by Sharon Sala
“Will do,” Wade said, and disconnected, then called Cameron.
Cameron was in his office doing research for a fellow agent when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID before picking up.
“Hey, Wade.”
Wade didn’t mince words. “We have a third body and it’s the same killer. That missing lawyer was fished out of the Potomac this morning, and he’d been Tasered and strangled, just like the two women.”
Cameron felt sick. “Son of a bitch.”
“Tate is talking to the director, but it looks like the Stormchaser team is about to reactivate.”
“The D.C. police aren’t going to like this.”
“I said the same thing to Tate, but like he said, they have to know what we know. He told us to sit tight and he’d call us back soon.”
“Will do. Does Jo know?” he asked.
Wade frowned. “If she doesn’t already, she will, and Tate will have to tell Nola, too. With all three of our women in the same area, it’s too damn handy for Inman and my peace of mind.”
“I’m calling Laura. She needs to be extravigilant now, too,” Cameron said.
* * *
Laura was overseeing the unloading of a food truck when her cell phone rang. She was about to let it go to voice mail when she saw it was Cameron, and instead excused herself and stepped away.
“Hello, honey! Everything okay?” When he hesitated, she got a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Cameron?”
“There’s a third body with the same Taser and strangulation marks. There’s definitely a serial killer out there, and we’re about to resurrect the Stormchaser team.”
All of a sudden her knees went weak.
“Well, hell,” she said, backing up against a wall to keep from dropping where she stood. “What should I do?”
“Just be more aware. Never trust anyone you don’t already know, and don’t go anywhere alone.”
“I can do that,” she said.
“You’re fine, honey. I won’t lose you.”
She felt for the chain and the cross beneath her shirt. “Yes, I know. I’ll pay attention. Call me when you get an update.”
“I will. Love you most,” he said softly.
Laura bit her lip to keep from crying.
“Love you, too.”
* * *
The first thing Lucy Taft did when she woke up was get William Harold’s binoculars and make note of the make, model and plate number of Leibowitz’s new van. Then she went to the bathroom to take her shower, so it was late afternoon before she heard the news that a third body had been discovered.
Thirteen
Detectives Ron Wells and Sam Burch were in the process of adding Charles Trent to their murder board when Burch’s cell phone rang. When he realized the call was from the chief of police, he frowned. This couldn’t be good.
“Detective Burch, Homicide.”
“Detective, this is Chief Warden. I’m giving you a heads-up. Three special agents from the FBI are on their way in. They have pertinent information regarding the man they believe is our serial killer, and yes, we have now officially designated these murders as serial killings. There will be a press conference within the hour notifying the public of that fact.”
Burch’s heart sank. “You’re giving our case to the feds?”
“No, and they don’t want it known that they’re even working with you. They will explain. You will give them everything you know, and they will, in turn, tell you who you’re most likely dealing with and his motivation.”
“You mean they know who the killer is?”
“They think they do, and I will say, they made a convincing case. Regardless, you will cooperate. Is that understood?”
Burch sighed. “Yes, sir.” The line went dead. He looked up.
Wells had overheard enough to know something was up.
“Well?” he asked.
Burch shrugged. “The feds are getting involved in our case. Supposedly they know our killer’s identity, but they intend to stay in the background. They’re on their way here with information, and we’re supposed to share what we have in return.”
“Son of a bitch,” Wells muttered.
Burch shrugged. “Look, we don’t know shit. If they have a lead, I’m willing to listen.”
He heard footsteps behind him and turned around just as the lieutenant entered with the agents. The first thing Burch noticed was that they weren’t dressed in the traditional dark suits, and they weren’t smiling. He wondered if they were as pissed to be here as he was to see them coming.
* * *
Cameron saw the disgusted expressions on the detectives’ faces and didn’t really blame them, but they would soon understand.
Lieutenant Scott gave Burch and Wells a warning glance, and then began introductions.
“Detectives, these are Special Agents Benton, Luckett and Winger. Gentlemen, two of my best homicide detectives, Ron Wells and Sam Burch. I expect cooperation from all parties.”
Wells and Burch nodded.
“Yes, sir. No problem,” Wells added.
“Then, I’ll leave you gentlemen to get to work,” the lieutenant said, and walked out.
Tate quickly held out his hand. “Tate Benton. Wade Luckett is the one built like a linebacker. Cameron Winger is the rangy one.”
Detective Wells shook his hand. “I’m Ron. He’s Sam. So you’re seriously sure who this killer is?”
Tate sighed. “About as sure as we can be without a visual identification. His name is Hershel Inman.”
“Should that ring a bell?” Wells asked.
“Are you familiar with the Stormchaser, the killer who tore across the country picking his victims from the survivors of natural disasters?”
Burch eyes widened. “Are you serious? Why would you link him to these deaths? There were no natural disasters involved.”
Tate proceeded to fill him in, and when he was finished, he handed him a USB drive.
“Everything we know about Inman is on that—the cases we worked, the different locations...everything. And here are the photos we have of him, though they’re on the drive, too. The first is an older DMV photo from Louisiana. The second was taken by a hotel security camera. The last one is an artist’s rendering of how we think he looks now.”
“Wow. What the hell happened to him?” Burch asked, eyeing the scars.
“Those are scars from surviving a boat explosion and living through a tornado. He’s a master of disguise, damn hard to find and even harder to kill,” Tate said.
Cameron added, “We were hoping he’d gone somewhere and died. There haven’t been any killings fitting his M.O. since his disappearance last year in Missouri.”
Wells glanced at his partner and winced. They were over their head on this.
“What makes you think the murders here in D.C. are connected to him?” he asked.
Tate explained about the flowers left at Louise Inman’s grave, the first hint that Inman was alive.
“There’s also a link between your murders and our guy,” Wade added. “He likes to use a Taser to subdue his victims, and then he strangles them. At least, that was his M.O. the second time around.”
Ron shook his head. “But why would he come here? Why isn’t he choosing victims at the site of a natural disaster?”
Tate hesitated. “That’s what we don’t know, and why we didn’t say anything until the lawyer’s body turned up in the river. He isn’t picky about the sex of his victims. It’s always about making a statement, and we think he’s making a statement this time, as well. We just don’t know what it is yet. He developed an attachment to our team as we pursued him. Over time it became an issue, and he wanted us to pay. He’s targeted both my wife and Wade’s wife, Jo, who’s also a
n agent. Within a month, Agent Winger here is getting married, and the woman he’s engaged to is someone Inman knows. She’s with the Red Cross and was in charge of one of the disaster sites early on. Before we had identified him, he’d volunteered there to be closer to his victims, so at one time she was his boss. We don’t know if any of that will play into what he’s doing, but we can’t take a chance that it won’t.”
“So why did he start killing to begin with?” Wells asked.
Tate shoved a hand through his hair. “That’s the tragedy of it all. He and his wife were victims of Hurricane Katrina. They were stranded on the roof of their house, waiting to be rescued, but it didn’t happen in time. His wife was a diabetic. She needed her insulin and couldn’t get to it. She died during the second night and slipped off the roof into the water. They didn’t find her body for several days, and Inman went crazy. He blamed the authorities for her death. He blamed the government for not acting quickly, and he’s turned himself into God’s nemesis. If God wouldn’t save his wife, he’s not going to let the ones God did save live.”
“Holy shit,” Wells said, and sat down with a thump. “But that scenario about storms and letting people live doesn’t fit here,” he added.
Tate nodded. “And that’s why we hesitated to interfere. However, this isn’t the first time he’s changed his M.O., so we can’t rule him out. The facts we do have on these killings are too close to his handiwork to ignore. You read the files we gave you, and if we’re right and it is Inman, you can understand why we’d rather he not find out we’re back on the case,” Tate said. “We’ll do everything we can to help. We’ll work with you night and day, but we don’t want to be at the forefront of anything. Understood?”
Burch nodded. “Understood.”
“So what do you want to know?” Wells asked.
“Why don’t you two check out the info on that drive, and we’ll familiarize ourselves with your murder board. If we could have access to your case files, as well, it would be helpful. If anyone has questions, just ask,” Tate suggested.
“Deal,” Ron said. He sat down at his computer and pulled up the files for them to read, handed them the hard copies as well and gave up his desk and chair to Tate as he and Sam headed for another computer with the USB.
* * *
Hershel had a dilemma. Choosing the last victim, the one to the east, had posed a problem. Since he’d chosen his victims by location, he’d had no idea when he’d marked the last location that it was actually a three-story condo with a different resident on each floor.
The resident on the top floor ran a boutique in downtown Reston.
The resident on the second floor worked in D.C. as a barista at a coffee shop.
The resident on the ground floor was a thirtysomething professional dancer who taught classes at his studio in D.C. It was ultimately the location of the dance studio that marked Lionel Ricks as the fourth one to die.
Hershel knew the days and times of Lionel’s classes, and that he also gave private lessons every evening from four to six.
Hershel’s window of time would come right after the last lesson was over, when Lionel stayed behind to get ready for the next day.
Hershel had been in the parking lot of the strip mall where the studio was located all afternoon, listening to the radio and watching students coming and going. He was swallowing the last bite of the burger he’d been eating when his radio station segued to local news. He didn’t pay much attention until he caught a sound bite from the D.C. police chief.
“The Washington, D.C., police department has determined that the murders of Patty Goss, Megan Oliver and Charles Trent were committed by the same individual. At this time we do not have a description of the person we have identified as a serial killer, but rest assured, we will not stop until he or she is apprehended.”
Hershel smiled. Finally. So where were the feds? Why weren’t they working this case?
He waited for the chief to say that the FBI had been called in, but he didn’t. It pissed Hershel off and at the same time made him antsy. He needed the Stormchaser team. They had to know it was him. The bodies had his signature all over them.
He thought about giving Tate Benson a call like before, but it would be risky, and he wasn’t sure if that would make it too easy for them. They had to be aware of the way the victims had died, and they weren’t stupid. He had a suspicion they were already looking for him, playing the same game he was. So there were two foxes in the henhouse. Which one was going to come away with the hen?
The music resumed, but the announcement had spurred his intent to get this finished, so he went back to his stakeout. From the number of students arriving with flowers, bakery boxes and happy birthday balloons, it appeared Ricks might be having a birthday. At that point Hershel revamped his plan and drove away.
* * *
The throb of the bass matched the young dancer’s moves as he worked through his routine in front of the mirrored wall at Studio Ricks. For the boy, hip-hop was where it was at, and for Lionel, making money at something he loved was where he was at. He had over eighty students in six different group classes per week, plus the private lessons at the end of each day. He was grossing over four thousand dollars a week. Not a bad place for a man to be on his thirty-fourth birthday.
His students had been more than generous today. The studio was full of flowers, cupcakes and cookies, and a lot of balloons. It was going to take a moving van to get everything home tonight, except the balloons. They were definitely staying behind.
He glanced up at the clock, then back at his student, and stopped the music.
“No, no, J.J., not like that,” he snapped. “You were sloppy. You have to make your moves almost robotic. They need to be short, jerky, in rapid time. And don’t grab your damn crotch. That’s tired and old school. Remember how I showed you?”
“Yeah, but—”
Lionel pointed. “No buts.”
J.J. sighed. “Sorry.”
“Now do it again, and do it right this time.”
Lionel hit the switch and was once again assaulted by the music. It was all he could do to stay still. It would feel good to cut loose and show the kid up. Instead, he stifled the need to move bubbling within him and watched as J.J. went all the way through the routine, this time doing it perfectly. Lionel stopped the music again, but this time he was grinning.
“All right, that’s what I’m talking about,” he said, and gave the kid a high five. “Time’s up. Hit the road, Jack.”
J.J. grinned. “So I’ll see you next week.”
“Yeah...next week, and practice those moves. You need to be even sharper.”
“You got it,” J.J. said.
He wiped the sweat off his face, tossed the towel on the bench and grabbed his jacket as he danced out the door.
Lionel laughed as he watched him go. The kid was good, but he wasn’t going to tell him so, at least not yet. And thank God it was finally time to set up for tomorrow and go home. He picked up the dirty towel and headed for the back room.
* * *
Hershel had a dozen birthday balloons in the back of the van. He had purchased them one at a time in twelve different locations. If the cops started looking for a man who’d bought a dozen balloons, they would never be able to find him. The balloon bouquet would get him in the door and put Ricks off guard, and that was all he needed.
He waited impatiently until the last student left and then waited again until the boy’s motorbike cleared the parking lot before driving up to the studio and backing into the parking spot right in front of the door.
The door was all glass, which meant Ricks could look out and see him coming. The boutique next door had closed at six, and the space on the other side was empty. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then jumped out of the van, opened up the back doors and grabbe
d the helium-filled balloons.
The Taser was fully charged and in his pocket, but as he started to enter he noticed a camera mounted at one end of the room and stopped. Either it was a security camera or one they used to film dance routines. He couldn’t take a chance that it wasn’t on, so he paused to pull the hoodie over his head, then held the balloons closer to help hide his face as he entered. The moment he was in and realized he was alone, he took the Taser out of his pocket.
Lionel was still in the office when he heard the bell on the door and thought J.J. must have come back. He walked out grinning.
“Hey, kid, what did you forget?” Then he stopped, saw the huge bouquet of balloons and the man who was holding them, and smiled. “Sorry, I thought you were one of my students.”
“Delivery for Lionel Ricks?” Hershel said.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Lionel said as he jogged across the dance floor.
He was four feet away when Hershel raised the Taser and fired. The electrodes went into Lionel’s chest, dropping him like a rock. The moment he hit the floor, Hershel spun and turned out the lights. A dozen happy birthday balloons drifted up toward the ceiling in the dark as Hershel went about the task of murder.
Lionel Ricks was grunting and twitching, although he was no heavier than the two women had been, but when Hershel bent down to pick up the body, a sharp pain cut across the lower part of his back.
“Son of a bitch.”
He dropped Ricks and grabbed hold of his knees as the muscle spasm rolled through him. Ricks was vibrating like a high wire in a windstorm, still grunting and moaning from the electrical current shooting through him, but Hershel couldn’t be bothered. He had his own hurt going on. When he tried to lift the man again a few moments later, the pain was worse.
“Damn it, not now,” he muttered.
He couldn’t get Lionel off the floor, let alone sling him over his shoulder, but he had to move him. Headlights swept through the door and across the wall of mirrors, momentarily highlighting the ongoing drama. When Hershel saw the face of the man hunched over the body on the floor, he staggered backward in horror. Not only had he not recognized himself, but it was the first time he’d gotten a glimpse of what his victims had seen. It was a sobering sight.
