I See You (Arrington Mystery Book 1)

by Elle Gray

  “We’re looking at a little over five hundred,” he says.

  I tap my finger against my lips, thinking about how best to whittle this down.

  “Okay, filter out all of the solved cases,” I say. “We obviously know he was never caught. So unsolved murders only.”

  “Are you sure he even killed somebody in the state in those two years? What if he left for California? Most of the cases are there.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not certain of anything,” I tell him. “But my gut is telling me we’re on the right path.”

  As Brody does his thing, I glance at the clock and see that it’s after ten. Time is running short. As if to emphasize the point, my phone buzzes with an incoming text message from Blake’s phone. I call it up and look at it, feeling the knot in my gut tighten as I read the words.

  Tick Tock, Paxton. Tick Tock…

  “Okay, we’re down to one hundred and seventy-five,” Brody says. “Good call. It’s better, but still a pretty hefty list.”

  I purse my lips and think harder. I work the profile over in my head and try to see how I can apply it to further narrow down the list. A moment later, the idea comes to me.

  “Filter out every murder that involved a firearm,” I tell him. “No guns at all. Also filter out cars, bow and arrow, and missile attacks if it’s on there.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because Hayes— sorry, Perry— wouldn’t dare use a gun. It’s too impersonal for him,” I explain. “He likes to be up close and personal with his victims. None of his known victims were shot. All of them were stabbed, bludgeoned, or strangled.”

  “Jesus,” he says as he turns back to his laptop. “That’s gruesome.”

  A moment later, he whistles low as he looks at the screen. Then he turns to me and turns the laptop so I can read the screen. I nod and feel a flash of triumph upon seeing that the list had been narrowed from one hundred and seventy-five to thirty-eight.

  “People in rural Washington like their guns,” Brody notes dryly. “More specifically, they like to kill other people with their guns.”

  It’s good, but thirty-eight is still a lot of people. I can’t think of another filter to apply to the search. With everything we’ve filtered out already, these thirty-eight are legitimate, and because he’s an omnivore, there’s no telling which is more likely, a man or a woman. But then another idea occurs to me. It might be a risk, but at this point, with the sand quickly running through the hourglass, it’s one I’m willing to take.

  “Filter out any murder vics who are prostitutes,” I say. “Also, filter out the homeless.”

  “But aren’t those his usual targets?” Brody asks. “That’s his typical pattern.”

  I shake my head. “No. Not for his first kill. That one is special to him even still. It’s the one he truly cherishes. His first vic is his ideal,” I tell him. “And I’m certain it wasn’t somebody living on the street or a prostitute.”

  “Okay, give me just a second here,” he says as he applies another filter to the list. “That’s really grim, man.”

  “Can you put it up on the big screen?”

  Brody nods and is able to put his computer desktop up onto the conference room’s large screen. I look at the list and nod approvingly as I see it’s dwindled further, going from thirty-eight down to twelve.

  “Welcome to the Emerald State, where we shoot a lot of people and murder bushels of prostitutes,” Brody says. “I don’t recall seeing that on the tourism pamphlets.”

  A wry smile curls the corners of my mouth upward. Twelve names. I look at them all, reading each one and commit it to memory as I do. Nothing stands out at first blush.

  “Open up the first case file,” I say.

  Brody brings it up, and the second I see the photo of the dead seventy-six-year-old woman, I know she’s not the one. He would never murder an elderly woman.

  “Next file, please,” I ask.

  The next file comes up. It’s an eight-year-old girl.

  “Next.”

  I’m flying blind. I’m operating solely on instinct right now, and I’m suddenly scared that I’m playing Russian Roulette with Blake’s life hanging in the balance. But I’m doing the best I can under the circumstances. I’m relying on my profile of the man, as well as my own intelligence, and the best-educated guesses I can manage to keep her alive.

  The next file to come up is a thirty-five-year-old man. Drug user and a petty thief. He’s a possibility, but he’s not setting off the bells in my head.

  “Save that one,” I say. “And go to the next.”

  We go through the next five, with me saving two and discarding three. But when Brody brings up the next file, I freeze in my tracks. My eyes widen, and I feel a wild churning in my gut I can’t deny. It feels like I have a river of ice flowing through my veins, and my heart picks up the pace.

  “That’s her,” I say. “She’s the one.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just do,” I say. “Let me see the particulars.”

  Brody calls up the case file, and I read it, taking in every detail. It was in October of 1996. Delia Johnson and her boyfriend Alex Ellison were asleep when they were attacked by a man wielding a knife. Alex was stabbed in the throat, and the killer left a vicious wound behind. He then took his time with Delia, drawing it out. Savoring it. In the end, he sliced her throat open and stabbed her body thirty-two times as she lay dying already. The coroner also indicates there was intercourse, but the state of a DNA lab in the nineties was unreliable, so there is no telling if she had intercourse that night with her boyfriend or was raped.

  “This is it,” I say. “This is the one.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, this is Blake’s life on the line.”

  I nod. “Yeah. I’m sure,” I tell him. “Great work, Brody.”

  He sits back in his seat, looking both relieved but also terrified. I know he’s worried about Blake. So am I. But this is it. This is Alvin Perry’s first kill. He looks over at me, his face etched with concern.

  “So what now?” he asks.

  “Now I set a date with a killer.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like a lot of fun.”

  “It will be,” I tell him. “Tonight is the night we take out one of America’s most prolific murderers.”

  I pick up my phone and compose my message:

  Time to meet, Alvin.

  Using his real name will get his attention. It’ll show him that I’m serious and have the answer to his riddle. Now I just have to hope he truly is a man of his word.

  Thirty

  Alvin Perry

  Seattle Underground; Downtown Seattle

  “Well look at this,” I say, staring at the phone screen with a mixture of awe and admiration. “He is wonderful! He has learned my identity.”

  “Good. I’d hate for him to call you the wrong name when he shoots you in the face.”

  I laugh and shake my head. Special Agent Wilder is secured to the chair with a series of heavy, plastic zip cuffs. She’s a physical specimen, but she’s definitely not strong enough to reach behind her back and pull these apart. We’re sitting in one of the hidden rooms of the Seattle Underground. And at this hour, it’s completely deserted.

  The walls around us are made of red brick and dried, cracked plaster. It’s dim and carries the scent of dust, decay, mildew, and urine. It’s not the most pleasant smell, but it is the perfectly symbolic place to play out the final act of our little melodrama. And also, since I know every inch of the Underground, it will make it easier for me to get away if this all goes sideways for some reason.

  “Defiant to the end. That’s all right,” I tell her. “You enjoy yourself now because your time is almost up.”

  “So, you’re a liar after all.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “You told Pax that you’d let me go if he came up with the answer to your question.”

  “And I will. I will let you go,” I tell her. “Whether you l
ive or not is up to him. Not me.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “Paxton has a decision to make coming up,” I explain. “And it will determine the course of his life. And yours, I fear.”

  “He would never hurt me,” she spits.

  “Never?” I ask, arching an eyebrow at her. “Not even if it meant getting answers to questions that have plagued him since the night his wife died?”

  Her eyes widen, and a look of shock crosses her face.

  “You’re full of crap,” she gasps. “You don’t have the answers to those questions.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “He’ll see right through you,” she snaps. “He’ll know you’re full of crap.”

  “I suppose we will see then, won’t we?” I reply. “And if you’re right, you have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

  She shifts in her seat and struggles with her bonds. Not that it will do her any good. But I suppose it makes her feel better. More proactive and in control over her situation. She doesn’t understand yet that she has no control over her situation. None. Right now, whether she lives or dies is in my hands. Soon, it will be in Paxton’s. And if he chooses to forsake me, as part of me thinks he will, her life will once again be in my hands, because I will then kill them both.

  “What happened to you?” she spits. “Forty lives. You murdered forty people. How do you sleep at night?”

  “Very soundly, actually,” I reply. “For I know I am doing the world a favor by cleansing it of the filth.”

  “From where I’m sitting, you’re the only filth I can see.”

  “Yes well, your perspective is somewhat limited,” I reply. “You are very intelligent and capable in your own way, do not get me wrong. But Paxton and I are simply on another level.”

  “You really do love yourself, don’t you?”

  I shrug. “Somebody had to.”

  “Awwwwww, did you not get enough love from mommy and daddy?” she fires back. “Are you punishing other people and taking their lives because you didn’t get enough love at home?”

  Her tone is mocking, and the sneer on her face is vile. I grit my teeth and glare at her with every ounce of disdain I have for her. But she simply smiles in defiance.

  “You are a walking cliché,” she continues. “Do you even realize that? You wanna know how many losers exactly like you I’ve brought in over the years? Same old sob story? You’re not special. You’re not some untouchable god. You’re nothing. You’re just a sick freak who preys on people to feel better about yourself.”

  “And you are lucky I have not killed you yet,” I hiss.

  “You can’t,” she spits. “Because if you did, you would screw up your chance of pulling Pax into your twisted little fantasy world, and you know it.”

  She’s good. Insightful and clever. And she’s also horribly annoying. I glare at her for a long moment, summoning every ounce of strength and will I have.

  “To answer your question, no I did not get loved at home. I was beaten, though. Often viciously. I was neglected and tormented. Abused,” I tell her. “And the coup de grace was that when Mommy and Daddy decided they’d had enough of being parents, they simply dropped me at the nearest foster care facility and left.”

  She scoffs. “Cry me a river, you bastard.”

  A small, rueful smile touches my lips. “Unfortunately for them, they did not go far enough. When they found out the feds were looking into the church, they decided to change their names and run. They knew it would be harder with me in tow though, so they simply decided they’d had enough of being parents. Literally.”

  “Are you trying to evoke sympathy from me?” she asks. “Are you trying to make me feel bad for you?”

  “No, I’m simply giving you the reasons I killed my parents.”

  The look of shock on her face is hilarious and makes me want to laugh out loud. She did not see that coming. Though, as a top-notch FBI agent, she really should have. All the signs were right there for her to see, after all. Wilder quickly composes herself, leveling her best icy glare at me.

  “I’m not surprised,” she says.

  “You sure looked it.”

  She shrugs. “Nothing you do can surprise me anymore. I think you lost having that effect on me around victim number thirty.”

  “Ahhhh… victim number thirty was Andrew Fujita. Youth pastor. He would use his position to take advantage of teenage girls. I strung him up with rope from a cross in his own home. He was a fighter,” I say. “But in the end, he gave in. Just as they all do.”

  It looks like she’s physically suppressing a shudder. I disturb her. That’s a fact I take some small measure of pride in. The fact that I can make an experienced and hardened FBI agent disturbed it quite the feather in my cap.

  “Do you see why I do what I do? Who I target? Who I kill? I am not some uncouth madman merely lashing out in rage. It is all deliberate. Planned. Calculated. I cleanse this world of foulness and evil. I am a force for justice. Not unlike yourself, Agent Wilder.”

  I let out a chuckle that grows into a laugh, long and loud. It echoes against the empty brick walls, the sound twisting and folding back on itself, repeating and joining its own echoes as if to sound an entire chorus of laughter.

  “Well, do you suppose it’s time we call Paxton and get this show on the road?” I ask. “It’s still early yet, but I suppose we don’t have to wait until midnight. What do you think?”

  “I think I’d like to see you die choking on your own blood.”

  “Always the charmer,” I reply.

  Standing before her, I find Pax’s phone number and dial, then press the phone to my ear. He answers before the first ring has even ended.

  “Alvin,” he says, sounding chipper. “I suppose the jig is up.”

  “Oh no, we’re not quite here yet,” I say. “As I told you, there are decisions to be made and much left to discuss.”

  “Fine. Where are you?” he replies. “Let’s discuss because I definitely have some things to say.”

  “Excellent. And am I correct in assuming you know the identity of my first kill?”

  “I do.”

  “Very good. Then I suppose all that’s left is the final stage of our game.”

  “Bring it.”

  I look over at Agent Wilder, and she’s glaring balefully at me as she makes the symbolic gesture of struggling with her bonds.

  “I asked you once how well you knew your wife. Do you remember?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “And you feel confident that you knew her well?”

  “Like I told you, she was my wife.”

  I switch the phone to my other ear, a Cheshire Cat grin spreading across my lips. “Wonderful. Then you should know where to go,” I say. “Meet me in the place that scared her like nothing else.”

  “Scared her like—”

  “Good luck. And remember, our appointment is for midnight. Do not be tardy. I don’t want to be disappointed.”

  I disconnect the call.

  Thirty-One

  Paxton

  Arrington Investigations; Downtown Seattle

  “Scared her like nothing else?”

  I stare at the phone for a long moment, wondering what he meant by that. Veronica was fearless. There was very little in this world that scared her. I turn to Brody. He knew her before I did. He was the one who introduced us all those years ago even.

  “Do you know?” I ask. “Do you know what place scared her?”

  He sits back in his chair and scrubs his face with his hands. He shakes his head and looks at me.

  “I have no idea,” he sighs. “She was never afraid of anything that I can remember.”

  I drop down into my seat and look at the clock. It’s now past eleven, and the physical weight of the pressure I’m feeling is getting heavier by the second. I feel like I’m about to be crushed beneath it. I listen to Perry’s voice in my head again, replaying the conversation over and over again, try
ing to tease the meaning of his words out into the open. But nothing comes. I’m left staring at the top of the table, utterly clueless and feeling more helpless than I’ve ever felt in my life.

  All I can do is sit there, staring at the clock, watching the second hand make its trip around the face, ticking off the minutes one by one. A sense of dread wells up within me as the realization that I may not be able to save Blake after all begins to settle down over my shoulders.

  “This is garbage!” I roar, pounding the tabletop with my fist. “We got the answers. Against all odds, we got the answers he wanted, and he pulls this?”

  “Slow down,” Brody says. “Think.”

  “I am!”

  This is the test. The real test. The one he wants me to fail because he knows it will push me over the edge. If I allow him to kill Blake, he knows I won’t be able to stop my descent into darkness. It’s what he’s counting on because he believes it will force me to become just like him. He thinks that if I’m as powerless to save Blake, just as I was powerless to save Veronica, it will permanently break me, and I’ll give in to my dark impulses.

  But what he doesn’t realize is that this pursuit of him has changed me. It has made me see myself in a completely different way. This investigation has revealed pieces of me I never knew existed before. It’s helped me see myself the way Veronica did. And while it might be hard for me to accept at first, holding fast to those things, to what Veronica tried so hard to help me see, is what will keep me alive and functioning. Only that will keep her alive inside of me.

  Those things cannot be broken no matter what he does to me. Those realizations and revelations I’ve had as we’ve chased him have taken root deep inside of me. They’re already buried deep underground—

  “That’s it,” I gasp, sitting up straight, my eyes wide, and my heart pounding with excitement.

  Brody looks over at me. “What’s it?” he asks. “What did you figure out?”

  “Do me a favor, call up Veronica’s article from October sixteenth, 2017.”