Sundays Are for Murder

The floor covering here appeared to be some kind of man-made tile. The pattern was speckled and monotonous. He hoped that didn’t say something about the nature of the work being done in this area.

Not knowing exactly where he was going, Nick made his way down the winding corridor until he came across an open door. As he looked into the room, he saw a tall, thin male technician in a white lab coat.

Headphones on his head, the technician seemed to be in his own little world as he sat on a stool next to a long counter that ran half the length of the room. Holding a large eyedropper, the man was depositing a single drop of liquid into each of the test tubes lined up in front of him.

Nick walked into the room and attempted to place himself where the lab technician would be able to see him. The name tag just over his breast pocket identified him as one Hank Garcia. Caught up in his work, Hank Garcia continued humming and dispensing drops of opaque liquid, completely oblivious to Nick’s entrance.

Trying again, Nick leaned over until he was directly in Hank’s line of vision.

Startled, Hank drew in a quick breath. Putting the eyedropper down, he took off his headphones, sliding them down around his neck. The headphones hung there like an incomplete necklace, audible music coming from both earpieces. Hank looked at him, suspicion and annoyance washing over his face.

“Hey man, don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Nick nodded toward the dangling earphones. “Listening to music at that level will make you deaf.”

The next moment, he wondered how his father’s voice had managed to emerge from his mouth. That was the kind of caution his father had been guilty of voicing. He’d always viewed it as the Colonel’s constant attempts to curtail his freedom and control him.

“Hey, Snakepit’s gotta be heard loud in order to be appreciated,” Hank protested. And then he frowned slightly. “Should you be down here?”

Shifting the bag with its carcass to his other hand, Nick fished out his wallet and held it up for the tech’s benefit.

“Special Agent Nick Brannigan,” Nick introduced himself. Tucking his wallet back into his pocket, Nick placed the plastic grocery bag on the counter. He nodded at it. “What can you tell me about this?”

Hank leaned over and took apart the bag’s knot. Very carefully, he exposed what was inside. If he was surprised to find the dead rabbit, he didn’t show it. Nick got the impression that the young tech viewed surprises as uncool. The only indication that Hank found the bag’s contents less than appealing was the slight flaring of his nostrils.

Hank replaced the sides of the bag and looked at his visitor. “Right off the top of my head, I’d say it’s dead.”

“Brilliant deduction,” Nick replied drily. “What else can you tell me?”

A shade of confusion highlighted the young face. “Like?”

Good question, Nick thought. He didn’t really know what he was looking for, except he was pretty certain you couldn’t get prints off fur. But there might be traces of other things, things that might turn his suspicions into certainties.

He left it open to interpretation. Garcia was the forensic tech, not him. “Anything.”

Hank pressed his lips into a tight line. “That’s going to take some time. I’m a little backed up here.” And then Hank laughed under his breath. “But then, I’m always a little backed up here. How fast do you need this?”

That was easy. Yesterday. “As fast as you can get it to me.”

Cocking his head, Hank took another peek at the grocery bag’s contents. His brows knit together, as if he was trying to connect invisible dots in his head. “This part of a case you’re working?”

Nick didn’t believe in lying. Stretching the truth, however, was something else. He knew that, as a rule, the Bureau frowned on using its facilities for personal matters. But then, he argued, maybe he was wrong about the rabbit’s origin. Maybe it was a message from the serial killer. It was a well-known theory that most serial killers started out killing small animals.

But the Sunday Killer wasn’t just starting out.

“In a manner of speaking,” Nick said.

“In other words,” Hank said knowingly, “you’d like to keep this just between us.”

Nick nodded. “I’d appreciate that.” He paused, then added honestly, “I’d consider it a favor.”

When Hank smiled, he looked more like a mischievous boy than a young man who had graduated from Polytech with honors.

“Never know when that might come in handy,” he murmured. “Okay, Special Agent Brannigan, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.” His mission accomplished, Nick began to leave.

Hank called out, stopping him. “If I find anything, where can I reach you?”

“Seventh floor,” Nick told him. “I’m on the Sunday Killer’s task force.”

Hank looked duly impressed. The next moment, he retreated to his task and his earphones. Nick noted that he hadn’t bothered to adjust the volume level.

CHAPTER TEN

TO MAKE UP FOR HER later-than-usual entrance the day before, Charley came to work the following morning approximately forty-five minutes earlier than her customary starting time. No one would have said anything about the missing minutes, but doing this evened out some inner balance sheet she kept in her head.

Besides, she wanted some time to herself to think about the case. She found the atmosphere at work more conducive to steady and constructive thought. Home provided too many distractions. And home was where her father called her, wanting to be kept abreast of her progress. As if she could somehow magically bring the case to a close if she just applied herself enough.

At least, that seemed to be her father’s opinion. She’d told him that he couldn’t call her at the office, saying it was against company rules. Her father had no idea she owned a cell phone. If he did, she’d really have no peace. But, mercifully, her father wasn’t one to keep up with the times so she was safe for now.

Time had stopped for Christopher Dow and for his wife the night Cris was murdered. The only difference being, of the two, her father had continued to function. To get up each morning and go to work, to put the sorrow that haunted his soul on hold until he returned home at night.

There were times, when she visited, that she’d catch her father looking at her and she knew what he was thinking. Why hadn’t she been the one? Why hadn’t she been the one to have stayed home that night when the killer had struck? Then she would be dead and Cris would still be alive. It was no secret that Cris had always been his favorite. As far back as she could remember, Cris had gotten their father’s attention. Cris had been able to make him smile. It was as if she and her older brother, David, didn’t even exist.

Her mother had played no such favorites. But her mother had been utterly devastated by Cris’s murder. Within six months, she had fallen completely apart, withdrawing into herself where the world couldn’t get at her. These days, her mother resided in a psychiatric hospital. Part of every paycheck she earned went to pay for the facility. Her father couldn’t handle the burden on his own and she couldn’t bear the idea of her mother living in a state institution.

She hadn’t gone to visit her mother in several days. Maybe she’d swing by tonight on her way home, Charley thought as she got off the elevator. Not that her mother knew one way or another whether or not she came by. Claire Dow just sat in her chair, staring off into space, existing somewhere in a place devoid of pain. Charley supposed that somewhere in her heart she nursed the hope that if she could catch the killer, if she could bring Cris’s murderer to justice, her mother would come back from her dark place.

It made her try twice as hard. Gave her twice the stake.

At eight o’clock in the morning, the seventh floor was still rather empty and quiet. Even though Charley liked the energy generated by agents going at full throttle, she had to admit a fondness for the aura of tranquillity that embraced the various offices before the day began.

The task force’s room was located in the middle of the floor. Walking in, an extra-tall container of ordinary black coffee in her hand, Charley had fully expected to find herself alone for at least half an hour, if not more. Both Bill and Sam usually arrived at the start of the workday, sometimes a little later if Sam’s new baby had kept him and his wife up, or Bill had had a particularly adventurous and exhausting night with his date of the month. The various other people attached to the task force trickled in around the same time.

Aside from A.D. Kelly and, on occasion, his secretary, Charley was the only one who came in early on a regular basis.

So it went without saying that she was surprised to see her new partner at his desk, absorbed in his computer screen.

So much for solitude.

Charley put her container on her desk. “Playing solitaire?”

He’d been aware of her entrance. It was soundless, but she wore a scent that lightly rode the air currents, announcing her presence. He found the perfume appealing, even if the woman’s personality really wasn’t.

Nick glanced up at her for a moment before looking back at the screen. “Going over the evidence.”

She pried the lid off her container, tossing it into the empty wastepaper basket beneath her desk. “Very commendable.”