Catherine flipped through her notes, thinking she might see something relevant, but she was wrong. One of the first victims lived in a Portland suburb, but was killed within the Portland city limits, on the banks of the Columbia River. Two of the Missoula victims lived outside of the city limits but worked within the city—and their bodies were found within the city.
Did the killer want the victims to die within the particular city limits for a reason, or was it a mere matter of convenience?
Federal law enforcement was pulled in too late to stop the murder of the sixth victim, a cop. And because the killer disappeared for three years, the case had grown cold, each individual jurisdiction trying to follow leads that dried up quickly. The FBI had kept the case active longer, had ultimately connected the first victim Anne Banks with the others because of the slash marks on her chest—but still, more dead ends. As new cases piled high, this case went to the bottom of the stack.
Until now.
She stared at the information in front of her. The names of the victims. Their photos. Their jobs. It bothered her that the third victim and the sixth victim were both off-duty cops. That had to mean something. In Catherine’s work, coincidences were rare.
So did the killer choose his victims based on their profession? Was that his pattern? Possible, but then the first victim, Anne Banks, was an outlier. She wasn’t a nurse; she was a stay-at-home mother. The only one of the seven who didn’t have outside employment. And the only one with young children. Was this first victim personal? Did the killer know her? Did she have any connection to medicine or education in her background? Nothing indicated this in her file. If she had a connection to law enforcement, that would have come out during the investigation. Still, Catherine made a note to confirm.
Three years ago, Catherine’s focus had been on putting together the profile, but it was incomplete, and she blamed herself—as well as local law enforcement that hadn’t wanted federal involvement and hadn’t provided her with all the information she needed to better understand this killer and his methodology. Yet, she couldn’t blame others. Her workload had been heavy, there was little forensic evidence, and not everyone involved in the investigation believed that the Portland murders were connected to the Missoula murders.
Matt was right once again—being on the ground working a case was far more effective than sitting behind a desk.
Yet, they had been focused then on connecting the victims, and they’d gone back five years to try and figure out if one or more of the victims had known each other. They hadn’t found a connection.
She sent Matt a quick email.
Matt,
We need more background on Anne Banks, the first victim. What did she do before she had kids, before her marriage? Where is she from originally? Could she have been a former teacher? Nurse? Cop? She’s the outlier. We need to find out why.
Catherine
The first crime scene and the first victim’s background always yielded more clues over time—things that might have been overlooked the first time through, things noticed with the benefit of hindsight, that might connect that victim to the subsequent victims.
The only other obvious pattern besides the method of death was the killer’s obsession with the number three. While three was important, Catherine believed that it was the date—March 3—that had personal significance for the killer.
That was Catherine’s original focus when she first caught the case—the date and the number three. She’d looked at every possible religious motivation—like the Holy Trinity, for example. She looked at the number not only in the Bible, but in other religions, too, and in triangles and triangulation theories. They had mapped out the victims’ houses and where they were last seen and where their bodies were found, to see if there was another pattern to emerge when putting three points together—nothing. They looked into the date itself—March 3—and any significance for any of the victims. None were born on March 3. Of those married, none were married on March 3. Of those who had children, none had children born on March 3. No major life events or tragedies occurred on March 3 for the victims that might tie them together or create a pattern.
Catherine knew the number and date were important to the killer, but why. Something must have happened to the killer on March 3—3/3—that led to his obsession with the number three.
Until she figured out how and why the Triple Killer targeted his victims, they’d never solve this case, that is unless he was caught red-handed, which would be unlikely considering how well he planned. She had initially suspected he’d moved from Portland to Missoula primarily because they were different states and it would take the police longer to connect the murders, giving him time to execute his plan then disappear. And because the FBI had been called in so late, that is exactly what happened. Now, Liberty Lake. A very small town near a small city in yet a third state. Were the locations important to him? Did he pick them for a specific reason?
There wasn’t one witness who had come forward who had seen anyone or anything suspicious near where any of the victims had been kidnapped. Matt’s new information that the killer had cleaned up in the freezing water, disposing of his knife and the clothing, told Catherine that the murderer did the same thing at the previous crime scenes—he was careful to destroy evidence.
She had to look at not only each case individually, but at all the cases together in different ways. Because a pattern was there—maybe not one she could see yet, beyond the number three—but a pattern that made sense to the killer. She just had to find it, crack it. She had to think like he did, and she would find him.
9
Spokane
3:30 p.m. PT
He itched to kill, but he couldn’t. He had to wait until Saturday. Had to be patient. He just had to. Or he would ruin the plan.
He was antsy, so stayed inside all day and worked. Routine computer programming was the perfect ritual to keep him from thinking too much about his upcoming plans. He worked remotely, could work from anywhere. He only had to visit the main office once a month for staff meetings, and the occasional project meeting—the last was in February, and he had two weeks before the next.
Because he was so good—so damn smart—he could do his work in a fraction of the time his employer believed it could be done. He was paid for a full-time job, but could work an hour or two a day and get the job finished on time—and better than anyone else.
The small, nondescript house he had rented in Spokane had been perfect for the past month. He could work here, hide here, plan here... It was centrally located, making it easy to track his prey. Best, it was near the college, so no one thought twice about someone they didn’t know in the neighborhood.
But when he was done with his work, the walls felt closer, the lights darker, the carpet dingier. He remembered why he was here. To finish what he started. He was so very close...
So close.
But he’d planned it methodically to minimize the risk of being caught. If he rushed, he’d make a mistake. He would not go to prison like his father. He would not be in a cage like an animal. Feral, miserable, trapped.
You haven’t made a mistake yet; you won’t make a mistake now.
His fists clenched and unclenched. He stared at his hands, willed them to stop. They did. Of course they did—he was in control.
Complete control.
He knew why he was upset—the nurse’s body had been found faster than he’d expected. He thought it would take a day or two, which is why he picked the edge of the lake where it might be harder to see because of the density of the trees. But some jogger had found the body only hours after he had struck, according to news reports—news that he devoured like the butterscotch candies he and his aunt loved.
He missed the sweet, tingling anticipation he felt waiting for the police to find the body. He savored the information, gloated at his brilliance. He watched the police from afar�
��via the internet, through the news, through press conferences—to learn whether there was a witness, if they found evidence, if he had made a mistake. And now that was gone. They’d found the body and he had to be extra careful before his next kill.
So far he’d been perfect. No mistakes. No flaws. The police never even made the connection between his victims in Portland. Then it took them too long in Missoula before suggesting there might be a “serial murderer.” Only one television newscast and two newspaper articles reported on it, then nothing. He waited. Searched archives. They found nothing because he’d left nothing. The case turned cold, and he breathed easier.
Then he picked up his plan. To track his target and know when and where to come in for the kill.
He was smart. Careful. Masterful.
His precision calmed him down. Reassured him enough that he stayed put. He wouldn’t leave early; he didn’t need to kill early. He could wait. He had taught himself patience.
Still, he went to his toolbox. Slipped on gloves and retrieved one of his many knives.
He sat back down at the kitchen table and balanced the knife on the back of his hand. Three fingers. Two fingers. One finger. It teetered, then slowed, then stopped. It was a perfect knife. Simple, inexpensive, but balanced and sharp.
His father tossed the knife in the air. It spun around and he caught the wood grip midair. He smiled at his son.
“Will you teach me to do that, Dad?”
“You shouldn’t be playing with knives, sweetheart,” his mother said from the kitchen, where she was baking cookies. “They’re not toys. They’re tools with a purpose.”
Tools with a purpose.
He tossed the knife in the air and caught it, just like his father had done so many times when he was a child. When his father was sober, he could catch it perfectly each and every time.
When he was drunk, he failed. His father had the scars to prove it.
Rage filled his veins, memories of the past, the light and the dark, the good and the very, very bad. He tossed the knife in the air, caught it. Over and over, until his calm returned. Until he could breathe easier.
He would stick to the plan. The plan, the pattern, had never failed him. It wouldn’t fail him now.
He couldn’t risk leaving the house to track his next pawn. He’d followed that victim regularly since February 1, but he’d been researching him for far longer. The victim had no planned vacations until June. No girlfriend. The only standing activity was Sunday brunch with his family.
He would be dead long before brunch.
The killer could scarcely wait. After this death, he had only one more. The most important, most deserving victim on his list.
He needed to finish the cycle, and feel the warm, guilty blood coating his hands. To watch the bastard’s life end. Then justice would be done.
10
Liberty Lake
3:45 p.m.
Kara answered her cell phone and said, “You told me I was persona non grata for two weeks, and yet you call after only four days? I miss you, too.”
“I told you to take a vacation. A real vacation. It was an order, Kara. And now I hear you’re a witness to murder? Can’t you just take a break for once?”
He was angry—as if she’d hunted down a dead body for fun and games.
“You make it sound as if I killed someone.”
“Dammit, Kara, this was meant as a compromise. You take two weeks with your grandmother, and I don’t send you back to the department shrink.”
She bristled, but kept her voice light and airy. “Lex, do you know how many murders are committed in Liberty Lake, Washington? Less than one a decade. It’s a sleepy little town outside Spokane. I wasn’t looking for trouble. I was running and found a body. Should I have jogged on by? Ignored her?”
“Don’t be a bitch.”
“I was being sarcastic. But I’ll take bitch, if you prefer.”
Lex sighed. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
“Do nothing. I promise, I won’t be back to work until March 15.”
“The feds are calling about you. Checking your credentials, verifying your identity.”
“Well, yeah. I’m a witness, I’d expect them to follow up.” Was she supposed to lie about being a cop? Like that would have gone over well with the feds.
“I had the feeling that they’re digging around more than they should. I called them back before they started making a stink. The kid I talked to—something Kim—he said they’re part of an FBI mobile response team, whatever the hell that means, and are tracking a serial killer. Not only are you a witness, but a serial killer? Really? Why can’t you binge watch Breaking Bad or The Wire to get your fix of violence?”
“I’m not looking for trouble.”
He actually laughed at her. “I’ve known you since the academy, sweetheart. You make it very easy for trouble to find you.”
Now she was pissed. “Look, Sergeant, I’m taking the time off you ordered me to take, and if the feds want my help, they’ll ask. If they don’t, they won’t. I’m not going to listen to you bitch and complain about what I’m doing or not doing on my fucking vacation. I’m the best fucking detective on your squad, and you fucking damn well know it.”
“Kara—”
“Are you going to order me to steer clear of the investigation? To sit on my ass watching Walter White run circles around cops and criminals alike? Or maybe I’ll binge watch SpongeBob and really let my mind and body go to shit.”
“You just don’t listen.”
“I listen, Lex.”
“You need time to process what happened on your last assignment. I would not be a friend or a boss if I didn’t recognize that that case got to you.”
“They all get to me because I deal with the scum of the earth. But we shut down the sweatshop, and I’m not losing any sleep over shooting anyone. It was justified, you know it, and I already spoke to Internal Affairs and a shrink and was cleared. This two weeks is bullshit, but I’ve taken it, haven’t I?”
“Kara—”
She didn’t want to continue this conversation; she didn’t want to take a lecture from her boss. Right. Her boss. She almost snorted. Technically Lex was her boss, but they’d also been friends for years. She trusted him, as much as she trusted anyone, but one of the problems was that he knew almost everything about her. He could push and pull her strings to make her explode or do anything he wanted. “What are you telling the feds?”
“I can’t tell them much of anything because most of your cases are sealed, but I had to give them something because they kept calling, and the last thing I need is someone from our local FBI office waltzing in asking about you. You didn’t make any friends with the feds down here.”
“Because they’re all tight-ass bastards who have no idea what the real world is like.”
Lex had originally recruited her into Special Operations right out of the police academy for reasons she didn’t fully understand; she’d been working undercover on and off—mostly on—for nearly twelve years. He only forced her to take a vacation now because she’d lost her informant, and, yeah, it had gotten to her. Finding Sunny’s body? Knowing she’d been tortured and murdered? Yeah, it had fucked with her head. She’d roughed up a suspect and killed another—justified—it was the cost of doing business catching scumbags no other cop could touch.
She didn’t need a break. She needed to get even. And Lex took that from her.
“You know I have your back, Kara. Just tread carefully.”
“It wouldn’t be an issue if you’d just let me come back.”
“I can’t. Not until the fifteenth.”
“You mean you won’t.”
He sighed. “You’re impossible.”
“Do you have a case for me? I can start research. Come up with a background, a cover. Give me something to do whi
le I’m twiddling my thumbs up here.”
“Kara—when you return you’re going into the pool.”
“Hell, no.”
“It’s not my call. It comes from on high.”
“That’s fucked.”
“It won’t be forever.”
“How long? Weeks? Months?”
“I don’t know.”
“Goodbye.” She ended the call before she really did something that would get her in trouble, and resisted the urge to throw her phone across the room.
She was the best undercover detective they had, but they were putting her in the detective pool because why? She was effective? No. Because of goddamn office politics.
She walked downstairs and found her grandmother Em in the kitchen making soup.
* * *
Emily Dorsey had a greenhouse out back where she grew her own herbs and vegetables along with marijuana. Em was an old hippie, and Kara loved her for it—even if she was a bit vacuous and Kara had to turn her back on her seventy-year-old grandmother’s pot smoking. Legal or not, Kara didn’t approve. Fortunately, Em understood that Kara was a cop and at least tried to hide her habit when Kara visited.
Em’s long, mostly gray-blond hair was braided down her back and her bright blue eyes smiled when she saw Kara.
“Chicken noodle soup,” she said.
“I’m not sick.”
“It’s not just for illnesses anymore. You’ve been antsy since you arrived.”
“I told you, mandatory vacation. Though the plus is that I get to see you. You feeling okay? Maybe you shouldn’t be cooking.”
“I’ve told you a hundred times, Kara, I’m fine. The doctor changed my prescription and I’m feeling a million times better.”
Em didn’t like taking prescription drugs, but her vertigo had gotten worse with age. Kara was all for eating healthy and natural remedies if they worked, but sometimes, modern medicine was the only answer to what ailed you.
The Third to Die Page 7
