Mason & Morgan- The Serial Killer Collection

by Adam Nicholls

  But it had to be done.

  It was another thirty long, tedious minutes before the police left the Cole house, which was a grand colonial sitting at the back of a long driveway that had a stone water feature in the middle. Morgan thought this looked a little tacky, but who was he to judge? Rachel was in charge of their home designs, and for good reason; he couldn’t tell the difference between a patio and a porch, even now, as he watched six officers and a detective stepping off one before heading back to their cars.

  Morgan waited in the dark, keeping low to avoid detection, but when the detective reached his car and held open the door, he looked around at the scenery, catching the dark outline of Morgan’s face. Morgan seized it, knowing it would change nothing, and gave a sarcastic wave with a big, fake smile.

  The detective looked away and then left the scene.

  When the coast was clear, Morgan grabbed the file of pictures and made his way up the long driveway, admiring the grandeur of the house. It screamed money, which didn’t really feel like Emma’s background, though he’d only had the honor of talking to her for a couple of minutes. He tried his best to remember how polite she was and hoped the man she’d married was even half as helpful as she’d been.

  Knocking on the door, he waited in silence.

  It was soon opened by a man in his thirties with slicked-back hair and a goatee. Morgan pictured him as some kind of stockbroker or investment banker, though most of that impression came from the quality of his home. The man stood quietly with his mouth agape.

  “Mr. Cole?” Morgan proceeded.

  “Yes?”

  “My name’s Morgan Young. I spoke to your wife only minutes before… you know. Maybe I could have a few minutes of your time?”

  The man eyed him with fierce skepticism, leaving the door open only slightly. “You’re not with the police, are you?”

  “No, sir. Well, not officially. I was hired by a homicide detective to track down this…” He had to stop himself from saying killer, not wanting to alarm the poor guy, but no other word came to mind. “I know this must be hard for you, and you’ve probably answered a thousand questions already, but five minutes of your time could help me in ways you’d never believe.”

  The man paused, watching Morgan like he was about to do something wrong. It seemed as though he was going to slam the door, which made it all the more surprising when he opened it up and waved him inside. When Morgan entered, the man pushed the door closed and folded his arms, leaning against the wall in the hallway.

  It was obvious they’d go no further into the house.

  “You spoke to my wife?”

  Morgan nodded, shuffling the file into his other hand. “As I said, I’m investigating the DC Carver, and she said she had some information on the victims.”

  “Yeah, she went to high school with them. The police think he took her.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Morgan said. And he did—there was no reason to believe the man who’d taken her was anyone other than the DC Carver, especially since these women had all attended the same school. “Mr. Cole—”

  “You can call me Matthew,” he said, moisture glistening in his eyes.

  “Matthew, then.” Morgan glanced away to give him a chance to dry his eyes, and he pulled the pictures out of the file, handing them over. “I’d just like to confirm something with you about the man who took her. These were taken from a pizza place, and this man had been linked to the previous murders. I know it’s hard to identify a hooded man, but is there anything about his size or shape that might ring a bell?”

  Sniffling, Matthew took the pictures and studied them, bringing them too close to his face. It was probably an attempt to hide his tears, but if any man had a reason to cry it was him. “The police already asked me this, but it’s hard to say. This is a different angle though, and I don’t think… Hmm. Maybe.”

  Morgan’s ears pricked. “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe I do know him.”

  That was all it took to set Morgan’s heart racing like a prize-winning horse. He adjusted his stance and stepped closer. “Are you sure? Please understand that this man has murdered four people, and it’s highly likely he’s the one who kidnapped your wife. If you know anything about him, it’s in your best interest to say.”

  Squinting, Matthew studied harder. “I’m pretty sure I hit this guy once.”

  Morgan felt a surge of electricity. “Recently?”

  “No, no. In high school.”

  “He went to your high school?” This was too good to be true.

  “I never saw him except for the one time, but it’s a big school. He was following Emma around once. Wouldn’t leave her alone, you know?” Matthew lowered the picture and raised his knuckle, showing off a scar in the shape of a white dent. “See that? I swung for him and he ducked, so I caught the wall. Will never forget that. But if this bastard has hurt her…”

  “She might be okay,” Morgan said, as much as he doubted it.

  Matthew returned to studying the photo, his expression turning from one of hopeful remembrance to disappointed submission. Huffing, he swung the file back into Morgan’s chest, turning his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this. It feels too much like false hope.”

  “It could help.”

  “Sure, it could, but I don’t know his name.”

  “You know his face though?”

  Matthew threw up his hands. “I recognize it at best.”

  It was easy to understand his pain, and Morgan didn’t want to press. This poor guy was already going through enough, and pushing him further wasn’t likely to help anyone. Giving in, he reached into his pocket and grabbed a business card, handing it over. “Okay, Matthew, I’m going to leave you alone. My number is on there. Please call if you need anything. Anything. Even if it’s just a shoulder to cry on.”

  Sniffling again, this time wiping his eyes with his sleeve without trying to be discreet, Matthew took the card and opened the door. “Thank you, Mr. Young. I’ll be sure to let you know if I think of anything important. I just want my wife back.”

  Morgan stepped outside, a pang of sympathy striking him like a dart. It wouldn’t help to make false promises, but he had to say something, even if it wasn’t much. “I know you do.” He finally settled for, “I’m doing everything I can to make that happen.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Over the next two days, the press had kicked up a stink about how far the killer would go. The friends and family of Emma Cole had been constantly hounded, whereas Morgan had left his phone untouched. But that wasn’t to say he didn’t sit staring at it, waiting for it to ring with a certain twitch making him less comfortable by the second.

  “Why don’t you just let it go?” Rachel asked, passing by the living room with a laundry basket in her arms. “Not the case, obviously, but I don’t think that Matthew guy is going to call. If he was going to, he probably would have already.”

  Morgan mulled this as he shot up and opened the door for his wife, following her into the yard and pulling out the basket of clothes pins they kept under the back porch. Together, they began to hang shirts, Rachel remaining silent to let him think, as usual.

  “You’re right,” Morgan said, bending down to pick another item out of the basket. He bit his lip as he stood upright, squinting against the sun and keeping his fingers moving to avoid numbing in the cold fall air. “He’s probably being kept busy by the police anyway.”

  “Yep. What does Gary have to say on the matter?”

  “I haven’t heard from him since the HUCINS event.” Morgan paused, glancing at her and catching a fleeting frown. It was like the memory haunted her—a good, positive event being turned into something sinister and traumatic. And had she complained about it? Not one bit. Another accolade to add to her ongoing list of admirable traits. “Listen, I feel awful about that night. The whole thing was supposed to be something good.”

  Rachel crooked an eyebrow and pinned a pair of socks to the clothes line. He
r already pale skin grew whiter in the cold, and Morgan thought she only looked more like an angel, if angels were even half that beautiful. “Why? It’s not your fault that guy did what he did.”

  “Still, you deserve better than that.”

  “I don’t mind.” She shook her head. “I just hope that Emma girl is okay.”

  Morgan lowered his head, almost forgetting he was in the middle of a household chore before he picked up where he left off, leaning over to grab another garment. His hopes and prayers went out to Emma Cole too, but he also felt helpless. After all, it’d been his responsibility to keep an eye on her, hadn’t it? After agreeing to meet her outside, how hard should it have really been to ensure she didn’t go missing in this hall full of people? It left a nagging sense of guilt nibbling at his conscience, but he couldn’t let it bring him down. Not while he still intended to find her, at any rate.

  “There is something that bothers me though,” Rachel went on, picking up the empty basket and heading inside with Morgan close behind. “The two murdered girls went to school together, right?”

  Morgan cleared his throat—all the agreement he had to offer.

  “And Emma Cole went to the same school. Our school. Stop me if I’m wrong.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Rachel set down the basket and shut the door, a final gust of cold wind blowing in before it was banished to the outside. “Well, then you spoke to Matthew, who was yet another student at the same high school, only this guy recognizes the man in the photographs.”

  “Barely. It’s optimistic to think he noticed more than a familiar jawline.”

  “But isn’t that enough?”

  It made Morgan stop, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his crossed arms brought high into his chest, squeezing out the cold. “I don’t follow.”

  “What I mean is, don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence that they all went to the same school? Think about it: Matthew threw a punch at some guy who knew those other girls. Sure, it’s possible he knew them some other way, but doesn’t it strongly suggest the killer went to that school as a student?”

  “Oh, I completely agree, but I’ve already checked out the school.”

  “Yes, but has Matthew?”

  Morgan let out a short breath that was half laughter and half a sigh. He lowered his head and resumed breathing before he returned his gaze to Rachel, who was setting up the coffee machine to brew a fresh batch. “Still not following.”

  Turning to reveal her own smile, Rachel went on. “Okay, Detective, let me spell it out for you. Matthew may not fully recognize the man from Pizza Palace, but surely he’d know the guy if he saw him again. With me so far?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Good. So then, let’s assume the killer did attend that school. What would be the one surefire way to identify him?”

  Morgan knew it before she even finished the sentence. All the pieces fell into place in the blink of an eye, each puzzling clue falling into its rightful slot. It was like the end of a sudoku puzzle, when the hard work was done and the rest could be completed on autopilot. Only the sense of sheer excitement went far deeper, enabling him to possibly find his killer. And if he was lucky—very lucky—he might be able to find Emma Cole in one piece.

  At least now he knew what to do.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  While the cold whispers of late fall crept up and down his collar, Morgan sat nursing the item in his lap. The bench he sat on was situated on the outskirts of the nearest park, a spot chosen for its convenient positioning between both their houses. Now, as the sun slipped behind the horizon and the streetlights flickered on, all he had to do was wait.

  It wasn’t long before he appeared, but it felt like forever.

  Matthew trudged up the dirt-covered path, hands hidden in the deep pockets of his trench coat. It was obvious he hadn’t shaved since they’d last met, and Morgan remembered reading that most men put their grooming on hold during times of distress, though he’d never endured it himself. “It’s good to see you, Mr. Young, but I hope there’s a good reason you called me out here on the coldest evening in recent months.”

  Oh, there was, but Morgan kept his words to himself and handed over the item. Excitement riddled through him, but it could’ve been for nothing, so he only watched his companion’s expression while he studied the item.

  “What’s this?” Matthew asked, finally glancing up but looking no less dazed.

  “That,” Morgan said, standing up as Matthew sat down like ships passing in the night, “is a school yearbook from a place you’ll recognize. I managed to snag an old copy from the principal, who said you’re welcome to keep it as a gift for when you get Emma back.”

  Matthew, who’d been hunched over the yearbook sitting in his lap, looked up with bleak yet grateful eyes. It was no secret he appreciated the optimism, for all the good it would do. “That’s great, but why go to all the trouble?”

  “You said you’d know the man if you saw him.”

  Without another moment of confusion, Matthew seemed to understand. He tore open the book and held it up to the overhanging streetlight. He used one finger to scan the many faces, flicking each page as his search failed to turn up results.

  Meanwhile, Morgan paced. What else could he do, really? The case was about to either blow wide open or collapse on itself like a poorly erected tent, and while his nerves felt like scorching rocks rolling around under his skin, his teeth chattered in the cold. It was the most hopeful he’d been in days, but that little bit of doubt kept him on edge.

  “Not much luck,” Matthew said with his head still buried in the book. He stood now, closing the distance between the book and the light, holding it at the only angle that would serve. His face contorted, screwing up as he turned to one of the middle pages. “Wait.”

  Morgan, who’d been thinking of the moment they’d rescue Emma as a means of distraction, unfolded his arms and rushed to Matthew’s side, leaning over him and only now realizing how much taller he was than the man. “What do you have?”

  “This.” Matthew pointed to a picture. “This is him!”

  Snapping the yearbook out of his hands, Morgan studied the photo himself, taking in the sight of a young man with small ears and bright lips. He looked sort of feminine, enough to make it difficult for him to fit in with alpha males. Morgan tried to think of all the social groups from when he was in school, but he couldn’t picture this kid belonging to any one of them. “Are you certain this is the kid you tried to punch?”

  “Yes.” Matthew bounced his head in urgent nods.

  “And you’d bet he’s the same man in the Pizza Palace photographs?”

  “I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure.”

  Morgan closed the book with a heavy thump, keeping it held close to his chest like a nerdy teenager. A smile tugged at his lips, but he didn’t even want to try holding this one back—this could be the moment he found his killer. At least, the name of him. “Thank you so much for your time. Now I want you to return home, and do whatever the police tell you.”

  Matthew lunged out and grabbed his arm. “Wait. Shouldn’t I tell them about this?”

  “I’ll do it,” Morgan said, gently loosening the viselike grip. “I promise.”

  Seconds later, he was out of the park and rushing to his car, digging into his pocket for the phone so he could make a call. It rang for an eternity before Gary picked up, answering with a flat, croaky voice that Morgan knew for certain was about to gain a little more enthusiasm. “We have him,” he said, opening the car door and fumbling the keys. “The killer’s name is Nick Hansen, and he went to our school. Send in the troops—I’m on my way.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It’d been nearly ten minutes since Nick Hansen removed the gag from her mouth and retreated to the stairs, where he dropped onto one of the lower steps and watched. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected—some screaming, maybe some bargaining—but so far she hadn’t said a damn w
ord. All he’d seen was a thin teardrop. All he’d heard was a silenced sniffle.

  He got up and stormed toward her, raising his hand high and hoping to provoke some kind of reaction. But there wasn’t so much as a flinch. Emma Cole only stared up at him with inquisitive eyes that were laced with fear but were still narrow slits.

  Resigning, he lowered his hand.

  “Why aren’t you scared?” he said, pulling at the threads on his sweater.

  Emma turned away from him, raising her head to look down at her body, which was strapped hard to the table. When she saw this, her head fell back. Her eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. “I am scared. I’m frickin’ terrified.”

  Nick thought she sounded sincere too. There was no waver in her voice to suggest otherwise, but then why wasn’t she screaming? Why hadn’t she tried to break free and run upstairs? Probably because the first thing she’d run into was his mother, that’s why. “It makes no sense. I could cut you up at any moment, and you don’t even care.”

  His victim said nothing.

  “I could tear your face apart like I did to your friends.”

  That created a reaction, her eyes finally widening into shock-filled blanks that gawked at him with both disgust and disbelief. But there was something else in them too: recognition.

  “Holy shit, I know you. You’re Nick Hansen.”

  He couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t just that she might have a reason to fear him now, but all those times she’d rejected his advances—all those times she’d convinced herself she was too damn pretty to be seen with the likes of him—were returning as nothing more than regret. Nick had longed for this day since he was twelve years old, being used as nothing but a stepping stone to the next guy. But how had that worked out for them? Remembering the way he’d made a mess of their faces, he figured not well.