“I don’t have time for games, Quinn.”
“No games. Look, you said Anne Banks knew the killer. If he’s after someone who knows him, he’s not going to get caught in action. Meaning, he’s not going to show up if he thinks a cop might recognize him.”
“Makes sense.” He sat on the edge of the table and assessed her. She pulled out one of the chairs and sat down, giving him the physical upper hand, but she had been in charge since they walked into this room—and he didn’t realize it.
Yeah, Matt Costa was going to be fun.
“Maybe he’s just playing around,” she said. “Waiting for his true target to be available, or to throw off the investigation.”
“So he kills Anne because she slighted him, but killed a couple more people so she wouldn’t seem like she was a specific target?”
“Exactly,” Kara said. “And he may have other specific targets, and everyone else is just window dressing.”
“You might be onto something,” Matt said. “I’ll run it by Catherine.”
“You do that.” She got up. “In the meantime, I gotta go give a statement on the thief and then convince Maddox to quash my name.” She smiled and handed Matt back his wallet. “You were too easy.”
Matt took his wallet, looking both surprised and angry, but also impressed. “You stole my wallet?”
“You gave me shit because you thought I’d bailed on you—I was just having fun. Don’t take it personally. I’ve been picking pockets since I was a little kid.”
Matt stared at Kara as she walked out of the conference room. He looked down at his wallet, then flipped through it to make sure everything was still there. Nothing appeared to be missing.
Well, damn. He probably walked right into that. But he was tired and frustrated, and he hoped that the press conference would save a life, but feared the killer was ten steps ahead of them.
He took a deep breath, then stuffed his wallet back into his pocket. Closed his eyes and tried to picture when Quinn had pulled it. He’d opened the door to the conference room and let her enter first. That was the only time they brushed against each other. He hadn’t even felt her extract his wallet, but that was the only time she could have done it.
Yes, he was impressed. But if she did it again, he’d cuff her. Not for long, but long enough to show her who was in charge, and that this wasn’t a game.
Detective Kara Quinn was like no one he’d met before. He didn’t know whether that was good—and would help him solve this case—or if he should just cut her loose.
20
Spokane
4:40 p.m.
He stared at the cop standing behind the podium. He didn’t hear anything the FBI agent was saying, all he saw was him.
The man who had destroyed his father.
The man who had taken everything from him. Everything.
He took a deep breath and realized the FBI guy was saying something important, and he needed to listen and focus. He stopped the recording, pressed Rewind, and started from the beginning. Nothing he didn’t already know. Until the federal agent spoke.
He closed his eyes so he could pay attention to his words.
Okay, he knew they’d connected the murders—he’d read the articles out of Missoula, but they hadn’t gotten very far and everything died down after a few weeks. There was one local article on the anniversary of the cop’s death and no new information.
You knew this day would come.
He wasn’t done. He hadn’t finished his mission. How much did they really know? How much did they have?
They don’t have anything. You’re not stupid. You’ve covered all your tracks. Stick with the plan. It has served you well for years. It’s still the perfect plan.
He breathed deeply, controlled the fear that crept up. The fear that he had made a mistake.
He hadn’t made a mistake. He needed to focus. There was more here, more for him to do!
Tonight, late tonight, he would kill again. That kill would calm him down.
He picked up his knife and flipped it in the air. Caught it. Flipped it; caught it. A dozen times and he was calm.
Why are the feds here so fast?
Damn, he missed what the agent—Costa, his name was—said. He rewound the news report a third time and listened. Focused.
Weak? He called me weak?
He frowned. He wasn’t weak. He lifted weights nearly every day. He ran regularly. He was strong—very strong. How dare the FBI call him weak.
You are a coward. You’re a coward because you never stood up to your old man. You never told him to go to hell. You did what he told you because you were scared. Weak. Just like he always said.
No. He wasn’t weak. He didn’t give in to the destruction of alcohol. He didn’t lose his job, lose his house, lose everything!
“You’re an idiot, and I’m glad your mother is dead so she can’t see what a weak, sniveling brat you’ve become. She’s rolling over in her grave right now, watching you cry like a fucking baby.”
He shook his head, trying to get his father’s voice out of his head. What he said wasn’t true. It fucking wasn’t true!
He kicked the coffee table and it toppled over, spilling his soda and chips everywhere. Dammit, it’s all that FBI agent’s fault.
His jaw clenched and he shut off the TV. He couldn’t watch anymore, not now. He would later—when he was calm again. He paced the length of the house. Back and forth. Thinking.
It didn’t seem like the police knew anything. So what if they found the knife? That meant shit. It had been sitting in the bottom of the lake for two days. He’d worn gloves. And even if they managed to get prints or DNA or anything else, it wouldn’t matter. He wasn’t in the system. He’d never been arrested.
He’d just have to be very, very careful never to put himself in a position where someone might get his prints or DNA.
Back and forth, up and down the hall.
Everything was fine. It was all fine. He was careful, very careful.
What if that principal didn’t show up? What if he listened to the news? What if he ran away? Who would be the coward then?
The idea that he couldn’t finish what he started made him itch. He would finish.
Ogdenburg was next. He was at the top of the list but there were two other backups if Ogdenburg fell through. It wasn’t like tomorrow’s kill was essential It was a placeholder.
Sure, it wouldn’t be as easy to go after his backups, but he was up to the challenge. He had notes on all of them. Ogdenburg was first, but if he ran away, he would go to the next. Then the next.
He had a plan. That’s why he always had a backup plan, because something might happen he couldn’t control.
He stopped pacing and stared at the blank television.
What if you can’t get to any of them? What if they all run and hide?
Why borrow trouble? His aunt used to say that all the time.
Why borrow trouble, honey? Don’t worry about what-might-be; focus on what is.
He breathed deeply. In. Out. Calm. Peaceful. Walked back down the hall. Then back to the television. Two, three, four times.
Better.
If Ogdenburg wasn’t at his house tonight, then he would move on to Plan B. If Plan B wasn’t home, he’d go to Plan C. Plan C was a bit more trouble. Plan C had a family and didn’t live in Liberty Lake. He would have to wait until C was alone, which would be more difficult on a Saturday. He’d have twenty-four hours, though. He would find a way. He always found a way.
He realized he was pacing again, that his agitation had grown as he contemplated everything that could go wrong on March 6. This was no good. If he didn’t get his head in the game, he would make a mistake. And he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes when he was so damn close to finishing what he started.
He had to get out of this
house, just run, like he’d done after his old man went to jail. Run to get away from his well-meaning aunt, who had no clue what the real world was like. Run to clear his head. Empty the pain, the defeat, the fear. In the end, all he felt was cold anger. Cold. Deliberate. Purposeful anger.
* * *
An hour later he was back at the house, hot, invigorated, the demons that had been fighting for attention, suppressed. The anger was back, and that was what he could control.
He’d always been able to control his rage. It was the fear—the fear of failure—that made him weak.
He showered, made a sandwich, ate, and watched the recording of the news again. This time calmly, with a clear head. This time with focus.
The FBI agent had sent out a warning to everyone who worked in education. That annoyed him, but he had his contingencies. It was okay.
It would be okay.
He’d never had to use one of his backups before; he didn’t expect to now. But if he did, it would be okay. That’s why he planned things out.
So what if someone tried to stop him? That almost made it more fun.
He looked at the clock. Seven p.m. He wanted to leave now, but he had five hours. Five hours before he could kill.
But it wouldn’t hurt to follow up on his contingency plans. Make sure that everything was in place, should he need it.
He picked up his knife; stared at it. Balanced it on the back of his hand. Three fingers. Two fingers. One.
The calmness returned; he was at peace. He carved three marks into the table.
One for his mother.
One for his father.
One for him.
21
Spokane
7:20 p.m.
Anne Banks had worked exclusively in the emergency room of Spokane General for seven years. The first four were as a trauma nurse, the last three as a supervisor and head of triage. Most of the staff Matt spoke to hadn’t been there long enough to remember Anne, but he talked to one surgeon who remembered Banks very well. She’d been smart, competent and well respected.
Human Resources wasn’t open—it was after seven on a Friday night, and they wouldn’t be in until Monday. But after an hour of running around and talking to half a dozen people who couldn’t get him anything, one administrator finally promised to contact the head of HR and have staff come in personally first thing Saturday morning to pull all of Anne Banks’s employment records. If there had been any complaints against her from staff or patients, they’d share—provided that Matt produced a warrant.
“I’ll pull everything together,” the administrator said, “but HIPAA laws are serious. I need a warrant before I can turn them over to you.”
That was all they could do at that point. Driving back to the hotel, Matt stared into the darkness, frustrated. Tony was working on the warrant. It shouldn’t be taking this long—but it was three hours later on the East Coast, meaning ten at night. Matt hoped he had the warrant in hand first thing in the morning.
Michael Harris was right—Matt needed downtime. He was on overdrive but nothing good would happen if he had no sleep. He’d taken four hours each night, but two nights and a cross-country flight had taken its toll. It was the night of March 5 and Matt felt helpless. They’d done everything they could to warn educators, but in Matt’s experience, most people didn’t take warnings seriously. They would think, “Oh, that couldn’t happen to me.”
What more could they do?
¿A dónde diablos vamos desde aquí?
Where the hell do we go from here?
He called Andy Knolls. It took the cop several rings to answer.
“Knolls.”
“Andy, it’s Costa.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Teachers. Administrators. Do we have the list? Have you started calling them? Particularly those who live or work in Liberty Lake.”
Silence.
“You there? Did I lose you?”
“I’m here. We’re working on the list. It’s not comprehensive because we’re dealing with multiple school districts, plus the university, but we’re close.”
“It’s after seven. He could kill in five hours. I want to stop it. Send me names, numbers—my people will work on this, too.”
“Abigail in my office is taking the lead. She has a dozen volunteers working out of Liberty Lake PD and estimates they’ll be done with the calls by ten-thirty.”
“Oh. That’s good.” But by Andy’s initial tone, Matt was worried that they didn’t have the resources.
“Anyone we don’t reach, we’ll make a house call. Then follow up again with everyone in the morning.”
“Okay. You have it under control then. Thanks.”
“Is everything okay, Matt?” Andy asked.
Did he really sound that lost? Maybe he was. With every passing moment, he felt like they were losing ground. Even though they had gained so much intel in just two days, they didn’t have the killer in custody. They didn’t even have his name. Matt didn’t want to see another victim. He didn’t want to talk to another grieving family.
“Yeah. I’m just making sure we’re doing everything we can short of putting every teacher in protective custody.” Matt could just see his boss’s head explode at the thought of the FBI housing thousands of potential victims just to keep them off the killer’s radar. “If we can stop him this time, he’ll screw up. I’m certain of it.”
“I hope you’re right. I’ll call you if we learn anything.”
“Thanks. And if you need my help, call. Anytime—day, night, I don’t care.”
“I figured that.”
Matt ended the call and felt marginally relieved. Andy Knolls was a good cop, but he was still a small town cop. Knowing that he had jumped on Matt’s suggestion to get the phone lists told Matt that they had a chance. They might just stop the Triple Killer now. Tonight.
Still, there was so much they didn’t know. How did Anne Banks end up on this killer’s radar? Every sign, every interview, pointed to Anne being a good person, a respected nurse, a loving mother, a desired wife. She had friends and family, a normal life. Did it go back to her childhood? Her home life? Her best friend said she was estranged from her parents. Didn’t have a good relationship with them. Was there a sibling? Something criminal in her family? And what did these three cities have in common, if anything? Did the cities mean something to the killer—or was it because specific people lived in these cities?
Anne was the first of many, which told Matt that the killer had an agenda. Revenge. The kill itself—violent but efficient. He didn’t play with his victims, he didn’t torture them, but the murder itself was brutal and bloody.
There were easier ways to kill someone.
But the killer chose a knife.
The killer chose the method.
Kill—the first, fatal slice.
Mark—the three horizontal slashes.
Gloat.
Watch the investigation from afar.
Relish his superiority.
His intelligence.
Seven dead and he hadn’t been caught.
He would bask in that fact, Matt thought, no matter what Matt had said to the press today—and to the killer he hoped was listening.
Maybe taunting him had been the wrong move.
But there was no going back now.
22
Spokane
8:30 p.m.
Matt walked into the war room to touch base with Ryder, when all he wanted was a shower, a double shot of Scotch, and a good night’s sleep. He’d settle for four hours, uninterrupted, but hoped for six. He needed a clear head in the morning and already planned to be up before dawn.
But before he did anything, he wanted to make sure again that Andy’s people had reached every teacher and administrator in Liberty Lake.
He was su
rprised to find Kara, Michael and Ryder in room 310 eating pizza and drinking beer. Well, Ryder wasn’t drinking beer—he was drinking bottled fizzy water or some such thing.
“Eat,” Michael told Matt.
He was starving, and there was more than enough. He grabbed two slices and sat down. Ryder looked nervous that he’d been caught relaxing.
“Do you need something, sir?” Ryder asked.
“We’ve done everything we can, Ryder. Andy Knolls and his staff are personally reaching out to every educator who works or lives in Liberty Lake. He expects to be done by ten-thirty. If we can just keep them safe for the next twenty-four hours, we’ll go a long way into screwing with the Triple Killer’s head.”
“And get him to fuck up,” Kara said. “I like the plan.”
Matt did... And didn’t. The unpredictability could put more people at risk, yet it might be the only way they could stop the killer. “For my team, we’ll be starting early in the morning, so eat and drink and get a good night’s sleep.”
“As much as we can in six hours,” Michael said.
“I’m sure your SEAL training prepared you for times like this.”
“Yes, sir, it did.”
Matt narrowed his eyes at Michael, who grinned. Matt almost laughed. He needed this. Just an hour to decompress.
“You talk to Andy?” Kara said. “He okay?”
“Yes, why wouldn’t he be?”
“Well, I may have created a problem for him with his fiancée, and he wasn’t really happy with me. Andy brought me over to her sandwich shop tonight—I had to go back to Liberty Lake to pick up my car after the press conference—and she said something about how she was worried about him getting shot, and I said she didn’t need to worry because our killer prefers knives. My joke didn’t go over too well.”
Michael laughed, though Matt didn’t see the humor. Maybe that’s why Andy had sounded off when he was talking to him earlier.
Michael said, “Quinn was telling us how Maddox arrested her when she was a teenager, then convinced her she’d make a better cop than criminal.”
The Third to Die Page 17
