“Ten years ago, this lady’s fiancé,” Deming said, “left her for another woman. She’s never gotten over him. It ruined her life.” She dropped the letter in front of Hannah, moving on to the next letter. “Someone should have told her men aren’t worth that kind of heartache,” the profiler mumbled.
“You’ll get your chance to lecture the woman when we track her down,” Jack said, “and save her life.”
Vivian was reading a letter instead of giving Gilroy the names he needed, but the special agent seemed patience personified, unlike Hannah. “Vivian,” Hannah said, with more sharpness of tone than she’d intended. “Gilroy needs the names the Boston Globe gathered for us.” The tech ignored her, and continued reading.
“Poor lady.” Deming was reading, too, shaking her head.
“How do you know the writer is a woman?” Ferguson was reading, too, a pained grimace in place.
Deming’s expression was colored with sadness. “She’s in the hospital, lover dead, losing their baby.” Deming turned toward Hannah. As did Vivian. The room went silent, and it was clear that everyone had figured it was Hannah’s letter.
Her deepest wound was exposed, and she wanted to die.
Vivian was the first to recover. “We have all but two return addresses.” Vivian handed Gilroy a stack of papers. “The…ah, the author of the letter Deming just read, and the letter about…the unrequited love.” She held another paper out to Gilroy, who didn’t look at it before hurrying from the room. “I’ll contact the Globe about the other writers.” She glanced at Hannah, and then stared at her phone, but made no move to lift the receiver.
Jack clapped his hands twice, catching everyone’s attention. “Saving these people is our top priority. Ferguson, go chase Gilroy down. He should have waited for you.” Ferguson glanced at Hannah before he left the room, but she couldn’t meet his gaze, so she had no idea what he was thinking. In fact, she didn’t want to know. “Vivian,” Jack said, “when you talk with your contact at the Boston Globe, make sure they understand this information is not for publication, that lives are on the line. Then brainstorm ideas with them on how we can track the missing letter writers’ identities without tipping off the killer that we’ve found his kill list. If we can’t find the names quickly any other way, we’ll just have to give the Globe a scoop like they’ve never seen before.”
Vivian lifted her phone’s receiver, but didn’t dial yet. “Hannah? Did you lose the baby?” Hannah’s throat spasmed closed, making it hard to breathe. It took her a moment to find her composure as the room fell silent, everyone staring.
“Yes.” Eyes averted, Hannah did her best to sell the lie. Though it was for a good cause, it was still hard lying to people who cared. Deming’s sympathy tore at her, and Vivian seemed devastated. She could only hope they’d forgive her when this case was over and the truth known.
Jack rested his hand on her shoulder again, squeezing gently. “Good work, everyone.” Then he stepped to the murder board and wrote Mercy Killer on the top. “Our perp is putting his victims out of their misery. Chalk one up for behavioral science.”
Deming folded her arms over her chest, frowning at the board. “Our perp can’t handle his victims’ pain, but has no problem with their suffering while he kills them. What a sick bastard.”
“William Blake is rolling in his grave.” Vivian dialed, putting the phone’s receiver to her ear
Jack held Hannah’s gaze, not saying anything. He’d allowed her lie about Ellen to stand, supporting her decision to keep their daughter’s existence a secret. That’s all that mattered. Her team’s support was gravy. It humbled her, filling her with gratitude and relief. One less thing to worry about.
An hour later, Jack’s phone pinged and he glanced at its screen. “Vivian, your contacts at the Boston Globe came through. Gilroy just texted me that patrol cars have picked up the targets now. All writers are accounted for except the one. Any progress on tracking down the unrequited lover?”
Vivian shook her head and opened a small bag of chips, munching away. “They want to reprint it and ask the writer to contact them. I told them no.” She shrugged. “If they can’t find the target, can the killer? I think we should inform the Boston Globe about the poem. It will protect any future victims and the information that we have the kill list.”
Jack nodded. It was on his list of things to discuss with the lieutenant.
Charlie Foulkes walked in holding a manila folder, scanned the room and his gaze lingered on Special Agent Deming before zeroing in on Jack. “The toxicology report on Buntle.” He lifted the file shoulder height. “Test confirms what we already knew. It was chloroform. He was drugged. A first for this killer. Maybe Buntle, though paralyzed, wasn’t such an easy mark.” Charlie stepped up to Jack and gave him the file.
“Thanks, Charlie,” Hannah said.
He glanced at Hannah and nodded. “No discernable wheelchair tracks around the site, and though we can’t completely rule out that he was in his chair up until he was put in the tomb, we’re thinking Buntle was carried, so the perp is strong enough to lift a hundred-and-thirty-pound person.”
“The burying ground was dry and packed that day,” Jack said.
“Which is why the wheel chair can’t be ruled out. The chloroform rules out the victim lowering himself into that grave on his own steam, so the perp touched him one way or the other.”
“But no DNA? How’d he manage that?” Jack said.
“He knows forensics,” Charlie said. “Buntle was awake when he died…the torn plastic around his head, his bloody nails, and the blood on the lid’s interior. He tried to loosen the tape around his neck.” He indicated both sides of his neck. “Claw marks here, and here. Blood on his hands. His own. No secondary DNA.”
Hannah sighed, feeling depressed. Another manila folder filled with their poem expert’s notes sat on her desk. UMass had it hand-delivered. She picked up the folder and opened it, seeing a paragraph flagged with a yellow sticky note.
“The best poems are ‘distillations of pain, grief, love. Intense.’ It says so right here,” Hannah said, “so it must be true.” She dropped the file on her desk with a resounding thud.
Charlie shrugged. “A poem never spoke to me unless it said, memorize me or you’ll flunk this class.” He glanced at Deming, but she was looking at her nails. “I’ve a ton of work on my desk to wade through. If I find anything new, I’ll deliver it.”
“No need,” Deming said. “Just send it up with someone you trust.” Still, she studied her nails. Charlie looked as if he were about to respond, but then turned and left without a word.
“What is up with you two?” Jack said. “How do you even know him?”
Deming bit her lip. “He used to be best friends with my brother.” Jack’s frown disappeared, and he nodded as if that explained everything, but everyone else continued to stare at Deming.
“Vivian?” Hannah said. “Can you put the next stanza on the murder board?”
Vivian complied, just as the incident room door opened again. Mrs. Pepperidge, carrying a bright purple clutch, rushed in. Her impractical purple heels clip-clopped on the tile and her white A-line dress swayed about her calves.
“I just heard. Where is Cooper?” Clearly upset, Mrs. Pepperidge looked toward her husband’s office. “How could you people let me walk around Boston willy-nilly knowing there’s a killer on the loose?” She hurried into her husband’s office.
Jack exchanged glances with Hannah. Neither knew what to say.
Deming shrugged. “Killers are always on the loose in Boston.”
Vivian frowned. “She’s scared.”
Even behind the closed door of the lieutenant’s office, they could hear Mrs. Pepperidge’s voice rise and fall, though Hannah couldn’t make out the words spoken. Hannah didn’t blame the lieutenant’s wife for being upset. If Hannah’s husband had information a serial
killer was on the loose and didn’t warn her, she’d skin him alive.
“Deming,” Jack said, “I need you and Vivian to work up a preliminary report on where we’re at with this case. I need to present it to Pepperidge by end of day. Give me enough time to review it first, please.” Deming nodded. “Hannah. You’re with me.” Jack waved her toward Pepperidge’s office. “We’ve waited too long as it is to read him into our findings.”
Hannah wanted to wait until the Pepperidges’ marital spat died down, but Jack was knocking on the door and the lieutenant shouted “Enter” before she could have her say. Jack opened the door. The Pepperidges both seemed relieved to see them. Then the lieutenant kissed his wife’s cheek.
“Honey,” he said, “we’ll talk more on this when I get home tonight.”
Mrs. Pepperidge, still upset, nevertheless nodded and silently moved to leave. Hannah saw her chin quiver and couldn’t help but extend her hand for a sympathetic touch. “Try not to worry,” Hannah said. “Our perp works from a list, and you’re not on it.”
Mrs. Pepperidge couldn’t hide her surprise, but recovered quickly, patting Hannah’s hand. She mouthed “thank you,” then hurried away.
“Lieutenant, we need to talk,” Jack said.
Pepperidge’s genial expression disappeared when the door closed behind his wife. “Who the hell leaked this information to the press?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” Jack handed him a folder. “I had Gilroy check every one of my team’s alibis himself, so my team is cleared.” He glanced at Hannah. “Natalie checked out, too. You didn’t tell me she was special ops.”
Hannah narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t ask.”
Pepperidge dropped the file on his desk without even opening it. “I’ll be lucky if I have a job tomorrow. Hell, I’ll be lucky if I have a marriage tonight.” He glanced at a tin of cookies on his desk, and then pressed his palm to his belly, sighing. “I could have told you none of them were suspects. The killer must be someone at your brownstone, Cambridge. How many people live in that building, and how many people go in and out every day visiting them? Your time would have been better served investigating them.”
“Ferguson did.” Hannah placed another file on Pepperidge’s desk. “Another dead end. All had alibis or they are clearly incapable of the kills. Some are on walkers.”
“Really?” Pepperidge grimaced, and then absently opened the cookie tin, grabbing one, and biting into it. “Maybe it’s time to get fresh eyes on this.” He offered the tin to Jack and Hannah. Both declined.
“With all due respect, Lieutenant,” Jack glanced at Hannah, “I’m the fresh eyes here. I’ve been on the case two days and we’re close, and getting closer.”
“Horseshit. You didn’t tell me that you and Cambridge were lovers.” Pepperidge glowered. “If the DA had known, you’d never have been okayed to replace her, and you know that. We need someone who can see things clearly.”
“My life is the bureau,” Hannah said. “All I ever had was Jack, and when he’d died, I was alone, except for my job. No one knew of my troubles, and no one could have tied me to the letter I sent to the newspaper. None of that changes because Jack knew me a year ago.”
“Someone knew what was going on in your life,” Pepperidge said. “Someone knew you wrote to the Boston Globe.” He turned to Jack. “Figure this out.”
Then Pepperidge offered Hannah a cookie again. He couldn’t hide his concern.
Hannah and the lieutenant had something in common. A stillborn baby. Or so the lieutenant thought. Her letter had to have triggered painful memories for him, and for that she was sorry. Ellen didn’t die, but the lieutenant and Mrs. Pepperidge’s babies did. There was no correcting the impression without admitting the truth, and Hannah refused to do that, so was forced to stand there and accept the lieutenant’s sympathy, even though she didn’t deserve it.
Hannah grabbed a cookie and bit it, needing a distraction from her quivering chin.
“Our perp knows Hannah and is local,” Jack said. “Hannah transferred from D.C. last November. Everyone she’s become close to here has been vetted. I saw to it.”
“You’re missing something.” Pepperidge closed the cookie tin. “Do better, Benton. Special Agent Cambridge’s life depends on you doing better.” Jack nodded, lowering his gaze. “Tell your team they’ve been investigated and cleared. I don’t want this coming up later, blindsiding anyone.”
She and Jack both had their marching orders. Read the team in. Not long after they stepped out of Pepperidge’s office, they saw Mrs. Pepperidge walking into the incident room holding bags of sodas and leading a delivery guy who carried multiple pizza boxes from a restaurant a block down from the building. Jack hurried to help Mrs. Pepperidge carry the bags.
“I’m sorry for causing a scene,” Mrs. Pepperidge said. “Please accept pizza as my way of apologizing. Food is love!”
The lieutenant trailed from his office into the incident room. “Jolene? That was quick.” His wife hurried to his side, gave him a peck on the lips and whispered something in his ear. His answering smile said all was right in their world.
Hannah’s heart swelled as she watched the couple. Even deep in the chaos of this case, they managed to keep their priorities straight. They loved each other, and worked every day to make that their world. Hannah saw it from their scheduled date nights, his buying bouquets of roses, and his wife’s frequent visits to the precinct bringing pizza, cookies, and kind words.
Hannah wanted that. She glanced at Jack, wondering if he saw what she saw; a couple who worked through their problems, trusting in the other to have their back, to be there when times became tough.
Jack was glaring at a report on his desk, his mind where it should be, she supposed. On the case.
Hannah sighed as the Pepperidges ensconced themselves in the lieutenant’s office, closing out the world, and them in. Her envy was a familiar thing, but now it served a purpose other than depressing her. She knew what she wanted. To be loved, to give Ellen a father. And now that Jack was back, she had a choice to make. Did she want Jack to be that person? Could she trust him to be there for her when times became tough? That remained to be seen.
The case was taking a toll on him, on them, but when they were at home with Ellen, all that melted away. He was happy when he was with Ellen. Happy in a way he’d never been when it was just her. More content, less anxious. It was good for Ellen, but Hannah wasn’t sure what that meant for Jack and Hannah’s relationship.
Vivian handed out a packet of information to every team member. “Six months of Boston Globe’s advice column. Everyone gets a copy. They’ve discontinued the column until further notice, and are waiting on Special Agent Benton’s okay to reprint our last anonymous writer’s letter.” Vivian bit her lip, distracted.
“The jilted lover letter,” Deming said, nodding. “It’s risky. It would definitely tip off the killer, but we can’t use that person as bait. It would be unconscionable.”
“The Boston Globe is going above and beyond,” Vivian said. “They want this guy caught, too.”
Hannah grimaced. “The Globe reported what little information we had on the perp. He’s feeling safe, and I don’t want him feeling safe. I want him anxious and scared. I need him making mistakes. There’s a leak in the department reporting to the news media and it’s hurt our investigation. The paper didn’t care about that.”
“They’re doing their job. Free press, remember?” Vivian taped the next stanza onto the murder board. “‘Seven more loves weep night and day, Round the tombs where my loves lay, And seven more loves attend each night, Around my couch with torches bright.’”
“That’s a lot of sevens.” Jack wasn’t hiding his unease. The killer’s clues were proving useless to prevent the next kill. “Are we even sure there will be another kill? We’ve taken away his targets.”
“I don’t know,
” Deming said. “Our perp would need to break his pattern to continue. He’d have to find new victims, or he could stop. Let’s hope this puts him off his game and he makes a mistake.”
“We have to assume he’ll try to kill again,” Hannah said, “so we have to assume the next stanza will guide him.”
Mrs. Pepperidge exited her husband’s office like a butterfly bursting from its chrysalis. “Did I hear you right? All the killer’s targets are safe? I can’t tell you how that relieves my mind.”
Lieutenant Pepperidge nodded. “I’ll see you tonight, Jolene.”
Mrs. Pepperidge waved good-bye. “Once again, sorry about earlier.”
“We totally understand,” Hannah said. “In our line of work, it’s easy to get used to things that should never become commonplace.”
They all thanked Mrs. Pepperidge for the pizza and soda, and then watched her leave. The lieutenant settled his gaze on Hannah, who shook her head. “We haven’t told them,” she said.
“Told us what?” Ferguson walked into the incident room, with Gilroy trailing behind him. “We just saved a slew of potential victims, and instead of coming back to a hero’s welcome, Gilroy and I are greeted with more problems. Why am I not surprised? What did Deming do now?”
“Oh, blow me, Ferguson.” Deming picked up a slice of pizza, and moved to her desk, looking exhausted.
Gilroy sat heavily on his chair, and used his palm to rub his eye. “All the targets are in police protective custody as we speak,” he said.
“Tell them,” Pepperidge said.
Jack nodded to Hannah. She knew he was right. There was no putting this off. “The killer knows me. Enough to have guessed I wrote one of the letters,” she said.
Reactions were all over the place, but embarrassment ruled. Deming was the first to speak. “You kept this from us because…?”
“You know why.” Ferguson grabbed a slice from a pizza box. “We’re suspects.”
Catch a Killer Page 19
