by Kylie Brant
She stared at him for a moment, her mind racing. “And Simard thought the man was here. When was that?”
“Saturday evening. Felix said he saw him driving by in a white van. But as I told him, that is impossible.”
“And why is that?”
“Because this person who calls himself Anis Tera is not a man. He had to hide behind a computer to make his threats. He would never have the courage to approach Felix again.”
She nodded as if she understood. “Because he’s a piss-ant.”
Fornier folded his arms across his chest. “Exactly that. A cockroach. Anis Tera doesn’t have the nerve or the strength to do something like that.” He nodded at the photos in front of him.
“Mr. Fornier, we’re going to have you work with a sketch artist to come up with a likeness of the man you knew as Anis Tera.” Nyle left the room silently. Ethan continued, “In the meantime, I want you to tell us everything you recall about him.”
The other man looked at both of them askance. “You’re wasting your time, I’m telling you. He wouldn’t have the balls to come near Felix again.” A sly smile crossed his face. “And I know that for a fact.”
They huddled with Lieutenant Martin in the room next door, where the man had been watching the interview on CCTV with the Crown prosecutor. “Edouard Cote is an accomplished forensic artist,” he was telling them. “He can often tease out physical descriptions from the most recalcitrant witnesses.”
Ethan wished he could share the lieutenant’s optimism. They’d spent several minutes trying to get details about Tera’s appearance before leaving Fornier. He’d come up with little more than short, weak, and brown hair. Cote was going to need to be gifted indeed to develop a sketch they could use.
In the meantime, the requested warrant had arrived for Simard’s effects at the hotel. At Ethan’s request, Martin had sent a couple of men to pick them up. The laptop would be overnighted to the Ottawa crime lab. Even if it had been replaced since the blackmail messages three years ago, there might be information regarding the man’s business that he was sure the Montreal police would find interesting.
He slanted a look at Alexa. “You zeroed in on Fornier as soon as he mentioned the alias Anis Tera.” And it was an alias; they could be fairly sure of that. A quick search of the Internet revealed no Canadian by that name.
“Anis. That’s Swedish, isn’t it?” put in Martin.
“Anis Tera. Anisoptera. It’s the scientific infraorder name for dragonflies.”
“Holy shit,” Ethan muttered. “I perked up when Fornier mentioned the white van Simard thought was following him. But that name…you’re right. It’s too damn similar not to be him.” They’d never released the information about the insect samples in the victim’s mouths, although the media pressed them for more details nearly every interview. The cautious side of him tempered his flare of excitement, but he couldn’t prevent a lick of adrenaline from spreading through his veins. They’d had suspects before on the earlier task force. But this fit too neatly for it to fizzle the way the others had.
“Just this morning some kids reported spotting a 2014 or older white Ford Econoline above the embankment of the crime scene,” Ethan told Lieutenant Martin. The other man’s eyes widened in understanding. “And now Fornier reveals that Simard mentioned seeing this Tera in a white van. That can’t be a coincidence.”
“If the UNSUB drove the vehicle from New Brunswick, there are limited ways into Nova Scotia,” Nyle said, as Ethan opened his laptop and brought up a map of the province. “His second victim was in Fredericton, and he needed to come to Halifax for Simard.”
“Fastest driving route would be from Fredericton to Moncton, where he’d catch the Trans-Canada Highway,” muttered Ethan as he scanned the map he’d brought up. “That has tolls, though.” Which meant cameras. “It would be nearly two and half hours longer to circumvent the toll roads and drive to the St. John’s ferry. Nyle.” The other man was peering at the computer over his shoulder. “Check where the highway cameras are for the roads on all these routes.”
“Highway traffic cameras won’t show driver images,” Nyle warned. As Ethan straightened from the computer, the other man took his place. “But the cameras at the toll roads…yeah, maybe…” He began typing.
“I have some men I can put at your disposal,” Lieutenant Martin put in.
“Thanks. I’m sure we can use them.” But he needed to talk to Captain Campbell, immediately. Ethan looked at Alexa. “The kids spotted the van on Friday. Simard saw it Saturday evening.”
“And he was dead early Monday morning.”
Ethan nodded. He needed to issue a BOLO alert on the van, which wasn’t going to be easy without a license plate. If the UNSUB was still in the province, they wanted to prevent him from leaving.
His mind was racing. They had the Anis Tera alias to give to all transportation centers to stop the UNSUB from buying a ticket to leave Nova Scotia. But he was under no allusions that the man had only one alias. “No reason for him to still be in the vicinity.” There was a burn of frustration at the possibility that the man might have already escaped them. “Unless…”
She picked up his thought. “Unless he’s planning on a second victim here.”
He took his phone out and pressed the numbers to call Campbell.
“Ethan?” He looked at Alexa questioningly, his cell already up to his ear. “We need more information from Fornier about the intel that brought Simard here. There should be a safety check done on Vance, and anyone else included in that intelligence.”
“You’re right.”
Campbell came on the phone then. “I was just about to call you, Manning. That press conference has been set for today, in less than three hours.”
Somehow Ethan had managed to put the prospect of a news conference out of his head. Wincing, he said, “Maybe we should hold off. We’ve got a person of interest in the case, and I need all the resources you can bring to bear to shut off his possible routes out of the province. If he is still here, I want to keep it that way.”
Chapter Seven
For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. —Romans 3:23
The TV in the room was on. Noiseless chatter that Anis tuned out but for the occasional glance. His focus was on his quarry, and she was proving more troublesome than he’d expected.
He read again the email Jeanette Lawler had responded with when, posing as Armand Vance, Anis has asked to reschedule the interview until tomorrow morning. Such rudeness! So very sure of herself and her place in the world. Which, she appeared to believe, was a lofty perch above other mortals.
“‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall,’” he murmured as he composed a reply. She’d eventually agree, of course. A one-on-one with Armand Vance was too good a scoop to pass up. No doubt she was envisioning an even more brutal takedown for Vance in the interview that would never transpire. Anis smiled as he pushed his chair away from the computer. If people weren’t so predictable, so imperfect, he’d be able to lay down the sword he carried for the Lord.
He’d give her an hour and then head toward her hotel again to watch for her exit. Lawler craved the night scene. The clubs and godless music. She’d remained in her room most of the time she’d been here, preparing for the phony interview with Vance. Anis was betting she was chafing at the solitude. Sometime tonight, she’d go on the prowl. And that’s when he’d take her.
Anis plucked the room service menu from beneath the phone on the desk and flipped it open. He’d panicked when Simard had seemed to recognize him when he’d been tailing him. Enough so that he had immediately driven the van back to the storage garage he’d arranged for and rented a car instead. Perhaps he’d use the car tonight for Lawler. He considered the possibility as he scanned the limited menu items. The rental was a mid-sized roomy sedan with a large trunk. It would be less noticeable than the van.
First, he’d eat. And then he’d begin his cleansing ritual that would re
ady him to do God’s work tonight.
But something on the TV screen caught his attention. He reached for the remote to turn up the sound. “…and now here’s RCMP Commissioner Reginald Gagnon with an update on the on-going manhunt for Canada’s most notorious serial killer.”
A sober-looking man with an angular face and deep-set eyes stepped before a microphone. There was an imposing-looking building in the background. The news conference took place on its steps. “Today, our task force positively ID’d the John Doe found in the Fundy National Park as Henry Paulus of Edmonton. According to co-workers Paulus was on a two-week vacation for hiking and backpacking.”
A photo of the man appeared on the screen. “If anyone came into contact with him in the park and has information to share, they should call the number at the bottom of the screen. I want to assure the public that we’ve made the manhunt for this killer a top priority. To that end, we’ve brought an outside forensic consultant on board who has expertise in areas of value to our investigation. Dr. Alexa Hayden is working closely with our task force.”
It was amazing, Anis thought, his attention drifting, how much the man could say about how little they had to go on. Anis had begun his godly crusade thirteen years ago. In that time, he’d seen more than his share of these updates, all spinning inconsequential details and leads that would go nowhere. His was a battle blessed by God. The righteousness of his work shielded him from capture.
He returned to the menu. Anis never made the mistake of eating too much before a night of judgment. Fresh fruit and a lean cut of meat with a salad, he decided. He placed the order and hung up the phone, glancing back at the TV disinterestedly.
The Commissioner was saying, “…I’ll let task force leader Sergeant Ethan Manning handle the update in the case.” A square appeared at the top right corner of the screen indicating that the man would be joining them from a remote location. A vapid-looking anchor asked avidly, “Sergeant Manning, what can you tell us about the ongoing search for The Tailor?”
Anis grimaced at the stupid ill-fitting nickname. The sergeant was a sober-faced man, who looked surprisingly young to be at the helm of an investigation this important. Anis had researched him when he’d read the news of the task force reforming. Nothing in what he’d discovered about the officer had been noteworthy. Investigators came and went. None had gotten close to him. They never would.
“We have a person of interest in the case that we’re pursuing for questioning,” Manning was saying. “This sketch was developed by an eyewitness who has had dealings with the man.” A drawing showed on the screen. Anis peered closely at it before he burst into laughter. Was that supposed to be him? Oh, that was too rich. The sketch portrayed a male who could have been in his late thirties or forties. The face was unremarkable. It was much wider than Anis’s, with a full mouth, abnormally small ears and wide forehead. He chuckled again in genuine amusement.
His gaze went to the woman standing behind Manning’s left shoulder and all humor abruptly vanished. Her hair was very blonde, pulled away from an exquisite face, exposing fine features which were arranged in a serious expression. Who was she? His pulse sped up as he stared at her. Not a cop, he could tell that much. He remembered the commissioner mentioning a private consultant earlier. He turned to his laptop and typed in a search, bringing up several news stories about the investigation. Impatiently, he skimmed one after another until he found the information he was looking for.
Dr. Alexa Hayden…consultant from a forensics agency in the state…He scanned the article rapidly, and, finding little more of interest, he closed out of that window and opened another. He typed in her name. Was shocked when the page filled with hits. His meal forgotten, Anis read through several articles before he sat back, aware that his heart was hammering in his chest.
The woman wore several hats, it seemed, but the one that interested him most was her background in entomology. An unfamiliar heat suffused him. He looked at the TV again, but the news had moved on to yet another sensational story. No matter. His focus shifted back to his laptop. The letters after her name represented advanced degrees in more than one field. She wasn’t self-taught like he was. But surely she’d specialized in entomology because she had the same fascination for insects as he did. She would understand the message he left with each of the the bodies.
Delight unfurled within him. He wondered if, like him, her interest in insects had developed in childhood. But hopefully, not a childhood like his, locked in a root cellar too much of the time with no companionship but the bugs that found their way into the space. He’d like to think that her affinity for the insect world came about more naturally.
Anis continued his online search, reading about her background and schooling on various bios for different organizations she belonged to. There were scholarly articles she’d authored, none of which were of interest to him. He also disregarded the information about the agency she worked for. It was personal information he was after, and that was in short supply. She appeared to live near Washington, DC. But then he found yet another short bio that stated she was originally from Canada.
A feeling of rightness settled over him. It was similar to the sensation he’d had when he’d rescued the boy from the flooded stream on his property. He’d known he was going to take him home with him, instead of returning him to his parents as soon as he’d seen him in the raging water. Alexa Hayden filled him with a similar sense of purpose. There was more research to be done.
But Anis Tera already knew their fates were linked.
Chapter Eight
“Caught the press conference.” Nyle looked up from the computer in the conference room at RCMP headquarters in Halifax, which was fast becoming their point of operations. The building was nearly empty, save for this area. “Sort of surprised the brass didn’t pressure you to release your profile while they had you on TV.”
Alexa grimaced as she strolled into the room. “They tried. We had a phone conference with Captain Campbell prior, and he shared that request from the Commissioner. It took some doing, but I convinced them it would be of little value to the public.” She hadn’t been surprised by the request. It was a common one from law-enforcement departments seeking to calm a jittery public. “Profiles are tools so investigators better understand the offender they’re tracking. Using them in media communications is just a glitzy bone to throw a public that spends too much time watching Hollywood’s idea of investigative work.”
Nyle let loose a surprised laugh. “Agreed. But I’m surprised you managed to change their minds.”
“I had help from Ethan,” she admitted as she drew a chair out from the conference table and sank into it. She couldn’t be completely sure whether it was because Ethan held profiles in low esteem, or if he agreed that making the information public was useless.
“Where is he now?”
“Holed up with Captain Sedgewick.” And he’d been on the phone the entire drive over, giving directives to the other task force members and the police personnel on loan from Halifax PD.
“I heard he was in contact with Toronto police,” Nyle said. “They’ve located Armand
Vance and have spoken to him?”
Her stomach rumbled. With a jolt, she realized they hadn’t eaten since this morning. “Yes. Vance denies that he ever had any plans to travel to Nova Scotia, which, apparently would be a violation of his interim judicial release before trial. When I spoke with Fornier again, he claimed his intel said Vance was coming here secretly for a taping of Jeanette Lawler’s Exposé show.”
“So the information was bait to get Simard to Halifax.”
She nodded. “It seems so.” Not for the first time she thought about how familiar the UNSUB was with his victim. He’d known exactly what it would take to draw Simard to Nova Scotia. “I still don’t understand why the offender didn’t attack Simard in Ontario. That makes him the first victim who was killed outside his home province.”
Nyle pushed away from his laptop, where it appea
red he was accessing the DMV website and jotting down information for owners of older Econoline white cargo vans. The list was depressingly long, and probably a waste of time. But they couldn’t rule out the possibility that the UNSUB resided in the province. He could have decided to entice Simard here because it was the offender’s home turf.
“Lots of details about Simard’s killings were different than the other victims,” he reminded her. “I got the idea from Fornier that they hurt this Anis Tera quite badly once they caught up with him after his blackmail attempt. If Tera is the UNSUB, he might have sought to avoid Montreal, where he could be recognized.”
“And where Simard had muscle at his disposal.” Alexa glanced at the door, wondering what was keeping Ethan. “You’re right, it could have been an attempt to isolate him. To level the playing field.” She tapped a finger against the table as she thought. “Before the New Brunswick victims, the UNSUB had been inactive for three years. Fornier claims they had dealings with Anis Tera about that long ago.”
Nyle nodded slowly, rubbing his chin. “Actually, I’m surprised he didn’t kill him. Nothing we know about Simard paints him as the forgiving type.”
And if Alexa had read Fornier correctly, the man enjoyed brutality for its own sake. “If Anis Tera is the offender we’re after, maybe his injuries were severe enough to keep him inactive for three years.”
“You think this escalation is just him making up for lost time?”
“Whatever triggered him—maybe near-fatal injuries if indeed it’s Anis Tera—might have created this urgency in him. Perhaps even a near rage. He feels justified in his killings, remember. And how inherently unfair it must have seemed to him to suffer so.”
Nyle snorted. “Unfair. That’s a good one. So, is he done here or not?”
The door opened, and Ethan walked in on Nyle’s question. “I don’t know,” Alexa admitted. “But I’d feel a lot better if we knew that Jeanette Lawler was safely at home.” The woman might have been part of the elaborate ruse used to bring Simard to Nova Scotia, as Vance was. At least Alexa hoped so. She’d researched the reporter on the way back here, while Ethan had driven and spoken on the phone the entire way. Lawler resided in Vancouver, but she often flew to where her guests lived and filmed on location.
