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

by Blake Pierce

  “You’ve come this far,” Ripley carried on, “now it’s time to get into this guy’s head and work out where he’s going, what he’s doing, what his plans are. Everything you need to know is in your head, you just need to extract it.”

  Ella felt an invisible weight crush her from above. It was the weight of burden, with real human lives as the price. Ripley hushed her tone so no one else could hear. “Our best chance of catching Dr. Richards is with you. We’ve got twenty officers patrolling eight miles of land looking for a nondescript guy who could be anywhere. I don’t like those odds. Unless Richards goes back to his house, we’re not gonna find him.”

  “So what do I do?” Ella asked. “You said it yourself, there’s eight miles’ worth of places he could be. I was wrong about Clyde Harmen and I could be wrong about this. What if I send the entire police force to the wrong place? This is a responsibility I can’t live with if it goes wrong.”

  “The truth, Rookie, is that you have two choices. Either we can run around this town and hope that blind luck is in our favor, or we can apply the techniques that you and I have spent years mastering and increase our chances of finding him tenfold. Taking a shot and missing isn’t the biggest mistake you’ll make, but not taking the shot at all is. What’s it going to be?”

  Ella shut her eyes and thought of everything that had happened over the past few days. Her old life, sitting behind a desk in the Intelligence department, seemed like a world away. She felt a sudden homesickness for that life, and even for all its stresses and its mental exhaustion, it seemed like heaven compared to where she found herself now.

  “I can do this,” Ella said. “Let’s take the shot.”

  ***

  Back in the War Room, Ella laid out the pages of her psychological profile and the crime scene photographs of all five victims. She turned to Ripley beside her. “Where do we start?”

  “Start with your intuition and work backwards. Somewhere out there, our killer is planning an homage to Ted Bundy. It’s going to incorporate major elements of Bundy’s most infamous murders, and perhaps other aspects of Bundy’s M.O. too. It will be something specific, something obvious. What does your gut say?”

  Ella reflected on everything she knew. She thought to the most important aspect of the killer’s modus operandi, victimology, and transposed it to Bundy’s life and crimes.

  “Bundy killed over thirty people, from twelve-year-old girls to women in their early twenties,” she said, feeling the panic set in. Only on reflection did she realize how vast and sporadic Bundy’s crimes were. “How can we possibly know what age he’s going to target?”

  “Stop right there,” Ripley said. “So, unlike his last two kills, we can safely say he’s going to target a female, yes?”

  “Well, yes. Without a doubt.”

  “Then that’s the first characteristic of the profile. Given what we’ve seen in his other murders, what possible references might he make to Bundy? Outside of victimology, how did our killer ensure that we knew he was paying tribute to Kemper, Ramirez, Gein, Dahmer, and Gacy?”

  Ella scanned the crime scene photos, relaying the details once again. “In his first murder, it was only the dismemberment and the body disposal that referenced Edmund Kemper.”

  “You have to remember that if that was indeed his first murder, then his confidence levels would have been much lower than his later kills. Back then, he was still playing the part of a serial killer rather than actually being one. He wouldn’t have planned too intensively on his first kill because he wasn’t aware of his own capabilities at that point. He didn’t become a serial killer until his third or fourth kill.”

  Ella looked at the photo of the unsub’s second victim, lifeless in her bed. There was a close-up of the pentagram on her leg.

  “His Ramirez kill was nondescript too, but the pentagram was his way of linking this kill with his first. This was the beginning of his personal ritual, correct?”

  “No, this unsub exhibits no ritualistic behavior of any kind. There are no repeat patterns. Everything is different every single time. What you’re talking about is his signature. The signature is the components of the crime which take place outside of the murder; the components which aren’t necessary but he does anyway. In the case of his Ramirez kill, it was the pentagram.”

  “In the Gein kill, it was the butchery and staging,” Ella finished.

  “Correct. And it was the same in his Dahmer kill and Gacy attempt. They all took place indoors where he could exert full control over the staging and where someone was guaranteed to find the bodies.”

  “Bundy dumped most of his bodies in rivers and mountains,” Ella said. “So, chances are he won’t do that, right? He wants us to see his handiwork in all its glory. He wants us to feel like we’re walking right into a real-life Bundy crime scene.”

  “Exactly,” Ripley said. “So, in keeping in line with this signature, the crime he’s going to commit will have parallels with Bundy’s actions which are indisputable and easily identifiable. Bundy killed women, but so did thousands of other people, so ignore that component. Tell me what Bundy did that no one else has done. “

  “Shit, he did so much. I mean, where do I start? Hid corpses in the woods and paid regular visits to them?”

  “No. That’s post-crime methodology. Something else.”

  Ella ran through Bundy’s timeline in her head. She blurted out the facts as they came to her. “His first murders throughout 1974 were unremarkable. Abduction, bludgeoning, and disposal in woods and mountains. There’s nothing there that stands out at all.”

  “Keep going. Think harder.”

  “His murders in 1975 were almost exactly the same, and nearly all of the bodies of the victims he killed that year were never discovered. And then… wait a second,” Ella said. “You said our unsub didn’t really become a serial killer until his third or fourth kill?”

  Ella felt that spark again; the pieces coming together and forming a full, identifiable pattern. Bouncing her thoughts off Ripley had opened up new avenues in her mind. She was making connections she wouldn’t have made by sitting alone and ruminating on them. Things began to take shape, and then a feeling of elation rose through her.

  “Yes, both in terms of the legal definition and in the unsub’s mindset. That was when he fully evolved both psychologically and emotionally to accept his nature as a multi-murderer. It’s not something you can accept immediately. Even a psychopath, when they become content with what they’ve done, will have their outlook changed once they accept their actions.”

  “When Bundy was being interviewed just before his execution, he said he didn’t reach his peak until his final murder spree. That’s when he was a prime predator, in his words.”

  “And?” Ripley asked.

  “And that’s when—” She stopped herself. “Oh my god, the Chi Omega murders.”

  “The what?”

  It fit, almost perfectly. For all his infamy and notoriety, Bundy’s murders were largely ordinary as far as M.O. and methodology went. It was the sheer scale of his crimes and victim count that made him the figure of absolute evil he was today.

  She’d done it, she’d cracked the code. She’d seen into this unsub’s mind and extracted his thoughts and plans. There was excitement running through her, euphoria even.

  “In 1978, Bundy invaded a sorority house in Florida. He attacked four women in the span of fifteen minutes, killing two of them. These murders were completely different from anything else he did. It was theorized that he was suffering a psychotic episode and just lashed out. This was a taste of the real Bundy. No superficial charm, no manipulation. It was pure, uncontrolled chaos.”

  Ripley slammed her hand on the desk. “God damn, of course. I remember that. Four attacks and two murders in one sitting. If our unsub copied this, it would be a huge escalation from his past murders and it’s something unique to Bundy. Rookie, I think you might be right, and if that’s what your gut is telling you, then that’s how we’re
going to play it.”

  Ripley opened the office door and summoned Harris in. “Sheriff, we know where this guy is going to strike next,” Ripley continued. “Are there any dormitories nearby?”

  “Dorms? There are no dorms around here. The nearest college is a hundred miles away,” said Harris.

  Ripley was typing away on her laptop. “It will be somewhere where young girls spend a lot of time, and ideally live there. It doesn’t necessarily have to be related to an educational system. Our killer just wants to emulate the Bundy crime scene, so anywhere with young girls which is away from the public eye will be his target.”

  “An orphanage? Girls there up to sixteen years old.”

  “No, these women will be between eighteen and twenty-one.”

  “What’s stopping him breaking into a house party, or just a place he knows four girls live?” Harris asked.

  Ripley jumped in, looking up from her laptop. “I just checked the land registry system. There are no houses with that make-up of residents in this town at all. There are two homes with two female roommates of similar age, but that’s all. Have your officers contact them and put them on alert, but we’re confident he’s going to target four women at once.”

  “Why? If Ted only killed two, why are we looking for four?” Harris asked.

  “Bundy had every intention of killing every woman in that sorority house that night in 1978,” Ella said. “If he hadn’t been interrupted, he could have killed upwards of nine women in a single setting. Our unsub will try and do exactly the same. As well as paying tribute to him, he will happily one-up Bundy if he can too.”

  “Gotcha,” said Harris.

  “A year after the incident, one of the girls who witnessed the Bundy attack committed suicide. Bundy even nonchalantly took credit for that too.”

  “Hold your horses,” said Harris, snapping his fingers. “Now that you mention suicide. What about a halfway house?”

  “That could absolutely work. Is there one around here?” Ripley asked.

  “Sure is. There’s a nonprofit organization that helps troubled ladies. Domestic abuse, mental problems, drug addiction, and the like. You know the type I mean?”

  “Do the girls live in-house?” asked Ella. “Do they sleep there? He’s going to attack them while they’re sleeping, otherwise there’s no way he could kill four women in one situation.”

  “Absolutely they do. Well, not all of them, but a lot of them. It’s nothing fancy, just a few beds, some food, and a shower. The owners are golden. They take in a lot of the young girls we help if there’s nowhere for them to go.”

  Ripley and Ella locked eyes. Ella could tell Ripley was thinking the same thing as her.

  “That’s it. That must be it. Is it the only halfway house in town?”

  “Only one I know of. Nothing else like it.”

  “Let’s get going,” Ripley shouted, grabbing her jacket. “We need to get there before the residents get to bed.” They headed out into the main area of the precinct. Harris moved over to his desk to grab his keys. Beside them, his cell phone was ringing.

  “Hold on, it’s one of my guys,” he shouted. “Hello?”

  Ella and Ripley moved toward the door, but Harris held up his hand in a wait motion.

  “Got it. Thank you,” he said, hanging up swiftly. “Agents, one of my guys just got a hit on Dr. Richards’s license plate. But the officer is halfway across town and can’t get there real quick.”

  “Where was Richards spotted?” Ripley asked.

  “Saint Mary’s Hospital.”

  Ella’s eyes widened in alarm. “That’s where Alex is.” She turned to Ripley. “He might be going to finish him off before he commits his Bundy murder.”

  “Serial killers don’t like loose ends. I think that’s exactly what he’s going to do. Sheriff, can you get cars to the hospital right away?”

  Harris ran over to his desk and checked his system. “No ma’am. Nearest squad to Saint Mary’s is us.”

  “What about the halfway house? Who can you get there?”

  “Zero right now. Half an hour? Two squad cars.”

  “Fuck. Call hospital security and give them a description of Dr. Richards. Have them track him down, and have them keep Alex’s room secure. I’ll get to the hospital.”

  “What if he’s gone by the time we get there?” Ella asked.

  “I’ll go alone,” Ripley said. “You go to the halfway house. If he’s not at the hospital, I’ll come straight to your location, okay? You’ll have officers there in thirty minutes, too.”

  Ella didn’t like that idea at all. “You want me to go alone? Are you kidding me?”

  “No. One way or the other, one of us is catching this guy tonight.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  It was a night for death, but Mia was determined to throw a wrench in the works.

  She sped toward Saint Mary’s Hospital as the sun descended and streetlamps took over. The whole journey, her thoughts were on Ella and the halfway house. Was there any possibility they were wrong about this whole thing? If so, had she just sent a rookie into the waiting arms of a serial killer. There was no time to lose, even if it meant Ella having to go alone. Harris had remained at the station since they still had Clyde in the holding cells. Until another officer got there, he couldn’t leave him alone.

  No. Her gut feeling was that this was their guy, and her instincts had led her to success more times than she could remember. Besides, they’d made the decision and there was no turning back now.

  Mia maneuvered the early evening traffic and sped up the small incline onto the hospital parking lot. She drove to the front area right outside the doors and jumped out of her vehicle.

  The reception room was a warm orange, with around five people sitting quietly staring at the cell phones glued to their hands. A child sat cross-legged on the floor zooming a toy car around in circles. Mia approached the main reception desk and banged on the glass. There was no time for politeness.

  “I’m with the police. I’ve already called in an alert. I’m here to meet your head of security.”

  Her words naturally drew the attention of the waiting patients, but Mia ignored their stares. The receptionist pulled out a walkie-talkie and crackled it on. “She’s here,” she said. “Send her through,” a voice responded instantly. The receptionist stood up and gestured for Mia to follow her. She did, leading her to a side room that said STAFF ONLY. There was an African-American gentleman inside staring at a number of monitors.

  “Ms. Ripley,” he said, offering his hand. “I’ve spent the past ten minutes scouring every room for someone matching the description the police gave me. I’ve found nothing so far, at least not on the live cameras.”

  “Thank you. Has anyone tried to approach the unit Alex Bauer is being held in? Anyone at all, even if they don’t fit the description?”

  “Not a soul. I’ve got a security guard standing at the entrance and he tells me it’s quieter than a hybrid up there.”

  “Is there anywhere in the hospital the cameras don’t have eyes on?”

  “Just the long-term units up on the top floor. The folks up there practically live there and there’s some legal issues around recording them all day. Feel free to go and check it out if you wish. Staircase is just out there to your left. I can keep an eye down here.”

  “All right, thank you,” Mia said, rushing back outside into the hospital reception. She followed the guard’s directions and found a spiraling staircase which she climbed to the top floor. It was a long shot, but was there perhaps a possibility Dr. Richards might be hiding somewhere in the hospital? Might be aware that the hunt was on for him?

  The top floor was eerily deserted. Mia’s footsteps traveled across the marble floor down a long, narrow hallway and ricocheted off the barred windows at the far end. A signpost told her that the corridor led to the Children’s Critical Care Unit. She peered inside, seeing a small room with only six beds, only one of which was occupied. The young g
irl in the bed was sleeping.

  Mia backtracked and continued down the hallway, arriving at the Intensive Care Unit, the only other long-term care ward on the floor.

  She pushed the buzzer and a receptionist’s voice came through the speaker.

  “Hello, are you here to visit a patient?”

  “No, I’m with the police. We’re looking for a Mr. Richards. Security should have put an alert out for him.”

  A moment of confused silence followed. “We haven’t received any security alert, ma’am, but Mr. Richards is in here.”

  “What? He’s in there?”

  “Yes. I’ll let you in.”

  A loud buzzing sound followed and the double-doors clicked open. Mia jumped through. She turned to her left to see a young blonde receptionist eyeing her from behind her desk.

  “Bed thirteen, honey. Mr. Richards is over there.” She pointed with her pen.

  “What? Bed?” Mia began to speculate, but she could come to no logical conclusion in her head.

  “Can I ask what this is about?” the receptionist asked.

  “No.” Mia said, turning and heading in the opposite direction.

  The rooms began at twenty-eight and descended in number, although they were less like rooms and more like cubicles separated by white partitions. In each cubicle was a bed and a TV suspended in front of it. There were few signs of life inside the unit, except for a nurse helping an elderly gowned woman to a nearby toilet.

  Mia followed the cubicles down until she found number thirteen. She came to a halt in front of it and locked eyes with the man sitting in the bed. They held each other’s gaze for an awkward amount of time.

  “Hello?” he asked, his gruff voice startling her. He was wearing a white gown, with an intravenous cannula sprouting from his hand. Another tube ran from his mouth into a machine behind him. His face was entirely without hair. No beard, no eyebrows. Mia placed him at around sixty-five years old.

  It was just a patient named Mr. Richards, not the man she was looking for. “Sorry, mistaken identity, sir. I hope I didn’t disturb you.”