The Stranger You Know

by Andrea Kane

  “She takes the PATH train.”

  “She took it,” Claire said as fact. “She arrived at Hoboken. After that...” She swallowed, then fell silent. A flicker of awareness dawned in her eyes. “Affluence and poverty.” The words seemed to come on their own. “Expensive condos. Low-income housing. One on one side. One on the other.” A confused shake of her head. “And Andrew Jackson.” She turned her palms up in non-comprehension. “A twenty-dollar bill? That doesn’t feel right.”

  “Jackson Street,” Patrick said. “Hoboken’s west-east blocks are named after U.S. presidents, sequentially from Washington Street. The projects and the condos you’re describing are on Jackson Street—all the way over on the west side of town.”

  That resounded in Claire’s mind and she gave a painful nod. “Have the police check there. They’ll find the body.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The waiting game was under way. And the collective patience of the FI team was fraying.

  They brewed multiple pots of coffee, read over their research until the words were swimming in front of them and paced the conference room with growing frustration.

  It was Marc who finally broke the stalemate.

  “We need some separation from this,” he said, putting down his coffee mug. “Obviously, no calls are coming in anytime soon. In the meantime, we’re banging our heads against the wall going over the same old information. Let’s take a few hours and chill out. Hutch is here, so I’m going to the gym. I suggest you all follow suit. Do something to take it down a notch. Sleep if you can. Or whatever works. Keep your cell phones on. Stay close by.”

  “Good idea.” Patrick rose from his chair. “I’ll head home to Adele and maybe catch a few hours of rest.”

  “I’ll stay here,” Claire murmured, massaging her temples. “I’ll be doing yoga in the third-floor office where I store my mats. With any luck, it’ll calm me down.”

  “I’ll join you at the gym,” Ryan told Marc. “I really need to work off some of this stress. Waiting makes me crazy.”

  “Fine. Let’s get going.” Marc headed for the door.

  Casey didn’t budge from the conference table. Her stare was fixed on the telephone.

  “And you get some rest.” Hutch came up behind her and planted his hands on her shoulders. “You don’t think you need it. But you do.” He pivoted her chair around and pulled her to her feet. “You need to conserve your strength. It’s going to be taxed to the nth degree until this case is solved.”

  “Okay.” Casey nodded, forcing herself to see the wisdom of Hutch’s words. She glanced around the room at each member of her team. “But whichever one of us gets news first, call the others ASAP.”

  “Agreed,” Ryan said, speaking for the group. “And, Yoda?” he called out. “Remain on active standby.”

  “Active standby initiated,” Yoda responded.

  * * *

  It was an hour later, and Casey’s bedroom was dark and quiet—other than the thrum of Manhattan traffic from outside and the snorts Hero made in his sleep.

  Hutch had been right. Casey was past the point of exhaustion. And she’d tried to rest, but without any success. Worn out or not, she’d been too wired.

  Hutch had known just what to do about that.

  Now, she blew out a breath—along with a wave of tension. “Have I mentioned that I’m glad you’re here?” she murmured, draping her leg across his and resting her head on his chest.

  “Not in so many words. But in actions? Yeah, I kind of picked up on the fact that you were happy to see me.” Hutch ran his fingers through Casey’s tangled mane of hair. “And, in case you didn’t notice, I feel the same way.”

  “I noticed.” Her lips curved a bit. “I still can’t sleep. But staying awake did become infinitely more pleasurable. Your efforts are greatly appreciated, SSA Hutchinson.”

  “Glad to be of service. Diversionary tactics are one of my strong suits.”

  “You have many strong suits. Getting my mind off things I can’t control doesn’t even rank close to the top of that list.” She raised herself up and kissed him. “Thank you for moving the mountains I’m sure you had to move in order to get here.”

  “This is where I need to be,” he said simply. “I’ll use whatever personal time I’ve accrued so I can stay until this threat to you is over. If that becomes necessary.”

  Casey’s brows drew together. The only way it wouldn’t be necessary for Hutch to use his vacation time would be if he was here in an official capacity. And she didn’t see that in the cards.

  “I doubt the NYPD is going to ask for the BAU’s assistance on this one,” she said. “Even if this does turn out to be one long-time offender—which I believe it will—the New York cops have the training and resources to conduct the investigation alone.”

  “You’re right,” Hutch said. “That’s why I’m going at this from a different angle.”

  “Which is?”

  “I spoke to Patrick. If things play out the way I think they will, he’s going to put the bug in the Hoboken P.D.’s ear. We’ll have a serial killer who’s been active for fifteen years, and who chose a Hoboken resident as his latest victim. Not only that, but he disposed of her body in town. They’ll have every reason to ask for help. Especially when there’s an FBI agent who works at the BAU already in place—an agent who’s ready, willing and able to assist with the investigation.”

  “You’re not exactly objective on this one,” Casey pointed out.

  “No, I’m not. Which gives me extra incentive to solve it. You and I have done this dance before. I don’t step over the line.”

  Casey glanced at him dubiously. “I doubt your supervisor’s going to buy that, not this time. Every clash we’ve had in the past has been case-related. I’ve never been a potential victim before.”

  “Why don’t you let me worry about handling my boss?” Hutch rolled Casey onto her back, that familiar smoky look in his eyes. “Are you planning on sleeping or not?”

  “Not.”

  He shifted his weight, covering her body with his. “Then let’s put this time to good use.”

  * * *

  It was almost dawn when the Hoboken P.D. called Patrick on his cell phone to report that they’d found Maura Harris’s body in a grassy area behind a string of buildings on Jackson Street between 5th and 6th. Her boyfriend had come in and made a positive ID, and the medical examiner had done a preliminary autopsy.

  The description of the body they provided was practically identical to that of Kendra Mallery’s. Maura Harris had been wrapped in a canvas tarp, beneath which her nude body was as limp as a rag doll. Her clothing had been shredded. There was physical evidence of rape—no semen, but severe vaginal bruising. Her wrists had been bound together. The cause of death was strangulation, and the hyoid bone in her neck was fractured. She must have put up a fight, because there was a shallow stab wound on the right side of her abdomen. Contrary to that destruction, lipstick had been applied to her lips as if to enhance her appearance. But locks of her hair had been snipped off, and there was a red ribbon tied around her throat in a bow.

  The one addition to the scenario was that tucked beneath the red ribbon was another clump of hair. It didn’t match the exact color and texture of Maura’s.

  “Tell your contact at the Hoboken P.D. to work with the Twenty-sixth Precinct and get the NYPD lab to run a DNA test,” Hutch instructed Patrick as the team reconvened—yet again—around the conference room table. “I’d be willing to bet that the hair tucked into the red bow belongs to Kendra Mallery. The killer is putting his mark on the crimes, driving home the connection between the two and taunting us with his superiority at the same time.”

  “Yeah, I agree,” Patrick said, making the phone call.

  Casey leaned her head back and dragged a hand through her hair. “Kendra. Now Maura. It’s my fault that they’re dead.”

  “Cut it out, Casey.” Ryan sliced the air with the side of his hand. “This guy is insane. His action
s are his doing, not yours.”

  “Yes, but he’s after me. He just has some sick need to prove something before he closes in on me. Why? Who the hell is he?”

  As if on cue, the Forensic Instincts’ landline rang.

  Seeing the NYPD number on caller ID, Casey pressed the speaker phone button. “Forensic Instincts.”

  “Ms. Woods? This is Captain Sharp,” the caller said.

  “Hello, Captain. I have you on speaker. The whole team is here.” She drew a deep breath. “What do you have for us?”

  “A hell of a puzzle,” he replied in a grim tone. “Word got through to me at the same time as it did to the First Precinct.” That was the police precinct right there in Tribeca, where the body, presumably Jan’s, had been found.

  “And?”

  “And, given the circumstances and the fact that all roads lead to my district, this case is now officially under my jurisdiction. However, between what I’m about to tell you and the call I got from the Hoboken P.D., my next phone call will be to the FBI. They need to be involved. This is way bigger and more complicated than anything I expected.”

  “Please explain.” Casey was starting to get that ominous knot in her stomach. “Was the body Jan Olson?”

  “Yes. Dental records confirmed that. The victim’s father has been notified.” There was a long, pensive pause. “But there’s more. The police lab was able to apply heat to the brass locket. It’s a complicated process—some chemical reaction I don’t understand—but the result was that they were able to lift prints from it. They enhanced the prints by applying an electrostatic charge and dusted with a black fingerprint powder. The results were good enough to run through NCIC.” He was referring to the National Crime Information Center, where all criminal offender data was electronically stored.

  “Does that mean you found a match?” Marc asked, leaning forward with intense interest.

  “Yes. The prints belong to a felon you’ve recently aided the NYPD in arresting. Glen Fisher.”

  “Glen Fisher?” Claire literally jumped up in her seat.

  “Shit,” Ryan muttered. “I don’t believe this.”

  Casey said nothing. Her thoughts were racing too quickly to speak. She could still vividly remember that night last year when the FI team—who’d been approached at the final hour to assist the NYPD—had set up and apprehended Glen Fisher. His M.O. had been to rape and strangle redheaded college girls. Casey had posed as the ideal victim—a shy, vulnerable college kid hanging out alone at the bar near Tompkins Square Park where Fisher found his marks. She’d made sure she was the last patron to leave the bar, and walked right by the alley where Fisher was lying in wait.

  The setup had paid off. Fisher had grabbed Casey at knifepoint, dragged her into the alley and was yanking off her jeans when Marc exploded into the alley and slammed Fisher against the concrete wall, nearly breaking his neck until he exacted a confession.

  The bastard had given up the locations of more than half a dozen bodies to the cops, and had been tried and sentenced to thirty-to-life. The FI team had pushed for life without parole, but Fisher’s lawyer had played it well. He’d stressed the coercion Marc had used to get the confession, and the fact that the body locations Fisher had provided were pure hearsay and could have been information he’d blurted out under duress after having overheard them anywhere.

  The jury didn’t buy his innocence for a minute. The guilty verdict had come in fast and furious. But the judge didn’t feel he had enough to render life without parole. So Fisher had gotten thirty to life and was sent to Auburn State—a maximum security prison.

  Of course, he’d been a model prisoner there, the only noise he made being the appeals he continually filed on his own behalf.

  Casey refused to entertain the possibility of his getting released—ever. She’d looked into those terrifying, empty eyes. She recognized a psychopath when she saw one. And she shuddered at the thought of him ever being allowed to walk freely in the outside world again.

  “That means Fisher was committing his crimes long before last year’s killing spree,” Marc was saying. “We knew he was a sexual homicide offender. We knew he targeted college-age redheads. But we had no idea he was doing this over such a long interval.”

  “Exactly,” Captain Sharp responded. “But he was. How many other victims he killed between then and when he was apprehended last year, I have no idea. That’s what we have to determine.”

  That statement made Casey speak up. “I want to reexamine the Holly Stevens case,” she stated. “Dig out whatever DNA evidence is stored in the evidence locker and have it tested. I’m willing to bet Glen Fisher killed her, too.” A weighty pause. “And, Captain, with all due respect, please don’t tell me there’s no reason to believe Holly’s was anything but an isolated crime. That reasoning doesn’t fly—not anymore.”

  “I agree,” he surprised her by saying. “I’ll make sure the lab runs the necessary tests.”

  “Thank you.” It was time to move on to the next, equally pressing issue. “One major aspect of this crime spree doesn’t fit,” Casey said. “The threatening calls I’m getting. The current crimes that are taking place, all of which my caller’s taking credit for—how can those be committed by Fisher? He’s in prison.”

  “That’s the puzzle I was referring to. Obviously, they can’t be. I called the prison myself and verified that Fisher is still there serving his sentence. Moreover, he has limited access to phone calls and every call he makes is on record.”

  “None of his calls was to me,” Casey surmised.

  “Right. So whoever’s calling you and whoever killed the recent two victims isn’t Glen Fisher—whether or not Fisher wants to take credit for them.”

  “The present-day killer probably knows Fisher,” Marc said. “Maybe the two of them served time together. Or a dozen other maybes. But the current offender got his information from Fisher somehow.”

  “And he’s likely carrying out a vendetta of Fisher’s against Casey, whether by choice or via instructions from Fisher.” For the first time, Hutch spoke. “He’s also adding his own personal touch—the red ribbons wrapped around the victims’ throats. Captain Sharp, this is Supervisory Special Agent Kyle Hutchinson. I’m with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’ve worked cases alongside Forensic Instincts in the past. Once you’ve called and made your formal request to the Bureau, I’m going to ask to be assigned to this case.”

  “That would be very much appreciated.” Sharp sounded more than a little relieved. “Is it a coincidence that you’re in New York? Or did you come up here to consult with Forensic Instincts on this case?”

  “I actually drove up for a visit,” Hutch replied easily. “But since I happened to walk right into this hornet’s nest, I’m up-to-date on the details. My supervisor will send up another BAU agent to partner with me.”

  “Good. And I’ll contact the Bureau’s New York field office to get the Violent Crimes Squad involved.” Sharp paused. “I don’t have a good feeling about this new offender. His crimes are becoming more frequent and closer together.”

  “And, despite what Hollywood tells us, we all know there’s no such thing as a copycat killer,” Hutch said. “There are only new killers who capitalize on their predecessors’ crimes, for various reasons. This guy is going for bigger and better than Glen Fisher’s kills. And he’s not choosing random victims. He’s circling around Casey. She was the redhead who brought Fisher down. That means something—not only to Fisher, but to the new offender. He’s not being subtle about her representing some sort of grand prize for him.”

  “I realize that.” Casey had grown quiet again. She was thinking. “Captain Sharp, please, let’s get Holly’s personal items tested for a DNA match. You go ahead and make your FBI calls. Also, let’s combine everything we have on Glen Fisher—his job, family, friends, anything. Maybe we can find someone in his life, however tangential, who’s as warped as he is.”

  “One other thing,” Claire inserted quietly.
“I’d like to visit Daniel Olson, if you don’t mind, Captain. He’s been totally invested in finding his daughter’s body. Now he’s dealing with the finality of her death and the discovery of her killer. I know your precinct has reached out to him. But I feel that FI should do the same.”

  “By all means,” Sharp agreed at once. “Forensic Instincts was instrumental in solving this case. I feel terribly sorry for Daniel. He’s weak and frail, and he doesn’t have much time left. He got what he wanted, but at what cost? I’m sure a condolence visit would be very much appreciated.”

  “We’ll make that happen today.” Claire’s eyes were damp, her sensitive heart breaking for the dying man who was dealing with every parent’s worst nightmare.

  “I’ll be in touch as soon as I have information and/or things in place,” Sharp said.

  Casey took charge the minute the phone call was disconnected.

  “We’ve got two separate cases, linked by one killer, as far as I’m concerned,” she told her team. “With regard to Fisher himself, we’re going to learn every shred of information there is to learn about the bastard. That will help us figure out who’s following in his footsteps. In the meantime, I want to contact the D.A.’s office. If it turns out that Fisher killed Holly—and you know he did—we’ll have two old murders we can solidly link to him. I want him to be tried for them, for their families’ sakes, and to ensure that Fisher gets back-to-back sentences that will keep him from ever seeing the light of day.”

  “Agreed.” Marc turned to Ryan. “With regard to the current case, we still have video footage to review from Kendra’s vigil. Maybe we can spot someone suspicious on the scene. Hutch can use his trained eye to dissect it with us. By that time, we’ll have word from the Hoboken P.D. on whether or not the clump of hair under Maura’s ribbon belonged to Kendra.”

  His brows drew together thoughtfully. “We need to reexamine the list of potential victims. Kendra was found in Dumbo. That’s near Ryan’s place. Maura’s body was in Hoboken. That’s Patrick neck of the woods. If our theory is right, that leaves the East Village, where Claire lives, and Bensonhurst, where I live. We have to cross-match any of the women on Casey’s list who has a residential or working tie to either of these two locations.”