by Kylie Brant
“That’s it!” Ethan’s attention jerked to Merkel. He wore a broad grin as he listened some more before saying, “I can’t believe you recall all that.” There was another moment of silence. Then the man chuckled. “You’ve got your mother’s memory, son. Thank the Lord for that.” Ethan’s impatience reared while the man chatted for another minute before disconnecting and smiling triumphantly at Alexa.
“Carl remembers the whole ant story. He’d graduated from the university before the kid was there, but it happened in his old bedroom, so he took an interest.” He laughed again, pleased that he’d finally placed the memory with his son’s help. “Adam Ant, Carl called him. Guess he has his own memory devices. Neither of us recalls his real name, but that should be easy enough to discover. Carl reminded me that there was a big write-up in the papers when the kid went back home to live with his birth father. The man used to lock the boy in the cellar. Then he went and had himself a heart attack, and no one found him or the boy for days.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Like I said earlier, not many happy stories to remember from those times.”
“While his father lay dead in the room above him, Amos Tillman, age eleven, survived for over a week, drinking only the water that dripped from overhead leaky pipes in the cellar.” Alexa scrolled down on her cell to read the next paragraph of the article. “The boy was canny enough to throw a scrap of wood through the lone window high in the wall, breaking it out so he could call for help. Unfortunately…” she scrolled again. “…no one heard his pitiful cries. But a small rabbit fell through the broken glass on day three, and a bird flew in later in the week. The animals would become meals for the starving boy.”
Ethan slanted a look at her. “So now you’re going to tell me that the trauma he underwent in childhood would explain him growing up to kill fifteen people?”
Alexa clicked on the next article her search had brought up. “I’m perfectly aware that we haven’t definitively linked Amos Tillman to this offender. But it’s a name that bears checking out, and yes, his childhood is significant. Profiles are most valuable when they focus on the individual offender’s behavior and motivation, rather than relying on generalizations. But it’s also true that the FBI has found a correlation of childhood abuse among serial killers.”
She checked the side mirror. They’d taken two cars to Bridgewater, and the other three officers followed in the vehicle behind them. “Of course, far more people who underwent similar traumas didn’t grow up to become murderers. It’s all about the individual’s perception of what happened to him.”
Her tone grew teasing. “And by the way, don’t think I missed your reaction when Mr. Merkel spoke about the spider one of the foster children wanted to bring into the house.”
“What? I did not react. Spiders don’t bother me.” He slowed as a red sports car zipped into their lane.
“Really?” Skepticism dripped from her words. “Have you developed a new-found affinity for them? Because I remember once you wouldn’t get in your car until I caught the daddy long legs that was…”
“Okay, okay.” He reached over to put his hand over her face and gave a gentle push. “We agreed a long time ago you’d take care of spiders and I was the designated bat killer. Bats are bigger than spiders. Much more heroic.”
“So you promised,” she breathed under her breath, “but it’s not like we ever put it to the test.”
When Ethan shot her a grin, she saw twin reflections of herself in his mirrored sunglasses. “You’ll just have to take my word for it.”
Her heart squeezed in her chest. His smile lightened a face that was far more somber than she remembered. Gave it a carefree look that was so reminiscent of the seventeen-year-old boy she’d fallen in love with that it took her breath. It’d be easy to believe that, as an isolated, emotionally damaged teen, she’d been susceptible to the first boy who showed interest. But there had been plenty of males who’d approached her. Ethan was the only one, however, who’d sneaked past her wary guard.
He was the only one who’d stolen her heart.
She stared blindly at the article open on her cell. It’d been easy to convince herself for the last couple of decades that their story was a combination of teenage chemistry and lack of experience. But it was far harder to reconcile that explanation with the feelings he could still awake in her now. And those feelings had alarms shrilling in her mind.
“If…and it’s a major if,” Ethan said, “Tillman does turn out to be The Tailor, what significance does his past play in the homicides?”
Grateful for the interruption to her thoughts, Alexa looked up. “An interesting question. His stay with Merkel could have established his foundation in religion. One that evolved and mutated over the years to fit his growing need to strike out at others.”
“You’ve suspected the offender was using God to justify his actions since his first communication.”
Alexa nodded. “Of course, there have been plenty of killers who claim God or Satan told them to kill. They’re referred to as visionary killers. Most of them have suffered a psychotic break. I wouldn’t place the UNSUB in that category, however.”
“But you just said…”
“He uses God as a justification. But in reality, this is a control-driven killer. And yes, if the offender turns out to be Tillman, his past does explain where his need for control originated. He had none throughout his childhood. A father who abused him and nearly killed him. A revolving door of foster homes and group homes, if these articles are to be believed. Then add Fornier’s observations about the man he knew as Anis Tera. Weak. Insignificant.” She turned in her seat to more fully face Ethan. “By acquiring technological expertise with computers and the Internet, the offender learned to control others. Think of the secrets that are buried online. All the evidence that exists of alleged misdeeds. First he made his victims pay for his silence. He can rationalize that by looking at his actions as an offer of penance or redemption. But it no more than extortion.”
“And killing them for continuing their misdeeds was murder,” Ethan said grimly.
“Which he’ll again justify. But despite shrouding his acts in faith, make no mistake, his actions are about him. His wants. His needs.” She stopped, struck by a sudden thought.
“What?”
“You said you had been following the premise that the killer was someone who traveled widely. A sensible theory given the seeming randomness of the attacks, and the vast territory covered.” She stopped a moment to collect her thoughts before going on. “Most serial killers don’t kill out of state. Or, in Canada’s case, outside their home province or territory. Most stay within their comfort zones. They like the familiar.”
“So this UNSUB is atypical.”
“In this particular instance, yes. They may gain confidence later on and venture farther away from home—” She broke off that thought as another occurred. “The first victim was from Ashville, Manitoba, right? The body was found near the Assiniboine River.”
“You could give Merkel memory lessons,” Ethan noted.
“When you get back to the Halifax RCMP headquarters you’ll be running Tillman’s name through the national crime database.”
His mouth quirked up. “Will I?”
She waved a hand. “Just the quick check I did online shows fewer than ten people in the country with that name. The Tillman that stayed with Merkel shouldn’t be that hard to trace. And I’d look for one who lived in Manitoba within easy driving distance of that river at the date of the first homicide or some time earlier.”
“Because when he was first learning, he’d go to a place he knew?”
She nodded. “Someplace close to him. Subconsciously, he may have chosen his first victim based on his comfort zone. That’s why it makes so much sense to me that he used the van as his—for lack of a better phrase—kill space. By using it, he’s bringing a measure of that comfort zone with him, even when he’s far from home.” He’d still have to arrange the scene where he snatched h
is victims. Select the area for the dump sites. But he cut his risk by not leaving a primary crime scene. Alexa wondered if that was solely designed for his own ease or to avoid detection.
“So if he started near his own residence, what was his purpose for returning to one of his childhood homes? Why take a risk by choosing Merkel’s name for an ID?”
She shook her head impatiently. “Don’t you see? He’s returning to another anchor point. He spent his formative years in Nova Scotia. The UNSUB knew he couldn’t chance taking Simard in the man’s home city. He had to lure him far away from Fornier, or other hired muscle. By including Lawler in the ruse, he got two of his victims to the same location using the same pretense. It was the likely the biggest challenge he’s undertaken. It makes sense that he’d stack the deck in his favor by getting both of them out of their familiar surroundings while returning to a place known to him. He’d have weighed the safety of making a return. He probably knew Claire Merkel was dead. Maybe he’s kept tabs on the couple. He had to have known there was little chance Pastor Merkel would remember him.”
The man couldn’t even be bothered to learn the names of the foster children under his care. It hadn’t escaped Alexa that the pastor’s habit of bestowing Biblical names on the boys was not unlike Reisman insisting on calling her by her middle name. She wondered if it had ever occurred to Merkel that he was robbing the kids of a piece of their identity.
“But he didn’t count on Merkel’s son. It sounds like you’ve already decided Tillman is our guy.” Ethan reached up a finger to settle his sunglasses more securely.
“We’ll know more in the next few hours.” Because Alexa didn’t doubt that once back at the RCMP in Halifax, they’d be learning everything there was to know about the Adam Tillman who’d lived with Pastor Merkel.
The pieces fit. They didn’t know yet if the facts did. But one way or another, they were soon going to learn if they finally had the identity of the killer called The Tailor.
“Meat lovers and taco pizzas. The dinner of champions.”
Alexa raised a weary gaze to view Ian coming through the door to the conference room bearing two pizza boxes and a sack. “What is it with you guys and carbs?”
“We’ve also got protein covered,” the officer said virtuously. “You could use more protein. And carbs. They both build muscle.”
“Carbs also build fat.”
“You know what lettuce builds? Nothing.” He reached into the sack and brought out a clear plastic container and waved it at her. “But I got you a salad anyway.”
Touched, she said, “Thank you.” She half rose from her seat to snag it and the plastic silverware he handed her.
Ian gave her a concerned look as she opened the container. “Seriously. How are you planning to keep your strength up?”
“I am planning,” Alexa said, as she stabbed her first bite of salad, “to eat all of this. And then grab a slice of pizza.”
“That a girl,” he said approvingly, before turning around and waving an arm to fight off Nyle and Jonah. “Let me set it down first. Geez, you’re like a pack of dogs.”
“I don’t think two counts as a pack, but the description is still oddly fitting.” Ethan walked into the room, looked amused.
“Just looking to help,” Nyle said as he stole one of the boxes away from the other officer and strode quickly to the table at the front of the room. “His age slows him down.”
“I can still run a six-minute mile, so unless you can beat that, no cracks about my age.”
“Only if there’s a beer waiting at the end of the run,” Jonah joked.
As the men bickered good-naturedly, Ethan ambled over to where Alexa sat. He’d shed his suit jacket at some point, along with his tie. His jaw was stubbled, giving him a slightly rakish look.
Firmly corralling her observations, Alexa asked, “You spoke to Captain Campbell?”
He nodded. “Once we have the list of Tillmans narrowed down, we’ll reach out to local law enforcement for a closer look. I also checked in with Steve Friedrich. He visited the gas stations where the UNSUB used the credit card. The camera images were a bust. Both places record over old images every week or two, just as we figured.”
Alexa spoke in between bites. “We’ve found eight Amos Tillmans in the country. One, a man in his eighties, recently died. Two others are late sixties to early seventies. I think we can eliminate them, as well. Another is a teenager. So, we have four prospects.”
“I’ve got a DMV request for each of those Tillmans.” Jonah turned from the table, three huge slices of pizza piled on a paper plate that was crumpling under the weight. “Just waiting to get copies of the licenses back.”
“This time of night, we might be waiting a while,” Ian said around the pizza he was chewing.
“Better get up here and eat before these guys inhale both pies,” Nyle advised Ethan.
Apparently viewing it as a real threat, Ethan moved toward the food.
Alexa continued to eat her salad methodically. It was nearly eight p.m. She wasn’t sure how much longer the officers planned to work, but she was hoping they’d call it a day soon. She thought she had a fair amount of stamina, but the late hours they’d spent in recent days were starting to take a toll.
It was a sign of her exhaustion that she didn’t immediately react when the tablet next to her pinged. A moment later, the significance hit her, and she froze, her fork halfway to her mouth.
Dropping the silverware, Alexa hurriedly logged into her professional email account. Her stomach twisted when she saw the familiar combination of numbers and symbols where the sender’s name should be.
She opened the message and clicked on the image gif in the body. Then gasped quietly as the picture took shape. A single black and white photo of a flat headstone already showing the wear of years. An angel was etched around the date, with the text below it:
Olivia Rose Manning
Infant daughter of Ethan and Alexa Manning
Alexa was aware of the sidelong glances Ethan was sending her way as he drove, but with Nyle in the back seat, he retained his silence. She channeled all her concentration toward locking down the emotion that was churning inside her until she was alone. Compartmentalizing her feelings. Her grief. Sealing them off so they couldn’t rise up to swallow her whole.
She’d become an expert on all of that twenty years ago.
Nyle kept up a running commentary all the way back to the hotel. It helped to focus on his words. Consider them with a fierce intensity that didn’t allow other thoughts to intrude. Certainly not dead babies. Not daughters who were fiercely loved even in the womb. Ones who never got to draw a breath outside it.
She drew in a strangled breath. Released it shakily.
“You okay?” Ethan murmured.
She nodded, beyond words. Like an injured animal, she needed solitude to tend to her wounds, to gather her defenses and mend them layer by layer.
When Ethan pulled into the hotel parking lot, she gathered her briefcase which held her notes, laptop and tablet. “See you in the morning.” She had her door opened and was exiting before Ethan had the vehicle in park.
“Well, she’s sure in…” She didn’t hear the rest of Nyle’s statement. With single-minded focus, she headed for her room. For privacy.
And once inside it, once she’d locked the door with a shaky hand and set her briefcase on the floor, she leaned heavily against the door. Then slid down it when her knees would no longer hold her upright.
That bastard.
The tears that she’d been willing back sprang forth in a helpless, involuntary flood. She was usually stronger, but the image had blindsided her. The UNSUB was looking for a reaction. She knew that. He was expecting to catch her off-guard, vulnerable. God help her, at the moment, she was both.
Minutes ticked by before she was able to stem the tears through sheer force of will. The grief couldn’t be controlled as easily. Her inner fortitude had been constructed brick by brick over the last two d
ecades. It shielded her from reliving the paralyzing hurt. The brutal sense of loss that could still throb anew in moments when she least expected it.
It was the callousness of the message that had her steeling her spine. I know you. That’s what the offender was telling her. You have no secrets from me. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and struggled to her feet. He was wrong, of course. He could learn a bit about her past, but she knew far more about him than he did her.
And she was going to use what she knew to bring him down.
She jerked when there was a quiet knock on her door. Knew who it would be.
“Alexa.” Ethan’s voice was quiet. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” And she would be. She just needed another minute or two alone. When she channeled the regrets from a lifetime ago into anger, she’d be stronger. Invulnerable.
“Open the door.”
“Ethan.” She breathed his name out in frustration. In defeat. She couldn’t keep this latest communication from him even if she wanted to. It was part of the case. An intricately sticky piece of their past that now was entwined in the investigation. One that laid bare their shared regret that had lasted a lifetime.
She undid the latch and opened the door. Ethan’s gaze swept her once, then returned to her face. His expression softened. “What’s wrong?”
Alexa turned away from his concern. It would weaken her, return her to the quaking mass she’d been moments ago. She needed to maintain control, and that was tougher do facing the one man who’d know if she was dissembling.
