Blind: Killer Instincts

by Sidney Bristol

  He waved flies away from his face and pulled out his cell phone, activating his recording app. He wouldn’t step foot in the kitchen until the forensics team went over the scene. There was too much blood—everywhere.

  “Victim is positioned in his kitchen, tied to what I assume is a ladder-back chair from the breakfast nook. Judging from the blood splatter throughout the room, the attack started near the back door. There was a struggle. Some kitchen utensils and things are broken. There’s papers strewn around and some things are knocked off the kitchen counter. Canisters. A box of cereal. The victim seems to have been posed. He is tied with his palms up, head tilted back, and his eyeballs...” His mouth was dry. “His eyes are gone. Where’s the fucking CSI team?”

  He leaned as far over the threshold as he dared without disturbing the blood spatter. He wanted a closer look to see what manner of tools might have been used. If it was a frying pan and a meat tenderizer, he’d lose his shit. The posing, the brutality and especially the missing eyeballs. It was too coincidental.

  Jacob paced into the living room.

  Was he crazy? Was he looking for a copycat where there wasn’t one?

  He glanced over his shoulder, but he was alone.

  The poor vic had experienced the three hallmarks of the notorious Oklahoma City serial killer.

  Torture.

  Blind.

  Kill.

  Jacob’s head spun, pulling together a hundred different factoids about the murders from his father’s time, building a case. It was the only thing he could do. Where did he start? How was this victim connected to their killer?

  TBK had picked his victims from people he knew, or were on the fringes of his life. Two victims seemed to be kills of opportunity, but he’d tortured them all to the point of death, and in their final moments he removed the eyeballs as some sort of sick trophy.

  If this murder was going to follow the pattern, that meant someone in Harold’s life was a killer.

  The letters, now this. It was too much of a coincidence.

  Where was that damn forensics team? He needed to search the scene, see if this copycat left anything. If there was a letter.

  It couldn’t be the real TBK, could it? His father had arrested him, hadn’t he?

  He pulled out his cell phone, punching in a number he did not want to dial. He paced the living room, searching for anything that seemed out of place. Had anything been stolen? Was the murderer in any of the photographs? The victim seemed to be an excellent housekeeper, neat and tidy to the extreme. It should have been easy to tell if anything was missing, but nothing appeared out of place.

  “Lieutenant Miller,” a grating voice said on the other end of the line.

  Jacob ground his teeth. “Hey LT.”

  “Payton. How’s the scene looking?”

  “Like a TBK copycat.”

  Miller sighed heavily. “Payton, we talked about those letters and agreed someone is fucking with you.”

  “The victim is bound in a similar fashion to the very first TBK victim. And, his eyes are removed.” Payton paused in front of a wall of photographs, the ones with the floats. Warning bells went off in his head.

  The Pride Parade.

  “Do I need to take you off this case? I can assign someone else. Maybe you need to be on desk duty until Freeman gets back.”

  “I do not need to be reassigned, I’m just saying it’s too much coincidence.”

  “No, Payton, you work this crime how it is. By the book. Relying on what happened in the past is going to blind you to what this killer did.”

  Jacob’s vision hazed red and he ground his teeth together.

  One...two...three...

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do that as soon as the forensics team gets here.”

  Four...five...six...

  “Good. Brief me when you’re done, I want this case closed in a week. We can’t have any more open ones lying around. Now get to work.” Miller hung up the line.

  Seven...eight...

  Oh who the fuck was he kidding? He wanted to deck Miller in that obnoxious, stubbed nose of his and break his teeth. It wouldn’t fix things, but it would make him feel a little bit better.

  Jacob turned back to the pictures, grasping for the strands of thought teasing his memory.

  Harold was an activist for the gay community. It was all over this wall. It had never been proven, but TBK’s first victim was suspected of being part of the lesbian community, which at the time was a much smaller and tight-lipped group of people. Was that the link between the kills?

  Lt. Miller would never accept they had a copycat on their hands, because for some damn reason the man had this bullshit idea he and Jacob were in competition with each other. All because their dads had been cops. Miller was a tool to work for and the bane of Jacob’s existence since becoming lieutenant. All he could figure was that Miller considered himself the victor in this one-sided game, while all Jacob wanted to do was catch the bad guys. He didn’t play the system like Miller.

  Which left Jacob with a predicament on his hands. He knew this was a copycat. The evidence might not be as solid as Miller would want, but the signs were there.

  Footsteps heralded more people on the scene. He turned toward the door and felt at least some of the tension ease.

  “My favorite CSI team.”

  Jacob shook the hand of the two-man geek squad before launching into what he could tell them of the scene.

  Miller wanted him to work this like any other case? He could do that, but someone else was going to point to TBK, and when the chief of police heard it from someone else, Miller would be in a world of hurt. Not that Jacob took any joy in seeing his LT screw the pooch, but this time around he’d like to know he was right.

  “What do you think was the murder weapon?” Jacob leaned against the archway, trying to contain himself as the forensics team got to work.

  “Shit. All this blood came from him?” The lead shook his head. “I’m going to take a wild guess,” he leaned over the sink and snapped a few pictures, “and say a meat tenderizer. A big one. I’m guessing our vic did a lot of cooking. This doesn’t look like a cheap tool. Professional grade.”

  Jacob blew out a breath. “Hey, do me a favor and look at those papers there, on the floor?”

  “Dude, chill. Can’t rush the magic. Where’s Freeman?”

  “He ran off to Vegas with a stripper.” Jacob crossed his arms across his chest.

  “Vegas! Hey, did you see that news bit this morning about the creepy clown in Vegas?”

  “Clown? No.”

  “Yeah, this guy’s been seen in like, three cities in this clown costume, hanging out on street corners and busy intersections. Saw on Twitter he was spotted in Vegas a couple days ago. Clowns freak me out.”

  “Weird.” Okay, Jacob didn’t care about some clowns. He wanted those papers.

  He rolled his eyes and waited, crossing and uncrossing his arms. If this was a copycat, there’d be a letter today at the police station. What would happen then? Miller would fuck up this case. Jacob wasn’t sure if it was something he’d done, or a hold-over from Miller’s old man, who had not gotten on well with Jacob’s father, but there was no love lost between them.

  “Here.” The lead handed him the blood splattered papers. “Glad to see someone wears gloves at a scene.”

  “Thanks.” Jacob took the papers. He leafed through the first few, which appeared to be a legal, city document and cover letter. The last page, that chilled his blood.

  The “letter” was orange this time, but the rest fit the two Jacob had received. Images of bodies collaged together, and in the lower right hand corner—an eyeball.

  This wasn’t just a murder case anymore, this was something else entirely.

  Max hummed to the tune on the radio, resolutely ignoring the sensation of someone watching. It was all in his mind. He was alone. No one was behind him. If there was anyone, he could see them in one of the mirrors hanging behind his desk, but he was completely al
one.

  This was his safe haven.

  He clicked over to the chat room and smiled when he saw someone had joined him.

  Iron: Hi

  For a few moments, Joker’s icon didn’t show any activity and Max almost gave up, then a pencil appeared next to the name.

  Joker: Didn’t think you’d be online.

  Iron: Had a break. Hows it going?

  Joker: Just getting ready to start my project.

  Iron: Cant wait to see it. You being careful?

  Joker: Yes.

  Iron: Good.

  Iron: What city are you in now?

  Joker: Vegas.

  Max chewed his lip. He didn’t have much interaction with Joker. He was the quiet one of their online group. Hardly ever spoke. Hell, this might be the longest exchange Max had ever had with the guy.

  Did he tell Joker he thought he was being watched?

  No, it wasn’t like the guy could do anything through the Internet.

  Max was on his own. Besides, it was probably all in his head.

  Emma stared in horror at the TV in the office of the garage. She’d been out in the shop working on oil changes all morning and hadn’t seen the news until noon. Now, she couldn’t tear her gaze away from it. The guys darted glances her way as they ate their burgers, and she knew what they were thinking.

  They were her friends. Her teammates. And her co-workers.

  “You okay, Em?” The shop owner, Simon, sank into the waiting room chair next to her. They all gathered in the relative coolness to watch the news. It wasn’t like there was anything else on, not when the coverage was so horrible.

  “Yeah. Fine.” She swallowed hard.

  The news crews weren’t saying much, just that a man had been found murdered, his body posed. People were murdered every day, so that wasn’t what caught her attention. It was the letter the news anchor flashed on the screen.

  The image was similar to what Jacob had shown her last night, except it was orange. What did the colors mean? Did Jacob know? Why hadn’t he told her? Probably because she was nothing but a source to him. It shouldn’t sting, but it did.

  He was right though. Not that she doubted him when he said it was dangerous, but she’d hoped whoever had sent him the letters would fizzle out into a lack of follow through. But the copycat certainly had acted on his plan.

  “Some are saying this murder imitates that of TBK killer, Mitchell Black—”

  “I need some air.” Emma shoved to her feet and stalked into the shop. The heat wrapped around her like an electric blanket. Sweat beaded her brow, and her shirt stuck to her back within moments.

  She wanted to kill the murderer. Was that wrong?

  Did that make her like him?

  Emma needed to know more. She couldn’t sit here waiting for the news to tell her a watered-down version of the truth. She had to know what was going on. And wasn’t it her luck she knew a detective?

  But did she dare call him?

  He kissed her like it was the most important thing in the world. No man had ever made her feel like that. It had left her off-kilter and reeling, not to mention hornier than a teenager.

  If she called him, would he read into it?

  Did she want him to?

  Could she trust herself to ask the questions and not say, I want to see you again? She shouldn’t. He was a cop. The son of the man who’d traumatized her father even more after the murder of her grandparents, but it wasn’t like Jacob had been involved.

  Whatever.

  She wanted to talk to him, so Jacob would damn well talk to her.

  Emma punched in his contact and hit dial.

  The line didn’t get through a single ring.

  “Fuck, I meant to call you,” Jacob snarled, and the vicious quality of his voice soothed her nerves.

  “Is it your copycat?” Despite the heat, her skin was clammy, her palms cold.

  “I can’t talk about an open case.”

  “Fuck, don’t shut me out like this. You came to me. You involved me. I have a right to know.”

  He didn’t reply immediately. She heard rustling, the murmur of voices then the sound of a door clicking shut and silence.

  “I can’t talk about this right now,” he said.

  She would make him talk. She could figure out a way, couldn’t she?

  “Jacob—”

  “You aren’t hearing what I’m saying. Dinner. Tonight. My place. I can’t risk talking about this to you here, or in public. Now, shit is hitting the fan. I’ve got to go. I’ll let you know when to come over, okay?”

  The tension eased, and she wasn’t sure if it was because she’d get to see him again, or if it was because she would get answers. Why did the idea of being nearer to the badge-carrying cop make her breathe easier? She didn’t want to think too hard about that one. Or her little fantasy last night starring a detective and the back of her truck.

  “Okay,” she replied after a moment.

  “Are you still being careful?”

  “Yeah.” There was nothing more to say, but she wanted to talk to him more. Maybe then she’d understand the cosmic pull behind those intense blue eyes.

  “Shit, I’ve got to go. See you tonight.”

  The call ended abruptly, but it didn’t matter. She would see him tonight.

  Emma stared at her phone.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  She jerked her head around, glaring at the owner of the voice. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  Her ex-boyfriend, Derrick, stood outside the open bay doors to the garage. He’d never been a fan of the grease, but he’d liked to watch her fix things. She’d thought it was kind of hot for a while, but now her skin crawled as his gaze slid over her body. Why had she stayed with him for so long?

  “Wanted to check on you. I saw the news.” He took a step over the threshold.

  She threw up her hand. “Stop right there, asshole.”

  Derrick slowed to a halt, his petulant pout irritating her. She used to think he was cute when he didn’t get his way. Now she wanted to shove a tire iron up his nose and kick him to the curb. He wasn’t worth her time anymore.

  The office door banged open and Simon entered, headed straight for Derrick. “I thought I told you to stay the hell away from here.”

  Shit!

  “Simon, back off.” Emma stalked toward her ex and grabbed the front of his shirt before Simon did something stupid. “I’ll handle my own problems.”

  She loved the guys she worked with better than her own kin, but they could keep their noses in their own damn business. She was perfectly capable of handling a cheating ex-boyfriend on her own.

  Derrick followed her out and around the corner of the shop. With at least a thin layer of privacy, she wheeled to face him, hands balled into fists. Derrick wasn’t concerned about her. He wanted something. There wasn’t a selfless bone in that man’s body.

  “I thought I told you to leave me alone,” she said.

  “I know, I just thought if I gave you some time to cool down, you might see that it’s not that big of a deal.” He edged toward her, that charming smile coming out to play.

  “Oh stop that. We haven’t had a real relationship in a long time. Why are you really here?”

  “I saw the news, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “Please.” She rolled her eyes. “If you cared about me you wouldn’t have stuck your dick in a prostitute.”

  “It’s not cheating if you paid for it,” he whined. “Come on. You loved me.”

  “Derrick, seriously, get the fuck away from me. We’re over. Done. That’s it.” She’d loved him, but he’d never loved her. She knew that now.

  “Yeah, but it could have been love.”

  “No, it wasn’t. You love yourself too much to leave room for anyone else. Just—leave.” She stepped around him, feeling freer. She might actually owe Derrick a thank you for cheating on her. If she was still with him, she’d never have allowed Jacob to kis
s her. And she wanted to kiss the detective again. But first, she wanted answers.

  Jacob stepped out of the interview room and into chaos.

  Miller had all the detectives working the Harold Espinoza case. The phones were ringing, every available person was underfoot, and Jacob couldn’t even get to his desk. The shit had really hit the fan once the noon news went live with their kill note.

  He’d kept his head down after the telecast and the reporter making the same connection he had. It wouldn’t do to give Miller an I-told-you-so, not when he wanted to stay lead detective on the case.

  “Payton.” Police chief Kevin Stevenson stalked through the bullpen toward the LT’s office, dubbed the fish bowl because of the glass walls. “Miller’s office. Now.”

  Fuck.

  Jacob tensed and grabbed the files off his desk.

  “Chief, I was about to come give you an update,” Miller said as they entered his office.

  “Close the door, Payton.” Stevenson paced the length of the office. He glared at Miller then Jacob, sparing neither of them. “Why the hell didn’t you warn me about this?”

  “The murder just happened, sir—” Miller smoothed his tie, eyes darting around.

  “And the letters?” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “I quote, ‘Since my previous letters have gone without being heeded, I turn to the media.’ What the hell?” The chief tossed the smaller collage letter onto Miller’s desk.

  Miller’s jaw twitched, and he pointedly kept his gaze on Stevenson. “Payton did receive some unique notes, but that’s all they were.”

  Stevenson turned his gaze on Jacob. His father and Stevenson had once been partners. “Is this true?”

  “Yes, sir. I brought both of the letters I received in as soon as I got them.” He avoided mentioning Miller’s vehement statement that they were not dealing with a copycat.

  “Show me.”

  Jacob opened the file he’d carried in with him and presented it to Stevenson.

  “Shit. Why didn’t you say anything?” He slanted his glare toward Miller.

  “There was no proof we were dealing with a copycat. It could have been a prank. Some kid in a picture class wanking off and being stupid.” He waved his hand around, his voice going up a few notes. This was not going to look good for Miller.