Look Behind You

by Iris Johansen

  Metcalf rang the doorbell. A plump woman in her mid-fifties answered the door. Her red face and puffy eyes made it obvious that she’d been crying.

  Metcalf spoke gently as he flashed his ID. “Monica Lanton?”

  She nodded silently.

  “I’m special agent Roland Metcalf with the FBI. This is Dr. Kendra Michaels. I believe my colleague called and spoke to you?”

  “Yes.” She gestured toward a set of wicker chairs arranged around a table on her front porch. “Would you mind if we talked out here? The house is kind of a mess.”

  “Sure. Whatever is comfortable for you. We appreciate you giving us your time.” They moved across the porch and sat down.

  “I’m sorry for our visit,” Kendra said. “I know it’s asking a lot for you to speak about your son, Mrs. Lanton.”

  “Monica.” She shrugged. “Daryl’s never far from my mind, even after all these years. We keep a lot of his pictures around and all of his swim trophies … He’s always with me. Actually, it’s kind of nice to talk about him.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way,” Kendra said.

  “My husband doesn’t like it when I bring him up. He says it hurts too much. But the hurt is there whether you put it into words or not. I’m not about to pretend I’ll ever forget him.” She moistened her lips. “But I have to admit, it knocked me for a loop when that other agent called to tell me you were coming. It reminded me that Daryl’s killer is still out there.” She gazed at Metcalf hopefully. “Or is he? Did you catch him? Is that why you’re here?”

  “No,” Metcalf said. “But we may be closer than we’ve ever been.”

  “Good. I thought you all had forgotten my Daryl. I’ve been afraid the police just gave up.”

  “We looked at the file,” Kendra said. “The case had gone cold. When a serial killer just stops like he did, it’s often a sign that he’s dead or incarcerated for another crime.”

  “That’s what the detectives told us.” Monica’s lips were trembling. “I’ve been afraid we’d never get answers. It should have never happened. But since it did, we should at least know why and who was responsible.”

  “We realize that.” Kendra leaned forward. “Where was your son living when he died?”

  “He had an apartment here in downtown Oxnard. He had just graduated from Stanford, and he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with his life. His entire existence had always been about swimming, even in college. After graduation, he was a little … lost.” Monica’s eyes suddenly went moist and dark as if she was peering into another time, another place. “Anyway, his friends started calling us when they couldn’t get hold of him. He wasn’t answering his phone or his door. His father and I had a key, so we went down there one morning.” Monica looked down at her folded hands on the table. “I … found him.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Kendra said. “I know this isn’t easy for you. But can you tell us … Was anything missing?”

  “From his apartment?”

  “Or his person,” Metcalf said. “Something you noticed the killer may have taken from him.”

  Monica thought about it. “Well … I was never able to find his class ring.”

  Kendra and Metcalf glanced at each other.

  She shrugged. “I accused the medical examiner of losing it, but the police assured me it wasn’t on any of his fingers. They had the pictures to prove it.”

  Kendra reached into the canvas satchel she’d been holding from the moment they left the FBI offices in San Diego. She pulled out a clear plastic evidence bag that contained the ring they found at the crime scene only that morning. She displayed it to Monica. “Do you recognize this?”

  Monica gasped. “That’s it. That’s his ring.” Tears ran down her cheeks again. “Can I … hold it?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t let you do that,” Metcalf said. “It’s evidence in another case, and we’re going to try and get DNA from it. But I’ll make sure you get it soon, okay?”

  Monica nodded.

  Kendra pulled out two more plastic evidence bags. “How about these?”

  Monica took a moment to compose herself. “Yes. That’s definitely his diver’s watch. He would time his workouts, and it would vibrate on his wrist when he was done. And those look like his earplugs in the other bag. He always used Aqua Sphere brand.”

  Kendra put away the plastic bags. “Thank you. This will help us enormously.”

  “Where did you get those?” Monica stared at the canvas satchel in Kendra’s lap. “It’s been six years and you just now found these things? If you haven’t found Daryl’s killer, then how—?” Monica froze as she made the connection. “He’s killed someone else. Hasn’t he?”

  “We can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,” Metcalf said.

  “Of course you can’t. But why else would you have come all this way?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s not dead. He’s not in prison. He is still out there.”

  “It’s possible,” Kendra said. “We don’t know for sure.”

  “You’re being so careful. Neither of you want to tell me something that’s not true.” She shook her head. “But you don’t understand. You brought me hope today. Do you know how important that is?” Monica thought for a moment. When she spoke again, it was not from a place of weakness, but of strength. “I’ve felt completely helpless, but now I know someday you may knock on my door and tell me that you found that monster who killed my son. But before you do that, do something else for me, will you?” Her voice was uneven as she got to her feet and turned toward the door. “When you find him, make him pay. Make him hurt. Just like all the other people he’s hurt.” She headed for the door. “Remember them, remember us. Make him hurt…”

  * * *

  KENDRA AND METCALF SPENT most of the trip back to the airport in silence. To Kendra’s surprise Metcalf appeared to be visibly shaken after their meeting with Monica Lanton. It was a distressing change from the glib, tough young man she’d known from previous investigations.

  Shortly after their plane took off, she tapped him on the arm. “Hey, what’s going on, Metcalf?”

  He glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve seen you talk to family members of murder victims before. That lady got under your skin.”

  “You’re right.” He looked out the plane window where the sun was setting behind the ocean. “Dealing with the survivors, giving them bad news is a terrible part of the job. I know I’m about to give them the worst day of their lives. I can’t say I’ve ever gotten used to it, but I’ve found a way to deal.”

  “And what was the difference with her?”

  Metcalf leaned back in his seat. “I’ve never worked a cold case before. Six years later that woman is still living in hell. And I’m not sure if it would be any better if they’d caught the guy. When we solve a murder case, I like to think I’m giving the family some peace, you know? But seeing how this has devastated her, even after all this time … There’s not much peace to be had.”

  “Maybe not. But even if there isn’t much we can do for her, we might save other families from going through this. Right?”

  Metcalf nodded.

  “That’s what keeps me going.” She made a face. “This investigative stuff isn’t fun for me. You know that, Metcalf. It’s nothing I’ve ever really wanted to do. But there are so many monsters out there. If I can keep one of those monsters from taking one more life, from devastating one more family, it’s worth it to me.”

  Metcalf nodded. “I know it is. And Griffin knows it, too.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “When I recruited you for this case, he told me to tell you that you owed him. And if that didn’t work, he told me to remind you that innocent people might die if you didn’t help us.”

  “That son of a bitch.”

  “Does it really surprise you that he’d use that?”

  “Not really. I guess it just annoys me that he’s so up-front about being a scumbag.” />
  “Are you kidding? He’s made a career of it. But at least he’s a reliable scumbag, and no one cares about the job more than he does. And he always has our backs, which you don’t often see. He probably would have gone further in the Bureau if he’d been willing to grab more credit from us or occasionally throw one of us under the bus when something didn’t go his way.”

  Kendra smiled. In an organization where bashing the boss was practically a team sport, it was refreshing to hear Metcalf come to Griffin’s defense. “Why do you do it, Metcalf? It’s not an occasional case, like it is for me. You’ve made it your entire career.”

  He shrugged. “Why do you think? You seem to have everyone else in the world figured out, I’d be interested in why you think I do it.”

  “Those are just parlor tricks. I really don’t have any special insight into what makes people tick.”

  “Take a stab at it.”

  “Well, I know you’re a comic book geek, and you have been for your entire life.”

  “I make no secret of that, which probably explains the sorry state of my social life.”

  “Your social life is fine. No less than three women have tried to call you in the last two hours.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Cindy, Beth, and Hannah. Their names popped up on your Apple Watch each time your phone vibrated.”

  He chuckled. “You know there’s a razor-thin line between brilliantly perceptive and just plain nosy. And for the record, Beth is my sister.”

  “Then you’re really only juggling two women.” She grinned. “Gotcha.”

  “And just what does my interest in the fine art of visual storytelling—”

  “Comic books.”

  “Okay, comic books. What does that have to do with my career choice?”

  “We all like stories of an ordinary man who can suddenly become a superhero who catches the bad guys. I think this is your way of becoming a hero yourself.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “That makes me sound kind of … pathetic.”

  “I disagree.” She looked out the window at the clouds below them. Metcalf was no Adam Lynch, but it wasn’t fair to compare them. Lynch was rock-star unique. Metcalf wasn’t faster than a speeding bullet nor did he leap tall buildings in a single bound. But he was solid and hardworking, and he genuinely cared about making a difference in this world. All of which was enough to raise him to be a superhero contender. “It makes you one of the good guys, Metcalf.”

  * * *

  AFTER THEY LANDED, METCALF’S phone vibrated before their plane even reached the gate. He looked at his phone and frowned.

  “Let me guess,” Kendra said. “Cindy or Hannah.”

  “Neither. It’s Griffin. He’d like for us to come up to the office right away.”

  “Now? It’ll be after eight by the time we get there.”

  Metcalf put away his phone. “He knows. There’s something going on.”

  Kendra thought for a moment. “Want to bet they’ve matched some of the other left-behind objects with different Ventura County murders?”

  Metcalf nodded. “That crossed my mind. It was going to be my next play. The killer is obviously taunting us with his trophies. In today’s case, he intentionally echoed his earlier killing in Ventura County. Both student athletes, each living alone in an apartment. It wouldn’t surprise me if we found echoes with the other victims.” He unbuckled his seatbelt as the plane reached the jetway. “My colleagues aren’t wasting time, are they?”

  “I give your new partner the credit. Gina Carson is a sharp lady. It doesn’t seem like she lets the grass grow beneath her feet.”

  “You’re right. I think she’ll keep us all on our toes.” He smiled. “Just like you do.”

  With no baggage and Metcalf’s car parked in the nearby short-term parking, it was a simple matter to sprint through the airport and get on the road. Less than thirty minutes later as they approached the FBI field office, Metcalf’s jaw tightened. “Uh oh.”

  Kendra’s gaze flew to his face. “What’s wrong?”

  He nodded toward the building. “You’re the observant one. See anything unusual with this picture?”

  Her gaze shifted to the building. “Most of the office lights are still blazing.” She suddenly stiffened in her seat. “That’s very unusual for this time of night.”

  “Exactly. Nobody’s gone home.” He glanced at her. “Something’s happened. This is big. Bigger than we thought.”

  She couldn’t take her eyes off those blazing lights. What could have driven Griffin to keep his whole department there? “How?”

  “I have no idea.” He pulled into the parking lot. “But we’re about to find out.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  “THE CASE HAS EXPLODED!”

  Gina Carson pushed Kendra and Metcalf back into the elevator before they could step out onto the third floor and punched the fourth-floor button. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining, and though Kendra could see that she was trying to be cool and businesslike, she could almost feel her seething excitement.

  “Exploded? And just where are we going?” Kendra said.

  “The large conference room. Everyone is up there. We’re turning it into our war room.”

  “You matched the killer’s trophies with more of the Ventura County cases?” Metcalf guessed.

  Gina shook her head. “No.”

  The elevator doors opened to reveal that the large fourth floor conference room generally used for seminars, regional meetings, receptions, and other sizable gatherings, was now a whirlwind of activity, with agents and support staff rushing between the large wheeled bulletin boards that lined the walls.

  The center of the room was occupied by half a dozen computer workstations and color printers that were manned by assistants who grabbed and collated printouts as soon as they were spat out.

  Griffin was holding a stack of printouts in his hand as he approached them. “This is all your fault, Kendra. I hope you’re happy with yourself.”

  She glanced around, dazed by the activity. “I refuse to take any blame when I’m not even sure what I’m seeing here.”

  Gina motioned for them to follow her into the room. “A lot has happened in the last few hours. I started out trying to match our killings and trophies with other victims up in Ventura. It didn’t work, not like how easily our college athlete matched with the Stanford swimmer who was killed a few years ago.” She gestured to the organized chaos in the room. “So I decided to broaden the net.”

  Kendra’s breath left her as she spun around and took in the images from the dozen bulletin boards around her.

  More cities.

  More victims.

  More horror.

  “My God … These are all … him?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Gina said impatiently. “The trophies match up with objects taken from victims in at least four other cities. Twenty-six victims in all.”

  “Holy shit,” Metcalf whispered.

  “Four separate cases,” Griffin added. “In addition to the one you discovered today. In each one, he adopted an entirely new MO. That’s why they were never linked before now.”

  Gina was shepherding them on a tour of the bulletin boards, which were still being organized by the agents and assistants. “Nine years ago, he was Washington, D.C.’s Southside Strangler. Sixteen months after that he became Hartford’s Roadside Slasher. Less than three years later, he was the Jacksonville Daylight Killer. Just before that one, he was your Ventura County Killer.”

  “This is incredible…” Metcalf said. “Serial killers almost never alter their methodology this way. It looks like that in some of these cases, he targeted men, in others it was women, in others it was only the elderly…”

  “He changed how he did everything from town to town,” Gina said. “He was a chameleon. In Washington he set his victims on fire post-mortem, just as he did the woman we found yesterday. We have an ID on her, by the way. Her name wa
s Amanda Robinson. The objects we found with her belonged to a young Washington woman who was murdered and burned almost nine years ago. Her name was Katrina Harmon.”

  Kendra nodded absently, staring at the photo. “I’m guessing you used the supermarket loyalty card on the keychain to track her.”

  “Exactly. And her former husband identified the eyeglasses as hers. We have a driver’s license photo of her wearing them and the maker and prescription is a perfect match for a pair of glasses she purchased at the Connecticut Avenue LensCrafters in D.C. a few months before she was killed.”

  Kendra couldn’t take her eyes from the photo of the smiling, bespectacled young woman, just inches from nightmarish shots of her crispy corpse. Blue tape separated her case from the current San Diego case of Amanda Robinson. Here, too, were similarly grisly before-and-after shots.

  “It’s the same story with the others,” Griffin said. “Each of our new killings matches the methodology of one of these old cases. He wanted to make sure we knew it was the same killer in both and not some sick copycat. So he left behind his trophies.” Griffin walked over to another board. “And look at this. Each of the victims in Florida had Revlon Matte Peach Smoked Lipstick applied post mortem.”

  “The same brand as in our killings?” Kendra asked.

  “We’re still waiting for our report, but it sure looks like it.”

  Kendra shook her head at the sheer magnitude of what she was seeing on the boards around her. “So five of the nation’s most notorious serial killers, spanning over a decade … were actually the work of one man.”

  “That’s what it looks like,” Griffin said. “And we’re still combing the database to make sure there aren’t more.”

  “He could point the way to more with his very next victim,” Metcalf said. “This may not be the end.”

  Kendra looked at more of the boards as the group followed close behind. “He’s gone all these years without getting caught or anyone realizing that these were all the work of a single killer,” she whispered. “Why did he choose this moment, this city to tie them all together?”