Page 15 of The Murder Between Us
Cole leaned back, watching the deputy when he thought he was alone. The young man faced the wall, almost out of sight, and pitched forward, bracing himself on both elbows as he squeezed his eyes shut.
Hayes appeared, coming out of his office and laying his hand on the deputy’s trembling shoulder. He leaned in, speaking softly into his ear. The deputy’s expression crumpled. He hung his head. A soundless, broken sob shuddered through him. Hayes guided him into his office and shut the door.
“That’s Deputy Garrett,” Noah said softly. “Bart Olson was his boss.”
“And someone important to him.”
Noah nodded. Silence fell over the room, heavy with unspoken words. “No sexual assault. Not in any of the victims,” Noah finally said. “We held that back from the press six years ago. Our perp is not a rapist or a necrophiliac. That’s not what is motivating him.”
“What is?” Cole looked up and met Noah’s gaze.
Noah stared back, frozen.
One of the sheriffs down the table leaned forward. He was an older man with a white walrus mustache, a thick head of silver hair, and a strong barrel chest. His name tag said “Clarke.” His Stetson sat on the table in front of him, crown down. The band inside was stained with sweat. He worked, and worked hard. No office liaising for this sheriff. “Dr. Kennedy,” Sheriff Clarke drawled, “isn’t answering that question why you’re here?”
Cole smiled. “Yes, sir, it is. I like to gather everyone’s thoughts and opinions first. Everything tells a story. The scene the killer leaves behind. The evidence, either present or absent. The killer’s MO. And even the reactions of law enforcement, the thoughts and feelings that arise after the crime. He’s leaving a trail behind him, if not through fingerprints and DNA, then through the crime itself. His desires. His fantasies. We’ll find that trail, and then we’ll find him. No one in this world is an island unto themselves, and no one can keep their secrets forever. Not anymore.”
The burly Sheriff Clarke nodded and sat back.
Cole’s gaze slid to Noah. He’d gone bone white, again, and hid his hands in the pockets of his khakis.
They fumbled through the rest of the debrief of the Olson autopsies. Cole kept his mouth shut, taking everything in, cross-checking the autopsies against the other six victims and taking notes as Noah spoke. Noah never regained his color, but there were other officers and FBI agents who’d also paled when the photos of the autopsies and crime scene started cycling on the screen.
The meeting broke up around one, and Cole spent the next hour introducing himself to the deputies, sheriffs, and FBI agents on the task force. Jacob hung in the back of the room, answering emails on his phone and keeping an eye on Cole. Noah had vanished.
Finally, the last of the agents left the conference room, leaving Cole and Jacob in what was obviously the task force command center. Cole sagged against the table, hitching his hip over the side as he sat and folded his arms. His gaze roamed the whiteboards: the details of each murder, the details of the victims. The Coed Killer was aptly named. His victim profile was clear. What else could they learn from his victimology?
“I was assigned to help you,” Jacob said, throwing himself into one of the chairs. Cole winced, expecting it to flatten beneath the man’s massive frame. “Whatever you need, I’m here for.”
“Right now,” Cole said, sighing as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need caffeine and a pizza.”
“You don’t get that body eating pizza,” Jacob said.
“I take it back. Bring me a nice, big, juicy, corn-fed steak. And whatever is in your Iowa water.”
Jacob laughed. “C’mon, I’ll show you the break room.”
He led Cole on the nickel tour, showing him the break room, bathrooms, and the bullpen of cubicles where the eight agents who made up the Des Moines FBI office worked. Some of the spare cubes were filled with deputies and local Des Moines cops, representatives assigned to the task force. Two offices lined the far wall: SAC John Hayes and ASAC Noah Downing.
“Where will I be working?”
“Where do you want to work?”
“In the conference room would be best. I need to get up to speed on this case. That seems to be the center of it all.”
“Then that’s where you’ll be. I’ll tell Noah and get the rest of the case files brought to you.” Jacob walked him back down the hall. Cole cut into the break room when he spotted a fresh pot of coffee brewing. Jacob followed, leaning in the doorframe. “Were you serious about the pizza?”
“Hell yes. Know any good local spots?”
Jacob grinned. “I’ll be back.” When he said it, he made Arnold Schwarzenegger seem childish.
Cole reached for a coffee cup and froze.
Noah leaned against the counter, his back to Cole, both hands braced on the countertop. His knuckles were white, as if he were trying to claw his way through the counter, grab on to something he could cling to. His back was rigid, spine taut. His muscles trembled beneath the stretched-tight fabric of his polo. He stared at the wall. Even from behind, Cole could see the pounding of his pulse in the tight line of his neck.
An empty coffee mug sat abandoned by the coffee pot, now done brewing.
Cole hadn’t meant to ambush Noah or trap him in the narrow break room. It was a single hallway, one long counter with cupboards, a sink, and a coffee pot crammed in next to the employee fridge. HR notices and office-wide emails were taped to the front, reminders about parking permit renewals and an office picnic.
