by Lisa Gardner
Roy and Shelly glanced at him.
“Four shots for each victim,” Dan supplied. “Eight bullets. But you mentioned nine casings. So where’s the last shot?”
“Oh. Haven’t gotten to that part yet.” Shelly smiled grimly. “Turns out, we got a third victim: store security camera. Which, with any luck at all, might be our lone witness.”
—
HERE WAS THE ISSUE: Security cameras fell under the umbrella of technology. Being a rural county department, Bakersville didn’t have a technology expert or forensic computer tech. Meaning their safest bet was to wait for assistance from the state police. Except Shelly didn’t feel like waiting.
She had a double homicide in a town that saw only a handful of murders each year. Community leaders would be demanding answers sooner rather than later. Hell, Shelly wanted answers sooner rather than later.
On the other hand, botch recovery of the video, and they’d be ruining one of the only leads they had.
“Business of this size, location,” Roy was saying now, “how complicated can the security system be? Odds are, it was picked up at an office superstore. Nothing so sophisticated three well-trained members of law enforcement couldn’t figure it out.”
Both Roy and Shelly turned to Dan. He was their resident tech expert. Which was to say, he was the youngest member on the force and the one who managed their online community outreach.
“You saw the camera?” he asked Shelly.
“Mounted behind the cash register, up near the ceiling.”
“Big, little, old, new?”
“Small. Well, what remained of it. Black plastic,” she added helpfully.
“So an electronic eye.” Dan nodded. “In that case, actual footage is most likely recorded to a DVR. This place got a back office?”
“Yeah, straight through there.”
Shelly pointed to the open door of the EZ Gas, where a flash of light indicated the detectives were still snapping photos. The other downside of attempting to retrieve the security video now; they risked further contamination of the crime scene.
“What do you want to do?” Roy asked her.
“I don’t want to wait an hour for state assist,” Shelly said.
Roy grimaced. “An hour? I’m guessing more like half a day.”
“True. All right. Dan, you’re with me. If the security system seems too complicated, we can always call the owner for assistance. But somewhere out there is a double murderer. I want to see his face.”
—
THE FLIES WERE EVERYWHERE. Shelly grimaced as they buzzed thickly over the holes in the male victim’s chest, forehead. Her first instinct was to shoo them away, but she knew from experience there wouldn’t be any point.
Hal looked up from his camera, greeting her and Dan with a small nod of acknowledgment. They nodded back, none of them speaking. Air was hotter in here, the stench of blood and death forcing them to breathe through their mouths.
Shelly kept as far right as possible, Dan following in her footsteps, so they would disturb the area the least amount possible. They sidled past the body, then tiptoed down the outer aisle to arrive at the wall of cold drinks. In front of the refrigeration units, the air felt marginally cooler, and Shelly exhaled softly. From this vantage point, she could look back toward the front door and take in nearly all of the small, six-aisle store. The front counter, to the right of the door, was partially obscured by bags of chips. But looking up, Shelly could see the camera in question. A small black eye, now dangling haphazardly, the lens shattered by a bullet.
“Good shot,” she murmured.
Dan shrugged. “For all we know, he was standing right beneath it at the time.”
“All the better to see you with,” Shelly agreed, leading the way past the refrigeration units to a plain wooden door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY.
The office door was locked. Dan grimaced, probably already wondering which of them would have to search the dead cashier for the key. Shelly, however, had a better idea. Pulling on gloves, she raised one hand, ran it along the top of the door frame, and sure enough . . .
She smiled. Dan chuckled softly. Then, as if realizing how out of place such a thing sounded, he fell back to silence.
Shelly inserted the plain brass key into the lock, eased the door open.
If the small convenience store was hot, the windowless back office was stifling. In a coastal town known for mild temperatures, plenty of places didn’t have air-conditioning, and this store was no exception. When Shelly snapped on the overhead light, she discovered a tiny fan perched on a top shelf, someone’s idea of heat relief. Otherwise, the standing-room-only space contained a plank of wood topping two dinged-up metal filing cabinets, a battered-looking laptop, and, sure enough, a DVR, matte black, clearly new, stuck in a back corner with an attached monitor.
“Looks like a recent purchase,” Dan said from behind Shelly’s shoulder. The small space forced them to stand close, which only made the heat that much more uncomfortable.
“Recent thefts, suspicions?” Shelly murmured. The security system was a lucky break. Even basic models were over a hundred bucks, which, for a business that looked as worn and tired as this one, couldn’t have been an easy expense.
She shifted to the side, sucking in her gut as Dan squeezed past, eyeing the DVR.
“Most systems offer immediate playback,” Dan said, already punching buttons on the DVR.
He worked his tech magic, then an icon for SuperSecurity appeared on the monitor. A few seconds later, the screen filled with the top-back view of a woman’s head.
The cashier, Shelly thought, Erin Hill, who’d started work at four A.M. and dutifully activated the security system.
Dan fiddled again, moving them forward in time: Five A.M. Six. Seven. Seven thirty, then . . .
Not a bad image. Fixed, which was a little disorienting. Black-and-white. Customers appeared and disappeared from the side of the screen, while the back of Erin’s head remained dead center. From time to time, she also disappeared, maybe sitting down to read a book, or, more likely, play on her phone, during the lulls.
Seven fifty-three A.M. The male victim appeared. Shelly made out the side of his face as he briefly walked into the store, then disappeared down the aisle in search of chips. Thirty seconds. Forty. Fifty. The man reappeared, full face-shot now as he stood at the counter and dug around in his pocket for a wad of cash.
No audio. They could see but not hear. Given that the guy’s mouth was moving, he was saying something to Erin. She must’ve replied, because he appeared to laugh in response. Then he pocketed his change. Grabbed his bag of chips. Turned toward the entrance.
Suddenly, his arms flew into the air. His body seemed to jerk, then stumble back, then jerk again.
He went down, his head disappearing offscreen till they were left with only the image of his sprawled legs.
Erin turned, her dark hair, their single focal point, suddenly whipping around. She gazed up at the camera, eyes wide, terrified.
Shelly couldn’t see her mouth. Only the top half of her face. Was she screaming, was she trying to tell them something? At the side of the screen, a bare forearm came into view. Holding a gun. Pop, pop, pop.
And Erin disappeared from sight.
A life ended. Just like that.
Shelly found herself leaning over Dan’s shoulder, staring at the video intently, as the shooter’s arm came down, vanished off the screen. No, no, the shooter had to appear. He still had to take out the camera. A lull. Maybe the shooter pausing to check around outside, see if the sound of shots aroused any nearby suspicion. Or maybe he did rifle through the male victim’s truck.
But eventually, three, four, five minutes later . . .
A lone figure walked into view. Not a man. A kid. Younger than even his first victim, maybe even younger than Erin Hill. Wearing a bulky black hoo
die, sleeves balled up at his elbows but still totally inappropriate for a ninety-degree August morning. The boy approached the counter. He didn’t look back at his first victim, nor down at his second. Instead, he peered directly up at the camera. Stared straight at it.
Wearing the flattest expression Shelly had ever seen. No remorse, no glee, not a drop of sweat on his brow.
The dark-eyed boy stared at Shelly through the lens.
Then he raised his arm and fired.
—
SHELLY HAD TO TAKE A MOMENT to get her breath back. Leaning over the monitor, Dan wasn’t doing much better.
“Recognize him at all?” Shelly asked her deputy.
“No.”
“Me neither.” She doubted it mattered. An image this good, a description this solid, they should have a name within hours.
“He didn’t ask for money,” Dan murmured.
“No.”
“Didn’t even talk to them. Just . . . walked in. Murdered two people.”
“I know.”
“Did you see his eyes?”
Shelly nodded. She understood what her deputy was trying to say.
“What happened here?” Dan asked, his voice more plaintive now.
“I don’t know,” she told him honestly. “But I know who to ask: Pierce Quincy. If this video is anything to go by, we’re gonna need a profiler’s insights. But the shooter’s motivation isn’t our biggest question yet.”
“What’s our biggest question?”
“A kid who kills this easily—is he done yet?”
Chapter 4
RETIRED FBI PROFILER PIERCE QUINCY was getting a second shot at life. He wasn’t the type to dwell on such things. Maybe, fifteen years ago, not even the type to believe in such things. Raised by a single father after his mother’s sudden death, he’d joined the Chicago PD before being recruited by the FBI.
Then, as a young up-and-coming agent, he’d been honored to join the pioneers of profiling, some of the Bureau’s most legendary agents. If the work pulled him away from his wife, Bethie, then their two daughters, Mandy and Kimberly, well, hunting serial killers was like that. One could hardly chase down the monsters of the human world and still be home in time for dinner.
The work was a calling. And Quincy . . . he’d lost himself in it.
As his wife left him.
As his two daughters grew up without him.
Until one day, one phone call . . . Mandy had been in an accident. Except it turned out it wasn’t an accident. Quincy had brought something home from work after all: a man intent on vengeance. And both Quincy’s older daughter and his ex-wife paid the price before Quincy stopped him.
With Rainie, Quincy had found a better balance. And even if he still wasn’t a man known for his gift of gab, at least with a former member of law enforcement, he had enough to say. Rainie understood his silence in the same way he understood her demons. She accepted that just because he didn’t share his emotions didn’t mean he didn’t care. And he accepted that she would probably never sleep at night, and every day, all day, she would forever be making the courageous choice not to drink again.
Now here they were. A little older, a little wiser, and heaven help them, with a soon-to-be adopted teenage daughter. They were nervous, they were excited. They were terrified, they were hopeful.
They were parents.
Quincy had spent much of the morning listening to Rainie’s low murmur down the hall. Most likely soothing the rabid beast that sometimes posed as their foster daughter, before carting her off to swim camp. Sharlah had come to them with a case history of antisocial tendencies. The paperwork hadn’t lied.
With a foster child, bonding was always an issue. Quincy and Rainie had qualified as foster parents, despite his advanced years and her struggles with alcohol, in part because Quincy was considered an expert in bonding. Certainly, interruptions in the bonding process were serial killer 101. Combine the antisocial tendencies with the trauma Sharlah had experienced at a young age, and her caseworker had some concerns.
The first six months, Sharlah had certainly put them through their paces.
But perhaps Quincy was getting soft in his old age, because he looked at his soon-to-be daughter and he didn’t see a future predator: He saw a lost little girl. One who’d suffered much and had built the corresponding protective layers. Sharlah didn’t trust. Didn’t reach out. Didn’t have faith.
But she could bond.
Just look at her and Luka.
Quincy had taken the German shepherd on a whim. Some articles on adopting children encouraged adopting pets as well, to give the foster child a companion. Plus, family pets encouraged responsibility, and, yes, Quincy was old-school on that subject. But also . . . as long as he and Rainie were getting a child, why not a dog, too? If you’re going to be domestic, might as well do it right.
Sharlah loved that dog. And Luka loved her right back. Two peas in a pod. Maybe not the socialization he and Rainie had been hoping for, but at least it was a start. Certainly he and Rainie liked to hope that one day, if they were really lucky, Sharlah would love them at least as much as she loved her dog.
Again, welcome to parenting.
Now Quincy returned his attention to the phone in his hand. Shelly Atkins, the county sheriff, was on the other end.
“Two dead,” she was saying now, “both shot multiple times.”
“Robbery?” he asked.
“The cash register’s cleaned out. But get this: He took the money after he shot them, not before. According to the security video we watched, he didn’t walk in and make demands. He walked in and opened fire. Given that, money feels more like an afterthought. If all he wanted was instant cash, waving around the handgun would’ve gotten the job done. No need to take out two people who weren’t offering any resistance.”
“You have a video of the incident?”
“Yeah, which is the real reason I’m calling. Quincy . . . Hell, I don’t know how to explain it. But I’d like you to come down, take a look. This kid, the expression on his face as he pulls the trigger. He gunned down those two people because he could. And a boy that cold . . .”
“You’re worried he’s going to kill again.”
“Exactly.”
Quincy glanced at his watch. Rainie had already left to drop off Sharlah at the Y.
“Give us forty minutes,” he told Sheriff Atkins. “Rainie and I will meet you at your office.”
“Park in the back. Media’s already caught wind.”
“Press conference?”
“Might as well. They’re gonna trample all over our crime scene otherwise. Besides, I got work for them.”
“You’re going to use the media?” Quincy arched a brow. “Tricky proposition.”
“I’m a brave soul. Better yet, I’m a brave soul with a still-frame photo of a double murderer. Media broadcasts the image, and with any luck, we’ll have our shooter’s name by end of day.”
Quincy had a thought: “You said the UNSUB shot out the camera.”
“That’s right.”
“After he killed the two people?”
“Correct.”
“Huh.”
“What does huh mean?”
“Give me forty minutes, and we’ll both find out.”
—
QUINCY CONTACTED RAINIE ON HER CELL and arranged to meet her at the sheriff’s office. He could hear Sharlah in the passenger seat, already asking excited questions. In the beginning, he and Rainie had made a conscientious effort to keep their work from their foster daughter. No need to add to Sharlah’s trauma. But over time . . . Sharlah was genuinely interested. And bright and passionate. In the end, her own caseworker had green-lighted dinnertime conversations about basic criminology. After all, Sharlah was the kind of kid who already knew bad people existed in the world. For her, polici
ng techniques, the psychology behind how to identify and apprehend criminals, were much more soothing than the traditional parenting placebos of “Don’t worry about it” or “We’ll take care of you.” Sharlah wanted to be able to take care of herself. Which made her a big fan of Rainie’s and Quincy’s jobs. And maybe also made her exactly the right child for them.
He closed the binder on his desk—the one Rainie and Sharlah had so many questions about—and returned it to its locked drawer.
Then one last item of business, from years of being on the job.
He moved to the wall, to a framed black-and-white photograph of an adorable little girl with a gap-toothed smile peering out from behind a shower curtain. His oldest daughter, Mandy, in the years before life, drinking, and a psychopath had all caught up with her.
He set the photo aside, revealing the gun safe. He’d recently upgraded to a biometrics model. Now he placed his fingertip in the appropriate spot. A whir, a click, and the door swung open.
He selected the twenty-two, a backup piece, because technically speaking, law enforcement consultants weren’t required to carry a sidearm. And yet, a man who knew the things he knew . . .
Quincy tucked the gun in his ankle holster.
Then prepared himself to head out into a heat wave.
—
THE COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT looked the part. Two stories, with squat lines and a beige exterior, it showed off the kind of architecture only budget-conscious local governments could love.
Heeding Shelly’s advice, Quincy headed for the rear of the building, his black Lexus slipping past a growing throng of news vans. Ten A.M. Apparently, no one wanted to be late for the press conference at half past the hour.
Quincy shook his head as he made the turn into the parking lot. There were definitely parts of the job he did not miss, and dealing with the press topped the list.
He spotted Rainie’s car a moment later. She sat inside, no doubt taking advantage of its air-conditioning for as long as possible. Given the temps outside he didn’t blame her.
He pulled in beside her. She opened her door as he unfastened his seat belt, then they both stood in the heat.
