“How’s the perp going to kill Special Agent Cambridge?” Jack said.
“Nice,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him.
He shrugged. “The only thing that sounds ominous in that stanza,” Jack continued, “is the word tempests, and unless we’re in a Shakespearean play, even that’s not scary.”
Deming, ankles crossed and propped on her desk’s edge, contemplated the murder board with her head tilted to the side. “The stanza is about torment,” she said, “being tormented by…thoughts.”
“Pride, scorn, jealousy, fear, tears,” Hannah said. “Death by pity party.” It was true. Bereft of the ability to beat the crap out of Jack, incapable of keeping a lid on her rage, she was left with directing it inward. Jack left her. He didn’t die. He left her. What was wrong with her? Even enraged as she’d been upon realizing he was alive, her first instinct had been to make love to the lout.
“Not funny.” Vivian leveled a delicate frown at Hannah.
“He’s a prick,” Ferguson said. For a moment, just a tiny moment, Hannah thought the detective was referring to Jack. “The perp thinks he’s being cute with this poem stuff.”
Deming shook her head. “No. I don’t think he’s being cute. I believe this poem means something to him. Something important. Everything he does is done for a reason. Remember? He’s a planner. This is Hannah’s stanza because he wants it to be hers.”
“But why this stanza for Hannah?” Jack said.
So she was Hannah now. Was it her status as potential victim that made him loosen his protocol standards? Or maybe it was because he realized he now owned her. One wrong move and she was off the task force. Special Agent Cambridge, leader of the FBI task force designed to track down Boston’s latest serial killer, was now Hannah, the woman here at Jack’s largesse.
“Come on, people. Why?” Jack said, his impatience near the boiling-over mark. No one answered Jack, prompting him to throw his hands up in frustration. “Fine. Let’s leave that question for now. What do we know about the victims’ personal lives?”
Hannah stepped back from the murder board to give the room a better view of the pictures and information, and then pointed to Twoomey’s picture. “Widowed. Like I said, he was a salesman. Retired. From all accounts, a regular guy. No children.” Hands shaking, Hannah tucked them into her suit jacket pocket.
“Any clubs? Gyms? Restaurants he frequented regularly?” Jack said.
“Nope,” Ferguson said. “Didn’t even get the newspaper delivered. If he had a hobby, we couldn’t find one.”
“Tell me about the Stone woman.” Jack walked to the coffeemaker against the wall and grabbed a cup, studying the murder board as he poured and then sipped.
Ferguson waved a notepad in the air. “I asked around. Midtwenties, pretty. Unattached. Quiet, by all accounts, lived alone, not even a goldfish. The only person I know that doesn’t have a Facebook account. In fact, no social media. Not even Pinterest. Carey Stone wasn’t openly dating, so if there’s a crazy boyfriend in the picture, we couldn’t find him. And we looked. No red flags. Nothing suspicious.”
Jack pressed. “Clubs? Gyms—”
“YMCA,” Ferguson flipped the pages on his pad, reading the information. “And only the last few months. I asked if anyone remembered her there, but got nowhere. The manager said she swam in their pool, but he never spoke to her.”
“And our plumber? What about him?” Jack said.
“Zelezny was eighty years old,” Hannah said. “Alone. No children. Wife dead. Plenty of acquaintances, but they hadn’t spoken to him in weeks, didn’t know where he lived, or anything about him.”
“Is Stone the only vic with a Y membership?” Jack said. Ferguson nodded, prompting Jack’s scowl to deepen. “Lot of dead ends.”
“Too many,” Deming said. “It’s almost a thing. There is no connection between the vics whatsoever. What is the statistical probability that our victims had nothing in common, yet lived their lives in the same tiny section of Boston?”
“One hundred percent,” Vivian said.
Jack shook his head. “Hannah, you moved here when? A few months ago?”
Wrong. Jack didn’t know so much about her after all. She’d been in Boston since last November, but on this case since mid-July.
“Why a hundred percent probability, Vivian?” Deming said.
Vivian smiled. “Because it happened.” Deming chuckled.
“The poem is connection enough,” Hannah said. “And that the victims had no personal attachments, no significant others. All of them. Twoomey, Stone, and Zelezny all were—” She had to say it, even knowing they’d try to make her profile fit the killer’s MO. “Alone. That’s a big similarity.”
And there it was, Hannah thought. The looks. The whole team looked at her like she was a thing to pity. It was too much to handle. A small voice inside her blamed Jack. If he’d stuck around, her life would have been different. Less hard. Less filled with grief. She felt her body tremble as she struggled to suppress her emotions. Shut it down, Cambridge. Stop thinking. Hannah crossed her arms and turned her back to the room again, pretending to stare at the murder board.
“The world is filled with loners. Why these loners?” Jack said. “We’ll never find the guy if we can’t answer that question.” He tossed the files on Hannah’s desktop, and the noise made her jump.
Ferguson stepped to the coffee machine, refreshed his coffee. “Hannah was leading the task force yesterday. This guy is just spitting in our faces with this email, messing with us. She’s not alone.” He glanced at Hannah, but then quickly averted his gaze. “She has us,” he said.
“Interesting theory.” Deming shrugged. “But as far as we know, the press isn’t even aware an investigation exists. How could the perp know? Pillow-talk?” She winked at Vivian, who blushed and quickly concentrated on organizing files on her desk. “Despite Ferguson’s razor-sharp analysis—” Ferguson glared at her. Deming ignored him. “—serial killers have patterns for a reason. They’re fulfilling fantasies and required rituals. We need to concentrate on why the killer believes Hannah fits into his pattern, instead of hoping she doesn’t. To do otherwise—” Deming pursed her lips.
“Could get her killed,” Jack said.
“I was going to say that it wastes valuable time,” Deming said. “But yeah. It could get her killed.”
Hannah didn’t agree; not because Deming’s conclusion wasn’t based on sound science, but because the profiler didn’t have all the facts. Deming didn’t know about Ellen. She didn’t know anything about Hannah.
“It has to be my role as task force leader, otherwise I don’t fit,” Hannah said. “Like Jack said, I’m new to the area. I don’t live in the North End, and…and I’m not alone.” She stared everyone down, not willing to concede that extremely salient point, and not willing to argue. It would be pathetic. How could it not be?
“You’re guessing, Hannah. We know a few things,” Jack said. “This perp plans out his kills. You got the email. We can expect a move on you defined by your assigned stanza in three days or less.”
Ferguson scowled at Deming. “You’re the profiler. Give us something we can use. Mauling by dogs is nothing like freezing to death, or drowning. As far as I can see, there are no patterns except for the locale. North End and the Waterfront.”
“That’s not true. The emails,” Vivian said. “And the poem.”
Deming nodded. “And the victims are all,” she glanced at Hannah, “segregated from social contact.” Hannah cringed. Deming didn’t pat her on the head, but she might as well have. “And they have nothing in common.”
Ferguson narrowed his eyes. “Stop trying to make a lack of clues a clue. That’s not how we catch killers. It’s how we explain why we don’t catch them.”
Jack nodded. “We need clues not handed to us by the killer, which means we need to be more proactive.
I’m not willing to wait for him to make a mistake, or heaven forbid, kill again. We need to get out in front of this. Why haven’t we enlisted the help of the media? Let the public know what to do if they get a weird email with the words ‘Weep No More for Broken Love’?”
Hannah caught Jack’s attention. “No media was the district attorney’s call and I agree with him.” She nudged a few files away from the edge of her desk. “The lieutenant and the DA are adamant. We announce, even vaguely, that the killer is sending emails, and we’ll be inundated with false alarms or copycats, making it harder to see the real leads. As it stands, we’re lucky the next threat was toward me.”
Jack’s jaw dropped. “Lucky?”
Hannah nodded. “I know I’m a target, so nothing’s going to happen to me.” She waved Ferguson over. “Show them the map.”
Ferguson gripped the edge of a spring-loaded laminated map affixed above the murder board, and pulled it down until the map unfolded, covering the victims’ pictures and notes. The map had three Xs drawn in red, marking the crime scene locations.
“Here, here, and here,” Ferguson pointed. “A straight line right through the North End of Boston. First.” He pointed to Paul Revere’s house. “Twoomey. Murder by dogs on the street. Second,” he pointed to the coastline. “Directly east is Constitution Marina. Stone was drowned.” He pointed to the final crime scene. “Directly west of Twoomey’s kill—see the straight line it’s making on the map?—is St. Stephen Catholic Church. Death by freezing, or heart attack, depending on which came first. Charlie Foulkes—”
“Charlie Foulkes?” Deming seemed almost to panic.
“Yeah. He’s the head of our forensics team. The forensic pathologist,” Ferguson said. “You know him?” Deming nodded, but said no more. “Well, he found cause of death was most likely heart attack brought on by freezing, so let’s go with what the perp had in mind. Death by freezing.” He traced the map with his finger, linking the crime scenes with a smeared red line. “All in the North End of Boston.”
Hannah walked to her desk and sat. “If this geographic alignment of the crime scenes holds, it might allow us to anticipate the next crime scene, especially if we find ourselves deep into the stanzas.”
“Which won’t happen,” Jack said. “We’re catching this fucker before he kills again. Got it?” He leveled a frown at Hannah, and for a moment there, she believed him, until she remembered that Carey Stone died even though the team had known pretty much all the information they had now. This killer wasn’t making mistakes.
“Like I said, I’m writing up a formal geographic profile.” Deming approached the map and, in red marker, drew wide circles around the crime scenes and then connected them with lines. “But this should give you a general idea of where the perp lives or works.”
Jack didn’t hide his skepticism. “People would recognize him if he lives there. These neighborhoods are dense, people walk the streets. They’d see the perp in places they know he’s not supposed to be.”
“Agreed, which is why I’m leaning toward commuter status, but we can’t rule anything out.” She pointed to the JFK Expressway and Causeway Street. “Heavy traffic thruways lead straight to these tourist spots.” She used the red marker to stab at the maps’ crime scene marks, making her shiny blond hair sway with her movements. “And there’s the line Ferguson was referring to connecting Constitution Marina, St. Stephen Church, and Paul Revere’s house.” She seemed surprised. “Hmm. Ferguson’s right. I’ll have to incorporate that in my profile.”
“Are you admitting I knew something you didn’t?” Ferguson pretended to be shocked.
“The crime scenes are not random sites.” Deming appeared to ignore his snark, though her cheek briefly kicked up with a smile.
“Damn right, Ferguson’s right,” he mumbled under his breath.
“This perp knows the area,” Deming said, “so with what little evidence we’ve gathered, and a dash of statistics, our best bet is he’s a local who commutes, but not very far.”
“Our own personal Ted Bundy.” Vivian wrinkled her nose, showing a hefty level of disgust marred by unmistakable excitement.
“No,” Deming kept her attention on the map. “Bundy was a disorganized serial killer. Impulsive. Though charismatic, he had few social skills. His murders were opportunistic and haphazard. He’d break into random houses and bludgeon people to death. Pick up hitchhikers.”
Ferguson grimaced. “Have sex with victims after he’d murdered them. A real go-getter.”
Vivian neatened up her desk, looking uncomfortable. “I just meant, you know, a serial killer. It’s my first.”
Deming continued to focus on the map, seeming to work a problem in her head. Hannah stepped closer to the map, studying it, trying to see what Deming saw.
“People like Bundy,” Deming said, “lack knowledge of normal sexual behavior, and make it up as they go along.” She erased half a circle’s circumference and redrew the edge, expanding the circle.
“Like Ferguson?” Vivian said.
Ferguson’s jaw dropped. He turned to the IT specialist, and seemed to struggle to find words. Deming barked out a laugh, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Vivian made a funny!”
Jack had a coughing fit, his eyes revealing his amusement. Hannah frowned at him, needing him to play nice if only for a little while longer.
“Funny, O’Grady.” Ferguson’s usual scowl melted and in its place grew a smile. Then he laughed. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Deming’s point, I believe,” Hannah said, “is the perp isn’t a guy who uses opportunity to dictate his kills. He scopes out the crime scenes and somehow lures his victims into a predetermined place so he can play out his fantasy dictated by the vic’s assigned stanza. All very controlled. Orchestrated.” Hannah turned to Jack, wondering what he was thinking. Of all the people in the world who could help her find this killer, Jack was the one she was most confident could get the job done. He’d had more experience with serial murderers than she did, and he could write a book on control issues.
“That’s right. As I said, the kills were planned.” Deming nodded. “Our guy’s a hunter.”
“Maybe. Too many ifs to be sure.” Ferguson contemplated Deming’s handiwork on the laminate map. “Big deal if the guy knows Boston. Tons of people do, too. If they’re not random—”
“They’re not. The emails rule that out.” Jack stepped forward, studying the map. “Deming’s right. Each murder is meticulously planned.”
“Damn right Deming’s right,” Deming said, smirking at Ferguson. “And I don’t think the perp is using highways to get to the North End. I don’t think he’s traveling even half an hour to reach the crime scenes. Everything seems personal. Like he knows these people.” She startled, turning to Hannah. “He knows them. If that’s true...”
It would suck, but it certainly would cut down on the suspects. Hannah barely knew anyone in Boston. Most of her time here had been working from home, or being stuck in a hospital bed. She felt all eyes on her, and Jack’s gaze was the heaviest, squeezing the air from the room.
“Gut feeling, Deming?” Jack’s tone carried no teasing, no humor. Hannah didn’t need interpretation. Jack’s gut solved many a case. He knew its value.
Deming dragged her fingers through her long hair, clearly frustrated. “His kills are staged in a big way and by design. Tourist traps. If he knows the vics, he really doesn’t like them.”
“He’s a psychopath,” Ferguson said. “Liking, hating—hell, emotion probably doesn’t even factor into it.” Deming nodded.
“We need to beef up police presence at tourist destinations dictated by the perps geographical profile. He’s sending a message.” Jack caught Hannah’s gaze, as if silently asking something, but Hannah had no idea what the question was. She looked back, and all she could think was Jack is alive. So, why does the ache in my heart remain?
Shouldn’t her grief have dissipated a bit? He was alive, dammit, why didn’t she get to be happy about that?
Ferguson stepped next to Hannah, arms crossed over his massive chest. Gently, but purposefully, he nudged her shoulder, surprising her with the physical contact. Hannah sought the detective’s gaze, only to discover he was waging a staring contest with Jack.
“Staking his claim,” Jack said, gaze now locked with Ferguson’s.
“He’s sent a message, all right.” Vivian leaned her hip against her desk. “‘Broken Love’ is rife with messages.”
Hannah purposefully stepped away from Ferguson, needing to distance herself from whatever silent battle the men were waging. Approaching the board, she retracted the map and exposed the murder board beneath. She wrote her kill date under her picture. “The kills are one month apart. The first was May 15. Three days from now will be August 15. We were due for the forth stanza. If all goes as scheduled...”
The room fell silent. Jack approached her from behind and touched her arm. She saw his concern. His worry. Everyone else was looking at her as if they didn’t know what to say, but she suspected they were all thinking the same thing.
Hannah was as good as dead.
Chapter 4
“Stop it.” Jack knew how Hannah was finishing that sentence in her head, and he was having none of it. No one was getting to her, not while he had breath left in his body. And Ferguson? He needed to back off. What the hell was all his touchy, touchy, feely, feely with Hannah? That was not happening on his watch either.
“We’ll get the perp, Hannah,” Ferguson said. “In three days this case will be in your rearview and you’ll have a big win on your resume. We’ll celebrate.”
Ferguson’s smoldering look left nothing to the imagination. Jack wanted to sock him in the nose. He blamed fatigue, the long flight, and he was hungry. He didn’t blame the sex in the lieutenant’s office. No one could interpret that as anything but letting off steam. He and Hannah were something from the past…by design. A year ago, they’d read the tea leaves, and nothing had changed—except, thanks to their old boss, she hated him even more now. Jack grabbed a blueberry muffin from the Dunkin’s box and counted himself lucky she was still talking to him.
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