Girl, Alone (An Ella Dark FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 1)

by Blake Pierce

  “Yes, I can handle it.”

  “Good.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ella was exhausted. She checked the clock on the precinct wall. Four hours she’d been writing up this profile, changing and adding sections as the thoughts invaded her mind.

  She read it through from start to finish, although the words were all beginning to blur.

  That’s enough, she said to herself, confident that she’d covered every avenue she needed to. She printed off a few copies and readied them to show Ripley.

  Thinking about Ripley’s reaction to her profile made her nervous. What if the profile didn’t hold up, or paled in comparison to some of the profiles Ripley had written? What if she’d overlooked some obvious components of the crime?

  She reassured herself that that wouldn’t be the case, as if somehow that would make it true. Ella exited the office with the printouts in her hand and found Ripley typing away on her laptop in the main precinct area.

  “Done?” Ripley asked before Ella could say anything.

  “Done.”

  The nervousness rushed back. A psychological profile was supposed to be a blueprint to catch an offender. It had to be nothing but perfect, and here Ella was delivering her first official profile to the FBI’s most mythical living agent. This felt like more pressure than anything she’d ever done in her Intelligence role.

  “Go,” Ripley said. She sat back in her chair and looked toward the ceiling.

  “Go?”

  “Read it out.”

  Ella felt like a kid in class. Ripley was the stern teacher telling you to show your presentation. Even more pressure. Ella checked her surroundings to make sure no other officers could eavesdrop. Ella started at the beginning.

  “All of the men emulated by the unsub have been the archetypical all-American serial killer. White males, sexually motivated deviants, loners who killed to satisfy their own perversions. While they all struggled to present themselves as socially capable, they weren’t so inept that they were shunned by everyone they came into contact with. They all had acquaintances, no matter how minor. They managed to fit into their own little circles where they were considered part of the clique, but still, outsiders sometimes considered something to be off about them. Since the unsub sees something in these killers which he craves himself, something which he consciously or unconsciously believes he lacks, chances are he will exhibit these same characteristics. He’ll be in the same age range of these killers too, so anywhere from mid-twenties to mid-forties.”

  Ella waited for the rebuttal. She scrutinized Ripley’s facial expression. She closed her eyes and nodded.

  “Perfect. I absolutely agree. Carry on.”

  Ella was shocked. The positivity propelled her forward, and she felt herself speak with more authority this time.

  “If he were to kill again, the killer would no doubt emulate another offender similar to the ones already referenced. All murders thus far have paid tribute to a different well-known serial killer each time, so it’s likely that this pattern will repeat. If so, it would be safe to assume it will be similar lust killers as his previous tributes, such as John Wayne Gacy, Gary Ridgway, or Dennis Rader. Similarly aged white American males whose murders all carried a sexual component. However, he would not choose a killer whose murders were nondescript. The crime would need to possess a recognizable component in order to make the tribute clear.”

  “Exactly,” Ripley said. She stood up from her chair. “Every kill has something unique about it. Something noticeable. His first kill of Julia Reynolds was fairly ordinary by his standards, but ever since then, he’s progressed. He’s stamping these crime scenes with a unique but different signature every time.”

  Ella turned the page, no longer reading the words she’d written but speaking her opinions.

  “In each scenario, victimology has played a significant role. Every victim type matches that of the killers he’s referencing. Additionally, each of the serial killers chosen had stuck to their preferred victim type during their own killing sprees. Or at least, the murders they committed which they did for sexual gratification. They didn’t deviate. Therefore, if the unsub was to emulate John Wayne Gacy, he would choose a young adult male or teenage boy. If he was to emulate Gary Ridgway, he would choose a female sex worker. The victim choice is as crucial as the act of killing itself.”

  “Nailed it,” Ripley said. “Right in the face. Keep going.”

  “Likewise, location is also a vital factor. All of the unsub’s victims were killed in the same places that the original killers killed theirs; car, bedroom, store, lounge. However, the unsub’s disposal sites differ from the original killers’. This can be attributed to the idea that this unsub craves media and police attention in addition to killing for his own gratification.”

  Ripley picked up a pen and spun it between her fingers. Any other time, Ella would have remarked on her skill, but her focus was solely on this. The dreariness she’d felt a few minutes before had completely subsided. “Bingo,” Ripley said. “So if we combine the last two parts, we can determine the victim type and the murder site. Disposal site may differ, but that’s something we just can’t predict. So, what historical killers might he copy next?”

  Ella picked up where she left off, reading aloud again. “This would rule out widely known yet non-unique killings such as those of David Berkowitz and the Zodiac, since the elements present in these crimes were common amongst everyday murder victims the world over, including the fact that these offenders occasionally changed up their victim types and the locations which they killed. Similarly, it would also rule out any possibility of a tribute to Charles Manson, since he lacked the characteristics of the other offenders already referenced by the unsub. It would also rule out any offenders who weren’t white, male, American, and acted alone. He would not reference Aileen Wuornos, Jack the Ripper, the Hillside Strangler, or any similar offenders.”

  Ripley dropped her pen but didn’t bother to pick it back up. “You know what? That’s a great insight,” she said. “That actually narrows down the pool quite significantly, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Ella said. “If we know we’re just dealing with white American males, that makes things a little easier for us.”

  “See, Dark? You got this. I knew you would.”

  Ella felt relief. Thank god, she thought.

  “Talk to me about M.O.,” Ripley said.

  “The unsub fits into the organized category of psychopath. He is highly capable, methodical, and emotionally controlled in the presence of his victims. These killings have been planned out in advance, during which time he acquires the necessary tools in order to carry them out. In order to subdue his victims, he blitz attacks them when they’re unaware in order to gain immediate control over them. Pre-murder intimidation is likely not present—a possible sign of physical inadequacy; however, this aspect may be present in order to sit in line with the M.O.s of the killers he’s copying, since they also gained control through the same means.”

  Ella took a deep breath. She looked around her, seeing her quasi-speech had drawn the attention of a few straggling officers. Ripley’s stare made them turn around.

  “Since his victims are purposely chosen for their physical traits, it’s unlikely that he knows them personally,” Ella continued. “He picks them out in advance, stalks them, learns their routines, and then strikes at the most opportune time. He objectifies his victims, and while he sees them as toys for manipulation, he may personalize the victim by talking to them in order to add emotional and intellectual depth to the crime.”

  Ripley slammed her hands on the desk. “Rookie, I couldn’t have done this better myself. You hit every mark. Do you have anything on his childhood, his job, his family life?”

  Ella was ecstatic on the inside, but she didn’t show it. Now wasn’t the time. “Yeah.” She tapped the last page. “It’s all here.”

  “Come on. We gotta get this to Harris right now. Someone in town matches you
r profile, and we’re going to pay them a visit tonight.”

  ***

  “Harris, we need you to do a search for us,” Ripley said. “We’ve drawn up a psychological profile of the offender and we need to see if anyone in town matches his description.”

  The sheriff shoved a mound of paperwork into his drawer and summoned the agents to his side of the desk. “At your service,” he said. “What am I looking for?”

  “A white male, age twenty-five to forty-five,” Ripley began. “Unmarried, single. He would have lived in this area his entire life, or at the least within two miles of the town. He works a skilled job which requires manual labor and is possibly self-employed. He would seek a position where he could work alone, and might involve some element of butchery. Hospital attendant, woodworker. His employment history would show him having multiple jobs when he was younger but would have stabilized in the past five years or so.”

  Harris filled in the boxes on the database screen. The search results began to lessen. “Over a hundred names in there, ladies. Everyone from the baker to the candlestick maker. What more can you tell me?”

  Ripley scoured the names and the crimes they were arrested for. “He would have a history of minor offenses, most likely sexual in nature. Voyeurism, public indecency, sex worker usage. There’s also a possibility of arson, animal cruelty, and domestic violence in his early years. He may have been orphaned or ran away from home as a child. His parents would either be dead or live in another state entirely.”

  “Working on it,” Harris said. “Three results. Let’s see here.” Harris leaned closer to the screen. “First guy, nineteen, lives in—”

  Ripley cut him off. “No. Too young. Next.”

  Harris clicked on to the next mugshot. “Second guy. Twenty-six, moved here a year ago after being done for touching up minors in Louisville.”

  “No. He’s Latino. Our suspect will be white.”

  Harris nodded and moved on to the next name. He leaned closer to the screen.

  “Hold up, I recognize this fella.” Harris skimmed his details. “Oh boy, this guy is a real piece of work, let me tell you.”

  “Tell us everything.” Ripley said.

  “Clyde Harmen,” Harris said, tapping his screen with his pen. “A total creep, and not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed.”

  Ripley scrutinized his basic details. White male, thirty-six years old, single, and lived alone. His work history was staggered, with huge gaps of unemployment between manual labor positions. “What was he arrested for?” she asked.

  Harris clicked into the suspect’s profile. A colorized mugshot appeared of a scrawny, haggard man with mid-length black hair dangling down to his chin. His forehead was swallowed up by a huge scar which stretched in a diagonal line from his scalp to his right eye.

  “He flashed some poor old woman in the town one night. He was dressed like an oddball, trench coat, huge boots, so we found him on the quick. This woulda been about eighteen months ago,” said Harris. “He confessed and we charged him. Case closed. But that’s not why I remember him so vividly. Something else happened a little while after.”

  “What was it?”

  “We ran into him about two months after the flashing incident. A woman came in here and said she busted someone on her property. Apparently he made off with her dog. She said whoever it was had a huge scar on his forehead.”

  “Dog theft?”

  “It happens sometimes. Usually for dog fights, but we checked out Clyde again and guess what? The deviant had started up a taxidermy business right around the time of the theft.”

  Ripley and Ella exchanged glances. Their faces said the same thing.

  “If he has a history of animal cruelty, then it’s possible he’s progressed to hurting real people, especially if he’s had a year to evolve.”

  “We didn’t have nothing to charge him on, though,” Harris continued. “No proof, no sign of the dog. So he got off scot-free.”

  “Where’s he located?” Ripley asked.

  Harris checked the records. “Black Lake. Same place we busted him last time. It’s out in the sticks, about five miles from here. Horrible place.”

  “Isolated?” asked Ripley.

  “Very much so.”

  “He fits,” Ripley exclaimed. “He’s in the demographic, he’s a loner, he has a history of offenses. The scar on his head could be from defensive wounds when a potential victim fought back. Taxidermy requires manual skill and involves cutting up and reassembling. We need to investigate immediately.”

  Harris jumped out of his chair and summoned over four officers. “We’ve got a suspect,” he announced. “Let’s get ready to move. I want two cars, two guys in each. No time to waste, let’s go.”

  Ripley turned to Ella. “We’ve got him,” she said. “But believe me when I say guys like this never go down easy.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It wasn’t signposted, but Ella could almost pinpoint the exact spot where the area known as Black Lake began. The trees became heavier and more overgrown, twisting into shapes that nature didn’t usually create. They passed by a swamp, dark green in color and swimming with a host of predators. It was starting to get dark, and some of the more adventurous wildlife had come out to feast on weaker prey. On the dirt path from the town into the woodlands, their car violently shook as they entered territory which wasn’t designed for vehicle access. Ella looked out the passenger window and watched shapes move in the darkness, making out the outline of an alligator marching through the swampland.

  Their car struggled up a narrow path on a small hill, tree branches scratching the windows. Ella felt a sudden wave of claustrophobia. Her anxiety flared up, feeling like she was heading into the mouth of hell. Somewhere up ahead was the home of a possible serial killer. The options of how this could play out ran amok in her head, but she shook off the thoughts and told herself she needed to be in the moment.

  The dirt track gave way to a sprawling, dead lawn with a beat-up truck abandoned in the middle of it. Behind a small, rickety fence was a farmhouse, impressive in size but hideous in condition. Its wooden exterior was being overtaken by nature, with several wooden panels on the verge of collapse. Any color had long since washed away, leaving a gray slab in place.

  “Is he alone out here like this?” Ella asked.

  “Looks like it. I haven’t seen another house since we got into the woods,” said Ripley. She picked up the car radio and spoke to Harris in the vehicle behind her. “Keep your guys back for now. We’ll go ahead. We don’t want to spook him. If he sees the cars, he might panic and run out the back. Have the other officers keep an eye on the other side of the house in case he flees.”

  The radio buzzed on. Harris’s voice crackled through. “Understood.”

  Behind them, the squad cars turned off their lights and blended into the darkness. Ripley edged the car closer to the front of the house.

  “You think he’s already spotted us?” Ella asked. “Looks to me like he doesn’t get many visitors.”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say he’s watching us right now. With how quiet it is around here, you could hear a peen go soft.”

  Ella was too anxious to give a retort. If they managed to pull this off, it would cement her as a major player to the FBI big leagues. Only three days into an investigation and their perpetrator was within cuffing distance. Pulling this off could lead to the career she’d dreamt of for years.

  She shook off the thought, and instead focused on what was most important to her. This was a real killer who’d taken four real lives. Shawn Kelly’s parents no longer had a son. Christine Hartwell’s brother no longer had a sister. Ella knew the grief all too well, and giving these people some closure was what mattered most of all.

  All that stood in her way was an extremely violent, sadistic serial murderer with organization levels the FBI hadn’t seen since Dennis Rader terrorized Wichita for almost three decades.

  The farmhouse in front of her reminded her
of a certain home which once stood in Plainfield, Wisconsin. Ed Gein’s farmhouse. In 1957, once authorities gained access to Gein’s home, they found some of the most morbid creations in history. A woman-suit made of human skin, dissected genitals, human skulls used as bowls. Maybe this guy had taken inspiration from Ed in more ways than one, Ella thought. In truth, she’d dreamt of seeing that old house in the flesh all her life. It was the nirvana for true crime obsessives; a dream and nightmare rolled into one.

  “Ready?” Ripley asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Let’s go. He’s probably already thinking about running.”

  Ella and Ripley jumped out of the car and scaled the hilly pathway to the farmhouse front door. “Want me to do the talking?” Ella asked. She was as anxious as she’d ever been in her life, but her confidence and adrenaline took center stage.

  “Are you sure?”

  “He’ll be more likely to talk to a younger woman than—” Ella stopped herself.

  “A frigid old witch. You’re right.”

  Ella knocked, then stayed completely still, listening for movement. Ten seconds passed. Nothing. No signs of life, no barking dogs.

  “Be inside, you bastard,” Ripley said. “Come on.”

  From the other side of the door came a voice.

  “What do you want?”

  It stunned Ella and made her blood run cold. She hadn’t heard any scuttling or any footsteps. It was as if whoever it was had been standing behind the door this whole time.

  “Mr. Harmen? My name is Ella Dark and this is my partner Mia Ripley. We’re working with local police. We’d like to ask you a few questions relating to an ongoing investigation, if you’d be willing.”

  There was a brief pause. “What investigation?” the voice asked. It was nasally, with a childlike cadence. He spoke with a heavy Louisiana accent.

  Get the door open. Don’t scare him away, Ella thought. “There have been a series of homicides in the area and we believe you may have some information which could be useful to us.”