“I wanted to move fast before the serial killer tip was leaked to the press— we’ll have to move even quicker now.” He waved in someone who was hovering outside the door like a frightened lamb after witnessing Phinn’s tantrum.
When the young woman made her way to my father, arms loaded with a stack of binders, he introduced her. “This is Amelia, the assistant I’ve hired to help with the case. She’s assembled detailed files on each of the victims, and we’ve divvied up the caseload between you all.” Dad slid the top binder from the pile, eyes moving my direction. “I’ve only assigned you two victims, Grace, given your ‘advisory’ position on the team. Everyone else wound up with five or six victim cases to review, investigate, and hopefully put us on the right track to drudging this son of a bitch up from the swamp he’ll be hiding in.”
When he gave Amelia the nod, she handed out the binders.
Dad came around his desk to drop mine into my lap. “This is everything we’ve managed to pull on the victims. Everything from where they were born to how they died and all the seedy bits in between. You’ll need to read between the lines to determine where your time and efforts will best be spent interviewing witnesses and following leads. I brought you all on because of your innate intuition that can’t be trained, so use it.” Dad scooted the chair Phinn had been sitting in against the wall. “If a lead takes you to Panama because some piece of information keeps you up at night, do it. If a witness says something that makes those little hairs on the back of your neck stand up, put the pressure on and don’t stop squeezing until you have what you need.”
Dad nodded at Amelia once she’d finished handing out binders. “Amelia is here to arrange travel and transportation wherever the leads take you. Do what you can over the phone, but I want boots on the ground at the scene of the crime. I want your faces in front of anyone who might know something, because a person can lie over the phone easy enough, but it’s not so easy when you’re looking a person in the eye.”
We all opened our binders to search the contents within once Dad was finished. Even though I only had two victim’s files, my binder was nearly three inches thick.
“I made sure your two cases were some of the first kills, Gracey. Cold cases that won’t have much to investigate or many witnesses to interview.” Dad ambled toward the couch, looking at me. “I don’t want this to compromise your future in the prosecutor’s office, though your help finding the assailant certainly won’t hurt your odds of following in your old man’s footsteps.”
I closed the binder. “That implies I want to follow in your footsteps.”
He took that as a joke, chuckling. “Right. Because you place such significance on being Suzy Homemaker.” His chuckle continued. “You’re made for greater things than starching sheets and jockeying the carpool lane, Gracey.”
“I’m surprised you know what a carpool lane is,” I muttered.
“Are you two going to do this at every meeting?” Teddy scoffed from his chair. “Because it seems like we have more important things to discuss.”
“We do, you’re right,” I said to him. “Let’s stick to the case.” My eyes floated to my father, though his attention had already diverted from his sole offspring.
“I’m not exactly sure when the news will break about the serial killer, but if it’s not tonight, it’ll be in the morning. They’ll want to check their facts to make sure the tip pays out, but the media isn’t known for dragging their feet on a story the magnitude of this one.” Dad returned to his desk and tapped on the front of his binder. “Prepare yourselves for a sleepless night. Be ready for lots of them.”
Don cleared his throat beside me. “It’s safe to say we’re not going to find this guy before the story breaks, so we just went from playing offense to defense.” His gaze tracked across the room to Samantha. “What does our resident profiler expect our guy to do when he flips on the evening news and discovers the authorities are onto him?”
Samantha finished with the page she’d been reading before answering. “We can expect him to behave like the intelligent type we know him to be. He’ll continue with his daily life uninterrupted, acting as though nothing has changed.” Her face hinted at concentration though there wasn’t a single wrinkle on her skin to accompany it. “It’s likely he’ll go dormant, not risking another kill until the heat from the news dies down. If he makes a mistake, it’ll be so infinitesimal it won’t be detected.”
“You know how to pick ‘em, Silas,” Teddy said, following a low whistle. “This guy could live anywhere, work any job, and is one clever bastard who’s racked up nearly three dozen bodies without anyone having a clue.”
Dad held out his arms. “I’ve assembled the best to catch the best.”
Fourteen
If sleep was so important, why did no one have time for it? That was one of the many philosophical questions that continued to crop up in my life lately. I was surviving on cat naps and caffeine, pouring over the case information, knowing once the week started, all of my time would be diverted to work.
The massive dining room table was serving as my personal headquarters for digging into the case. It was rarely used for meals anyway, and I needed more space than my desk in the office afforded.
I probably shouldn’t have left out in the open all of the details surrounding a serial killer case, but I knew the chances of Andee stopping to investigate anything related to my life were slim to none. Noah knew about my involvement in it, but he was too busy to spare more than a few seconds scanning the mess on the table, if he did at all.
My laptop was propped on the table, ready to stream the evening news so I could hear the latest updates from this morning’s breaking news of the serial killer. Few details had accompanied the newscast, but it didn’t take much when the terms “serial killer” and “targeting pedophiles” were in the report. All that had been mentioned this morning was the killer’s nationwide presence and the number of victims who’d been killed and made to appear as suicides.
Nothing had been revealed about the privately funded task force Silas Payne had put together, but I guessed that couldn’t remain a secret for long.
Diving deeper into the file of one of the two murders I’d been assigned, I detected Noah’s telltale footsteps jogging down the stairs. They were quick in cadence, light in sound.
He stuck his head inside of the dining room, his hair damp from the shower. “Still in here?”
I waved my highlighter at the clutter in front of me. “Haven’t moved.”
He checked the mug resting beside me. “Coffee?”
“The answer to that question is always yes,” I replied as he started for the kitchen.
He returned a moment later with the coffee pot in hand. “This is the last of it. Should I start a new one?”
I held out my mug as he poured the remnants into it. “I don’t think my nervous system could handle one more twelve-cup serving, but thanks.”
“You’ve been burning the wick at both ends.” He set the empty pot on the table, his gaze circling the paperwork encompassing me.
“I’m not the only one,” I said, pointing my highlighter at the duffel bag slung across his chest. “Where are you off to?”
“It’s Sunday night. Jiu Jitsu.” His tone implied we’d memorized each other’s schedules, but of course that was untrue. I could barely keep track of my ever-evolving one, let alone his.
“You put in six hours at the office this morning, spent the afternoon helping Andee with a science project, just got back from a run, hopped in the shower, and are off to another form of physical activity where hardy individuals fight other hardy individuals? I don’t need to be a psychiatrist to diagnose you as a serious overachiever.”
An amused sound echoed in his throat. “Jiu Jitsu is more about incapacitating than fighting, but yeah, that’s the plan for the night.”
After highlighting a section on the paper I was skimming, I turned my attention to him. His body hinted at youth, though his eyes and the
permanent line etched between his brows told the story of a man his age.
“If you’re worried about acing your physical fitness test at your annual doctor appointment, I’m certain that fifteen-mile run you just finished will do the trick. It’s all diminishing returns following that.”
“I don’t do Jiu Jitsu to keep in shape. The running takes care of that.”
“Then why do you do it?” I took a sip of the coffee.
Noah tapped his temple. “Enter the psyche of a late bloomer who spent his formative years being picked on and pushed around.”
I tipped my mug at him. “You filled out by college.”
“I was the one person on campus grateful for the freshman fifteen.”
My back moved with a silent laugh as I recalled the pictures I’d seen of an adolescent Noah Wolff. All long limbs and bony protrusions, capped by a giant toothy smile.
Noah’s eyes swept across the paper and folders surrounding me. “This looks like more than an advisory status.”
“Well, you know me.” Relaxing into my chair for a moment, I gave my eyes a rest from the endless reading. “Why do what’s expected when you can do twice as much for none of the extra recognition?”
“Especially when it’s your father asking.”
My eyes cut to him. “What does that mean?”
Noah paused, considering before giving his answer. “Just that with some people, you could hand them the formula to immortality and it still wouldn’t be good enough. There’d still be something to criticize, because that’s the type of people they are. Perpetually dissatisfied.”
My shoulder lifted. He wasn’t wrong.
Sliding the duffel bag over his head, he set it on the floor before taking a seat in the chair beside me. He spun the file nearby toward him, forehead creasing as he scanned it.
“Gerald Volkner,” he read, scanning the brief summary page. “Most of his adult life spent in prison. Charged with numerous counts of sexual abuse on minors.” Licking his finger, he flipped to the next page, reading faster than even I did. “Each charge shows a notable escalation in deviant behavior. Died of asphyxiation. It says he was found inside his car in the garage, dead from carbon monoxide poisoning.” His attention diverted from the file to me. “That seems like an unusual, not to mention inconvenient, method for a serial killer to end a life.”
He waited for me to respond.
It had been a long time since I’d utilized Noah as a springboard for ideas and scenarios revolving around a case I was working. His acumen and perspective made him an ideal partner to brainstorm and play devil’s advocate with.
God knew this case needed all of the help it could get.
“A known pedophile was found dead in his garage from an apparent suicide,” I said. “How much of an investigation went beyond the bare minimum?”
“I’m assuming that’s a rhetorical question.” He took a drink of my coffee.
“I mean, maybe there were drugs in Volkner’s system that made it easy for the killer to set up the scene in the garage. Drugs that wouldn’t have shown up on a basic tox screen. Maybe he died of asphyxiation before he was drug into his car.” I leaned my head into my hand, eyes narrowing as I considered the possibilities. “Maybe a dozen different things could have happened.”
“So will you have to exhume the body to find out?” Noah asked, continuing to read Volkner’s file.
“That’s a last-case scenario in any investigation. We’re not there yet.” My head throbbed at the thought of the obstacle weaving and jumping involved in something like that. “What are your thoughts about this serial killer given your position?”
His light eyes drifted to me from beneath the ends of his wet hair. “My position as . . . an offender defender?”
My eyes lifted. “As a court-appointed psychiatrist who specializes in sexually deviant criminals.”
Noah leaned back in his chair, staring at the wall across from him. “I confront pedophilia from a brain angle. You come in from a legal one. This guy, his approach is a mortal one.”
I waited for a further explanation, but none came. “Could the absence of disapproval in your tone suggest . . .” I leaned toward him. “You’re possibly condoning our killer’s actions?”
His head moved. “Not condoning it, but the student of the mind I am is able to understand what this person is thinking—their rationale—for addressing the same societal problem you and I tackle in different, albeit more constructive, ways.”
“But is it more constructive? Are our approaches toward pedophiles really productive when you consider all the factors?” My highlighter rapped against the table. “Sometimes I have this feeling that we’re being asked to fix these massive problems with nothing but glue sticks and paperclips. We’re glorified desk jockeys who specialize in temporary solutions and quick fixes.”
“There’s a somber thought.” Noah cleared his throat. “But I’m going to keep lying to myself that in some way, some times, I make a difference.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not how I meant it. I know you do. I’m having a hard time spitting out what I’m thinking.” I chewed my cheek while strong-arming thoughts into manifestation. “We follow rules. The devil doesn’t. How do we win—how do we even battle—with that kind of a disadvantage?”
Noah rolled his head, his neck cracking as he did. I was so used to him setting me straight when I questioned our careers’ effectiveness, offering some speech of hope, my stomach dropped when his mouth stayed sealed.
‘This is a massive investigation to undertake,” he said after a moment. “There’s how many bodies over how many years to sort through? Scarce details and even scarcer witnesses or family to interview?” Noah blew out a breath. “I’d expect no less from your father.”
“He’s got his reasons for doing all of this,” I replied. “I’m just not sure they’re the right reasons.”
“The right reasons being finding a serial killer?”
My shoulders moved in an indefinite motion. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m on the right side of this thing. Let’s assume, best-case scenario, we get this guy. And child rape cases continue to rise.” I paused, searching for the trail my thoughts were leading me towards. “I mean, now that these creeps know there’s this killer stalking them, they’re going to think twice before putting their hands on a kid, right?”
Noah watched me, not saying a word. It was the way I imagined he appraised one of his patients when he was waiting for them to admit what they really wanted to say.
“It sounds like you’re questioning yourself,” he said, sliding the coffee mug back toward me.
“I shouldn’t be. I’m a steward of the law, sworn to uphold it. This killer is a criminal and should be held accountable for his actions.” My teeth sank into my lip. “It’s just that he’s a criminal taking out the worst kind of criminals.”
Noah nodded in a way that conveyed understanding. “A moral dilemma.”
“It would seem. Got any advice for how to negotiate that quandary, Dr. Wolff?”
One corner of his mouth pulled. “Put yourself in a situation where you discover who this killer is. Could you live with your decision to let him go and not bring him to justice for his crimes?”
“No.” My head shook adamantly. “My whole life would be a lie if I did. Everything I stand for.”
Noah’s hand turned over. “Then there’s your answer.”
“I guess.” My reply lacked conviction as I flipped to the next page to prioritize which names associated with Volkner’s death I’d contact first. When I realized Noah was remaining in his chair, not rushing for the door, my foot tapped his abandoned bag on the floor. “I thought you had a class to get to.”
“I can skip a night,” he replied.
“But what about that little tortured boy inside you?” I teased.
“He’ll cope.” His eyes dropped to my neck, one of his brows peaking.
“It’s my lucky scarf,” I replied to his silent question.
&nb
sp; His fingers hooked beneath the silk scarf, examining a certain patch of my skin. “Damn. Those things are slow to heal.” His knuckles skimmed my neck. “I shouldn’t have—”
My head shook. “On the bright side, I’m getting a lot of wear from my new accessory.” Setting down my highlighter, I pushed the papers in front of me out of reach. “I haven’t had a chance to apologize for Thursday night. Dinner. Dean.”
My throat went dry from bringing up the topic of dinner for the first time. I’d been meaning to apologize to him for the past couple of days, but admitting fault had never come naturally to me. I blamed my father for that character flaw.
“I’m sorry too.” A sigh moved Noah’s chest. “I lost control that night. Of a lot of things.”
My face warmed. “You don’t say.”
“Watching you be pursued by another man—witnessing you not exactly admonishing those advances—it forced me to face something I’ve never considered before.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
He replaced the scarf, his hand falling away. “The idea of losing you.”
I found myself studying him beside me. Near, yet distant—the theme of our nearly two decades together. “Sometimes I think we’ve been losing each other from the very beginning.”
He didn’t agree or disagree as he stared at his hands resting on the table. “But not so lost we can’t find our way back.”
Fifteen
The media had given him a name. Proper fear couldn’t be stricken into the masses without ascribing a serial killer one. Son of Sam, BTK, Green River Killer—give a mass murderer a name and you guaranteed your following would be tuned in to every article and report morning, noon, and night.
The Huntsman.
That was the name they’d bestowed upon this squelcher of thirty-three lives. The name would go down in history alongside the handful of other prolific serial killers in modern times. Except unlike the others who preyed upon the innocent, the Huntsman targeted those who preyed upon humanity’s most innocent. Once word had spread of his existence, his name muddied the thin line separating ridicule and respect.
These Violent Roots Page 14
