Unfortunately, the critical details didn’t always lie exclusively with the unknown subject, also more commonly known as the unsub. While the unsub’s profile was essential, so were the unique details of the individuals connected to the investigation.
In this particular case, the serial killer had actively sought out Quinn Simmons as his conduit to the general public.
Linc believed the reason why wasn’t as clear cut as some surmised given her profession, but more in line with an intimate connection the unsub believed existed between them. He was certain that if he could discover what particular association Quinn and the unsub shared, they would be able to stop the reign of terror that had a particular group of women living in fear twenty-four-seven.
The unsub’s victims had all been widows.
He’d crossed racial lines, and the victims also varied in age. Given the choice of crime scenes and the fact that a single long-stemmed rose had been left with each of the victims, Linc had compiled a profile of a white Caucasian male within the age group of thirty to thirty-five years old. The unsub’s parents most likely had a traditional marriage where the father worked outside of the house while the mother had stayed home to tend to the domestic chores of running a household.
The texts and letters that had been sent to Quinn hinted that the unsub had lost his father at a young age. His mother most likely relied on her community of friends and neighbors to help her emotionally and physically after such a devastating loss, but the unsub had somehow mistaken the generosity and caring of others as some type of malignant, guilt-based charity that he’d come to resent.
“Here,” Quinn exclaimed, abruptly setting her cell phone down in front of him. Instead of walking toward the exit as usual, she’d gracefully made her way across the floor of the pub before making herself comfortable in the seat across from him. “You should see this.”
“Good afternoon to you, too,” Linc greeted wryly, not taking his focus off Quinn to look at her cell phone.
Once again, she’d done the exact opposite of what he would have expected under the circumstances. He both loved and hated enigmas, and she was becoming one that he needed to solve.
“The Widow Taker contacted me again. It’s the first time in two weeks. The text is from a different burner number, but I’m pretty sure it’s still him.”
Linc gritted his teeth upon hearing the moniker, not appreciating the fact that she’d been the one to assign the name to the unsub. She’d fed right into the killer’s need to be recognized for his sociopathic gift to the community, but she didn’t seem to care. Now wasn’t the time or place to educate her in the psychology of cases such as this one, though.
He refrained from replying as he picked up her cell phone, reading the message on the lighted display.
I’m needed now more than ever, Ms. Simmons.
“You and I both know that Oliver Stevens isn’t the killer,” Quinn continued, attempting to dislodge her long chestnut brown hair from underneath the strap of her backpack. She finally shoved her bag against the wall alongside the booth. “This proves it. I’m an hour out from addressing my listeners on today’s podcast. I thought you should know that I’m going public with this text message, along with my belief that the wrong man is in custody. The widows of this town deserve to know that a serial killer is still out there hunting them.”
Linc had been having lunch at the pub in downtown Winter Heights every day this week for the sole purpose of monitoring Quinn Simmons in action. She always ordered the same bowl of chicken noodle soup from the pub’s menu, sat in the same booth, and worked nonstop on her laptop throughout her meal with an occasional clipped conversation with the server. She hardly ever varied her routine, and she had never once sought him out before leaving the establishment.
Technically, he could have packed his bags and headed out of town the second Oliver Stevens had been arrested for the killing spree that had plagued the widows of Winter Heights. There were other high-profile cases in the northeast region that needed profiles, yet he couldn’t bring himself to get into his rental car and head back to Quantico until some more questions were answered.
The connection between Oliver Stevens and some of the victims had led federal agents and local police directly to the man’s front doorstep, even though he hadn’t fit the profile that Linc had drawn up for the investigation.
The man’s position at a local phone store had played a major part in his arrest, but his having the latest victim’s cell phone on his person had solidified his guilt in the eyes of a lot of the professionals involved—the governor being one of them. There were times that politics played a part in such cases, and the upper brass needed to be appeased quickly.
They already had pie smeared on their faces, and they didn’t even know it. Their understanding of that fact was about to change in the next hour from the news he’d just received from his colleague. Information that Quinn wasn’t even aware of at the moment.
“I don’t believe Oliver Stevens is the unsub we’re looking for, either. He doesn’t fit the profile.”
Linc could see that he’d surprised her with his honesty. He weighed his options on how to handle this impromptu conversation, knowing full well what he was about to tell her could end up being broadcasted to her entire listening audience. It was a chance he was willing to take. It was vital in this situation to establish some trust, because the manner in which this investigation was playing out could very well end with her death.
“As we speak, Oliver Stevens is being released from our custody,” Linc admitted, registering the shock in her light brown eyes.
His startling admission had her sitting back against the weathered wood of the booth to mull over what his disclosure meant for her podcast. She was probably already penning tomorrow’s newspaper article in that beautiful head of hers, too.
“Why would you so unceremoniously tell me that?”
Quinn had the right to be skeptical of such an admission, but he was tired of both sides being at odds with one another. The federal agent in charge of the investigation had been getting fed up with leaks being broadcasted on the national news. The local police didn’t have any love lost for their local crime journalist, either.
As for Quinn, she’d gotten very good at ignoring the advice of law enforcement.
“Let me hazard a guess at your motive,” Quinn surmised with a frown. “You want me to keep this quiet until you write up a press release for the public.”
Linc did his best not to react to the text message that was clearly from the unsub. It wasn’t a surprise, given the fact that Special Agent Dean Malone and Sheriff Charles Hopkins were currently at the crime scene of yet another victim—a very valid reason to release their previous suspect.
The text message was also a way for the unsub to proudly let Quinn know that he hadn’t gone anywhere, but why had he waited so long to take another life?
“I’d like it very much if you kept the news to yourself, but you have to decide what is in the best interest of your listeners,” Linc said, leaving the decision in her hands. He sure as hell hoped that she chose wisely, or else it would be his ass on the line. “It would be nice for the widows of Winter Heights to place some trust in the ability of law enforcement to protect them.”
Linc kept ahold of her cell phone, knowing that Dean would want to trace the new number the unsub had used to reach out to Quinn. The other messages had all come from burner phones that had been tracked to multiple local stores bought with cash months ago. There was no tracing them to a purchaser, and they were always systematically deactivated once a text was sent. The SIM card associated with each of the phones had never been tracked subsequent to each text on any network nationwide.
The unsub was no one’s fool.
“Agent Malone and Sheriff Hopkins will be releasing a statement within the hour, although I’m sure the local news stations have already heard the chatter over the radio before they managed to shut it down.” Upon Linc disclosing such newsworth
y facts, a message came in on her phone. To continue the establishment of trust, he set her cell on the table next to his coffee cup and slid it across to her. “It looks as if one of your contacts at the local station is letting you know there’s a possible crime scene on the east side of town.”
Linc downed the rest of his lukewarm coffee before reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. He wasn’t the type of man to play games, but he did know when to concede a point and leave. Besides, he wanted to see the latest crime scene for himself.
“I memorized the phone number so that Agent Malone can add it to the others. Would you please copy the message onto a USB and drop it off at the station when you have a moment, though? I’m sure he’ll will want to run it to ground just the same.”
“Wait.”
It didn’t escape Linc that this was the first time in two weeks that she was voluntarily speaking with him. The last time had been when she’d come into the station after receiving the first text message from the unsub, all but reveling in his latest kill. At the time, she’d just purchased a brand-new cell phone in which she’d assured them that no one had the new number.
Enter Oliver Stevens, who just so happened to have had access to such information. It had only been another nail in his coffin. Even so, Linc had been confident that the unsub still remained at large.
Linc’s judgement had been confirmed today upon a call into the station from a woman claiming to have found her mother dead from stab wounds in the middle of her own living room.
He tossed a ten dollar bill down onto the table while Quinn decided what she wanted to ask him. It didn’t escape his notice that the duty bartender was watching the conversation unfold with utmost interest.
Rhonda Benson had been a wealth of information when it came to the patrons of the pub. She was the one who’d let it spill that Quinn always stopped in for lunch at noon every weekday without fail.
“You’ve been watching me every day for over a week, and now you’re giving me inside information as if we’re suddenly best friends? I don’t think so.” Quinn glanced down at her phone, not needing to be told that the crime scene was another murder. She’d already made that connection when he’d told her that Oliver Stevens was being released from custody. “You don’t like me. Don’t pretend otherwise. Why are you suddenly trusting me to give that message to Agent Malone? Better yet, what makes you think I won’t let my listeners know that the FBI arrested an innocent man and thereby unwittingly allowed another murder to take place last night?”
Linc took his time putting on his brown leather jacket, pleased that he’d been able to knock her off-kilter. He’d come to the conclusion that she’d put herself into some mental bubble of denial where no one else’s opinion mattered in her bid to connect to her listeners. He didn’t need to be a profiler to know that something had occurred in her past to push this deep-seated desire to share the truth. In the last month, he’d yet to find anything in the background checks he’d been running through Quantico on her past associations.
A month ago, the unsub had broken into her townhome to prove a point. He’d also left a note that basically blackmailed her into publicizing the letters he’d written her, all but imploring the community to look upon him as some sort of savior for giving his victims peace he believed they needed. The unsub had even threatened to reveal a secret from Quinn’s past if she didn’t comply, though she had emphatically sworn that there was nothing in her background that could be used against her.
Quinn claimed that the unsub had taken a shot in the dark…and lost.
The thing of it was, Linc didn’t believe her denial in the least. He believed it was that thread that could lead them to the unsub.
In order to prove it, Linc needed Quinn to trust him.
“Why on earth would you think that I don’t like you, Miss Simmons?”
“You’re doing that thing where you profile me again,” Quinn countered, leaning forward and resting her forearms on the table. She narrowed her eyes in frustration. “You’re also changing the subject. You don’t approve of my chosen profession, and you don’t like that I’m updating the public about the case every day. Is this some kind of test? You want to see if I run straight to my listeners with news regarding Oliver Steven’s release?”
“Will you?”
“No.” Quinn tapped her fingers on the table. “Did I pass your ethics test?”
“It wasn’t a test,” Linc refuted as he collected his gloves that he’d set on the seat. “Why did you choose journalism anyway?”
“Because no one tells the truth anymore, and—” Quinn bit her lip and then shook her head, realizing that she’d walked right into his trap. He hadn’t set it intentionally. The opportunity had presented itself, and he hadn’t been able to pass it up. “You’re good.”
“That’s what they tell me.”
Linc had responded as if he was talking to someone at the station, his accurate record speaking for itself. The arch of her brow told him that she’d taken his statement in a completely different context. He had to remind himself that this wasn’t personal, no matter that he’d felt an underlying connection with her the first time they’d met.
“Look, Miss Simmons, I am good at my job,” Linc said without hesitation. “A mistake was made in the arrest of Oliver Stevens. These things happen. Trust me when I say that I was very vocal about the mistake, just as you have aired the same opinion over the last couple of weeks. What bothers me is that the serial killer reached out to you multiple times before the murder of Brenda Reinhardt, then completely stopped until today.”
“I am simply reporting for the local paper and informing the listeners of my podcast,” Quinn replied, as if that explanation was enough. It wasn’t. Not by a long shot. “It makes total sense as to why he would reach out to me. As for why he stopped messaging me until today, maybe he was hoping that Oliver Stevens’ arrest would prevent the feds from showing up on his front doorstep while he searched for a new victim. I really don’t know, but I’d say that another murder points to the fact that he wasn’t able to curb his insanity.”
Linc allowed her to roll with her theories, though the profile he’d adjusted last night pointed toward the unsub experiencing unadulterated rage at the very idea of someone else having been given his glory.
Linc believed that the unsub had needed the two weeks to monitor the comings and goings of his next victim. He had a deep-seated desire to prove that he was still contributing to society, and he waited until he’d done so in an act of violence. It was time to bring the conversation back around to the connection that she clearly didn’t want to discuss.
“Miss Simmons, you—”
“Quinn,” she corrected, tapping her fingers once more on the hard surface of the table upon the realization that he wasn’t going to address this so-called test that she thought he was putting her through. In truth, he was still focused on establishing trust. “I’ll keep the fact that Oliver Stevens is being released from jail today under wraps until your colleague sees fit to write a press release. Either that, or when news of this latest murder hits the airwaves. I appreciate the heads up, though.”
Linc’s focus was still on the designation he’d called her, finally unraveling what had been bothering him about the unsub’s text messages. She wanted to be called Quinn. Not Miss Simmons, and not Ms. Simmons, which just so happened to be the way the unsub always addressed her.
All the signs had been right in front of him the entire time.
Linc reached across the table and grabbed her phone to confirm his suspicions, reading the words on the display one more time. His gut tightened when he realized that she was in more trouble than anyone realized.
“The unsub refers to you as Ms.” Had Linc not been watching Quinn closely, he would never have noticed the slight tightening of her knuckles as she laid her hands flat on the table. How could they have missed something so significant? “You were married.”
“I was never married. Check the courthouse
if you don’t believe me.” Quinn didn’t meet his gaze as she reached for her jacket and backpack. She held out her hand until he returned her phone, slipping it into a side pocket on her bag. “I’ll keep my word regarding Oliver Steven’s release, and I’ll drop a USB off at the station later this evening. Have a good day, Agent Roche.”
Quinn didn’t head for the front door, but instead walked toward the back in the direction of the restrooms. Linc stood and debated on following her, but he was confident that she would only continue to deny that she’d ever been married. She was already on the defensive. Pushing her for more would only make her more distrustful and get him nowhere.
Linc finally made the decision to leave well enough alone. He had some research to do, anyway. Rhonda was still watching him from behind the bar, and he didn’t need her talking out of turn with the other patrons about the local reporter. Keeping Quinn’s true involvement in the case on the downlow was vital to her safety. He’d reach out to some colleagues at Quantico to see if they could run the lead down, one that could bring this case to a close before the unsub could strike again.
Linc would have to tread carefully until he could confirm his suspicions.
Quinn Simmons had been married at some point in her young life, and he wouldn’t be surprised to find that she was a widow herself. She was exactly the type of victim the unsub was currently hunting, and he had her right in the crosshairs where he wanted her.
Chapter Three
Quinn stared at herself in the mirror above the sink in the pub’s restroom. The areas underneath each of her eyes were discolored from lack of sleep, and she’d lost a bit of weight these past two weeks.
Not much, but enough to notice.
Ever since The Widow Taker had broken into her home and left her a message that indicated he was aware of a certain something about her past, her relatively calm life had gotten completely out of hand.
The Isolated Widow (The Widow Taker Book 2) Page 2
