The Husbands

by T. J. Brearton

  “The times of death vary, the days of the week. Aside from race, the victim traits vary. We’re not seeing any evidence so far that the victims knew one another. The locations vary, but share characteristics.”

  She turned to the map behind her. Red pins marked the crime scenes with a tag hanging from each pin with the date of the crimes. “There is a direction, from the first to most recent killing, and that direction moves northeast, but I don’t believe this is a deliberate pattern. And this is a large swath of territory — at least two thousand square miles. The killer’s criteria is too specific for these to be randomly selected across that range.”

  “You don’t think he’s targeting parks?” Denis Starkey asked.

  “He uses empty spaces for the killing but that’s not where he’s discovering or determining victims. Could be airports, sporting events, malls. High-traffic public spaces.”

  “Destiny is the biggest mall in the state,” Broward said.

  “We also need to consider an inciting incident.” She took a breath to steady herself. “At the BAU we have what we call the ‘Mr. Rogers’ effect — you can trace all human behavior to love or a lack thereof. Past trauma — and not always overt abuse, but sometimes neglect — is behind almost every serial killer case we see. Our killer is no different. Somewhere along the line he was abused or neglected or both. And then something set him off.”

  The room was silent until Starkey spoke up. “So who do we have for suspects?”

  No one had an answer.

  “I think we work it from the other end,” Kelly said. She returned to the podium and clicked her laptop to show a PowerPoint slide. “My recommendation is a three-pronged approach: we run down the list of felons and anyone on watch. We look at possible sighting spots and focus on a central tip-line—”

  “We’re gonna get thousands of calls through the tip-line,” Severin interrupted. “We’ve already got hundreds on ours and don’t have the manpower to follow them all up. People throwing shade on their neighbors because they don’t like the neighbor’s dog pissing in their yard, now maybe they’re a serial killer . . .”

  “We’ll narrow it down. Our perp is likely male, probably unmarried or divorced, maybe he’s suffered a loss—”

  Severin made a scoffing sound that reflected her own doubts.

  “We look at big, destination stores,” she said, “whatever is drawing in people from around the region. Like Broward said, big places like the Destiny mall—”

  “Nobody from Auburn goes to Destiny,” Severin said.

  Detective Muriel Ingram leaned forward and turned her head to look at him. “I do.”

  “The third approach is Ted Archer’s mobile phone,” Kelly said. “I’m going to keep it with me and I’ll have someone assist me in recording any further correspondence and ping the local towers.” She met Severin’s hard gaze. “That’s why we need to keep Archer’s suicide a secret.”

  “Waste of time.”

  She ignored him and looked at the others. “You’ve been focusing on the women and the children, looking at the crime scene, looking at the evidence, which is right. But in order to find the pattern, the signature, I think we need to consider that, to the killer, the women and children are a means to an end. He intends to make victims of the surviving men, too.” Still avoiding Severin’s eyes, she said, “We have reason to believe that the killer first texted and then called Theodore Archer, husband of Megan and father of Colton.”

  Severin jumped in to defend himself. “We also have reason to believe that Ted Archer faked this communication in an attempt to deflect guilt.”

  She looked at him at last. “I understand your position, Detective, and haven’t ruled it out. But you haven’t been able to produce any evidence so far to support it. And I suspect Blake Haig has been contacted as well, or knows something he’s not revealing.”

  Severin shook his head and sighed. Orzo raised his hand. “Blake Haig denies this, for the record.”

  “All right,” Severin spat, “let’s lay it out. Which situation is more likely? That a killer of women and children is going around calling up the husbands for some unknown reason, risking getting caught, or that a man, Ted Archer, choked with guilt, cooks up some story about how he was called up by his family’s killer? Obviously you’ve studied these things, Agent Roth — is there any precedent for this? Any cases like this? Because I’d think there are plenty of examples where killers crack under the guilt. Maybe Ted Archer had a dark side, something he kept hidden.” A grin tugged the corner of his mouth. “Maybe he wasn’t loved.”

  “It doesn’t explain the other killings,” Kelly said.

  “It doesn’t have to.”

  Starkey interrupted. “Detective Severin, we’ve just heard a presentation from a firearms expert with thirty years of experience. We know all the victims were murdered with the exact same ammunition. You called in the FBI because of a series of—”

  “I didn’t call them,” Severin snapped. “Chief Broward and the Onondaga County MCU did.”

  “He teases them,” Kelly said quickly. “He teased Ted Archer with the possibility of revenge. The way Blake Haig looked at me this morning, I got the sense he’s been given the same promise.”

  “Oh for God’s sake . . .”

  “Based on Ted Archer’s personal account of his phone conversation, the unsub said he would give himself up to Archer — ‘I’ll tell you who I am. I’ll let you kill me.’ Here, see for yourself.”

  She took a stack of copies she’d made earlier and walked through the room, disseminating them to the group, her anxiety melting away as she found her rhythm with the conflict.

  Orzo and Ingram and the two prosecutors started reading right away. Epps seemed interested, too, as if Severin had never shown him this.

  “This was written by Archer, based on his recollection of the conversation,” Kelly said.

  Severin waved the paper. “Or it’s completely fabricated B.S. to make himself look innocent. If it was real he would have called us right away.”

  She took the podium again. “Would he? It’s been two weeks since your wife and only child were gunned down, the police don’t have any answers, and the man claiming responsibility calls you up and says he’ll turn himself in to you, but stipulates that you can’t call anyone.”

  “That’s convenient . . .”

  “Again, with all due respect, Detective Severin, there are grounds for a man wracked with pain and grief not to entrust the police with this. Not if there’s a chance he could find the man who destroyed his life and end him.”

  There was silence. Everyone in the room was waiting for her next move. She could feel her heart knocking against her ribs again.

  Severin’s eyes glinted. When he spoke his voice was soft, condescending. “If he actually received such a call, Agent Roth. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Where is the prepaid you say he used? Where is the proof he used his laptop, synced his phone, anything to support the idea that Archer did it all himself?”

  “We’re going round in circles,” Orzo said.

  “This is reaching,” Severin said, looking around. “Don’t you think this is reaching? This is three separate cases where the husbands killed their wives and children using a common gun, a Winchester rifle.” He looked at Kelly. “Yeah, okay, your expert said it. But you have copycat precedents in your serial killer files, don’t you?”

  “But the locations are significant. And I’ll clarify that to say it’s not so much where the victims were killed, but where they weren’t killed.”

  “Knock me over.”

  “They weren’t killed in the home. If the husbands are the perpetrators, why aren’t they killing their families in their own homes?”

  “Because they don’t want it to look like they did it,” he said. “That’s a no-brainer. And each place was in close proximity. We’re talking less than a mile, two miles away from where they lived.”

  “That may be circumstantial — people
sticking close to home, visiting the park nearby. And only Archer owns a Winchester. The other men would’ve had to obtain one, and would’ve had to know that the first victim was killed with exactly that type of rifle — but that information was never released to the public.”

  Severin shook his head. “Why do any of this? What you’re suggesting — why go to all this trouble to tease these men with the possibility of revenge, like you say? Lack of love? Give me a break. You know he’s never going to give himself up. Right? You know that. We all know that.”

  “Well, now you’re inquiring about the mind of a killer, so we’re on the same page.” She looked round the room. “In addition to the usual door-to-doors on convicted felons and parolees, we should be looking at sudden death cases — recent events like automobile accident fatalities.”

  “Right,” Broward said, giving her a quick glance before addressing the group. “The killer may have lost someone. He may be acting out because of his own grief. Maybe he wants to rob men in the same way he felt robbed.”

  Everyone was getting involved now and Muriel Ingram spoke up. “Agent Roth, going with the theory that the perp wants the husbands to suffer, why not frame them for the murders?”

  “Exactly,” Severin said and clapped his hands once. “Thank you.”

  Ingram ignored him. “They become the accused and they suffer public scorn and shame. They see themselves on TV and in the news. They have to endure a trial. That’s suffering. Right?”

  Kelly could feel herself getting flustered. “It’s a fair point, but I don’t think that’s the intent. There could be more that the killer’s after which we don’t understand yet. Something beyond the promise of revealing himself, or the promise of revenge. That might just be the hook to keep them on the line.”

  “You think the perp’s goal is for the men to commit suicide?” Orzo asked.

  “I’ve thought about that a lot and I’m not sure that’s the objective either, though it might be a risk.”

  “A risk against what?” Severin interjected. “This guy doesn’t take risks, I thought. You’re saying he’s calling up the men to tease them, make them suffer, but that he might actually follow through with his promise? Or he’s got some other hidden agenda? Frankly, you’re all over the place, and I’m done.” Severin stood up. “Because — and let me tell you — aside from all the other shit I disagree with, there’s no way someone could call me up and convince me to play along with something like this.”

  “You asked about precedent,” Kelly said sharply.

  Severin stopped and looked at her with hooded eyes.

  “Psychological experiments have demonstrated how powerful obedience to authority can be. How easily people can be manipulated when certain social pressure is applied,” she said.

  “Social pressure?” He snorted a laugh and shook his head.

  “You’re a man — you understand the pressure to protect your family. Don’t you? Another man takes everything from you. Takes what you love, then calls you up and promises you a chance to take all that pain, all that guilt and humiliation and sorrow and channel it into settling the score. What’s your response?”

  “I already told you I’d call the police.” He remained just inside the room, looking like he couldn’t decide what to do.

  “Well, you’re police. What did you say to me about Ted Archer? What were your words?” The adrenaline was pulsing through her. “You said, ‘You never know about a guy like that.’ It took you about five seconds to decide his guilt. So maybe there’s something to his mistrust of law enforcement.”

  The room felt suffocating. Maybe she’d gone too far.

  Orzo cut through the heavy silence. “So we got the phone, right? In case this guy calls Archer again?”

  “Yes, we have the phone,” Kelly said.

  Severin swore under his breath and shook his head.

  Denis Starkey turned to Orzo. “And your guy, Haig, he denies receiving any calls like this?”

  “Denies it, yeah.”

  Starkey looked at Broward next. “What about Payton?”

  “Hard to get in touch with him,” Broward answered. “I left him a message asking him to call in. If we need to, we can get the state troopers over to his place.”

  Severin crossed his arms in the doorway. “It’s moot anyway — we can’t withhold Archer’s suicide. You don’t hide this type of thing from family. If this guy was going to call back — and I’m not accepting he called in the first place — he’s not going to call up a dead man.”

  Kelly started to respond but Starkey beat her to the punch. “Then we tell his family, but that’s it. We tell them and ask them to keep it completely quiet, completely confidential. No memorial service, nothing.”

  Severin was already shaking his head. “No way. We might have rights to the body but we can’t stop them from grieving, and grieving however they want, even if that means putting an obit in the paper.”

  “The US attorney’s office will make an official request the family not proceed with a death announcement or memorial service until this investigation is concluded,” Starkey said.

  Severin swallowed hard. Kelly recognized the violence in his eyes. Then he left.

  Everyone was rattled from the tension, a bit relieved Severin was gone, but Starkey looked like it was business as usual.

  Kelly spoke evenly despite the adrenaline. “One last thing. When we hold the press conference tomorrow, we feed the papers their own preferred meal — that this is the ‘Park Killer’ and law enforcement is baffled. And when the time is right, we let Archer’s family have their service. I’d say we can even watch it, see who shows up, but we’ve already looked for anyone who knew all of the victims and there’s no one. Not a mailman or sanitation worker. Three different counties, three different jurisdictions, three different zip codes. Which is why I think we focus on a central location where the killer is selecting victims.”

  Epps grunted. “Which location? I’ve heard a lot of ideas but nothing concrete.” With Severin gone, he seemed to have taken over as the skeptic.

  “We’ll get there,” Kelly said. “Just need a little more time.”

  “Days? Weeks? Let’s say we narrow down a hunting ground for this guy, start by picking up anyone who looks shady. We bring them in? We say, can we see your rifle? And they say, sorry, don’t have a rifle. Even if we can execute search warrants at that point, let’s say there’s no rifle in their possession. We ask them a few questions they say, nope, sorry, I’m not killing women and children, and then they go on their way.”

  “I’ll interview them,” she said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jessica Carter-Spence parked in the large lot of a Walgreens. After she went inside, the killer got out of his vehicle and walked over to hers. He stood there a moment with his cell phone to his ear, pretending to talk. Then he dropped the phone on the ground and bent down, reached beneath the car and felt around until he found the magnetized tracking device and plucked it free. He slipped it furtively into his pocket and then stood up with the phone, dusting it off and muttering. Someone pushed a red shopping cart by, but they didn’t look at him. Into the phone he said, “You still there?” and started walking. He carried on the charade until he was back at his vehicle. He put the phone and tracker on the passenger seat.

  Tracking was only necessary in the beginning. Once he knew the routine, it was fine.

  Honestly, they did the same things every day, went to the same places, saw the same people, said the same things. What was in the book was all too true: people rooted for the same sports teams and political parties, believed in the gods presented to them as children, and all the while clung to the notion they were somehow independent agents making free choices.

  Like babies, really.

  Of course, there were always slight variations, and you had to adapt. Danica Payton had routinely walked amid the memorial benches beside Onondaga Lake, for instance. She’d sneak her cigarettes there, sometimes talk on the pho
ne, and sit on a specific bench. He’d planned to shoot her on that bench, but the day he’d chosen, she walked over to the tall grass instead. He’d almost bailed right then and there but it was only a slight change and he was hooked. She was too good, the way her husband was ape-shit in love with her, too much to let go.

  He remembered her glancing in his direction but she hadn’t seen him in the darkness, in the Jeep with the smoked-out windows. She’d turned around to look at the lake and he’d rolled down the window, aimed and fired. She fell into the high grass.

  So, a little variation was natural. Megan and Colton Archer walked or drove home from school depending on the weather. Tammy Haig stopped at Island Park after her evening class and had an ice cream or a Reese’s. But people were pretty predictable. Minor, unseen events pushed them this way or that. But they didn’t make real choices. That was an illusion.

  What was happening right now proved it. Constantia had issued a curfew, even though Megan and Colton had been killed in the afternoon. Law enforcement came out of the woodwork like little machines triggered by a household spill. Cause and effect. No choice — conditioned responses to stimuli.

  That not everyone was steering clear of parks wasn’t evidence of free will — there were always a few tough nuts who held a certain attitude — you know, don’t give in to terrorists. But they hadn’t come up with that on their own, or picked it out of the clear blue sky. They’d learned the slogan from their father or president or some action movie and now that module in their brains had just enough oomph to dominate over fear.

  Jessica was like that, still taking her walks, and right through a quiet little section of a quiet little park in a quiet little town. He knew she would be headed there after grocery shopping.

  She seemed strong and observant, not easily rattled. But he had another family in his sights after this one, so he had to move quickly. Jessica would pay the ultimate price for thinking she was in control.