by Trisha Wolfe
I typically don’t return to the scene of the crime, but again, a necessary risk. I need the police to make this connection. I discard Larry’s shirt into a trash bin, then I abandon the car on the other side of the park.
The police will speculate that Larry was murdered in another location and brought to the park—a body dump. That’s fine, too. As long as they don’t speculate he was killed anywhere near London. She’s an hour and a half away from Rockland.
The police will also assume that given Larry’s criminal record, he was targeting women outside of his own city, hoping to misdirect authorities of his crimes.
But the big fish we want to catch—the reason I’m going through all this trouble—is the imitator himself. The copycat needs to know I’m here.
The bus ride to Portland takes longer than I want, and the little girl sitting opposite me won’t stop staring. She’s tiny, with shiny black hair and dewy porcelain skin—like a small China doll. Her mother wears a grungy waitress uniform and is slouched on the seat, sleeping off a late-night shift. Needle marks dot her forearm.
“Did that hurt?”
The little girl’s voice tinkles, barely audible over the roar of the bus engine.
I glance down at my hand and notice the raised white scar protruding from beneath the hoodie sleeve. I tug the cuff over my wrist. “Yes,” I answer her honestly.
She tilts her head, curious. “Did your mommy make it better?”
I look at her mother, oblivious to her daughter striking up a conversation with a stranger. Then I look at the girl. She can’t be more than five. “My mommy made it worse,” I say, and crouch closer to her in the isle. “You shouldn’t be talking to people you don’t know.”
She nods vehemently, like she’s been told this before. “I know you. You’re the man on the TV.”
My mouth kicks up into a grin. She didn’t say bad man. I glance again at her mother, and say, “Are you a good secret keeper?”
She nods, her silky hair bobbing.
“Good. You can’t tell anyone but your mother this, okay?” When she agrees, I say, “Tell Mommy that the man from the TV said to stop sticking needles in her arm and drink a big coffee before she leaves work, or else he’ll pay her a visit soon.”
Her dark eyes widen, and she smiles. “Promise?”
I give her a wink. “Our secret, remember?” Then I stand and grab the cable, deciding to get off before the next stop. The early morning work crowd will be piling on, and I’m too drained to risk another Angel of Maine sighting.
I enter my apartment just as the sun rises. The small downtown studio is nothing like my typical haunts. It’s not spacious or inviting. It’s efficient, and the few essential items I need are easily stored on the inlaid shelves near the door. Ready to grab on a dash out.
I unload my pockets—knives, wire, tape—into the drawer beneath the shelving. I keep the sculpting wire on me in case a situation calls for a less messy means of removal. I cover my tools with a cloth, then tuck Larry’s cash into the paper bag I keep there, too.
Cash is always a necessity while on the run. I’m not a saint, despite what the press is trying to depict me as. One needs money to survive. My victims no longer had need of their money. I do.
I had to ditch the RV. It’s too conspicuous to keep a moving location along coastal towns. People remember seeing an RV; townies don’t like strangers.
I paid the landlord cash for a short-term lease on the apartment just yesterday. Week to week. I’m Jeffery Kinsey to him. And as long as I have the cash, I’m of no more importance than his loud, nagging wife who berates him down the hall.
There’s two windows: One for keeping watch, and one for escape if necessary. I keep security cameras recording at all times, from every angle of the room and outside the main door.
I shower to rid myself of Larry’s stench, not because I need to remove the evidence. Criminals make mistakes all the time—even intelligent ones. Stupid, unfortunate mistakes. The taskforce will ponder it for a while; how the escaped convict they’ve been chasing for weeks, eluding them at every turn, suddenly makes such a grave mistake by allowing a victim to scratch him. Leaving epithelial cells beneath the vic’s fingernails.
Because the MO is so different from mine, authorities will need the DNA evidence in order to link the kill to me. My gift to them.
Then the theories will start. The deviation in method spurring specialists to speculate on why my MO has suddenly shifted so drastically. According to the specialists, I’ll be regressing, devolving.
There are natural stages of advancement, and one should always be evolving. My first kills, I left the bodies on display. I was a young, cocky amateur, and I wasn’t above bragging back in the day.
I got smarter, of course. Pride comes before a fall and all that, so I began discarding my victims. I buried them in remote locations. The next logical progression in methodology would be to destroy the remains. Leave no evidence. No body, no crime. Fire, as we well know, is a destructive force—the earth’s natural cleansing agent.
After I burned my hidden kill spot, even the taskforce could make an intelligent assumption as to my next level of progression.
This deterioration should niggle at them just enough.
But what’s really going to get under their skin is the location. How close I am to London.
It’s all going to happen very quickly now.
I fix a cup of coffee and sit in the worn recliner. I draped a bed sheet over it to prevent the coarse, germ-infested fabric from touching me. As the sun’s rays stream through the dingy windows, creating a kaleidoscope of colors on the cement floor, thoughts of London erect in my mind. Her satin skin. Fresh lilac scent. The key tattoo she no longer conceals along her hand.
The feel of her soft, delicate hand slipping over mine, taking a life.
It’s enough to sustain me…but not for long. Since our first kill in the maze of keys, the compulsions have come on stronger, more demanding. Uniting with London has opened Pandora’s box—and what I believed could be my salvation, I now fear has sparked a maddening flame that will consume me.
I push a shaky hand through my damp hair, a laugh spilling free. I’m no better than the junkie on the bus. Craving the very bad thing. Wanting her more than I want oxygen; more than I want freedom.
Why else would I be in Maine? Initiating a half-hatched plan that will get me caught if not dead.
For her.
I was designed to kill…not love.
She’s destroyed me.
However, six weeks of waiting, and watching, and hiding, of feeling stagnant while I play it smart has its downside, also. But we have to give our enemies time to show themselves. We can’t fight what we can’t see; it’s like swinging aimlessly in the dark.
That’s how most criminals on the run get caught, and get caught quickly. They try to take on the whole network. The FBI is not my enemy. The local authorities in every city across the country are not my enemies. Most of these people clock in and clock out. Go home to their families and pay a mortgage. Or they’re just trying to get laid on the regular.
They’re people. Doing a job.
Your enemy is a little harder to spot unless you know where to look.
He’s the one with an obsession.
He’s the one who won’t stop coming.
I stand and go to the bedroom area of the studio, where I store my map and collection hidden beneath the bed. Not the most secretive spot, but I only need to keep it out of view from a nosy landlord’s wife.
I tack the board to the wall and step back, letting my gaze follow the black string on the map. The string is anchored to points denoting my locations over the past six weeks. A second string—red—aligns with the black. The timeline off by only a couple of days. Then a third string—blue—sidles up next to the first two. Four days off on the timeline.
All three have one thing in common: the dates of appearance. Both men—denoted by the red and blue string—arrived prior t
o the discovery of the bodies.
Both of them were present before the murders happened.
Granted, I left a pretty obvious trail of crumbs for them to follow, but only one of us staged scenes to kill off two victims—and it wasn’t me.
The scenes themselves—the traps—should’ve tipped off investigators that the murders were done by someone trying to emulate my method. Again, most people do their job just good enough.
Only the perfectionists, the obsessed and the meticulous, care enough to get it right.
I cross my arms and stare at the emerging pattern. Stare at the map and strings and photos. I let it all blur together, becoming a collage. A labyrinth.
The FBI and police officials have all been asking the same questions, trying to make sense of it, trying to make the connection that will answer the why and, ultimately, the where—that will lead them to me.
Why did I let Dr. London Noble go?
Using a red pen, I circle the image of London. Over and over. She takes up residency in the middle of my board. For me, she’s the answer to every question. And to two fanatical men, she might just hold the key.
The circumstance surrounding my escape has spurred certain individuals to look more closely at her. Their interest in the good doctor is alarming, and dangerous.
London is insightful and clever. She might even be a better manipulator than I am. With intuition comes power. The power to do damn near anything we want. But because we were not born naturally to this world, we’re set apart, we’re other—that which gives us insight also serves as a weakness.
We’re a target for those trained in deception.
Enter Special Agent Randall Nelson of the FBI.
He rescued London, storming the blazing scene like a white knight. This agent has a real hard-on for me. It’s almost cliché, but then, everything’s been done before, hasn’t it? Every career criminal needs his counterpart. The white knight cop pursuing the chaotic-evil bad guy. The great cat and mouse chase.
Agent Nelson has declared himself the yin to my yang.
And he’s using London to get to me.
He can become an obstacle, or a means to an end.
Agent Nelson is only one phase of the elimination process, though. There’s a second element in the form of an obsessed detective who has sworn my demise by his own hands. We can’t leave out Detective Foster. He’s been on Nelson’s tail the whole way, always coming up in the rear. He just won’t go away.
Foster may be less of a threat, but he’s still another obstacle to hurdle. I made the mistake of underestimating him before. I learn from my mistakes.
I’ve been feeding them crumbs for weeks; they’ve got to be starved by now. Ready for a big, juicy meal. Larry should have them chewing for a while. I can’t give either of them the answers all at once. That would over stimulate them. Like children, they need to be fed little by little. Bite-sized answers they can swallow without choking.
We don’t want them to choke. Not yet.
London’s trap needs to be realized first.
I could’ve taken her with me on the run. Settled in Canada. She could’ve even opened a new practice under an assumed name. We could’ve moved around, never staying in one place too long, never getting caught.
But what kind of life would that be for her?
No, with London’s talents, she deserves better. Bigger. Brighter.
What’s more, why remove a perfectly positioned chess piece?
Now the image is coming into focus. She’s right in the center of the investigation. She can reach out and physically touch our enemies. She plays the most pivotal role of all.
Process of elimination.
Once you’ve eliminated your obstacles, you’re free. The FBI manhunt can’t use tax dollars forever. Resources run out. Cases go cold. And eventually, criminals at large are assumed dead when leads die off.
Now that the big picture is revealed, it’s time to break down the details. Cut them up into tiny, chewable pieces.
I tack a marker to the newest location. Rockland—the crime scene that will tip the first domino. I string the black thread to the marker. Maine is my final destination. It has to begin and end here.
Agent Nelson in the red and Detective Foster looking so blue, trail behind. Who will be the first to reach the Rockland crime scene?
4
Malicious Intent
London
Press conferences have a distinct aroma. A mix of stale coffee and aftershave, with an undercurrent of breath mints and leather. The way church smells. Even the man standing at the podium wears a gravely serious expression like a pastor, delivering his practiced speech for the masses.
I’ve learned to stare at the center of the podium. This way I don’t mimic the speaker’s facial expressions as I zone out. People have a tendency to take facial cues from others. An inherent trait we all learn early on to convey empathy.
And with so many eyes and cameras directed on me, it’s important that I don’t frown or smile, giving the media a thread to twist and tangle.
“Having gone over what remains of the evidence, I’ve concluded there was a gross negligence in the handling of victims’ cases.” States Attorney Kyle Sandow addresses the press with a stern glare into the cameras. “Therefore, the Mize Sheriff Department has been instructed to relinquish all pertinent evidence pertaining to the deceased Sheriff Malcolm Noble and the victims to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
I’m seated in the front row, flanked by Agent Nelson and Detective Foster, who has become my shadow this past week. Every prominent member of law enforcement is here. Even the head of the FBI taskforce conducting the manhunt.
No one is interested in the Mize investigation. That’s so five weeks ago. The assembled congregation is waiting to hear the update that will confirm the Angel of Maine’s return.
The news stations are already capitalizing on the murder in Rockland, jumping ahead of authorities to declare that either their very own avenging angel has come home, or there is a new player in town, hope alive in their assertions. The people embrace Grayson as their vigilante, and the media adores the ratings he provides.
I’m here against my lawyer’s advice in order to study the crowd. A copycat killer isn’t unlike any other serial killer—he feeds off his celebrity, requiring recognition of his acts. He would insert himself close to the investigation, but not close enough to get caught.
After the murder of Larry Fleming was revealed to the public, with the media’s help, Bangor has once again become the hub—a prime feeding ground for a narcissistic imitator. A collection of all the major players gathered in one place would be impossible for him to resist.
Sandow’s face tightens into a solemn expression. “The FBI are now heading up this investigation as the search for Grayson Sullivan continues. We have no updates on his whereabouts at this time.” Sandow collects his notes. “Thank you.”
A collective barrage of questions rises in the room. One reporter stands and demands to know why Malcolm Noble, the confirmed Hollows Reaper, is being honored as a deceased sheriff, instead of the killer he was. Another pushes for a response to a recent article claiming the FBI’s focus on me has hindered their efforts to apprehend the Angel of Maine Killer. More shouts inquire about the murder in Rockland and its “alleged” connection to Grayson Sullivan.
Sandow quickly exits the stage, leaving the journalists’ questions unanswered.
I take my cue and flee the room before the vultures descend on me. Secured near the green room, I find a good spot to observe the departing crowd. Sandow’s refusal to talk about the murder will most likely irritate the copycat. He needs information—facts about the case. Not theories and hyped sensationalism from the media.
On a professional standpoint, I’m more than curious to observe the copycat’s response to the murder—his reaction and retaliation; how he’ll progress. I’ve never had the opportunity to interview a copycat killer before. I admit, ever since Grayson told me,
my excitement to conduct research on the subject has manifested in an unhealthy obsession to reveal his identity.
A press reporter spots me, eagerness lighting his face. Before he can corner me, I push past the gathered bodies in the green room and through the back exit door.
An overcast sky greets me outside. The muggy humidity sinks right into my skin. There’s a charge in the air, a summer storm brewing. The alley darkens as looming, rain-bloated clouds cross the sun.
I fill my lungs with a deep breath, still astonished at how fast I moved to reach the outside. Not a stitch of pain to hinder my getaway. I arch my back and suck in another fresh breath, just to test my lumbar.
The mind never ceases to amaze. One moment I’m suffering acute back pain that has plagued me since the accident, the next it’s as if I can’t recall what that pain ever felt like.
Am I free, or is this sweet glimpse of liberty a prelude to my end? Like the brief reprieve you’re given before death, when all pain receptors shut down.
“They’re not getting any easier, are they?”
I close my eyes at the sound of Agent Nelson’s gruff voice. “No,” I answer simply, honestly.
“I wish I could say this was the last press conference,” he says. “But the public is intrigued with your story. They’re curious.”
A sardonic laugh slips free. “Appalled is more like it.” The number of enraged emails and letters I’ve received since my initial press conference announcing the buried dead girls that I—suddenly—recalled in my childhood home backyard has garnered me a lot of negative attention.
I’m accustomed to being despised for what I do; my career isn’t a glamorous one. But I’ve never before been loathed with such vitriol on a national level. The narcissist in me wants to set the record straight, but my lawyer has smartly kept me from engaging in any more conferences myself.
I turn and face the agent. “Has there really been no updates on Sullivan’s whereabouts?”
His expression shutters. That expert close-off agents are so skilled at. “You’re not in danger.”
