CHAPTER ONE
Patterns.
If you’re like me, it’s all you see in the world.
Fibonacci sequences appear in the flowering of an artichoke. The golden ratio recurs in the forms of flowers. And spirals and stripes develop in hundreds of species, both to hide from prey but also to attract mates.
Put simply, we all want to be seen—to be courted.
And sometimes even—to be caught.
But it wasn’t until five years ago that the FBI green-lit a team dedicated to studying how identifying patterns could lead to perpetrators.
I opened the door to the double-wide, and the effect was like a vacuum. The smell of the nearby forest disappeared, the scent of dogwood and confederate jasmine replaced with the odor of perspiration and rotten food.
And something worse. A scent like rotten eggs.
“Mr. Pecos?” I called out.
My flashlight moved through the dark, its beam picking upspecks of dust that flitted about the mobile home. Across the stream of light, I saw the flap of an open pizza box, a curl of congealed cheese stuck to the cardboard. Then a melamine card table with an antique flintlock rifle atop it.
Behind me, the night was pitch black, and my partner, Joanne “Shooter” Harris, moved into the dark space.
“On your three,” she said.
Shooter’s flashlight moved right while I moved left.
“Freddie?” Her voice rang through the darkness. It sounded friendlier than mine, but I knew Shooter’s voice and could sense her concern.
I turned toward the kitchen, and a cockroach passed through my flashlight beam. On the counter sat two six-packs of Yuengling lager, each with a bottle missing.
“Uh, Gardner,” Shooter said, her voice coming from my right. “I don’t think Freddie’s living his best life anymore.”
I turned my flashlight toward her voice and took in Freddie Pecos.
Our confidential informant was white and thirty-five years old. His six-foot-two frame was sunk into a threadbare couch, his hands splayed at his sides, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in the crook between his right elbow and his stomach.
And then there was the blood.
“I mean, if we’re being honest,” Shooter said, “maybe his best life wasn’t working for us or living here. But, uh… this is definitely worse.”
Shooter did gallows humor 24-7, which is the opposite of me. I manage a solid joke twice a year.
I stepped in the direction of the body, and Shooter blasted him with light.
Freddie Pecos was dressed in camo pants and a white T-shirt. The collar of the tee was sprayed with a red pattern that suggested he’d either coughed up or vomited blood. Six and a half inches below that—across the center of his shirt—was a wide oval of crimson.
I’d read recently in a management manual that in times of stress, it is advisable to make small talk. I kept my light on Pecos but considered a few options.
“So, what’d you do last night?” I asked Shooter.
“Hot date,” she said.
I nodded, still facing Pecos.
“Threesome, actually,” she continued, and I turned to face her. “Gun range.” She flicked her eyebrows. “Me. Two guys named Smith and Wesson.”
I made a mental note to attempt this tactic at another time—with someone not named Joanne Harris.
