited like that."

"I second that motion."

***

They were met at O'Hare by a quiet, serious young man who informed them that Detective Hilary was dealing with a family emergency but would meet them first thing in the morning. He handed them the keys to a police cruiser, then left to join his partner, who waited in another cruiser.

"Must be a hell of an emergency," Michael observed.

"Detectives at the bigger police departments tend to resent the FBI interfering in their cases," Faith said. "Hilary might be pissed that his bosses called us."

"Maybe. Either way, I hope he gets his shit figured out soon. This guy's already moving fast."

"They all move fast these days."

He frowned at her. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

They got into the cruiser and drove to the garden. The Chicago Botanic Garden was located in Glencoe a half hour from the Airport. They reached it just as the sun dipped completely behind the western horizon. The garden had closed an hour ago, and when the three of them entered, they found only the maintenance crew poking around the garden.

A short, balding man with an enormous midsection met them in the lobby of the small gift shop just past the ticket counter. He shook their hands, and Faith resisted the urge to wipe the sweat off on her pants.

The man mopped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and introduced himself as Grant Brower, the director of the garden. "I'll show you the scene," he said. "It's been cleaned already, but it's still roped off."

"Can you tell me about what happened?" Faith asked.

Brower sighed. "Well, we got a call from a Miss Cassidy Holt four days ago. She said she was a graphic designer and wanted to take some pictures of the garden at night for a project."

"Did she mention who her client was?"

"No. She just said a project. The garden is closed at night, but we frequently allow individuals or small groups after hours if they call ahead. We told her she could have four hours to take as many pictures as she wanted but stressed that she couldn't touch any of the plants. She arrived, the four hours passed, and my night security manager realized that she hadn't left. He began looking for her to tell her it was time to go home. He found her in a small clearing near our Alpine Forest exhibit. She was… well, you saw the pictures, I'm sure."

"So she was killed on the grounds, and no one heard anything?"

"She didn't make any noise. I reviewed the security cameras too. There were no alerts and no screaming. Also, just so I get ahead of the question, the cameras show all of our employees at all times. They weren't responsible for the murder."

"They show your employees, but not Cassidy Holt or her killer?"

"They show Cassidy every now and then?"

"Every now and then?"

He reddened a little. "Well, we don't have cameras covering every square inch of the garden. It hasn't been necessary. Nothing happens here. Not even gift shop theft. People who visit botanical gardens aren't the criminal type. The worst we've dealt with are a few hippies picking flowers."

"Let's save the excuses," Faith said. "When's the last time Cassidy Holt was seen alive?"

"About ten-thirty. That's about forty minutes before she was found dead."

"And you saw no one else leave the garden until the head of security found her?"

"No one. No strangers, no unauthorized entry, none of my employees."

He stepped in front of a roped off section in front of a stand of towering spruce trees. "This is where she was found. Up until about ninety yards back, we have cameras."

"Is there a way to get inside the park and get here without being seen by cameras?" Michael asked.

Brower sighed. "Yes. You would have to climb a fence, but it's not electric or razor wire or anything. It's… we never thought anything like this would happen."

"Tell me how you would do it."

Brower pointed east. In the distance, Faith could see a high fence made of iron or steel. It would be a challenging climb, but not very challenging. She could scale it easily.

"You go from there, then you cut north until you're on the other side of the lily pond. Then you hug the pond for ten yards. Go behind the willow trees and loop south through the eucalyptus, then it's a gentle zigzag."

"Which of your employees would know about that path."

Brower lowered his eyes. "Well… I don't know, but you wouldn't have to work here to figure it out."

Faith lifted an eyebrow, and Brower pointed to a few poles with very visible cameras pointed at very visible angles toward the ground. "I imagine you could figure out how to avoid them if you paid attention," Brower said.

"Probably," Faith agreed.

She looked at the roped-off section. It looked spotless to her, but Turk sniffed around curiously.

"You get something, boy?" she asked.

Turk sniffed around a moment longer, then trotted to Faith. He looked around as though something drifted just on the edge of his senses, but after another moment, he gave up trying to find it.

"I'm really sorry," Brower said. "We never imagined someone would get hurt here. We'll beef up our security procedures and get better cameras." He looked forlornly at the roped-off section. "I guess we're too late for Cassidy, though."

"Don't be too hard on yourself," Faith said. "It's very difficult to understand how far people will go to hurt other people." For some of us, anyway.

Brower sighed. "Well, if you need anything else, my phone's always on. Otherwise, I wish you three luck."

"Thank you," Faith replied. She had a feeling they would need it.