Killer Score (The Irish Garda Files Book 2)

by Melinda Colt

  He massaged the bridge of his nose. God, he was losing it! How crazy was that? Who in hell would have such a grudge against him as to target him and concoct this ridiculous plan? He barely knew anyone in Ireland! He was losing it. It was just a freaky, crazy coincidence. It had to be.

  Squaring his shoulders, he snapped on gloves and walked to Chelsea and Siobhan, who were talking quietly.

  “What can you tell me?” he directed the question at both of them.

  Siobhan spoke first. “Like I said, she was killed in a similar manner to the other victim, Shannon Brody, but from what I can tell so far, this woman died of suffocation. She was hit over the head with a hard object, possibly metallic, but she was conscious when the killer choked her. At first sight it looks like strangulation. I need to examine the body in the morgue, where I have my tools and good lighting. Until then, I can’t tell you much more.”

  Evan’s shoulders slumped. He hadn’t expected much more, but it was still disappointing. Speed was essential now, even more than before, when he hadn’t thought another victim was being stalked as he chased his tail trying to find a trace of this killer.

  He moved his gaze to Chelsea. She stood, and he cupped her elbow to stop her from swaying.

  “Sorry. It’s the heels,” she said. “It’s pretty clear that the same person who killed Shannon murdered Jenny too. I hadn’t foreseen this. I was sure Shannon’s murder was intensely personal, but…” She bit her lip almost savagely. “Maybe I was wrong. I didn’t see it when I should have. I should have realized the killer wasn’t done.”

  Evan took her chin between his fingers and lifted her face to his.

  “Don’t you dare blame yourself, Chelsea. If you do, you also blame me because I had no idea either that we were dealing with a serial killer. None of us is responsible for not being able to read the mind of this sick individual. We’ll do the job. We’ll find him and bring him to justice. It’s what we have to do. Second guessing ourselves is wrong, and it serves no purpose. It’ll only cloud our judgment. Understood?”

  Her gaze meandered over his face, yet he had the impression she wasn’t truly seeing him. She seemed to stare inside of herself, not at him. Finally, she nodded absently—a gesture he didn’t trust. She was blaming herself. He recalled Chelsea’s earlier confession about fearing for her mental health and shuddered inwardly, thinking what this new murder might do to her mind. The more reason to find this killer fast.

  Jaw clenched, he stared at Jenny’s body. She barely resembled the pretty blonde smiling in her ID shot. Waves of pity and outrage washed over him watching the wet, crumpled body of what had been a beautiful, vibrant woman only hours ago. No one had the right to extinguish the light of another human being. Yet at that moment, Evan thought he could do that without a flicker of remorse when he found this murdering son of a bitch. It was all a matter of perception.

  Mobilized once more, he turned around to look for Nóirín. He spotted her at the foot of the bridge, her flashlight going methodically over every inch. He walked toward her.

  “Anything? Any trace of the object the killer used to hit her? The first time it was something he’d picked up and left at the scene. I’m thinking he might have done the same here.”

  “Already ahead of you,” Nóirín said, fingers moving along the iron railing. “I can’t find anything amiss.”

  “Whatever he used, he probably tossed it in the river afterward. It makes the most sense.” Evan leaned over the rail to stare into the water. A shiver speared through him at the memory of its cold grip. “I’ll call in a team of divers and put them to work. I still can’t figure out how everything happened so fast.”

  He walked back to where John and Chelsea stood.

  “Do you know if there are any cameras around here?” he asked John.

  “I don’t know, but I’ll go check. The club’s owner is inside, and the Gardaí are taking statements from everyone.” John turned and walked away.

  “This is one smart individual,” Chelsea said. “He picks his murder scenes carefully. Both times around clubs, which is also risky because of the constant flow of people, but they provide an excellent way to hide in plain sight. He or she could be in there right now,” she indicated the club’s entrance.

  “Yeah. He definitely likes to take chances, but only in fights he’s guaranteed to win,” Evan said.

  “Exactly. At heart, he’s a coward. That’s why he attacks from behind, always makes sure the victim doesn’t have the slightest chance to fight back. I might be stretching this, but I think he’s not a physically imposing person, probably not tall nor strong. He clearly wants to avoid any physical confrontations.”

  “So why did he kill these women? What the hell is his motive?”

  Chelsea shook her head, burying her fingers in her hair as though she wanted to dig out this information from her own mind.

  “I don’t know, Evan. Let’s think. What do these two women have in common?”

  Evan thought the question was rhetorical, but he needed the answers too, so he started lining up the facts.

  “Well, starting with the obvious, they’re both in their thirties, both living in Dublin, both unmarried—although Shannon had a boyfriend, so this isn’t a common trait.” He continued to pace in small circles, rubbing his chin as he focused. Something clicked in his mind and he turned to Chelsea. “Shannon was a manicurist. Isn’t that called a nail artist nowadays? Jenny was an art director at an advertising agency. I have to check what she did exactly, but…”

  “They might have art in common,” Chelsea finished for him, her eyes suddenly animated. “An art director must be someone who does illustrations, graphic art, photography, right?”

  “I think so. Shannon was into photography too. Damn it, I might not have a chance to interview her boss and coworkers until Tuesday if they’re out of town for the holiday.” Evan’s hands tightened into fists. “This bastard knows exactly how to pick his timing.”

  He blew out a breath and started to shove his hands in his pockets, but paused as he saw John heading toward them. There was something in the older man’s gate that made Evan stand to attention.

  “You found something?”

  “We have video footage of the murder,” John said. “Come on.”

  Evan and Chelsea hurried to follow him inside the club, leaving Nóirín and the others at work. Gawkers stood beyond the yellow crime scene tape, but no one dared come too close.

  “Are you serious? Do we truly have the murder on tape?” Evan asked John as they entered the club, and the older detective led the way to a side room.

  “Aye. But don’t get too excited. There’s no visible inch of the killer showing. We only have the shape of him, and with the Devil’s own luck we can get the car plates.”

  “Car?” Chelsea asked.

  “You’ll understand in a moment.” John hastily introduced the two men that waited in the room, where one wall was covered in monitors. “This is Mr. Jim Hardy, the club’s owner, and this is Mr. Kyle Shane, the security agent on duty tonight. Detective Gallagher and Doctor Campbell.”

  Over the nods of acknowledgment, John urged Evan and Chelsea to have a seat in front of the monitors.

  “The camera connected to this screen overlooks the club entrance,” John continued, standing behind Evan’s chair and pointing at one of the screens. “I’ve asked Mr. Shane to make us a copy of the footage from the past twenty-four hours, but I wanted you two to see this asap. Mr. Shane, will you replay the section of the recording we’ve outlined, please?”

  Kyle Shane moved his chubby fingers over the keyboard and the screen was filled by the view from outside the club. Evan recognized the outside lights falling over the cobblestone, and shining over the river. There was a parking lot on the right, but it rarely was enough to accommodate the cars of all of the club’s customers. Tonight, it was especially crowded because of the party, so cars were parked everywhere, a lot of them illegally. No time to dwell on that because a dark, sleek s
edan rolled to a stop, barely within the range of the security camera. The image was dim and the darkness outside made it even harder to distinguish much. Evan squinted, trying to judge how much a good video technician could improve the image and make it clearer.

  Someone climbed out of the driver’s seat and opened the backseat door. Most of his body was masked by the car and he seemed to wear black from head to toe—loose pants, a shapeless hoodie, and a black baseball cap that hid his features completely. On top of that he also had the hood on, and kept his head down. It was as if he knew or intuited the camera range, because he’d stopped as far away as possible, as well as outside the illuminated area.

  Evan guessed instinctively the backseat passenger was Jenny. She fumbled in her purse, presumably paid the guy, then started to walk around the car, toward the club. And then it happened, so suddenly it almost startled Evan. He heard Chelsea’s breath catch next to him. In a swift, brutal movement, the driver slid something out of his pocket and hit Jenny on the back of her head.

  She fell to her knees, then collapsed face down. The dark silhouette darted gazes right and left, then knelt on top of her, rolled her over, and planted his hands around her neck. The struggle was short. Jenny’s feet beat the ground only a few times before they fell still. The killer continued to spear her to the ground, hands savagely wrapped around her throat. Their silhouettes were only black and white, dark and a little dim light, but somehow the scene was as vivid as a horror movie. As Jenny became still, her attacker remained motionless as well. For several moments they just froze in that parody of a tableau—life and death captured in the most blood-chilling image.

  And then the killer seemed to come back to his senses. He stood quickly, looked around again, then grabbed Jenny by the feet and with surprising force dragged her to the river, which was only yards away. The image was too dark to make out much now, but they already knew he’d tossed the body into the water. Within seconds, he was back in the car and drove away without a backward glance.

  Shane paused the recording, swallowing audibly. For a few long moments the only sounds in the room were the five people’s breaths. Even those were carefully controlled in a reflex of stillness one might have when facing a T-Rex. Evan realized his chest was so tight he had difficulty breathing. He forced himself to inhale deeply and let the air out slowly through his lips. As he glanced around the room, he saw that Hardy and Shane’s faces were bone white—as his must be. Next to him, Chelsea was ghostly pale as well, and had bitten her lower lip so forcefully she’d left a dark mark.

  Evan turned in his chair to look up at John. He didn’t know if he were able to stand yet.

  “Did any of you catch the plates?”

  Everyone shook their heads.

  Evan lowered his. “I know a bit about video editing. Once I have a copy of this I can try to clear and lighten the image, but the bastard was smart enough to stay away from the light. If he hadn’t miscalculated the camera’s range, we wouldn’t even have this.”

  “He took a huge chance though,” John mused, dragging his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “To kill her right in the parking lot where anyone could spot him at any time.”

  “Just like with Shannon, he desperately wanted her dead,” Chelsea said, hands tightly clasped together in her lap. “That was the feeling I got then, and I’m getting the same vibe now. I know it doesn’t really make sense because this is his second murder, but each of these murders feels intensely personal.” She sounded puzzled and at the same time furious she couldn’t pierce the killer’s mind.

  Evan reached out discretely and took her hand.

  “You’re right, I get the same vibe. But damn it, it’s ludicrous that we have a recording of him, and yet we can’t tell anything for sure about his physical appearance. We can only make out his shape, although he could have worn some padded gear underneath. He doesn’t seem to be much taller than the victim, but again, he could have hunched to look shorter, or wear lifts in his shoes to look taller. At least 60 percent of his body was concealed by the car at all times. Jenny was about 1,55 m and 50 kilograms. Petite and slender, so she wasn’t able to put up much physical resistance.”

  Evan expelled a breath, then a thought struck him. “This is another thing Shannon and Jenny had in common, they had a similar build. I wonder… Could it be possible Jenny used that dating website too, the one where Shannon met Patrick?”

  Chelsea and John stared at him.

  “Wouldn’t it be too much of a coincidence?” John asked.

  “If it’s true, it’s not a coincidence. I need to do a search on this. If I’m right, it’s another connection.”

  “But what does it prove?” Chelsea asked, disheartened.

  “It’s something else the victims have in common. The more clues we have, the closer we are to building a path that will lead us to this monster.”

  Chelsea stared at the dark screen. Her gaze was distant, her breath fast.

  “He really is a monster. I couldn’t make out much from these images, but what I saw indicates to me that in his mind he establishes a deep connection with these women. It’s the deepest in the moment he kills them. I’ve read about murderers who believe they can absorb the souls of the people they kill. I never imagined I could study one in action.”

  “Do you think that’s the case?” John asked. “Do you think he’s insane?”

  “He’s certainly not mentally healthy. But how sick he is… I can’t tell that for sure. Probably in society he’s only a shadow, has a job where he doesn’t socialize much, he doesn’t draw attention to himself in any way. He wants to remain a ghost so he can use his inconspicuousness in his favor. So far it seems to work horrifically well.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Dawn was breaking when Evan dropped Chelsea at home before driving to his place. He was grateful for the light traffic because he wouldn’t have trusted his reflexes if he had to make his way through rush hour. He was worn out. Even the adrenaline that had kept him going was at an all-time low. All he could think about was getting home, turning up the heat, and crawling into bed.

  It was strange how fatigue worked. He was in a dream-like state, but in the back of his mind he was wide awake. His brain had already set up the murder board, aligned the facts they had so far, and planned the next steps of the investigation. He’d noticed this process throughout the years, recognized it, and knew that after a few hours of sleep he would wake up knowing exactly what he had to do. But right now he needed to turn off his brain.

  Once home, he undressed, tossed his clothes in the hamper, took a scalding shower and donned an old T-shirt and sweat pants. His jaw hurt because he’d kept it clenched for so long. He swallowed a couple of aspirin tablets, knowing it wouldn’t prevent him from catching a cold, but it would help warm him and relieve the various pains in his tense muscles. Kieran followed him throughout the house until Evan walked into the kitchen and filled his bowls with food and water. Somehow he mustered the strength to bend and stroke the cat a few times. The feline’s grateful purr made him feel better. Leaving Kieran to his breakfast, Evan shuffled to the bedroom. He closed the wooden shutters to block out the light, curled up in bed under the thick duvet, and passed out.

  It was 4:53 p.m. when he woke up. His cheeks were burning, but he didn’t think he had a fever. He’d merely turned up the heat too much in his attempt to get warm. Disoriented, he stared at his phone, wondering why it was afternoon. Then he remembered everything—Jenny, the struggle to get her out of the water, his desperate, useless attempts to revive her through CPR, the outrage and helplessness he’d felt witnessing her murder on camera, and the moment when he’d knocked at her brother’s door to inform him his sister had been killed.

  Chelsea had been there to offer comfort, but Guy Williams and his wife preferred to be alone. Guy would have to come to the morgue soon and identify the dead young woman as his sister. And then, he would demand answers. Evan had to ignore the guilt and desperation of not having the
m yet.

  He sensed a movement at the foot of the bed. He turned the phone to light the area and saw Kieran’s phosphorescent eyes gleam in the darkness. As the cat walked over, Evan reached out and stroked his head. It was as if he sensed there was something wrong with his master. Kieran sat on his chest and began purring. The sound was incredibly soothing. It resembled an ageless chant, its vibration as calming as its intensity. For a few minutes, Evan continued stroking the cat, taking deep breaths, focusing on this good feeling that sparked inside him. He had to help it grow and to chase away the darkness, the despair.

  Okay, so he’d left the FBI to get rid of murderers, but he hadn’t. Tough luck. People had been killing one another ever since the dawn of time. The best he could do was find this bastard and make sure he paid for what he’d done. Evan might be the law, but he didn’t have to believe in this judicial system. Perhaps seeing the killer behind bars would be enough for the families of the two young women. If this was the justice society dictated, it had to be enough for him, too.

  He thought about calling Chelsea, but put the phone away. Maybe she was asleep, and he didn’t want to disturb her. She was taking this second murder harder than he was. He knew she was blaming herself for not suspecting they were dealing with a serial killer. It was ridiculous, of course. Chelsea didn’t have that kind of experience in the field of criminal psychology. Hell, not even he had guessed there would be a second victim, and he’d put his share of sickos away; not to mention he had interviewed dozens more. He’d built up some semblance of immunity to them, unlike Chelsea. She was more vulnerable than he’d realized. When she’d told him about her mother’s suicide, he’d glimpsed only the surface of her trauma.

  Evan wished he could take the burden of this case off her, but he needed her. He didn’t think she realized how good a profiler she actually was. Her instincts were excellent, her knowledge of the human psyche impressive, and she’d given him the best lead he had so far.