by Rita Herron
“From the picture the unsub sent, he appears to have been stabbed,” Wyatt said.
Patton nodded, shining a light on the man’s chest.
Wyatt counted seven stab wounds. “Reads like a crime of passion, someone with a lot of rage toward the man.”
“Could be someone wronged by the bastard. But the double SS indicating the justice symbol on his forehead also suggests another vigilante,” Hatcher said.
“How about a family member or boyfriend? Even a sister or friend of a victim might want retribution.” Wyatt eyed the man’s size. “Killer must be strong to have subdued him.”
“Which could mean we’re dealing with a male unsub.”
“Or the killer drugged him,” Wyatt said. Fitting, since Milburn had slipped a roofie into his victim’s drink the first time.
“Cat may have found a way to communicate from the psych hospital.”
A real possibility. Cat was a genius. She was also manipulative and cunning. “We’ll pursue that angle, too.”
“Over here, guys. I think I found the kill site.” Tammy Drummond waved them over to the corner against the brick wall of the bar. “Look at the spatter.” She pointed at the various spots, then at a larger pool on the ground. “Looks like he was stabbed here. Blood sprayed his clothes and the wall. Then he collapsed facedown. Blood pooled beneath him.”
Wyatt scratched his head. “So his body was moved after the unsub photographed him. She—or he—wanted to keep Milburn hidden for a while, to allow the killer time to escape and to get rid of the murder weapon.”
Wyatt noticed a spot of blood to the right, near the back of the dumpster. “Our unsub may have stepped in the blood. Let’s see if we can get a good shoe print. Maybe we can match it to our killer.”
“Copy that,” Drummond said.
Footsteps echoed on the brick pavers, then voices. Wyatt pivoted, hands balling into fists as Marilyn Ellis tried to push her way past the crime scene tape. Her cameraman rushed up on her heels, camera aimed at them.
“Keep her back!” Hatcher shouted.
His partner detested Ellis.
Wyatt didn’t trust her either.
Tinsley’s phone jangled just as the crime scene workers left with their photographs, the skulls, and her case of green tea.
What would she do if she couldn’t rely on the delivery service for her groceries and other items she needed?
The phone rang again. She checked the number, expecting Wyatt. But it was Liz.
Anxious to talk to the counselor, she answered.
“I saw the news about the River Street Rapist on social media,” Liz said. “Someone posted that he sent pictures to the rape victims. I called each of them to see if they wanted to talk about it, and I’m on my way for a group session. I just wondered if you’d heard and if you’re okay.”
“I’m all right. I received the picture, too,” Tinsley said. “The FBI has already been here.”
“I’m sorry,” Liz said. “Do you want me to come over?”
Did she? Yes. But Milburn’s rape victims needed Liz more than she did now. “No, you need to be with those women. I’m sure they’re relieved he’s dead, but the police may treat them like suspects.”
“You’re right,” Liz said. “But I’m here for you, too, Tinsley.”
Tinsley’s chest filled with emotions. The counselor was the most heartfelt person she’d ever known. “I appreciate that. But Agent Camden was here. And the crime scene workers are outside now.”
“Crime scene workers?”
Tinsley clamped her teeth over her lower lip, then explained about the skulls, her missing gun, and Wyatt’s suspicions about her tea having been drugged.
A tense second passed. “Oh my God, Tinsley. Are you sure you don’t need me now?”
“No, go ahead to the group session.”
She hung up, then settled in front of her computer to update her website. Suddenly a flurry of posts came through.
Tonight I’ll sleep well for the first time in two years. I know it’s wrong to wish a human dead, but Milt Milburn was no human.
The cops should have kept him locked up. But they didn’t. So someone had to do their job. Someone had to stop him before he hurt another woman.
What do you think, Tinsley? He got what was coming, didn’t he? Isn’t the sight of his blood a beautiful thing?
Tinsley shivered and started to close her laptop. She couldn’t blame these women for their anger and outrage.
Dark thoughts had obsessed her for months. Thoughts of what she’d like to do to the man who’d tortured her and ruined her life.
Those dark thoughts threatened to choke the soul out of her.
Another post flashed on the screen, and her lungs squeezed for air as she read it.
I think about you every day, Tinsley. I remember how soft your skin was. The subtle feminine scent of your body.
The texture of your cunt milking my cock.
The taste of your salty tears as you fought me.
You wanted to be a good girl, didn’t you? But you failed. And you had to be punished.
But that is in the past. We can start over again. It’s almost time for us to be reunited.
Do you dream of me at night when your head hits the pillow?
I dream of you. And I look forward to when we are together . . .
“Special Agent Camden!” Marilyn Ellis waved her hand toward Wyatt, pushing the limits of the crime scene tape as she leaned closer for a better view of what they were doing.
“Get her out of here!” Wyatt growled at the officer in charge of securing the scene.
“You can’t make me leave,” Marilyn yelled. “The public has a right to know that Milt Milburn is dead.”
Wyatt and Hatcher traded frustrated looks. “You’d better handle her,” Hatcher said in a low voice. “I’ve never hit a woman, but she might just drive me to it.”
Wyatt didn’t like the pushy newscaster either, but they couldn’t avoid the media completely. He’d just have to figure out a way to use her—or control what she aired.
A small crowd had gathered behind her, another officer working to clear the area and prevent the onlookers from snapping pictures with their cell phones. Three uniforms from the Savannah PD formed a wall with their bodies to shield the body from the cameras.
Wyatt strode over to Marilyn, angling himself between her and the dead man. “You can’t air anything about this scene until we identify the deceased and notify the family.”
Marilyn lifted her chin haughtily, a smirk on her face. “Good try, but we both know who died here.”
Wyatt frowned. Had she talked to the rape victims? He doubted it. After Milburn was released and the judge who let him go was murdered, the victims had retreated from the public eye.
“I don’t know how or where you got your information—”
“Please,” Marilyn said with a huff. “This murder is all over social media. Did you really think you could keep the death of an alleged rapist quiet?”
Wyatt cursed.
She shoved her mike toward him. “Whoever killed Milt Milburn sent a picture of him to the River Street Rapist’s victims. Is it true that the killer painted the same justice symbol on Milburn’s forehead that the Keeper did on her victims? Is there another vigilante killer on the loose?”
He gave her a go-to-hell look. “At this time, the police and FBI have no comment. Now please stay back so we can investigate.”
His cell phone was ringing as he walked away. He checked the caller ID. Director Bellows.
“What the fuck is going on?” Bellows shouted. “Harold Milburn just stormed into my office and said social media is blowing up with pictures of his son’s dead body. There’s speculation about another vigilante killer, and people on Twitter are crucifying the police and FBI, saying they don’t want us to spend taxpayer dollars to find a rapist’s killer.”
Dammit, just because Milburn had been a senator, he thought he could get away with anything or go anyw
here.
“I don’t know how word spread,” Wyatt said. “Tinsley wouldn’t leak the picture. Could have been one of the victims.”
“Milburn’s father has already hired a lawyer and is suing the Savannah Police Department as well as us for this clusterfuck.”
“Milburn’s father is a rich asshole who used his money to bail his son out time and time again. He created a monster.”
“I agree, but he just lost his child, and he won’t be appeased until he has someone’s head on a platter.” Bellows wheezed a breath. “That’ll probably be mine.”
“We can’t control what people do these days, not when everyone has a camera and can capture what happens as it’s happening.”
“I know, it’s a losing battle,” Bellows said. “All the more reason we wrap this case up quickly. But I’m warning you, Camden. You’d better play it by the book. No illegal searches, so get your warrants in hand. Like it or not, we have to find Milburn’s killer.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Skull watched Joyce Ferris leave the rescue shelter where Tinsley had worked, her do-gooder smile on her face. Like Tinsley, she devoted her spare time to helping abused and homeless animals. The good doctor had received an award for her humane efforts just as Tinsley had.
The city loved Tinsley. The animal rights activists loved her. The freaking world loved her.
So did he.
But she’d barely noticed him.
Until he’d made her take notice.
Only Dr. Ferris wasn’t Tinsley.
Her hair was a darker blonde. Her skin not quite as porcelain. She twisted it up in a knot on her head as if she didn’t have time to fool with her looks.
Her lab coat had once been white but bore dark-red and yellow stains. She probably smelled like wet dog, feline piss, and crap.
She was the closest thing he could get to the one he wanted.
She’d have to do.
He cranked his engine and drove slowly, careful to stay two car lengths behind her so he didn’t spook her.
She maneuvered through the city, then onto a side road that led toward the marsh. He knew where she lived. In a little bungalow off the beaten path with a yard for the rescues she took home.
Last count, she had five—three dogs, two cats.
A smile curved his mouth as she veered onto the mile-long drive to her cabin. Lucky for him that she liked to be isolated.
No one to see him. No one to interfere. He just had to wait until it was dark. Or come back later . . .
He parked alongside the narrow road, beneath an overhang of live oaks, and settled in to watch through his binoculars. So predictable. She greeted the dogs first.
Let them crawl all over her and lick her. Then playtime. She tossed an old tennis ball and laughed as they gave chase.
After she’d run around the yard with them for half an hour, she finally went inside. Lights flickered on in the hall.
She left the sheers open. Thought she was alone, that no one could see her.
He grinned again, anticipation building.
First he’d let her shower. Get clean for him. Spray herself with that body spray she liked so much. Lavender.
Nice, although he preferred rosewood. Reminded him of Tinsley.
He knew everything about Ferris. This wasn’t his first rodeo. He’d been inside her house many times. She liked Greek yogurt, blueberries, and pinot grigio. She grew her own herbs. She liked books about real-life adventures, mountain climbing, and survival fitness. She preferred country rock music, although she had a collection of Beatles albums. Her clothes hung neatly in the closet. Boring jeans, sweaters, and shirts. Nothing frilly. Plain, sensible underwear. Although he had found two pairs of lacy black thongs buried beneath the cotton undies.
No husband or lover or boyfriend. She kept a vibrator in her bedside table.
Dirty girl. She wouldn’t need that once she got to know him.
The rumble of an engine echoed from an oncoming car.
What the hell was it doing out here?
He tugged his hat over his head and ducked lower in his seat as it passed. Dammit.
He didn’t want to be seen. Too risky.
He started the engine, pulled onto the street, and headed toward the highway.
“You got lucky, Doc.” A smile twitched onto his mouth. “But I’ll be back. I promise.”
He always kept his promises.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Wyatt stepped aside to phone the director of the psychiatric ward where Cat was confined, a man named Lamar Heard.
“I don’t understand how I can help,” Heard said.
“This scene reads like the Keeper murders that Cat Landon took responsibility for. We suspected at the time that there was a list of other targets. The justice symbol on this victim, and the fact that this case was related to Judge Wadsworth’s murder, suggests we were correct.”
“I can assure you that Ms. Landon is still here. She’s being monitored daily.”
“Has she had any visitors?”
A second passed. Heard cleared his throat. “You know I can’t divulge patient information without a warrant.”
Wyatt sucked in a breath.
“Does Landon have access to a computer or a smartphone?”
“As I just said, I can’t divulge private information on a patient. But our policy is that patients earn computer privileges through good behavior and with a medical clearance from the doctor. Even when they are allowed to use the Internet or phone, they’re monitored. We keep careful tabs on any Internet activity or communication with the outside world.”
“What about staff? Is there anyone who’s become close to her? Someone who defended her actions?”
“Not that I can think of, but I’ll look into it.”
“How about her therapist?”
“Agent Camden, she can’t discuss anything shared with her in confidence.”
Frustration gnawed at Wyatt. “I know that. But talk to her. If Cat is orchestrating more murders, we need to know. Lives may be in danger.”
A long sigh. “I’ll do that.”
He glanced up and saw Marilyn Ellis and her cameraman hovering at the edge of the scene. She wouldn’t give up. “I know that Marilyn Ellis has interviewed Cat. When was she last there?”
“We’ve been through this,” Heard said tersely. “Call me back when you have a warrant.”
The phone went dead.
The hair on the back of Wyatt’s neck prickled as he looked up and watched the reporter. Marilyn could have visited Cat, discussed Milburn, then killed him. Once Wyatt got the time of death, he’d see whether she had an alibi.
He headed toward the woman, his mind racing. Sometimes criminals insinuated themselves into an investigation. And Marilyn had her ass all up in their business.
She perked up as he approached, obviously thinking he had information to share. Tucking her hair behind one ear, she pushed the mike toward him. “Special Agent Camden, what can you tell us about this murder?”
He gave her a cold look. “As I stated before, I can’t discuss the investigation at this time. But I have some questions for you, Miss Ellis.”
Her eager smile faded slightly. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve been interviewing Cat Landon.”
She waved the cameraman away. “I have been covering her story.”
“Is that all you’re doing?” Wyatt asked.
She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“You’ve painted Ms. Landon as a victim and a heroine.”
Marilyn lifted her chin. “She rid the world of dangerous men when the court system and police failed.”
“She also tried to kill Agent Davenport and one of our crime scene investigators to cover her tracks. They were not dangerous.”
Her silence reeked of barely suppressed anger. He’d hit a sore spot. But she recovered quickly and gestured toward the scene behind him. “The River Street Rapist was cer
tainly dangerous.”
“So you believe that Ms. Landon is responsible for this man’s murder?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You’ve made no bones about admiring Ms. Landon’s work,” he continued. “Perhaps you decided to continue where she left off.”
The realization that he considered her a person of interest flashed across her face. “What are you accusing me of, Agent Camden?”
Wyatt gave her a pointed look. “Your quick appearance at this crime scene is interesting.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “If you’re fishing for information about my conversation with Ms. Landon, you’re wasting your time. I don’t reveal sources or information revealed to me in confidence.” She plastered on her TV smile. “Although we could trade information if you’d like to get a drink and talk.”
Wyatt forced himself not to react. If Marilyn Ellis thought she could play him, she was wrong.
Climbing in bed with her figuratively or literally would be dancing with the devil.
Tinsley’s fingers trembled as she typed:
I see his face everywhere I turn. Outside my window. On the beach.
In my bedroom at night when I should be sleeping.
Sleep isn’t restful, though. It’s a series of nightmares bound together by the memories of what he did to me.
I’m back there again. I claw a mark on the wall beside the others. I started it the day he locked me in the cage.
There are other markings. Three sets. The days his other victims were here before they died.
The first girl—sixty-three days. The second one—only fourteen. The third—ninety.
It’s day thirty-nine for me. I’m not going to make it to ninety.
He’s worn me down. I no longer cry when he touches me. No longer scream when he forces me onto all fours.
In my mind, I disappear into a world where pain doesn’t exist, and he’s touching someone else, not me.
My detachment incenses him even more.
