As the murder had taken place in such a populated building, it had proved impossible to contain the story for any significant time. Within half an hour Montebello was besieged by a media-frenzy.

FBI Director Tom Douglas had chosen to arrive by helicopter rather than attempt to drive through the maze of police vehicles and TV vans festooned around the guards’ booth. As he peered down on the scene, it reminded him of a balloon trip he had taken several years ago over one of the wildlife reserves in Africa. A zebra had been chased down by three cheetahs, and as they started to disembowel their victim, a pack of hyenas waited impatiently nearby, driven wild by the scent of fresh blood. Every time one of the hyenas had tried their luck and had tentatively advanced too close for the cheetahs’ comfort, they had ritually chased it away only for the hyena to return. Only once the cheetahs had had their fill were the hyenas allowed to pick the bones of the carcass in a scene of nigh-hysteria.

Douglas could understand the media and how it worked. It was essential for any high-profile job in Washington. Down below would be all the major players and Washington wannabes, each trying to be the first with some kind of scoop or new angle.

Although Aitken had been only fifty-three, all the major networks and news companies would already have a detailed draft obituary on him that they would be faxing to the on-scene reporter. They even had departments devoted to obituaries on living household names, whether they were the latest teen-idol or a senior politician. It was a measure of popularity as to how often the obit was updated. In news, the greatest sin was not misreporting, but being unprepared.

Douglas did not hate the media – they had their job to do as did he. Both had their excesses and both were invaluable. The pervasive and invasive nature of the modern media actually helped to curb many of the excesses of those in power. The cathode cop. In fact the media had given the FBI some ideas on cases that they hadn’t thought of themselves. The only trouble was, every time a major story broke these days, the news companies spent more time speculating rather than reporting. A spectrum of talking heads would be wheeled on camera to tell the audience what they thought had or will happen, and the motives behind the actions. In most of the cases this was just filling airtime, or "hot-air" time as many people in Washington described it.

Douglas’s first posting after leaving UCLA had been in the resident agency in Santa Ana, and he had methodically worked his way up to the jewel in the crown, assistant director in charge of the New York office. New York, with well over one thousand agents, is the largest field office the FBI has, and the only one outside of Washington that requires its own assistant director. Two years ago Aitken had promoted him to FBI Director, going much against the vogue of appointing a judge. Douglas’s strength of being a people person and his overwhelming experience had won over the critics.

One of the first things that Douglas had done after his appointment was to cut through the swathe of red tape that bound the internal workings of the FBI. As he had said at his first meeting with the deputy and assistant deputy directors, he wanted a bureaucracy, not a bureau crazy. Even his memos were clear and concise, which had endeared him to his superiors throughout his career. Most colleagues had thought that quantity was the benchmark and would churn out interminable drivel.

The helicopter pilot had wanted to land as near as possible to Building Four, but Douglas insisted on landing over four hundred yards away, still well within Montebello’s grounds, for fear of disturbing any forensic evidence. Douglas thought it unlikely that there would be any evidence here, but even a discarded cigarette would be gold dust to the bubs in the DNA lab.

Douglas was thankful he was out of sight of the cameras. He felt out of place in his tux having come straight from a dinner given by the Society of Former Special Agents of the FBI. At sixty-five, he was older than many of his hosts. He had been in the middle of a detailed conversation with the editor of The Grapevine, its official publication, on whether the FBI should be merged with the DEA when the call had come through.

After the clattering police helicopter had made the gentlest of landings in the middle of what Douglas presumed to be a picnic area, he congratulated the pilot and stepped out onto terra firma. He loved flying and the exhilaration of landing. People don’t have a fear of flying – it’s crashing that terrifies them, he had concluded. He used the DoJ’s Sabreliner as much as possible, even though it was not fitted with a toilet. He was often criticized for acting like the CEO of a wealthy company trying to impress with the corporate jet, but for Douglas it was a simple case of time management. The fact that he enjoyed it was just one of life’s happy coincidences.

Since the helicopter had landed in an unexpected place it had caught the reception committee awaiting him off-guard, and Douglas had covered much of the distance to the building with long purposeful strides before being met by them. They included a mixture of FBI field agents and local police, including Bill Williams, the lanky Fairfax commissioner.

‘Update, Bill?’ Douglas ordered sternly, continuing towards the building without breaking his rhythm. This was no time for pleasantries. Williams made a quick about-face and came level with Douglas.

‘The protective detail discovered Aitken’s body at twenty-three-oh-seven hours after being alerted by his chauffeur that he wasn’t responding to his phone.’ His voice became low and somber. ‘It isn’t a pleasant sight I can assure you.

‘As far as we can tell, the perp entered the grounds about forty-five minutes earlier posing as a guest of the owner of the apartment directly above. He killed him, used a rope to shimmy down to Aitken’s balcony and broke in that way.’

‘Any leads so far?’

‘Only the car. The registration is in the name of a James Bernard Wilson, the name he gave the main gate, but it’s obviously a phony. I’ve put out an APB on both him and the car. SWAT is taking down the address since it’s in Washington and out of our jurisdiction, but you’ll find either an innocent or another victim. Forensics and Dr. Scarpetta are already combing both apartments and one of your profilers is already up there exercising his brain muscles.’

Ever since Patricia Cornwell had started her series of best-selling novels about a fictitious chief medical examiner of Virginia by that name, the local police had insisted on referring to the real version as Dr. Scarpetta.

‘We’re running the CC tapes now and interviewing all the residents as well as the guards. We might get lucky, but it at least it should determine many characteristics such as race, height, distinguishing marks, et cetera,’ he shrugged hopefully.

‘Who’s running point on this at the moment?’ asked Douglas grimly.

‘One of ours, McConnell. Good guy, solid background. Fifteen years experience in homicide. A terrier.’

Douglas decided to break the news up front. ‘Bill, I can understand you wanting to solve this case, and prima facie it is your case. However, Aitken was probably murdered because of his position rather than a crime of passion or for personal reasons, and that makes it the FBI’s bailiwick.

‘Aitken was my boss and my friend and believe me we will throw everything we’ve got at this. The last thing we need at the moment is a turf war, so here’s how this is going to play. I’m going to set up a specialist team, reporting directly to me.’ Williams looked crestfallen but Douglas continued unabated.

‘Most of the special agents in and around Washington are devoted to counterintelligence, so we could use a local experienced homicide guy like McConnell if he is as good as you say he is. Give me a copy of his résumé within the next couple of hours. On top of that, we’ll need your resources too for much of the legwork – interviewing the residents, and stopping the media for the next few days from trampling over any potential evidence.’ Douglas turned and pointed eastwards into the darkness and towards the outer wall of Montebello. ‘By the way, as I flew in I noticed some of the camera crews starting to move around the perimeter, so I suggest you post guys every fifty yards around it. The walls are pretty low.

‘I’ll keep you updated informally, but direct any media questions to us.’

Douglas was correct when he said that most of the Washington and Richmond field offices were devoted to counterintelligence, the National Security Division. Its headquarters are on the fourth floor of the Hoover Building in Washington. Douglas had failed to mention that the FBI could easily have made up any shortfall in manpower from another field office, and Williams recognized the olive branch. He was despondent to have the case taken away from him, but Douglas was right. Besides, the execution, for Williams couldn’t think of a better description, had been planned well in advance. This was going to be a bitch to crack.

‘Done deal,’ replied Williams, who then turned to issue orders to the other officers.

‘You got the death penalty in Virginia?’ Douglas asked.

‘Take your pick. Electrocution or lethal injection.’

‘Any chance we can do both?’ he asked bitterly.

As they approached the entrance to Building Four Douglas looked up. He had been here before, but the imposing semi-hexagonal tan colored architecture never ceased to amaze him in its beauty. On entering the lobby, replete with its Queen Anne reproductions, marble-like floor and Fairfax policemen the entourage made their way up to the twelfth floor. Douglas steeled himself for the assault on his visual senses he knew was about to suffer.

The long, light beige corridor was packed with police and FBI. As Douglas made his way past the wine-red doors of the other residents, it seemed poignant that each door had a different wreath attached. This was so the residents could easily identify their own door, but to Douglas it seemed like they were already openly mourning the loss of a neighbor.

Upon reaching the open door to 1208, he could already see camera flashes coming from within. A burly uniformed officer with a face like a bulldog, along with whom Douglas assumed to be one of the forensic bubs, jealously guarded the door. As the Fairfax commissioner was accompanying him he had no need to show his ID to the sergeant. He carried it at all times, even when wearing a tux.

Douglas was proved right in his assumption about the second man when he issued Douglas and Williams with latex gloves and shoe covers, and asked Douglas to take off his camel hair coat.

Aitken’s apartment consisted of two elegant large bedrooms and a custom-built bathroom both to the right of the foyer that Douglas was standing in. Immediately to his left was the impersonal kitchen, and straight-ahead was the living room, which in turn led to the den and dining room.

Most of the activity was, as Douglas had expected, centered to his right but he could not fail to notice a man and a woman busying themselves around the living room window where he assumed the killer had broken in. Both were dressed in white overalls and wearing amber goggles. The man was slowly scanning the window frame with a fluorescent blue light. Douglas was tempted to speak with them first, to delay the inevitable, but it would be a sign of weakness. He turned and entered the bathroom.

Aitken’s bathroom was luxurious and well coordinated. The walls and floor, in keeping with the bath, were covered with warm cream-colored tiles except for a gold-rimmed mirror that ran along the entire length of the bath and reached the ceiling. The shelves, towel rack and laundry-box were wooden and dark brown, probably mahogany. The only white that Douglas could see were two pristine towels hanging from their rails, the three members of the forensic team dressed head to toe in the obligatory color and Aitken’s waxen body which still dangled from the shower rail.

One of the forensics team, stooped over the bath, had not noticed the arrival of the FBI Director. ‘Jeez, talk about a bloodbath!’ he said, his words echoing from the enamel. Surprised there was no reaction from his colleagues, he looked behind him and the smile instantly died on his lips. Douglas ordered the forensics team out. This would be the only time that he would be able to pay his respects to his friend in private.

The floor was littered with sample bottles. Instead of chalk marks, which would not work well on ceramic, areas of evidence and potential evidence had been circled with a black magic-marker.

Douglas closed his eyes, trying to remember Aitken as he had been, but the image of this emaciated, pale body with its maimed feet and head burned against his retinae. The rivulets of dark blood eminating from the eyeball sockets where Aitken’s large toes had been crudely inserted were in stark contrast to the transparent nature of his skin.

Having been a career G-man, he had seen ritualistic killings before, either by a serial killer or from a Mafia hit, but this was the first time that a close personal friend had been murdered in such a fashion. His eyes stung. We’ll get this fucker, Robert, don’t you worry. Rest in peace. He let out a long inaudible sigh and turned away from the horror.

He let the forensic and pathology team back into the bathroom and sought out David Kemp, one of the bureau’s top profilers whom he knew was already at the scene. He had somehow missed McConnell, who was busy elsewhere organizing the door to door interviews. Douglas would catch up with him later.

He found Kemp, a handsome, fair haired professional bachelor in Aitken’s den. He sat in a deep leather swivel chair surrounded by filled bookcases. It was obvious he had dressed in a hurry.

Kemp looked up at Douglas with a look of concern creasing his face. Douglas hadn’t even bothered to put his hands through his medium-length hair after exiting the helicopter - the downdraught had erased any styling that might have been there before. Also, his brown eyes seemed to have aged considerably and were glistening. So would mine if my immediate boss had been murdered. I might be next on the list. ‘How are you holding up, Tom?’ Kemp asked tentatively.

‘Better than expected David, given the circumstances,’ Douglas replied stiffly. ‘What are you doing in his den?’ It was an invasion into his friend’s privacy.

‘To understand someone is to know what they feed their eyes,’ explained Kemp. ‘Most killings are not random, as you know. The more I know about Aitken, the more potential connections I can make. This could still be personal you know, however unlikely.’ He tapped his two forefingers together absent-mindedly.

‘The highly stylized method is a message,’ he continued thoughtfully, ‘and something I need to sleep on.’ Like I’ll get the chance tonight. ‘The message could be one about Aitken the AG or Aitken the man. If we can find the key to the message, we find the key to the killer.’

Kemp shifted uncomfortably in the seat. ‘Having said that, it could be a blind, or it could be an attack on the US per se by some Moslem fundamentalists, probably Iraq since Iran is softening its tone of late, or even some Jewish or Palestinian fanatic not happy with our brokering the Peace Accord there. Might even be a message from Milosovic,’ he shrugged. ‘Given the ritualistic nature of the murder, it could be a Mafia or a drug hit, but the likes of which I’ve never seen or heard of before.’

Douglas did not want to hear this. Kemp had just opened up the whole world as a suspect, but Kemp continued unabashed. ‘I can tell you three things, though. Firstly, we are not dealing with a serial killer, since Macintosh upstairs was not mutilated at all. Most serios, if they have a unique MO like this, will do the same handiwork on all their victims regardless of the danger of getting caught or the time constraint. It’s their public signature and they want the work attributed to them, even though it’s obvious that he was responsible for both murders.

‘Secondly, Aitken was definitely the target, not Macintosh upstairs. Macintosh was merely a means to an end. And finally,’ he said with authority, ‘the killer was definitely male, Caucasian and in his mid-to-late thirties.’

Douglas was puzzled. ‘I thought you people worked on correlations and probabilities.’

‘I spoke to one of the guards on the main gate.’

"It is better to be seventy years young
than forty years old."

Toni Bradbury was Helen Powell that night and she desperately needed money. Her eyes furtively scanned both sides of the street outside the shop for anyone showing an uncommon interest in her. The trouble was that with perfect light-tanned skin, long blonde hair and breasts slightly out of proportion to her athletic body it was almost impossible for her to avoid the ravenous eyes of men and the jealous glances from women. Luckily this was one of those rare moments, mainly due to the fact that the street was poorly lit and not many people were about this time of night. With its mid-range shops, the street looked like any other in America. She fixed her hair in a ponytail and entered the All-Nite All-Med Drugstore.

Once again, the drugstore was non-descript, as if the owner had viewed every drugstore in the country and applied the average to his own, only the lighting was better. As ever, there were the emergency provisions of disposable nappies, light bulbs, liquids, TV dinners, condoms and small furry toys stocked along the two aisles. As Helen wandered about the store she wondered about the toys. Probably used for last-minute birthday presents, or more likely an "I’m sorry I was so late at the office darling I love you" peace offering.

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