by Kylie Brant
Ethan slid a look at Alexa. She looked completely composed at the news but he was feeling more than a little stunned. Sure, her idea had sounded plausible when she’d run it by him yesterday, but if the unidentified New Brunswick victim turned out to be Paulus, her theory became much more than speculation. And might give them their first solid lead on the UNSUB’s motivation.
“Let me know as soon as you hear about the ID. If it does turn out to be Paulus, I want you to do some digging into his background. Dr. Hayden is speculating that the victims are selected because of some wrongdoing they are involved in. In this case, the most obvious conclusion in his situation is something arson-related.” It was a well-known fact that a small percentage of fire fighters were active arsonists. The problem was so persistent that fire departments received training in identifying and preventing the phenomenon.
“If the ID is positive for your victim,” Alexa moved closer to Ethan to share the screen, “a search of his home might be fruitful, especially his computer history and any forums he regularly visited. Keep in mind he may not have been a serial arsonist. Arson is also committed for profit, revenge, vandalism and to cover up other crimes.” Ian McManus was nodding as he scribbled some notes. “We don’t know exactly what the UNSUB was telling us about the victim. We’re making educated guesses at this point.”
“Seems like the offender is saying these guys deserved to die,” Steve Friedrich said bluntly. “So why start leaving these clues now? Why weren’t the previous victims tortured? Why didn’t they have the second bug in their mouth? Is he choosing different types of targets this time around? Because not all those killed in the past had a criminal record.”
“I think something significant happened to the UNSUB during the three years he was inactive,” Alexa responded. “It triggered his need to tell us why the victims were selected. He’s likely excusing his actions, as you mentioned. Or setting up a dichotomy whereby he’s telling us that his is a moral evil.”
“They’re worse than he is?”
She nodded in response to Steve’s question. “Something like that, yes. I believe this offender has never struck at random, at all. And the one thing his victims may have in common is something in their history that the UNSUB finds unforgiveable. Perhaps something the victim was never suspected of doing.”
“If we get a positive ID,” Ethan said, “I want the three of you to split up the duties of notifying next-of-kin, obtaining necessary warrants and going through the victim’s home and car. Check with DMV for his vehicle plates and search campgrounds near Fundy National Park, see if we can find his car. Talk to friends, neighbors, colleagues…I want to know everything about this guy. Text me regular updates. If the ID isn’t a match, I’m going to want a sketch of our John Doe to use at the next news conference.” They’d held off doing that until now out of consideration for the deceased’s family members. “Someone knows this guy.”
He glanced down at the agenda he’d put together. “We’ve identified the victim found in Nova Scotia as Felix Simard.” He summarized the man’s criminal past and the rumors about his involvement in the snuff movie industry. “Alexa believes changing the manner of death for this victim signifies his personal importance to the UNSUB. Our next task is developing a timeline of the events leading up to his death. The travel manifests have arrived for Nova Scotia New Brunswick. We’ll be trying to find Simard’s date of entry here, and also comparing passenger names for anyone who traveled to both provinces within the relevant window of time.”
“I’ll take our tasks today over yours, anytime.” The two older officers nodded at Steve’s remark.
Captain Campbell put in, “Seems like that’s a chore that could be parceled out to local law enforcement departments, Sergeant.”
“Believe me, I plan to hand it off to them as soon as possible,” Ethan replied. “Just as soon as we look check the lists for Simard.” He glanced down at his agenda. They’d hit the bullet points. Looking up, he said, “That’s all I have for today. Any questions?”
Steve Friedrich waggled his fingers. “Just trying to wrap my head around this. Everything I’ve ever heard says serial offenders don’t change their ritual. Their MO, yeah, evolves when it suits their need. But not their signature. Dr. Hayden seems to be saying just the opposite.”
Alexa moved back into the screen. “What you’re saying is correct, as far as it goes. Simard is an outlier because he was killed in a different manner. Maybe he and the offender had a relationship. Perhaps Simard’s suspected occupation is a hot-button issue for the UNSUB. We’re not going to know the answer to that until we get closer to the killer. However, the torture of the last three victims serves the offender’s purpose, just as the addition of the second insect does. He wants us to know why they were chosen.”
When she sat back, Ethan added, “I don’t have to tell you that the clock is ticking. Either the UNSUB is finished and already on his way out of the area, or he’s lingering to strike again.” Five years ago, such a thought wouldn’t have occurred. But that was before the offender went after multiple victims in a short period of time. “Either way, he has to be stopped.” The expressions on the screen went grim. Because unspoken was the knowledge that had the last task force captured the UNSUB, another three lives would have been saved.
The briefing concluded, Alexa and Nyle gathered up their things while Ethan closed out of the group video window and took a moment to check the emails that had come in during the meeting. “Simard’s financials,” he said over his shoulder, a zip of excitement shooting up his spine.
Nyle came over to peer at his screen. “This just might save everyone a bunch of trouble.”
“He’d have needed a credit card to reserve his room,” Ethan muttered as he clicked on the copy of the most recent statement. But a quick scan of the transactions showed no travel or hotel arrangements. A search of the previous two months’ statements was similarly fruitless.
“No credit cards in the aliases we were given?” Disappointment tinged Nyle’s words.
“Apparently not.” Which might well mean that Simard no longer used those aliases. “Still ways a person can use cash for an airline ticket, though.” He clicked out of the statement and opened up the bank statement. He scrolled down rapidly, seeing frequent use of a debit card, but no transactions for travel arrangements. The account seemed to be mainly used for routine household payments.
Ethan went back and read through the email the forensic accountant had sent. “He almost certainly has another account. They’re looking for a bitcoin wallet or something overseas.” He’d reach out to the RCMP Montreal detachment for officers to dig into Simard’s occupation and property holdings. If he was still in the porn business, he’d need a place to film. “Unless we’re to believe he’s left his more unsavory pastimes behind him, he’s got some place he’s conducting his business. In another name, probably and maybe he pays cash for those expenses.”
“Or has an alias we know nothing about,” Nyle said gloomily.
“Simard’s selection as a victim likely means he continued that activity, or something similar,” Alexa put in. “That’s what the second insect sample left with him tells us.”
Ethan nodded slowly. He’d delve further into Simard’s financials later, looking for a possible link to the man’s killer, but right now they were useless when it came to tracing Simard’s final steps.
Nyle pursed his lips and, eyeing the last two doughnuts, picked up the box to carry to the car with him. “Guess that would have been too easy. We’ll continue doing it the hard way. Wading through the leads that come in on the tip line from area motels.”
Ethan had a half-dozen police officers running down those leads, but nothing had panned out yet. Maybe their lack of success meant Simard had been staying with a friend, or had been killed before he’d even checked into a hotel.
They were on the road heading to the dumpsite before Alexa spoke. “Do you think his hotel room could be the crime scene?” He shifted to
look at her in the back seat, noting Nyle’s stealthy move toward a second doughnut as the man drove.
“I doubt it. Too many people around. We’ve never found the crime scene in any of the other cases, although we’ve discovered a couple of the abduction sites—both alleyways, where traces of the victims’ blood turned up. Which means the UNSUB had a lair close by, or, more likely, a vehicle to transport them to one. Given the autopsy results, maybe Simard was taken close to wherever he ate his last meal. Or near a bar where he’d stopped.”
“That would make the offender highly adaptable, wouldn’t it?” He raised a brow and waited for her to go on. “It’d be much easier to plan the abduction from a place he could scout ahead of time. But he’d have to react quickly if he’s snatching them whenever he gets the opportunity.” She frowned slightly before going on. “He stalks them. Physically, of course, prior to abduction, but almost definitely online, at first. We can discard the notion that the victims were chosen at random. This UNSUB seems to know too much about them, and we give up much more privacy than we intend to online. People tend to reveal themselves when they believe they’re anonymous.”
That was especially true of the darkest corners of the web, Alexa thought, where there were forums and chatrooms for every type of paraphilia. “I think we’re looking at a killer with better than average technology skills. The victims may well be selected based on what he learns about them online. Then he learns their habits, where they go, what they do. Arming himself with that information gives him an advantage. He chooses the time and place of the abduction.”
“So his motivation is to punish them? People he doesn’t even know?” Nyle took a bite of his pastry.
“There’s more to his motivation than that, I expect.” There was a note of weariness in Alexa’s answer. “There always is. And it makes sense only to the killer.”
Minutes later Nyle slowed to pull over at the side of the road. “I hate to get too far off the road. Ground’s still pretty soggy.”
Ethan hadn’t yet seen the dumpsite in the daylight, and took a moment to take in the scene. A gauzy morning fog was lifting off the Shubenacadie River below. The weatherman had forecast an extended break from the rain, but as they got out of the vehicle, the air felt damp. Not for the first time, Ethan wondered why this spot had been chosen. A bird’s eye map of the river showed mostly flat land adjacent to it for miles, punctuated with stands of thickly wooded areas. There were far fewer steep embankments in this area along the river. Why would the offender choose the most difficult terrain to get to the river? Maybe that meant he’d used a boat. A canoe or flat bottomed fishing skiff would work. And it could have launched from anywhere upriver.
He tried—and failed—to imagine the UNSUB wrestling a body into a boat. But then, there was very little about the offender’s actions that made sense to him. One of the things that had made Ethan a success in IHIT was his ability to put himself in the killer’s mindset. This one, though, was in a category of his own.
He led the way, scanning for an easier place to descend than the way he and Nyle had found a couple nights ago. A moment later, that thought was wiped from his mind when his gaze settled on the sight below.
A tent was pitched along the river. Smack in the center of the sagging crime-scene tape that flapped gently in the slight morning breeze. It was enough to undo the slight improvement coffee had made to his disposition. Alexa forgotten for the moment, Ethan looked over his shoulder, caught Nyle’s eye and jabbed an index finger to the right, while he veered left. They’d come at the tent’s occupant from opposite directions.
His mind was racing as he descended the steep river bank with as much stealth as possible. There was almost zero chance that the killer had returned to the scene. There was an excellent possibility, however, that whoever had pitched that tent had done so with the express knowledge that he or she was compromising an active crime scene. And he wasn’t in a particularly forgiving mood.
He was three-quarters of the way down the slope when the tent’s entrance opened. A head poked out, followed by a thin lanky figure, all legs and elbows. A kid. Or, given his height, a teen. He stretched, then looked out over the river for a moment before turning back toward the tent. He caught sight of Ethan approaching and froze. Then he bolted to the right, tearing off along the riverbank with surprising speed. Ethan and Nyle gave chase.
If the kid wasn’t on his school’s track and field team, he was depriving them of real talent. He sailed over a fallen log with the ease of a hurdler and then headed for a thicket of overgrown bushes surrounding a dense copse of trees.
Ethan ran for exercise, focusing more on stamina than speed. The knee injury that had ended his hockey career had healed, but he’d never regain complete strength in it. Neither he nor Nyle were going to be able to outrun the kid, although the distance between them wasn’t widening. Glancing at the other man, he pointed toward the thicket. The other Mountie grimaced, but plunged in after the kid. Ethan stopped, bending over to pick up three fist-sized rocks before speeding after the other two.
He ducked a thorny branch that could have raked at his face, but felt something catch on his suit jacket. Heard the rip when he tore away. When he came through the bushes, he could see the other officer, still stalwartly running after the kid, but lagging.
“Nyle!” He waited for the other officer to look back at him. “Move away.” With alacrity, the man veered right and Ethan stopped. Hefted one of the rocks in his hand. Then cocked back and threw it at the fleeing kid. It hit him squarely in the back of one knee, which crumpled beneath him, taking him to the ground. Nyle raced over as the teen struggled to his feet and continued running, but he was limping now and the other Mountie easily caught up with him. He grabbed the kid’s shirt, yanking him to a stop and was restraining him when Ethan jogged up to them.
Nyle’s teeth flashed. “Impressive. Thought you were just a hockey plug. Didn’t know you played baseball, too.”
“My fastball was clocked at eighty-one miles per hour senior year. But I just lobbed that one to slow him down.”
“That’s police brutality,” the boy said sullenly. His face was red from exertion and he had a bad case of acne, his hair shaved close on one side, with a hank of long brown hair hanging from the other. He gave his head a toss to get the hair out of his eyes. “It was a punk move.”
“You think?” Ethan asked conversationally as they made their way back toward the tent, walking around the thicket this time. “Me, I tend to think of a punk as someone who runs away. Guess it’s all a matter of perspective. What do you think, Nyle?”
The agent had one hand on the kid’s bound arms and another on his shoulder as he guided him around the log the boy had sailed over earlier. “You know what a real punk move is? Deliberately setting up camp in an active crime scene.”
The kid lifted a shoulder. “How were we supposed to know it was still active?”
“The police tape should have been a tip-off,” Nyle was saying, but Ethan had seized on one word. We. Dammit. The kid wasn’t alone.
He started running back toward the tent, although he had little hope that the boy’s companion was still in the vicinity. There hadn’t been any vehicles around as they’d approached the slope, and he tried to recall whether there’d been a boat of some sort. Ethan couldn’t remember. Like a dog sighting a rabbit, once he’d seen the kid take off, his focus had only been chasing him down.
He burst out of the trees, scanning the shoreline. Then felt his blood freeze.
“I’m telling you, bitch. Let go or I’ll knock you out cold.”
There was a canoe in the water, ten feet or so from the bank. Another boy was standing in it, an oar cocked at a threatening angle. And Alexa… Jesus. She was waist-deep in the water, both hands grasping the stern of the canoe, walking backward as she pulled it and its occupant toward shore.
“I don’t think that would be wise.”
“Oh, really?” the kid sneered. “I swear to God, you take anot
her step and I’ll…”
Ethan opened his mouth to disrupt the scene. But before he could say a word, Alexa stopped. Then, with a quick twist of her hands, she flipped the canoe over. The kid dropped the oar, his arms wheeling comically as he hit the water. When he came up for air, sputtering and swearing, Alexa was behind him, wrenching one arm behind his shoulder blade and propelling him toward shore.
Ethan grinned, delighted. As a girl, she’d been intriguing. Delightful. Full of surprises. Some things hadn’t changed.
The teen started to struggle. “Consider that a lesson,” he called, strolling toward the two as the canoe floated down the river. “Never threaten a woman.” Her shoes were on the shore. She must have toed them off before wading into the water.
He waited, fists propped on his hips until Nyle and Alexa had both kids back at the tent. Alexa and the boy she’d dumped in the water were soaked, and the kid was complaining bitterly. “That’s a nine-hundred-dollar canoe. You gotta let me get it. My step-dad’s gonna kill me.”
“I’m betting he’ll be unhappier when we show up at your place and tell him where we found you two camped today.” The boys exchanged a glance. Relying on memories of his own teenage years, Ethan said “He didn’t know you were camping at all, did he? What’d you do, tell your parents you were staying at the other’s house and then come here instead?”
Canoe-boy was a half head shorter than his friend, with a thick crop of wet dark hair and what looked like a perpetual sneer on his face. “We didn’t even see the tape. It was dark when we got here and pitched the tent. You can’t prove otherwise.”
Nyle snorted. “Try again, kid. You had to pull down one side of the perimeter tape to even get inside the area.”
Smugly, he shook his head. “No, it’s hanging pretty low from the rain. Easy to overlook it.”
