With a chuckle, Jason kissed Evelynn on the cheek, clapped Franklyn on the back, and grinned at Oliver on his way out.
He stopped at the door. “I’ll check on you this evening.”
Oliver nodded before returning his attention to his worried parents. “You might want to sit for this.”
Franklyn didn’t budge. “I’d rather stand. Now tell me what’s going on.”
“I’ve been contacted by the Silencer.”
Evelynn’s hand flew to her throat. “What? When?”
“A couple of days ago. I had the bureau send agents to keep an eye on you guys as well as Mindy and her family.”
“Oh my God,” Evelynn breathed, her eyes huge in her face. “Do Mindy and Aaron know about this?”
Oliver shook his head. “No. I didn’t want to worry them unnecessarily. They have eyes on them at all times. As do you.”
Franklyn exhaled an angry breath. “Is this bastard going to torment you for the rest of your life?”
Oliver understood his father’s feelings. He himself suffered those same emotions, every waking moment of his life. “Not if I can help it.”
Glancing at his distraught mother, Oliver met his father’s gaze once more. “It would make me feel a hell of a lot better if you took Mom and stayed with Mindy for a while. You’ve got nothing pressing here, and it would be a good excuse to see your grandchildren.”
“I’ll not run from that son of a bitch!” Franklyn barked, his face growing red with rage. “If it’s fear he wants, he’ll damn sure not get it from me.”
Evelynn rested her hand on her husband’s arm. “Oliver’s right, Frank. I think we should go to Mindy’s for a bit. I’d feel much better knowing we were helping keep an eye on them.”
Franklyn continued to stare at his son, indecision warring within his eyes. His shoulders eventually sagged as if he’d come to a decision he wasn’t happy about.
He covered his wife’s hand with his, a reassuring act Oliver had seen him do hundreds of times over the years.
But Franklyn never broke eye contact with his only son. “Okay. I’ll take your mother to Atlanta under the pretense of vacationing. There’s no need for Mindy and Aaron to know what’s going on. Not yet at any rate.”
“I agree,” Oliver softly stated, grateful he wasn’t going to have to fight his parents about leaving town.
“But know this, son. I want to be kept abreast on everything that goes on with this sick bastard. Understood?”
Oliver nodded. “I understand.”
Evelynn wrapped her son in a hug. “How are you holding up? I know this can’t be easy for you. Especially with your history with that monster.”
“I’m holding up surprisingly well, Mom. Now, go with Dad to Mindy’s. I’ll check in with you in a day or two.”
Her hold around his waist only tightened. “I love you, sweetheart. Never forget that.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
Chapter Seventeen
Oliver arrived at the Bay County Sheriff’s Department a little after nine am that same morning.
He felt an enormous relief to know that his parents would be leaving for Atlanta in a few hours. At least he wouldn’t worry for his family as much, knowing they were all together and being protected by the FBI.
Pushing the double doors open at the front of the building, Oliver strode inside and headed off in the direction of the boardroom, the place Richard explained the FBI would be.
A dozen pair of gazes swung in his direction as he entered the room.
“Quick,” Richard greeted from his position in front of a large projection screen displaying images of the mutilated women.
Oliver nodded to several familiar faces, including the ever-scowling, Merv Campbell, and then moved to lean against the wall.
He listened as Holland explained to the agents and deputies scattered about the room exactly what they knew thus far.
“Margery Osborne was the Dockside Killer’s first victim that we knew of. She had blonde hair, blue eyes, twenty-eight years old, married, and a child on the way. No other children.”
He pointed toward the next image. “Janette Beasley. Twenty-seven-years old. Victim number two of the Dockside Killer. From Baldwin County Alabama, married, and nearly seven months pregnant. One other child.”
Moving to the next picture, he continued. “Jennifer Clayton. Victim number three. Twenty-eight years old. Blonde hair, blue eyes. In her last trimester of her pregnancy. Married, with no children besides the one she’d been carrying at the time of her death. Also, the fetus wasn’t recovered. It had been cut from the body before her death.”
One of the deputies got up and left the room.
Richard cleared his throat before proceeding. “Carrie Colvin. Victim number four of the Dockside Killer. Her body was found beneath the pier on Orange Beach. She lived in Elberta, Alabama, which is less than ten miles from that beach. Not married. Between five and six months pregnant with twins. No husband and no other children.
“All four women had been tortured, repeatedly raped, aside from victim number three. They’d been drowned at least once, resuscitated, only to be drowned again before they were dismembered and tied to a public dock.”
One of the deputies raised his hand. “Why leave them under public docks and piers? I mean, if he’s going to commit such heinous acts that guarantee capital punishment, seems like he’d at least try to hide the bodies. Also, why would he rape all the others but not victim three?”
Richard nodded to Oliver. “I’ll let you answer that, Quick.”
Oliver pushed away from the wall and faced the young deputy seated in the back. “He’s making a spectacle of them. He feels that if he makes a public display of their nude, dismembered bodies, he’s humiliating them somehow. Even after they’re dead.”
Glancing at the horrific photos on the screen, Oliver sought out Jennifer Clayton’s. He stared at it for long moments before meeting the deputy’s gaze once more. “He didn’t rape her because he wasn’t the one who took her.”
Voices erupted throughout the room.
“Are you telling me that we have more than one killer at large?” someone called out in an attempt to be heard over the murmuring still taking place.
Oliver held up a hand for silence. “Not just a killer, but a serial killer.”
The buzzing of voices started again.
Oliver moved to stand next to the projection screen while giving the deputies time to settle down. “You are all aware of the Silencer and his reign of terror across six states.”
Once Oliver had their attention, he continued. “The Silencer was responsible for the deaths of twelve women, including my wife… April. She was his last kill before he disappeared without a trace. As far as we know, he hasn’t killed in nearly six years. But I believe he is responsible for the death of Jennifer Clayton.”
One of the deputies on the left side of the room asked the next question. “What makes you think the Silencer killed Mrs. Clayton?”
“Because, he contacted me.”
A hush fell over the room.
“Jennifer Clayton also wasn’t raped like the others,” Oliver went on to inform them. “And her unborn child had been surgically removed from her body, before her death. The other women were dismembered and tied to public docks and piers, yes, but if you’ll notice, Orange Beach is nowhere near as congested as Panama City Beach is. Which tells me the Silencer was grandstanding by leaving Mrs. Clayton at this pier.”
“Grandstanding?” One of the deputies asked.
Oliver explained. “He got off on the fact that he got away with dragging a body through the dunes and disposing of it beneath a pier as popular as the one here on your beach. It’s a tourist attraction. He could have been set upon at any moment, which was part of the appeal for him. He experienced a rush from it, probably some kind of sexual satisfaction as well.”
That same deputy asked the next question. “But I read somewhere that the Silencer was a sexual sadist. If he’d been t
he one to take Jennifer Clayton, wouldn’t he have raped her before killing her?”
“We believe it could have been due to her pregnancy. Or perhaps she reminded him of someone,” Oliver answered. “But the point here is, the women found in Alabama had been handled differently. Their fetuses all died in utero, and the women had been viciously raped. There was one other component here that didn’t match up. Mrs. Clayton’s stomach contents showed she’d been fed liver and asparagus within twenty-four hours of her death. The other victims had nothing in their stomachs. They’d been starved.”
None of the deputies made a sound.
Oliver pointed to the last picture on the screen. “This is Sandy Irvine. She’s been missing for three days now. Her purse and cell phone were both found in her abandoned car on a side road off Highway 98.”
“But she doesn’t have blonde hair and blue eyes,” someone unnecessarily pointed out. “She doesn’t fit the Dockside Killer’s MO.”
Loosening his tie, Oliver stated, “We don’t believe he’s responsible for her disappearance. We haven’t recovered the vehicles, purses, or phones of the other victims. No, the Dockside Killer wouldn’t have left Mrs. Irvine’s car on the side of the road.”
Richard stepped up next to the projector and flipped another picture up onto the screen. An image of April’s smiling face appeared next to Sandy Irvine’s.
Collective gasps echoed throughout the room.
Oliver couldn’t move. His wife, his beautiful April, shone from the screen in haunting clarity.
Looking at her image resting next to Sandy Irvine’s, they could have passed for sisters.
Tearing his gaze away from his deceased wife’s photo, Oliver faced the crowd. He recited the note he’d gotten from the Silencer, ending with, “So, you see why we believe the Silencer has Mrs. Irvine.”
Collective agreements echoed inside the room.
“And today is day three since she went missing. Which means she’ll most likely die tonight, if she’s not already deceased.”
Unable to stand there a moment longer, Oliver waved a hand in Holland’s direction and then left the room.
He strode off down the hall, taking a left toward the men’s room.
Thankfully, it was empty.
Oliver gripped the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His chest was tight as a drum, and his jaw ached from clenching his teeth.
“Fuck!” he barked, releasing the sink to turn on the water.
He began splashing his face in an attempt to cool his overheated skin.
“I’m sorry about your wife,” Merv Campbell softly stated from behind Quick.
Oliver paused with a handful of water and met Merv’s gaze in the mirror. What he saw there, puzzled him. He saw…sympathy.
Campbell yanked a few sheets of paper towels free and offered them to Oliver. Which he accepted.
Oliver dried his face, tossed the used paper towels into the trash, and turned to face Merv. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
Merv shrugged. “I should have said it sooner.”
Oliver extended his hand. “Truce?”
Accepting his outstretched palm, Campbell gave it a firm shake. “Truce. Now, let’s go find this son of a bitch.”
Chapter Eighteen
Several days passed with Oliver working day and night to locate not only the Dockside Killer but the Silencer as well.
He’d been so engrossed in the cases he had almost forgotten his appointment at the clinic to get his stitches removed.
His cell phone vibrated from the console of his rental car.
“Joyce,” he answered on the third ring. “How are you?”
“I’d be better if you were back at the office where you belong.”
Oliver sighed. “You and me both.”
“How much longer will you be working with the FBI? I’m beginning to miss your hungover self.”
“I wish I had an answer for you.” He wanted to tell her they had a lead, but of course, he couldn’t.
“Yeah, me too.”
Oliver punched the gas and darted around a turtle crawling driver in front of him.
“Be careful, Oliver. And I meant what I said. I miss you.”
The corner of Oliver’s mouth lifted. “I miss you too, Joyce.”
He ended the call seconds before pulling into the hospital parking lot.
Climbing from the small SUV, Oliver locked the doors and strode across the parking lot to the bottom-floor clinic.
“May I help you?” A young volunteer called out, hurrying across the floor. Her nametag read, Kasi.
Oliver smiled down at her. “I have an appointment with Angie Palmer.”
Kasi looked confused. “The clinic works on a first-come, first-serve basis. We don’t take appointments.”
Oliver nearly growled aloud.
He glanced around at all the hacking people in the waiting room. There was no way in hell he was hanging around among the sickly.
He turned to leave.
“Oliver!” Angie’s voice reached him before he cleared the double doors.
She rushed to meet him. “You’re leaving?”
“I sure as hell can’t wait out here amidst the plague.”
Angie grinned and took hold of his arm. “Come on. I’ll get you fixed right up. Just don’t breathe in until we get in the back,” she teased with a wink.
“You joke, but I’m tempted to do exactly that.”
She led him through a set of doors, down a short hallway, and into a small room off to the left. “Have a seat.”
Oliver watched as she milled around, gathering items from drawers. “How do you work in a place like this and not catch everything known to man?”
“Well,” she answered, moving to stand over him. “I have caught just about everything known to man. And what I haven’t caught, I’ve grown immune to.”
“Where’s your son’s father?” Where had that come from? Oliver couldn’t believe he’d invaded her personal life.
Angie paused with her hand halfway to his head. “He left me for someone much younger and prettier than me.”
“There’s someone out there prettier than you?” Oliver quietly murmured.
She stepped in closer, her fingers tickling his head near the gash behind his ear. “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Profiler?”
“I might be. Is it working?”
She laughed and then clipped the end of his sutures. “It might be.”
An awkward silence descended, and then she asked, “What about you? Have you ever been married?”
Oliver thought about how much to tell her before deciding on the truth. “I was married once.”
“And did she run off and leave you for someone much younger and prettier than you?”
“She was killed a little over six years ago.”
Angie’s fingers paused. “Killed? Oh, Oliver… What happened to her?”
“She died at the hands of a serial killer.”
The surgical scissors Angie held clattered to the floor at Oliver’s feet.
“I—I’m so sorry. I—”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Oliver picked up the scissors and got to his feet. He placed them on the counter near his hip and turned to a pale-faced Angie. “I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that.”
She continued to stare up at him, her eyes full of horror. “I can’t even imagine what that must have done to you.”
Oliver decided to keep her busy before her horror became replaced by pity. He could handle anything but her pity. “Are you okay to remove the rest of the stitches?”
Her horror turned into an awkward embarrassment. “Oh. Yes, of course.”
Oliver returned to his seat and stared straight ahead while Angie finished removing the stitches in his head.
She then moved around to his front, sat on a rolling stool, and slid up between his open knees. “Let me see that hand.”
Oliver laid his hand, palm up on her left knee.
&nbs
p; He watched in fascination as she swabbed the now healed wound with alcohol, then commenced pulling the sutures out, one by one. “You have questions, Nurse Angie. It’s okay to ask them.”
She met his gaze. “Did you have any children with her?”
Oliver shook his head. “April was pregnant when she died.”
Tears sprang to Angie’s eyes, but she blinked them back.
Oliver could see the enormous amount of effort it took for her to keep her emotions in check.
She went back to working on his hand. He assumed it was to give herself some time to get her emotions control. She had strength, and he liked that about her.
“I’m sorry about your wife,” she admitted, once her work on his hand was done. “And I’m sorry for the loss of your child. If you ever need to talk, I’m a good listener.”
That she was, Oliver decided, peering down into her upturned face. “Once this case I’m working on is wrapped up, I may just take you up on that.”
He pushed to his feet. “Is there a back way out of here, where I can avoid contacting the damn bubonic plague?”
Some of the tension left Angie’s face. “Come on. I’ll take you out the back. And bubonic was the best you could come up with?”
“On such short notice, yes.”
A full-blown chuckle burst from her.
The sound was infectious, and Oliver found himself laughing as well.
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning, Oliver dressed in a tan-colored suit, and of course, a pair of Italian loafers.
He poured his first cup of coffee, ate a bagel, and watched some news for a few minutes before heading back to Alabama.
His cell phone buzzed from the kitchen counter.
“Quick,” Oliver answered, recognizing Nancy’s number.
“Hey, Oliver. I got something for you.”
“I’m listening.”
“I found something in the archives. A woman named Florence Bedford was drowned and dismembered by her husband, Carl Bedford, nearly thirty years ago. They lived in Elberta, Alabama. The couple had an eight-year-old boy named Wendel. Oh, and get this. Mrs. Bedford was pregnant at the time of her death, only the baby wasn’t Carl’s. I’m assuming that was his motive for killing her.”
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