Dean was the son of a serial killer. Michael had anger management issues and a father who’d traded him to the FBI for immunity from prosecution on white-collar crimes. Lia was a compulsive liar—and apparently had some kind of juvie record. Sloane had her catapult aimed at Agent Sterling’s head.
And then there was me.
“Lia, just humor her and take the test.” Agent Briggs sounded very much like someone whose head was beginning to pound.
“Humor me?” Agent Sterling repeated. “You’re telling her to humor me?” Sterling’s voice went up a decibel.
“Lia already took the test.” Dean spoke up before Agent Briggs had a chance to reply. Everyone in the room turned to look at him. “She’s a human lie detector. She can do multiple choice questions in her sleep.”
Detecting lies was as much about the words people used as the way they said them. If there was a pattern to the way the test makers wrote the questions, a subtle difference between the true answers and the false ones, a deception detector would find it.
Lia shot Dean a dirty look. “You never let me have any fun,” she muttered.
Dean ignored her and directed his next words at Agent Sterling. “You have a case? Work your case. Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine.”
I got the feeling that what he was really saying was I’ll be fine. For all her talk about liabilities, Agent Sterling seemed to need to hear that.
You and Briggs caught Daniel Redding, I thought, watching Agent Sterling carefully. You saved Dean. Maybe Briggs’s ex wasn’t okay with the idea that she’d saved Dean for this. We lived in a house where serial killers’ pictures dotted the walls. There was an outline of a dead body sketched on the bottom of our pool. We lived and breathed death and destruction, Dean and I even more than the others.
If she’s got something against this program, why would the director draft her as Locke’s replacement? Something about this entire situation just didn’t add up.
Briggs’s phone vibrated. He looked to Sterling. “If you’re done here, the local PD is contaminating our crime scene as we speak, and some idiot thought it would be a bright idea to talk to the press.”
Agent Sterling cursed viciously under her breath, and I changed my mind about the makeup and the nail polish, the way she was dressed, the way she talked. None of it was about presenting an image of professionalism to the rest of the world. It wasn’t a protective layer to keep the rest of the world out.
She did it, all of it, to keep the old Veronica Sterling—the one Dean had described—in.
As I turned that thought over in my head, Briggs and Sterling took their leave. The moment the front door closed behind them, Lia, Michael, and Sloane bolted for the TV control. Sloane got there first. She flipped the television on to a local news channel. It took me a moment to realize why.
Some idiot thought it would be a bright idea to talk to the press.
Agent Briggs wouldn’t tell us anything about an active case. The Naturals program was only authorized to work on cold cases. But if the press had gotten wind of whatever it was that had sent Briggs’s team out on a new assignment, we wouldn’t have to rely on Briggs for information.
“Let’s see what Mommy and Daddy are up to, shall we?” Lia said, eyeing the TV greedily and waiting for the fireworks to commence.
“Lia, I will give you one thousand dollars to never refer to Sterling and Briggs as Mommy and Daddy again.”
Lia gave Michael a speculative look. “Technically true,” she said, assessing his promise. “But you don’t come into your trust fund until you turn twenty-five, and I’m not much of a believer in delayed gratification.”
I hadn’t even known that Michael had a trust fund.
“Breaking news.” All conversation in the room ceased as a female reporter came onto the screen. She was standing in front of a building with a Gothic spire. Her hair was wind-whipped, her expression serious. There was an odd energy to the moment, something that would have made me stop and watch even if I didn’t already have some idea of what was coming.
“I’m standing here outside of Colonial University in northern Virginia, where today, the sixty-eight hundred students who comprise the Colonial student body saw one of their own brutally murdered—and gruesomely displayed on the university president’s lawn.”
The screen flashed to a picture of a plantation-style house.
“Sources say that the girl was bound and tortured before being strangled with the antenna of her own car and displayed on the hood. The car and the body were found parked on Colonial president Larry Vernon’s front lawn early this morning. The police are currently investigating every lead, but a source within the police department has been quoted as saying that this man, Professor George Fogle, is a person of interest.”
Another picture flashed briefly onto the screen: a man in his late thirties, with thick, dark hair and an intense gaze.
“Professor Fogle’s courses include the popular Monsters or Men: The Psychology of Serial Murder, the syllabus for which promises that students will become ‘intimately familiar with the men behind the legends of the most horrific crimes ever committed.’”
The reporter held her hand to her ear and stopped reading from the teleprompter. “I’ve gotten word that a video of the body, taken from a student phone shortly after the police arrived at the scene, has been leaked online. The footage is said to be graphic. We’re awaiting a statement from local police on both the crime itself and the lack of security that allowed such footage to be taken. This is Maria Vincent, for Channel Nine News.”
Within seconds, the television was muted and Sloane had located the leaked footage on her laptop. She positioned the screen so that we could see it and hit play. A handheld camera zoomed in on the crime scene. Graphic was an understatement.
Not one of the five of us looked away. For Lia and Michael, it might have been morbid curiosity. For Sloane, crime scenes were data: angles to be examined, numbers to be crunched. But for Dean and for me, it wasn’t about the scene.
It was about the body.
There was an intimate connection between a killer and the person they’d killed. Bodies were like messages, full of symbolic meanings that only a person who understood the needs and desires and rage that went into snuffing out another life could fully decode.
This isn’t a language anyone should want to speak. Dean was the one who’d told me that, but beside me, I could feel his eyes locked on to the screen, the same as mine.