Sketch of a Murder

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The light tap-tap on his open office door interrupted Michael's reading. He looked up from the file. "Yes?"

The woman said, "Are you Lieutenant Michael Williams?"

He noted the classy cream-colored slacks and the salmon-colored blouse. Must be someone from a victim's family. He closed the file folder and set it aside. "Yes, ma'am. How can I help you?"

"Perhaps, I will be able to assist you, Lieutenant Williams." She walked to his desk and extended a slender hand.

He heaved himself to his feet and wrapped his big hand gently around hers for a quick shake.

The smile she gave him was a professional's smile, the kind that curved the lips up enough to show-not exactly friendliness-but a willingness to think about it. The smile never quite reached her eyes. Her brown eyes weren't cold, or even distant, just guarded.

She flipped open a badge wallet and held it out. "I'm Dr. Irene Nelson, FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit. In popular crime show jargon, I'm a profiler. We can stick with the profiler label since BAU isn't a popular acronym."

He waved the wallet away, noting that the leather showed faded, worn spots, and pointed at the hard-bottomed chair next to his desk. Like the desk, the chair was scratched and obviously old. "Have a seat. I only have a few minutes. I postponed morning briefing to 1100 hours." He glanced at his wristwatch. "So I have ten minutes." He stacked the files and reports scattered across his desk into haphazard piles on the far side. He sat down, his words as cool as ice cream coming from a deep freezer. "I don't recall asking the FBI for assistance."

"Governor Marleton contacted Deputy Director Helmsley with a request for assistance. I assure you, Lieutenant Williams, I am not here to interfere in your investigation. I can profile your perpetrator and I have access to databases and labs you might find quite useful, both in what they can provide in the way of tests and the speed with which they can provide the service."

The old desk chair screeched as he linked his hands behind his head. Deliberately speaking in an exaggerated southern drawl he said, "Never see'd a time when the Feebs got involved they didn' wind up stealin' the whole durn case from the local yokels."

The corners of her mouth twitched.

Is she suppressing a smile at my put-on?

"Nice accent, especially for a man born, raised, and college-educated in Washington State." Ladylike, she crossed her legs at the ankles and folded her hands in her lap. "Lieutenant, I was assigned to assist you by the Deputy Director at the request of your governor. I realize some of my colleagues have been known to...," she took a breath and let it flow out as she continued, "...ride roughshod over local law enforcement. Some of them have acquired, and undoubtedly earned, a reputation for being glory hounds. Though I don't expect you to believe me, I am not that type of agent.

"However, regardless of our personal preferences, neither you nor I have a choice in this matter. Our only choice is how we choose to deal with each other. I assure you I am the best at what I do. I can provide significant assistance. Will you put aside your personal reservations about the FBI and allow me to help?"

She has the prettiest, darkest eyes I've ever seen on a white woman. Beautiful clear skin with a hint of a tan. But she certainly isn't a wilting flower.

Not one to agonize over the inevitable, he unlinked his hands and let the chair thunk forward. Quickly selecting a few files from the chaotic stacks on his desk, he said, "Let's get one thing clear right off. No one runs my cases, except me. I'm not too proud to accept help, but I won't tolerate interference."