by Whitley Gray
When they’d returned, Zach had dived into working on potential interview questions while Beck conferred with the bosses. The thought of drawing the Follower into a trap was intoxicating. If the brass said okay, then there was Unger to convince. Then the broadcast. Then the wait. Would the Follower bite, or would he cut and run?
Footsteps came down the hall toward the conference room. Defeat written on his face, Beck stepped inside and closed the door. In a flat voice he said, “It’s a go.”
“Good.” Zach tried to disguise his optimism with a serious expression.
“Two FBI guys wanted in because you’re the bait. I’m allowing them as a courtesy.”
“Thank you?”
Beck scowled. “Sarcasm isn’t helping.”
“I didn’t tell them or invite them.” Crap like that was what gave the FBI such a bad reputation with the locals.
“Lars Evans from special investigations is in charge of the sting. We’re doing a perimeter of eight when you’re at home. When you’re outside on foot, two men will keep watch in front and two behind you—out of sight.” Beck sounded pained. “You’ll have a tail when driving—a three-car trade-off. You’ll wear a mic.”
“And where will you be?”
“Out of sight. They want you alone.”
* * * *
Channel Nine had set up a cozy semiformal area for the interview. For the prefilming run-through, Unger wore a charcoal suit and red silk tie. Zach had stuck with his standard khaki dress pants.
“How is your wife?” Zach asked.
“As well as can be expected. It’s hard to come to terms.” Unger gave him a direct look. “But in your line of work, you know all about that.”
“No more contact from the suspect?”
“None. After the picture incident, I sent my wife to stay with her mother. I can’t risk…” He looked away. “I can’t risk losing her.”
“I understand.” It was almost a relief that Beck would be elsewhere tonight when the sting happened.
Unger glanced at his notes. “Let’s go through this. I’ll ask the question and give you a chance to answer. If I think there’s a natural follow-up, I’ll ask it, and we can decide whether to include it.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“Okay.” Unger cleared his throat. “We’re speaking with Special Agent Dr. Zachary Littman from the FBI’s profiling unit. Exactly what does a profiler do, Dr. Littman?”
“Mainly analyze crime-scene data for clues about the perpetrator of that crime.”
“And these are nearly all murders?”
“For the most part. All of my experience is in homicides.”
“Currently you’re in Denver assisting the police with a multiple murder, correct?”
“Yes. This case involves victims in Nebraska, as well as Colorado.” Zach crossed his legs. “We believe the person responsible is currently in Colorado.”
Unger nodded. “What can you tell me about the victims?”
That question wasn’t on the list. “There are two Nebraska victims, but I can’t talk about them by name, pending notification of family.” True. There were no known next of kin to notify for Hightower or Perny. “The Colorado victim was a young woman named India Wexler. She was a graduate student who lived locally in Sunnyside.”
“What features of the murders made you conclude they’re linked?”
“Aspects of these homicides are unique and consistent, suggesting one unsub. I’m not at liberty to share the particulars, as this is an active investigation.” Zach took a breath. Here comes the first bread crumb. “Based on an evaluation of the scenes, we believe he’s disorganized—not able to plan.”
“What else have you deduced about the killer?”
Bread crumb number two. “The killer appears to be sloppy, as if he doesn’t know what he’s doing. There’s no sign of sexual assault, which brings up the possibility of impotence.”
“Does he have a particular signature?”
Another freestyle question. “I can’t get into that.”
Unger’s brows came together. “Why not?”
“Because it crosses into police evidence, and we’re not sharing that with the public.”
“Can you share with me?”
Zach smiled. “Afraid not. You may be a journalist, Mr. Unger, but to the police you’re still the public.”
He smirked. “Scared I’d screw up the case?”
“Let’s not take the chance.”
“Of course not.” He sifted pages. “Is there a particular victim type for this killer?”
“No. There have been male and female victims.”
“Is that unusual?”
“It’s less common, but not unheard-of. Most serial victims are women. Over eighty percent of serial cases have exclusively female victims. In this instance, the victims are all white. This killer is likely white, male, and between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five.”
“Did he kill Annika?”
Zach’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
Unger’s face darkened. “Did this asshole kill my little girl?”
“There’s ample evidence the man Detective Stryker told you about was responsible. If you have questions, I suggest you talk to him.” Zach shook his head. “Are you going to be able to do this interview, Mr. Unger? You know why we want it and what kinds of questions need to be asked. It’s vital we get it right. We feel you’re the best choice because the killer contacted you before, but if you can’t manage it—”
“I’m managing just fine.” Unger looked like an angry bull. “And I will get it right, Littman.”
Zach recognized the grief plaguing the ex-linebacker. It must be hell for him to discuss a subject that hit so close to his heart. “Okay. Then I need you to focus on the Follower.”
The rest of the interview came off without a hitch. The filmed version would consist of a fifteen-minute piece uninterrupted by commercials. Channel Nine planned to run it in the middle of the local evening news—maximum viewership, the station manager said as he shook hands with Zach.
Zach hoped it broke something loose.
* * * *
Beyond the area populated with lights and cameras, Beck watched as Zach spoke privately to Unger. Zach had done a good job, and Unger had seemed to find his composure between the practice run and recording the real thing.
Zach lifted a hand in farewell to Unger and headed toward Beck. As he picked his way through the cables on the floor, Zach grinned. “Hey.”
“How’d it go?”
“Good enough, I think. Now we wait until five forty-five.”
Beck looked at his watch. “We’ve got a couple of hours.”
“Good.” Zach walked toward the exit. “Because I need to stop by the house.”
“Why? The plan is for you to stay there tonight on your own.” Even if that’s not what you usually do.
“I know. But they don’t want me moving the digital recorder around. I’d like to shower and change before they put it on my shirt. Maybe we can have an early dinner while we’re there.”
Maybe we can have a heart-to-heart while we’re there. “It’s not too late to change your mind. Just say the word, and I’ll pull the plug.”
Zach gave him an odd look. “I’m not backing out.”
Why did he have to be so bullheaded? They took an elevator down to the garage. The shiny doors looked like the tables in the morgue. “This guy is a freak. You’ve seen his work.”
“All the more reason to stop him. I’ll be fine. Half of the force will be there if anything happens.”
“I won’t be there.”
“Not on the premises, but close.” The doors opened to the exhaust fumes and echoes. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Boxes. How could something so ordinary have such a huge implication? While Zach showered, Beck walked around the house and counted them, trailed by the purring cat. Twenty-three. Twenty-three exhibits of temporary residency.
He stared out the bedroom window. An empty yard with one lawn chair; there hadn’t been anyone to sit with so far. Maybe there never would be. His insides tangled into an achy knot.
It felt like he’d already lost Zach. Maybe it wasn’t in the cards for Beck to have a permanent relationship—
“Everything okay?”
Beck turned, and his heart gave a happy gallop. Zach stood there in a towel, water beading on his chest and belly: strong, beautiful, and all Beck’s. But maybe not for much longer. What if something happened? The thought made his gut burn with the acid of desperation. He wrapped his arms around Zach, letting the dampness and warmth soak in and breathing the scent of citrusy soap.
“Beck?” There was a grin in the voice.
Beck pulled them together more tightly. Zach drew away, and his smile faded.
“Hey. It’s going to be fine.”
“Sure.” Beck stepped away. He’d been shot on one of those “it’s going to be fine” types of jobs.
Looking sheepish, Zach asked, “Can you point me toward socks?”
Why couldn’t Zach remember which carton held what? Beck headed for a container. As he dug for socks, all the melancholy and stress overflowed. “This is ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous?”
Rip off the Band-Aid. “We’ve been together since last fall, and your stuff has been sitting here in boxes for months. You’ve never unpacked.”
“I’ve hardly been here, Beck.” Zach sounded a bit impatient. “You act like I’ve got one foot out the door.”
“You’ve never had both feet in the door.” Beck gestured at the cartons. “The house is full of boxes. It feels like you’re moving out, not in.”
“Just because I haven’t unpacked everything—”
“That’s just it,” Beck said softly. “You haven’t unpacked anything.”
“And you think that means I’m not taking this seriously? That I’m going to run from you?”
Beck swallowed. “Are you?”
“No.” Zach shook his head. He went to his duffel bag, pulled out briefs, and slid them on. “That’s not it at all.”
“Then what is it? You don’t want to live together?”
“Beck, now’s not the time.”
No denial. No Of course I want to live with you. Beck’s heart tore a little bit more. “Is that it? You don’t want to live together?”
“I can’t—” Everything Beck had fought to keep inside must have been written all over his face, because Zach looked stunned. Hurriedly he said, “Can we discuss this tomorrow? Please?”
“No. It’s a simple question. Do you want to live with me?”
“That’s not the problem. It’s…”
Oh God. Something worse? Someone else? Beck sank onto the end of the bed. “It’s what?”
Zach sat down beside him and dropped his head into his hands. “I don’t think I can do this. It feels like…like I’m giving up.”
Not sounding good. Giving up someone else? Giving up me? That humiliating burn started in Beck’s eyes. “What does that mean?”
“I’m giving up my job, my friends, my house… It’s a huge adjustment, and I don’t know if I can do it.”
Getting kicked in the gut would have hurt less. Beck hadn’t had to give up those things—or anything, really. He swallowed against the emotion tightening his throat. “What can I do?”
“Don’t get me wrong.” Zach’s eyes were very blue, very sincere. “I made the decision to make those changes. But now I’m not so sure it’s the right decision.”
Another arrow straight to the heart. “You don’t want to be with me?”
“Of course I do.” Zach put his arm around Beck’s shoulders. That chummy little gesture didn’t give Beck much hope. “It’s not a matter of you and me.”
“Then…what?”
“I’ve changed almost everything about my life, and I don’t feel in control.” Zach blew out a frustrated breath. “It’s like trying to steer a speeding car. I don’t even know where half my stuff is in these boxes, let alone where I would put it in this house.”
“You could put it with my stuff,” Beck said. At least his voice sounded more steady than pathetic. “If you don’t like the house, we can live somewhere else—”
“Beck. You’re not hearing me. It’s not the house. It’s the upheaval.” Zach sighed. “I was planning to discuss this with you tomorrow, but we might as well get it out of the way. The bureau has offered me an ASAC position out of Minneapolis. It’s a big promotion—an important opportunity that might never come along again. It’d still mean travel and working cases, but I’d have a shot at regional director down the road.”
So Beck’s competition wasn’t only the house and friends Zach had left behind. It was a promotion. “Do you want to go back to living in Minneapolis and working for the FBI?”
“I want to live with you and work for the FBI.”
Beck slipped out from under Zach’s arm. “Those things are mutually exclusive.”
“If I turn down this ASAC position, I’m afraid I’ll resent it and it’ll rip us apart.”
Beck jumped to his feet and paced. As opposed to hundreds of miles between them ripping them apart if Zach returned to Minneapolis? “Going back to long distance like it’s been for the past seven months?” Beck could see the future stretching out: canceled weekend trysts, holidays spent apart, missed phone calls. The eventual onset of apathy.
“It’s a coveted position.”
Beck gave a humorless laugh. Coveted? The thought of losing Zach was giving Beck a massive heartache, and Zach coveted the position. But it seemed like an ultimatum. Put up with the FBI and Minneapolis, or lose Zach to bitterness and regret over a missed opportunity.
Hell of a choice.
When Beck was shot, he’d lost Dan to a bullet. Van had bailed while Beck was in the hospital. When Beck was a kid, his father had deserted him and Beck’s mother. Now Zach was considering adding to the abandonment tally. Over and over and over, and Beck never learned. This time he’d thought he had something permanent, but no. No long-term relationship for John Beckworth Stryker. He took a soggy breath.
If Beck couldn’t get his emotions under control, he was going to humiliate himself with an unmanly show of tears. All his life, he’d thrown up walls to get through bad situations. But this time, the emotions battered at the barriers.
“We could resume doing the long-distance thing,” Zach said slowly.
Get it together, Stryker. Beck shook his head. “I want more.”
“You could quit Denver PD and take a position in Minneapolis.”
Beck’s gut turned to ice. “I’d never start at the homicide table. I might not ever get to homicide.”
“What about the behavioral-science unit? You could go through the FBI’s sixteen-week new-agent course. If I’m in charge, I can expedite things and get you assigned to BSU in Minneapolis.”
Beck’s jaw got as tight as a steel trap. “Aside from the boss/employee fraternization issue, how would that help? Then both of us can fly all over the place and never see each other? I’m not an agent, Zach, and I don’t want to be one.”
Uncomfortable silence fell.
“Other than going back to long distance,” Beck said, “I can’t see a way for it to work.”
Zach’s eyes were sad. “Don’t say that.”
“We can talk about it after you get through the sting.” At this point, maybe it would be best to apprehend the Follower and get that factor out of their way. In the meantime, the special-investigations team had better take damn good care of Zach.
“I love you.” Zach looked a bit shell-shocked.
* * * *
“We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming for a special report.” Beetle looked up from where he’d been doing preparations in the kitchen. The scarlet banner turned on-screen. This better not be some disaster that would spoil his plans. “From the Channel Nine newsroom, Matt Unger.”
“Good evening, I’m Matt Unger, and this is Channel Nine News at five thirty. Tonight we bring you a special report about a recent spate of killings, including right here in Denver. I had a chance to sit down with Special Agent Dr. Zachary Littman from the FBI. Dr. Littman is a medical doctor—a psychiatrist—as well as a profiler. He specializes in hunting down those who prey on their fellow human beings.”
The camera panned to the left. Littman looked sharp in pressed khakis, a snowy-white shirt, and a sports coat. No tie. He smiled easily, but his eyes were watchful.
Oooh… Hello, Dr. Littman. What do you know about me? Beetle paused in his preparations and flopped on the couch.
The early questions established who Littman was and why he was in Denver. Then Unger moved on to specifics.
“What features of the murders made you conclude they are linked?”
Beetle smiled. That was an easy one.
Littman gave a slight nod. “Crucial aspects of these homicides are consistent, suggesting one unsub. I’m not at liberty to share the particulars, but there is definitely a unique signature.”
“Can you describe that signature?”
“Only that it’s unique. I can’t divulge details since this is an active investigation.”
Unger stared at his notes and swallowed. Probably thinking about poor little Annika. Beetle would bet memories ran through his head continually.
But what had Littman made of Unger’s daughter? Had they figured it out yet? Did he have to leave Perny’s picture on her dusty and neglected pink pillowcase?
Unger reengaged. “Does the task force have a name for this man?”
Littman said, “We’re calling him the Follower, as he seems to utilize specific techniques of certain killers who came before him.”
