CHAPTER FOUR

“You can’t do that,” Bryers said the moment they were back in the car, he taking the wheel.

“I can’t do what?”

He sighed and tried his best to seem sincere rather than disciplinary. “I know you’ve probably never been in this exact situation before, but you can’t tell the family of a victim that no, the killer isn’t going to get away. You can’t give them hope if there is none. Hell, even if there is hope, you can’t say something like that.”

“I know,” she said, disappointed. “I knew it the moment the word was out of my mouth. I’m sorry.”

“No need for apologies. Just try to keep your head on straight. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Because Bryers knew the city better than Mackenzie, he drove them to the Department of Public Transportation. He drove with some urgency and requested that Mackenzie call ahead to make sure they could speak to someone that knew what they were talking about and could get them in and out of there in a hurry. It was such a simple method, but Mackenzie was impressed with the efficiency of it. It was a far cry from what she’d experienced in Nebraska for sure.

During the half hour drive, Bryers filled the car with conversation. He wanted to know all about her time on the force in Nebraska, most notably the Scarecrow Killer case. He asked about college and her interests. She was happy enough to give him the surface-level information but didn’t go too deep – mainly because he wasn’t going very deep himself.

In fact, Bryers seemed reserved. When Mackenzie asked him about his family, he kept it as general as he could without being rude. “A wife, two boys that are off to college, and a dog that’s on its last legs.”

Well, Mackenzie thought. It’s only our first day together and he doesn’t know me at all – just what he read about me in the papers six months ago and from whatever is in my file with the Academy. I don’t blame him for not opening up just yet.

When they arrived at the Department of Public Transportation, Mackenzie still held a favorable opinion of the elder agent but there was a tension between them that she couldn’t quite grasp. Maybe he didn’t feel it; maybe it was just her. The fact that he had basically waved off any questions she asked him about his work made her uncomfortable. It also made her quickly remember that this was not her job yet. She was simply riding along as a favor to Ellington, a way to test her wheels, so to speak.

She was also involved in all of this due to some shady dealings in back rooms where the higher-ups were taking a gamble on her. It added a whole new level of risk not only for her, but for the people she was working with – Bryers and Ellington included.

The Department of Transportation was located inside of a building with about ten other departments housed within it. Mackenzie followed Agent Bryers through the hallways as best she could. He walked quickly, nodding to people here and there as if he were familiar with the place. A few people seemed to recognize him, giving him quick smiles and waves here and there. The day was coming to an end, so people seemed to be milling about quickly, waiting for five o’clock.

As they came to the section of the building they needed, Mackenzie started to allow herself to appreciate the moment. Four hours ago, she’d been coming out of McClarren’s class and now she was somehow knee deep in a homicide case, working with an agent that seemed to be well conditioned and damn good at his job.

They approached a counter where Bryers leaned slightly over it and eyed the young woman sitting behind a desk immediately in front of them. “We called about speaking to someone about the bus schedules,” he explained to the woman. “Agents White and Bryers.”

“Oh yes,” the receptionist said. “You’ll be speaking to Mrs. Percell. She is out back in the bus garage. It’s all the way down the hall, down the stairs, and out the back.”

They followed the receptionist’s directions, heading to the back of the building where Mackenzie could already hear the humming of engines and the rumbling of machinery. The building was constructed in such a way that the noise was not at all noticeable in the busier, nicer parts of the building but here in the back, it sounded almost like an auto garage.

“When we meet this Mrs. Percell,” Bryers said, “I want you to take the lead.”

“Okay,” Mackenzie said, still feeling like she was taking some sort of weird exam.

They took the stairs down, following a sign labeled Garage / Bus Lot. Downstairs, a thin hallway led into a small open office. A man in mechanic’s scrubs stood behind an antiquated computer, typing something in. Through a large picture window, Mackenzie was able to look out into a large garage. Several city buses were parked there, undergoing maintenance. As she watched, a door in the back of the office opened and a cheerful-looking overweight woman entered from the garage.

“Are you the FBI folks?”

“That’s us,” Mackenzie said. Beside her, Bryers flashed his badge – probably because she didn’t have one to show. Percell seemed satisfied with the credentials and started talking right away.

“I understand you have questions about the bus schedules and the rotation of drivers,” she said.

“That’s correct,” Mackenzie replied. “We’re hoping to find out what stop a certain bus made three mornings ago and, if possible, to get a word with the driver.”

“Sure,” she said. She went over to the small desk where the mechanic was typing and nudged him playfully. “Doug, let me take the wheel, would you?”

“Gladly,” he said with a smile. He stepped away from the desk and headed out to the garage as Mrs. Percell sat down behind the computer. She hit a few keys and then looked up to them proudly, obviously glad to be of service.

“Where’s the stop in question?”

“At the corner of Carlton and Queen Street,” Mackenzie said.

“What time would the person have gotten on?”

“Eight twenty in the morning.”

Mrs. Percell typed the information in quickly and scanned the screen for a moment before giving her answer. “That was bus number 2021, driven by Michael Garmond. That bus makes three stops before reporting back to that same bus stop for a nine thirty-five pickup.”

“We need to speak with Mr. Garmond,” Mackenzie said. “Could we have his information, please?”

“I can do better than that,” Mrs. Percell said. “Michael is out in the garage right now, signing out for the day. Let me see if I can grab him for you.”

“Thanks,” Mackenzie said.

Mrs. Percell dashed to the garage door with speed that defied her size. Mackenzie and Bryers watched her amble expertly through the garage in search of Michael Garmond.

“If only everyone was that enthusiastic about helping the feds,” Bryers said with a grin. “Trust me…don’t get used to this.”

In less than a minute, Mrs. Percell returned into the small office, followed by an elderly black man. He looked tired but, like Mrs. Percell, more than happy to help.

“Hey, folks,” he said, giving a tired smile. “How can I help you?”

“We’re looking for details about a woman that we are fairly confident got on your bus at the eight twenty stop at the corner of Carlton and Queen three mornings ago,” Mackenzie said. “Do you think you could help us with that?”

“Probably,” Michael said. “There aren’t too many people at that stop in the mornings. I never get more than four or five.”

Bryers pulled out his cell phone and thumbed through it for a bit, pulling up a photograph of Susan Kellerman. “This is her,” he said. “Does she look familiar?”

“Hey, yeah, she does,” Michael said, a bit too excited in Mackenzie’s opinion. “Sweet girl. Always really nice.”

“Do you recall where she got off the bus three mornings ago?”

“I do,” Michael said. “And I thought it was weird because every other morning for about two weeks or so, she was getting off at another bus stop. I talked to her a bit one morning and found out she walked two blocks from her usual stop to work at some office. But three days ago, she got off at the station instead of a stop. I watched her hop on another bus. I kind of hoped she’d gotten some better job or something, so she was taking a different route.”

“Where was that?” Mackenzie asked.

“Dupont Circle.”

“What time would you say she got off the bus there?”

“Probably around eight forty-five or so,” Michael answered. “No later than nine o’clock for sure.”

“We can check that in our records,” Mrs. Percell said.

“That would be great,” Bryers said.

Mrs. Percell went back to work behind the grimy little desk as Michael looked at the agents forlornly. He looked back to the picture on Bryers’s phone and frowned. “Something bad happened to her?” he asked.

“In fact, yes,” Mackenzie said. “So if there’s anything you can tell us about her that morning, that would be great.”

“Well, she was carrying a case, like the kind salespeople carry around. Not like a briefcase, but a tacky case, you know? She sold stuff for a living – like health supplements and things like that. I was guessing she had a customer she was seeing.”

“Do you know which bus she got on after yours?” Mackenzie asked.

“Well, I don’t recall the number of the bus, but I remember seeing Black Mill Street up on the destination indicator in the windshield. I thought that was pretty sketchy…no reason for that pretty little thing to be going to that part of town.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, the neighborhood itself is okay, I guess. The houses aren’t too bad and I think most of the folks are decent people. But it’s one of those places where the not-so nice people hang around and do their business. When I was trained for this job six years ago, they filled the drivers in on places to keep an eye out for danger. Black Mill Street was one of them.”

Mackenzie thought all of this over and realized that they had gotten all of the valuable information there was to get from Michael Garmond. She wanted to seem efficient in front of Bryers but she also didn’t want to seem as if she wasted time on trivial details.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Garmond,” Mackenzie said.

From the desk, Mrs. Percell added: “The stop at Dupont Circle was at eight forty-eight, Agents.”

When they turned and made their exit, they were quiet until they made it back to the stairs. When they started climbing them, it was Bryers who broke the silence.

“How long have you been in Quantico?” he asked.

“Eleven weeks.”

“So you’re probably not familiar with the outskirts of the city, huh?”

“No.”

“Never been up to Black Mill Street?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Mackenzie said.

“You’re not missing much. But hey, maybe we won’t have to go that far. We’ll start at Dupont Circle and have a look around. Maybe we can find something on the security cameras.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now,” Bryers said. There was an edge of annoyance to his voice, the first sign that he was beginning to tire of carting around the rookie no matter how promising she was. “When there’s a killer on the loose, we don’t really punch a clock.”

Several retorts came to her tongue, but she kept them choked down. He was right, anyway. If she’d learned anything from her ordeal with the Scarecrow Killer, it was that when you were chasing down a killer that seemingly had no MO, every minute was precious.