“They’re part of a series, I’ve just—”
“You just put ‘em up online? That’s it?” a rough looking man in his mid-forties hollered across the room. Colin turned to face him.
“Yeah, I mean I had them edited, then I just—”
“Why don’t you stand up and tell us?” the first woman, whose face was punctuated by multiple piercings, asked. She had a sparkle in her dark brown eyes, and was indicating the front of the class with her chin.
Colin was confused at first, but quickly realized that she wanted him to teach.
He shook his head.
“Oh, no. I can’t—I came here to learn. I mean, I—I just put the books up there, they don’t really sell that well. I haven’t sold—”
“If you’re gonna keep on talking, do it up there!” another member of the group interrupted.
Colin felt claustrophobia begin to sink in.
“I can’t I—”
The woman with the piercings and black hair that was shaved at the sides leaned in close.
“Don’t be a fucking pussy. Go stand at the front of the class.”
Colin wasn’t sure if it was the curse that made him stand, or if it was because the woman was ordering him around like Ryanne. Whatever the reason, he stood and before he truly realized what was happening, he was at the front of the class, staring at the five other students.
He bowed his head and took a deep breath. Blowing the air out slowly, Colin raised his eyes and looked at each of the students individually before speaking.
“If there is only one thing I’ve learned about writing, is that you need write about what you know. You need to experience things in order to write about them. That is probably the only universal truth to literature.”
CHAPTER 11
Drake leaned down to get a better look. The woman’s arms were a mess, slashed so deeply in some spots that he could see gleaming bone peeking through. But the most disturbing aspect was that some of the wounds were old enough to have started to heal.
This wasn’t a crime of passion. This was deliberate. This was torture.
And that said nothing of the dark smear on her lips.
“This likely wasn’t his first kill,” Drake said quietly. He hadn’t meant to say the words out loud, but when he did, they shocked him a little. He glanced up, and his gaze fell on Agent Stitts. The man was older than Drake, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes suggested as much, but by how many years, he couldn’t tell. Whereas Drake’s idea of a good time was a bottle of whiskey and a slice of Key Lime pie, Jeremy Stitts looked like the type of guy who enjoyed pumping iron and being fitted for custom suits.
“How do you know?” Stitts asked. His voice was light and friendly, making it clear that it wasn’t an accusation, and yet Drake resented the question.
He rose to his feet.
“Because some of the wounds on her arms have already started to heal—she was held captive for a couple of days, at least. A first-time murderer doesn’t hold people captive. He gets nervous, doesn’t want to get caught. Kills them, dumps the body. Usually far from their home or the place they killed them.”
“Ninety-eight percent of abducted children end up dead if they’re aren’t found in the first twenty-four hours.” Agent Stitts offered.
Drake frowned.
“The number isn’t that different for adults.” He turned to Chase. “And first time murders don’t do two at a time. Where’s the second body?”
Chase stepped out of the stall and made her way to the last one on the right.
“We found this one beneath the hay; didn’t even know she was here.”
Drake walked over to the woman. Unlike the first victim who was propped up, this one was almost completely covered in hay.
Does this mean she’s more or less important than the other victim?
One thing was clear: they both sported the macabre lipstick.
“We can’t disturb the hay—might be trace evidence in it. Sweat, hair, etc. Need to wait for the ME and CSU to get here.”
Drake, remembering Chase’s comment about Beckett, said, “And Dr. Campbell’s definitely not coming?”
Chase’s eyes darted nervously over at the FBI Agent, and it looked as if her breath hitched.
Drake had heard about what happened, of course, about how Craig Sloan had blasted his way out of his trunk. About how Beckett had struck him in the head with a rock before Craig could turn the gun on him.
Killed him dead.
Drake hadn’t shed any tears for the man, that’s for sure.
Not after Craig had gotten people he loved involved with his killing spree.
“No, he’s on vacation,” Chase said, repeating what she had told him earlier.
“A Junior ME is on the way.”
Drake chewed the inside of his cheek, mulling over everything that he had put together since he had parked his car and walked over to Detective Yasiv.
“Doesn’t matter. I doubt we’ll find any trace evidence here.”
Agent Stitts stepped out of the way to allow Drake to enter the main corridor, nodding as he did.
“The killer hasn’t been here before. This is his first time, and I doubt he’ll be back.”
Drake narrowed his eyes at Agent Stitts as he passed. Although he shared the man’s opinion, he wasn’t too keen on him stealing the words from his mouth.
Why is he here, anyway? There’s no evidence that the killer crossed state lines. Why did Chase bring him in?
Drake shook the feeling away and started toward the front door. Chase, an annoyed expression on her face, hurried to keep stride.
“Okay, boys, time to come clean… clue the little ol’ Sergeant in on your telekinesis, would you? How do you know that the killer’s never been here before?”
Drake looked to Agent Stitts, then to Chase.
“Because if he had known, he wouldn’t have put the bodies here,” he said.
Chase made a face.
“And why not?”
It was Agent Stitts who answered, and Drake’s frown deepened.
“Because if he had been here before, he would have known that Mr. Dolan had abandoned it years ago, and, more importantly, he would have known that this barn is often used by homeless people and drifters when the weather gets really cold.”
“And this killer didn’t want the bodies to be found. Not yet, anyways,” Drake chimed in.
“And why not?”
Drake’s answer was so immediate that it surprised even himself.
“Because the final chapter has yet to be written. The killer is going to strike again, and soon.”
~
Eventually, Drake found himself back in the conference room at 62nd precinct where he and Chase had once strung up images of Thomas Smith and the other Butterfly Killer victims.
“Sheriff Roshack of Larchmont County or Village or whatever the hell it is pretty much signed the entire case over to me,” Chase said. Drake was barely paying attention; he was too focused on the new images on the board, the photographs that Chase’s team had printed of the two dead girls from the barn. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want this wrapped up quickly. Fact is, there’s a lot of pressure to get this thing under wraps with as little media attention as possible. And I think we can all guess why.”
This last sentence peaked Drake’s interest, and he looked around briefly to see if others picked up on Chase’s insinuation.
Detectives Yasiv and Simmons were nodding subtly, but Agent Stitts was staring stone-faced at Chase at the front of the room.
So that’s why he’s here, Drake thought.
…a lot of pressure to get this thing under wraps…
Drake wondered if Ken was the one applying said pressure.
It wouldn’t surprise him. Fact is, mayoral front-runner Ken Smith seemed to have his thumb pressing down firmly on all the NYPD-related buttons.
And it’s only going to get worse, if—when—he becomes mayor.
What had Screech said?
Whoever’s backed by the NYPD wins, or something like that.
And Ken Smith didn’t so much as have the NYPD’s backing as he was their back.
“Drake? You okay?”
He shuddered, and took a sip of his own coffee.
It tasted like burnt charcoal.
“Fine,” he grumbled.
Chase nodded and then continued with her pre-amble. As she spoke, Drake reached into his coat that he had thrown over the back of the chair, and fondled the e-reader within. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t mentioned the story, but something about the timing just seemed off.
Besides, he had driven straight from the barn in Larchmont to 62nd precinct, and hadn’t had a chance to read the end of it.
“Did the ME clear the body yet?” Detective Yasiv asked, when Chase finally finished.
Chase nodded.
“Yes. Cause of death looks to be a combination of blood loss and the cold.”
“Any idea how long the victims were held captive? Any missing person reports?” Detective Simmons asked.
Chase shook her head.
“We’ll know—”
The door to the conference room opened, and Officer Dunbar entered.
He was young, although not quite as young as Detective Yasiv, and had put on considerable weight since Drake had seen him last. Drake liked the guy; he was friendly, helpful, and kind. There wasn’t much to dislike, actually.
But he could also see why the man was stuck down in Records instead of being out in the field.
Nobody that nice could make it out in the open, exposed. They would be eaten alive by the business, torn apart by the atrocities of the crimes, taken advantage of the Marcus Slasinsky’s and Craig Sloan’s of the world. People like whoever this new sick bastard was with a fetish for organic lipstick.
“Hi,” he said hesitantly, looking first to Chase for support. She nodded encouragingly.
“Come on in,” she instructed. “This is FBI Agent Jeremy Stitts—you know everyone else.”
Dunbar nodded to the federal agent.
“Officer Robert Dunbar,” he said, offering his hand.
“And of course you know Drake.”
Dunbar nodded at him.
“Welcome back.”
Drake frowned.
Why does everyone keep saying that? I’m not back…
“I’m not back. I’m here as a… what’d you call it, Chase?”
Chase gave him a queer look.
“Special Consultant,” she said, before facing the rest of the room. “I’ve brought both Agent Stitts and Drake on board based on their experience with serial killers—and the need to wrap this thing up quickly. Even though there are only two bodies, I think we can all agree that this isn’t the act of someone who is going to stop any time soon. And now that you grinders have gotten acquainted, maybe we can do away with the introductions and start putting out some theories? Ideas, anyone?”
Dunbar strode forward and put a folder on the table in front of Chase.
“That’s where I can help, I think.”
Chase opened the folder, and started to read. Drake watched as her frown deepened.
When she was done, she spun the folder around and passed it to Drake first.
“Melissa Green, 29, and Tanya Farthing, 31,” Chase said grimly. She started scribbling on pieces of paper, then put the names and ages on the board beneath the appropriate images.
Drake scanned the file that Dunbar had provided.
“Did they know each other?” Agent Stitts asked.
Drake shook his head.
“Doesn’t look like it. Melissa was a young mother of two, Tanya was a Law Student at NYU Law. Lived on opposite sides of town, and opposite sides of the social spectrum.”
He continued to read.
“Melissa went missing about a week ago, while Tanya didn’t show up to class four days ago.”
Silence fell over the group.
“I’m glad you brought me in,” Agent Stitts said at last. “Because you’re right, Drake. This isn’t going to be the last murder.”
CHAPTER 12
Drake left 62nd precinct with more on his mind than he had expected for a lazy Tuesday afternoon. And yet most of his mental acuity wasn’t exhausted on the two dead girls, but focused on something else: the strange e-reader loaded with Red Smile, which held an odd similarity to the murders in the barn.
But before he relinquished the device to Chase and Agent Stitts, he felt an urge to read more, and to learn about the whole eBook business. In his estimation, it was best if he exercised some good ol’ fashioned police work first, before he sent the FBI off on some half-baked tangent.
After all, this approach had saved Suzan Cuthbert’s life.
As he drove back to Triple D, Drake’s mind drifted to Suzan, to the night when he had pulled her smoldering body out of the burning building. And as had become habit when his thoughts turned to that night, his fingers started to rub the pink scar tissue on his cheek.
After leaving the hospital to deal with a pressing domestic violence issue, he had eventually made his way back to see Suzan. He hadn’t wanted her to know that he was there—hadn’t expected her to see him, given the hypobaric chamber that she was housed in—but she had.
And her reaction was completely unexpected. Recalling the way she had screamed at him when he had arrived at her house that day to speak to Jasmine, he thought that maybe she would yell at him through her oxygen mask, demand that he get the hell out. After all, Suzan couldn’t have known that he was the one that had saved her; she was unconscious and half-dead from smoke inhalation when he had pulled her out.
Instead of anger, Drake had seen sadness in her eyes. A deep, brooding anguish that seemed to transform her entire face.
The only problem was, Drake didn’t know if the sadness was directed at him, or if she simply harbored it for herself.
Drake reached up and wiped a tear from his cheek, and then his hand snaked its way into his pocket and fondled the finger bone within.
I’ll find out who did this to you, Clay. I’ll find out who killed you—for Suzan, for Jasmine, and most of all for me.
But first he had another crime to solve, and as much as he hated to admit it, he couldn’t help but think that Agent Stitts was correct.
Their killer would strike again. It was only a matter of time.
Drake pulled into the parking lot of the strip mall that housed Triple D, noting with a frown that it hadn’t been plowed yet. The snow was coming down heavier now, and even though it didn’t feel that cold—it had to still be in the thirties—it was only a matter of time before the snow turned to ice. And given their most common clientele—octogenarian’s courtesy of Ken Smith—they had to make sure that the next lawsuits they filed weren’t against Triple D.
Drake opened the door, knocked the snow from his boots on the stupid Jump to Conclusions mat, then tried the light.
It didn’t go on.
“Fuck,” he grumbled. “Screech? You still here?”
There was no answer. It was dark inside Triple D despite being midday, and Drake was forced to turn on his cell phone to be able to navigate his way. With a dissatisfied grunt, he flicked the light a few more times, once again admonishing himself for not moving before winter hit. He had originally leased the place for a year, and now, nine months in, he knew that it would be impossible to get out of their lease. Subletting in the dead of winter? Fat chance. And while the influx of capital from Mrs. Armatridge was plenty sufficient, he was reluctant to just throw it away.
Things could change, could become lean very quickly, he knew.
“Screech?”
To his surprise, his partner seemed to have finally left the confines of the office.
He tried the light switch a final time, and was about to remove his coat when he spotted something that caused him to freeze.
The door to his office was open. He never left it open, and Screech had been given e
xplicit instructions to make sure that it was closed in the event he ever left Triple D.
“Anyone here?” he said, slipping a hand under his armpit out of habit.
It had been a long time since he had carried a gun, especially one in the armpit holster, but old habits died hard. And as a PI, he wasn’t permitted to carry. He wondered briefly if Chase could approve a handgun based on his ‘Special Consultant’ status, then swept the thoughts away—it was too late for that now.
That didn’t mean that he didn’t have a gun—he did, of course—but he just didn’t have it on him.
It was in his office.
“Anyone?”
He moved silently across the front entrance, passing the vacant maroon chairs against the wall. With his eyes locked on the door to his office, he walked to the reception desk and reached below the cheap plasterboard material. His searching fingers found the baseball bat strapped beneath and tried to pull it free without making a noise.
He winced as the Velcro that Screech had used to hold it in place tore away, and he silently cursed the man.
It sounded like someone with incredible dry mouth eating a Dorito inside a vacuum.
And yet there was still no movement from the office, despite the sound.
Imbued by confidence that only the heft of an aluminum Louisville Slugger could afford, Drake strode forward. When he reached the partially open door to his office, however, a sudden sense of dread overcame him.
His first instinct was that he would find Dr. Kildare sitting inside, waiting to confront him about the other night, threatening to report him to Ken Smith.
But he quickly vanquished this notion.
It didn’t make sense.
The doctor who, aside from his fidelity transgressions, was morally perfect broke into his office? To confront him? To what end?
No, it had to be something else.
Someone else.
The real Skeleton King, perhaps.
A flash of anger suddenly washed over him as he pictured Clay’s face, blood and spit clinging to his beard as he drew his final breath.
Drake used his free arm to throw the door wide and then lunged forward, leading with the bat.
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