by Dan Padavona
The sixty-inch television on the wall displayed the FBI logo. At the front of the room, a striking woman with blonde hair hanging past her shoulders conferred with Agent Gardy. Thomas had seen pictures of Agent Scarlett Bell in magazine articles. He never appreciated the woman’s beauty until now. Piercing, interrogative intelligence swam in Agent Bell’s eyes as she took in the troopers and deputies. Thomas doubted anyone could hide a secret from Bell. When her eyes landed on him, it was as if she stared into his soul.
Thomas weaved through the crowd, accepting handshakes along the way. He raised his hands to quiet the chatter.
“We’re privileged to have Agents Bell and Gardy from the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit with us today. With their help, we’ll find Lonnie McKinney and capture the man who kidnapped him.” He turned to Bell and offered her a microphone. She held up a hand, a signal she didn’t need one. “I’ll turn the presentation over to the FBI.”
All eyes settled on Agent Bell at the front of the room. She clicked a wireless mouse and moved the presentation forward.
“Thank you for inviting us to Nightshade County. As you’re aware, an unknown individual kidnapped four-year-old Lonnie McKinney from his home in Poplar Corners, New York, a little after two o’clock this morning. We believe the same man, who we refer to as our unsub, or unknown subject, left a woman’s hand inside St. Mary’s church in Wolf Lake.”
Mutters moved through the crowd. For many, this was the first they’d learned of the link between the kidnapping and the severed hand.
“Our unsub has been busy the last eight years. He’s murdered at least twelve people around the Great Lakes, Ohio Valley, New England, and Mid-Atlantic region, including four children.”
Bell had their attention now. A pall fell over the room as the agent displayed a map of the murders.
“Notice the center of the circle falls over Nightshade County. Given the recent uptick of criminal activity in your region, I’m convinced the killer lives among us, possibly in Wolf Lake or Poplar Corners.”
The grumble of conversation halted when Agent Bell displayed a picture of Dennis Rader, the BTK killer.
“Not every serial killer is insane in the manner Hollywood paints them. Many are cunning, intelligent, and aware of their actions. It’s my hope this profile will help you catch this man.”
She paged forward. A bloody stump of a leg lay in the grass. Playground equipment climbed out of the ground in the background. An atrocity among a child’s paradise.
“This is Kalamazoo, Michigan, four years ago. A mother pushing a stroller through the park spotted a human leg on the lawn, steps from the playground equipment. An hour later, and the park would have been filled with children.”
Next slide. A heavyset trooper in the front row moaned and covered his mouth.
“And this is Annapolis last spring. Our unsub murdered sixteen-year-old Troy Cullip and left his head outside Barry’s Fish Market, a popular restaurant along the water. He murders the young and old, male and female, with no discernible tendency toward victim type. The unsub strikes in the middle of the day and in the dead of night. His range stretches several hundred miles. This makes him very difficult to catch.”
Agent Bell paused and held their eyes.
“This morning, a call came into the Kane Grove Police Department. A twenty-one-year-old college student named Scott Rehbein went missing three nights ago. His roommates assumed he’d driven home to visit his parents and hadn’t reported Rehbein missing until this morning. The disappearance might be a coincidence. But I don’t think so. Kane Grove is a thirty-minute drive from Poplar Corners. Our unsub is escalating.”
Now a picture of Ted Bundy.
“We’re not searching for a deranged recluse. We’re searching for a man who passes for a friend, a colleague, a pillar of the community. Our unsub is an organized killer, which means he plans his attacks and possesses average to above-average intelligence. I lean toward the latter, given his ability to evade the authorities for almost a decade. He’s educated, employed, and engaging, though he displays antisocial tendencies such as arrogance, obnoxious behavior, and contempt for others. He places himself on a pedestal and considers himself better than those around him, deserving of their adoration. The unsub might be married or date. He’s what we call a malignant narcissist. Don’t underestimate him. Our unsub is skilled, an expert murderer. Despite his antisocial behavior, he’s charming when he wants to be. This ability helps him win his victim’s trust. He’s capable of luring his targets, skilled at seducing victims into being captured.”
Agent Bell propped herself on the corner of the desk and held their gazes.
“He’s motivated by mutilation and a desire to terrorize. That’s why he showed himself in the town park before he captured Lonnie McKinney. Despite the risk, he wanted James McKinney and the other parents to fear him before he struck. It’s why he leaves body parts in public places. But this insatiable need to taunt the police and frighten the public may be his downfall. This is how we’ll catch him. Let’s get granular with the profile.”
The next slide listed the killer’s traits. The black letters stood in sharp contrast to the white background, like leafless trees against a washed-out sky.
“We’re looking for an attractive white male in his early thirties to late-forties. He’s a chameleon. Though he prefers a solitary life, he blends with his surroundings and displays social grace when the situation calls for charm. Based on his confession booth visit, we assume he grew up in this area and crossed paths with Father Josiah Fowler of St. Mary’s church.”
The heavyset trooper in the front row raised his hand.
“Yes, officer?”
“Does sex motivate the unsub?” The trooper twisted his mouth. “He takes kids.”
Bell tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Doubtful. Our unsub prefers control and humiliation. When he takes a child, he strikes fear into the hearts of every parent in the state. It’s probable he watches the news after a kidnapping. He might archive the footage so he can relive the terror he invokes.”
Bell’s words didn’t comfort the trooper. As the man peered behind him, Deputy Lambert stuck his hand in the air.
“Go ahead, Deputy.”
“About this man visiting Father Fowler. Does his confession suggest the killer is experiencing remorse and wants to stop?”
The other stared at Lambert, then turned to Agent Bell, hoping for the affirmative. The agent shook her head.
“No. The visit to the confession booth feels personal to me. It’s why I’m convinced this man had a past relationship with Father Josiah Fowler, though Fowler may not remember him after so many years. I advise you to pursue Fowler and convince him to divulge anything he knows about the unsub.”
After the presentation, Thomas rose from his chair and met Bell and Gardy by the door.
“Excellent presentation, Agent Bell. Your profile troubles me, but we finally have a road map for finding this guy.”
When Bell turned her eyes on him, Thomas thought of Dr. Mandal. That knowing glare that uncovered hidden truths.
“You’re perfectly capable of building profiles, Sheriff Shepherd. The BAU knows all about the cases you solved—Jeremy Hyde, Thea Barlow, Avery Neal.”
Thomas’s face scrunched with discomfort.
“I never learned Avery Neal was the killer until he threw me into a gorge.”
“You believed it was a police officer, and your deputy caught Neal. Sometimes, close enough is the best we can hope for.”
As the troopers and deputies mingled, Thomas touched Gardy’s shoulder.
“I’d appreciate five minutes alone with both of you, somewhere out of earshot.”
Gardy lowered his voice.
“Is there a problem?”
“No problem. Follow me.”
Bell and Gardy trailed Thomas out of the conference room. As he motioned them down the hall to his office, he spotted Deputy Aguilar slipping into the break room
to avoid being seen. He’d told her to take the day off and wondered why she was here. Had she skipped the briefing? Thomas filed away his suspicion for another time and closed the door.
Gardy and Bell glanced at each other in question.
“I work closely with a private investigator in town. A woman named Chelsey Byrd. She runs Wolf Lake Consulting.” Thomas wrung his hands. “In full disclosure, we’re dating.”
Gardy folded his arms.
“Congratulations, Casanova. But what does this have to do with the investigation?”
“Last week, a man named Lawrence Santos walked into Wolf Lake Consulting and hired Chelsey to investigate his missing wife. Harmony Santos vanished four years ago. From Poplar Corners.”
The agents raised their eyebrows.
“Why haven’t we heard about this until now?” Bell asked.
“Before this morning, I had no reason to link Harmony Santos to the woman’s hand. Then Lonnie McKinney vanished from Poplar Corners shortly after Agent Gardy conveyed your theories about a killer living in Nightshade County.” Thomas blew out a breath. “There’s also a Peeping Tom in Poplar Corners. Maybe it’s unrelated to our case. But in a town the size of Poplar Corners, I wonder if we’re chasing the same guy.”
Gardy scratched his head and turned to Bell.
“Could be the unsub is escalating. He begins with voyeurism and fantasies, then he graduates to kidnapping and murder.”
Bell clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth.
“Or he’s hunting.”
23
Aguilar ducked inside the break room when she spotted Thomas with the FBI agents. She hid behind the corner and waited until they passed, her teeth clenched. When the sheriff closed his door, Aguilar relaxed her shoulders. She shouldn’t be here. Her decision to quit the department could wait another day or two. Looking Thomas in the face seemed impossible.
Down the hallway, the door to the interview room opened. Voices carried. She recognized two of them—Trooper Fitzgerald was chatting with Deputy Lambert. They bantered about last night’s baseball game, searching for an escape after Agent Bell profiled the serial killer. During the briefing, Aguilar had sat in the back, away from the others, until the presentation overwhelmed her. She kept picturing body parts strewn across parks, parents weeping over lost children, a killer stalking the shadows and picking off unsuspecting victims.
And she wanted to stop this psychopath. God, how she wanted to take him down. Yet she was no longer fit for the job. Not since the Avery Neal shooting. Or maybe she’d never been fit for a career in law enforcement. This was her first test as a sheriff’s deputy, and she’d failed. Miserably.
As she reached for the teakettle, a gunshot blasted down the corridor. She threw herself against the wall and reached for her service weapon.
Except she’d turned her service weapon over to Thomas while she completed therapy. Sweat poured down her brow. An active shooter was loose inside the department. Why didn’t she hear shouting and return gunfire?
The sound came again. A thunderous pop that made her flinch and cower in the corner.
Not a gunshot. Deputy Lambert had clapped his hands together as he laughed at Trooper Fitzgerald’s joke. She clamped her eyes shut and leaned against the wall, concentrating on her breathing until her heart rate normalized. Last week, a car backfired near her house. She’d ducked below the couch and huddled until she was certain nobody was running through the neighborhood with a firearm. When she closed her eyes at night, deafening explosions like bombs filled her thoughts.
“Aguilar, you all right?”
Lambert stood in the doorway with a perplexed expression. She exhaled and wiped her sweaty palms on her shirt.
“No problem. Just exhausted after the long night.”
“Shouldn’t you be home, resting?”
Aguilar wished he’d leave her alone. She liked Lambert, but he was always in her business. If everyone would just leave her alone, she’d overcome her trauma. But everyone wanted a piece of her—the county, Dr. Mandal, Thomas, Lambert. What did they expect from her? Avery Neal had given her no choice. The corrupt officer had aimed his gun at them and—
“Aguilar?”
She shook the cobwebs from her head in the manner a dog does when he emerges from swimming.
“You’re right. I should be in bed.”
Lambert glanced down the corridor. Conversation filled the corridor.
“Why don’t you hang out at your desk while I clear the hallway. It’s overwhelming with all these people crowding each other.”
She chewed a nail. Lambert wanted to shield Aguilar from the others so she didn’t embarrass herself. One look at her, and they’d all know she’d lost her mind.
“Give me a few minutes, okay? I’ll be fine.”
The teakettle whistled. Aguilar’s eyes flew to the kettle in alarm. She turned her back so he wouldn’t notice her trembling hands as she poured steaming water into her cup, the container jostling dangerously in her grip. She sensed Lambert’s stare. Then nothing as he left the break room and returned to the officers.
Water sloshed over the cup and singed her hand. She cursed and stuck her burned thumb into her mouth as she wiped the spill with a paper towel. Her reflection stared back from the stainless-steel faucet, warped and stretched like a funhouse mirror effect. The color had drained from her face. Aguilar fixed her hair. She grabbed her cup and hurried across the hallway to her desk, intent on grabbing her keys and running for the door. Officers clogged the corridor. They glared in her direction.
With a huff, she turned the corner and escaped their prying eyes. Her breaths came too fast as she entered the supply room and locked the door. Above her head, the cooling system hissed through the vents. Boxes of pens, ink toner, copy paper, and various office supplies filled the shelves. The white noise drowned out the hallway conversations. As she leaned against the frame, the metal shelving chilled her shoulders. After she stood still for a minute, the automatic sensor shut off the lights and plunged her into absolute darkness. Yet the sudden loss of light didn’t frighten her. The dark felt warm somehow. Comforting. As if impenetrable walls guarded her from an attack. Given enough time alone, she would heal. But people refused to leave her be.
The second she moved, the automatic sensor flicked the lights on. She squinted and turned away from the harsh glare. Footsteps moved down the hallway and paused outside the door. She stood on tiptoe and grabbed a box of paper. If anyone knocked and asked what she was doing, she’d claim the copy machine was low on paper.
When was the last time she’d fulfilled her duty and protected the public? Who was she defending? Aguilar couldn’t care for herself, let alone save others.
With a sigh, she set the box on the shelf and walked to the door. When she exited the supply room, she bumped into Thomas. He gave her a surprised look.
“Aguilar, I wanted to speak with you. Why were you—”
“I think I’m getting sick,” Aguilar said as her eyes darted down the crowded hallway. “I should head home and catch up on sleep.”
“If there’s something you want to talk about, I’m here for you.”
Aguilar held up a hand.
“No, I just want people to give me space. Nothing personal, Sheriff. I need to go.”
24
The ancient florescent strip lighting buzzed and flickered inside the bowels of St. Mary’s church. The colorless, dull glow flattened every shadow and revealed hidden secrets.
Father Josiah Fowler clutched his robe together and hurried from his office to the basement corridor. To his left, the laughter of children swelled from the church school room. A child called his name. He nodded without looking and hustled toward the staircase as sweat poured from his armpits.
At the top of the stairs, he stood against the wall and breathed. The vestibule was empty. Yet he sensed he wasn’t alone.
He crossed between the pews. Each footfall reverberated off the ceiling like gunshots in a cavern.
He didn’t slow his pace until he reached the confession booth.
Inside the booth, the familiar leather scents returned to him. Though the floor muffled their voices, Fowler could still hear the children below. Giggling. Taunting. He’d been so weak when he first arrived at St. Mary’s. Prone to make mistakes. To sin. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. Before he quieted his nerves, his eyes snapped open. Someone was coming.
The door in the opposite booth opened. He exhaled upon seeing the stooped over figure. Fowler recognized Mrs. Dolton’s voice immediately, though he continued the anonymity charade as she confessed her sins. Ten minutes later, Mrs. Dolton waddled down the aisle and exited through the vestibule, leaving Fowler with the echoes of his guilt.
Nobody took her place. He usually listened to confessions for two consecutive hours during weekend sessions. Another minute passed in utter silence.
Then someone started down the aisle. Fowler’s heart quickened as the steps grew closer. The door opened, and a black shadow crossed over the grates. His visitor had returned.
Fowler squirmed in his chair. He couldn’t put enough room between him and the beast beyond the curtain. A squeal came from the other booth as the stranger settled into his seat.
“Good morning, Father. I trust you’ve thought a great deal about me since our last visit.”
“What is your confession, my . . . sir?” Fowler’s voice cracked.
“Too many sins to list in one session. Perhaps we should increase the frequency of our meetings.”
“If you’ve nothing to confess today, I must ask you to leave. There are others waiting.”
“No, we are alone, Father. Don’t you know who I am?”
“The sacramental seal binds me from knowing your identity.”
“Enough with the sanctimonious drivel, shaman. A dusty curtain and ten tiny holes separate us. You recognize my voice, and you must remember. Do you not?”