“Exactly,” I say. “From what I can tell, he makes mistakes with each kill. He learns as he goes. He’s got a taste for it now, though. He won’t stop until someone stops him.”
Davis leans back in his chair and crosses an ankle over his knee. “What are the other mistakes?”
I draw a diagram for Davis on a piece of police station letterhead. Three columns—Hannerting, Jones, Parks. Under Hannerting I write: Dragged body to exact location. Under Parks I write: Didn’t kill her, either misread her body signs or interrupted. I draw a large circle over the center of the page which includes Jones.
“This is the only one that went off without a hitch.” I tap the end of the pen to Jones’s section. “He got cocky after this kill. He didn’t take nearly the precautions he should have with the Parks murder because of it.”
“So he’s after perfection?”
“That and recognition. He wouldn’t leave his work so close to trails and roads if he didn’t want us to appreciate his art,” I say.
Davis takes a moment to digest my profile. Then he asks, “What do you make of the crosses?”
I shrug. “It could be a number of things. Perhaps the victims were chosen with some sort of religious idea in mind, or as Mitchell said, he might consider himself to be very religious and was offering each girl a prayer after he committed the crimes. But…” I scratch my head and think of how best to say it.
“Go on.”
“It could be that these girls were some sort of sacrifice for a God, Goddess, or whatever.”
“Shit, Hansen. Don’t tell me these are satanic offerings.”
“I don’t think so. Why leave a cross if the bodies are a sacrifice for the devil?”
Davis groans and scrubs his face with his wide palms.
“I know,” I agree. “We have to keep that information out of the media.”
“The crosses?”
I nod. “And the details of the genital destruction. It will only cause panic. Once word gets out that we have an active serial killer in the area, we won’t be able to stop the media. Every outlet will send their own correspondents and reporters. You’ll need to instruct your team as to what can be discussed with media and what cannot.” I thumb back at the hallway through Davis’s window. “Little Miss Ready to Interview is exactly the early bird that we need to watch. If any of these details break, the killer will change his MO.”
“And we will have no way to test a suspect’s knowledge of the crime scenes.”
“Exactly. We also need to try and keep Parks’s possible homosexuality out of the press as long as possible.”
The rest of Picasso’s profile is a bit formulaic, but one I’m willing to bet money on. He is a local man and knows the area very well. I’d guess his age to be between twenty-five and forty-five. He is white and blends into his surroundings, maneuvering inside this community without causing any suspicion. Like the BTK killer in Kansas, this guy is an active member of his neighborhood, his family, his church. No one knows about this side of him—there’s a dark, nonsocial side, like a Jekyll and Hyde.
“The BTK guy coaxed the media,” Davis adds. “This guy has been silent.”
“He’s kept his ego in check so far. We’ve caught him early in his career, but he’ll make a big mistake. I’m guessing he’ll be tripped up by his OCD. He can’t leave a body before doing whatever it is he does with the cuts and the crosses. He has a method and a plan—he cannot deviate from that without causing himself severe psychological distress.”
If there is one thing I know about serial killers, especially guys like BTK, it’s that they have serious anger issues and narcissistic tendencies. The entire world revolves around them. If we can manipulate the press release to poke him, we might spur him on to make another crucial mistake very soon.
Davis tips back in his chair, arms folded out in a stretch like butterfly wings. His biceps are thin but well-muscled. He examines me on the other side of the table. “I’ve hired on a detective to help the team. I had to pull his ass out of retirement—he’s one of our greats in this area.”
The rattle of knuckles against the glass door fills the room and in steps a grayhair, someone who’s spent years on the beat and weathered it all. A pin on the lapel of his sport coat reads Proud to be an American under a waving flag.
“Ainsley,” I say, not sure exactly how to react. Sudden flashes from the past filter through my mind.
Detective Cole Ainsley reaches to shake my hand. “Good to see you again, darlin’. I bet you made your daddy proud with that big, fancy badge.”
Ainsley was a friend of my father’s and worked a number of cases with him over the years. I haven’t seen Ainsley since my dad’s funeral. I feel like I’m standing on ground that has suddenly shifted beneath my feet and its unsteadiness might not hold. Detective Ainsley looms above me at a little over six feet with a shock of thick white hair and a wooly mustache and eyebrows to match. He has that upside-down-triangle body shape with the broad, beefy shoulders and the whittled-down waist. “They’re getting my badge ready in human resources,” Ainsley says. “I need to check in with them and then I’ll report back for orders.”
Davis and I watch him go. “Ainsley’s been up my ass about the connection between these latest murders and the Tucker case.” Davis looks out the window, his eyes hooded against the light. “He’s a good cop, Hansen. Most of the guys around here think he’s cracked because he’s been in here screaming about Tucker.” Davis’s gaze comes back to me. “I tell the guys to be grateful. Ainsley’s not half as cracked as the psychics that have been through here.”
I laugh with him. Davis has a playfulness about him, an aura of humor that probably comes through much clearer under different circumstances.
“This might surprise you, Agent, but there have been no credible psychic leads yet.”
It is simply impossible to have a case this big without the psychics crawling out of the woodwork. We’d been warned extensively about most psychics’ need for attention in the academy. It’s not that I don’t believe messages from beyond exist; just, in my experience, the so-called psychics who have come forward to help have not had the most honorable of intentions or accurate results.
“You see no connection to the Tucker case at this point?” Davis asks.
“It’s a long shot,” I concede. “A killer like the one we’re dealing with has a need to kill in order to survive. He’s making a statement with these crimes. How would he have been able to stop for all those years? Also, Tucker was not mutilated or given any drug. She died from a beating. It’s a different pattern.” I dump another packet of sugar into my sludge-like coffee to kill the awful taste. I need something to hold in my hand, something to ground me after seeing Ainsley. “As far as I’m concerned, the only connections with Tucker are location and gender. Maybe our killer moved away after Tucker and moved back a year or so ago, but that’s a shot in the dark.”
“I’m partnering you with Ainsley.” Davis tries a pen on a pad of paper, scribbling for a line of ink. He tosses it aside for another. “Let’s get going on that press statement.”
*
All around me toilets flush and reporters freshen up before the press conference. I’ve locked myself inside a stall to stop the tremble in my hands and the shiver that pulses through me, which rattles my teeth. I suddenly hear my father’s voice: “It’s all in the breath.” Eyes closed, I try to forget Ainsley, and I listen only for the steadying of my choppy breath. Focus. Equal lengths of inhalation and exhalation.
My father had no doubt that chaos could be controlled. He also didn’t have his memory to contend with, a past like a minefield. I never know what will stir the memory—a spoken word in just the right pitch, a touch in the same location and with the same amount of pressure. But my father knew one thing for sure: my past made me into the woman I am today and those experiences have made me a much stronger agent.
The water slowly begins to recede. With each exhalation, my ears unplug and I slo
wly rise to the surface.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
*
By the time Captain Davis takes the podium to deliver a statement about Emma Parks, a healthy pack of media representatives has descended on Willow’s Ridge and fills the small conference room with cameras and microphones. Reporters set their voice recorders. I stand in the back of the pressroom, my badge hidden while I pose as a reporter. I scribble notes on a pad of paper and observe everyone around me. It’s been known for a killer to pose as a reporter at a press conference about his own crimes. Crazier antics have been done by murderers so desperate to interject themselves into the investigation. It always amazes me how so many serial killers are fascinated with the law enforcement teams who work to solve their crimes. Hiding in plain sight is a skill Picasso has already mastered.
Davis looks nervous and stiff in his dark suit and tie. The harsh lights wash out his skin tone to the color of ash. Still, he manages to hold his voice steady and deliver the statement in only three minutes. After detailing the victims’ names and ages, Davis gives some information about what each girl was doing at the time she went missing. “We are looking into the possibility that there may be a serial killer working within the Willow’s Ridge area.”
A hush falls on the room after Davis uses the magic words: serial killer. Only the clicks of cameras fill the room. After a few moments, Davis explains that the most recent victim, Emma Parks, was able to give a statement before succumbing to her wounds, and her statements have been a significant help to investigators.
It was my idea to insinuate that we’d gotten information from Parks before she died. I hoped it would enrage Picasso.
“Make no mistake”—Davis leans in to the cameras just as I’d instructed—“we will find you.” He pauses for dramatic effect.
Davis’s words are slow and measured, just like we’d practiced. The room is silent except for the continued click of camera screens. Davis immediately thanks the press and leaves without answering any questions.
I’m certain the killer is watching the statement.
Chapter Five
Ridgeway Inn is the only hotel in Willow’s Ridge, and from the looks of the room, it hasn’t been used since the leaf-peeping tourists came through last September. I drop my bag on the hotel bed and half expect dust particles to scatter in a gray poof from the flannel quilt. The bed frame squeaks a tired whine of protest. The old box-style television and the burnt-orange shag carpet are a real sight, and I’m willing to bet there’s no exercise equipment to speak of in the hotel. Certainly no pool for my daily workouts.
I splash cold water on my face in the bathroom and glance up at the mirror above the sink. Beyond my reflection is probably the biggest bathtub I’ve ever seen. A double-wide of white, shimmery porcelain that’s a stark contrast to the dark ’70s decor. And there is no shower. Who takes baths anymore anyway? Especially in a dingy hotel that looks like a time warp that only Austin Powers could truly appreciate.
Leaning against the oversized bathroom counter, I twist the hotel towel up in my hands and think of Ainsley. I hadn’t expected him. Hell, I hadn’t expected Marci to be brought into the case. The last thing I want is for my past to be broadcast on the news, the past I’ve worked so hard to keep a secret.
I snap a picture of the tub and text it to Rowan: Wish u were here.
A severe cold has settled in for the night. Outside the hotel window, the snow and ice glow a bluish silver under the streetlights. I’d forgotten how dark it gets in such a small town at night. The quiet would have matched the darkness if it weren’t for all the ruckus from the arriving press. It’s amazing what happens once the label serial killer is used. Americans can’t get enough of these killers. It’s been a long day and we still have an interview to conduct. I usually thrive on the fast-and-furious pace of a murder investigation. Not tonight.
Downstairs, I find Ainsley in the hotel lobby leaning against the front desk in an attempt to get closer to the manager. My dad always said Ainsley was quite the ladies’ man, a master flirt who smooth talked many women he worked with over the years. “He can get any woman to give up her secrets,” my dad said. I wonder what his wife thinks of his tactics and why she has stuck around so long.
“Ready?”
“Ah, Hansen. Meet Alison, the owner of this fine establishment. Her daddy and I used to play hoops together in high school. She’s sworn to keep your affiliation a secret from all these media goons,” he says, in a voice only Alison and I can hear. “Right, Alison?”
She nods, her thick blond ponytail bouncing, and gives me a quick smile. “Don’t worry.”
“She’s proof that the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree,” Ainsley says. Standing next to him, I’m nearly choked with the excess of his aftershave. He’s recently spritzed up.
“Have you sold out your rooms for the night?” I ask.
“Tonight and for the next week. We haven’t seen the likes of this sort of business since the centennial anniversary of the limestone quarry.” Alison gives me a nervous smile. “We’re sending people out to Caldton, the town next to us, to find rooms.”
Ainsley hands Alison his card. “I know you got Miss Special Agent staying with you”—he thumbs over at me—“but if any of these reporters get out of hand, give me a call.”
Alison holds the card a few seconds as though it’s valuable before she slips it into her back pocket.
Ainsley hands me a cup of steaming coffee. Grateful for the caffeine, I wrap both hands around the piping Styrofoam. “Where did you get this?”
“The perks of knowing the owners.”
I take a sip. “Well done.”
We make our way for the entrance through the lobby filled with camera crews and reporters.
“If we could just do our blessed jobs without the media breathing down our necks,” Ainsley says.
The glass doors slide open. “We go back a long time, Ainsley, but for the record, I don’t answer to darling or Miss Special Agent.”
“No?”
His boyish grin’s infectious. Despite my best efforts, I grin back. “No.”
He chuckles and nudges me with his elbow. “Got it, sweetheart.”
Ainsley drives a slow winter-weather crawl through the main portion of town toward Eldridge Funeral Home on the edge of town. The bright streetlights reflect off the lenses of his glasses. A mass collection of key chains bounces against his knee. Ainsley has the standard law-enforcement Swiss Army knife, which clinks against a plastic picture frame. A young girl smiles in a school portrait on one side, while the back features a photo of the girl with Ainsley.
“How old is your granddaughter? She’s a cutie.”
Ainsley gives me a startled look, then realizes I’m referring to the picture on the key chain. A smile spreads across his perfectly white teeth. “Sophie. She’s in kindergarten out at Willow’s Ridge Elementary.”
“She looks sweet. Must be nice to have her living so close to you.”
Ainsley nods. After a second he adds, “She’s actually my niece’s daughter. Sophie calls me gran-Cole.” He chuckles and there’s a twinkle in his eye. “My wife’s gran-Nancy. Do you have any children, Luce?”
“Can’t claim any. Sometimes I wish I could.”
Ainsley nods beside me. “Being a parent can be the most beautiful gift but it can be a quiet curse sometimes. I keep thinking about how these families are handling the murders of these girls. Christ, I can’t imagine.”
In the glare from the streetlights, I examine Ainsley’s profile. It’s hard not to be drawn to him. He’s stubbornly gruff, no doubt about that, but he has a nice sense of humor. He may not be the best communicator I’ve worked with, but it’s clear that his passion outweighs most of that. And he’s always been known for his incredible police work. While Davis didn’t tell me he believes Marci’s case is linked to the present murders, the fact that he hired Ainsley does. If, and that is a very faint if, th
is is a serial case that began with Marci’s murder, Davis hopes the presence of Ainsley might throw the suspect, let him think we know more than we actually do.
“It must have been something terrible to find your friend like that, Luce. You and Marci were both so young. I know you cared for her.”
I nod and look out the passenger window.
“I want you to know I never gave up on her case. I always kept her school picture under the glass top of my desk to remind me.”
“Thank you,” I say. A heartbeat passes. “It changed my life, finding Marci like that.”
Ainsley nods. “I know that the Marci Tucker case is connected. Davis tells me you have your doubts.”
Ice collects around the edge of the windshield. “Twenty-plus years is a long time to go without killing for one of these guys. And the quarry. Could there be a more perfect place to hide a body on this planet? I’m not convinced we can count location as a tie.”
Ainsley shrugs. “I give you that, Luce. That’s exactly why I know our guy has at least one partner.”
“Ainsley—”
He cuts me off with the slice of his hand through the air between us. That’s the other thing about Ainsley: he has a temper that tends to get him into trouble with his coworkers and suspects. “Nobody wants to say what’s really going on here, Hansen. No one wants to say aloud that we have a hate crime on our hands. All of these kids were dabbling in places they didn’t belong, correct?”
I look at him hard. Ainsley’s white hair shimmers silver under the streetlights. I understand why Davis hired him out of retirement. Marci Tucker is the case Ainsley hasn’t been able to let go of. We all have one of those cases, one that cuts too close to home, that wrenches our heartstrings and never lets us go. We resolve we will crack that crime before we retire. We will see justice prevail. This is Ainsley’s too-close-to-home case. Even in his retirement, he can’t forget.
It’s also suddenly clear that Director Sanders put me on this case for exactly the same reason. Marci Tucker, in essence, has always been my case, too. I see Ainsley with a new appreciation. Based on our past, our symmetry, we are a perfect partnership. If we do it right, combine our need for answers, we’ll make an unstoppable team.
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