When the BAU plane landed at Sea-Tac, the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, a heavy rain was streaking across the windows. Riley looked at her watch. It was about two in the afternoon at home now, but it was eleven in the morning here. That would give them time to get something done on this case today.
As she and Bill moved toward the exit, the pilot came out of his cabin and handed each of them an umbrella.
"You'll need these," he said with a grin. "Winter is the worse time to be in this corner of the country."
When they stood at the top of the stairs, Riley had to agree. She was glad they had umbrellas, but she wished she had dressed warmer. It was cold as well as rainy.
An SUV pulled up at the edge of the tarmac. Two men in raincoats hurried out of the vehicle toward their plane. They introduced themselves as Agents Havens and Trafford of the FBI field office in Seattle.
"We're taking you to the medical examiner's office," Agent Havens said. "The team leader on this investigation is waiting for you there."
Bill and Riley got into the car, and Agent Trafford started to drive through the drenching rain. Riley could make barely out the usual airport hotels along the way, and that was all. She knew there was a vital city out there, but it was practically invisible.
She wondered if she was ever going to see Seattle while she was here.
*
The minute Riley and Bill sat down in the conference room in Seattle's medical examiner's building, she sensed that trouble was brewing. She exchanged glances with Bill, and she could tell that he was feeling the tension too.
Team Leader Maynard Sanderson was a big-chested, big-jawed man with a presence that struck Riley as falling somewhere between a military officer and an evangelical preacher.
Sanderson was glowering at a portly man whose thick walrus mustache gave his face what seemed to be a permanent scowl. He had been introduced as Perry McCade, Seattle's Chief of Police.
The body language of the two men and the places they had taken at the table spoke volumes to Riley. For whatever reason, the last thing they wanted was to be in the same room together. And she also felt sure that both men especially hated having Riley and Bill here.
She remembered what Brent Meredith had said before they left Quantico.
"Don't expect a cozy welcome. Neither the cops nor the Feds will be happy to see you."
Riley wondered what kind of minefield she and Bill had walked into.
A complex power struggle was going on, without a word being spoken. And in just a few minutes, she knew it was going to start getting verbal.
By contrast, Chief Medical Examiner Prisha Shankar looked comfortable and unconcerned. The dark-skinned, black-haired woman was about Riley's age and appeared to be stoic and imperturbable.
She's on her own turf, after all, Riley figured.
Agent Sanderson took the liberty of getting the meeting underway.
"Agents Paige and Jeffreys," he said to Riley and Bill, "I'm pleased that you could make it all the way from Quantico."
His icy voice told Riley that the opposite was true.
"Glad to be of service," Bill said, not sounding very sure of himself.
Riley just smiled and nodded.
"Gentlemen," Sanderson said, ignoring the presence of two women, "we're all here to investigate two murders. A serial killer might be getting started here in the Seattle area. It's up to us to stop him before he kills again."
Police Chief McCade growled audibly.
"Would you like to comment, McCade?" Sanderson asked dryly.
"It's not a serial," McCade grumbled. "And it's not an FBI case. My cops have got this under control."
Riley was starting to get the picture. She remembered how Meredith had said that the local authorities were floundering with this case. And now she could see why. Nobody was on the same page, and nobody agreed on anything.
Police Chief McCade was angry that the FBI was muscling in on a local murder case. And Sanderson was fuming that the FBI had sent Bill and Riley from Quantico to straighten everybody out.
The perfect storm, Riley thought.
Sanderson turned toward the chief medical examiner and said, "Dr. Shankar, perhaps you'd like to summarize what we currently know."
Seemingly aloof from the underlying tensions, Dr. Shankar clicked a remote to bring up an image on the wall screen. It was a driver's license photo of a rather plain-looking woman with straight hair of a dullish brown color.
Shankar said, "A month and a half ago, a woman named Margaret Jewell died at home in her sleep of what appeared to be a heart attack. She'd been complaining the day before of joint pains, but according to her spouse, that wasn't unusual. She suffered from fibromyalgia."
Shankar clicked the remote again and brought up another driver's license photo. It showed a middle-aged man with a kindly but melancholy face.
She said, "A couple of days ago, Cody Woods admitted himself to the South Hill Hospital, complaining of chest pains. He also complained of joint pain, but again that wasn't surprising. He'd had some arthritis, and he'd had knee replacement surgery a week before. Within hours of being admitted to the hospital, he, too, died of what appeared to be a heart attack."
"Totally unconnected deaths," McCade muttered.
"So now are you saying that neither one of these deaths was murder?" Sanderson said.
"Margaret Jewell, probably," McCade said. "Cody Woods, certainly not. We're letting him be a distraction. We're muddying the waters. If you'd just leave it to my boys and me, we'd solve this case in no time."
"You've had a month and a half on the Jewell case," Sanderson said.
Dr. Shankar smiled rather mysteriously as McCade and Sanderson continued to bicker. Then she clicked the remote again. Two more photos came up.
The room fell quiet, and Riley felt a jolt of surprise.
The men in both photos looked Middle Eastern. Riley didn't recognize one of them. But she sure did recognize the other.
It was Saddam Hussein.