by Chris Culver
I crossed my arms so I wouldn’t feel so exposed. Lawson smiled before focusing on the other officers around the table.
“Before we get into BAU’s findings, I’d like Detective Court to tell us where we’re at and how we got here,” said Lawson, nodding toward me.
I hesitated before standing. Every eye in the room turned. I fought the urge to wave at them and kept my hands laced behind my back as if I were reciting letters at an elementary school spelling bee.
“Okay, I guess I’ll get started. About six weeks ago, my station received word that two young people had gone missing—”
Agent Lawson cleared his throat, getting my attention. I looked at him and raised my brow.
“Details,” he said. “Don’t hold back. Who called it in, how old are the kids, and when did they disappear?”
I cleared my throat and looked down to give myself a moment to think.
“The girl was named Paige Maxwell. She was a senior in high school, and she was seventeen. Her boyfriend, the missing young man, attended the same high school and had recently turned eighteen. Paige’s parents contacted us on March 14. Jude Lewis’s parents called us the next day. I talked to all four of them and then typed up my interview notes afterwards. They should be available on our department’s server.”
One of the FBI agents looked up from a notepad and leaned forward. He had black hair cut close to his scalp line and acne scars that pockmarked his cheeks. His brown eyes were small for his angular face, while his pointed chin was large for his frame. He kind of looked like a cartoon version of Dracula.
“You said Paige was seventeen and Jude was eighteen. Why are we using the past tense? Are we sure they’re dead?”
My eyes flicked to Agent Lawson before focusing on Dracula once more.
“We’re not positive, but I can’t imagine they’re still alive. They disappeared six weeks ago, and neither has contacted his or her family or friends, neither has used credit cards or tried to access their bank accounts, and neither has shown up yet. We also found Paige’s car in the woods. The backseat had hair, sweat, saliva, and seminal fluids—the kind of stuff you’d expect in a teenager’s car—but someone had cleaned the front seats. You don’t clean and dump a car that deep in the woods without a reason.”
Agent Lawson nodded, but his eyes looked distant.
“Where’s this car now?” he asked.
“The State Highway Patrol has it,” I said. “We’re a small station. They’ve got access to resources we don’t, so we handed it over to them.”
Dracula looked to Lawson. “For the time being, I’d suggest we assume Paige and Jude are still alive. Until we discover this guy’s pattern, we can’t assume he’s killed them already.”
Lawson nodded and looked at me. “Agreed. Go ahead, Detective. After you learned Paige and Jude were missing, what did you do?”
I wanted to tell Dracula I didn’t simply assume Paige and Jude were dead, but this wasn’t an interrogation or a critique. They were there to gather information. We were partners in this case.
At least that’s what I told myself.
“I tried to track down their cell phones, but they were both off; I checked out their finances and discovered that both Paige and Jude had withdrawn five hundred dollars each from their bank accounts; I talked to their friends to make sure they didn’t know where Paige and Jude were; I searched their rooms at home to see whether I could find anything interesting; and I called the State Highway Patrol and put them on notice to look for Paige’s car. I also called a couple dozen hospitals to make sure they hadn’t shown up.”
“What did you do after you couldn’t find them?” asked Dracula again.
“I kept the case active, but I wasn’t worried at first. Paige was a minor, but she had a car and a job. She and Jude were also dating. Paige fought with her parents often, so I figured she and her boyfriend disappeared for a few days to take a break. I thought they would come home again after blowing through their savings.”
Dracula wrote a few things down before considering me. He didn’t seem impressed.
“What happened next? Did you make any follow-up inquiries?”
“If there were inquiries to make, I would have made them,” I said, leaning forward. “We kept the case active, and I kept in touch with their friends in case Jude or Paige called. I also kept track of their cell phones and bank accounts. If they’d used their debit cards, or if they’d turned on their phones, I would have heard about it. We’re a small department. As much as we wanted to, we couldn’t drop everything to search for two missing kids.”
“No one’s criticizing you, Detective,” said Agent Lawson, leaning forward and flashing me a tight smile. “We’re just trying to gather the facts.”
I forced myself to smile. “Of course.”
“I’ve heard there’s something interesting with a map,” said one of the other agents. He had gray hair, and his skin had the tanned patina of a lifelong smoker. His voice was low, and his gray mustache bounced as he spoke. He looked like the Marlboro Man. “Can you tell us about that?”
I opened my mouth to say something, but Lawson interrupted.
“Instead of telling us,” he said, “show us.”
He nodded toward a large map of the Midwest taped onto a rolling easel. I took a marker from the easel’s well and eyed the map so I could orient myself.
“We’re here,” I said, making a dot over St. Augustine. It was the center of the map. “On May 13, 2017, Olivia King and her boyfriend, John Rodgers, were reported missing in Hannibal, Illinois.”
I made a large dot on the map over Hannibal.
“On July 15, 2017, police officers in Kennett, Missouri, received a report that Tayla Walker and her boyfriend, Matthew Bridges, had gone missing.”
I made another dot over Kennett.
“Two months later, Amy Hoffman and her boyfriend, James Tyler, disappeared in Decatur, Illinois. Two months after that, Jordan Fitzgerald and her boyfriend, Simon Fisher, disappeared in Mountain Grove, Missouri. Two months after that, Nicole Moore and her boyfriend, Andrew White, disappeared in Sturgis, Kentucky.”
I marked the spots on the map before turning around. My stomach still had butterflies, but I felt stronger. The FBI agents got it now.
“All the victims are between sixteen and eighteen, all attended high school together, and all were dating. They disappeared at two-month intervals. The pattern repeated in every case. The children withdrew money from their bank accounts, they filled up their gas tanks, and then they disappeared. In all cases, the original presumption was that the victims had run away from home or disappeared so they could have sex without their parents knocking on the door.”
Everyone around the room took that in. Several nodded.
“Now connect the dots,” said Agent Lawson, glancing from me to his colleagues. I walked back to the board and put my marker on Hannibal. From there, I drew a line to Kennett, Missouri and then another one to Decatur, Illinois. Once I had five lines drawn, several of the assembled agents gasped.
“It’s a pentagram with St. Augustine in the center,” I said. “Once we found the pentagram, we knew these weren’t random disappearances. Harry Grainger, our former sheriff, called the US Attorney’s Office in St. Louis. They called you.”
For a few moments, nobody said anything. Then Lawson took charge. He nodded.
“Have a seat, Detective,” he said, before focusing on his team. “We’ve run the details by Behavioral Analysis. Our murderer appears organized and detail-oriented. We believe we’re looking at one individual, but he might have a partner. Either way, he’s evaded capture or detection for at least a year. In that time, he’s abducted at least twelve victims. That is troubling.”
Lawson opened a folder on the table and pulled out a stack of papers.
“We know a few things already,” said Lawson. “The victims are all white, which means our killer is also probably white. Serial murderers rarely cross racial lines. Statistically, our kil
ler is male. Furthermore, his ability to remain hidden tells us he’s likely intelligent. What’s more, we know he had the PINs and bank cards of all his victims because he withdrew money from their accounts. It’s possible he works in a bank, but it’s more likely that he talked his victims into giving this information out.”
As Lawson spoke, I wrote his conclusions down.
“Is it possible our killer knows his victims?” I asked, glancing up from my notepad. “It might help explain his ability to talk them into giving him their bank information.”
“We need to figure that out,” said Lawson. “We also need to discuss the elephant in the room: the pentagram. Since we’ve not found his victims yet, all we can do so far is speculate as to our killer’s motives. The pentagram is an ancient symbol used in dozens of religions, including Wiccanism, Christianity, and Bahaism. It also adorns the flags of Morocco and Ethiopia. Our killer isn’t choosing his victims at random, but we don’t know what this symbol means to him.
“This case has the salacious details that make reporters excited, but we don’t know how our killer will react to seeing this on the news. Because of that, no one talks to the press without my explicit say-so. Questions about our media policy or anything else?”
Nobody said anything, so I leaned forward.
“There’s another point you didn’t mention,” I said. “Our male victims are Jude, John, Matthew, James, Simon, and Andrew. They’re saints.”
“They’re apostles of Christ,” said an agent who had yet to speak. He looked at me. “Repeat the missing female victims’ names.”
I flipped through my notepad until I found the correct page.
“Paige, Olivia, Tayla, Amy, Jordan, and Nicole.”
“Are they biblical names, too?” asked Dracula.
I shook my head. “I don’t know about the others, but Tayla isn’t. It’s a modern name, isn’t it?”
“We’ll look it up,” said Lawson. “Today, we’re hitting the reset button. We will re-interview the victims’ family, friends, and co-workers; we will talk to their teachers; we will dig into their social media accounts; and we will retrace their footsteps on the day they disappeared. By the end of the day, I want to know where our victims went on the days they disappeared, I want to know who they talked to, and I want fingerprints and DNA samples from each of their immediate family members.
“Approach this case as if I called you in this morning to work a missing-persons case. Work it from the beginning, but, above all, keep it quiet. Nobody talks to the press. We don’t need to spook anyone.”
For the next few minutes, Lawson doled out individual assignments. I kept waiting to hear my name, but he never said it. Once he finished speaking, he dismissed everybody and wished us all luck. As the agents filed out of the room, I stood and walked toward him.
“Special Agent Lawson,” I said, “I noticed that you didn’t mention me.”
He glanced up from his paperwork. Then he looked to Delgado.
“You’ve done good work, Detective, but we’re keeping this task force small for the moment.”
I tried to smile, but I didn’t have a lot of success.
“Paige and Jude were my case. I’ve already established rapport with their families and their friends, and I’m familiar with the local area. I’m in a better position than anybody on your task force to investigate them.”
He considered me for a moment, but then he resumed organizing his papers into a neat stack on the table.
“While I appreciate your position and expertise, this is a federal case with victims in three different states. You don’t have the authority to investigate crimes outside Missouri. Not only that, every one of my officers has at least a dozen years’ experience investigating complicated murders. It’s nothing personal. We’d love to include you in a greater role, but we can’t. Since you’ve got an interest in the case, I’ll try to keep you updated.”
I lowered my chin. “Are you keeping any locals on this case?”
Lawson looked up from his paperwork and glanced at Delgado. The sheriff walked toward us.
“Sheriff Delgado will act as our community liaison. When we need to contact a local, he’ll be our point man. None of our victims came from major cities. We don’t want to take resources from communities already stretched thin.”
“I see,” I said, nodding. “You’re kicking us off cases in our communities for our own good.”
“Detective,” growled Delgado.
“It’s all right,” said Lawson, glancing at Delgado before focusing on me. “If I put you on my task force, how many detectives would be available in St. Augustine?”
I didn’t like my answer, so I said nothing. Lawson looked to Delgado.
“Several officers have retired in the past six months, so we’re in the process of securing funding to hire three new detectives,” he said.
Lawson looked at me. “As I understand it, you’re the only detective on staff right now.”
I looked down. “That’s right.”
“This town needs you more than I do,” said Lawson. “I will do what I can to keep you updated. In the meantime, I’ve got a three-hour drive ahead of me to Hannibal, Illinois.”
“Drive safely, Agent Lawson,” said Delgado. Lawson thanked him and left the room. I forced a smile to my lips as I looked to my boss.
“What exciting job do you have in store for me today?”
He considered me for a moment.
“We don’t need a detective right now, so until we get a call, you’re working the speed trap.”
The speed trap was a spot about a quarter mile outside of town where the speed limit dropped from fifty-five to thirty-five miles an hour. Most people slowed down, but a lot of drivers flew by at sixty or seventy miles an hour. I wouldn’t have felt guilty about ticketing them except that someone on the County Council had planted a big bush in front of the sign.
The speed trap had nothing to do with safety. It was all about revenue. In an eight-hour shift, I’d write fifteen to twenty tickets, each of which would earn the town two to three hundred bucks. The County Council funneled some of that money to the police and courthouse, but most of it went into a rainy day fund the council used for pet projects. The system wasn’t fair, but it rarely netted locals, and it didn’t seem to hurt the tourist trade.
Nobody wanted to work the speed trap. The previous two sheriffs used it as a punishment when officers did something stupid at work. Delgado seemed to reserve it for me.
“All right, boss,” I said. “Good luck with your case.”
“And good luck to you, Detective. Catch them speeders,” said Delgado, already turning so he could talk to Agent Lawson. I growled under my breath and left the conference room. The women’s locker room was in the basement near the front of the building. I changed into a uniform and met Trisha, our dispatcher, in the lobby. She glanced at me.
“You look nice in a uniform,” she said.
“Yeah. I’m living the dream,” I said, my voice flat. “Delgado put me on the speed trap.”
“I thought he might. Are we still on for tonight?”
“Oh, yeah. They’re not keeping me away from this.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you later tonight. We should have something to work with by then.”
“Good luck,” I said. “And be careful. If you get caught, more than our jobs will be on the line.”
She assured me that everything would be fine, so I walked toward the front door. I didn’t always toe the line at work, but I tried to play by the rules. It felt good to break them for once. Unfortunately, I couldn’t dwell on that warm feeling. I had speeders to catch.
3
I spent the day in a uniform and a car, passing out tickets to unsuspecting motorists who blasted past the sign separating the town of St. Augustine from the surrounding county. Most of the people I ticketed took it well and admitted they had sped past the sign, but some got a little snippy with me. Nobody pulled a gun or tried to hit me, though, whi
ch was nice.
After nine hours in a squad car by the side of the road, I had written fourteen speeding tickets, three tickets for nonmoving violations—lack of current registration once, lack of insurance twice—and one citation for driving with an open container. I also picked up a deadbeat dad who had a bench warrant out for failure to pay eighteen thousand dollars to his ex-wife in child support. We’d hold the deadbeat overnight while an officer from the Kansas City Police Department came to pick him up.
Because of my efforts, the county earned about twenty-five hundred dollars. If a forensic accountant audited the county’s books, she’d find graft and corruption on every page. I loved St. Augustine, but it floated on a lake of dirty money. If we arrested every corrupt politician in town, dozens more would show up to fight for the vacant positions. I’d complain, but that was how modern politics worked. Everything came with a price, and integrity was cheap.
At the end of my shift, I dropped my cruiser off at work, showered in the women’s locker room, and then changed into my civilian clothes before heading by the grocery store. There, I picked up seven premade frozen dinners and a bottle of vodka. My shopping list said more about my lifestyle than I wanted, but I didn’t care. It was my life; I lived it the way I wanted.
After my brief stop, I drove to my century-old American foursquare. The guy who’d built my house had bought the parts from a Sears & Roebuck catalog for twenty-two hundred dollars. Several generations of a single family had lived in it for most of its life, but when I bought the place, no one had lived in it for years.
When I unlocked the door for the first time six years ago, rust had eaten through the pipes, the rubber insulation coating the electrical wires had dried out and cracked, and the weatherproofing on the windows had disappeared. Building inspectors in a larger county would have condemned it. It had taken me years, but I was bringing it back from the edge. I didn’t even feel embarrassed when people visited anymore. Through hard work and some tears, I had transformed a rotten shell of a house into my home. I loved every inch of that building.
