His jaw tightened, and his eyes turned dark, a look she’d only seen once before—the day her husband had been killed.
“It wasn’t enough to torture and murder her. Sick bastard.”
Sick was one way to put it. Victory stared at the bulletin board filled with grotesque photographs of The Wrapper’s victims, each numbered with black marker displayed in gory detail. These women meant nothing to the killer. They were objects. Things. He tortured and punished them for something that had happened in his life. Whatever that trigger was, it had escalated his rage. There was nothing worse than a pissed off serial killer. No one was safe. Victory didn’t know the killer’s motive or his personal agenda, but she knew what she had to do. She needed to get inside his head and figure out what made him tick before he struck again.
While Ryan dispatched their evidence team, Victory called Sean. He answered on the third ring.
“Brody.”
“Sean, where are you?”
“I'm heading east on Ross Avenue. I just finished up with Sarah Halberd, Bullington’s sister. She didn’t seem too surprised by his death. She’s convinced the NSM finally got to him.”
“It’s probably better if she believes that, at least until we have more to go on.”
Everything had a logical explanation. Whoever had killed Bullington was highly intelligent and methodical. Even though Victory was sure The Shadow was responsible, she wasn’t going to fall into the tunnel-vision trap. “Is there anyone who might financially benefit from his death?” she asked.
“Not so far. His wife died of cancer last year. No kids. His parents are deceased.”
“An associate or girlfriend, perhaps?”
“I’ll keep digging.”
“Thanks, Sean. Also, we just got an ID on our Jane Doe. I need you to meet our team at 12981 Dickens Avenue, while Ryan and I speak with the victim’s mother.”
“Do you think The Wrapper killed her there?”
“Not likely. He needs a place where he can feel safe, somewhere he can spend time with his victim and have complete privacy. A busy residential area wouldn’t work for him. If the techs turn up anything, let me know.”
Solving both cases would boil down to victimology. The more Victory knew about the victims, the more she’d learn about the killer.
✽ ✽ ✽
Victory and Ryan entered through the back door of the Hamilton County Coroner’s office on Eden Avenue. The overcrowded cube-like brick building was built in the early ‘70s when computers were a big-ticket novelty, and DNA identification was stuff you’d see in a science fiction movie. Victory knew Gregory would be happy when the new multi-million-dollar coroner’s office and crime lab opened around the corner.
“Do you think he knew she was pregnant?” Ryan asked.
What if he had? What if The Wrapper had changed his victimology because his usual profile wasn’t enough anymore?
A shiver spidered up her spine. “I doubt it, but we both know human behavior isn’t set in stone.”
“He killed a growing baby. Wait till the media finds out. Christ, Vic. I can already picture the headlines.”
Years of constant media attention had everyone’s nerves frazzled. So far, eight families had been torn apart because of The Wrapper. Victory’s stomach gurgled and knotted. “I don’t even want to think about it.”
“I bet he’s following the media reports real close, all proud of himself.”
“Serial murderers often do. They take immense pride in their actions.”
After entering Gregory’s cramped office, Victory sat next to a defeated-looking woman in her mid-forties with long stylish blonde hair. She was clutching a framed photograph in one hand and a wad of crumpled tissues in the other.
Gregory was sitting behind his cluttered desk. A jumble of office supplies and stacks of file folders covered the top. An open bookcase was crammed with thick medical books.
“Mrs. Henderson, this is Agent McClane and Agent Slater. They’re here to speak to you about Nicole.”
Victory took a seat next to the distraught woman. Ryan sat on the other side. “Our condolences, Mrs. Henderson.”
Tears flowed down Lorene Henderson’s cheeks and dripped onto her white blouse. She looked at Victory. “I want to see my daughter.”
Victory’s heart ached. You don’t want to see what that monster did to her. You don’t want to remember your child that way.
“I have to advise against it because of the condition of the body,” Dr. Moore said, his voice soft and compassionate.
He’d been with the coroner’s office for thirty years and was more than experienced in handling victims’ loved ones.
“I see that you brought a photograph of Nicole,” Gregory said. “She was a beautiful young woman.”
Lorene peered down at the picture and pride fought through damp eyes. “Yes, she is, isn’t she?”
Victory noticed how the grieving mother spoke in past and present tense, her mind clouded with shock and disbelief. Victory had done the same thing when she learned her husband had been killed.
Dr. Moore slid a form and pen across his desk. “I need you to sign this release, so we can have Nicole transferred to the Taylor Funeral Home as you requested.”
The woman reached and took the pen. Her hand shook as she signed her name. “I don’t understand how this could have happened.” She took a deep, tremulous breath. “A serial killer? The one in the newspaper?”
“I’m sorry. I know how difficult this is,” Victory said. More than you know. “But we need to ask you some questions.” She touched the woman’s arm gently. “Anytime you need to stop, let us know.”
Lorene lifted her chin and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “Okay.”
Victory paused for a long moment and swallowed the hard lump in her throat. “Did your daughter live alone?”
“She moved into her own place last May. Maybe if she hadn’t moved out…”
She understood Lorene's guilt, and how she desperately needed answers. There was nothing Victory could say or do to make the woman feel better. Instead, she had to continue to learn as much as she could if she had any hope of stopping The Wrapper.
“Did Nicole have a boyfriend, someone she’d been seeing on a regular basis?”
“Not that I know of. She’s extremely busy at work.”
Nicole had been seeing someone. Someone had fathered her child. Maybe the women didn’t have a tight mother-daughter relationship?
“Where did your daughter work?” Ryan asked.
“At Omicron. She was a video game designer. Nicole loved working for Mr. Lynn. He’s a great boss. Always very supportive and made Nicole feel special.” Lorene sniffed and blew her nose. “Nicole loved her job. She was thrilled when she landed the position with Daryl. No, sorry, Derrick.”
Victory and Ryan exchanged glances.
“Derrick Lynn? The son of the Secretary of Defense?” Victory asked.
Lorene nodded absently.
Ryan shifted in the chair. “How long has she worked at Omicron?”
“For almost four years. She was working on the sequel to a game. One all the kids played, she told me.” Lorene shook her head. “But for the life of me, I can’t remember the name.”
“Was it Black Magic Island?” Victory asked. She was familiar with some of the popular fantasy role-playing games her own daughter had played over the years.
“No, it had something to do with dragons, I think. Dragon’s Breath?
“Dragon’s Drought?”
“Yes. That’s the one.”
“When did you see Nicole last?”
“Two days ago.” Lorene’s eyes started to mist over again. “She’d come home for supper and a visit. I made her favorite. Grilled salmon, scalloped potatoes, and cherry cheesecake.” She looked down at her hands and twisted her fingers in her lap. “Did she suffer? Please, I need to know.”
Victory’s throat tightened, and she could taste the tension in the room. “No.” She lied, unabl
e to tell the grieving mother the sickening truth.
The truth was Nicole Henderson had suffered an unspeakably painful death. For whatever reason, the serial killer had soaked the young woman in baby oil, wrapped her in bubble wrap, and then burnt her to death using some type of torch or heating device.
“Where’s Nicole’s father?” Ryan asked.
“Jake passed away five years ago. Heart attack. He was a good man.”
Victory’s heart sank. Could this get any worse? The woman had lost so much. “Do you have any other children?”
“No. Nicole was an only child.” Lorene lowered her head. “Now she’s gone.”
Victory didn't want to ask but had to. “Was your daughter wearing any jewelry?”
“Her father had given her a white gold band with her initials engraved inside when she’d graduated from college. She wore it all the time. He was so proud of her. The ring meant the world to her. I’d like it back, please.”
Victory glanced at Gregory.
He shook his head.
The Wrapper had likely taken the ring as a trophy, just like he had taken a piece of jewelry from all his other victims.
Victory’s muscles tensed. “I’m afraid we didn’t find a ring.”
“What?" A long pause of silence. "Did the killer take it?”
“We think he may have.”
Lorene couldn’t hide the pain in her eyes.
Damn it. All the woman wanted was a small piece of her daughter to hold on to. Something. Anything. Victory couldn’t even give her that and things were about to get worse.
She inhaled a steadying breath and exhaled, steeling herself for the toughest question she had to ask the grieving mother. “Mrs. Henderson, did you know your daughter was pregnant?”
Lorene sat silent. Her knuckles turned white, clutching the photograph to her chest. “I was going to be a grandmother?” She stared off for a long moment and swallowed. “Was it a girl or boy?”
The room went tensely quiet. Victory looked across the desk to Dr. Moore for the answer.
His gaze lowered to one of many reports on his desk then back to the distraught woman. “A girl. I’m terribly sorry.”
Her bottom lip quivered. Tears flowed again, and the mother sobbed uncontrollably.
The scene was heartbreaking. In a five-year span, Lorene Henderson had lost a husband, daughter, and a granddaughter.
Not wanting to upset the grief-stricken woman anymore, Victory stood. “I think that’s all for now. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
When Victory was about to walk out the door, Lorene grabbed her hand. “Promise me you’ll find who did this to Nicole and my grandchild.”
Without thinking, the words slipped through her lips. “I promise.”
She knew better than to promise something she may not be able to deliver. But she’d felt a bond with the woman. A deep connection to her pain and loss. The same heart-crushing agony she had felt when she’d lost Josh.
In the corridor, Victory booted the bottom of the wall. “God damn it. I need to find that bastard. You heard her, Ryan. She’s lost everything. Her daughter, a grandchild, her husband. Everyone.”
Seconds went by before her partner said anything. She could tell he was choosing his words carefully.
“I saw it in your eyes back there. That anger. You still blame yourself for Cleveland. It wasn’t your fault, Vic. Frank Sanders chose to rob the First National Bank that day. Frank Sanders killed Josh. Seventeen people were saved that day.”
But not my husband. Not the person who meant everything to me.
Immediately after Josh’s death, Victory had requested a transfer out of the Cleveland office to the Cincinnati Division.
Tears gathered behind her eyes and that’s where they’d stay, hidden from the world. Always. “But not Josh. A damn medal is hardly a replacement for my husband.” She blinked hard and looked away.
“I miss him too, Vic. He was a good guy. The best. But we can’t save everyone. It doesn’t work that way. Finding this sick sonofabitch will never make up for losing Josh.”
Her partner’s words pricked her skin and hurt even more because he was right.
She wanted to find The Wrapper for her own selfish reasons. Not, primarily, for the victims. Not for their families. Somehow in her mind, as insane as the thought was, she believed finding the serial killer would help make up for her loss.
As they walked to the rear exit, Victory’s boots echoed heavily on the floor. She silently cursed herself. Her twisted logic sounded even more irrational the longer she thought about it.
At the end of the hallway, a morgue attendant pushed a stainless-steel gurney with a corpse into one of the autopsy rooms. The automatic glass doors swooshed closed behind him and she caught the scent of strong antiseptic mixed with the underlying stench of death and decomposition.
Death was all around her. She couldn’t get away from it. At that moment, anger turned to determination and Victory made a vow. She had to find The Wrapper before he killed again.
CHAPTER SIX
In his ninth-floor office, Derrick sat behind his desk and leaned back in his chair. By midmorning, a headache drilled through his temples. What did his contact want? The question echoed stronger in his head. Requesting a face-to-face was out of character to the point of being worrisome. For the most part, communication between the two men was conducted via encrypted email before and after a target was eliminated. The man rarely left Virginia, let alone had time to visit for a one-on-one meeting. They didn’t have that kind of relationship. Not like some fathers and sons. And, since his contact was the Secretary of Defense, Derrick wondered how he would even find the time for a visit. Two loud raps on his office door interrupted his thoughts.
Bob Riley, his production manager, strutted in, slugging back an energy drink. He was in his early fifties, five-ten, about three inches shorter than Derrick, and had a serious addiction to highly-caffeinated energy drinks. He stopped in front of the desk with a file folder tucked under his arm.
Derrick picked up a pen and rolled it through his fingers. “Are we on schedule?”
Bob plunked down across from him in one of the leather tub chairs. By the dark circles under the man’s eyes, Derrick knew the answer. They were.
“Dragon’s Drought, The Homecoming, will premiere right on time next Wednesday at midnight.” He tossed the folder to Derrick and continued. “The number guys have revised their estimate from ten to fifteen million online players within the first twelve hours. It’s gonna be incredible. Pre-sales are already astronomical.”
Months of hype surrounding the release of the sequel to Dragon’s Drought had sent Oricrom’s stock to the moon. The company’s shareholders were elated. So was Derrick. He flipped open the manila folder and scanned the projected cash flow report. “Fantastic. This is great. It doesn’t get much better than this.”
“Get this. Online Gamer magazine named Dragon’s Drought, The Homecoming, the most anticipated online multiplayer game of the decade.” Bob grinned and rubbed his hands together. “Double cha-ching.”
Derrick was proud of what he’d accomplished. He’d made a comfortable legal living for himself. He’d started the gaming company the same year he’d signed on with the government. It was a believable cover, all part of the show, a façade to ensure his true occupation remained hidden. He had handpicked the best graphic artists, animators, and programmers from around the country and beyond, including some very creative local talent to develop his fantasy role-playing games.
Derrick smiled and noticed Bob’s fingers began to fidget in his lap, a side effect of the energy drink. “I know how hard everyone has worked on this project. Especially you, Bob. Is Liz still busting your balls over the long hours?”
“Nope, thanks to you. Not a peep out of her since she got her hands on my bonus check. She’s out shopping for a new dress for the release party. I don’t want to see the bill for that one. You know, shoes, purse, and whatever else she can think of.
Which reminds me, I caught up with Jenna. She’s done wrapping up the last-minute details with The Kennedy Heights Art Center. It’s going to be one hell of a bash.” He hopped out of the chair, grabbed his empty can, and crushed it in his hand. “Anyway, I need to run a few things by advertising. I’ll catch up with you later.”
After the Bob left, Derrick’s secretary stopped inside the door with a bewildered expression on her face. She closed the door behind her. In the years she’d worked for him, Derrick had never seen the woman look so rattled.
He straightened in the chair. “What’s wrong, Katherine?”
“I told the FBI you were in a meeting, but Agent McClane said she’s not leaving until she speaks with you. Is everything alright, Derrick?”
Agent McClane was all he heard. It was as if the air had been sucked out of his lungs. It took a few seconds to get his bearings. Why was she here? “Give me a few minutes.” Derrick fought to keep his voice even. “Then send her in.”
His secretary gave him a you’re-not-going-to-tell-me-what’s-going-on look and left the office. Her heels clicked noisier than usual down the corridor toward the reception area.
He stood, and stared through the panoramic windows at the city, his nerve endings on high alert. Light snow fell. In the distance, he could barely see the Purple People Bridge.
Why was McClane here?
Cold tunneled deep in his gut, twisting and gnawing. The most dangerous possibility—she knew his secret. Impossible. Unless she was psychic, which he doubted. Had his contact requested a meeting concerned the FBI knew something? He hoped not. As far as he knew, no one suspected him in Bullington’s death or any of the other deaths during the past twenty years. How could they? His paranormal abilities made his actions untraceable, impossible for his astral body to leave any physical evidence, exactly why the government had recruited him in the first place. He was a ghost. A shadow, according to the FBI.
After eliminating the radio host, Derrick had returned to the man’s bedroom, his astral body hovering, watching Victory. He could have easily freaked her out even more and made her think she was losing his mind by moving the shell casing on the floor, or by setting off the security system. But he didn’t. Instead, years of curiosity had gotten the best of him. He’d felt her flinch and shiver, a spark of awareness when he had exhaled against her cheek. He rammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He’d made a mistake. Crossed the line. Something he’d never done in the past and could never do again. Now she was here wanting to speak with him.
Deadly Shadow Page 4