It reminded Joe of the big Italian dinner parties he had endured when he was a kid—how the adults took up the head and the sides of the table and the kids were jammed into the far end where two oversized chairs wrestled for space and the two subordinates in them banged elbows with smaller plates, smaller cutlery and the general acknowledgment that they were to be seen and not heard. Unless called upon by one of the grown-ups in the room to respond to a specific demand.
It was cold. This room was always cold, thought Joe. Katz had the air-conditioning jacked up to the max despite the cooler than average temperatures outside. A junior in the DA’s office once told him the Kat had heard about David Letterman’s theory on maintaining a “meat locker” mentality—how the successful TV show host demanded his green room and studio be kept at icebox temperatures to keep his guests and audience alert. Except Katz wasn’t Letterman. And Joe and Frank sure as hell weren’t Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.
“Sorry we’re late,” said Mannix, noting the glare of disapproval on Katz’s clean-shaven face. “I had to take a call.” His eyes tracked instinctively toward the still stony-faced Peter Nagoshi.
“We were about to start without you,” said Katz, cutting Joe off and establishing his authority from the outset. “In fact, we had just decided Agent Jacobs here should begin by giving us his profiler report. Given the police have not been forthcoming with any solid suspects to date, we thought perhaps, in the very least, a hypothetical one might be a good place to start.”
And there it was,
thought Joe. Blame Transferral 101. Joe had in fact heard Agent Jacobs’ report a few weeks earlier, and he had used what he could to narrow his search. In fact, Joe knew the only reason the genuinely impressive Jacobs was at this meeting was so that Katz could play Joe as the incompetent fool in comparison, and in all honesty, Joe expected no less from the self-serving, ass-preserving, gutless ADA.
Joe glanced at Leo King—a dedicated and trusted friend who gave him a subtle roll of his eyes before introducing FBI Profiler Special Agent Ned Jacobs. Jacobs then proceeded to open the folder in front of him, look directly at the Nagoshis and, out of an intuitive sense of courtesy, begin by explaining the profiling process in detail.
“First up,” said Jacobs with a smile. “I should explain that us profilers are not clairvoyants. We have no special powers or supernatural insights, and do not keep crystal balls or tarot cards in our two by four lockers at Quantico.”
Jacobs was a kind-faced African-American, and Joe realized the top-notch communicator was cleverly taking the edge off the room by providing the Nagoshis with sound and helpful information.
“There are only about forty of us in total,” Jacobs went on. “Forty of about thirteen thousand agents. But that doesn’t necessarily make us special. It just means we fit the bill for this type of job—we have trained extensively in areas such as forensic sciences, forensic pathology, sex crime investigations and interview and interrogation techniques, and then undertaken further studies in behavioral analysis.
“As profilers we assess a crime scene and embark on a process we call ‘criminal investigative analysis,’ which in layman’s terms means study all the evidence and come up with a possible profile of the offender based on his or her psychopathology—the behavioral and psychological indicators that are left at a violent crime scene as a result of the offender’s physical, sexual, and in some cases verbal interaction with his or her victims.”
Jacobs stopped then, taking a sip from the ice-filled glass before him.
“The good news is, we have assisted the Bureau and other law enforcement agencies in making hundreds of arrests by giving our fellow agents and police detectives guidelines for their search and investigations. The not-so-good news is that we have our limitations. We cannot hand the investigators the offender—merely provide another tool to assist them in narrowing their search.”
“And in the case of my sister?” asked Peter Nagoshi with just the slightest hint of irritation—and Joe could have sworn his father shifted ever so slightly in his seat.
“Right,” said Jacobs, obviously reading the Nagoshi son’s impatience and realizing it was time to cut to the chase. “In Jessica’s case the first obstacle we face as profilers is that the crime appears to be a one-off. Profilers get much clearer results when analyzing the work of serial killers who leave a trail of behavioral clues at each crime. Stand-alone offenses are not so easy, but I am fairly confident I have some basic information that can assist the police in their investigations.”
Peter Nagoshi nodded for Jacobs to continue as the amiable agent looked down at his notes.
“Given the approach to the murder and the statistical information available to us regarding attacks of this kind in this area, I believe the offender to be a white male, aged between twenty and thirty. I believe him to be controlling and organized, to the point of being meticulous.”
“How so?” asked John Nagoshi, speaking for the first time.
“The crime scene was sanitary, the offender left almost no forensic evidence, the body although distorted was organized in a resting position, her hair was placed neatly away from her face and the method of murder in itself was reasonably ‘clean.’
“The placement of the stone as a pillow appears to be something of an afterthought suggesting either a knowledge of the cultural significance of the rock itself—or more likely, in my opinion, a sense of familiarity with . . .”
“One moment, Special Agent Jacobs,” interrupted John Nagoshi, obviously wanting to take in every detail. “You said the murder was clean? I would call murder many things, but I do not believe there is anything hygienic about taking a young girl’s life.”
“Yes, sir, I agree,” said Jacobs. “But in this case I am speaking literally rather than psychologically. Strangulation does not pollute a crime scene, Mr. Nagoshi, with blood and other messy body fluids. It leaves the victim looking as if in a state of sleep. It can be a killer’s way of ‘preserving his victim,’ leaving his memory of her largely intact.”
“What about the blows to the head?” asked Katz.
“Acts of rage. The two blows Jessica endured were, in my opinion, the result of some emotional or psychological trigger, some revelation or physical action or new piece of information she shared with her killer, which led the normally controlled individual to lash out in anger. The blows disabled her and the strangulation silenced her cleanly, neatly, quietly.”
“Are you saying my daughter was familiar with her killer, Agent Jacobs?” asked John Nagoshi who, Joe was surprised to see, seemed a little taken aback by this suggestion.
“Almost certainly. First there was the placement of the stone I mentioned earlier. Its use as a pillow, motivated by either the killer’s knowledge of it being, as your gardener explained, a ‘death stone,’ or more likely, in my opinion, a symbolic gesture suggesting that the offender knew her well enough to wish to see her at peace in death.
“Then there was the taking of the stockings and shoes and the fact that the removal of such intimate items indicates familiarity.” Jacobs paused. “Jessica knew her killer, Mr. Nagoshi. I am sure of it.”
There was silence then as John Nagoshi nodded, and despite his stoic expression, Joe sensed this new piece of information did not sit well with the respected corporate chief.
“What else does the taking of shoes tell us?” asked Katz, determined to keep control of Jacobs’ report.
“All sorts of things but none of them definitive. Subconsciously the killer may have wanted to restrict Jessica from taking a certain road, from going somewhere, doing something, making a decision that might either alter his preferred course or have taken her away from him. Physically he may have had some connection to that part of her body, which indicates a sexual attraction the offender did not, at least at the time, pursue.”
“But she was not raped,” said John Nagoshi.
“No,” said Jacobs. “But that does not mean the killer did not have intimate feelings for your daughter. In fact my guess is there was a strong physical attraction on his part—but one that, at least at that point in time, was not returned.”
“So he is what?” asked Katz. “Cowardly, impotent, weak?”
“On the contrary,” said Jacobs, shaking his head. “I believe him to be confident, adaptable, intelligent. My guess is the lack of sexual contact on the night of the crime was more a case of his trying to protect himself. Sexual crimes can be some of the easiest to solve because of the exchange of bodily fluids. I believe the killer considered this. He did what he did out of anger but within moments of the crime was calm enough to move into damage control.”
Jacobs stopped then and closed his file, his many “possibilities” still hanging in the air like teasers to an unsolvable who dunit.
John Nagoshi placed his hands on the table before him, his back straight, his demeanor even, before looking directly at Roger Katz to say: “Forgive me, Mr. Katz. I appreciate Special Agent Jacobs’ expertise and the trouble he has gone to in studying my daughter’s killer. But I do not see how this transforms into action.
“My daughter was young, intelligent and pleasing to the eye. I am her father, Mr. Katz, but not naive enough not to understand she was a profitable catch in more ways than one. There must be some other way to identify this man. What about the fingerprints, the shoe print, the . . .”
“The shoe print was only a partial, Mr. Nagoshi,” said Leo King. “It looked to be a Nike but half of the students at Deane wear the same type of shoe. As for the fingerprints, they are of no use to us until we have something or someone to compare them to. Our people in Quantico have worked overtime on them and I can assure you they are extremely pleased with their ability to enhance their clarity given their deteriorated state at the scene. But the offender, whoever he is, does not have a record. We have run the prints through our Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, checked every local, state, federal and government database available. We even ran them through Interpol. But our killer is a first timer—or in the very least, has never been caught before.”
“Then there must be something more,” said John Nagoshi. “Lieutenant Mannix,” he said, turning to Joe. “You told me many weeks ago that the police obtained some evidence they were keeping silent in the interest of the investigation. At the time I agreed. I know we live our lives in the eyes of the public and, as such, respected your judgment when you suggested it was best Peter and I not know of such a detail.” Nagoshi took a short breath before shifting in his seat once more and going on.
“She was my daughter, Lieutenant, and while I am no investigator, I am schooled in the arts of discovery for profit. Perhaps if I knew this detail, my son and I could shed some light on the matter.”
“I don’t know if that is such a good idea,” began Roger Katz who, Joe guessed, was afraid of the powerful man’s reaction to what he knew would be a shocking revelation—and perhaps even more fearful of any repercussions on his part, given he had “caved in” to Joe’s insistence that this evidentiary detail be withheld.
But Nagoshi was not listening. He was focused on Mannix, his eyes unwavering, his determination clear.
Joe met the man’s gaze, seeing now for the first time, deep below his controlled façade, the basic primal need for a father to avenge his daughter’s death. He had seen it before, too many times, and in the end, he realized, John Nagoshi was no different than any other parent who had suffered the ultimate loss. He needed the truth, and more to the point, he deserved it.
“Mr. Nagoshi,” said Joe, stealing a quick glance at Frank and Leo, who both gave slight nods in agreement before moving on, “there is a detail, a significant one, but I am afraid it has not helped us identify your daughter’s killer. We have found no evidence of her being in a physical relationship. No proof that suggested she was . . .”
“What is it?” snapped Peter, with no effort to hide his frustration. Joe looked to the son before turning to the father again, knowing it was he who would feel the full impact of what he had to say.
“I am afraid, Mr. Nagoshi, that on the night of Jessica’s death, the killer stole more than one life.”
“A serial killer?” said Nagoshi. “But Agent Jacobs said . . . I do not understand.”
“No, sir,” said Joe, realizing there was only one way to say what needed to be said. “Jessica was pregnant, Mr. Nagoshi. When the murderer struck, he killed your daughter
and
your grandchild—two lives for the price of one. I am sorry, sir. I am very sorry.”
What happened next was a surprise to them all. Peter Nagoshi leapt from his seat and yelled
“Baita!”
sending his heavy antique chair teetering on its hind legs before knocking it backward toward the floor.
Roger Katz responded immediately, standing to move around the table and calm the obviously distressed Nagoshi son, but in the process he managed to knock the corner of his hard leather binder, which slid at an angle toward the water pitcher at his end of the table. The pitcher smashed sideways, sending water and ice cascading down the long conference table in one almighty gush before breaking into several tributaries that tracked across the table, slid off the edges into people’s laps and poured silently down onto the American-made “Persian” rug, which soaked up the liquid like a thick, hungry sponge.
“This cannot be true! Baita,”
said Peter again, his father now ignoring the wet patch on his suit pants to stand and settle his offspring who, as far as Mannix could tell, was either extremely distressed by this latest piece of news or, more to the point, accusing Joe of telling an outright lie.
“Peter,” said John Nagoshi, subtly stepping around the obstacle that was a floundering Roger Katz to hold his son by both shoulders before leaning in and whispering quietly in his ear in Japanese.
A respectful Special Agent Jacobs and Detective McKay diverted their gaze and retrieved some paper towels from a side table before proceeding to mop up the remaining water that now sat like bubbles on the glossy varnished table.