A Killer's Daughter

by Jenna Kernan

  Fukuda glanced to Torrin and shook his head. Torrin ignored him, turning back to Nadine.

  “Our profiler states that the male is attacked and killed first. You say the male is attacked to incapacitate.”

  “Yes. I think this unsub likes him to watch.” She held his gaze as he winced.

  Fukuda read from his notes. “‘A strong white-collar worker, educated, highly intelligent and living alone. Possibly working inside the city or county organization and has been in contact with your mother.’” Fukuda turned to Nadine. “Is that a fair summary?”

  “Yes.”

  Fukuda and Torrin shared a long silent exchange. Finally Torrin turned back to Nadine.

  “Dr. Finch, we’d like to make you an adjunct member of our team. A consultant.”

  That was the bait. The lure to gain her attention and flatter her before the real proposal, whatever that was. She braced for their request.

  “Is that what you’d like?”

  Torrin’s brows rose, and he nodded, surprised, she assumed, at her ability to target threats. After surviving her teen years, this was child’s play.

  It occurred to her that most people would say something like “I’m honored” or pledge their intention to do all in their power to help, while she skipped that part and went right to her suspicions: expecting a trap.

  “I’d like you to begin by identifying similarities between your mother’s victims and the recent homicides. What we are after is a comparison, victim by victim. Could you do that?”

  She’d already begun two geo-profiles, comparing her mother’s couple murders to this current series.

  “Yes.” Her ears were hot—a sure sign something was wrong.

  “Wonderful.”

  From Fukuda’s expression, it was clear that he did not agree.

  A minute ago, she was a suspect. The speed of the transition made her head spin.

  “Special Agent Torrin, your next move should be to find out who Hope Kerr is sleeping with. Because that person is the next victim.”

  “You believe this crime matches that committed by your mother against Lacey Louder.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “There are substantive differences. Louder was working as a prostitute. Kerr is married, owns a business and there is no indication she was engaged in any extramarital affair.”

  Fukuda spoke. “Mr. Kerr has been eliminated as a suspect. Our profiler feels this was a crime of opportunity. Our unsub found her alone on a beach and took advantage, maiming her hand and adding the rope to make the crimes match the next in the series.”

  “It’s not a crime of opportunity. She was targeted. Someone chose her for a reason. Her lover will have some position in public service, similar to the park ranger.”

  “Ranger Drew Henderson.”

  “Yes.”

  “Agree to disagree, then.” Fukuda opened a folder, drew out a photo and laid it before Nadine. Her eyes went wide in recognition.

  “Do you know this man?”

  The photo was of Nathan Dun. It looked like an official photograph as he sat in his uniform, head cocked, beside an American flag.

  “Yes, that is one of our court officers, Nathan Dun. Is he missing?”

  “We observed him trespassing at your residence on Sunday night,” said Torrin.

  A shiver rippled over her skin and stabbed into her jaw. Nadine’s nostrils flared as she tried to process this news. He’d been at her place when she’d been at the hotel.

  The FBI now had her home under surveillance.

  “You’re watching my house?”

  “Seemed a logical step,” said Torrin.

  “I’m not staying there,” she said.

  “Not common knowledge,” said Fukuda. “A man entered your backyard through a neighbor’s property. City officer saw him peering through your bedroom window early this morning. Sarasota Police approached, and he fled, dropping the bag he was carrying.”

  “So he’s in custody?”

  “No. Still at large. He had a crowbar and a trash bag on him. Description matched Nathan Dun.”

  Nadine sucked in a breath before speaking. “Do you think he’s the one who broke into my house last Saturday?”

  “We believe so,” Torrin said.

  “His father was a spree killer.”

  “Yes. We are aware.”

  “Dun is of average intelligence,” said Fukuda. “His coworkers describe him as an oddball. He owns both a truck and a boat, and his marriage ended recently after he discovered his wife cheating.”

  In other words, Dun was a near-perfect match for the FBI profile.

  “Here’s the interesting part,” said Torrin. “Four years ago, Nathan Dun was injured in an auto accident, suffering a debilitating back injury. He is currently collecting a disability benefit and resides in Miami-Dade County.”

  She blinked at Torrin a moment. “I don’t understand.”

  “We sent agents to his house to speak to him. He’s in custody.”

  “So you have him?”

  “We have Nathan Dun. But the man working as one of your court officers is not Nathan. We believe that is Nathan’s brother.”

  “An alias?”

  “It’s fraud and identity theft. Nathan was an accomplice in the ruse. The court officer’s real name is Anthony Dun. He took his brother’s name after his brother’s accident.”

  “So he was collecting employment and unemployment?”

  “Disability. They run cross-checks, but not often enough.”

  “Why did Anthony Dun do that?” she asked.

  “Criminal record,” Demko supplied.

  “He’s got a felony conviction for sexual assault, and, more recently, Anthony Dun was arrested for domestic violence and served four years. No way he could have gotten through the background check to be a court officer.”

  Nadine’s skin crawled, and she stretched her mouth tight in disgust.

  “He raped someone?”

  “A coworker. He was seventeen, tried as an adult. Been out for three years. Anthony Dun ticks all the boxes and is our prime suspect.”

  “He asked me out,” said Nadine. “I said no, and he left an odd message on my office voicemail.”

  “We need that,” said Torrin.

  “I’m sure my office assistant can retrieve it for you.”

  “Good.”

  “Do you know if Dun had any contact with my mother?”

  Torrin looked to Fukuda.

  “We’ll check,” said Fukuda.

  She sat back in her chair, breathing through the wave of relief. If it could only be true, that this was the guy. Their guy. They could stop this. Catch Dun and save the others.

  Then it hit her. Either their profiler was right, and it was Anthony Dun, or she was right, and they were targeting the wrong man.

  If she believed in her profile, then Hope had an unidentified lover who might be murdered at any minute.

  She hesitated. Who was she to contradict an expert? This was her first profile. She had zero experience at this and was monumentally underqualified.

  She grasped Demko’s hand and squeezed. Then she lifted her chin and spoke.

  “It’s not Dun.”

  After her disturbing interview with the Feds, Nadine had so many questions about the names the FBI had mentioned. Cold cases. She didn’t know any of them. But one name sounded familiar. She wondered if her brother might know. She needed to reach Arlo and did not want to wait for the weekend. Then she remembered the prison chaplain. Arlo once said that in an emergency, the chaplain could get a message to him.

  The web search provided the number, and she made the call on Tuesday at lunch, claiming a death in the family.

  Arlo called back forty minutes later.

  “Dee-Dee? Who died?”

  “I needed an emergency to get you on the phone.”

  “Dee-Dee, I thought it was Mom!”

  She wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like when, and if, her mother rea
lly got the needle; she shivered.

  “Mom’s fine.”

  She heard Arlo blow out a breath.

  “So… what’s up?”

  The pause stretched as she tried to think where to start. The silence beat between them like a bleeding heart.

  “I saw Mom Saturday.”

  “Again?” He sounded surprised, and why not? She hadn’t communicated with her mother in years. A toxic relationship, her therapist called it.

  Amen to that.

  “How’d this one go?”

  “Terrible. I asked her about her victims.”

  “Yikes.” He gave a low whistle. “You didn’t think she’d be helpful, I hope.”

  “Stupid of me.”

  “She always gets better than she gives,” he said. “You be up this weekend?”

  She didn’t want to make promises. “If there’s no… special assignments at work.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “She did say that she told you about the cuts she made on her victims’ fingers.”

  Arlo made a sound of disgust. “A while ago. Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Dee-Dee, you were fourteen, heading for a new life with Dad’s sister. You didn’t need that.”

  “So you knew?”

  “Heard in court that she sliced them up. But about the fingers? No, I didn’t know. But she writes me. Sometimes about her victims. She mentioned the finger thing.”

  “Do you have those letters?”

  “Shit, I can hardly stand to read them. I chuck ’em. Sorry.”

  “Did you tell anyone else about the way she mutilated her victims?”

  “No. Guys here know I’m Arleen’s kid. Hard enough as it is.”

  She believed him on both points.

  “Can I ask you about Stephen White?” Nadine recalled she had met her mother’s final victim only once and with Arlo.

  “Oh, that dirtbag.”

  Arlo took her to her favorite fast-food place, but when she got there, she saw several of her classmates and asked Arlo to use the drive-through to avoid them. Arlo had picked up on it. After they ordered, he parked.

  “Come on,” he said, climbing out of the vehicle and then staring back at her.

  “What about my milk shake?”

  “Later.”

  She feared he would pick a fight or something. But he surprised her, heading over to a tall man dressed in a hoodie and jeans. He had a sleeve of tattoos reaching all the way to the top of one hand and he smoked. She wrinkled her nose at the stink. She’d seen this guy hanging around and talking with some of her other eighth grade classmates. Something about him gave her the creeps, so she’d kept her distance.

  Arlo introduced her.

  “Dee-Dee, this is Mr. White.”

  The man had taken hold of her chin in a grip that frightened Nadine and lifted her face, studying her features.

  “She’ll do.”

  Arlo knocked away White’s hand and the two faced off, chest to chest. Nadine stepped behind her brother, clutching the tail of his shirt.

  “She’s my sister,” Arlo said, his voice hostile. There was a threat there that Nadine had never heard, a menace, and it had lifted the hairs on her neck. “Wanted you to meet her in case you saw her around.”

  “Oh,” White had said, stepping back. “Gotcha.”

  But Nadine didn’t understand. Safely back in the car, she’d asked Arlo and he’d said White “ran girls.” She still didn’t understand. He’d also said that White was his dealer. Did “ran girls” mean “sell to them” or” use them as pot dealers”?

  “Dee-Dee? You still there?”

  “Yes. I’m here. Was White using girls from my school as escorts?”

  “‘Escorts’? No. They were whores. He took sixty percent.”

  “Is that why you introduced me?”

  “You were growing up, Dee-Dee. And you’re pretty. He’d have hit on you eventually, offered you stuff. Gifts, drugs. It’s a slippery slope.”

  “I only just figured all that out.”

  “You were a kid.”

  “Thank you, Arlo. For all the times you protected me.”

  He cleared his throat again. Was he choking up, too?

  Nadine thought of the woman he attacked, his then girlfriend, and the irony of her trusting a man who could do such a thing. Despite his crimes, she still loved her brother.

  Nadine could hear other men speaking to their families on the bank of phones in the visitors’ area.

  The pause seemed endless; the only sound, his breathing.

  She had one more question about the woman the FBI had mentioned, the one she thought she should recall.

  “Arlo, what was the name of the lady that Dad left Mom for?”

  “Infinity.”

  “Her last name?”

  “Yanez. Infinity Yanez. What are you getting at, Dee?”

  The cold grip of suspicion grabbed Nadine, making her gasp.

  “Do you know what happened to her?” she asked.

  “They ran away together. He had warrants out for failure to pay child support.”

  “What did Infinity look like?”

  “I saw her once. Biked over there to talk to Dad. But I couldn’t get up the nerve.”

  “Describe her, Arlo.”

  “Young. Hot. Short skirts. Skin was light, really light brown. Her hair was straight and black. Hung down to her waist. She wore a lot of makeup.”

  “Eyes?”

  “Brown.”

  Meaning Infinity was a physical match to her mother’s and their copycat’s victims.

  “Dee-Dee? What’s happening?”

  By Thursday, Nadine was sick of living out of a suitcase in a business hotel, tired of dumping all the voicemail left by reporters and fed up with being cut out of the loop by the Feds. Her new assignment as a consultant for the FBI meant she was no longer profiling for the city, but reported to work in her regular office. There she worked on her comparative profile requested by Torrin, with possible characteristics of their current unsub. She also continued work on her geographic profiles of her mother’s and their unsub’s series. The geo-profile would direct law enforcement to areas statistically most likely to be in the copycat killer’s comfort zone.

  Special Agent Torrin showed up that afternoon, seemingly to tell her they’d not located Anthony Dun. She waited for the real reason for his visit.

  “I heard from the prison chaplain in Lawtey you had a family emergency?” He stared, stone-faced.

  “Yes.” She stopped talking.

  “Your conversation with your brother was helpful?”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded, ignoring the heat burning her face and neck.

  “I’m glad to hear it. How’s the comparative profile coming?” he asked.

  Nadine met his stare. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

  “Yes, all right,” said Torrin. “But first, no more web searches on your mother’s crimes on unsecured servers. That one from the coffee shop could have been hell for us.”

  Nadine’s skin crawled as she realized she was under surveillance. She’d been at a coffee shop on Wednesday after work and she’d used their Wi-Fi server to access a Wiki page. Was she their real prime suspect? Was Anthony Dun really missing at all?

  She didn’t know.

  “We’re arranging an interview with your mother. We would like you to come along.”

  “Would you?” She met his gaze. “Yes, all right.”

  “Great. Also, your home security system arrived. Wouldn’t want it stolen off your porch.”

  Nadine watched him go. Torrin’s earlier insistence that she was not a suspect did not reassure her.

  After work, she drove to the hotel and packed her things, moving back to her rental cottage. The reporters had given up and she had the place to herself. The home security system that she had ordered sat on her porch, just as Torrin had said.

  The cleaning crew Demko suggested
had done a good job and she found black powder only on the inside of one cabinet door. Still, the sight was disconcerting.

  It was Thursday. She missed Juliette and their happy hour. She called, yet again, and got her voicemail but didn’t leave a message.

  The texts from Demko were longer, the conversation stretching over several messages. Though Hope Kerr’s murder was not in his jurisdiction, he was still trying to find anyone connected with her, but so far found nothing to support Nadine’s certainty that Kerr was involved outside of her marriage.

  Despite being glad to be home, she felt anxious, no longer comfortable here. Maybe she should get a dog, as Crean had suggested.

  Instead, she opened the box and took out the instructions on how to download the app to the new security system.

  Demko called her before she turned in. Hearing his voice comforted, even when he was talking about the case. It seemed the FBI had not cut him from the herd, yet.

  Before going to bed, she armed her security system for the first time. She glanced out into her dark backyard and then dropped the roller blind.

  * * *

  On Friday morning, she continued work on the comparison requested by the FBI, creating a geographic profile, adding in all the details about where her mother’s victims were found and making inferences about where they might have been dumped based on recovery details, time of death and the way the river flowed. This type of profile would help illustrate her mother’s comfort zone and the territory where she hunted, captured, held and dumped her victims. Once she had this first map fleshed out, she turned to their recent murders, adding the information to the program and allowing the predictive software to do its work.

  Anthony Dun was a tempting suspect. He’d abused women. He insinuated himself here under false pretense. He’d been married and divorced, as their profiler predicted. But, according to Demko, the FBI had made no connection between her mother and Dun. Not even a web search.

  If he was fascinated enough with Arleen Howler to copy her crimes, then he had to have studied her crimes. Where was the link?

  She turned back to her profile. She was here to assist, and she was going to give that all she had, despite the fact that she spent more time leaving messages than answering them. It seemed her consulting involved using her to gain access to her mother and mentioning her in their press conference as a means to engage their killer.