I’d still like to give them five options. The Special Agent in Charge is a tempting target, but I don’t wish to draw that much attention. Having them kill any random person for me would be too easy. Now, killing somebody they actually like would be an interesting test of loyalty, but such tasks are not worth mentioning at this stage.
Perhaps the wild card will be to capture one of the park rangers or sheriffs named in the reports. If I go with that, I’ll need to put an age limit on this. Can’t make it too easy for them. Some of the rangers and sheriffs are old men and women. I’m not against killing old people. Just because one makes it to a certain stage of life doesn’t entitle them to an easy road, but I want this to be a fair competition. The FBI agents and Kerman’s sister are young or at least capable of physically offering resistance. I believe the oldest agent is forty-three, so that will be my cap. If my would-be apprentice can’t even find out the names of their potential targets, they don’t deserve the job.
It’s about time to post my official assignment. I look forward to seeing what my candidates can do. Even though I’m only offering this to nine of them, I expect with the tight deadline about half will drop out or fail. It’ll be very interesting should multiple candidates pursue the same target. Perhaps I should tweak my wording about requiring the subjects alive. There can be no doubt of that being optional. These people are vying to be my helpers. The kills are mine.
Chapter 31:
Convenience Store Canvass
FBI Field Office
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
The interview with Ms. Riley lasted much longer than Sam would have liked, but in that time, Agent Okiro pulled off an organizational miracle. SAC Hatcher loaned Adana the use of half a dozen new agents for the task. Sam didn’t ask her for details since he trusted her judgment, but she reported anyway.
“I wrote the press release, then contacted the New Jersey Lottery Commission, the governor’s office, the FBI offices in Trenton and Newark, and a few friends in the press. After the standard runarounds, I tapped a few favors and had the cyber agents help with posting notifications on various police forums.”
“Did you fax them to the various law enforcement agencies?” Sam asked. Knowing how notorious some of the fax machines could be, he didn’t think that would be possible, even if she’d started the second he stepped away for his meeting.
Adana flashed Sam an amused grin.
“There are over five hundred such agencies,” she pointed out. “And nobody uses faxes anymore. I had people call the state’s Association of Chiefs of Police and work from the top down. Agent Fuller warned the hotline agents to expect an influx.”
“Any hits yet?” Sam wondered.
“I don’t expect much until tomorrow,” said Adana, “but yes, some of the quieter municipalities have checked in to say they’ll dispatch officers as soon as possible.”
“Great.” Sam couldn’t think of anything she’d forgotten. “So, what do you need me to do?”
“I thought you might want to participate in the canvass, so I mentioned that to the nearby towns and cities. We have official invitations to join officers in Cherry Hill, Haddonfield, Camden, and Deptford. Agent Newhouse is already headed to Camden, and Fuller’s from Cherry Hill so she’ll head there. Do you have a preference on the remaining two?”
“Not really,” said Sam. “I’ll take Haddonfield if you don’t care either. Do you have an address for me?”
“I’ll text it to you.”
Sam wasn’t certain of the wisdom in having his entire team pursuing this one lead, but he couldn’t deny any of them the opportunity. The investigation had crawled for weeks. They needed the morale boost of actually pounding the pavement if nothing else. In the last few meetings, he’d felt their growing restlessness.
Grabbing his gear and hustling out to his car, Sam tried to hang on to the good feelings, but it was difficult. The killer’s last rampage had been more disturbing than usual. Sam had lost the beginning of this week going through photographs and painstakingly piecing a timeline together for those incidents.
He thought as he drove, making use of the twenty-five minute drive.
Why those boys?
His people agreed with the initial assessment that Matthew Nelson, Jacob Tieber, and Todd Clements had been the primary targets. The college kids who had died from the gas attack simply chose the wrong party that evening. Adana dug up the information about the earlier attack that implicated the young men as assailants. Sam believed her about the connection, but he wasn’t convinced a relatively small case of justice being denied would call down the killer’s wrath.
The increased brutality even within that incident bothered Sam. Autopsies confirmed that Clements had died from the knockout gas, and Nelson had been shot three times. Those were tragic but normal deaths Sam expected in this line of work. He’d never heard of a case involving fireworks as the murder weapon. Who would bother? As weapons, they were as dangerous to the man wielding them as to the victim. The killer hadn’t simply been murdering Tieber; he’d also been punishing the young man.
Does this guy care if he lives or dies?
Sam saw evidence for both in the series of crimes. The lottery ticket leavings seemed to be a genuine mistake. Other than that, useful physical evidence was scarce. The lack of fingerprints told him the perpetrator took some measures to avoid detection. The notes and messages said he wanted acknowledgment for his deeds.
The methods of murder varied widely. There had been a knife attack, a shooting, a strangling, and death by fireworks. This told Sam the killer wanted to experiment, but he didn’t know to what end. Most killers found a method they preferred and stuck with it, changing only in small increments to improve the craft.
Inevitably, Sam’s mind poked at the next logical question.
What will he try next?
***
Pit Stop Shop
Haddonfield, New Jersey
Three hours into the search, Sam was less enthusiastic about this lead, but he enjoyed the company of Officer Adam Hearn. The twenty-year veteran originally from the Bronx had never lost his accent or his instincts for being a beat cop. He took the time to know the people who crossed his path on a regular basis.
“If you’re hungry and don’t mind hotdogs, the ones in here are great, but skip the chili,” Hearn advised.
“What’s wrong with the chili?” Sam wondered. Mention of food made his stomach grumble at his neglect.
“Ahmed cooks up fresh hotdogs upon request, but I think he gets the chili in the beginning of the week and leaves it there. Most guts ain’t up to that sort of workout if ya know what I mean.”
“No chili, gotcha. Anything else I should avoid?” asked Sam.
“Pretzels are like cardboard in here, but they won’t kill ya,” Hearn reported.
“How’s the coffee?”
“Not my favorite, but Ahmed keeps enough sugar packets and creamers to make it passable.”
Armed with this insider information, Sam climbed out of Hearn’s patrol car and made his way to the double doors. Hearn headed for the coffee station while Sam perused the hotdog selection. They looked good, but then again, anything looked juicy and wonderful when one hadn’t eaten for hours. A lanky teen who looked like a younger version of the heavyset man sitting by the front cash register wrapped up four hotdogs and put them in a plastic bag for Sam.
“Do you want a fountain soda for $0.99?” asked the kid, pointing to a sign on the counter.
“No thanks,” said Sam. “I’ll grab a coffee in a moment. Actually, go ahead and charge me for two. I’ll have what he’s having.” He waved over to Officer Hearn, who held up his large coffee cup so the kid could see the size.
Shrugging, the kid tallied Sam’s order. Once the appropriate change was dispensed, Sam strolled over to the front counter where Hearn chatted with the store owner. The officer handed Sam a large cup of coffee filled to the brim.
“Forgot to ask if you wanted milk or sugar
,” said Hearn apologetically.
“This is fine, thanks,” Sam replied.
Hearn handled quick introductions before jumping into their main purpose.
“Sam here is with the FBI. He’s got some questions for you about your lottery customers. Do you have a moment to talk?”
The bell above the door rang, announcing the arrival of new customers. Ahmed didn’t look happy with the notion of chatting with law enforcement, but he called his son over to man the counter while they stepped off to the side.
“We’re not investigating you or your store, sir,” Sam assured the nervous man. “The case I’m working on has a person of interest—a man—who may purchase a lot of lottery tickets. Do you have any regular customers who spend an inordinate amount on scratch-off tickets?”
The man looked at Sam like his brain was decoding a foreign language.
“Do ya know anyone who rolls up in here and drops hundreds on a single type of ticket?” asked Hearn.
Sam didn’t take offense to Hearn translating for the locals. It had happened several times in their brief partnership. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what he was saying wrong, but when Hearn said almost the exact same thing, lightbulbs flashed over people’s heads.
“Ah, yes, I know such a man,” said Ahmed.
A thrill ran through Sam, as it had the last twenty-two times he’d heard similar phrases. He braced for a letdown. Apparently, there were a lot of people obsessed with unloading hard-earned money on the small chance at quick riches. Most of the time, the proprietors missed the part about the tickets of interest being scratch-offs only, not the ones spit out by a machine that involved some sort of daily or bi-weekly drawing.
“What’s he look like?” Hearn asked cautiously.
Ahmed’s right shoulder lifted in a shrug.
“Average height, white.”
“What color hair does he have? Is it long or short? Does he have any distinguishing marks? Does he buy anything else?” Sam consciously stopped the flow of questions to let the man answer.
The man squinted in concentration.
“I believe he has light hair. Short. And he usually only comes in for the tickets.”
“Did you notice his eye color?” Hearn inquired.
“I am sorry,” said Ahmed. “I do not remember anything else about this man.”
“Does he have a favorite type of ticket?” Sam asked. “Does he come in often?” He kept mental fingers crossed that it would be a predictable pattern they could use to set a trap for the guy.
“I am sorry,” Ahmed repeated, looking like he wanted to help more.
“He buys a lot of $5.00 tickets,” said the younger version of the store owner.
“How many?” Hearn asked, narrowly beating Sam to the question.
The kid’s shrug unconsciously mimicked his father’s earlier movement.
“Unused rolls,” said the kid. “They’re all worth $300, so he speeds up the transaction by taking the new ones.”
“Does he have a favorite day of the week or month to stop by?” Sam pressed.
Ahmed and the teenager considered the question, shrugged again, and shook their heads.
“No. He’s only come by two or three times,” said Ahmed.
“We remember because very few people buy tickets by the roll,” said the young man.
Sam’s heart leapt within him.
“Thank you,” he said quickly. “You’ve both been very helpful.” Handing over a card to each of them, Sam asked them to call if they thought of anything new.
Reaching for his phone, Sam strode with purpose toward the exit.
“Wait, sir!” called the teenager. “You forgot your hotdogs!”
Sam waved to acknowledge the news but kept on heading for the door.
“I’ll take them to him,” said Hearn.
Finding Adana’s number, Sam put the call through then tapped his foot impatiently while it rang.
“Agent Okiro speaking.”
“Adana, I need your help spreading the word,” Sam said in a rush. “I’ve got a lead on a guy who buys tickets by the roll. That’s unusual enough that the owner remembered him. Can you add that to the press report?”
“Yes, sir,” Adana said, picking up on his excitement. “That would be very helpful.”
“If he does this enough places, we can narrow the search,” Sam continued.
“It’s a big ‘if,’” Adana cautioned, “but it’s worth pursuing.”
After hanging up with Adana, Sam’s enthusiasm dropped a little, but his heart still raced.
“You think it means something?” asked Officer Hearn, handing Sam a foil-wrapped hotdog.
“I do,” Sam answered.
I definitely do.
As he munched on the hotdog, Sam’s gaze swept over the colorful displays in the convenience store. At some point, the killer had looked upon these same displays. He could feel it.
Chapter 32:
Calling Card
Samuel Kerman’s Apartment Building
Narberth, Pennsylvania
Since dating Mel, Samuel Kerman had come to enjoy morning street runs. He wished he could see her more often, but phone calls and emails composed the bulk of their communication thanks to both their crazy jobs. This serial killer case was taking over his life, but now that they had solid leads, he didn’t dare back off and risk losing the momentum.
After warmup stretches, Sam jogged down the stairs, sailed out the front door, and paused for a few last quad stretches. Force of habit made him scan the immediate vicinity. The morning sun shone down cheerfully. Part of the borough looked like a transplant from a 1950’s tiny town. It made him feel good to come back to a sleepy place like this after dealing with death and destruction in the big bad city.
A figure sat on the ground leaning back against a tree, looking down at something. From the angle, Sam couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman, but he called a friendly greeting anyway. He didn’t want to startle the person by barreling past in a moment. The figure said nothing in return. In this day and age, with the prevalence of earbuds, that wasn’t unusual, but Sam didn’t see the telltale white or black trail from ear to waist that would indicate earbuds. In another step, his senses automatically kicked into overdrive.
The figure was unnaturally still.
Sam stopped stretching and stared for a five-count. If sniper training years ago had taught him anything, it was how to wait and watch well.
No movement.
A moment of indecision seized him. The impulse to return to his apartment for his phone and gun butted up against the need to step closer and check on the figure. He delayed the decision a moment by scanning the street in both directions. Not a soul stirred. His legs brought him forward, so Sam knelt next to the body and gently checked for a pulse. The pasty complexion, blue lips, and empty eyes told him the effort would be wasted, but he had to check anyway. As his hand dropped away, his eyes fell upon the object the figure had been staring at.
He recognized it instantly.
A lottery ticket.
His breath stuck in his throat. The interview with Ms. Riley took place three days ago, and the article announcing the lottery ticket angle came out yesterday. A killer keeping close tabs on the media wasn’t unusual, but one who knew his home address was highly worrisome.
“Good morning, Master Samuel,” called Mrs. Heathcliff. “What have you got there?”
Sam sprang to his feet and positioned himself between his elderly neighbor and the body. He did not need her having a heart attack on him right then.
“Mrs. Heathcliff, how nice to see you,” Sam said, striving desperately to keep his tone normal. “The sun’s awfully hot today. Here, let me fetch your paper so you don’t have to come outside.” Seeing she was without glasses this morning, Sam held out hope Mrs. Heathcliff might not guess the figure leaning against the tree within twenty feet belonged to a dead body. Scooping one of the papers off the ground, Sam sprinted to the front door
to complete the delivery.
“How sweet of you,” said Mrs. Heathcliff.
As gently as possible, Sam herded his neighbor back inside. Crossing the threshold, they nearly crashed into Jenn who was on her way out.
“I thought you went running,” Jenn commented.
“He stopped to do his civic duty,” announced Mrs. Heathcliff, beaming up at Sam.
“Jenn, go grab my things, will ya?” He flashed his sister a look that told her not to argue.
“What do you need?” Jenn asked, picking up on his tension.
“The trio will do,” Sam replied, trying to lighten his tone. “I’ll take Mrs. Heathcliff up to her apartment and meet you back here in a minute.”
Getting Mrs. Heathcliff safely delivered into her apartment stretched Sam’s patience, but he returned to the doorway as his sister stepped out onto the stoop. She stiffened upon seeing the reason for his strange behavior.
“Sam.” Jenn dragged out his name. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yeah,” he replied. Gingerly, he took possession of his gun, identification badge, and cell phone. His hands were full since he didn’t have any pockets. The trio definitely clashed with running shorts and a ratty T-shirt. “Do you want to check the body or call 911?”
“Body.”
Sam knew she would say that, but actually hearing it still hit him with a shot of unease. The image didn’t fit his memories of the annoying kid sister who used to nearly blind him by wearing pink everything.
“Fine. Stay here, try to block the door, and keep people away from the body,” Sam instructed. “I’ll go change and make some phone calls.”
By the time Sam morphed into work mode and made it back downstairs, Jenn was fully gloved and taking pictures from every conceivable angle.
Scratched Off Page 20
