by Blake Pierce
Zoe opened her mouth to protest again, but the words died in her throat. Unbidden, the image of Shelley’s body had floated into her mind, the way it did in those odd moments, completely out of her control. She had been seeing it for weeks, and even the pills weren’t really enough to make it go away.
That was what all of this was about. Had always been about. She couldn’t deny that her mind wasn’t fully on the task. She had never been up for this, not really. It had only been SAIC Maitland baiting her with the case file, knowing that it would catch her attention because of the nature of the symbol. It was practically a set-up.
And she shouldn’t have agreed to work the case with someone else. Not when she couldn’t even bear to think of the word “partner.” She should have followed her first instinct, which was to stay home and ignore the world and let her job fade away. What he said was true.
“You are right,” she said, quietly, her eyes seeking out the whorls of the tree trunk beside them rather than continuing to look at his face. She traced patterns there, counted inches and millimeters, signs of life. “I should not have taken this assignment.”
Flynn’s tone softened. “Good,” he said. “Then I’m taking you back to the motel. I don’t think you should be anywhere near the case. I’ll drop you off so you can arrange travel back to Washington, and then get back to work.”
If there was anything to be said for the situation, Zoe was at least glad that Flynn showed some commitment. That he wasn’t going to let the case drop to escort her back to the airport, or make the travel arrangements for her. She could at least manage that on her own, secure in the knowledge that he was still working hard to catch the killer.
“Fine,” she said, shortly, with no energy left to say anything else. She turned toward the car and walked away from the body, ready to give it all up and go home.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Flynn sat at his temporary desk in the sheriff’s station. It was clearly some poor deputy’s normal desk, still equipped with photographs of his loved ones by the screen, but at least it had a computer and enough space to spread out a few files for comparison. Now that he was the only adult professional actually dealing with the case, he had even more reason to focus.
There was a new file waiting for him; the sheriff had obviously been busy while he was driving back to the motel, getting Prime situated, checking her room for more pills so that she couldn’t get herself an overdose while his back was turned, and giving her strict instructions to call SAIC Maitland for her transfer home. It contained a brief overview of the victim, whom they had been able to identify almost immediately thanks to her uniform and name tag.
Flynn spread the three information sheets out over the desk, looking at them side by side: Olive Hanson, Elara Vega, Shacora Maxwell. There was nothing the three women had in common: not age, not race, not their looks or physical type, not the location of their crimes, not even the method of murder. But that didn’t mean that there wasn’t something that linked them.
There still had to be a link. Maybe Ed Baker had an alibi, although Flynn still wasn’t entirely convinced about that one. He hit the desk with his open palm, feeling the flash of pain reverberate up his arm. Whoever it was, Baker or someone else, they’d been slow enough to allow him to kill again. Flynn was glad the crime scene photographs for Maxwell weren’t in yet—he wouldn’t have been able to look at them. They had let her down. Left her to suffer at the hands of a maniac, all because they couldn’t pull their fingers out quick enough to catch the killer.
Because Prime had been drinking, not to mention obsessed with that weird pi tangent. Flynn shook his head, willing the pieces of paper to come to life and speak to him, to tell him where to look. He didn’t want another death on his conscience. He needed to put this case to bed, on his own. He couldn’t use the excuse of waiting for a new partner. This had to be closed, and now, before the killer had another chance to strike.
Flynn leafed through the other papers for inspiration, all of the bits and pieces he had put together over the last twenty-four hours. One of the sheets was the list of planetarium employees, with Ed Baker’s name and address still circled. Employees—that was another place to look. He should check out the people that worked with Maxwell, and the people in her class. Maybe there would be something. A shared surname. A day student who also worked at the planetarium. Something.
Maxwell was security at the state park; that meant she worked with rangers, maybe even other security guards on shared shifts.
Security…
Flynn searched down the list from the planetarium again, scanning job titles. He saw astronomers, tour guides, lecturers, janitorial staff, all of it—but no security. It wasn’t possible that a place that big, with that much expensive equipment inside, went unpatrolled. That meant they must be outsourcing to a different firm.
He’d overlooked it.
Flynn grabbed for his phone, calling his contact at the planetarium—a dour office manager type who was responsible for HR as well as other duties. It wasn’t a huge firm. “Hello, this is Agent Flynn,” he said, rushing on quickly without waiting for pleasantries. “I need to know the name of your security company.”
“Oh, yeah,” the contact said, slowly; he had a habit of drawing out his vowels that annoyed Flynn no end. “If I remember correctly, that’s Syracuse Secure.”
“You’re sure?” Flynn asked. He didn’t need vagaries. He needed precise and correct answers, and he needed them now.
“Let me just… you know, it might be Secure Syracuse…”
“Can you get me their phone number?” Flynn cut in impatiently.
“Oh yeah, I’ve got that right here,” the man said.
Flynn took it down, ending the call with a brief word of thanks that wasn’t entirely done with feeling. The man was slow, infuriatingly slow when everything could depend on the minutes and hours it took him to get to the bottom of all of this.
“Syracuse Secure, how can we help secure you today?” came the syrupy response down the line as he dialed the number.
“Yes, hello, this is FBI Special Agent Aiden Flynn,” Flynn said, getting right to the point. “I need some information on your employees.”
“Oh.” There was hesitation on the other end of the line. “Do you need, like, a warrant or something for that?”
“Not if you cooperate with this open murder investigation to prevent any more of your fellow citizens from losing their lives,” Flynn said. “Like a good person would do.”
“Erm.” There was a brief silence. “What’s it for, did you say?”
“We’re trying to stop a serial killer,” Flynn said, through gritted teeth. “I need to know who works security at the planetarium.”
“Right.” The person on the other end of the line seemed to come to a decision. “Do you have a fax line over there?”
Flynn rolled his eyes. They weren’t that far out of New York City. Email was a thing. “Sure. I’m at the sheriff’s station.”
“I’ll get the list sent over to you right away.”
Flynn put the phone down and practically ran to the sheriff’s office, which happened to be the only room with a fax in it. The sheriff was sitting at her desk, looking over case reports through half-moon spectacles balanced delicately on her nose, when he entered.
“Some kind of fire, Agent?” she asked, with a look of alarm.
“Waiting on a fax,” he explained, just as the machine lit up and beeped the sequence indicating an incoming message.
“Where’s Agent Prime?” the sheriff asked. “You two shot off pretty quick from the Maxwell scene.”
Flynn hesitated. His eyes were firmly on the paper spooling out of the fax machine, and he didn’t exactly want to talk about Prime and her problems just then. Not to mention that it felt like a bit of a betrayal; the Bureau could look after its own and handle its own business, and outsiders didn’t need to know that someone was having a hard time. “She’s following another lead,” he said. “Rel
ated to the first two murders. Something we were already tracking before this.”
“All right.” Sheriff Petrovski took off her glasses, watching as he grabbed hold of the paper that had finally finished printing. “You want my boys to talk to the Maxwell family, ask the usual questions? I can have them give you a full report.”
“Thanks,” Flynn said gratefully, flashing her a toothy smile. “That would actually be very useful. It feels like time is of the essence with this case, and the two of us are stretched pretty thin.”
“No problem,” Petrovski replied, watching him go. There was something about the way she said it that didn’t quite sit right with Flynn, like she had been expecting the FBI to stuff it up and need help, but there wasn’t time to think about it. He had to keep moving.
He was walking down the corridor as his eyes slid down the list, looking for something that would stand out. He didn’t even make it back to his makeshift office before something jumped right out at him, making him stop, staring at the page.
One of the security guards who worked at the planetarium was named Tom Taylor. The address next to his name was local, not far from the home of Olive Hanson. The connection to Shacora Maxwell wasn’t there yet, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t find one when he went looking. Probably the fact that they were both security guards of a kind would play into it somehow.
But all of that didn’t matter as much as the man’s initials. T. T., exactly what Flynn had thought when he first saw the symbol carved into the bodies. It wasn’t pi at all—it was a signature. The man was carving his own initials into his victims, to mark them out as his. A macabre signature.
It was a signature that was about to be his unraveling. Flynn spun around, changing course to head immediately outside and to the parking lot, the page with Tom Taylor’s address gripped firmly in his hand. There wasn’t any time to lose. Flynn was going after their killer right now—before he had the chance to get hungry and take another life.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Zoe sat with her head in her hands on the end of the bed, putting off making the call. It was probably selfish, since Flynn needed a new partner to come in and help out, but Zoe wanted to leave as much time as she possibly could before admitting to SAIC Maitland that she was done.
She would never work in the FBI again after this, she knew. Flynn wasn’t going to keep quiet about the reasons for his not wanting to work with her, and substance abuse wasn’t exactly a desirable characteristic for an agent. Put that together with the trauma she had experienced, and the fact that she’d always had a hard time working with others in the first place, and Zoe didn’t rate her chances of ever getting another shot.
So, she just wanted to sit and be an FBI agent for a short while longer, before it all came crashing down.
It had been nice to get back into it, even if she hadn’t managed to get anywhere. The numbers were everywhere, the headaches, the stress; all of it came together to stop her from seeing the truth of the case. But she’d almost been there. Any other time, she’d have gotten him. She knew it. And that felt at least a little bit good.
Better than the rest, at any rate.
Zoe sighed and picked up her cell phone, looking at the blank screen, measuring it in her mind. This was it; time to make the call. She would have to ask Maitland to replace her and organize a plane flight back. Then there would be disciplinary action, probably mandated therapy sessions, and an inquest into her behavior. Even Maitland wouldn’t be able to get her out of this one, however highly he might have thought of her. He didn’t even know the truth about her unique skills, but he had always seen that she had something that set her apart. That made her a good agent.
It didn’t matter. None of it did. Her track record of case solves was also accompanied by a track record of disciplinary action. Of partners who requested transfers as soon as they had to actually work with her. It was a mess. There was no one to stick up for her, with Shelley gone. No one who would fight for Zoe to keep her job.
So, it had come to this. For a brief moment Zoe thought that things might have been better if she’d never met Shelley at all, but then she dismissed that cruel and unwelcome thought. No, meeting Shelley had been one of the best things to ever happen to her. She’d become better at her job, a better and more open person. She’d had a real friend, something Zoe had begun to give up on having.
Shelley had been there for her when Zoe was struggling. But Zoe hadn’t been able to protect her when Shelley needed her. There had almost been John, but Zoe had pushed him away so harshly that she couldn’t reach out to him again. Now there was no one. She didn’t want to call Dr. Applewhite—turning to the only remotely maternal figure she had in her life to admit how badly she had failed only made her feel lower. This was it. Zoe was alone, and she was about to lose everything.
The cell phone in her hands began to ring, startling Zoe out of her thoughts. She stared at it dumbly for a moment; her first thought was that Flynn had gone ahead and called Maitland from the car, told him everything, and this was the call that would fire her, but she didn’t recognize the number. It wasn’t registered in Washington, D.C.; it looked local.
It had already rung out six chimes. Unable to fathom who would be calling her, Zoe put the phone to her ear and answered it hesitantly. “Hello. Special Agent Zoe Prime.”
“Agent, I was hoping you were available.” It was Sheriff Petrovski. Did she not know that Zoe was off the case? “I’ve just seen your partner drive out of the parking lot, so I figured you might be better positioned to respond. We’ve got a new body.”
Zoe blinked. Petrovski knew nothing. The rookie hadn’t told her, for whatever reason, and Petrovski must have thought that Zoe was still the senior agent on the case. “He has struck again?” Zoe asked, her mind racing. How long had it been since the last murder? She hadn’t heard the time of death estimation, but from her own observations it had happened maybe nine hours before they’d arrived at the scene. That meant it was only a maximum of eleven hours between two kills.
“Not exactly,” Petrovski replied. There was something in her voice, something that she wasn’t saying. “You’d better come out here and see this for yourself.”
“Right,” Zoe said, then hesitated. “Agent Flynn has our rental car.”
“I’ll have someone come by and pick you up,” Petrovski replied. “We need you on the scene here, as soon as possible. I know you’re chasing down leads, but this might be a big one.”
“Of course,” Zoe murmured, giving the sheriff the details of where the deputy should pick her up.
Another body. She knew she was supposed to be backing off, going home, but this was big. Important. And if Flynn was otherwise occupied, the least she could do would be to go and take notes for him, be a body on the ground.
At least, that was what Zoe told herself—because there was no way in hell she was walking away now, with a mysterious body that had to be seen to be understood and what could possibly be an escalation of the behavior of a serial killer.
***
Flynn pulled up outside the apartment complex, barely waiting for the engine to stop rumbling before he was leaping out onto the sidewalk. He glanced up at the building, trying to figure out what kind of situation he was walking into. The apartments appeared well-kept from the outside, many of them set up with tables and chairs on small balconies if not flowering plants, and there was no graffiti or sign of vandalism. It looked like a nice enough area.
He just hoped that rang true for the people living inside—and that he wasn’t about to run into serious problems trying to tackle a murderer.
He strode in toward the doors and hit a number at random on the intercom. When the resident answered, he barked, “Delivery for you,” and was soon inside the building. Not the most honest way to gain entry, but there was always the worry that people would deliberately exclude law enforcement. He could worry about explaining that later. Right now, he had a murderer to stop.
Flynn rushed up the s
tairs to the second floor, reading signs as he went that directed visitors to the outdoor pool, the basement laundry room, the upstairs apartment numbers. He turned left as soon as he reached the next stairwell to head in the right direction. Apartment 415 was on the left-hand side of the hall, the opposite to the side of the building he had been able to see from outside. Flynn hesitated for the first time; he leaned his head against the door for a moment silently, listening. There wasn’t a hint of movement inside, but it didn’t mean there was no one there.
Flynn checked his gun, made sure he had easy access to it, but left it holstered. He didn’t want to exacerbate the situation—there was a chance that the man would come calmly now that he knew he’d been caught. Or else use the arrogance that tended to come along with serial killers, believing that he could talk his way out of it.
Flynn squared his shoulders, then reached out and rapped smartly on the door. “Open up,” he shouted, following the procedure he knew was the safest, both for him and the suspect and anyone else who might be inside. “FBI!”
There was a pause, and Flynn thought he heard footsteps behind the door. There was a scrambling sound then, and footsteps moving rapidly away, and he swore under his breath. Something was happening. The suspect, this Tom Taylor, had looked through the peephole to verify who was knocking for him, and now he was running—either to try to escape or to locate a weapon, or even to destroy evidence, Flynn couldn’t be sure.
But he couldn’t just wait out here in the corridor to find out. He gritted his teeth and stepped back, bracing himself against the opposite wall before using his full force to kick out at the door, right below the handle. There was a splintering sound, but no visible effect, so he kicked again, and then a third time. Finally, the wooden door gave, the lock dangling uselessly in the air as the rest of the panel broke around it, and Flynn dashed forward.
