“Not a textbook definition,” Brandon started, “but serial killers usually kill over a span of time. They often have a signature—something that makes them unique, though not always. They typically adhere to a murder method—then again, not always.”
Amanda caught Becky’s eye, and they smirked at each other.
“There’s obviously a little flexibility with the definition.” Becky attributed finger quotes to the last word and chuckled.
“Yeah,” Brandon admitted, “but normally more than three victims. Many of them have a type too, so you’ll notice similarities in victimology. Do you think you have a serial killer?”
Becky’s eyes widened at Amanda. “Do you?”
“I don’t know,” Amanda admitted, feeling defeated yet again. “What I do know is I’ve had two murders fall into my lap within twenty-four hours, and there is a connection between the victims.”
“Oh,” Brandon said.
She took in his facial expression. His mouth had tightened, and the corners angled down. Not quite a frown but smacking of one. “What?” she asked.
“Tell me some details.”
She had a bad feeling, given his grim countenance, that he was already thinking serial killer. “The first victim was a teenage girl pulled from a house fire. We still don’t know her identity.”
“Really?” This from Becky as she curled her legs beneath her and leaned against the arm of the couch.
Amanda shook her head. “And I’m still waiting on a photo I can use.”
“Were her remains badly affected?” Brandon asked.
“No. The fire was stopped before it could damage the body. She’d been strangled before the fire was started.”
“And the other murder you feel is connected?”
“A woman in her forties, killed in her home on the same street. Cause of death is not confirmed yet, but it seems she was drugged and stabbed. The second victim was the person who called nine-one-one about the fire. Her tongue had been cut out and left in her palm. We’re waiting on toxicology results, but it’s possible both victims were drugged.”
“Oh.” Brandon glanced at Becky, back to Amanda.
A second oh in about as many minutes didn’t bode well. She pressed on. “We’ve looked into the second woman’s life, but no one is standing out with motive to kill her. My partner and I—”
“Hey, do you remember Trent Stenson?” Becky interjected, posing the question to Brandon.
“Do I remember Trent? Ah, yeah. Kind of hard to forget that guy.”
Amanda wasn’t sure how to read Brandon’s reaction. Was it in favor of Trent or against?
“Tell me, is he still gung-ho?” he asked. “When he helped us with a case, he had lots of fire and zeal but lacked control. Got himself shot. Twice. Interesting how he wound up with the Prince William County PD and landed in Homicide.”
Amanda shouldn’t be surprised that Brandon knew exactly where she worked and for what department. “Interesting in what way?”
“I got the feeling he wanted to advance rank and work for a bigger police department. Looks like that’s exactly what he accomplished.”
“Yep. Living the dream.” She chuckled. “He came on as my partner back in January.”
“Huh.” Brandon took another drink of his wine, then turned serious again. “As you were saying, you have considered a serial killer?”
“We discussed the possibility, but we figured to qualify as such there would be more victims involved.”
“Could be ones you don’t know about.”
“That’s a chilling thought.”
“He could also just be getting started. I must admit I’m concerned by how fast he moved on to his next victim.”
“Yeah. I was also thinking it was disturbing that—assuming it’s the same killer for both victims—he’s demonstrated versatility.”
“He’s also shown that he’s not going to let anyone get in his way and stop him,” Brandon added. “By cutting out that woman’s tongue, it sounds to me like he’s definitely sending a message. Same with putting the house on fire with the girl inside.”
“Trent and I thought that too. Why burn her rather publicly? And does the location factor in?”
“Good questions. As for the fire, it’s often associated with cleansing and purification. The location… Well, it could be that your killer is making a statement with that too. It could also be that he’s recreating something from his own life. Besides the nine-one-one call, is there anything else that connects the victims?”
“Not that we’ve discovered. The young girl was tattooed with the mark of a sex-trafficking ring.”
Brandon’s eyes darkened. “Can you connect the second victim to that world?”
She shook her head. “Not from anything we’ve found out so far.”
Brandon pursed his lips, in obvious thought. “I don’t have a lot of information to go on here, but often killers who take out prostitutes and the like—”
“We’re talking about a sixteen-year-old girl,” Amanda snapped. She might be a little touchy, given the girl’s age—and how dare the killer proclaim himself on the same team as her? She amended her outburst with a calmer summary. “It’s not like it was her choice. She would have been manipulated and coerced into that lifestyle.”
“You and I know that, but the killer may see it differently.” Brandon’s cool demeanor in the face of the victim’s stated age surprised Amanda, but then again, he probably faced the worst murders imaginable. He went on. “There are four different types of serial killers: thrill seekers, visionaries, power or control seekers, and mission-oriented killers. It’s very early yet to determine which category your killer falls into. Given the girl’s history, though, perhaps he sees it as his duty to clean up society. He may see the world as a better place without certain types in it.”
“She was just a child.” Her heart was aching with rage and grief.
“He may have still held her accountable. Remember I’m going on the little I’m being given here, and it usually takes a lot more to build a profile. But one thing with mission-oriented serial killers is they can be easier to track down because they have a specific type. The second victim could have been killed simply because he saw her as blocking his mission. This type of killer is also rarely clinically insane. They often hold jobs and have stable and reliable lives. They are typically native to the geographical area in which they kill. They are organized and usually plan meticulously for their crimes.”
Trent might have been on to something when he’d brought up geography, but it didn’t help Amanda to think their killer was in his right mind. And there was that taunting note…
“The killer left me a message,” she said.
Brandon’s gaze flicked to Becky, then back to Amanda. Becky’s eyes were on Amanda as well, her mouth agape.
“What do you mean, a message?” he asked.
Amanda got to her feet and walked around the back of the chair, then stood there bracing herself on it. “I found a note at Lindsey’s grave.” She glanced at Becky. “It was addressed to me.”
“You never said anything to me about that.” Becky sounded almost wounded.
“I’ve been busy.” Truth was, she didn’t want to go around sharing that news with everyone—not even her best friend.
Brandon inched forward on the couch. “What did it say?”
“That we’re on the same team, and to be thankful that my angel—Lindsey—would always stay innocent.”
“Huh. He definitely wants acknowledgment and credit for his murders.”
“That thought had occurred to me.”
“This note could tell us that he lacked approval and acceptance in his own life. Possibly childhood abuse or neglect. The note could be seen as a cry for attention and approval, but don’t dismiss that there’s definitely a threat enclosed. See, as long as he considers you an ally and you’re not hindering his actions, he’s fine with you. Do you have any idea what put you on his radar to begin wi
th?”
“I have my thoughts… The first girl was branded, as I told you. I was in the local news back in January for rescuing fifteen girls from a sex trafficker. Still not sure how that puts us on the same team. I helped them. He killed one.”
“Yeah, it’s hard to know where his head’s at exactly. But it would seem apparent he justifies his actions, even sees them as necessary to achieve his end goal, whatever that turns out to be. I still say there may be some connection in his personal history that will intersect with human trafficking. Possibly just sexual abuse. And it is possible that he saw that article you mentioned, and it served as a trigger for him. He could have been drawn to you, figuring you’d understand him. Hence the note.”
Her legs buckled, but she retained her composure as far as they would see. It was one thing for her to consider that possibility and another to hear it coming back at her. But how could her doing a good thing have potentially set a psychopath on a killing spree?
“He could also idolize you in a way,” Brandon said. “But don’t miss the message that he’s giving you. He wants you to know that he can get to you.” His face went very somber. “He’s demonstrating a very volatile and fragile psyche, Amanda. You should watch your back.”
“Wow. So happy I stopped by.” She laughed stiffly, trying to make light of what Brandon had said, but her attempt fell heavy in the room. “Maybe we’re just getting ahead of ourselves. The killing could stop here.”
Brandon locked eye contact with her. “I hope so, but I don’t think it will until you stop him.”
She gripped tighter on the back of the chair, then flailed her arms. “I’m open to any suggestions. I’ve never hunted a serial killer before.”
“Well, serial killers don’t become such overnight. There are contributing factors.”
“Like childhood abuse, which you’ve mentioned.” Amanda kicked that back with a smile. She really wanted to make light of this conversation because honestly it was scaring the shit out of her. This guy had been at her daughter’s grave. He knew that he could reach Amanda there. What else did he know? Where she lived?
Becky smiled awkwardly, as if to support Amanda.
“Not always. That was just one possibility I mentioned. He could have been affected by something else during his childhood or teenage years. This could have made him feel invisible, something that greatly hurt him. He could have witnessed something or had a loved one who wounded him by becoming a prostitute, maybe even a victim of sex trafficking.”
“That would be crazy if that’s the case. These girls don’t exactly sign up for it.”
Brandon angled his head. “What we call crazy, serial killers justify in their minds. They’re not wired like the rest of us.”
“Not disputing that.” She sat back down.
“You might want to look up previous cases that involved some of the parameters from these two cases. It doesn’t have to be all of them. Say, young women who were victims of arson and/or strangulation, and so on. I could have my go-to analyst run a search in ViCAP for you.”
Amanda was familiar with the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. It was a database that housed unsolved crimes, but any searches needed to be handled through the FBI. “I’d have to get something like that approved by my sergeant.”
“If you end up deciding you want to go ahead, let me know. But you could very well find your killer by looking at closed cases too. He may have served time and recently gotten out. I would recommend getting a media ban in place. Sounds like this guy wants the spotlight, and you’d be further ahead not to shine it on him.”
At least she’d sort of done something right. She had sent Diana Wesson away in her PWC News van.
“More importantly, and I can’t stress this enough—” Brandon let those words hang for a minute, his voice sullen, before continuing “—really watch your back with this one.”
Goosebumps pricked her flesh. They were after a monster and had no idea which closet to find him in.
Twenty-Four
It was midnight, the fresh start of a new day. Nothing yet had hit the news about Fox’s murder. Probably all because Detective Steele had shut them down. He’d seen her turn that reporter away. How could she be so obtuse? His message needed to get out, and she had stopped that from happening. She had made herself his enemy, and he felt betrayed. Just like all those years ago when he’d been stung by the same emotions—the rejection, the abandonment, the utter helplessness. The invisibility. The detective would pay for what she’d done. He just had to figure out the best way to hit her. Because when he did, he wanted it to be such a blindside, she’d be spinning. That thought brought a smile to his face.
He looked down at his arm where Fox had clawed him. The skin had welted from her attack. He just hoped she hadn’t infected him with something.
He grabbed a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the medicine cabinet over the sink. It was probably expired, but it would have to do. He grabbed a tissue from his pocket and dabbed at the wound. No sting. He swiped the area, cleaning it yet again. Still feeling nothing but emotional angst. Rage, heartbreak, and confusion whirled like a tornado within him.
How could the detective turn on him like she had? Had she not received his message at the grave? Did she not appreciate how important his work was? No one ever seemed to understand him.
He caught his eyes in the mirror. They were dark and clouded, unlike his mind and soul, which were, in a lot of ways, clearer than ever.
He returned to the sitting area in his loft and logged into his laptop. He checked online again to see if anything had hit the news about Fox, and there was nothing. He balled his hands into fists. Detective Steele would pay for this. The public had a right to know about his work, and couldn’t the detective see how meaningless Fox’s death was without the message getting out?
He brought up an article on the fire, from two days before, and settled on the reporter’s name. Fraser Reyes. He should just call this Fraser guy and get him to tell the story. He could keep his anonymity, block his number, and say he was a neighbor—or even a friend of Fox’s friend. He’d seen the woman hugging the yoga mat and sobbing. She was the one who had found Fox, and she must have been close to her.
But he had to think this through. Did he want to make the call? Was there any way it could be traced back to him? But from what he understood, reporters protected their sources. It could work out blessedly.
The contact page on the newspaper’s website took him to an online form.
He’d pass. That wasn’t what he wanted.
He dug around the internet and found Fraser Reyes’s LinkedIn page. There was a phone number listed on his profile—out in the open for anyone to see.
He went into his phone’s settings and chose to hide his number. Then he entered Fraser’s digits into his phone and stared at it, his finger poised over the call button.
It was time the public knew what was going on in Prince William County and also what Fox’s so-called heroic act had brought her.
He placed the call, and it rang to voicemail. He hung up immediately. He’d try again in a few minutes. What kind of journalist wasn’t sitting by their phone, regardless of the hour?
More anger whirled through him, his leg bouncing wildly.
Now what?
He’d consider how to get even with the detective, while staying focused on his mission. Should he kill her or toy with her?
He took his laptop and went into the farmhouse. There was no sign of his mother. She must have been puttering around the place somewhere, but he was happy for the solitude right now. Though that wasn’t always the case. He used to be a people person. He preferred team sports to solitary ones. The deer hunts his father took him on were some of the most horrible days of his childhood. There was no bonding, just his father’s desire to groom his son into a skilled archer, which had failed—though he was good at the gutting and skinning of the animal.
But when it came to baseball, he was part of a team
. He became so good at the sport that he’d received a college baseball scholarship. Not that the gift had led anywhere. He was still invisible to the people who should have loved him the most. His grades suffered, and so did his game. No baseball scout wanted him.
Even if he’d taken up bronc riding like his mother had wanted, that probably wouldn’t have been enough for her to really notice him. He was invisible because of her.
He sniffled and clenched his jaw. She could do nothing wrong—even when she did. But enough of that! He was finally taking hold of the reins of his life and seizing control. No wonder his mother was proud of him now and finally paying attention.
He made himself a coffee and set his laptop on the kitchen table as he waited for it to brew. He also took out his phone and tried that journalist again.
“Hello. Reyes here.”
Fraser had answered, and the shock of it rendered him momentarily mute.
“Hello?” Fraser repeated.
“Hi.” The one word scraped from his throat.
“Who is this?”
He felt on the spot and panicked. “I know something you need to know.”
“Let’s start with names. Yours would be?”
“No names, but I think there might be a serial killer in Prince William County.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, then, “What makes you say that?” There was hesitation and trepidation in Fraser’s voice.
He tried to suppress his amusement. He didn’t want his smile to travel the line. “My friend’s friend was murdered.”
“Keep talking.”
And that’s what he did. He told the journalist probably more than he should have. He mentioned the severed tongue, but surely Fox’s friend would have noted that little touch, so it wasn’t a far stretch that she’d, in turn, tell another friend. That’s why he went with “friend” not “neighbor.”
When he’d finished with the reporter, his coffee was cold, but he couldn’t stop smiling. He retrieved his cup and sat with it at the kitchen table.
His spirit felt lighter now, and there was a grace to his steps. To think he hadn’t been too sure he could murder a person at first, but it had come so naturally to him. In fact, he wished he’d started killing sooner. But there wasn’t anything he could do about that. All he could control was the future.
Stolen Daughters Page 11
