The Cipher

by Maldonado, Isabella

  “I remember that,” Breck said, strawberry-blonde brows furrowing. “CPS took her from her parents and turned her over to foster care due to abuse and neglect. Her bio parents hadn’t spoken to her or even asked about her welfare in seven years.”

  “They certainly came out of the woodwork after she died,” Buxton said. “Their attorney blamed the system and everyone in it. They also sued the state for not providing better supervision.”

  “And Wade ended up in their crosshairs,” Nina said.

  “I made the wrong call,” Wade said. “Chandra’s death is on me. The description of the stalker didn’t match the one described in the Summers case, and his behavior pattern was different enough that I didn’t think it was related to the Beltway Stalker series, so I turfed it back to the Montgomery County police.”

  No one spoke, giving him a moment before he continued in a monotone.

  “Somewhere along the line, someone dropped the ball. No one ever followed up with Chandra. She was murdered two days later.”

  Buxton took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “The FBI’s reputation took a major hit every time the Brown family attorney held a press conference. What the lab just uncovered throws the whole investigation into question again.” He cursed under his breath.

  “If it does, I’m responsible too,” Kent said. “Wade transferred out of the BAU, and I took over his caseload, including final analysis and wrap-up of the Beltway Stalker investigation.” His jaw hardened. “If there was an anomaly, it was up to me to spot it.”

  So Kent had been the one to bat cleanup. She’d just begun her application process to become an agent when Chandra was killed and had never known who took over the investigation after Wade’s very public downfall.

  “No,” Wade said. “You came in late because I transferred out. I’d been working the case for years. I was the best one to spot a problem, and I wasn’t there to do it.” Sweat beaded on Wade’s forehead. “Excuse me.” He stood and walked down the aisle toward the bathroom.

  “The cases spanned a ten-year period,” Kent said after Wade was out of earshot. “The killer used a wide variety of methods. Strangulation, blunt-force trauma, cervical spinal fracture. Some victims had been beaten, others cut, but he didn’t use messy options like shooting and stabbing to kill them. Took a long time to verify we had a series. He was careful. We never got any DNA.”

  “How did you connect the cases?” Nina asked him.

  “Through trace evidence. There were unique fibers recovered at several scenes. There may be more victims out there. What we have is based on how the local police forensics units collected, processed, and preserved evidence in each case.”

  Nina tried to keep up. The FBI hadn’t shared all their leads with the locals at the time, so she hadn’t heard these details before. “How were the fibers unique?”

  “After ViCAP gave us our first match on the fibers, we sent out a request to local police agencies for samples from unsolved homicides with victims that fell within the general description.” Kent leaned forward, emphasizing his point. “Serial killers can change their MO, but they can’t change their motive.”

  “How so?”

  “A killer’s modus operandi is how they commit their crimes, their methodology, which can change as they learn from experience. Their motive, however, is why they kill. The underlying compulsion that is unique to each killer. I call it their itch, and it never changes.”

  “Their itch?”

  “When the brain sends a signal along a nerve that causes an itch, that impulse may be satisfied in several ways. You can pinch the skin, hit it, tap it, or scratch it. You might even be able to will it away. But as you’ve probably found, once you start scratching, it’s very hard to stop. The itch keeps coming back.”

  “So what makes serial killers different from other murderers is that they have to keep scratching their itch after the first time?”

  “Exactly. That’s why it’s critical to analyze the first murder carefully. The killer hasn’t perfected his crime, or refined his MO, so his motive—the itch he was trying to scratch—is easier to pick out. Once you understand that, you have a much better chance of identifying the unsub.”

  “What did this have to do with the Beltway Stalker case?” Nina said.

  “That’s why Wade was so angry with himself. He told me that he focused too much on MO and not enough on motive or victimology. The Beltway Stalker preyed on at-risk teenage girls, but the methods of the murders varied widely. That’s why it took over twenty murders in DC, Maryland, and Virginia to realize we had a series on our hands.”

  Kent had given her new insight. She considered what Wade had been up against. “Wade assumed the victims were similar because they were easy prey for the Beltway Stalker and were less likely to be reported or noticed missing until they’d been gone for several days.”

  “It took law enforcement far too long to put the pieces together and realize that the unsub’s itch was the type of victim he chose and the need to torment and denigrate them. Wade blames himself. Says he should have figured it out sooner.”

  “How did the fibers lead to a suspect?”

  “The Trace Evidence Unit processed all of the fibers collected from the various crime labs where there were samples. They tracked the chemicals used in the manufacture to a textile mill in Philadelphia. An agent from the Philly field office went to the mill and interviewed the owner, who told them the process had been developed by request from a clothing manufacturer in DC. The manufacturer had specifications for flexibility, color, and durability. He was creating a line of specialty clothing and gear for MMA fighters. He called it Red Zone Fight Gear. His uncle owned a venue in the District called Steel Cage Central Fight Club, so he figured he could market there to get his new business going.”

  She recalled that the Beltway Stalker had been fairly well known in the MMA community. There had been a brief uproar about such bouts causing extreme aggression in participants. The objections had died down over time when scientists and researchers were unable to conclusively link combative sports and violence.

  Kent continued with his recitation. “Wade and the lead case agent went out to interview the manufacturer. He told them his products never caught on. He couldn’t compete with the stuff made overseas at a fraction of the cost, and his overhead was too high. He went out of business more than ten years earlier. Said his uncle offered to buy his leftover stock—paid him pennies on the dollar.”

  “So that’s how you traced it back to that specific fight club,” Nina said.

  “I went with Wade and the case agent to interview the uncle at the club. I still remember the guy. Name’s Sorrentino. Turned out he sold most of the stock he bought off his nephew to the fighters at his club . . . at full retail.”

  “Nice guy.”

  “A real piece of work. Anyway, he claims he never kept any sales records or receipts and had no memory of who bought stuff from him.”

  “He couldn’t even provide one name?”

  “We threatened him with an audit from our friends at the IRS, and he almost wet himself. He’d been selling the stuff for years. Every sale was a cash deal, and he never paid any taxes on his profits. He also paid cash for the gear he bought from his nephew, so there was no money trail. I’m sure that was part of his scheme. He told us he sold various items to more than a hundred people over more than a decade.”

  Nina rolled her eyes. “No help at all.”

  “Worse than that,” Kent said. “Chandra Brown was murdered right after our visit. I’m convinced Sorrentino mentioned we were asking around, or the Beltway Stalker saw us there, and he knew we were closing in. He decided to have one last kill before he ended it on his terms. At least, that’s what his note said.”

  She’d always been curious about the contents of the note, which had never been released. “What else did it say?”

  She held her breath as Kent eyed her warily. He might think she planned to second-guess his investi
gation. And he would be correct.

  He blew out a sigh. “I never liked the fact that it was typed, but he confessed to all thirty-six murders and gave details only the killer would know, stuff we kept out of the media. We had physical evidence tying everything together, a confession, and most importantly, the deaths stopped.” He folded his arms. “Case closed. Why would we look any further?”

  “You wouldn’t,” Nina said. She could see the pain in his expression as the inevitable self-recrimination set in.

  “I did the usual after-action behavioral analysis for our profiling database,” Kent said. “He had a lot of issues with aggression. Had a few arrests for violence against women. Seemed to dislike authority. It fit well enough.”

  “But like you said, there weren’t any more deaths after Chandra Brown, right?”

  Kent heaved a sigh. “At this point, I’d have to say she was the last known case.”

  “It all makes sense now.” Wade had quietly padded back down the aisle to rejoin them. “He’s a chameleon. He changes his appearance, his vehicles, his patterns.” He clenched his hands into tight fists. “And he fed us a scapegoat two years ago.”

  Wade’s haggard face bore the desperate look of a sinner seeking absolution. He spoke as if compelled to explain his mistakes. “Most serial killers are driven by the kind of compulsion that makes them repeat behaviors. That’s what forms their pattern.” He raised his voice. “If anything, the Beltway Stalker’s pattern seemed to be that he changed constantly. If it weren’t for forensics, we would never have linked the murders. They’re that different from one another.”

  “If the Beltway Stalker and the Cipher are the same person, he’s changed his pattern again,” Kent said. “He’s gone from flying under the radar to attracting as much attention as possible.”

  “I’m still not ready to concede that we’re dealing with the same killer,” Buxton said. “As Agent Guerrera noted, they could have been partners and now the surviving cohort is working on his own. That would explain the change from total secrecy to maximum public engagement. We need more data before we can draw a solid conclusion.”

  The cabin fell silent. Nina noticed Wade studying Buxton.

  Wade narrowed his eyes at his supervisor. “You’re going to pull me from the case.” He made it a statement.

  Buxton regarded Wade a moment before he responded. “I would rather have this conversation in private, Agent Wade.”

  “I don’t give a damn who hears,” Wade said. “I need to work this case. I need to find him.”

  “It’s not about what you need,” Buxton said. “It’s about what serves the investigation.”

  As the two men stared each other down, Nina considered the situation. Buxton was ready to yank Wade because he had been compromised. At some point, Buxton might decide that no one was more compromised than she was. If he saw Wade as a liability, he might see her that way as well.

  Her eyes traced Wade’s profile. Years of studying madmen and the horrific things they did had clearly taken their toll. Etched in the deep lines of his face was the pain of knowing he could not save everyone. That some might escape justice. That for Wade, the Cipher was the one.

  The one that got away.

  The thought reminded her of the note the Cipher had written to her and put in Sofia Garcia-Figueroa’s mouth. Suddenly, she knew Dr. Jeffrey Wade had to stay on this case. And so did she.

  She faced Buxton. “Wade studied this unsub for years. He understands him better than anyone else in the Bureau.” She flicked a glance at Kent. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” Kent said.

  She turned back to Buxton. “Now that we understand what we’re up against, Wade can go back through his notes and update the profile.”

  Buxton raised a skeptical brow. “We need a completely new profile. From scratch. Which Agent Kent could do.”

  Aware she was overstepping, she pressed on. “We can all work together to create a complete picture.” She tapped her chest. “I’m his only surviving victim.” She moved her hand to point at Wade. “He did the initial profile.” She ended with Kent. “And he did the postmortem.”

  “You’re saying you each have something to offer,” Buxton said.

  Everyone waited as Buxton appeared to weigh her argument. She noticed Wade’s eyes cut to her, brows raised in apparent bewilderment, but he said nothing.

  Buxton heaved a sigh. “All right. You’ll work up a new profile as a team. And you’ll respond to the scene of every case going forward.” His expression grew stern. “But if I detect any sign of trouble, or if any of you become further compromised, or if I decide your continued involvement will be to the detriment of the investigation, I will not hesitate to bench any one of you.”

  They nodded their agreement.

  Wade turned to her. Understanding passed between them. The same man had wounded both of them irrevocably. The Cipher, who had escaped both of them to torment and kill more innocent victims. They each felt responsible for every life lost, and because of that, they now shared a common goal.

  Her monster was his monster too.

  Chapter 25

  That evening, the Cipher stood in the cage, ready for what would come. He had taken care to extend the trainer’s tape he had wrapped around his knuckles and wrists a fraction higher than usual. Not enough to draw attention but enough to cover the scratches Nina had given him. He would be sure to bestow many more upon her in retribution. In the meantime, he had to pay the price for the weakness he had displayed earlier in Boston.

  He held himself perfectly still, braced for the vicious uppercut coming straight at him. His opponent’s fist, covered in a fingerless fighting glove, connected. The force of the blow snapped his head back. He staggered, then hit the mat.

  The referee gave him a knowing look. The crowd held its collective breath. He had fought in this arena long enough to become a legend. No other fighter did what he did. No one else could. Slowly, starting like a distant drumbeat, then increasing in strength and tempo, the crowd began to chant. “Odin! Odin! Odin!”

  It had been audacious to claim the name of a Norse god as his fighting moniker, but no one laughed. No one even smiled. They all feared him, as they should.

  Still down on the floor, he made his decision. He had taken his punishment for allowing Nina Guerrera to get the better of him. The one who called herself Warrior Girl had no idea what a true warrior was. He would teach her.

  He allowed rage to build within him as he got to his feet and walked to his corner. Opening himself to its dark power, he gathered it to him, fueling the retribution he would mete out tonight. He turned and stared into the calculating eyes of his opponent. Eyes that reminded him of his father’s. As the referee paced between them, the Cipher recalled the final punishment his father had given him. He’d been a wiry seventeen-year-old when dear old Dad had ordered him into a shed at the far end of their extensive northern Virginia property.

  “Take off your shirt, boy,” his father said.

  He obliged, tugging his T-shirt over his head.

  The small dark eyes regarded him with contempt. “Why did you lose the tournament?”

  He knew better than to make excuses. “He outmaneuvered me.”

  “You’re damn right he did.” The glowing cigarette tip bobbed up and down as his father spoke. “Do you know that kid was adopted from the streets of Calcutta when he was four years old?”

  He made no reply.

  “I spend my life’s savings for a Thoroughbred who loses to a nag.” His father spat at his feet. “Superior genes, we were told.” He shook his head in disgust. “You weren’t some mutt conceived in the back of a pickup truck. You were supposed to be exceptional in every way.” His father poked a meaty finger at him. “So the only conclusion I can come to is that you didn’t try hard enough. Didn’t want it badly enough.”

  Fully aware of where this was heading, he stared straight ahead.

  “Nothing to say for yourself?” His father blew a
plume of smoke in his face. “Let’s see what you’re really made of.” He pulled the cigarette from his lips. “You be still. You master yourself. Master the pain.”

  His father walked behind him.

  The first touch of the glowing butt wrenched a scream from him. The white-hot pain hurt worse than anything his father had done with a belt. Or his fists. Or an electrical cord. He shrank away from the agony.

  “Dammit, boy, I will keep this up until you learn how to stand still and take it.”

  The cigarette touched his other shoulder blade, searing his flesh. Sweat poured from his scalp, trickling down his face as he fought to hold his position. He clenched his teeth so hard his molars ached, but he did not cry out. Not that it would have mattered. No one could hear him at the far reaches of their property.

  His father stepped back. He could hear the old man behind him taking a deep drag off the cigarette, pictured the cherry glowing hot and bright. “That’s better, but you moved your shoulders. I don’t want to even see you flinch.”

  In the silence, he heard the sizzling of his own skin, smelled the scent of burning flesh as his father pressed the blazing tip into the center of his back.

  This time, he held perfectly still. A single tear slid down his cheek as he forced his mind to retreat. To find solace in the future he would create for himself. He endured. He withstood. And he planned, with intricate detail, his father’s death.

  The crowd’s roar pulled him back to the present as the referee raised his arm in a swinging arc, signaling the fighters to resume.

  The Cipher closed the distance in two rapid strides. The roar of the audience clapping, shouting, and stamping their feet quickened his pulse. Electrified him. They knew what Odin was about to do. He sensed that the man before him did too. He absorbed the fear that emanated from his opponent like steam. Let it feed his bloodlust.

  The man would now receive his reckoning, as would Nina Guerrera. He operated on two levels, considering how best to destroy both opponents. What would cause the most damage? Render each incapable of fighting?

  It came to him in an instant. As he used his foot to deliver a lightning strike to the man’s solar plexus, he realized how he would break Nina’s spirit. Like the bloodthirsty audience in the arena tonight, the world watched his cage match with the Warrior Girl.