Oliver Quick

by Ditter Kellen

  Oliver Quick

  The Hunter Becomes the Hunted…

  The Quick Chronicles Book One

  An FBI Thriller

  By Ditter Kellen

  www.ditterkellen.com

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  Copyright © Ditter Kellen

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Ditter Kellen. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Image/art disclaimer: Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

  Published in the United States of America.

  P.O Box 124

  Highland Home, AL. 36041

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While references might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  This e-book contains graphic scenes and adult language that may be considered offensive to some readers. This e-book is for sale to adults ONLY as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely where they cannot be accessed by underaged readers.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to Angie Padgett, a very dear friend of mine who has spent her life helping others. From paramedic to nurse, she’s always been hardworking, selfless, and compassionate. I love you, pretty lady…always and forever!

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Laura Wesley with the Panama City Beach, Florida Medical Examiner’s Office for answering all my questions and pointing me in the right direction on protocol and procedures.

  A big thank you to Karri Botts with the Elberta Police Department in Elberta, Alabama, for answering my questions on protocol and procedures. Also, for helping guide me through the maze of counties in the beautiful state of Alabama.

  Though I used Baldwin County as my backdrop for the Alabama murders, all names and scenarios are a product of my imagination and are not meant to depict actual persons or places.

  The Bay County, Florida Sheriff’s Department, Police Department, Medical Examiner’s Office, the pier, or any other places named in this story are a product of the author’s imagination and are not meant to depict actual persons or places.

  The FBI in Fort Walton Beach, Panama City Beach, Huntsville, Alabama, and any other places named in this story are a product of the author’s imagination and are not meant to depict actual persons or places.

  Oakley sunglasses are depicted in this book. They are owned by © Luxottica Group S.p.A ™ Luxottica Group S.p.A ® Luxottica Group S.p.A.

  Another huge thank you to my editor Kierstin Cherry for cleaning up my messes, helping with the blurbs, and her unending patience with me. I adore you, lady.

  I’d also like to thank my beta readers and two of my closest friends, Cathe Green and Amy Bingham. I love you both and would be lost without you.

  A huge thank you to Turner Bingham for beta reading Oliver Quick and giving his input on what worked and what didn’t. Your advice was more helpful than you know!

  And as always, a giant thank you to Cathe Green, for giving me the courage to step outside my comfort zone and try my hand at something new. You’re a sister to me, a sounding board and a friend. I love you.

  Chapter One

  Oliver Quick rubbed at his bloodshot eyes and glanced at the blinking phone on his desk.

  He wondered how long the caller would hold before growing impatient and hanging up altogether.

  The door to his office abruptly opened and his secretary, Joyce Meeks, poked her head inside.

  She stared at him with a disapproving look before marching across the room to snatch up the phone. “I apologize for the wait, Mr. Williams. Oliver is on another line. I’d be happy to take a message if you’d rather not continue to hold.”

  Oliver listened to Joyce repeat his brother-in-law, Aaron Williams’s, words back to him, understanding full well she did it for his own benefit.

  Joyce Meeks had been with Oliver since he’d opened Quick Investigations a little more than five years ago. Though she spoke with the voice of a seasoned general and wore her hair in a similar fashion, she had kind blue eyes. And she thought of Oliver as the son she never had.

  She returned the phone receiver to its home with a little more force than was probably necessary and pierced Oliver with an accessing stare. “Too much scotch last night?”

  Oliver leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on the corner of his desk, and ignored Joyce’s reference to his late-night drinking. “What did Aaron want?”

  “Besides calling to invite you to the children’s birthday party next weekend? I have no idea. Why don’t you call him back and find out?”

  Oliver inwardly cringed. Spending his weekend with a bunch of screaming kids didn’t bode well with his hangover.

  He opened his mouth to announce that very thing, when the trill of the phone once again echoed from his desk, sending an unwelcome pain shooting through his skull.

  “Serves you right,” Joyce snapped, striding toward the open door. “That drinking is going to be the death of you.” The door clicked shut behind her.

  “Quick Investigations,” Oliver nearly growled, answering the incoming call.

  A brief pause ensued. “Hello, Oliver, it’s Richard Holland.”

  Oliver’s stomach tightened. There would be only one reason the supervisor of the FBI field office in Huntsville, Alabama would be calling him. They needed his help.

  “SSA Holland,” Quick acknowledged. “It’s been a minute.” Nearly six years to be exact.

  Richard cleared his throat. “That it has. Look, Quick, I could use your help.”

  “My help? With what?” But Oliver knew. He’d already heard about the dismembered body discovered under the pier in Panama City Beach. It was all over the news. “I’m not a profiler any longer, Richard. I haven’t been for years.”

  “A profiler isn’t something you do, Quick. It’s who you are.”

  Oliver refrained from pointing out the obvious. The last serial killer he’d profiled had not only killed Oliver’s wife, he’d gone on to kill six more women shortly afterward.

  “I’m headed to Panama City Beach,” Richard continued without preamble. “Can you meet me for lunch?”

  The last thing Oliver needed was the smell of greasy food invading his hungover, consistently throbbing head. But the profiler in him couldn’t resist meeting with the leader of the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Huntsville. “Salty Sue’s in half an hour.”

  “I’ll be there.” The line went dead.

  Oliver replaced the phone receiver and stood. He wandered over to his large office window to stare out at the busy Destin traffic of Back Beach Road.

  His hands sank into the pockets of his navy-blue slacks. He watched the cars move bumper-to-bumper in an impatient line of horn-blowing maniacs.

  April had loved this place, Oliver thought, his gaze moving to the beach beyond. She’d wanted to raise their children there…children they would never have.

  The old, familiar ache that always began in his heart with thoughts of April traveled through his chest to settle in his gut.

  Nausea was instant.

  Oliver locked his teeth together,
his eyes sliding closed to shut out the view before him.

  He groaned deep in his throat, allowing the memories of his beautiful April to wash through him.

  Her laughter, the always present twinkle in her pretty green eyes, and the dimple in her cheek when she smiled flashed behind his closed lids with haunting clarity.

  His mind instantly rebelled against what he knew would come next, but he could no longer block it out than he could stop the waves from crashing onto the shore of the beach in front of him.

  April lying in that morgue. A perfectly straight incision on her bruised and battered throat. Her larynx had been removed with the precision of a surgeon and then the wound sewn closed.

  Oliver shuddered, unable to push the images from his mind. His wife, his precious April had been repeatedly raped, violated in the vilest of ways. Her breasts had been burned in numerous places, along with her genitals.

  She’d been bound for days, unable to speak or scream while her killer endlessly tortured her to death. He’d then painted her fingernails and toenails a blood-red color…postmortem.

  April had been his sixth victim in less than a month, categorizing him as a serial killer. He’d been dubbed the Silencer by the media for removing his victim’s voice boxes days before he ended their lives. And then he’d painted their fingernails and toenails. Always with the same red color.

  “Oliver?”

  Somewhere in the far recesses of his mind, Oliver knew Joyce spoke to him, but he couldn’t seem to pull back from the grief swimming inside him. He hadn’t caught April’s killer. His profile had been off.

  The Silencer had vanished almost six years ago, leaving no evidence to his identity behind.

  Oliver had worked day and night to profile the sick bastard, only to come up empty. He’d been too close to the case, making him less than objective.

  His emotions, grief and helpless rage over the loss of his wife, had stood between him and his ability to be openminded and detached.

  The Silencer had slipped through his fingers.

  A hand rested against Quick’s back, and his secretary’s voice finally penetrated his guilt-filled mind. “Oliver, are you all right?”

  He swallowed with more than a little difficulty. “I’m fine, Joyce. Thank you.”

  “There’s a man here to see you.”

  He answered without turning away from the window. “Have him make an appointment. I’m meeting someone in ten minutes for lunch.”

  “But—”

  “Please, Joyce. I can’t do this right now.”

  Something in his voice must have clued her in to his current mental status. Her hand fell away, and the sound of her shoes slapping on the tile floor could be heard over the horns blowing from the streets beyond.

  Oliver waited until the door closed behind her, then trailed to his desk, plucked up his suit jacket, and left by way of the back.

  Chapter Two

  Richard Holland waited until the waitress moved away before extending his hand across the table to Oliver. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

  Oliver accepted the man’s outstretched palm and took a seat. “It’s good to see you, Richard. So, tell me what you’ve got.”

  Holland nodded, pushing a yellow folder toward Oliver. “You always did get right to the point.”

  Opening the folder, Oliver took in the sight before him.

  Dozens of photos were inside; images of the dismembered body of the female found beneath the pier in Panama City Beach.

  Oliver hardened himself against his emotions. “I understand the heinousness of the crime, but why has the FBI been called in on this?”

  Richard set his water glass down and wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Because there were two similar cases last month less than an hour from here over the Alabama line. The Baldwin County Sheriff’s Office called us in to assist.”

  Oliver’s jaw tightened. “Similar cases?”

  “There’s enough similarities for us to ascertain it’s the same guy.”

  “A serial killer,” Oliver stated in a deadly soft tone.

  Richard nodded. “The Bay County Police Department notified us of the body found beneath the pier. They called in the local sheriff’s department and the FBI to help with the investigation. My team is there now.”

  April’s cold, pale body flashed behind Oliver’s eyes. “Why are you coming to me with this? You have an efficient team working with you in Huntsville and a dozen more at your disposal at the Quantico office.”

  “Because you’re one of the best profilers I’ve ever known, and I’d like your help with this.”

  Oliver closed the folder and got to his feet. “I’m a private investigator now. I no longer hunt serial killers, Richard. I haven’t since—”

  “Since April died,” Richard interrupted, catching Oliver off guard.

  “I understand your reluctance, Quick.” Richard leaned across the table and flipped the folder back open. “But this woman had a family, a husband…and a child on the way. She can’t tell us who did this to her, but I’m willing to bet that you can.”

  Richard lifted a picture of the woman’s decapitated head and held it up for Oliver to see. “Her husband needs closure. As do her parents.”

  Oliver stared down into the lifeless eyes of the woman in the picture for long moments. She’d been pregnant…just as April had.

  Swallowing back the bile that rose in his throat, Oliver tore his gaze from the sickening photo and returned to his seat.

  As badly as he wanted to, he simply couldn’t bring himself to walk away. “What’s the victim’s name?”

  “Clayton. Jennifer Clayton.”

  Oliver let that sink in. “I’ll need to see the scene where the body was found.”

  Richard placed the picture back in the folder and tucked it inside his briefcase. “I’ll take you there right after you get some food in you. From the look of your eyes, you could use it.”

  Oliver wasn’t hungry, but he would order anyway. He needed something to soak up the overabundance of alcohol from the night before. And he needed strength for what he knew lay ahead.

  * * * *

  After driving to his condo to change into jeans and running shoes, Oliver donned his Oakley’s and followed Holland to the normally busy beach in Panama City.

  The expected yellow tape and police presence surrounded the massive pier to keep onlookers from contaminating what was left of the crime scene.

  The rising tide from the previous two nights had no doubt destroyed what evidence had been left behind. Which Oliver doubted would be any.

  But it wasn’t evidence Oliver looked for. Most serial killers were meticulous. They didn’t leave behind incriminating evidence. No, he needed to see what the killer saw, hear what he heard…and figure out why he chose that particular place to dispose of the body.

  Oliver trailed along behind Holland, his gaze touching on everything around him. From the mobs of curious onlookers to the surrounding storefronts and restaurants in close proximity to the pier.

  His gaze then swung to the dunes behind him, coming to rest on the taped-off markings embedded in the sand. Drag marks, most likely from a body.

  How had the killer dragged a bag of body parts down to the pier without being noticed by anyone?

  The crowd of people gathered around, attempted to move in closer, forcing the police to order them back.

  Though it had been two days since Jennifer Clayton’s body had been discovered, the onlookers hadn’t seemed to grow bored with the taped-off crime scene.

  As if reading Oliver’s thoughts, Richard stepped in closer to his side. “It’s going to be like this for a while longer, I’m sure. With so much sand and the size of that pier, God knows how long it’ll take them to finish processing the scene.”

  A middle-aged officer keeping the crowds back turned as Holland and Oliver approached the tape.

  Holland produced his credentials, spoke a few words to the officer while jerking his chin
in Oliver’s direction.

  Oliver nodded to the officer, ducking beneath the yellow tape the officer lifted for him and then held up a hand, indicating he wanted to go down alone.

  Holland didn’t attempt to follow, nor did Oliver expect him to. He’d worked with the man long enough in the past to know that Richard understood his particular profiling methods.

  Oliver didn’t bother to search the sugary white beach sand around the pier. He wouldn’t find anything there. Besides, the local police department was still crawling through the scene with the precision of ants erecting a mound.

  With so much sand in the vicinity, they were forced to sift through it, inch by inch.

  Shutting out everything around him, Oliver’s mind slipped into profiler mode. His vision grew tunneled and his senses became heightened. Sounds from the crashing waves of the Gulf faded to the background, along with the murmuring of voices surrounding the crime scene.

  The bright noonday sun turned into a silvery moon in Oliver’s mind, casting shadows along the dunes and sending the long, giant pier plummeting into darkness.

  Oliver’s head swiveled to the right as he imagined the lights along the rails of the pier coming on at sunset.

  His gaze traveled to the local restaurant sitting a short distance up the beach. Music spilled out from the open deck to be swept away on the warm moonlit breeze.

  The lights shone brightly through the fog hovering over the Gulf, illuminating the dunes between the deck of the restaurant and the pier.

  Smiling faces of tourists moved through his mind, their laughter and friendly banter growing in volume in order to be heard over the music thumping in the background.

  No one from that deck would likely notice a lone figure making their way beneath the pier.

  His gaze swept to the left, to a souvenir shop that probably closed their doors at five o’clock sharp on the weekdays. No danger of being seen from there.