Now, exiled to Nebraska, he’d refrained from telling anyone about his serial killer theory. Chris had been marked as damaged goods, and everyone was wary of him already. His superiors had kept him away from any real work, and his colleagues would barely speak to him. He still felt the burning urge to catch the killer, he still had flashbacks to Tamara’s death every single day, although he was trying hard to focus on other things.
The last thing he wanted to do was make it worse.
Then again, could things really be any worse?
He opened his eyes and stared at the laptop on his desk, which gave him access to a trove of information gathered from all facets of law enforcement. The urge was overwhelming. All it would take was to log in, define some search terms, and away he’d go. Ironically, he had more time to investigate the killer now than ever, given that he was cooling his heels in Nebraska.
His mind flashed briefly back to the words of the psychologist. She had said that Chris had some obsessive tendencies, and now he was on the verge of proving her right. He knew he should leave it alone. The obsession had already cost him plenty, including his relationship with Manny and his career. But he couldn’t resist. He logged into his computer, opened up the database and stared at the search screen. It promised limitless information he could use to find the killer.
Over the next fifteen minutes, Chris printed the profiles of all the woman killed in New York who matched his theory, starting with Tamara and ending with the victim before Chelsea Butler. Then he accessed Butler’s statement, the woman he’d saved. There was a wealth of information including a physical description of the killer, information about his interactions with the victim prior to the attack, and details about the attack itself.
It was clear the killer had revealed himself to Chelsea Butler. He’d learnt all about her, then set about damaging the various parts of her life with the same brutality he’d later shown in the attack on her body. Unfortunately, the killer had not let her into his life. Chris had to assume the name he’d used, Dan Rafferty, was a false one, and that anything he’d said about himself was a lie. Once he’d finished reading the document, he printed that, too.
A small cough near the door interrupted his search. Justine Hopkins was standing in the door, with an eyebrow raised and a coffee in each hand. She was the one agent who hadn’t totally avoided him since he’d been posted to Omaha. She was young and new to the Bureau, so probably hadn’t got the memo that he was a pariah. Or perhaps Hopkins had decided to make up her own mind.
He raised an eyebrow. “What do you want, Hopkins? Make a habit of lurking quietly while others are working?”
“What are you doing?” She took a step inside, passing him a coffee, then glanced at his printer. “That’s a lot of printing for someone doing community briefings.”
“I like to take some handouts along with me.” Chris didn’t even believe his own lie as he took the coffee.
“The admin staff take care of that.” Hopkins smiled. “I used to run the briefings before you got here and took them off my hands.”
Chris was going to deny it further, then paused. While it was a risk to let her in on his theory, if he wanted any chance of getting out of his current predicament, he needed to start collecting some allies. He sighed, turned his laptop around and showed her. He swung back on his chair and sipped his coffee as he watched her, peering in closely at the screen and then looking up at him. Her eyes narrowed.
“I’m chasing a hunch.” Chris shrugged. “Running the community briefings takes up precisely none of my time.”
“More than a hunch, from the looks of it.” She placed her coffee down on the desk and sat in the chair opposite him. “I’ve heard the stories about you: a rogue agent from the New York field office who got his partner stabbed and let a nasty dude get away. I heard you have some pretty crazy theories.”
“I know what I know.” Chris was surprised at how much her words upset him. “I saw a bunch of bodies. I know there’s a link between them.”
She considered his words for a second. “Even so, are you sure you should start digging into murders in New York City from your desk in Omaha? You’re on thin ice, and it sounds a lot like you’re trying to shoehorn a theory into a poorly fitting shoe. I’d leave it alone and focus on your work here.”
“I’ll live my own life and you live yours, but I bet mine is more interesting.” Chris raised an eyebrow and kept his eyes locked on hers. “What’re you working on?”
She hesitated. After a second, her eyes glanced back down to the screen. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”
Chris nodded. He could understand her hesitation. “Any risk is mine. I’ll take the fall if we get caught, but I could use some help.”
28
Ashley
Ashley stroked her cat and sipped her tea, wishing briefly that it was gin before shaking the thought off. She’d now gone several months without a drink, and she wasn’t going to start again while sitting at home watching romantic comedies. She put the cup on the coffee table and then relaxed back on the sofa, feeling her eyes grow heavy. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to stay awake until the end of the movie.
The main character was a bit too pathetic for her liking. She was chasing after a man, desperate to marry him, even though he wasn’t interested in her at all. As she watched, Ashley wondered if there were parallels with her own life. Only in her case, she chased after her daughter instead of a man. She wondered if everyone obsessed about something, in one way or another.
“What the hell?” Ashley woke with a start to a loud rattling sound outside her house. She must have dozed off at some point. The cat shot off her lap, spooked by the sudden movement.
A quick glance at the television told her the noise hadn’t come from there, because the credits were rolling with nothing but background music to accompany them. Ashley muted the television. Now sitting in silence, her ears strained to hear the sound again. She waited, frozen in place, for several tense moments.
When she heard the sound again, her heart started to pound. There was something outside, making regular, unusual sounds Ashley had never heard at this house before. She’d moved here a few months ago, when her time in witness protection had come to an end and she’d been forced to find a smaller place. She could afford it with her income from the clothing store, and it was starting to feel like home.
“Fucking hell.” Ashley spoke to herself.
The police had told her it was possible that Laverri or his men might try to get to her, despite the fact she still had her new name and that it had been months since the trial. With each passing day she’d felt safer. The noise outside could be innocent, and she didn’t want to overreact, but she couldn’t be sure. She tried to calm her breathing, keeping still and silent, while she waited.
But when she heard the noise a third time her nerves broke. She jumped up from the sofa, ran to the kitchen and grabbed the largest knife she owned. Once she had it in her hands she felt a bit safer. Leaning against the bench with her back to the wall, she stared at the door closest to the sound. She thought about calling the police, but if there was someone outside, it would take too long for them to arrive. And if there wasn’t, she’d feel like an idiot.
She moved toward the door. She wasn’t sure she should go out there, but she refused to run, or cower. As she stalked toward the door, her mind flashed back to an event a decade ago, when she’d run away from danger, out of a car and along a beach. Alone and afraid in the dark, she’d run and then hidden. Though he’d never found her hiding in the high grass, she’d never forget the fear.
The man who’d entered the clothing store and stared at her a few weeks earlier had reminded her of him. Since that day she’d had the most horrible nightmares about that night. Her sleep had been plagued by strange variations of it – running away, hiding, and being frightened for her life. She’d never been as afraid as she had been that night, not even when she’d seen Saul Laverri shoot Flavio Grossi.
&nb
sp; Ashley reached the door and paused. With the knife in one hand, she used the other to flick the switch that turned on the outside light. The light was faint, the result of a low-wattage globe, but it was enough for her to see within a few feet of the house. She couldn’t see anything obvious, so she faced a choice: stay inside the locked house, not knowing what was outside, or charge out and confront it.
She made her decision. As she turned the handle slowly, the knife ready, she heard the rattling sound again. This time it felt like it was further away. She opened the door and stepped outside. The light cast by the weak outdoor globe didn’t do much to make her feel better, but she was glad to have something to see by. Now that she was outside, Ashley could hear nothing else. It was just a quiet night in a suburban neighborhood.
Ashley’s heart was pounding, and her mouth was as dry as the Nevada desert. She stalked forward, trying to step quietly. She searched around the entrance, but didn’t see anything that could have made the noise. As she turned down the side of the house, the same rattle sounded from behind her. Ashley squealed and turned, thrusting the knife out in front of her and then dropping it quickly, overcome with laughter.
A raccoon looked up at her, eyes wide, as surprised by her as she was by it. Ashley let out another nervous laugh, then shooed the animal away. It ran off, trailing a piece of metal detritus behind it. The metal was attached to some string caught on its leg. In seconds, the animal had disappeared, the rattling sound growing faint as it got further away.
Ashley smiled. She was just being paranoid. If Laverri wanted to get to her, it would have happened already. The police warnings and the nightmares had made her jumpy. She couldn’t afford to be brought undone by irrational fears.
Still, if the fright had proven anything, it was that she needed better home security. The cat wasn’t much good, and she couldn’t afford to keep a dog, but she’d go out tomorrow and buy some stronger globes for the outdoor lights. Ashley walked back inside the house, locked the door behind her and then moved to the kitchen. With a long sigh, she put the knife back in the block.
29
Duncan
Duncan clenched his teeth so hard his jaw hurt, adding to his headache and his heaving breaths. He ignored the pain, focused only on the photo on the laptop in front of him and the fist squeezed around his penis, which pumped up and down like a piston. As he stared at the photo, which was dark and blurry, and yet perfect, his nostrils flared from anger and effort, the rhythm of his movements automatic and rapid.
As he drew closer, he felt no pleasure. He worked harder, until he reached the edge, and let out a furious scream as he came. It was loud and visceral, a noise that even surprised Duncan, and would surely see him reported to the trailer park manager. He was left in a mess and panting hard. Duncan stayed still, eyes locked on the photo and penis still in hand, until his breathing returned to normal. Only then did his mind start to clear.
Duncan cleaned up, had a drink of water and returned to the computer. Now he’d calmed down a bit, he spent some time searching through the folder of photos on the desktop. His collection was growing rapidly since he’d seen Ashley inside the clothing store. He’d taken shots of her there, on her way to and from work, at the grocery store and in other relatively normal situations.
The shots he was proudest of, and the ones that had got him so worked up, were from the previous evening. He’d been watching her home, hoping to see something interesting, but all he’d seen was her falling asleep while watching a movie, curtains open and lights blazing. Duncan had stayed for over an hour, watching her sleep. He’d been ready to leave when he’d hit the jackpot.
She’d sat up in alarm and thrown off the blanket. Duncan had almost cried out with rage at the discovery that she was only wearing underwear. It proved so much. After another second she’d rushed out of Duncan’s view. At first he’d been worried that she’d somehow been alerted to his presence, at the same time almost hoping she’d see him, but when she’d rushed outside with a knife in her hand, she’d moved away from him and never looked in his direction.
Duncan had managed to get one decent shot on his cell phone out of the dozens he’d taken, most of which were blurry or too dark. He’d snapped a shot of her looking terrified, wearing nothing but her underwear, right at the moment she’d turned around, raised the knife and confronted the raccoon. The light had been good enough, and his timing had been perfect. He added it to the photos of all his targets from over the years, neatly organized into folders.
This would become the photo of the victim.
He still couldn’t believe he’d found her in the ass end of Connecticut, despite the message on the phone. Being forced out of New York City and unable to find work suddenly seemed like a positive.. He’d thought of nothing but her since the moment he saw her. The fatigue he’d felt recently was now a distant memory. His vengeance would be slow, brutal, and soul crushing.
“Mr Ellington?” Someone pounded on the door of his trailer, interrupting Duncan’s thoughts.
Duncan’s face twisted into a snarl. He closed the lid of the laptop, stood, and put some pants on. Only then did he unlock the door. “Yes?”
The trailer park manager, a middle-aged man with ample chins and little hair, wore a weaselly smile. “Mr Ellington? There have been complaints.”
Duncan stepped down from his trailer, keeping his features impassive. “Complaints about what?”
“Complaints about...” The manager took a step back, obviously uncomfortable with Duncan’s lack of a shirt. “Well, uh, you see, this is a family park, Mr Ellington. What you do inside your trailer is your business, unless it’s loud enough to make it everyone’s business. I need you to stop with that.”
Duncan laughed, short and mean. “I thought in a place like this people would keep to themselves and mind their own business, like I do mine.”
The manager shook his head. “Afraid not, when you’re that loud. Now, there’s also the matter of this month’s fees we need to—”
“You’ll get your money when it’s due.” Duncan stepped back into the trailer and slammed the door behind him.
Duncan hated that his mind had drifted back to money when all he wanted to think about was her. All thoughts of a job, the investigation in New York or the future had vanished from his mind. She was everything. Everything else could wait.
He’d found out a lot about her: where she worked, where she lived, what car she drove. But he hadn’t yet managed to penetrate below that. He needed to know about her friends, family, love interests, hobbies, and pets. But Duncan was happy to take it slowly, to learn all he could before making any move against her. His experience in New York had reminded him of the value of patience. He didn’t want to make any mistakes this time – especially not with her.
He wanted to enjoy this one. Once this was done, he’d have slain his unicorn: the woman who’d eluded him years ago, who no other woman had measured up to. She’d be dealt with slowly. He’d savor it, taking his time, making sure he’d ground everything important to her into dust before taking her life. And he’d take his time deciding how to end it. It would have to be something commensurate to the pain she’d caused him.
He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, the trailer now lit by nothing but the light that managed to bleed in from outside. He hadn’t slept in days. He knew he probably should, but doubted he could, knowing she was so close. If he wanted to, he could go to her house right now, force his way in and end it. But he wouldn’t do that. There wasn’t a woman in the world who deserved more pain than she did, and she had that pain coming to her.
A whole lot of pain.
30
Chris
Chris rubbed his eyes, opened them as wide as he could and blinked a few times. It wasn’t as good as sleep, or coffee, but neither was at hand so it was the best he could do. He hadn’t slept well for several days and the coffee pot had run out of the good stuff a few hours ago. But a few seconds later, he found himself reading
back over a sentence he’d read six times already. If his mind had a fatigue limit, Chris had hit it.
It had been worth it, though. Working with Agent Hopkins in secret whenever gaps in his schedule and her caseload allowed, they’d spent hours trawling through records, case notes, interviews and media reports of kills in New York. It was a lot of effort, but it had yielded far greater results than Chris had found on his own.
They now had a solid physical profile of the killer, a detailed chronology of his likely victims in New York City, and knowledge of the damage he’d inflicted on those victims’ personal, social and professional lives prior to their murders. More importantly, with Hopkins’ help, Chris had found kills from all over America that may have links to the killer, starting in California and moving on to Florida, Illinois, Massachusetts and, finally, New York.
Chris had thought the killer was only striking in New York. The truth seemed far worse.
That might also explain why the killer had gone silent since almost being caught. To Chris, it had seemed strange that a killer who’d struck so regularly would suddenly stop, especially after what the psychologist had told him. No, such a man was driven by compulsion and he wouldn’t be able to stop even if he wanted to. It seemed far more likely that the killer had simply moved again, finding a new city after escaping a close call in New York.
“You okay, Chris?” Hopkins walked into his office, breaking his chain of thought as she closed the door and perched on the edge of his desk. “You look like hell.”
Dead and Gone Page 190
