whiskey or cigarettes. His own quid pro quo had been both simple and deeply unsettling.
He’d wanted her to tell him things about her.
“Something that you don’t want people to know,” he’d said. “Something you wouldn’t want anybody to know.”
Riley had complied, maybe too readily. Now Hatcher knew all sorts of things about her – that she was a flawed mother, that she hated her father and didn’t go to his funeral, that there was sexual tension between her and Bill, and that sometimes – like Hatcher himself – she took great pleasure in violence and killing.
She remembered what he’d said during their last visit.
“I know you. In some ways, I know you better than you know yourself.”
Could she really match wits with such a man? Meredith was sitting there, patiently awaiting an answer to his question.
“I’m as ready as I can be,” she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt.
“Good,” Meredith said. “How do you think we should proceed?”
Riley thought for a moment.
“Bill and I need to look at all the information on Shane Hatcher that the Agency has on hand,” she said.
Meredith nodded and said, “I’ve already got Sam Flores setting things up.”
A few minutes later, Riley, Bill, and Meredith were in the BAU conference room looking at the huge multimedia display that Sam Flores had put together. Flores was a lab technician with black-rimmed glasses.
“I think I’ve got everything you could possibly want to see,” Flores said. “Birth certificate, arrest records, court transcripts, the works.”
Riley saw that it was an impressive display. And it certainly didn’t leave much to the imagination. There were several gruesome photos of Shane Hatcher’s murdered victims, including the mangled cop lying on his own front porch.
“What information do we have about the cop Hatcher killed?” Bill asked.
Flores brought up a batch of photos of a hearty-looking police officer.
“We’re talking about Officer Lucien Wayles, forty-six years old when he died in 1986,” Flores said. “He was married with three kids, awarded a Medal of Valor, well-liked and respected. The FBI teamed up with local cops and nailed Hatcher within days after Wayles was killed. What’s amazing is that they didn’t beat Hatcher to a pulp right then and there.”
Scanning the display, Riley was most struck by the photos of Hatcher himself. She barely recognized him. Although the man she knew could be intimidating, he managed to project a respectable, even bookish demeanor, with a pair of reading glasses always perched on his nose. The young African American in the 1986 mugshots had a lean, hard face and a cruel, empty stare. Riley had a hard time believing that it was the same person.
As detailed and complete as the display was, Riley felt dissatisfied. She had thought that she knew Shane Hatcher as well as anybody alive. But she didn’t know this Shane Hatcher – the vicious young gangbanger called “Shane the Chain.”
I’ve got to get to know him, she thought.
Otherwise, she doubted that she could possibly catch him.
Somehow, she felt that the cold, digital feeling of the display was working against her. She needed something more tangible – actual glossy photographs with folds and frayed edges, yellowed and brittle reports and documents.
She asked Flores, “Could I get a look at the originals of these materials?”
Flores let out a slight snort of disbelief.
“Sorry, Agent Paige – but not a chance. The FBI shredded all its paper files in 2014. Now all of it is scanned and digitized. What you see is all we’ve got.”
Riley let out a sigh of disappointment. Yes, she remembered all that shredding of millions of paper files. Other agents had complained, but back then it hadn’t seemed like a problem to her. Now she fairly itched for some old-fashioned palpability.
But right now, the important thing was to figure out Hatcher’s next move. An idea occurred to her.
“Who was the cop who brought Hatcher in?” she asked. “If he’s still alive, Hatcher’s liable to target him first.”
“It wasn’t a local cop,” Flores said. “And it wasn’t a ‘he.’”
He brought up an old photo of a woman agent.
“Her name was Kelsey Sprigge. She was an FBI agent at the Syracuse office – was thirty-five years old at the time. She’s seventy now, retired and living in Searcy, a town near Syracuse.”
Riley was surprised that Sprigge was a woman.
“She must have joined the bureau – ” Riley began.
Flores continued her thought.
“She signed up in 1972, when J. Edgar’s corpse was barely cold. That was when women were finally allowed to apply to be agents. She’d been a local cop before then.”
Riley was impressed. Kelsey Sprigge had lived a lot of history.
“What can you tell me about her?” Riley asked Flores.
“Well, she’s a widow with three children and three grandchildren.”
“Call the Syracuse FBI field office and tell them to do whatever they can to keep Sprigge safe,” Riley said. “She’s in serious danger.”
Flores nodded.
Then she turned to Meredith.
“Sir, I’m going to need a plane.”
“Why?” he asked, confused.
She took a deep breath.
“Shane may be on his way to kill Sprigge,” she said. “And I want to see her first.”
CHAPTER SIX
As the FBI jet hit the runway at Syracuse Hancock International Airport, Riley remembered something her father had told her in last night’s dream.
“You’re no good to anybody unless they’re dead.”
Riley was struck by the irony. This was perhaps the first case she’d ever been assigned where somebody hadn’t been murdered already.
But that’s likely to change soon, she thought.
She was especially worried about Kelsey Sprigge. She wanted to meet the woman face to face and see that she was all right. Then it would be up to Riley and Bill to keep her that way, and that would mean tracking down Shane Hatcher and putting him back in prison.
As the plane taxied toward the terminal, Riley saw that they had traveled into a true winter world. Although the landing strip was clear, huge mountains of snow showed how much work the plows had put in recently.
It
