Latent Identification (DILI), a pioneering program that collated features of any given crime with information already in the system, flagged similarities, and linked them to possible suspects. In the beginning, the DILI had access to fingerprint data only if an individual had been in prison or was incarcerated. The DILI was prehistoric by today’s standards, but it had established the parameters used subsequently for forensic databases around the world.
Michael Verdon put into words the question that was bothering all of them. “Why didn’t we recruit her straight out of college? Boston’s been the source of some of our best agents.” Wilson nodded, studying his copy of Salazar’s file.
Johnson also nodded. “The boss took a look at her.” He jutted his chin toward Dupree, who was still watching the monitor. “And we tried. Everything fit—good background, adopted by an elderly American couple, educated in the US from the age of twelve at some of the best boarding schools, dual citizenship: Spain and the US. A couple of boyfriends, nothing long term. No drugs, no weapons, no scandals. The dean contacted us about her. Salazar presented a brilliant thesis on . . .” Johnson checked the file. “Here it is: ‘Scientific Interpretation of Nonverbal Communication Relevant to Minor Children at Risk.’ But when we approached her, she said she wanted to go back to Europe.”
“To Spain,” Dupree added, breaking his silence.
“To northern Spain. Pamplona. Even though the National Police or the Guardia Civil would have been glad to have her, she opted for a smaller force, Navarra’s Judicial Police. Not much more than a bunch of backwoods state troopers.”
“And now we’ve got her back,” Verdon mused aloud, not speaking to anyone in particular. He left Dupree’s side and took one of the chairs by the door.
“Yeah.” Johnson smiled. “Actually, we never really let her out of our sight. We weren’t surprised to see her hit the ground running. She’s the youngest assistant inspector in the country, and she really should have been promoted again already. Her career is taking off, but—”
“But they don’t know what to do with her,” Agent Tucker said sharply. She tossed the file onto the desk. “No good deed goes unpunished. Especially when a woman’s involved.”
Johnson raised an eyebrow, but that was his only reaction. Tucker never passed up an opportunity to call out anything that smacked of sexism. Johnson assumed, as everyone did, that Tucker had received her share of insults and abuse, but he knew she was ambitious and had her sights on becoming Dupree’s successor. She hadn’t discriminated on her way to the top: she’d trampled on everyone, regardless of race or gender. For the last two years, she’d supervised a unit of three criminal investigators, one man and two women. She tolerated Emerson because she’d identified him as a consummate ass-kisser with a flair for recognizing talent.
Emerson shrugged. “In any case, the crime rate in that region is pathetically low; I doubt she’s seen any bodies there except suicides and murdered wives. She’s probably gotten rusty.”
Dupree looked up as if surprised to find Emerson there. His reaction made it clear that Emerson was off track.
Tucker told him why. “You’re wrong. She hunted down a predator, one of the nastiest and most elusive types of killers, all on her own. She freed his most recent victim and proved he’d kidnapped and murdered two other women before that.”
Emerson’s jaw tightened.
Verdon put into words the obvious question. “Why would someone with her education and training want to go back? What was she looking for in Spain?”
“She was waiting,” Dupree replied.
“Waiting, but for what?”
Dupree said nothing. He smiled to himself and kept his eyes on the young woman on the monitor.
Johnson took over. “When we send out invitations to European police forces, we usually ask the top brass to nominate their candidates. But we were specific with the Spaniards: we wanted Assistant Inspector Salazar.” He smiled.
“We’re lucky she doesn’t know it,” Dupree added.
Wilson had listened without comment. He went to the door that opened directly into the adjacent office, grasped the knob, and turned to look at Dupree. “You know my opinion. She turned us down once; brilliance is no excuse for insolence.” He jabbed his bloodless finger toward the desk and a document covered with colorful sticky notes. “If she can justify this—and you can explain to me why it’s genius and not arrogance—you’ll have my full support for whatever decision you make.”
“Thanks, Jim,” Dupree replied. “I appreciate that.”
“Thank me after she explains herself. I’ll monitor the