Dead By Morning

by Beverly Barton

  Just as one tune ended and another began, Maleah pulled away, but Derek grabbed her hand and refused to relinquish his hold.

  “One more dance,” he said.

  While she debated his request, his cell phone vibrated in the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. Reluctantly, he released her hand, reached inside his jacket, and removed his phone. Derek noted the caller ID. Griffin Powell, his employer.

  “Yeah, Griff, what’s up?” Derek’s gaze connected with Maleah’s, both of them aware that it was highly unlikely that Griff would be calling if it wasn’t important business.

  Maleah waited until he had answered the call and then walked with him off the dance floor.

  “He’s struck again,” Griff told Derek. “I don’t have all the details, but we’re relatively sure it’s the same person who killed Kristi and Shelley and Holt’s brother.”

  Absolute dread tightly coiled Derek’s stomach muscles as he asked, “Who’s the victim?” Was it another Powell employee, as the first two kills had been, or was it a Powell employee family member, as the third murder victim had been?

  “Ben Corbett’s seventy-year-old father,” Griff said. “Ben’s the one who called me. A couple of fishermen found the body this morning, but there was no ID on the guy. Apparently he didn’t have his wallet on him. They ran his fingerprints and didn’t get a hit.”

  “How did they finally ID him?”

  “It seems Mr. Corbett has a breakfast date with a lady friend every Saturday morning and when he didn’t show up, she went to his home. When she couldn’t find him, she started searching for him. One thing led to another and she finally went to the police earlier this evening.”

  “Ben’s on assignment, isn’t he?”

  “He was in California. He chartered a plane and is flying into Birmingham and renting a car. His dad lived outside Cullman, which is about an hour drive from Dunmore. I want you and Maleah to head down that way as soon as possible. You two can get there before Ben can. When he arrives, he doesn’t need to handle this alone.”

  “We’re leaving now,” Derek said. “I’ll pick up my laptop at the hotel. You can send me any other info that we’ll need.”

  As soon as Derek slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket, he faced Maleah. “The boss wants us to drive to Cullman tonight. Ben Corbett’s father has been murdered.”

  “Damn. Griff thinks that it’s the same person who murdered Kristi and Shelley and Holt’s brother, doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah, he does.”

  “Why didn’t you tell Derek everything that we know and about what we’ve decided?” Nicole Powell asked her husband moments after he ended his conversation.

  “We’ll explain it to him and Maleah together,” Griff said. “I’ll have Barbara Jean compile all the information the agency has accumulated. Maleah and Derek can read over everything and digest it all before I tell them that I expect them to take over as lead investigators on the case.”

  “We might be closer to solving this mystery, if it hadn’t taken us more than two months to connect the dots.”

  Griff draped his arm around Nic’s shoulders as they stood on the patio overlooking Douglas Lake. “When Kristi was murdered, there was no way we could have known that her killer would target another agent. Until he killed Kristi and then Shelley, their murders identical in almost every way, we couldn’t have known he had a specific MO. And even after Holt’s brother was murdered and Barbara Jean discovered there had been three killers in the past with a similar MO—the Savannah Slasher, the Carver, and the Triangle Man—it took time to study each killer and figure out if our guy was copying one of them.”

  “After what we just found out, do you think Maleah is the key to everything that’s happening?” Nic asked.

  Griff squeezed her shoulders. “Possibly. But we can’t rule out any of our other scenarios, especially since we don’t know why anyone would be out to punish Maleah by killing people connected to the agency.”

  “Unlike you and me. We both have enemies from the past who could be targeting us.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, unlike you and me. The logical assumption is that whoever is behind these murders is doing it either to punish me or to get my attention.”

  “But it’s possible that the rumors floating around Europe about Malcolm York being alive have nothing whatsoever to do with these murders. You can’t assume you’re the target simply because someone, thousands of miles away, may be pretending to be the man who kidnapped you twenty years ago. It could just as easily be someone from my past, someone connected to one of my cases when I worked for the Bureau.”

  “You’re right, of course, “ Griff agreed. “That’s why we cannot rule out any possibility.”

  “You don’t think there’s even the slightest chance that the real Malcolm York is alive, do you?”

  Griff’s square jaw tightened. “York is dead. I have no doubts. Yvette, Sanders, and I killed him sixteen years ago. Unless he’s found a way to rise from the dead, whoever the hell is calling himself Malcolm York is an imposter.”

  “This man is in Europe somewhere, not here in the U.S. To date, all the murders related to the Powell Agency have occurred here in America. We have no evidence to indicate a connection between him and these murders.”

  “Yes, I know. And the only apparent connection between the agency and the murders is Maleah.”

  “She is going to freak out when we tell her that our research shows the three previous murders almost identically mimic the murders committed by the Carver and that one of his first victims was Noah Laborde.”

  “It’s no coincidence that the original Carver murdered Maleah’s college boyfriend. What it means, we can’t be sure, not at this point. But sooner or later—”

  “Maleah has become my best friend.” Nic rested her head on Griff’s shoulder. “What better way to get to me than by using my dearest friend?”

  “And what better way to send me a warning than to use my wife and her best friend to send that message?”

  “Maleah will want to follow through and see this out to the end. You know she will. She’ll feel that it’s personal because the original Carver killed Noah Laborde.”

  “Yes, I know, she will. I also know that we need Derek’s expertise. We need a professional profile of our killer. And Derek has a keen sixth sense about these things. I can’t give him and Maleah the choice of not working together, despite their personal animosity,” Griff said. “I’m putting the entire staff—office employees and agents in the field—on high alert. This case takes precedence over every other case. Until we find and stop this killer, no one connected to the Powell Agency is safe.”

  Nic turned into Griff’s arms. He cocooned her within his embrace.

  She might have doubts about why this was happening and about who was responsible, but Griff didn’t. Not really. She knew her husband. No matter what she said to him or how many scenarios she presented to him, he laid the blame squarely on his own shoulders. He truly believed that innocent people were now paying for his past sins.

  Chapter 2

  Maleah and Derek arrived in Cullman shortly after midnight, checked into the Holiday Inn Express, dumped their bags, and drove straight to the sheriff’s office. As they had expected, someone from the Powell Agency had called ahead so the sheriff himself was there to meet them. Griffin Powell and his agency had become legendary, their success rate far exceeding that of regular law enforcement. Only occasionally did the agency come up against police chiefs or sheriffs who resented Powell involvement. Thankfully, Sheriff Devin Gray welcomed them with a cautious smile and a firm handshake. Looking the man in the eye, Maleah instantly felt at ease.

  Gray was about five-ten, slender and young, probably not a day over thirty-five. Clean shaven, his sandy hair styled short and neat, he projected a squeaky-clean appearance.

  “Come on into my office.” Sheriff Gray backed up his verbal invitation by opening the door and waiting for Maleah and Derek to enter.

 
The moment she crossed the threshold, she saw the heavyset, middle-aged man sitting in the corner, his gaze directed on her. He rose to his feet and waited until the sheriff closed the door, affectively isolating the four of them from the activity outside the office.

  “This is Freddy Rose, the Cullman County coroner,” Sheriff Gray said. “Freddy, these are the Powell agents we’ve been expecting.”

  Freddy’s round face, rosy cheeks, and pot belly made her think of Santa Claus, but his bald head and smooth face brought up an image of a short, rotund Mr. Clean.

  Offering his meaty hand to Maleah, Freddy said, “Ma’am.” And once they shook hands, he turned to Derek.

  “Derek Lawrence.” He exchanged handshakes with the coroner, and then nodded toward Maleah. “And this is Ms. Perdue.”

  “Ordinarily, we wouldn’t share any of this information with outsiders,” Sheriff Gray explained. “But when the governor calls me personally . . . Well, that’s a horse of a different color, if you know what I mean.”

  Maleah knew exactly what he meant. Griffin Powell’s sphere of influence reached far and wide, not only to the office of state governors, but to the powers that be in Washington, D.C. Griff’s connections were strictly behind the scenes, of course, but she suspected he wielded far more power than anyone knew.

  “We appreciate your both being here this late,” Derek said. “Mr. Corbett’s son Ben is one of our people. Ben is on his way here now and Ms. Perdue and I would like to get the preliminaries out of the way before he arrives. He will have enough on his plate as it is coming to terms with his father’s murder.”

  “Absolutely,” the sheriff agreed. “That’s why Freddy’s here. He hasn’t performed an autopsy, of course, since the state boys will be here in the morning to claim the body, but he’s certain about the cause of death.”

  “Sure am,” Freddy said. “No doubt about it. Mr. Corbett’s throat was slit, pretty much from ear to ear. Sliced through the carotid arteries on both sides and the trachea as well. Death occurred within a couple of minutes.”

  “Any idea about the blade the killer used?” Derek asked.

  “The cut was smooth and straight,” Freddy said. “No jagged edges. I swear it looked so damn precise, I’d swear a surgeon did it using a scalpel.”

  Maleah’s gut reacted instantly to that bit of information. The medical examiners in each of the previous cases believed that Kristi, Shelley, and Norris Keinan had been killed with a scalpel, their necks cut with the expertise of a surgeon.

  “Does that fit other murders?” the sheriff asked. “I was told you’d want to compare this case to some previous murders.”

  “Yes, so far, it does fit,” Derek said, and then turned to Freddy. “What else can you tell us about the body?”

  Freddy’s gray eyes widened. “Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. The killer cut out these little triangle-shaped pieces from Mr. Corbett’s upper arms and thighs.” Freddy shook his bald head. “Did it postmortem, thank the Good Lord.”

  “Does that match what was done to the other victims?” Sheriff Gray looked at Maleah. “Are we dealing with a serial killer? Is that what’s going on?”

  “Yes, the other victims also had triangular pieces of flesh removed from their limbs,” Maleah replied. “And yes, with three murders, now four, it appears to be the work of a serial killer, but—”

  “But that’s all we know at this point,” Derek finished for her. “We’re working under the assumption that a serial killer has murdered four people now. Unfortunately the latest victim was the father of one of our agents.”

  Why had Derek cut her off mid-sentence like that? What had he thought she was going to say? My God, did he actually think she’d been about to reveal the fact that all four victims were in some way related to the Powell Agency? Did he think she was that stupid? Up to this point, the press had made a connection only between Kristi Arians and Shelley Gilbert. But since no “guilty knowledge” details of either murder were ever released, it was assumed that Shelley died in the line of duty on assignment in Alabama and that Kristi’s murder in her Knoxville, Tennessee, apartment had been the work of another killer. The fact that they were both Powell Agency employees was believed to be simply a coincidence. Norris Keinan, a corporate lawyer, had lived in Denver, Colorado, and the fact that his younger brother was a Powell agent had not been an issue, either with the Denver PD or the local Denver media.

  “I didn’t know Mr. Corbett personally,” the sheriff said. “But he and the mayor’s dad played golf together. I understand he was a fine man, well thought of in the community. We’re sure sorry something like this happened in Cullman.”

  “Would it be possible for us to get copies of the reports, once they’re filed, and also copies of the photos taken at the scene?” Maleah asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, I can see to it that you get copies of whatever you need.”

  “Then I can’t think of any reason we should keep y’all up any later than we already have.” Maleah glanced from the handsome young sheriff to the fifty-something coroner. “Mr. Lawrence and I are at the Holiday Inn Express.” She pulled a business card from her pocket and handed it to Devin Gray. “We’d like to stay here and wait on Ben Corbett, if that’s all right with you?”

  “Certainly,” Sheriff Gray said. “Feel free to use my office.”

  When Sheriff Gray and Freddy said their good-byes and started to leave, Derek called to them. “By any chance, was Mr. Corbett found in or near a body of water?”

  Both men froze to the spot. Freddy cleared his throat before glancing over his shoulder and saying, “He was found on the riverbank, face down, his feet in the river.”

  “Were the others found in water?” Sheriff Gray asked, his gaze sliding slowly from Maleah to Derek.

  “Yes, they were,” Derek replied quickly.

  “Just another similarity, huh?” Freddy said. “Guess it’s looking more and more like the same person who killed those other people killed Mr. Corbett.”

  “Apparently so.” Derek glanced at Maleah.

  She knew what he was thinking.

  Four innocent victims, their only connection the Powell Agency. But who had killed them? And why?

  Maleah and Derek waited for Ben Corbett. When he arrived at the sheriff’s office at a little after three that Sunday morning, they shared with him all the information the sheriff and coroner had given them.

  Ben had been with the agency for several years, coming straight from the army after his retirement. Three-fourths of the Powell agents had either law enforcement or military backgrounds. A few, such as Maleah, had been chosen because of their high IQs and willingness to learn on the job.

  Although Ben had managed to control his emotions, Maleah hadn’t missed the subtle signs of anger and hurt. While they had explained what had happened and how they suspected his father’s death was related to the other three murders, his gaze wandered aimlessly, often focusing on the wall. Once or twice he had mumbled incoherently under his breath, then quieted suddenly and clenched his jaw, as if it was all he could to maintain his composure.

  “Dad was a ladies’ man,” Ben told them. “He loved to flirt. Never bothered Mom. She’d just laugh about it. He never cheated on her, loved her to the day she died.” He swallowed hard. “I suspect he loved her till the day he died.”

  “We’ve been authorized to help you in any way you need us,” Maleah said. “If you’d like us to make the arrangements or help you make them—”

  “Thanks. That won’t be necessary. Dad made all the arrangements right after Mom died. Paid for everything. Chose his casket, picked out the suit he wanted to be buried in. Made his will. Told the minister what songs he wanted at the funeral. He said he didn’t want me to have to worry with any of it when the time came.”

  For several minutes, the three of them remained silent. Then Ben asked the inevitable question. “Who the hell is doing this and why?”

  “We don’t know,” Derek said. “The only thing the victims h
ave in common is their connection to the Powell Agency. The killer’s MO is identical in all four cases, so we’re relatively certain we are dealing with one killer. But we have no idea what motivates him or how he chooses his victims.”

  “At random, maybe,” Ben said. “Anybody associated with the agency is a target, right? And for whatever reason, the killer picked my dad.” Ben’s dark eyes misted. He turned his head.

  Derek clamped his hand down on Ben’s shoulder. “We’re going to catch him and stop him.”

  Ben nodded.

  “Is there anything, anything at all, we can do for you?” Maleah asked.

  Ben cleared his throat a couple of times. “No, thanks. I can’t think of anything. I’m going over to Dad’s place and try to get a few hours of sleep. When are y’all heading up to Griffin’s Rest?”

  “If you don’t need us here, we probably won’t stay longer than mid-day tomorrow,” Derek told him. “Copies of the reports and the crime scene photos can be sent directly to the office as soon as they’re available. I expect Nic and Griff will be moving forward with their plans to form their own task force and since I’m the agency’s profiler—”

  “Count me in on the task force,” Ben said. “After Dad’s funeral.”

  Neither Derek nor Maleah responded, knowing it would be up to Griff and Nic to choose the agents who would lead the investigation and those who would assist. If Ben had been a police officer, he wouldn’t have been allowed near the case because his dad had been one of the victims. But Griff’s rules and regulations differed from regular law enforcement. On occasion, the Powell Agency came damn close to doling out vigilante justice, a fact that often created tension between Griff and Nic.

  He could go days without sleep and could easily get by with four hours per night on a regular basis. He was no ordinary human being. Years of training, self-sacrifice, and stern discipline had honed both his mind and body into a superior being. He had no weaknesses, wasn’t vulnerable in any way, and therefore was practically invincible.