14. J.T. Ellison

A cold-hit DNA match between the Nashville suspect and … She sucked in her breath. What she was seeing couldn’t be right. There must be a glitch in the system. Having a cold hit on CODIS wasn’t a regular occurrence. More files popped onto the screen. Charlotte tapped her fingers on the desk while the rest of the icons lit up like Christmas trees. Match. Match. Match. Match. CODIS was showing four separate cold hits, from four states, not including Tennessee. All the DNA pointed to a single contributor.

      Charlotte cursed.

      She called the webmaster, told him there was a problem. He called her back five minutes later and assured her there wasn’t. Not on his end.

      A tingle had started then. Just at the base of her spine. The databases were programmed to spit out patterns, and that was what Charlotte was seeing before her. She’d designed this section of the database herself, and now here it was. Her anomaly. Despite all her best efforts, her hand would be forced now.

      Mind buzzing, she forced herself to close CODIS. She opened a buried file within her system, typed in a new pass code. A private personnel file Charlotte had misappropriated a few months back opened on the screen.

      There she was. Taylor Jackson. Charlotte stared at the picture, the JPEG file sharp and clear. Tawny-blond hair past her shoulders, gray eyes, a full mouth, a slightly crooked yet elegant nose—stunning, but Charlotte knew she could compete.

      She gave a mental review of her own attributes. Her hair had often been described as the color of a young pinot noir. Porcelain skin, amber eyes, striking cheekbones, and if she wasn’t mistaken, her bottom lip was just a touch fuller than Jackson’s. She had to admit, the girl was attractive. Good to know Baldwin continued to have excellent taste.

      The flashing green eyes of her former boss flooded her memory. She forced all thoughts of him away reluctantly. She could get bogged down for hours in the memories of their brief time together. And they would only lead back to this little bitch, the woman who’d stolen him right out of Charlotte’s hands.

      She lingered for a moment longer, touching a forefinger to the screen, tracing the outline of Jackson’s heart-shaped face. She touched the finger to her lips, then forced herself to close the window and brought up the previous screen.

      Jackson was forgotten. The new DNA profiles were enough to make her lick her lips in anticipation. She loved a challenge. What to do? What to do? The match in CODIS was highly unexpected, and unfortunately, couldn’t be held back. She’d have to share this information, others would see it soon enough.

      She opened the latest crime-scene photos submitted by the Nashville Police Department overnight. The fresh kill. The photo named the victim as Giselle St. Claire. What a delicate name, she thought. Poor girl. Giselle was naked, blue from the cold. She showed signs of exsanguination; the gaping wound in her neck gave that away easily. A second smile. The blood was pooled below her head, framing the scene in a macabre ruby border.

      Charlotte clicked on another file. Naked bodies tumbled across her computer screen.

      The media had christened the killer well. Every time she saw these photos, the first thing that popped into Charlotte’s mind was Snow White. Delicate beauty, alabaster skin, red lips, jet-black hair. All that was missing was a red cape and a grouping of dwarves.

      If she were rushing, at first glance all the photos could have been of the same dead girl. Only a detailed examination showed the subtle differences: height, weight, hair length. The similarities between the victims were downright eerie. She opened two more windows and speculated for a moment. The physical victimology was so similar from girl to girl—it took time and effort to pick out women who looked so alike. She’d had a case a few years back where the killer had bought identical wigs to place on his victims prior to their death. But in these cases, the hair was real, ebony as a raven’s wing, long and thick. Definitely not a wig.

      With a sigh, she went back to the CODIS cold hits, printed out the cover sheet from each murder, started a new file, marked it Snow White DNA/CODIS, then walked the long hallway to her boss’s office. She was the lead profiler on the murders; she needed to present her findings. This case was hers. Her future. Her success.

      Stuart Evanson had taken over the BSU when Baldwin left. He reported to Garrett Woods, the top dog in the Critical Incidence Response Group. Evanson had power and clout, but not as much as he’d like. Woods was the real star, mentor to the great profiler John Baldwin. Woods was reputed to be a smart, seasoned agent who might be running the whole Bureau if he wasn’t careful. Charlotte disliked him immensely; he’d passed her over in favor of Evanson after Baldwin split. Made it about the relationship she and Baldwin had engaged in, though Charlotte knew Baldwin had made it clear to Woods that she shouldn’t be running the show. She didn’t know which burned her worse, their breakup, or the fact that he’d shanghaied her career in the process.

      Evanson had replaced Baldwin only a few months before. She remembered that storied morning vividly. Baldwin had announced he was quitting the BSU, the FBI and all that he knew to play house in Nashville with a homicide detective he’d met on a case. Charlotte had been shocked to hear that. Of course, Baldwin hadn’t been in the game for a while before that had happened; he’d been on extended leave after a shooting incident with a suspect that got three agents killed.

      She’d been with him then. But he hadn’t turned to her for solace. He’d hightailed it out of town, gone home to Nashville and tried to drink himself to death. Then he’d met Taylor Jackson, pulled out of his funk, solved a huge case and returned to the BSU triumphant, the golden boy yet again. Charlotte had been forgotten in the mix.

      Baldwin’s plans to retire had been usurped. The Bureau wasn’t willing to let a talent like him leave for good. He was given a special dispensation—his own shop, free from the prying eyes of Quantico. But still a division of the FBI. Doing the work of the BSU without the constraints shoveled upon them by the government. He worked out of the Tennessee field office now.

      Stuart Evanson had been placed in charge, and instead of gracefully appointing Charlotte second in command, he’d moved her to Training, making her conduct the symposiums that the BSU often gave to law enforcement. Like he didn’t care that she had a Ph.D. from Georgetown and had worked tirelessly in the BSU for five years, moving up every review period. He wanted her to be the “spokeswoman” for their unit. Fuck that. She wanted to work cases, not train wannabe profilers from Sheboygan.

      Evanson was a power-hungry prick, and like most pricks she’d known, was desperate for apiece of Charlotte pie. Charlotte made it very clear what she’d be willing to do if he gave her the deputy posting, her rightful spot. Trying to engender good will from her, he’d “promoted” her within weeks, making her the number two in the BSU. Deputy chief. Head profiler, that’s what she was. She should have been the chief, but she would take this for now. Dangling the slightest whiff of opportunity in Evanson’s face from time to time was an easy price to pay.

      Hearing her boss’s voice raised in anger and frustration on the other side of the door didn’t bother her in the least. She had a knack, a touch, for defusing even the most egregiously charged situation. Glancing at her watch, she gave him thirty more seconds to scream, touched a hand to her deep auburn hair and knocked once, hard. She opened the door and stepped into the director’s personal space.

      “I don’t give a damn what the President says. This is the way it’s going to be.” He hung up the phone with a bang and took in Charlotte, standing calmly in his doorway. He’d fire any other agent for simply daring to knock on his door while he was talking to the White House. He was a blustery soul, prone to fits of pique. But Charlotte was a different story, and she knew it.

      Stepping into the room, she handed him the file folder, coded with a red sticker that read Priority—High.

      “We have an anomaly.”

      “Charlotte, could you say hello first? Maybe ask me how my day is going?”

      Stuart Evanson leaned back in his chair, crumpling the corners of his pin-striped suit. Why he never took the jacket off was a mystery to her. Perhaps he thought it made him look more professional being fully dressed at all times,