by Trisha Wolfe
I wonder what London thinks. How she’s evaluating our little imitator’s escalation. Is he angered over the lack of news coverage; the refusal from authorities to announce my presence in Maine?
I’m so curious over her thoughts that I’m looking for clues in the papers. Online. News broadcasts. Only the Feds are keeping London safely tucked away. No statements from the good doctor.
Ultimately, what this proves is that the copycat has inside knowledge. The DNA discovery was never revealed to the public. I can’t be sure, but I believe a purest—as the copycat has proven to be so far—wouldn’t act on theory alone. Especially a hyped one from the media.
Our copycat has access to the crime scenes.
Nelson arrived in Rockland first, staking the FBI’s claim on the scene, despite the local police objecting and pissing all over their territory.
Foster followed closely behind, always coming up in the rear. He has no official authority in Rockland, but he’s not working on the clock—he’s feeding his obsession. He’s been chasing me since the New Castle murders, and he’s not about to let some FBI hot-shot swoop in and steal his glory.
We can’t get too close to either of these characters; they’re too aware, too volatile. So we need a third party perspective. A way inside the crime scenes without physically entering them ourselves.
I look up from the paper, marking our objective right on time.
Forensic technician Michael Lawson works for the Rockland Police CSU Department. He’s twenty-five, just had a baby with his wife of a few months, and buried beneath a mortgage his salary can’t really afford. He’s perfectly preoccupied with life.
An ideal candidate.
What do you fear?
It’s the question I ask of all my victims. It’s my first move on the chessboard—our first interaction. The answer is the precursor to the design. The exchange doesn’t need to happen in person. We give our answers away freely. One only needs to pay attention.
We can break anyone down to their most basic attributes by simply uncovering their fears. Every choice we make or will make is rooted in what frightens us. Those fears direct our course.
Take our target, for instance. Let’s break him down.
Right now he’s seated on a bench. The afternoon sun to his back as he thumbs through his phone. He’s not really interested in what he’s looking at; he’s avoiding staring at the woman in the elegant suit standing two feet before him.
She’s beautiful. Shiny blond hair rolls over her shoulders in bouncy waves. Her gray pencil skirt hugs her curves; not too revealing, but leaving little to the imagination. She’s classy, and sensual.
The other pedestrians standing around the bus stop notice her, too. One man has no qualms in ogling her outright.
Lawson lifts the bill of his ball cap just enough to get a glimpse of the woman. Then he returns his gaze to his phone. This is the second time he’s checked her out since his arrival.
Because humans are governed by fear, we are exposed.
The ogling, confident man approaches her from the side. There’s a brief exchange between them. She tilts her head, her expression apologetic, then he nods before returning to his original post.
We don’t have to be behavioral specialists to understand what occurred.
In the background, our target has followed along as we have. His conduct has shifted slightly. He thumbs his phone more emphatically. Touches his forehead repeatedly. His leg bounces with a nervous, jittery tic. The alpha male was rejected, so what hope does he have in winning her affections?
Rejection: it’s one of our fundamental fears.
According to the late Dr. Albrecht, this fear falls under the basic fear hierarchy of ego-death. Fear of humiliation and the collapse of one’s worthiness. I learned this from London.
Lawson fears this failure so deeply that it’s triggered a physical response within him. He’s becoming agitated, angry. And what is anger but the natural reaction to fear? It’s our mind processing the information so we can make decisions.
It’s that simple.
What’s more, how do we use his fear to manipulate the outcome we want?
I mark the date and time on my newspaper as the bus pulls to a stop. Lawson is carried away to his evening destination, and I follow.
The bus ride doesn’t take long before we’re in the heart of the port district. I continue to follow Lawson as he exits the bus and heads in the opposite direction of his home.
I round a corner, and that’s when it happens.
A man in a business suit recognizes me.
It’s a slow realization at first. He glances up from his phone, then back down, and then his eyes snap to my face and widen in recognition. It’s unmistakable, that moment when all the senses heighten, adrenaline rushing.
There’s no sense in trying to run or hide, or to deny who I am. My only option is to discover his next move.
His mouth twitches, a natural, nervous reaction, as he says, “Good job.” He gives me a thumbs-up.
I tilt my head as I gauge his body language, his facial expression. He’s not a threat.
He won’t call the police. This man believes I’m a vigilante. The Angel of Maine. A hero. Taking out the trash.
I’ve read all the articles online and in the paper. Reporters citing citizens that claim I’m doing what the police fail to do.
Let’s clarify something: I’m not a fucking hero.
My victim selection is not based on any obligation to rid the world of filth. My victim selection is purely self-serving—an intelligent formula devised not to arouse suspicion.
Over the years, serial killers targeted prostitutes not because of their contempt for women—though some did suffer this defect—but mostly, because prostitutes wouldn’t be missed.
Of course, the police have wised up to this method, and so picking off hookers is no longer a viable option.
As such, my victims are scum. Sex offenders and the dregs of society loathed with such vitriol that authorities won’t waste resources to investigate their murders.
It doesn’t make me a good person. It just makes me smarter than the rest.
But, whatever helps people sleep at night. Trusting the big bad boogie man is out here hunting the evil of the world. Truthfully, I only see it as another means of cover. One more way to hide and secure my objective.
I give the man a curt nod before I pass him, saying none of this.
The interruption costs me nearly a minute before I can recover Lawson. I catch up to him as he’s heading farther into the port district. I tail him to the same bar he’s gone to for the past two nights. It’s his pattern, his routine—to unwind from his hectic day with two beers and then go home to his family.
I don’t go inside. Instead, I take up the corner of the building, jotting down the time on my paper, then start toward Portland.
For a year, I fantasized about how London and I would work in tandem. Partners. Accomplices. Lovers. There are obstacles, there always are, but her incredible talents have given us a way to overcome them, turn them into opportunities.
A carefully staged chessboard, where all players are pieces. Even London is purposely positioned to be moved on our board—she’s my favorite piece.
We need a pawn.
Building a trap is like courting a lover. It doesn’t have to be all hard frames and mechanics. You have to finesse the design. Nurture it into animation. Romance it with delicate strokes, and graceful strategy. Dance with your lover and she’ll fuck you good and hard.
Because that’s always the outcome we want.
Before London, I was too forceful. I was a brute. All physical strength and conceit in my knowledge, trapping my victims by coercing them to make a choice.
Choice.
A key element.
London’s time in the cage taught me a lot. People are willing to take the blame; they’re susceptible to their guilt. The human mind is a web of shame just waiting to be exploited.
Ma
nipulation.
If used correctly, it’s a powerful tool.
While on the bus, I unfold the newspaper and transfer the dates and times to my book.
A list of names. A list of sins.
Some men keep little black books of their conquests. I keep a list of people and their offenses. Detailing them down to their rotten marrow.
One of these players has been a busy bee.
I arrive home in time for the evening news. I let it play in the background as I tack the map on the wall. I’ve added pictures to coincide with the string, creating a grid formation listing the murders, whereabouts, dates, and times.
Local authorities have not confirmed the theory that the recent, horrific murders of two Rockland men are linked to the elusive Angel of Maine, who is still at large. The FBI taskforce conducting the nationwide manhunt have made no statements connecting the crimes to the escaped convict, despite having at least one commonality: The perpetrator appears to be targeting victims based on their criminal records. Just like the Angel of Maine, Grayson Pierce Sullivan.
At least the media is on the right page. I’m sure the copycat is following the coverage just as closely, as are Nelson and Foster. Notably, these two players both have access to inside knowledge, and criminal records.
They’re also the most obsessed with catching me.
I stand and stare at the grid. My eyes see the details—the structure of the crude diagram—but my mind sees beyond. I stare at the images and details, not focusing on any one thing. Instead, I let my gaze blur. My mind moves ahead of the basic outline. Three-dimensional in construct, the design lifts off the wall and assembles into lines and patterns. A mental picture of the complete module.
Daydreaming got me beaten regularly as a kid. My mother had no patience for my easily distracted nature as a child. I often spent time in her closet, learning how to pick the door lock. But now I openly allow the trap to manifest and take shape.
London has decided the end game—but there are many moves to be played before we reach game over.
This is the rush. When the pieces align, and every part of the working model snaps together effortlessly. I feel it in my blood. Euphoria.
6
Falling Under
London
When the call comes, I’m in the middle of a therapy session with a one of my longtime patients.
“And how does that make you feel about your boss?” I ask Cynthia, then try not to glance at my phone for the time.
“Well…” she begins, her hands already wringing in her lap.
My thoughts wander as soon as she slips into a monotonous account of her female boss and their issues. At least she’s one of my easy patients. Cynthia can drone on for an hour with little input from me.
I thought I could transition into full-time general psychology easily enough, but my patients are always dealing with their “feelings”. So many fucking feelings. Grayson wasn’t wrong when he said I channeled my sickness through my patients, but it’s more than that, why I chose to work with killers.
Psychopaths only imitate emotions.
Listening to patients talk and talk and talk—endless, mindless, self-involved chatter about feelings and their problems—most of them melodramatic—makes me ill. I get home in the evenings and heave. Get sick before I barely cross the threshold, to purge it from my system.
I’m not sure how much longer I can employ the charade.
There has been another murder, presumably by the copycat killer, although certain, vital details of the murder have been omitted, making it difficult to know for sure. And I admit, in the back of my thoughts, there’s a question of whether the kill was Grayson’s…
I fail and look down at my phone, and my heart knocks. A missed call from Agent Nelson with a follow up text: I have information on your sister.
The world implodes.
Nothing will be the same after this. It’s a moment of vibrant awareness.
We get stuck—a swirling vortex of the same thoughts, centered on the same routine. A well-worn track of comfort. We’re bored, but too busy to notice the boredom slowly killing us.
Until something inspiring interrupts our course, and we skip the rails onto a new track.
Inspiration is the food of life.
We’re so hungry for it, so ravenous…that once we realize we’re starving, and that first taste hits our tongue, we’re capable of genius.
A song, a movie, a novel—a single phrase or moment—we recognize it in an instant. We’re motionless in the dark, then we’re thrust into the light. Clear and focused.
Grayson was my fresh taste. He’s my interruption. I was starving for his promise of genius, and that genius shattered my world to bring me a sister I never knew existed before now.
“Cynthia,” I interrupt. “I’m sorry, but I just received a text. It’s an emergency. We need to reschedule.”
She’s jolted for a second before she graciously recovers. “Of course, Dr. Noble. I understand.”
I usher her from my office with another apology, then shut and lock the door. I let the solid brace of the door support me as I collect myself. Then I make the call.
Agent Nelson answers on the second ring. “You got my message.”
“Yes.”
Time seems to suspend as I wait to hear the news.
Then: “Mia Prescott.”
I close my eyes, blocking all other distractions so I can focus on his voice.
“Forensics places her remains between sixteen- and eighteen-years-old. The state of decomposition suggests she died somewhere within twenty years ago. But all this you knew.”
I did. I recovered enough of my memory to believe I had a sister. The fact that she’s real…that she—that we—have a name, makes it a certainty.
“I have a team concentrating on the victims’ families,” Nelson continues. “I’ve pulled together a couple of agents to focus primarily on Mia.”
I appreciate that he uses her name. “Thank you. Do you know anything yet?”
He clears his throat. “A quick search on the name pulled up a report. But—”
“Nelson, please,” I say. “You know that I’m able to handle it, and I have similar access to uncover this information…”
“I know,” he says. “I wanted to do this in person, but I respect your quest for answers. Okay. Mia Prescott was reported deceased with the discovery of Jacqueline and Phillip Prescott. Their bodies washed ashore the Ohio River just outside Cincinnati. It was assumed their two children, Mia and Lydia, had also drowned, but their bodies were never discovered.”
The name detonates on impact.
Lydia.
“Jacqueline’s sister persisted with the search for the children until she fell ill with ovarian cancer and died five years after her sister.”
I had an aunt.
“London,” he breathes my name. “Why don’t we meet soon. I can give you a copy of the reports. We shouldn’t have to do this over the phone.”
“All right,” I answer simply.
“Okay. Good. Give me a couple of hours.”
I end the call, slipping the phone into my jacket pocket.
London Noble.
Lydia Prescott.
Two worlds collide, and suddenly, every certainty I ever knew feels unstable. As if the cover sheet of my existence has been yanked away, and I’m not sure what awaits the unveiling.
I walk to my desk. Stand over it, my gaze lingering on papers and folders and coffee cups. I swipe my arms across the desktop. Contents crash to the floor with a satisfying clatter.
A knock sounds at the door. “London? Is everything okay?”
Bracing my palms against the desk’s edge, I ground myself. “Everything’s fine, Lacy.”
A hesitant moment of silence, then her footsteps retreat.
I close my eyes. I’ve been asking Agent Nelson for updates for weeks, with no follow up on his end. Then, a second murder is announced in Rockland—just hours away—and answers mater
ialize.
Answers that will take me to Hollows and away from here.
How convenient.
It’s possible Nelson and the FBI feel I’m in danger. Or they think I’m a complication to the manhunt. Either way, I should stay here—to procure the trap Grayson and I set for the copycat. That is, if the imitator is in fact in Maine.
I glance at the Dali hanging on the office wall. Beneath the piece of art is hours of extensive research and personal thoughts and findings. All my research into Grayson. I’ve been keeping a diary of sorts; insight into the man as well as the killer.
My notes serve a larger purpose, but the discernment it’s given me has also caused a thread of doubt. Even without a counterpart, Grayson should be evolving. With his IQ and the years he’s been an active killer, his methodology should be progressing.
Not devolving.
I hate doubt. I try to push it away, but I can’t help thinking I’m an upset to his pattern. What’s more, I’m treading in unknown waters myself. We’re embarking into uncharted territory, and I have to continue to question the process or I could sink.
One of us has to remain in control.
I hit the intercom and tell Lacy to book my flight to Mississippi.
7
Underbelly
Grayson
The scent of alcohol and cigarettes infuses the evening air. This part of town harbor reminds me of The Burrows. Dirty and dank and crawling with filth. Every beautiful town has an underbelly.
Snugly nestled in a pocket of Rush, the coastal hood where I grew up houses rows and rows of greenhouses. Not every evil happens in a basement. You can dig pretty far down before hitting water. Just the right depth to enclose a special room, where screams are muffled, and the sun of the massive greenhouse can’t reach you.
The smell of dirt and fertilizer always triggers fond memories of my second home. My wardens had a lot of children over the years. As many as five kids shared the dank, dark room at one time. Probably why I didn’t mind solitary confinement. I don’t like being in crowds; near people. We were the evil Brady Bunch. We had a mother and a father, and rules.
