by Elle Gray
Brody chuckles. “Guess I should have spent a little time reading those old books.”
“I think you’d do well to spend any time reading a book,” I say with a grin, then turn to Marcy. “The comparison isn’t perfect, obviously. So let’s just say he’s drawing his inspiration from the book. The quote is significant to him, so I’m comfortable saying he sees himself in that role to a degree.”
“The split man. Torn between good and evil. Or at least, comfortable acknowledging he is both good and evil,” she muses. “Okay, I can get behind that. That’s fair.”
“So what about the second quote?” Brody asks.
“I kind of think that quote relates to his perceived mission. His purpose. In both of the letters, he wrote about his ‘lessons’, and being the teacher,” Marcy explains. “Liars. Deceivers. Manipulators. I think it’s safe to say he thinks the women he’s murdered have somehow done him wrong.”
“Yeah okay, that tracks,” Brody says.
“I’ve done stories before on the horrible stuff lurking in the dark corners of the internet. Sad to say, this guy isn’t unique. There are whole communities out there, of thousands of men who spew the same hateful garbage this guy does. How women are all whores who have wronged them and how women should be put in their place as the inferior sex.”
“Jesus,” I mutter. “You think he spends time on those sites?”
“You know, I’m not sure,” Marcy says. “In my experience, those guys couldn’t quote anything more complex than the latest Xbox game. Certainly not modern poetry or classic literature. Most of them are in their early twenties and spend their time on extremist sites. This rhetoric is slightly different. I don’t think he’s your typical angry incel type. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s older.”
“What makes you say that?” I ask. It turns out Marcy is a much broader fount of resources than I’d ever considered.
“His tactics are different. Most incel types will go for a single mass shooting or van attack as this final show of incoherent rage against the world that wronged them. But your guy here isn’t that. He’s not operating out of pure animal Mr. Hyde rage; he’s controlled. He has a specific message to send and wants to do that. He wants to inflict fear on others, not just lash out in his own pain.”
I blink and look over at Brody. His mouth is practically agape. I give him a nod, and he scrambles to add notes to the file based on her observations.
“Anyway, what do we know about the victims?” she asks.
I punch a couple of keys on my laptop, and the screen switches to the DMV photos of all five victims. Even though I’ve seen the photo of Stella a hundred times by now, seeing her face among the dead still sends a lance of pain through me. Brody looks down at the top of the table. I clear my throat and put my grief to the side, reminding myself there will be time to mourn later.
“And I think we can go further in assuming whoever it was who did him wrong, to begin with, was young, white, brunette, and had brown eyes,” I say.
Although she’s been working on his case for a while already, it looks like this is the first time Marcy’s seen all five photos stacked up against one another. Her eyes widen as she takes in the physical similarities.
“This animal certainly has a type,” Marcy says softly.
“He’s highly organized. Meticulous,” I say. “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’s stalked his victims.”
“But he jumps them out in the open? In a public place like that?” Marcy wonders aloud.
“He’s also a performer. He wants to display his victims. Degrade them,” I explain. “He wants the world to see what he’s done. He strips them naked to shame and humiliate them.”
“Is there any evidence of sexual assault?” she asks.
I shake my head. “None. This isn’t about sexual gratification for him,” I say. “This is about punishment.”
“So he’s preaching. Sending that message,” Marcy says. “And he wants to use my newspaper to spread his sermons.”
“That’d be my guess,” Brody says. “If the mainstream media won’t pay attention to him, he’ll use non-traditional means.”
“And because the mainstream media doesn’t know there’s a serial killer running loose, they’re not going to cover him,” she says. “Which is only winding him up even more.”
“I’ve been wondering something, though,” Brody starts. “Why doesn’t he just call a local news station? Tell them he’s murdering women in the city?”
“Because unless the news stations can get independent verification, they’ll write him off as a crank,” I tell him. “And we all know SPD is keeping a tight lid on this.”
“So he either tried that already,” Marcy muses, “or he’s smart enough to have figured it out on his own. Hence, he drops me a line.”
I nod. “But there’s one thing he probably didn’t plan for.”
“What’s that?” she asks.
“You contacting me,” I tell her. “I don’t know how we can use that yet, but I think that can be a good wild card.”
“So long as you can keep this little alliance a secret,” Brody says. “If he finds out we’re all playing together, that might set him off.”
I nod. “You’re not wrong. But unless he’s watching us, I think we’re fairly safe,” I say. “And since he thinks we’re all just pawns in his game, I don’t see him keeping eyes on us. It’ll take away from his hunting time.”
“Do we think he’s out on the hunt now?” he asks.
“I don’t think we can afford not to.”
Brody nods. “In that case, I think we need some food. Sounds like it’s going to be a long night.”
“I have a feeling we’re going to have a lot of long nights,” I sigh.
“Cool. I’m going to go grab some food then,” he says. “I want to get out and stretch my legs a bit.”
“Works for me,” I say.
“I’ll go with you,” Marcy says, getting to her feet.
“Excellent.” Brody smiles at her.
Together, they walk out of the Fishbowl, trying to turn the conversation into something more pleasant as they climb onto the elevator. I turn back to the screen and pull up the crime scene photos again. I look at them side by side for perhaps the thousandth time. It’s not that I don’t have these images indelibly etched into my mind already, I like coming back to them with fresh eyes to see if I’ve overlooked anything.
I’m always thorough, so the likelihood that I missed something is low, but it’s all part of my due diligence. My process. I feel like the profile is coming together pretty well, and I think I’ve got a pretty good bead on what kind of guy this is. And once I nail it down, the hope is that it will lead me to a suspect pool. It’s still like finding a needle in a haystack, but at least a solid profile can reduce the size of the haystack.
I stand with my arms folded over my chest again, my chin in my hand, staring at the screen, taking in every single detail I can.
“He’s a performer,” comes a familiar voice from behind me. “A showman.”
I turn around and give her a wide smile. “He’s an animal.”
“That too.”
I come around the table and pull Blake Wilder into a tight embrace. I step back but take her hands and give them a squeeze, unable to keep the smile off my face.
“Special Agent Wilder,” I grin. “What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”
She shrugs. “Slumming.”
“Clearly,” I reply. “Seriously, what are you doing here? They finally get wise and kick you out of New York?”
“They’re working on it,” she tells me. “Some of the higher-ups don’t like being reminded they’re not the smartest ones in the room. You know how insecure men are.”
I laugh and usher her into the Fishbowl, offering her a seat, then sit down next to her. We’ve exchanged texts and emails, but it’s been months since I’ve seen Blake live and in the flesh. She and I have been great friends for years. She was the
re right after Veronica died and helped me through the worst of it. She’s also taught me a lot about running investigations and how to profile, probably far more than what I’ve learned reading what I have on the subject.
She’s one of the most intelligent people I know. She’s tough as nails, doesn’t take crap from anybody, and doesn’t suffer fools lightly. She was instrumental in helping take Alvin Perry down. I couldn’t have done it without her. Her role in that gave her career a nice boost. She went from a field office drone to heading up a team focused on serial killers based in New York. It’s a job that’s taken her all around the country, but she hasn’t been back to Seattle since she got her promotion.
“So what are you doing here, Blake?”
“Vacation,” she offers. “We nailed a perp who’d murdered six in Virginia last week, so my bosses told me to take some time off to recharge my batteries.”
“Never a bad idea to take some time,” I tell her. “You don’t want to burn out.”
“Says the guy who hasn’t taken time off in… oh, pretty much since I’ve known you.”
I laugh softly. “Yeah well, I don’t do time off well. You know the last thing I need is idle time.”
She flashes me a mischievous smirk. “Yeah, that’s true,” she replies. “How are you doing? And don’t BS me.”
“I’m doing all right,” I tell her. “Keeping busy.”
“Keeping busy isn’t the same thing as doing fine.”
A rueful grin touches my lips. “I’m doing the best I can.”
She sighs and sits back in her seat. “You know I love you, yeah?”
“You usually only lead with that when you’re about to tell me something I’m not going to like.”
“Yeah, but it’s usually something you need to hear.”
I laugh softly. “Usually.”
She leans forward and takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Blake looks me in the eye, her expression stony. Serious.
“You’re stuck. You’re living in the past, Pax,” she says. “I loved Veronica too, and I’m sure she wouldn’t want you living this way. She’d want you to be happy.”
“To be honest, I don’t even know what that looks like anymore.”
“Maybe it’s time you try to find out,” she urges. “You were happy once. I mean, you were still kind of an arrogant jerk, but you were at least happier and more tolerable.”
I smile, but it fades quickly. She’s right. I was happy, once upon a time. And I know she’s right. I know Veronica would not want me living like this. Stuck. She wouldn’t want me living my life mourning for her. She’d want me to move on. To be happy. And I know the only roadblock to doing that is, to finding happiness again… is me.
“I just don’t think I can move on until I solve Veronica’s case,” I tell her. “Or at least, until I get to a point where I feel I’ve taken it as far as I can.”
“It’s been what, almost three years now?” she replies gently. “When do you think you’ll get to that point?”
A frown pulls the corners of my mouth down, and I look away from her for a moment. The last thing I wanted to do today was open up my own emotional baggage. I know Blake is trying to help me. She’s always trying to help me push past my barriers and learn to live again. And I appreciate that about her. But this isn’t the time for me to delve into my own garbage. I have a case to stay focused on, and right now, that takes precedence over everything else going on in my head.
Blake’s always been able to read me better than almost anybody, and as if she senses me starting to shut down, she holds her hands up in surrender.
“I’ll back off,” she says, then gives me a wink. “For now. This is a conversation we’re going to pick up later, though.”
I give her a grateful nod. “There’s nobody I’d rather have that conversation with.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” she replies, then motions to the gruesome photos on the monitor. “Want to tell me about that? Doesn’t seem like your usual cheating hubby kind of gig.”
“Oh, no,” I tell her. “You’re on vacation. That means no work for you. I will take you to dinner, though.”
She laughs. “I’m as good at vacations as you are, and you know it. So fill me in on what’s going on,” she orders me with a smile. “But, I will let you fill me in over that dinner.”
Twenty-Five
The Butchery Chop House; Downtown Seattle
“Fancy, fancy,” Blake says. “I’ve always wanted to try this place but could never afford it on a poor civil servant’s salary.”
I nudge her with my elbow. “You’re so full of crap.”
She grins at me. “Sometimes,” she chirps. “I’m serious though. I’ve always wanted to try this place.”
“Why didn’t you?”
She shrugs. “I’m like you. Work dominates my life, so I don’t have much of a social life,” she says. “Plus, it’s pricier than hell. I was only half-kidding about not being able to afford it. So I think the better question is, why haven’t you brought me here before?”
“Because I’ve seen you eat, and there are limits to even my family’s fortune,” I jab.
Blake laughs and punches me in the arm. “Don’t push it, Pax.”
The hostess approaches us with a soft smile on her face. “It’s going to be about twenty minutes or so before your table is ready,” she says. “But please, feel free to have a drink in the lounge, and we’ll come get you when it is.”
“Sounds good.” I give her a nod.
I lead Blake into the lounge, and we take a seat at the end of a bar of cherry wood that’s been polished to a glossy sheen. The interior is done in rich reds along with the cherry wood and artifacts from when Seattle was a young town, giving it an old-time class and style that plays into the seventy-five-year history of The Butchery.
After we order our drinks, I excuse myself to go use the restroom. When I come back, I find a man who looks to be in his forties hovering around Blake. He’s probably about six feet tall. He’s thin as a rail, has brown eyes, pale skin, and thinning hair. He’s wearing a nicely cut suit, but it’s several years out of style, and a fake Rolex on his wrist that he’s trying— and failing— to flash subtly.
He couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d shone a big spotlight directly onto his arm. Poor guy. If there’s one thing that will never get Blake hot and bothered, it’s material wealth. Not that he’s actually wealthy. Rich guys don’t buy fake Rolexes, as the dozen I’ve got sitting in a drawer at home will attest to.
He’s obviously flirting with her. She looks bemused but disinterested. I can’t blame the guy for shooting his shot. About five-seven, with strawberry blonde hair that falls to the middle of her back, eyes the color of emeralds, and a tight, toned, athletic body, Blake is a gorgeous woman.
Brody has intimated more than a few times that she and I should get together. I won’t lie, there’s been a few times I’ve let the thought cross my mind. She and I have been through so much together, and there’s a certain chemistry between us. We share an intimacy I think transcends the normal bonds of friends and lovers. But I also think, aside from me not being able to let go of my dead wife, that intimacy is why Blake and I would never work. It sounds counterintuitive, I know.
But the bond we share means more to me than anything. There are so few people in this world who truly understand me, who get me— I can probably count them on one hand and have fingers left over— that I’m not willing to risk it. If we got together, things would inevitably change between us. How could they not? And personally, I’d rather have Blake in my life, as we are right now, for the next hundred years, than have her as a lover in a relationship that could flame out the day after we get together.
Yeah, it’s sort of fatalistic, I suppose. I don’t like taking a glass half empty approach to life. Maybe getting together would only deepen and enhance what we already have. But then, maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe it would stifle it.
Contrary to popular opinion, an
d what all those self-help books tell you, change is not always a good thing. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s that when you have something good and something special in your life, you do all you can to hang onto it. You never willingly let it go. And Blake is that good, special thing I have, and I’m unwilling to let it go.
“Tell you what,” says the man. “I guess what you do for a living; you let me buy you a drink.”
I take my seat next to Blake. The guy who’s been hovering over her looks startled and visibly pales. He swallows hard and gives me a shaky smile. Blake turns to me with a wide, mischievous grin on her face and takes my hand.
“Well here he is. You took so long, I was wondering if you were ever coming back,” she coos in a saccharine sweet voice. “Arthur here didn’t believe me when I said I was with somebody. He just insisted on buying me a drink. I tried to tell him you’d be right back, but he just wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
She pulls a glass from the table— something fruity, no doubt— and makes a big show of batting her eyelids as she daintily sips from the straw.
Blake playing the damsel in distress is one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen. I have to fight to keep from laughing. Ordinarily, she’d tell the guy off and, if necessary, knock the guy on his ass. And being very proficient in more than a couple of martial arts disciplines, Blake has the ability to do it. She’s capable in a fight. Perhaps even more so than I am. I’m not used to seeing her so… restrained.
“Listen, I don’t want any trouble,” Arthur stammers. “I didn’t know. I—”
I lean forward and put the most threatening, intimidating scowl on my face that I can. Arthur freezes to his spot.
“If you don’t want any trouble, maybe next time you should actually listen when a woman tells you to back off,” I growl. “And remember, the next woman you try to pressure might not be able to control her temper as well as FBI Special Agent Wilder here can, and maybe she kicks your nuts up into your throat.”