Kill Game: An Unforgettable Serial Killer Thriller

by Adam Nicholls

  “Detective Gray will be handling the entire case. I’ve chosen his team personally.”

  “Kyle?” Bella’s cheeks burned again. “He’s a baby! You know that. He’s barely out of the academy. Give him whatever parking ticket bullshit you’re putting me on.” The trembling she’d felt when she woke up threatened to return. She felt it churn in her stomach, a roiling cramp of anger, fear, and embarrassment that made her knees weak and her head light.

  Captain Brooks took the few steps to the base of the stairs. He never touched her. In the twenty-five years he’d been in her life, she could count on one hand the hugs she’d received. He’d never held her hand. He’d never pressed those thin lips of his to her forehead. So when he reached up and, without hesitation, took her hand in his, the feel of his dry flesh against hers halted her tirade in an instant.

  “If it’s him, if it’s actually Ross, we’ll bring him in. He’s sloppy. Nothing more than a sick, backwoods inbred. We’ll have him, and we’ll put him away. I promise.”

  Bella was surprised when her eyes stung. She looked down, struggling to slow her heartbeat, to bear down on the slithering pit of emotion in her stomach, to stop the tears from slipping onto her cheeks. Keep it together. Keep it together.

  “You’re afraid,” he stated rather than asked.

  Of course she was, and he knew it. The man’s powers of observation were almost magical. He could tell what a person had for breakfast a week ago given a few minutes, so of course he could see every single ugly emotion pouring out of her like the fear sweat that still clung to her.

  Bella took a deep breath, steadying herself. When she looked up at him, her eyes were nearly dry.

  “No,” she said. “He’s not getting that from me. Not again.”

  Chapter Six

  The killer had fallen into a rhythm. The easy slip of the blade against the heavy whetstone in his lap as he ran it back and forth was like the lull of a rocking chair. He should’ve been sleepy—it’d been almost two days since he’d last closed his eyes—but excitement hummed in his body, like someone had switched on a generator deep inside of him. No food, no sleep—he was powered by this hum alone. It made his movements easy, his mind sharp, and his purpose so achingly clear that all other distractions were almost intolerable.

  He spun the chair around, leaving the whetstone for a moment while he examined the wall of television and computer screens. They were piled up on top each other—thin plasma screens on top of box sets on top of massive television units from decades ago, which were so heavy they supported the rest like antiquated columns. They blocked out the sun from the living room windows and filled the cramped space with flickering blue light.

  All the screens showed the same thing. In varying degrees of pixilation and definition, at least twenty images of that annoying morning news host stared down at him. Her eyes, circled with liner and clumped mascara, glowed with enthusiasm as they met his. Underneath her face, the station ran updates on the night’s events in a steady stream. There were hashtags now, and that pleased him. He liked watching the public’s responses to his work, streaming just as fast up the side of the screen. The first one, the one when the story broke, had been a bit uninspired: #portlandpedophileatlarge. He hated that vulgar handle. It wasn’t a word he ever applied to himself, no matter how many times he’d heard it. He liked the new one much better: #portlandpredator.

  Behind the woman, Sandy whatever-her-name-was, he could see the outside of the bureau where he’d dropped the girl hours earlier. The tapes were still up, and the numbered yellow cards marked points of interest around where she’d lain. Some intrepid cameraman had managed to get close enough for a shot of the girl.

  He’d already seen that shot multiple times this morning, and he turned back to his blade. He lay his broad, fine-fingered hand against the flat side of the knife, running its edge along the stone. He’d cleaned it so thoroughly that he could practically see the news reflected in the blade’s steel. He smiled to himself, his lips pulling up over his wide mountain range of teeth. Too large in his head, they made him look like a ravenous dog.

  “…and I’ve just got word that Captain Brooks, chief of police here in the city, is preparing to make a statement. Uh…”

  The killer spun back around and glared up at the screens, his knife suspended in the air. His heart halted in his chest. The cameraman swung off Sandy Whatshername toward the main door of the station. There was a dizzying moment when the images on his many screens all zoomed in, distorted, and then found their focus.

  Captain Brooks was so much older than he remembered. Of course, it’d been a while. Not everyone had the same generator he did, pumping power ceaselessly through his veins.

  “The city of Portland is shocked and deeply saddened by the events of last night. We’re all touched by the loss of such a young life, and although we cannot release details about the victim, her family has been notified and we offer our thoughts and prayers during this difficult time. As the chief of police, I would like to personally add that the person responsible for this horrific crime will be caught and held fully accountable for his atrocities. He or she is a blight on this city and will not go unpunished.”

  The killer burst into a fit of laughter. The humming in his body had only increased, the generator kicking into full gear at the sight of that ignorant man’s face.

  “Thoughts and prayers,” he repeated. His voice was strung tight, his neck stretched toward the television so that every tendon and chord bulged. “Thoughts and goddamn prayers.”

  The captain continued his boring platitudes. The killer was numb to it, searching the crowd behind him for her face. She’d have to be there. He’d announce she was head of the special task force, and there she’d be, her pretty face, multiplied by tens, staring into the camera lens and right down into him. Would she still be pretty? She’d been so lovely. That kind of loveliness didn’t get all weather-beaten and loose like the comical captain that for some reason was still talking.

  “I’d like to assure the public that we’re putting all our best detectives on the case. I’ve assembled a team of highly experienced investigators and officers, each hand-selected to bring the best Portland has to the case.” The captain looked down and scratched his nose, exposing the fault lines that ran across the expanse of his forehead. So old. He looked up at the camera again, peering up over the cell phones and microphones that were shoved toward him. “I’ve placed Detective Kyle Gray in charge of the investigation…”

  The killer watched in horrified silence, helpless as the captain stepped aside. Instead of his girl, his pretty little thing, he watched a young man step in front of the media’s jumble of electronics.

  “Who’s this?” His words hurt, ripping up from his chest. “Who the hell is this?” He shot up and was across the room in a few steps. His face inches from the screens, he poked through the static halo at the boy. The detective was speaking, but the killer couldn’t care less. Even if he was paying attention, he wouldn’t have been able to understand a word he was saying. Nothing he could say—this boy wonder Kyle Gray—meant anything.

  Had Bella refused his invitation?

  Didn’t she want to play with him?

  “Where are you?” he was yelling now. The corners of his lips cracked as he screamed at the screen. “Where are you?” He moved from screen to screen, the knife still in his hand. He looked for her in every set and monitor, like she was hiding from him, jumping from screen to screen. All he could see was that asshole kid, all sincerity, commitment, and movie-star jawline. Words tumbled out of him, spit dappling the screens and glistening like jewels where it landed. He grabbed one of the televisions where it balanced on top of a computer hard drive. He yanked it from the wall like he was pulling Detective Gray toward him by the lapels of his perfectly pressed uniform. He shouted at the top of his lungs, screeching above the droning detective in front of him. “Where the fuck are you, Isabella!”

  In one motion, he pivoted and threw the te
levision across the room. It sailed over the threadbare sofa, across the sea of empty beer cans and garbage that carpeted the room and exploded against the wall. Panting like a dog in a hot car, the killer stood still, collecting himself as he wiped a thin glob of spit from his chin. He could still hear the detective behind him—the wrong detective.

  “I need to know how this happened,” the killer mumbled, nodding to himself. “Yeah.”

  He returned to one of the computers and began typing as if his fingers had lives of their own. He knew exactly what to do. Although his last invitation was so clever and intuitive, all he had to do now was extend a second invite—ask her once more if she would like to play.

  Only this time he’d play harder.

  Chapter Seven

  Other women had power heels. Detective Cruz had power Chucks. She contemplated them now as the elevator up to her office took its precious time. They were a brand-new pair of Converse high-tops, and they looked it. The white toes and iconic red piping poked out from the hem of her suit pants, but it wasn’t as conspicuous as she’d hoped. It was her little piece of rebellion, she told herself. Don’t give me the case, I’m sure as hell not showing up to the office in sensible heels. Hell, Brooks was lucky she’d even put on a suit.

  She looked at herself in the dirty elevator mirror. Bella wasn’t one to spend too long fussing with herself. The only reason she kept her hair as long as she did was because the ease of a ponytail couldn’t be beat first thing in the morning. Elaborate styling routines were about as interesting to her as economic theory. She glanced at the glowing lights that announced the floors as the elevator passed. Three more floors and she’d be striding into the exact place her boss had told her only a few hours ago to stay away from.

  He should’ve known better.

  She smoothed down the baby hairs around the sides of her face and ran her tongue over her lips. A shower might’ve been a good idea, too.

  There was a muted tone and the elevator doors opened. At once, she was hit with a rush of palpable energy. Homicide was always a busy department, but this morning it was electric. Familiar voices shouted across the crowded floor at each other, office machines hummed in the background, and there was a constant chime of cell phones and landlines in the air. She couldn’t help but stand for a moment, searching the unusually crowded open plan for where she knew her desk should be. There was a good chance she wouldn’t have found it if Kyle hadn’t leapt to his feet and waved at her over the crowd.

  Bella was disappointed at how easily she forgave him. Her resentment over his appointment to last night’s murder had been boiling on the back burner since the captain had told her. She’d even worked out a magnificent argument, line by line, as she sat in the taxi on the way here. She’d been brilliant. Composed and articulate, she’d convinced both Detective Kyle Gray and her captain to allow her to head the team. She’d been immune to him in her imagination.

  In real life? That was a different story.

  Kyle’s expression, in the sea of drawn, concerned faces, was as feckless as a golden retriever. He beamed at her, delighted to see her even though it’d been less than twenty-four hours since they were last together.

  She moved through the crowd until she reached her desk. She tried not to notice the way her other coworkers hushed as she passed, moving away respectfully to allow her access to her work space. She had no idea an atmosphere could change from productive to funereal that fast. Bella slipped into her chair, frowning at the disarray of new paperwork on her desk and trying to ignore her partner.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” he whispered. He sank into his own chair and leaned back, forcing the cheap springs to groan against his weight. Kyle examined her, a pencil twirling through his fingers. He had another tucked behind his ear, and Bella would place bets that there were still more in his pocket. He was a notorious but unintentional thief—tragically absent-minded but loyal in every single way. “Didn’t he come knocking at your door this morning to tell you personally not to work today?”

  Bella shrugged. “He put me on a different case.” She clicked her computer mouse, commanding the outdated monitor to wake up. She could feel Kyle watching her still, see the twitching of that pencil through his fingers out of the corner of her eye.

  “I mean, hey, he might’ve given me the case, but man oh man, Bella. You got a personalized visit. I bet he even put on his best black suit. The suit. The press suit. The ‘get the hell out of Dodge’ suit.”

  Bella fought the smile that played on her lips and lost. “Actually, he was wearing the suit.”

  Kyle dropped the pencil and slammed his hand on the table with triumph. “I called it.” He leaned forward again. Bella caught a whiff of him under the stale coffee and copy-toner smell that’d settled in the office like a stain. He smelled fresh, like dryer sheets.

  She caught his eye as he hovered over the monitor that marked the separation between their desks. He looked younger, all of a sudden. She’d sat across from him at work and beside him in the patrol car for months, but she’d never seen him look so vulnerable. Nervous even.

  “Look,” he said, “if it were up to me, I’d have you finding this guy in a second. Even if it doesn’t turn out to be Ross, I’d still get you on it. You know these kinds of creeps. Brooks might not see it in you, but I do. He’s too close. You could do this, Bella. You’re the toughest cop in here, and from what I’ve seen, it’ll take a lot more than some desperate creep to rattle your cage. But it’s out of my hands.”

  Had she imagined yelling at this guy only an hour or so ago? The pure sincerity of him was mind-blowing. His closely shaven cheeks were blushing, and before she could stop herself, Bella reached up and pinched one of them with a grip that was only a little more than playful.

  They reddened even further.

  “Pink as a spring rose,” she said, turning back to her computer.

  The monitor had finally responded, and she watched as the familiar icons on the screen revealed themselves.

  “I’m serious,” Kyle said. “It’s a shitty thing, Bella. You deserve to get a few hits in. I’d even hold him for you if I could.”

  Bella was half listening, scanning her desktop for the shared folder that held all the information on new cases. Captain Brooks was sharp, but like most men his age, inherently clueless when it came to computers. She had a feeling that whatever information there was on Salem Ross would be waiting for her in that file, just like it was to the rest of the team. She just needed to access it before he caught on.

  “Tell you what,” she said, clicking on the file. The window containing the files popped open, and there it was, at the top: Unknown/homicide/July 5, 2018. She smiled at Kyle, feeling a flush from her sneaky little triumph. “When we catch him—if it really is him—I’ll take you up on that.”

  “Perfect. Little bit of off-the-record vengeance never hurt anybody.” Apparently satisfied, Kyle sat back down and picked up the cell phone that’d begun to vibrate on his desk.

  Feeling light with anticipation, Bella returned her focus to the file, clicked, and waited.

  Another window popped up, only this one was smaller. The red banner at the top was all she needed to see for any kind of triumph or excitement to drain out of her and into the carpet beneath.

  YOUR ACCESS TO THIS FILE IS RESTRICTED

  Bella tightened her grip on the mouse. Her arm tensed as she pictured herself picking it up, yanking it from the docking station, and hurling it over all the chatty heads around her, right into the captain’s window. Her cheeks burned again, and she pushed herself back from the desk. She could feel Kyle watching her, half concentrating on his phone call. Keep it together. How many times was she going to tell herself that? She dropped her head into her hands, feeling heavier and foggier than she had been when she walked in. Her eyes were hot against her palms, and she pressed into her sockets. She had to get a hold of herself—throwing a tantrum was not exactly the best way to convince Brooks that she was emotionally ma
ture enough to handle this case. She sighed and opened her eyes. Her head still in her hands, she stared down at the tips of her rebellious little sneakers beneath her. Maybe she wasn’t mature enough to handle this, after all.

  There was a loud slap as a file was slammed down on her desk. Bella looked up, growing rigid in her chair. Captain Brooks—at least, he was “Captain Brooks” in a professional capacity, and only “Dad” at home—stood beside her. The halo of silence and deference that surrounded him was bigger than ever. Bella glanced over his shoulder to where Kyle was practically cowering into his phone. The rest of the office was no less subdued. Whereas there had been a constant wave of excited chatter before, now the office was filled with the busy clack of keyboards and cell conversations so muted they were almost inaudible.

  Bella’s mouth opened and then shut again. Her mind raced. She knew him well enough to know that anything she said to him at this point would be met with the same impassible look of annoyance. She followed his gaze to her monitor where the warning tab was still open. One of his heavy white brows raised. When he looked down at her again, that brow was still arched and displeased.

  “I told you to stay home.”

  “I know.”

  There was another beat of weighted silence. Bella felt the entire office straining to listen. He reached out and tapped the file with his finger, which was so new that it practically shone under the fluorescent lighting.

  “Well, as long as you’re here, you might as well be useful. Get on this Williams case, and report to me with any progress.” As soon as he’d spoken, he turned on his heel and walked away. The crowd parted for him as he made his way to his office, the hem of his deep black jacket swaying behind him.

  Bella waited for him to close his door. The entire office did. As soon as the lock on his door clicked, the noises began again, tentatively at first, and then back to their previous din. Bella’s hands were moist when she reached for the file.