Disclaimer: See Chapter One.
Author's Notes: Special thanks to Dreambrother for being an awesome Beta.
Like the Los Angeles Police Department, the L.A. FBI office had its own crime lab; the technicians, lab experts, and actual crime scene investigators had their own floor where they carried out all their evidence testing. They were rarely seen outside their floor unless you counted the Crime Lab Supervisor, the Assistant or the CSA's who made it out to the crime scenes.
However, unlike the LAPD Lab which had its own building, the FBI crime lab was downstairs on the bottommost floor of the office. Tucked away where no one dared to venture; there were all sorts of rumors about the oddness of the people down there, and more often then not, especially when he himself had been down there, the lab was cold and smelled.
Exiting the elevator, Don was hit by the strong odor of chemicals and what could only be described as dead bodies. The smell didn't improve his tired and frustrated attitude, his morning fix of caffeine having failed him.
He would need to find another pot. Perhaps the lounge down here had some left over, that is if the night shift hadn't grabbed it already. As soon as that thought came it left again. There was no telling what made its way into the coffee down here.
Don passed the open glass area where Matt was busy looking over their dead victim's banged up laptop. The technician waved in greeting and then went back to carefully sorting out the many pieces.
He was looking for an Abby Thompson; the forensic anthropologist had called his desk phone with news on his dead victim but had said that she couldn't come to him. Colby had passed along a small description of what she looked like, as he and Megan left for the deceased's apartment.
Spotting a short woman matching Colby's description of Abby, Don backtracked and entered the room. "Abby Thompson?"
The brunette jerked up from what she was doing, turning to where his voice had come from. Seeing who he was, she smiled and her fingers stilled over the device in her hands. "Agent Eppes, I presume?"
He held his hand out for her to shake. "Yeah. Don Eppes."
She shifted the hand held device and grasped his fingers in a firm grip that defied her small stature. "Abby Thompson. Your answer to your mystery symbols. Sorry I couldn't make it upstairs to you. The Assistant Supervisor has us all running around doing a million different things; he's up for that transfer to San Diego and he wants the proficiency rates to look good for his interview."
"I can imagine. You said you had an answer for those symbols Claudia found?"
Don watched as she nodded and ran her fingers across the little computer in her hands. The touch screen responded, and from the corner of his eyes Don saw the projection screen on the opposite wall come to life; images of the painted symbols flooded the screen, bisecting and dissecting until there where eight in total.
Taking in his expression over the foreign piece of equipment, Abby grinned and explained as she highlighted and rearranged the images to her liking. "It's a surface computer. The next big thing from Bill Gates. We've got it on loan as a trial run to play around with. It runs just like a touch screen, like the new iPhone or any thing else like that," she gave the smaller part in her hand a little shake, "This is the remote piece. I can control the main computer which is down here in front of you. It makes things move much faster. That is once you get the hang of it."
Don glanced down at the rectangular, flat surface that the two of them were leaning against. Sure enough, it reflected exactly what the screen on the wall did. "Very Star Trek."
Abby laughed. "Now we're talking. But you didn't come down here to talk about surface computers," a finger pointed at the first image and one that he recognized from the crime scene. "Alright. These four are actual images from her shirt. Once Claudia mentioned that they were Chumash Symbols, I was all over them. Fascinating stuff. However, I can tell you that they're not real."
"What?" They looked real to him.
The forensic anthropologist pursed her lips in thought. "Well, they are real. But…Not real in the sense that they weren't done by any Chumash Native American."
Don nodded, pondering her thoughts, his mind already churning with trying to put the pieces together. "And how do you know that?"
She smiled, excitement showing in her face and her tone when she said, "I'm an anthropologist. Normally I study bones. But I have a Masters in Native American studies and my thesis was on Southwestern Native Americans. I am extremely fascinated by the Chumash; it's borderline obsession. If I do say so myself, not meaning to brag, I know what I'm talking about. Take a look here."
His gaze shifted to where she had indicated, watching as the crime scene photo was placed side by side with an image copied from what appeared to be a textbook. Now that Don knew he was looking for differences, he could see them. The two sets of symbols, the painted ones from their dead victim and the real ones, were very close to being exact duplicates. "Alright. Yeah, I seem them. So what does that mean? We're looking for some guy who tried to frame it these people?"
That sounded like a possibility.
Her fingers flew over the screen again. "I'm not the agent, Agent. I just process the evidence so you can get your clues and your warrants. Getting the bad guy is your job," she gave him a small wink. "However, if you want my opinion, you're looking at someone who has familiarity with this culture. The differences are very minute and only something that a trained eye would notice. The lizard's tail is not turned in the right direction. The spirals of the sun get large and then skinny instead of skinny to large as they branch out. Also, trace ran the paint through and found that it's simple paint that can be found in numerous art supply stores in the city. The Chumash reserve still uses their original paints and liquids."
Don ran a hand through his hair, sighing as yet another wall slammed up in front of them. "Yeah. Thanks anyway, though."
Her smile was small and sad, empathizing with his frustration. "Sorry. Trace is working on your fibers found around her neck. They're backed up too, but I told them to push it through as fast as they can."
Don repeated his thanks and left, passing back by Matt who was still hunched over the broken pieces. He punched in the '14th' floor button, his thoughts moved in all different directions as they traveled down different paths and angles for this case.
He was going to need more than just one cup of coffee.
The door opened easily with a quick turn of the key. A few seconds were reserved to listen for any suspicious sounds that might be coming from inside the black space where a closed white door had previously been. Despite the landlord's confident assurance that there was never anyone else in Bevin's apartment, Megan found it hard to believe that an attractive twenty one year old woman didn't have some friends in a city like this.
When none came, Megan switched her Glock to her left hand and flipped the light switch, both her and her companion lifting a hand to shield against the sudden brightness; all 100 watts of the incandescent lighting blinded them momentarily, causing them to see those dark spots normally reserved for Wiley Coyote.
"Damn, that's bright."
She rolled her eyes at her partner's exclamation and dropped her hand. Moving forward into the living room of their victim's apartment, her eyes scanned the place, searching for anyone else other than the two of them. Bevin Davis lived in a nice apartment complex roughly three miles from Centennial Drive, the main road that was home to the science buildings of Berkeley University. The second-year grad student lived among her colleagues, and while it was a relatively safe building, it was still standard procedure to insure your own safety before entering a home.
Besides, someone had killed Bevin Davis.
That meant there was at least one person who didn't like her.
"A little bright light too much for you there, Granger?" Megan teased, knowing full well his army history and penchant for acting like Superman during takedowns.
Colby didn't bother giving her a verbal response. Instead, he settled for a quick quirk of his lips and a mock glare.
"I'll take the bedroom and see if I can find anything in there," she continued on.
Colby's head bobbed up and down as he returned his gun to its respective holster. "Right. That leaves me here and the kitchen. Let's see if we can find out just who Bevin Davis is and what she was doing up in the Santa Clarita area."
The dead girl's apartment was nothing extraordinary but it was comfortable for a graduate student. It was small, clearly meant for only one tenant: one full bedroom, a quaint living room, and a sparse kitchen with only the essentials needed to survive.
Megan pushed aside the door to the bedroom and crossed the threshold. A thick beige bed set complemented the pale sunny yellow of the walls.
An ID card found in the tossed laptop case had unlocked the mystery of their Jane Doe.
Bevin Nicole Davis. Twenty-one this past June. Eldest daughter of Nick and Mary Davis from Charleston, South Carolina. Three years spent at the University of Virginia as a Jefferson Scholar to gain a major in biology and a minor in biochemistry. A partial scholarship paired with high honors had seen her admitted to the graduate school of Berkeley.
Three thousand miles was a long way away from family for a just turned adult, partial scholarship or no partial scholarship.
"I've got nothing out of the ordinary in here; just a half gallon of milk and a reminder for a dentist appointment on the 6th. You find anything?" Colby's voice carried through the wall separating the bedroom from the kitchen.
Hangers holding up folded jeans, trim blouses, pressed slacks, and tasteful tops, all of the current fashion, greeted Megan's sight as she examined the closet. A neat row of shoes complete with heels and about eight different colored flip flops gazed up at her. There were no boxes in the overhead racks or shoved somewhere behind the heavy winter coat that was more suited for Charlottesville than Los Angeles.
After finding nothing in either the closet or the nightstand, Megan let out a huff and straightened from her bent over position. The oak desk in the corner caught her eye and beckoned to her from beside the bed, acting as siren to the profiler. Unlike Odysseus, however, there were no rocks for her to crash upon.
Like everything else Megan had already learned about their victim's life from stepping into it, Bevin's workplace was meticulous and orderly. Nothing extra was there and every item that did rest on top of the wood had an exact place and purpose.
A rectangular spot, about one foot by a half, directly in front of the matching wooden chair sat empty. The space was just the right size for the recovered laptop, now back at the lab with Matt.
"I've got her desk with a place for her laptop. Nothing in her nightstand or closet that screams for attention. Hang on…" Fingers trailed over a coffee cup devoid of its namesake but filled with pens and pencils, slipping down over a stapler and then gliding to finally rest on the spiral bound notebook to the far right edge. "I might have something here."
It was no surprise, Megan noted as she went through the ink filled pages, that Bevin's handwriting was small and neat. She flicked through page after page and with each turn, became more confused. The notebook definitely held answers of some kind, but the meanings of Bevin's symbols, equations, scientific terms, and formulas went straight over Megan's head. Vaguely, she could catch phrases that dealt with someone named Weinberg. On several pages were the repeated initials of "C.C.".
Thanks for the clues, Bevin. Now if only I knew what they meant.
The notebook would have to be documented and tagged back at the office. Forensics would go through it downstairs but there was someone else who might be able to shed some light onto the equations and such. Sometimes their team took for granted how often they needed Charlie's help, but he was always willing to offer his services and they did indeed need them.
Megan retraced her steps from the bedroom to the living area.
Colby gazed questioningly at the book she held up for him to see. "Whatcha got?"
She gave it a little shake. "Bevin Davis was working on something. A whole notebook full of something. Unfortunately I don't know what any of it means. It's all—"
"Let me guess: They're all numbers."
"Oh ha ha, Granger. But yes, her work is all formulas and equations."
Colby grinned and then satirically quipped, "Then it's a good thing we know somebody."
Megan was about to respond but the words died on her lips as she and Colby turned to the sound coming from the front door: the door knob jiggled and then turned. The profiler exchanged glances with her partner for the day; both of their right hands moved to hover over their holsters.
The door swung open in a loud fashion, the person behind not caring that the wood slammed into the wall and bounced back. He was more concerned with the two people over the step waiting for him.
Halting upon seeing them, the young man froze up like a deer caught in the headlights. His eyes even took on that wide eyed 'don't kill me' look.
"Who the hell are you two?" He yelled out, his firm voice in direct contrast with Megan's previous thoughts about being nervous or afraid.
Colby moved before she could respond, quickly stepping forward until he was a foot away from the kid. "The better question is: who the hell are you?"
An eyebrow rose as their unexpected guest looked back and forth between her and Colby. "Daniel Troxler. I go to school with Bevin. We have a biochem class together. What are you doing in her apartment?"
Daniel Troxler looked like a grad student: Wrinkled jeans, a red band graphic shirt, and a leather bag thrown over his shoulder. He was a decent looking guy with short cropped hair, green eyes behind black, square glasses, and a crooked smile.
"I'm Megan Reeves and this is Colby Granger. Do you know Bevin, Daniel?" Megan asked, effectively ignoring his question about them.
Green eyes blinked and his head shook from left to right. "Yeah. I already said that. I have Dr. Neuvan's advanced biochem class with her. She helps me out sometimes. Bevin's a wunderkind when it comes to chemistry. Now me, not so much."
Megan held up the black notebook again and proffered it to the kid. "Do you know what this is?"
Cautious hands took it from her and then grew in confidence as Daniel flipped through the pages. After a few he closed it and then handed it back. "It's the project Bevin's been working on. Something for her thesis. You'll have to ask her about it. She won't tell anyone just what it is. Wants it to be a surprise for when she gets done."
If Daniel was a friend of Bevin's, then he might know what happened to her.
She exchanged another quick glance with Colby who had remained silent and then carefully crafted her words before saying, "Daniel, do you know if anyone was mad at Bevin over something. Like maybe an ex-boyfriend? Or possibly someone who was upset with her about what she was working on?"
Daniel's hands gripped his shoulder strap. "Bevin hasn't dated anyone in awhile. I don't see how anyone could be mad at her. She's practically the nicest person I've ever met. Never holds a grudge or anything. Look… I don't see what this has to do with anything. Where's Bevin and what are you doing in her apartment? For that matter, who exactly are you?"
Colby was the one to speak up, gentling out his tone to softly speak. "We're with the FBI, Daniel. Bevin was found this morning up in the Santa Clarita Park."
The younger man's Adam apple bobbed up and down. "Found? As in she's dead?"
The mere seconds it took for Colby to answer seemed like hours. "Yeah."
The boy crumbled inward in front of their eyes. "Oh God… I… This can't be. I was just with her yesterday. I was supposed to bring her a copy of my notes and then she was going to help me go over some of them before our test next week. She's really dead?" Daniel looked hopefully at them, as if this was all a bad dream of his and theirs.
Megan nodded. "She really is, Daniel. Do you know anyone who could have done this? Anyone who was causing her problems?"
"No. Like I said, Bevin was friends with everyone. She was nice. Always there to help. She hadn't said anything about anyone harassing her or anything like that."
Colby waited a moment for Bevin's friend to compose himself. "Where were you last night and this morning, Daniel?"
His head shot up and his voice rose. "You think I killed her?"
Colby's hands spread wide. "Hey, man, we have to ask."
Daniel let out a sigh and when he responded his voice was back to its regular decibel. "I had a class this morning. Check with my TA. Last night I was out with a group of friends until four. I can give you their names and numbers."
Megan wrote down the proffered names and numbers. His alibi would have to be followed up but she didn't think it would matter much. Daniel didn't seem like the type to kill a friend and then dump their body off the side of a trail. But still, rules were rules.
After being cleared by the two of them, Daniel turned away. He quietly placed a silver key, the one he had used to get in, onto a side table. Hands gripped the door frame and he paused, looking back at them. "You'll find who did this, right? She didn't deserve this."
"We will," Colby stated, giving the young man a firm, determined look.
They waited until his footsteps had died away to turn to each other.
"Well, that didn't help. Only gave us more questions instead of answers." Megan ran a hand through her hair, fingers slightly grasping in frustration.
Colby gave her a knowing look. "Then we better see if Charlie can help us with this notebook. Otherwise, we've got nothing."
The notebook held all the answers.
Let's just hope Charlie is willing to help us out one more time.
TBC
Feedback and comments are always appreciated.
