by Elle Gray
“Let’s assume for a moment they don’t,” she says. “Let’s just take them off the board for now and forget about them. Let’s focus on the omnivore.”
I stand up and start to pace the room, needing to get my body moving to activate my brain. If we want to catch the omnivore, I’m going to need a working profile. The problem is, the omnivore is multiple. And how do you profile a group of people?
“Back to basics,” I mutter to myself. “Let’s get back to basics.”
Pausing to look at the white board for a moment, I read the list of names again, committing them to memory. I know it’s only a partial list, and I dread knowing just how many will be on it by the time we’re done. Fifteen years, at least, is a long time to kill, and the pile of bodies he, or they, have racked up has got to be prodigious. It’s a heavy weight on my shoulders.
“So, we know the unsub has a proficiency with crime scene. He uses forensic countermeasures,” I say. “We also believe he’s a mission-based killer. He thinks he’s righting some wrong. In this case, he believes he’s picking up the slack of the court system. Handing out the sentences he feels they deserve for their crimes.”
Astra snorts. “Execution seems a little extreme for shoplifting.”
“You think?” I reply with a grin. “But to this unsub, it’s perfectly reasonable. He’s handing out justice. He’s fervent in this belief.”
“And what do we know about mission-based killers?” Astra asks.
“That they won’t stop. That they have to be stopped.”
“Right. And they will usually go down in a blaze of glory, preaching the righteousness of their cause with their dying breath.”
“Which means, this will probably get worse before it gets better.”
“Exactly,” she says.
“That’s not the worst of it.”
“No?”
I shake my head. “Now take that profile and apply it to a group,” I tell her. “What do you get when you have a group of mission-based killers who fervently believe in their brand of justice. They’re in lockstep all the way and are willing to die for their beliefs. What do you have?”
Astra’s eyes widen slightly as she considers my words. “A cult.”
Twenty-Eight
St. Bernard’s Midnight Mission & Food Bank; Briar Glen, WA
I sit in Sister Catherine’s office in the St. Bernard’s dormitory, which is located behind the combined chow hall and church. The dorm is actually another, smaller warehouse, connected to the chapel/chow hall by a short hallway built out of plywood and sheetrock with a slab of paint slapped on. But hey, it’s functional.
The dorm is lined with bunk beds, all in militarily precise rows. Or, in the sort of precise rows one might see in prison. It’s a thought that makes me shudder. Sister Catherine’s office sits in the corner of the dormitory and is built in the same fashion as the hallway that connects the two buildings.
To say it’s austere would be an understatement. She’s not one for adding personal flourishes to her workspace. But then, in a dorm full of people who might very well walk off with your things, I might not be either. Perhaps she doesn’t want to tempt these people to ignore their better angels.
I’m sitting in the chair behind her desk, a large battle-scarred affair that’s definitely seen better days. There’s a single chair on the other side of the desk, and to my right is a bookcase filled with mostly religious texts. Though on one shelf, I see the Big Book that belongs to AA, and the texts for various other Anonymous help groups. I guess groups like AA and NA would be big in a setting like this. Makes sense.
As I sit waiting, I think about everything Astra and I went over last night. The idea that there is a cult running around Briar Glen, a cult that counts some of the city’s leaders as members, is a frightening thought. But the fact that they have possibly running rampant and killing with impunity for the last fifteen years is downright enraging.
It’s still a theory, of course. I have no proof to back it up just yet, but I’m hoping to rectify that situation. I’m going to need to have a very frank and uncomfortable conversation with Sheriff Morris when I’m done here with William Turner. I need to figure out whether he’s part of this cult or not. And if he’s not, I’m going to need his help in figuring out how to flush them out.
As if my thinking about him summoned him, the door to Sister Cat’s office opens up and a tall, African American man steps in. He’s built a lot like Sheriff Morris, though he’s a bit softer around the middle. He’s got a wild, unkempt beard shot through with gray, and dark eyes that smolder with intensity. I get to my feet and walk to him, extending my hand.
“Sergeant Turner,” I greet him.
He backs up and puts his hands up, trying to keep as much physical distance between us as he can. I take the hint and move back to the chair I’d just abandoned and take a seat, laying my palms flat on the desk before me. He stands near the door, his eyes flitting rapidly around the office, seeming as if he’s deciding whether to stay or bolt out of here.
I can see the toll not just the war, but life on the street has taken on him. His face is etched with deep lines, and he looks ragged. Worn. Frayed around the edges. There’s a wildness about him I imagine has to come from having to be on guard and looking over your shoulder twenty-four-seven. His eyes are slightly jaundiced and there’s an air of unhealthiness about him.
“I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, Sergeant,” I say.
I use his rank one, as a sign of respect for his service, but two, to try and anchor him to reality. I need to keep him connected to who he actually is, rather than let him float away into his fantasies of being Coco Chanel. I wish I understood what his fascination with designers was, because it’s another tool I might have been able to use to establish a rapport with him.
Unfortunately, I myself am not a fashion plate, nor do I keep up with the latest trends. I wear what’s comfortable. That’s the most important quality to me. Second is that I wear what I think looks cute on me. It’s an admission I’m sure will result in my woman card being revoked permanently. So be it.
“Sergeant Turner,” I say again. “I’d like to speak with you. I just have a couple of questions for you. Will you have a seat?”
He looks at me as if just realizing I’m there and moves into the corner of the room, pressing his back into it. He watches me like I’m a snake, coiled and ready to strike at him, for a few long moments. I don’t make any moves, nor do I say anything else. I want him to come take a seat in his own time, when he feels comfortable. The last thing I want to do is scare him anymore than he already is.
Slowly, I see him start to shift. His eyes change and that look of a wild animal that’s cornered and ready to fight fades, and he seems to be coming back to himself. He straightens up and keeps his gaze on mine. He looks lucid and alert, and I have to wonder if Sister Cat gave him something to help keep him rooted to reality with his lunch and that it’s just now kicking in. If so, I’d like to know what she gave him.
“Who are you?” he asks, his voice a deep, booming bass.
“My name is Blake Wilder,” I tell him. “I’m with the FBI.”
“FBI? I haven’t done nothin’,” he starts, that wild look quickly returning to his eyes.
“I know you haven’t. And you’re not in trouble, Sergeant,” I assure him, trying to keep my voice soothing. “But you gave a statement to the police recently about the abduction of Tyler Salters. Do you remember that?”
He chuffs. “Of course I remember. You think I’m an idiot or somethin’?”
“That’s the furthest thought from my mind, actually.”
He watches me warily as he crosses the room and drops into the seat in front of me. Turner is a man who looks haunted. I bet he hasn’t had a night’s sleep free of the nightmares of his wartime experience in a very long time. It breaks my heart for him. Him and the countless thousands of others who’ve come back from the war… broken. And to a system that doesn’t supp
ort them well enough. It’s an injustice that infuriates me to no end.
“So what do you want to know? I told the cops everythin’ already and they laughed at me. Called me an idiot,” he says, his voice colored by bitterness.
“You’re not an idiot. They are－”
“Lady, I don’t mean no disrespect, but don’t patronize me,” he cuts me off. “Ask your questions ‘cause I got to go. Sister Cat’s bakin’ cookies and if I don’t get some warm ones, I’m gonna be pissed.”
“That’s fair,” I nod. “Okay then, I just want you to tell me, in your own words, what you saw the night Tyler Salters was taken.”
“Who else’s words would I use?” he scoffs. “Like I told the cops, I was sittin’ on a stoop. I remember that I scored some money panhandlin’ that day, so I got some McDonald’s for dinner,” he starts. “Anyway, I’m sittin’ there eatin’ and I see Tyler－I know him on account of we help each other out now and then, but he ain’t my friend or anything like that. We just do business together sometimes.”
I’m tempted to ask him what sort of business, but decide it’s not really relevant to anything, so I let it go.
“So yeah, I’m sittin’ there and I see him walkin’ toward this dude on the street. I can tell Tyler’s clockin’ the guy and is lookin’ to roll him, so I don’t say nothin’. Ain’t my business,” he goes on. “Anyways, I see this other dude come up behind him and grab him around the neck in a chokehold. He sticks somethin’ into Tyler’s neck and before you know it, my boy is out cold. A van rolls up and these two demons throw Tyler into it and take off. I wanted to say somethin’. Maybe do somethin’, but I ain’t afraid to admit I was scared of what would’ve happened if I did. I didn’t want to be injected with somethin’ and thrown into a van. And you know what?”
He looks at me, clearly expecting me to give the appropriate response, so I do. “What?” I ask.
“Turns out, I was right to be afraid and to not do nothin’,” he says. “Look what happened to Tyler.”
I nod. “You were definitely right to keep yourself safe, Sergeant,” I say. “Tell me something. In your statement to the police, you said something about angels and demons? What did you mean by that?”
He snorts and waves me off. “Man, those fools weren’t listenin’ to me. They think I’m crazy anyway, so they wasn’t listenin’,” he says. “What I told them was that I called the cats who threw Tyler into the van were demons. I called them demons. I wasn’t sayin’ demons did it.”
“All right, I can see that,” reply. “But what about the angels? Where did that come from?”
“The van, lady,” he tells me. “It had an angel logo on the side and back doors. And some writin’. It had some writin’ on it, but I couldn’t make it out.”
“An angel logo?”
He nods. “Yeah, the outline of some dude with wings and a halo,” he goes on. “He was holdin’ a sword or a staff or somethin’.”
The description immediately brings to mind the statues out in front of the mission. And the back end of the dark van I saw carrying Tracy Webster to her death. I make a note to check to see if the mission owns any dark vans, though I can’t make myself believe Sister Cat would be involved with this.
“Is that it? Anything else?” he asks me impatiently. “I smell the cookies.”
He’s right. As I inhale, I catch the distinct scent of chocolate chip cookies in the air. It makes me smile.
“Just one more question, Sergeant,” I say. “I’d like to get you some help. Would you be willing to go to the VA in Seattle－”
He shakes his head. “Nah. I ain’t goin’ to the VA. They don’t do nothin’ anyway. They don’t want to help people like me. They don’t care.”
“Sergeant－”
“I said no,” he snaps. “Now, beggin’ your pardon, I got to get into the kitchen or I’m gonna miss out. And you don’t want me to miss out. Trust that.”
He gets up and leaves me sitting behind Sister Cat’s desk, going through everything he just told me, trying to make sense of it. He certainly was a lot more coherent than the initial report made him out to be. It sounds to me like they let their bias creep into their report. So unprofessional.
And yeah, he might be a little off, but clearly, when he’s on medication, he’s not crazy and can function like a normal human being. I just need to find a way to get and keep him on some medication. That’s the trick. And it’s made all the more difficult by the fact that he doesn’t want to comply. It’s his right of course, I just hate to see somebody who sacrificed so much for this country get left behind and tossed away.
I sigh and get to my feet, walking out of the office. There are a few people scattered about the dorm, huddled together, talking quietly. And when I walk by, all conversation ceases and they follow me with their eyes, watching me suspiciously. I take a tour of the grounds around the mission, looking for dark vans, but come up empty.
“Did you get everything you need, dear?”
Sister Cat startles me, and I have to physically restrain myself from jumping. I turn around and look at her, a rueful smile on my face.
“I think we need to get you a bell to wear alongside your Crucifix,” I say. “You’re silent as a cat.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s fine. I’m only kidding,” I say. “And yeah, I got most everything. I do just have one question though. Does the mission own any vans?”
She nods. “We have four. But only one of them is working,” she tells me. “We use them for our Meals on Wheels program. We take food to seniors and those incapable of leaving their home.”
“That’s very charitable.”
“The Lord smiles upon those who are,” she says. “But what made you ask about the vans?
“Oh, just something Sergeant Turner said to me,” I say, and then change the conversation, not wanting to answer any more questions. “He’s a remarkable man. Sergeant Turner. I wish he’d go to the VA and get some help.”
“I do too,” she says. “It breaks my heart to see him this way.”
“Mine too, Sister. Mine too.”
I want to get a look at those vans, but I don’t want to alert her－or anybody else. Which means, I’m either going to need to come back at night or find some other means of viewing them. I’ll figure it out.
“Thank you for everything, Sister,” I say. “I really appreciate it.”
‘You’re very welcome. I hope you learned something you needed to learn that will help you in your investigation.”
“I do believe I did,” I reply. “You have yourself a good day, Sister Cat.”
Twenty-Nine
Pacific Crest Motor Court; Briar Glen, WA
I pull into the parking lot and stop just outside the bungalow, quickly cutting the motor, and jump out of the car, then hustle to the room. I was on my way to have my showdown with Sheriff Morris when I got a frantic call from Astra, saying she had some big news that couldn’t wait. So I turned around and beelined for the hotel. My conversation with the Sheriff can wait a little bit.
I burst into the room and find Astra glued to her laptop. The room looks like a tornado ripped through, scattering boxes and paperwork everywhere. I see she’s taken the framed picture that had been hanging on one wall and has started taping pages and pictures to it instead. She’s definitely hot for something right now, and I’m suddenly curious what it is.
I close the door and she gives a start, as if she’d been so engrossed in what she was doing that she didn’t realize I’d walked in. I know how that is. I get like that sometimes. She looks up at me in a daze and gives herself a little shake.
“You all right?” I ask.
She nods. “Fine. Just immersed in some of Briar Glen’s sordid history,” she replies. “It’s fascinating reading.”
“Have you been out of the room at all today?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. Been squirreled away in here like your dirty little secret all day.”<
br />
I laugh. “Come on then. Clean up and let’s go get you some food. I don’t want you telling Rosie I starved you or she might not let you tag along next time.”
“Tag along?” she sputters. “Please, I’m adding culture and style to your investigation by being here. I am definitely the Watson to your Sherlock.”
“That analogy doesn’t work, since most people think Watson was the real brains behind that duo, and we know that’s not true in this case.”
She laughs as she gets up and stretches, then starts to get ready. I do what I can to clean up the aftermath of Hurricane Astra as she does, stacking files and papers into neat piles, and getting everything off the floor. She gets ready quickly, and ten minutes later, we’re on the road. Ten minutes after that, we’re pulling into the Sunnyside Up Diner. I look over at her skeptically as I cut the engine.
“What? I like having breakfast for dinner sometimes,” she chirps. “And look at it this way… this place probably doesn’t serve booze so there’s no chance of me getting tanked.”
“Doesn’t mean you’ll be any more pleasant to wake up in the morning.”
“That is true. But that is your cross to bear, my friend.”
We laugh as we walk into the diner and take a booth near the window. The diner isn’t anything exceptional to look at, but Astra assures me they have very high Yelp ratings. For whatever that’s worth. It looks like every other breakfast diner in Anytown, USA. Lots of white and black tile, and chrome fixtures. It’s bright and cheery, which is the exact opposite of most people, including my friend, first thing in the morning. But I will say that the aroma in here is heavenly.
A girl who can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen with midnight black hair and the perfect, smooth complexion, and naturally firm, curvy body that only comes with youth, bounds over to our table. She’s got a wide smile on her face that makes her sapphire-colored eyes sparkle. She’s wearing a red and white vertically striped uniform dress that falls halfway to her knees, white athletic shoes, and a white apron around her waist.