“Huh?” Jack’s face scrunched up. “What does all that mean?”
Glancing at the team, she wondered if any of them made the connection, then realized her fears were silly. Only Jack could know how it pertained to them, and he looked clueless.
“I find the poem haunting and romantic,” Vivian said. “Sad, too.”
“The killer is using the poem as a weapon,” Deming said. “Jacques Derrida penned, ‘The poet…is the man of metaphor…[who] plays on the multiplicity of signifieds.’”
“Cool.” Vivian’s smile couldn’t have been wider.
“Who the hell is Derrida?” Ferguson leaned against the edge of his desk, arms folded across his chest. “And what the hell is he talking about?”
“I’m sorry, Ferguson.” Deming contemplated her manicure. “I shouldn’t have expected a hammer to understand a nail.”
“Excuse me?” Ferguson narrowed his eyes.
Hannah stepped in, hoping to smooth the detective’s feathers. “He’s a dead French philosopher.”
Deming nodded, eyes now on Jack. “In other words, the killer has no qualms about twisting reality and defining it to his specifications.”
“Maybe he’s a profiler,” Ferguson mumbled.
Vivian snorted, and then covered her mouth. “Sorry, Special Agent Deming. Sorry.”
Deming ignored them both. “The perp is lashing out. Someone he loved died, maybe, and he’s doing what he wants, when he wants, to ease the pain.”
Jack waited, and when no one added anything more, he lifted his hands expectantly. “The kills started four months ago, people. That’s May. What triggered him?”
Hannah studied Jack’s face, reacquainting herself with it, and saw the same frown Ellen sported when things weren’t going her way. Jack. She still couldn’t believe he was alive. How would he react when he discovered he was a father? Hannah caught Deming studying her, so wiped her expression clean. Stay numb, Hannah. Survive the moment, and schedule your meltdown for when no one is looking.
“There are no previous cases in the FBI databases that we can link to this MO,” Deming said. “Gilroy and I scoured them with a fine-tooth comb.”
“We knew that already,” Ferguson said. “All you had to do was ask. With all due respect, Special Agent Benton, you and Special Agent Deming are acting as if we’ve been sitting on our asses doing nothing, when in fact, I’ve been here from the beginning.”
Hannah nodded. “Detective Ferguson is the one who discovered we have a serial killer on our hands.”
“This meeting is to put everyone on the same page. Can we continue?” Jack said. Ferguson pressed his lips together, as if forcing himself to stay silent.
“Four months ago,” Deming said, “our perp set in motion his plan to kill using the poem ‘Broken Love.’ Did he have a psychotic break, act out when he lost a loved one? Maybe. Or maybe it just took this long for him to act on his urges. His use of the poem tells me this guy is a planner.” She lifted her brows, absently nudging her coffee cup on the desk. “Could have been planning this for a long while, but I believe we can rule out we’ve missed prior kills. We have stanza one’s victim clearly marked by the killer. It could be a diversion, yes, but until we discover otherwise, I believe it’s safe to say the killings did start this May.”
“With James Twoomey,” Vivian said.
“Could. Thinking. Maybe. We have nothing.” Jack scowled. He was acting as if Hannah’s team had failed him. Failed him. How had this case become about Jack? Anger bubbled up, but Hannah pushed it down with the rest of her inconvenient emotions.
“We have plenty of evidence,” Hannah countered in a quiet voice. “It just doesn’t point to any suspects yet.” She left her desk to hand Jack a folder containing the email copies, and a breakdown of what the individual stanzas meant in the literary world. “Our perp informs his victims they’re targets by emailing them the words ‘Weep No More for Broken Love’ in the body of the email, leaving the subject line blank.”
“Pretty ballsy, giving them a heads-up.” Jack flipped through the printouts as Hannah took a few steps back, needing to distance herself from him. “And that’s all he writes? Nothing else?”
“We hope one day he’ll sign with his real name,” Ferguson said, “but so far, no dice.”
Jack gave him a fuck you look, but Ferguson didn’t seem impressed. Hannah blamed herself. Ferguson wasn’t stupid. He’d seen her try to knee Jack in the groin, and because he was on Team Hannah, and protective as hell, he’d be at loggerheads with Jack forever unless she did something about it. It wasn’t as if Jack would be able to de-escalate tensions. Jack’s idea of smoothing out problems was to destroy his opponent—a reflection of his personality, no doubt. She’d take Ferguson aside and have a talk with him about his attitude. After she stopped smelling like Jack’s cologne. She discretely sniffed, knowing it wouldn’t be anytime soon.
“We discovered most of the emails in the victims’ Delete Items or Spam folders,” Hannah said. “All opened, and discarded. The victims had no way of knowing they’d been targeted, or that they needed to seek protection. We’ve come to suspect the perp wasn’t warning them so much as consoling them. To let them know their pain was about to end.”
“Deming? Your thoughts?” Jack said.
“On the plane last night, Gilroy and I talked about this at length,” the profiler said. “We agree with Special Agent Cambridge’s assessment. The guy isn’t warning anyone. He wants these kills.”
“Where did you say Special Agent Gilroy was?” Jack pulled out his phone, glaring and swiping at the screen.
Deming flipped a length of her silky blond hair over her shoulder. “I left him on the first floor, looking for a secure server to submit the Coppola syndicate report. I said I’d do it—”
“Heaven forbid,” Jack muttered, never taking his eyes off his phone’s screen.
“Unfair. It’s not my fault.” Deming glanced at Ferguson and then narrowed her eyes at Jack, as if he were spilling the beans on something Deming didn’t want spilled. It made Hannah extremely curious to know what they were talking about. “Like I said, Gilroy will be here. We all know how important this case is.” When Jack continued scrolling on his phone, Deming rolled her eyes. “He’ll be here.”
“So...” Jack adjusted his weight on his seat, and then put his phone back in his suit jacket pockets. “William Blake.” He glanced at Hannah, his eyes more guarded than usual. It made her wonder what he’d been looking at on his phone. “This poetry angle should help whittle down our suspects,” he said.
“To English majors?” Hannah folded her arms, hating the derision in her tone. It was important to her that Jack believe she didn’t care enough to be upset with him. More than important. It felt imperative, if only to retain a shred of her tattered dignity. “This is a college town, Jack.”
“Nineteenth-century poets, then,” Jack said. “How many people even know Blake exists?”
“I’m surprised you do.” As soon as she said the snippy words, Hannah realized she’d lost all control of herself.
Jack arched a brow. “I know ‘the Google.’”
Vivian raised her hand, waving it back and forth. Jack pointed to the tech as if her behavior were normal, which was a good sign that Jack was attempting to go with the flow. Vivian could be odd, but she was a damn good IT tech. It was a positive that Jack seemed willing to humor her.
“I followed the email IP addresses that the perp used to send his messages.” Vivian futzed with the silk bow at her blouse’s neckline. “The North End branch of Boston Public Library on Parameter Road, and two different internet cafés, both in the North End.”
Hearing the North End mentioned triggered Hannah’s to-do list. “Deming, we were promised a geographical profile. Did you have a chance to pull one together?”
“Almost done.” Deming licked her fingers and
eyed the doughnut box across the room. “Long story short, the North End is his killing grounds.”
“Our taxpayer money at work,” Ferguson said. “We already knew that.”
After a pointed glare at the detective, Deming smiled at Hannah. “I’ll have specifics soon. Promise.”
“Special Agent Cambridge,” Jack said. “Please give us the rundown on the victims.” He had yet to call her ‘Hannah’ in front of the team, suggesting she was just another member, which she should have been grateful for...but wasn’t. Gratitude was far down on the list of emotions she was feeling. “I said please.” His barely audible remark made her aware that she was glaring at him, yet he was making an effort to get along. She looked bad.
Hannah blindly faced the murder board, wanting to walk from the room and go home to Ellen. Instead, she poked the first photo with her index finger and kept it there as she spoke, projecting a calm she didn’t feel. The photo was of a smiling older man in a blue suit and red tie; balding, thin, strong jaw.
“James Twoomey,” she said. “Retired salesman.” Nothing like her. Why did the killer target her?
Vivian read from an index card she held. “My Spectre around me night and day, Like a wild beast guards my way; My Emanation far within, Weeps incessantly for my sin.” The IT tech caught Jack’s attention by waving the card. “The first stanza of Blake’s poem.”
Hannah couldn’t separate her past and the poem anymore, not since Jack had come back from the dead. It seemed so obvious, so how had she missed the similarities? Poetry was like that, she supposed. It reflected what you threw at it; an inkblot test, personalized to the reader. Did that mean there was no way the team could find the killer by dissecting the poem? If so, all this seemed hopeless. Hannah felt hopeless.
“‘Broken Love’s’ first stanza was printed on regular copy paper and then pinned to Twoomey’s chest with a safety pin post mortem,” Hannah said. “No witnesses. No finger prints. No identifying markers on paper or safety pin.”
Deming grimaced, staring at Twoomey’s after picture. “It tells us the killer has a strong stomach.”
“‘My sin,’” Vivian said. “The stanza has to be about sin.” She stood, leaning against her desk as she studied Twoomey’s picture from across the room.
“We’ve interviewed the guy’s family,” Hannah said, focusing on the picture, too. “From all accounts, he was a saint. Lonely, but a saint. If he had a sin, we couldn’t find it.” Hannah stepped back to compare the picture of Twoomey in better days, side by side with what witnesses found that morning. The after picture was grisly.
“Everyone sins,” Vivian murmured, barely loud enough to hear. “It’s the nature of the beast.”
Hannah glanced over her shoulder at Jack. “He was ravaged by a pack of unregistered large dogs. Mastiffs.”
“So I see.” Jack didn’t take his eyes off the picture. “Forensics found…what?”
“They matched fur found on the body with the dogs,” Hannah said. “Saliva, too. The pound caught and euthanized the animals. Casts of their teeth were conclusive. They killed him. Ferguson, please give Special Agent Benton the vic’s file.” It felt weird to be so formal, reminding her of the months she and Jack had pretended they were nothing more than partners back in D.C. They’d pretended so well, their past relationship continued to be a secret.
Hannah knew that couldn’t last. Jack was a father now. She had to tell him.
“No DNA on the perp?” Jack glanced between Ferguson and Hannah. “The killer touched the body after Twoomey was mauled. Forensics found nothing?”
“Nothing. Except this.” Ferguson stepped forward and dropped a fat file on the desk next to Jack’s elbow, and then returned to his desk, never once looking at him. “If there was DNA, they’d have found it.”
Jack bristled. Yup. She had to speak to Ferguson, because this behavior was not productive. Everyone’s focus had to be on finding the killer, not on a pissing contest between Hannah’s dead lover, who wasn’t dead, and— Who exactly was Ferguson to her? A coworker. Nothing more. None of this mattered, she reminded herself. She had a job to do, a killer to catch. She needed to be tougher, more focused. She could do this.
Jack flipped through copies of photos, and forensic pathology reports. “Death by mauling. Poor bastard.” He flipped the file closed. “It’s too early in the day for photos like this.” He indicated Hannah should continue with a wave of his hand.
Hannah poked her finger at the picture of a young, blonde woman with elfin features. “Carey Stone, administrative assistant at Kelly Services, a staffing agency downtown.”
“Nothing like Twoomey,” Jack said.
Or me, Hannah silently added.
Vivian raised her hand again. Hannah could see Jack hesitate, as if playing with the idea of asking the tech to stop with the hand-raising, but he nodded instead, indicating she should speak.
“Carey Stone’s stanza.” Vivian glanced at the Stone crime scene photos. The before picture was a high school graduation photo, primped and posed, and the after picture was when she’d been dragged from Boston Harbor; bloated and fed on by fish. Vivian composed herself. “A fathomless and boundless deep, There we wander, there we weep; On the hungry craving wind, My Spectre follows thee behind.” Sympathy tightened the tech’s expression.
“Stone was found attached to a cinder block in the Boston Harbor at Constitution Marina,” Hannah said. “A nonfatal contusion on her forehead suggested to the forensic pathologist that she was rendered unconscious before being submerged and then drowned. That could suggest some sort of conscience on the perp’s part. Maybe squeamishness.”
“More likely a struggle,” Deming said.
Vivian hurried to Jack’s side, providing him with a file.
“Thank you,” Jack said.
“I don’t know if you’ve been told what I do.” Vivian avoided his gaze. “I oversee the data, categorizing and logging evidence. I’m also responsible for disseminating pertinent information to patrolmen upon request. Your request, now that you lead the team.” She nodded twice, glancing at Hannah.
“Thank you.” Jack arched a brow, glancing at the profiler. “If Deming asks to touch any of your equipment, tell her no. She’s notorious for crashing hard drives.” Vivian startled, and gave Deming a look that should be reserved for monsters that kicked puppies. “I’m not sure how she does it, but she does,” Jack said.
Deming grimaced as she flipped through a manila file, but didn’t deign to lift her gaze from the page. “Ignore Special Agent Benton, Vivian. I promise to go nowhere near your tech. As much as tech hates me, I hate it.”
Vivian glanced between Deming and Jack, and then pointed to the file she’d delivered. “A summary of all the searches I’ve completed over the course of the investigation, and a log of the evidence we filed with the various departments, all cross-referenced with the DA’s office and the bureau.”
Jack opened the file, as Vivian’s rose perfume wafted toward Hannah. The scent turned her stomach, reminding her of Jack’s memorial service. The bureau had filled the room with roses. Now she couldn’t abide the smell.
“Thank you, Vivian.” Hannah forced a smile. “Twoomey got the first stanza, Stone the second.” She pointed to the third photo, and then approached the murder board. “Harold Zelezny, retired plumber. He received the third stanza.”
Vivian recited the stanza from memory. “He scents thy footsteps in the snow, Wheresoever thou dost go, Thro’ the wintry hail and rain. When wilt thou return again?”
“Did you memorize them all?” Jack said.
“Most. There are seventeen, so I’m still working on some of them.” Vivian blushed.
“Impressive.” Jack’s expression darkened. “Seventeen, huh? The perp is in it for the long haul.”
“I’m number four,” Hannah said.
Jack seemed as if he wanted to chast
ise her, but instead shook off her words. “‘When wilt thou return again?’ Does this guy think they’ll come back from the dead?” Jack flipped through the files as Hannah forced herself not to remind Jack that he’d done just that! “He fucking locked this guy in a freezer,” he said.
“St. Stephen’s church’s basement freezer,” Ferguson said. “He was found when they were stocking it for a reception. If he wasn’t killed in such a public place, no one would have known he’d been murdered.”
Hannah contemplated the murder board, all the vics, their information, and it shouted one thing. These people were all alone. But Hannah wasn’t alone. She had Ellen. She had Mrs. Branaghan. And Natalie was coming to help her on the weight of one phone call. That was friendship. Just because Hannah didn’t have any living family, a husband, or a boyfriend who was astute enough to realize his girlfriend was unexpectedly pregnant and not up for the baby daddy to be fake murdered…that didn’t mean she was alone. She did not fit the criteria of these kills. Yet the perp had targeted her.
Hannah scanned the faces in the room. Did they all think Hannah was alone? The perp did. Maybe even Jack did. Damn. Everyone must think she was pathetic.
“Hannah’s stanza.” Vivian cleared her throat before starting her recitation. “‘Dost thou not in pride and scorn, Fill with tempests all my morn, And with jealousies and fears, Fill my pleasant nights with tears?’”
Hannah turned her back to the room, ostensibly concentrating on the murder board. It was becoming harder and harder to keep her composure. Her hands were shaking even more than before, and the damn poetry reading was getting on her nerves.
Catch a Killer Page 4