Teddy scoffed. “If only.”
“However, the neighbor mentioned that he’d heard what sounded like a disturbance coming from Volkner’s apartment the night before his body was found. He didn’t think much of it at the time—apparently Volkner wasn’t known for being the reclusive, keep-to-himself type—but he did say he mentioned it to the cops when they showed up.” I flipped to the page in the Volkner file with a copy of the standard investigation that went into any death by suicide. There was an investigation to make sure no foul play was involved, as there had been in this case. “However, there’s no documentation of this disturbance in the notes.”
“Which tells us the authorities were eager to write the death off as suicide, given the type of person involved.” Teddy kicked his long legs out in front of him, crossing his boots at the ankle. “This isn’t anything we don’t already know. Hell, I’ve been guilty of doing the same in the past. I walk into a room with a pedophile’s brains splattered across the bathroom wall and I’m going to be looking for every reason to sign it off as a suicide unless a perp holding a smoking gun is still in the room. Call it karma catching up to them.”
“And look at where karma left us.” Dad set down his glass, half of the bourbon gone. “With one of the most prolific serial killers on the loose, with no solid evidence to find him with.”
“You and I know the way the system’s supposed to work. And the way it actually does.” Teddy flipped through the sheets in his file. “This investigation is a prime example of the difference between the two.”
While Teddy and Dad argued a few more rounds, I dug into my dinner. I’d skipped lunch and my stomach was grumbling loudly enough Titus pushed the container of gyoza in front of me.
“What about the Creeden homicide?” Dad’s attention drifted back my way. “It’s the first known kill, and even though it’s nearly fifteen years cold, I’m hoping it will turn up something useful.”
“First one means he’s still learning, most likely to make mistakes,” Don added.
“Humans make mistakes. I’m starting to wonder if what we’re searching for is something else entirely,” Will said through a bite of chow mein.
“He’s human. I can guarantee that.” Samantha took a sip of her soda.
I blinked at her, wondering if she was being serious or making a joke.
She wasn’t making a joke.
“Anyways,” I started again, “I’ve lined up several interviews next week that I’m optimistic will produce something useful.”
“Phone interviews?” Dad asked.
“In person. Noah’s mom lives in Lincoln nearby, and I’m long overdue for the perfunctory mother-in-law lunch date.”
“Good.” Dad indicated at Amelia, who instantly scribbled something. She’d only been his assistant for a few weeks and was already reading his mind. “Visit the scene if possible, bring doughnuts and coffee to the police station, and make sure you talk to any of the detectives who might have retired since then. Buy them a Budweiser and porterhouse or whatever it is people in Nebraska like.” He rapped on the table. “I’m counting on you to bring something valuable to the table.”
“I’ll try my best.”
He reached for his glass again. “Do your best.”
Seventeen
Parked outside the police precinct in downtown Seattle, I found myself fixated on a particular piece of graffiti sprayed on a concrete column buttressed beneath an overpass. This was different than the typical profanities, initials, or gang signs spewed across old abandoned buildings and freeway infrastructures.
Freshly painted, given its prominence above the rest of the graffiti, an oval with a line cutting horizontally through the center stretched several feet long. Done in black, it was the Greek symbol for theta, the eighth letter of the Greek alphabet.
It was the symbol for death.
It had also become a mark the public had assigned to the Huntsman. A black theta. The mark of death.
It had started small, only known about in fringe society, but then a major news station ran a report on it and the concept exploded into the mainstream. A few weeks ago, a person might pass the occasional weirdo with a theta symbol penned in black Sharpie across the back of their hand, but fast forward a few weeks and a person couldn’t drive to the grocery store without passing bumper stickers, shirts, and pins hanging off backpacks and purses, from your average high school student to your aging veteran.
At the Public Market, vendors were carrying shirts with the theta symbol accompanied with the caption of Justice for all. They were selling out.
The Huntsman had been elevated from a cult following to an icon of pop culture, the first serial killer to gain mainstream acceptance. Serial killers before him had always drawn a small fan base of emotionally fragile women, but this was different. The Huntsman not only came with the adoration of those unstable girls wanting to marry him whenever he was caught and thrown into prison for the rest of his life, but your everyday mother, from inner-city to suburban, supported his mission of wiping out pedophiles. They saw him as the dark but necessary hand of justice, an angel of death who protected the most innocent and vulnerable of society.
The Huntsman had support in the male category as well, from dads, husbands, boyfriends, and students because, veiled as they might keep it, most men at their base believed in good old-fashioned justice where eye-for-an-eye was more life-for-an-eye.
The elderly, who had known hard times those of us under fifty couldn’t begin to understand, regarded the Huntsman as a necessary evil who was finally cleaning up the streets. And the kids . . . they talked about him almost as though he were the latest and greatest superhero to hit the big screen. An analogy I’d heard from one of the other attorney’s pre-teen was Deadpool meets Suicide Squad meets Batman.
Whatever that meant.
Huntsman fever hadn’t only hit the Greater Seattle area, but had swept across the nation. Rallies were arranged by satellite supporters in most major cities in the country. Protests had begun to crop up as well, Huntsman supporters waving signs outside of courthouses and demanding true justice for those standing accused inside. The supporters had even christened themselves with a name—The Disciples. As though they were some devote band of followers who’d do anything for their leader, some of which I didn’t doubt would.
The Huntsman’s mark—I was still staring at it, half-hypnotized. Up until now, the public had praised the efforts of anyone involved in catching a serial killer, but not this time. No one would thank us for catching the Huntsman. Some would probably attempt to impede our efforts. But I was a state’s attorney, a guardian of the law the way it was written.
I didn’t have the luxury of deciding which murders were justified and which should be prosecuted.
When a teen boy stopped in front of the theta graffiti to snap a selfie, I forced myself out of the SUV.
The telltale buzz of the police precinct hit me the first step I took through the doors. This place was busier than the 405 at rush hour just about any given time. The scent of old coffee, musk, and body odor permeated the precinct.
After waving at the receptionist stationed up front—too busy arguing with some frantic woman to notice me—I wove through the bullpen of desks to a familiar one tucked into the back corner.
“Sorry I’m late. Traffic,” I greeted, ceremoniously setting down the cardboard box in my hand, complete with a large coffee.
“Don’t worry about it, kid. I was catching up on paperwork anyway.” Ed hooked his foot beneath the empty chair at the desk beside him and pulled it in my direction. “You didn’t mention the reason for your visit, but I bet I don’t need to play twenty questions to figure it out.” His giant gray eyebrows pulled into his hairline.
“I bet you don’t either,” I replied as I took a seat in the procured chair.
“You know, your father’s been down here harassing me for a few weeks now with little to show for it.” Ed tipped his cup of coffee at me before taking a sip. “
What makes you think I’m going to give you information I haven’t given him, someone I worked with for three decades?”
“One, because I’m nicer than him, and two”—I opened the cardboard lid, flourishing my hand at the contents inside—“I come bearing poppyseed muffins, your favorite, unlike the stereotypical baker’s dozen he shows up with.”
Ed chuckled that deep rumbling one of his, digging out a muffin. “Bringing doughnuts to cops. Pretty sure that’s a frowned upon typecast in these modern times.”
I shook my head when he offered me one.
“Good. More for me.” He winked, licking his fingers after removing the paper liner from the base of his muffin.
“So?” Placing my elbow on his desk, I rested my face in my hand and flashed an innocent smile. “Anything you might be able to share with an eager woman who’s like a daughter to you about the Skovil investigation?”
Ed grumbled under his breath before taking a respectable bite of his muffin. “You know this is an active investigation, right? Meaning we don’t tend to share information with outside parties.”
My smile stretched. “Like a daughter.”
He gave me a disparaging look as he popped another bite into his mouth. “Your old man could take notes from you on how to weasel information out of cantankerous old detectives.”
“In order for him to do that, I actually need to be successful in that endeavor.” My fingers rolled across my cheek as I waited.
Ed casually scanned the bullpen before leaning into his desk. “We talked to an eye witness who reported seeing the same car parked outside of his apartment a few nights in a row leading up to Skovil’s death.” Ed peeled the lid from his coffee and dunked a chunk of his muffin into it. “The witness said there only appeared to be one person inside, most likely a man, but couldn’t make out any particulars.”
I rolled my chair closer. “You think this could be our killer?”
“I think it’s a lead. I’m not too excited over it yet, but it’s the best one we’ve gotten so far.” Ed hit Ignore when a call came in on his phone. “The Phantom would be a more accurate name for this Huntsman character. A summer breeze leaves more evidence of its existence than this clown.”
“Any additional details on the car? Make, model, color?”
When he frowned at my continued fishing, I brought out the smile once more.
“Newer sedan, light in color, probably silver or white.” He grabbed another muffin, grumbling as he did. “You want a pen and paper so you can write it down?” he jested.
“That description matches only about a quarter of vehicles on the road today.”
“Which means we can rule out three quarters of the vehicles,” he said through a bite of muffin. “That is, if the person in that car is actually our guy, which is a big if.”
My nose wrinkled. “I suppose it would be too much to expect our phantom-like Huntsman to cruise around in a neon green Hummer.”
Ed huffed. “This guy probably doesn’t come packaged with fingerprints or standard DNA either.”
Relaxing into the chair, I pointed at him. “What’s that itch inside telling you? Who is this Huntsman?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “I think he or she is exactly the type of person you wouldn’t expect. That’s about the only thing I’m certain of at this point.” His arms crossed over his drum chest. “I’ll put cash money down that when and if this Huntsman is ever caught, your jaw is going to hit to floor in surprise same as the rest of us. Probably turn out to be a PTO mom who drives a minivan.”
I blinked at him. “A PTO mom?”
His shoulders moved beneath his short-sleeve dress shirt that was one size too small and two decades old. “Or some grandpa who plays pickleball three days a week at the Y.”
“I think it’s a stretch that some baby boomer or suburban housewife is responsible for the murders of thirty-three men most people would cross the road to avoid.”
He swirled his coffee around in the cup, chunks of muffin floating in it. “Maybe. Maybe not. Why don’t you go ahead and solve the case, then let me know so I can take all of the credit?”
My eyes rolled. “We both know that no matter who catches this guy, my father’s going to find some way to take the bulk of the credit.”
He laughed. “Some truths go without saying.”
“If you manage to dig up any more information on this car lead . . .”
He waved me away as I rose from my chair. “I think I know who might be interested in knowing, yeah.”
“We’re going to find this guy. You or us, we’ll get him.”
His eyes creased at the corners. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Oh, no. Not you too.” My hand settled on my hip. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a fresh tattoo on your upper arm displaying a theta symbol.”
“You do this as many years as I have, kiddo, and you realize that even when your side or my side wins, it’s not a victory—not an actual one. Because there’s always some victim suffering behind that sentence, or future ones once that sentence comes to an end. No one wins in this game of crime we’re pawns in.”
Eighteen
Noah’s office was tucked away at the end of a long hall inside a bleak building on the cusp of where desirable neighborhoods met not-so-desirable ones.
Everything about the location was intentional, from its placement at the end of a hall to its address. Noah wanted his clients to feel comfortable and safe which, to me, were two emotions I wasn’t convinced they deserved, no matter the sentence they’d served or the restraint they showed.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been to his office, but we’d decided it was the best place to meet before heading out for our first real date in ages.
Noah finished with his last client at six, so I was a few minutes early and elected to wait in the hall and catch up on a few texts I’d been neglecting due to a nonstop afternoon of court appointments. I was in the middle of firing off a message to check in with Andee when the exit door leading from Noah’s office opened. The man who slunk out was familiar in the kind of way that took a few moments to place.
He barely gave me a cursory glance as he trudged down the hall, flipping his coat collar up around his neck and plucking a fresh cigarette from his back pocket. My skin prickled as I recalled my colleague’s case a couple of years back, what the man had been accused of and the sentence he’d been given as a result. It couldn’t even be considered a wrist slap for his crimes. More like a back pat, a nod to the utter lack of accountability our legal systems demanded of the punishment matching the crime.
I didn’t stop watching him until he climbed onto the elevator and went about whatever plans the rest of his night included now that he’d sat through another hour of his count-appointed counseling sessions. Part of me didn’t want to consider where his forays might lead him, whose young life he’d forever change next. Fiends like him—crimes such as his—it wasn’t a matter of if he reoffended. It was a matter of when.
The main door leading into Noah’s office opened. “There you are.” Noah swept his arm inside his office. “I’ve got a moderately comfortable sofa inside for guests to wait on.”
My gaze remained fixed down the hall. “That bastard deserved more than a year for what he did.”
He leaned into the doorway, hands slipping into his front pockets. “We all deserve worse for our transgressions, whatever they might be. Mercy is a double-edged sword.”
“Mercy wasn’t created for men like him,” I said while Noah flipped off the lights and locked the office. “Based on all of your experience . . . what’s the actual likelihood of him not offending again? Truthfully.”
He stood beside me. “Some do get better. Not cured—because there isn’t a fix for that kind of affliction—but some do keep from reoffending.”
“There should be a cure by now,” I muttered as we started down the hall.
“The attraction toward children is no different than a man who is attrac
ted to women or men. It’s part of the wiring they were born with.” His hand lifted when he saw me ready to argue. “You simply can’t change the wiring—you can only adjust the desire to act upon those proclivities.”
After punching the elevator button, I turned to him. “What is the answer for those men who don’t or can’t fight their ‘proclivities’? The ones who cycle in and out of prison, stealing innocence in between sentences?”
“I’m a psychiatrist, not a philosopher.” Noah held the door for me when the elevator opened, his face drawing deep lines as he continued, “I focus on what I can do to help, instead of fixating on the vast schism I’m helpless against.”
“Good on you for keeping a positive perspective on the whole thing,” I said, letting Noah lead the way into the parking garage. “I went and got jaded recently.”
“Recently?” His head turned toward me.
“The way the Skovil case went—the way too many of those types of cases go—and now this whole Huntsman character taking out these guys.” My shoulders lifted. “I know I’m technically on the right side of the law, but I wonder if I’m maybe ethically on the wrong side.”
He pointed at his car up ahead, steering us toward it and remaining quiet.
“Don’t you ever think about giving up?” I continued. “Even for a fleeting moment on your worst days?”
“Never.” His head shook. “Doing some good is better than doing absolutely none.”
My response was formulating when I noticed something different about his car. Noah seemed to notice it at the same time.
“Are those”—my eyes narrowed to make sure I was seeing correctly—“eggs?”
These Violent Roots Page 17
