by Gregory Ashe
As a distraction. Hazard hesitated. He hadn’t considered this before, not in this way. With the first set of killings, the murders had been an end in themselves. Hadn’t they? Hazard had assumed the answer to that question was yes; it had seemed the only possible answer. That type of elaborate killing, which was performed to sate some kind of need or provide some kind of release, was an end in itself.
Except with Susan, it hadn’t been. Susan’s murder had been a distraction to lure the police away while the Keeper abducted Mitchell. Hazard went back to the first murders; had it been a distraction too? He couldn’t see how. The Keeper’s killings had paralleled another series of murders, and for a while, Hazard had thought they were related. But at the time, the Keeper’s actions had looked like an abduction, perhaps an attempt to use a hostage to stop the investigation. The victims had been hidden in the college sub-basement and discovered only by following clues the Keeper had left behind. There had been an element of spectacle, yes, but not in the same way as with Susan’s death.
And now that Hazard considered the possibility, he had to admit that there were other differences. Serious, substantive differences. For one thing, Susan had been killed in her home; Rory, Phil, and Mitchell had been drugged and abducted while in public, probably at the Pretty Pretty. For another, Susan’s death and . . . presentation, for lack of a better word, had occurred within hours of each other. Phil, Rory, and Mitchell had been held and tortured for days; Rory had died after Hazard found them, and Mitchell had survived because they were able to rush him into surgery. Another difference was that Susan was a woman. A woman dating a trans man, yes, but a straight, cis woman. Phil, Rory, and Mitchell were all gay men, which Hazard had initially thought the Keeper might be mission oriented, the kind of serial killer who felt a mandate to eliminate a class of undesirables—in this case, homosexuals. Susan’s death threw out that possibility.
Hazard parted the page with a line and jotted possibilities: a copycat, an accomplice, external factors, internal factors. After another moment, he crossed out the copycat. Too many details between the first and second killing had aligned; for all their faults, the Wahredua PD had made an effort to keep those details out of the press. That meant a copycat killer would have to be someone with access to those records, and Hazard thought the odds were unlikely.
That left three possibilities to explain the differences. The first was that the Keeper had an accomplice, an acolyte, something along those lines. Most serial killers were loners. Even the ones with families and social lives, even the charming ones, had a degree of isolation and separation. To some extent, that was purely logistical; a serial killer had to have a certain amount of unmonitored time in which to commit murder. But it wasn’t impossible that the Keeper might have been working with someone. There could have been an internal shift in power; perhaps the accomplice had murdered or disabled the Keeper and had carried out Susan’s killing independently. Or perhaps this was the accomplice’s fledgling attempt, carried out under the Keeper’s tutelage.
Another possibility was that external factors might explain the differences. The Keeper might have had access to the college sub-basements for the first set of killings, but perhaps college policies had changed, or the Keeper had otherwise lost access. A similar logic could be applied to the other differences: perhaps the Keeper had been forced to speed up his timeline with Susan because he simply didn’t have the resources to hold her and torture her for days; perhaps the lack of suitable targets made switching to a straight, cis woman who was dating a trans man an acceptable alternate. After a moment, Hazard drew a line through external factors; some amount of change might be explained by outside forces, but the alterations to the Keeper’s ritual and target were too extreme. The Keeper could have found another abandoned building, targeted another drunk gay boy, and spent days or weeks torturing him before privately staging the victim.
The last option was the one Hazard liked the least because it was the one he understood the least. If some sort of internal shift had happened, it might explain the Keeper’s actions. The oldest story in the book was that homophobia masked homosexuality; perhaps the Keeper had come to accept a part of himself and had transitioned to murdering women. Perhaps he wanted Mitchell as some sort of object of sexual gratification, even though the first killings had not contained any evidence of sexual violence. If the changes were internal—which was unlikely, from what Hazard knew of serial killers and their psychopathology—then the Keeper’s actions would be unpredictable. Which was very fucking inconvenient, in Hazard’s opinion.
He examined the list again. He drew a circle around Mitchell’s name. Mitchell had now been taken by the Keeper twice. Why? Perhaps the answer was simple, some kind of closure to the first set of murders. Perhaps, in a day or two, Mitchell’s dead body would be found staged with bees, like the Keeper’s other victims. Hazard didn’t know, and his inability to answer produced a rage that he could barely tamp down.
What Hazard wanted to know, what would help make everything clear, was the Keeper’s purpose in all this, but he simply didn’t have enough information. After a final consideration of the list, Hazard decided that the best possibility—if best was the right word—was that the Keeper had an accomplice or acolyte of some kind. In some ways, though, that only postponed the initial question. They had moved from Who is the Keeper? to Who is the Keeper’s accomplice?
Hazard grabbed a new sheet of paper. He needed a list of possible traits, so he started with the first set of murders: someone who had been able to get close to Phil, Rory, and Mitchell; someone able to drug or otherwise incapacitate them; someone able to transport their bodies. He added two more: access to and familiarity with the college buildings; access to and familiarity with bees. Then Hazard’s hand stopped. He hadn’t fully thought about the implications before, but he had known that the Keeper was somehow tied up with the suicide of a woman in police custody. Cynthia Outzen had been recovering in a hospital; she had delivered a message from the Keeper and then taken potassium cyanide. Hazard added two more items to his list: access to Wahredua Regional; access to potassium cyanide.
On the bottom half of the page, he began a second list, this one detailing the recent crimes: familiar with Susan’s apartment, perhaps trusted by her; familiar with Mitchell’s apartment, perhaps trusted by him, or perhaps with the technical ability to disable or circumvent the extensive security measures.
To the right, Hazard wrote two additional words: young; new. Because Wahredua had seen its first victims less than a year before, the most likely possibilities were that either this serial killer was young, just reaching the age where this type of behavior was most common—in the United States, for males, in their late twenties—or new to the area.
Hazard’s gut told him this was someone known to both Susan and Mitchell. Somers could argue against the possibility as much as he wanted, but while Hazard didn’t like the possibility that their social circle included a killer, he was willing to face the idea. In some ways, it made sense; some serial killers enjoyed attention and games, getting satisfaction from feeling involved in the investigation and from feeling smarter than the people around them. The killer had displayed interest in Hazard and had posed the first set of killings as a challenge; it made sense that he would have made other efforts to involve himself in Hazard’s life. He hated very much what he was about to do. But then he did it.
Noah.
Dulac.
Darnell.
Wesley.
Nico.
After a moment of examining the list, Hazard starred Wesley’s name and, after another moment, Darnell’s. The others on the list deserved closer attention, but Hazard could think of immediate reasons why they were less likely to be involved: Noah was married and had children, which didn’t necessarily exonerate him, but would have made the killings much more difficult to carry out; Dulac was Somers’s partner, and Hazard trusted that Somers would have noticed strange behavior; Nico, for fuck’s s
ake, was so disorganized that he couldn’t put on the same pair of socks, much less plan and execute an elaborate killing.
Wesley, though. Wesley was smart. Wesley was charming but . . . distant. And Wesley had a dark, angry side. And Darnell. Well, Darnell was an enigma. He was friendly, polite, respectful. But Darnell also didn’t make any sense to Hazard. He lived in the middle of nowhere but claimed to telecommute and make a fortune working for a tech company in Silicon Valley. Darnell claimed to have a J.D. from Princeton. And strangest of all, Darnell was dating Dulac—Hazard couldn’t think of a reason someone would do that, unless it were to find a way to get closer to Hazard and Somers.
Since Wesley was already in police custody, Hazard decided to look at Darnell first. He opened his laptop, dragged his chair closer to the desk, and settled in for some digging.
It didn’t take long.
When he searched Princeton law school alumni, the first result was a Wikipedia page that explained that Princeton, Brown, and Dartmouth were the only Ivy League schools that did not have a law school.
Hazard’s heart beat a little faster. He opened a new tab, and then he rummaged through the desk drawers until he came up with the business card, battered and with one corner bent, that Darnell had given him early on. It gave Darnell’s name, and then his position: Director of Ethical Technologies. Hazard typed the company’s name, SquibSquab, into the search engine.
Nothing. Oh, sure, a few entries from Urban Dictionary, links to social media posts where someone had used the tag for something—Hazard couldn’t understand what. But no corporate webpage. Nothing that even resembled a tech company with remote employees who directed ethical technologies.
But Darnell had tech skills, Hazard thought. Just a few months ago, Darnell had helped them break into a protected hard drive. He had claimed someone at work had helped him, but that might have been a lie. Yes, the analytical part of Hazard’s brain said. Yes, tech skills. The same kind of tech skills that might have made it easy to get past the security measures Mitchell had installed. Maybe that had even been how Darnell got inside the apartment. Maybe Mitchell had noticed the cameras weren’t working; maybe Mitchell had called a friend, a tech friend, someone he knew and trusted, for help.
Hazard spun in the chair fast, reaching for his phone. His knee crashed into the desk, and something cracked and fell loose. The phone slipped from his fingers, and his heels dug into the floor as he rolled back in the chair. First, he reached for the Blackhawk holstered under his arm. Then he stopped. He counted to ten. He made himself breathe, slowly and deeply, and then he worked his rigid fingers until he could flex them and pick up his phone. He dialed Somers as he pushed the chair to one side and got onto his hands and knees.
“It’s not really lunchtime yet,” Somers said. “Although I could definitely use a reason to get out of here.”
“John.” Hazard said, the word dredged up like gravel.
“What’s wrong? Are you having a panic attack? Are you hurt?”
“No,” Hazard said, but he couldn’t seem to clear his throat. Couldn’t seem to sound normal. “I’m fine. I just—”
“You don’t sound fine. Where are you? What’s happening?”
Hazard picked up the device. Turned it in his hand. It was a recording device, obviously activated by sound. He didn’t know how long it had been hidden under his desk. Months, he guessed.
“I think I know how the Keeper has been staying ahead of us.”
“What?” Somers’s voice changed; sounds of movement came across the line, and then he spoke again, more quietly. “What are you talking about?”
“John, I think Darnell is the Keeper.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JULY 3
WEDNESDAY
10:18 AM
SOMERS STOOD IN THE custodial supply closet, listening to Hazard’s reasoning. As the explanation dragged on, Somers found himself taking deeper and deeper breaths. It smelled like wet mop in here. An ammonia smell, too, sure, but mostly wet mop. Didn’t anybody ever clean out this closet? Didn’t anybody get sick of that wet, moldy funk? Couldn’t anybody at the station do their fucking job?
“We don’t know—” Somers began.
“Where’s Dulac?”
Outside, voices passed the closet. Two of the new guys, Riggle’s hires. Somers recognized Lansdown’s voice for sure; the uniformed cop was saying, “—that uppity nigger bitch probably has teeth in her stinking pussy—”
And then the voices were past, and Somers had to struggle not to go out and break Lansdown’s jaw.
“Where is he, John?”
“He’s . . . I don’t know. You know today, he and Darnell are moving, right? He called this morning and said he had to go help with the move. I told him we were really hammered right now. I told him I needed him here. He begged and begged until I finally said yes; he promised to come in as soon as he could.”
“They’re not moving. I don’t think Dulac is coming in to work today.”
“You think he’s in on this somehow?”
“No,” Hazard rumbled. “I assumed Darnell would kill him today and then make his escape. But an accomplice is actually high on my list of possibilities. You might be right; we have to assume that Dulac has been party to all of this. It makes sense: he can provide Darnell with inside information, and he’s been able to steer the investigation away from ever getting close to Darnell.”
“It doesn’t make any sense, Ree. Not if you think about the fact that it’s Dulac and Darnell. Hell, they didn’t even meet until after the Keeper’s first murders.”
“You don’t think they had met. They could have staged that first meeting for your benefit.”
“Staged a whole complex investigation that involved underage girls being sexually assaulted? That is insane. This whole thing is insane. One of our friends is not the Keeper. It’s definitely not Darnell or Dulac.”
“The law degree,” Hazard said, “his job—”
“I know.” It came out more sharply than Somers intended, and he had to draw in a breath. “I know. I’m just—it can’t be what it looks like.”
A chorus of laughs—more of Riggle’s boys—went up in the bullpen, and Somers wiped his face again.
“I’m getting another call,” Hazard said.
“Please call me back.”
But Hazard disconnected without responding.
Somers thunked his head back against the wall and said every swear he could think of. Then he ran through them again. Out in the bullpen, the Riggle boys were having a fucking laugh riot. Somers had been in a frat at Mizzou. He’d lived in the frat house for two years. He’d heard a lot of dumbfuckery, and he recognized it now: the sound of privileged assholes bonding as a pack. And assholes were dangerous in packs.
His phone buzzed in his hand.
“I’m not trying to fight you about this,” Somers said. “I see the pieces you’ve got in place, and I recognize that they’re significant, but I think you’re jumping to conclusions.”
“Nico is missing.”
“What?”
“Marcus just called. Nico was supposed to help Darnell and Dulac move today. He was supposed to pick up Marcus by now, and he’s not answering the phone.”
“Did he show up at Darnell’s?”
“I didn’t call; I thought that would tip off Darnell.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Somers bit out.
“This was a mistake,” Hazard said. “I shouldn’t have bothered you at work.”
“Don’t do that. You can be mad at me if you want, but don’t you fucking dare shut me out. I do not want you handling this alone. Do you understand me?”
“I don’t like being talked to like I’m a—”
“Do you understand me, Emery Hazard?”
The laughter in the bullpen had died down; now the fax machine was squealing, a long sound that went on and on like it was being murdered.
“Yes,” Hazard said.
“I’ll pick you up.”
“It would be better if—”
“No. I’ll pick you up.”
After disconnecting, Somers took another minute in the closet, breathing in the mop funk and the ammonia. Then he opened the door and stepped out. He made his way to his desk in the bullpen; Dulac still hadn’t come back, so Somers scribbled a note—no details, just telling Dulac to call him—and grabbed his suit jacket. He headed for the side exit, near the back of the station, and wondered if he was making a huge mistake.
As he hurried along the station’s back hallway, though, the sound of voices caught his ear. Low, taunting voices. Bully voices. And they were coming from the jail. Somers knew the sound; at one point in his life, he’d been pretty good at that voice himself. He leaned into the exit door, catching the crash bar with his hip, and muggy Midwestern air met him, underscored by the tang of hot asphalt.
“—let me get into that tranny cunt of yours, what do you think about that—”
Letting the door fall closed, Somers changed course and walked toward the jail.
A handful of the Riggle boys were crowded against the bars of Wesley’s cell—Somers recognized Lansdown and Russell, but he hadn’t seen the third one before, although he was wearing a WPD uniform too. Somers checked the supervisor’s desk. Patrick Foley had been shot a few months before; he’d returned to duty slowly and under a cloud, and Cravens had kept him on jail supervision. Right then, though, the desk was empty, although a half-drunk mug of coffee said someone had been there.
“—ought to show you what a real man’s equipment is like,” Russell said, pimply and scrawny in his ill-fitting uniform, tugging on his balls. “Maybe you want a taste right now.”