Mystery: The Sam Prichard Series - Books 5-8

by David Archer

  Each case was almost identical. Someone who would have been precisely the type of victim chosen in the actual shootings either reported hearing a shot fired, or saw a sudden bullet hole appear in a vehicle, wall or something else. In each case, the recovered slug was from a .223.

  Sam nodded. “So, sometimes he misses, and since none of these people are on the list of victims, that means he never goes back after a target if he does. That's interesting, but doesn't tell me whether Caleb is still at risk, so we're going to assume that he is. Let's see about the stolen vehicles.”

  Indie tapped, and a long list of links appeared. Sam whistled. “Well, well,” he said. “Looks like our boy can hotwire a car, too. Let's see, March twenty ten, is there a maroon pickup reported stolen?”

  Indie scanned through the links and clicked on two that were reported within three days of the Constance Peterman killing. “Bingo!” she said. “Got a maroon Ford F-150 stolen the morning of that shooting. Owner said he parked it at work that morning, and when he came out at lunchtime, it was gone. Found late that night about a mile from where the shooting took place.”

  They looked at some of the other reports that said a vehicle was seen, and in each case, a similar vehicle was stolen within the previous few hours, usually not more than an hour before the shooting occurred. Sam was getting excited.

  “He's got money, and he's a car thief as well as a murderer. He's addicted to killing; it makes him feel high or excited, and he likes the thrill. He's daring, and likes to show that witnesses don't scare him. Most of that would fit the normal profile of a serial killer. The big difference, in this case, is that this guy isn't a glory hound; his killings have gotten very little press, and only a few of them have even been speculated as being the work of a serial killer at all, but he's never contacted any reporters, newspapers or TV stations to brag about his work. That’s unusual. This guy isn't the normal type; he's only in it for himself, and he's not able to stop on his own; that's why he wants someone to catch him.”

  “And that's why he chose you,” Indie said. “He doesn't make the news, but he follows it for sure, and he's seen all the stuff that they've been saying about you. He figures, hey, here’s a guy who can catch terrorists and expose mind control and all that, he might be the one who can help put an end to my madness, too.”

  Sam nodded. “Not meaning to be as egotistical as this is gonna sound, but that sounds right. He wants someone to stop him because he can't stop himself. That means that the people who do know him probably have no idea that this side of him even exists. He's probably a genuinely nice guy, when he isn't out to kill someone.”

  “Mr. Brooks,” Indie said. “Did you ever see that movie, with Kevin Costner? He was this rich, successful businessman that everyone loved, but he was addicted to killing people. He went to AA meetings and talked about his addiction as if it was to booze or drugs, and even had a plan to have someone else kill him, because he couldn't make himself stop...” She suddenly trailed off, and her eyes got wide. “Except, when he got to the place where he was supposed to be killed, with the guy who was gonna do it, he backed out. He killed the other guy, instead, and went right on killing for the thrill of it.”

  Sam shrugged. “Addicts always back out of kicking their habit, until they reach that point where they can't go on. This guy would be like that, too, if he gets the chance. Remember the first note? He says if I can't stop him, then he figures no one can, and so he'll go on killing. He wants this game, so that there's a chance he'll lose and his addiction will end, but he doesn't want to lose. If he can beat me, even if it means killing me, he'll do it.”

  Indie nodded, but Sam could tell she was worried. “Okay, we've got a profile,” she said. “Now, let's find the first target. He said she lives alone near the line between Denver and Arvada, and she owns a business that new mothers use. Let's see what Herman can find. What are some businesses new mothers use?”

  Sam stared at her. “You're asking me? I've never even known a new mother!”

  Indie rolled her eyes. “Men are such wimps,” she said, then began typing, speaking softly as she did so. “Diaper service—baby furniture, baby clothing stores—pediatricians—nutritionists…”

  “Nutritionists?” Sam asked.

  Indie nodded. “Mm-hm,” she said. “New mothers, especially if they're breastfeeding, go to nutritionists to learn how to eat to make their milk as good for the baby as possible—what else? Oh, babysitters and day care! Some of them actually specialize in newborns, for when the mom has to get back to work in a rush!”

  She continued typing, and came up with several more ideas. Finally, she hit the enter key, and turned to Sam. We'll give him some time to work, and see who all he comes up with. If we're lucky, we'll find websites with photos, so we can tell if we're getting the right woman, but once we get names, we can go back to Facebook and try looking them up that way. That should let us find her, if she's in the list.”

  Sam leaned forward and put a hand on the back of her neck, pulling her to him for a kiss. “I just figured we deserve that, and I might not get another chance, once we get this list and get busy again.”

  “Mmm,” she said, “look, Mr. Prichard, you need to understand one thing; I'm your wife, now, and you can do that anytime you want to! That’s in the marriage rulebook, it is, I checked. Says you are now allowed to kiss me anytime—unless I'm pissed at you, then you better wait ‘til I calm down.”

  “And are you mad at me now?” Sam asked.

  “Um—no.”

  “Good,” he said, and kissed her again.

  Herman made a ding, and they let go of each other and turned their attentions back to the screen. There were almost three-dozen links there, and they began looking through them.

  Indie had told Herman to look for females whose homes were along the border between Denver and Arvada and who owned a business of one of the types she had described. He had done exactly as she'd instructed, and they began checking each link to see if any of them looked like either of the photos the killer had sent to Sam.

  They could eliminate some on the basis of race; both of the women in the photos were Caucasian, so when they saw a black, Hispanic or Asian woman, they clicked back and went to the next link. One or two looked a little like one of the women, but none of them were exact.

  However, some of them had no photos of the owners, so Indie had to go to Facebook and start hunting for them. The trouble with that was the number of people on Facebook that have similar names; when she typed in Julie Williams, she got almost a hundred possibilities in the Denver area alone.

  Some of them she could eliminate, in the same way, by scanning the list and looking at the miniature profile photos, but some people use other things for their profile pictures; in those cases she had to click on the picture and let their pages load, then look through their photos to see if they had a match. It was a slow process, because so many people don't even post a lot of pictures of themselves, and some don't allow any but their friends to see the photos they do post, or much of their profile at all.

  That didn't stop Indie, however. She merely copied the URL of the person's profile picture, then pasted it into a browser and removed a section of it, then hit enter, and she had all of their photos available instantly.

  Sam's eyebrows went up. “I didn't think there was a way around Facebook's privacy settings.”

  She smiled at him. “Puh-lease,” she said. “Did you forget who you’re talking to, here? Actually, that's a pretty simple hack that's all over the internet. Anyone can do that.” She went through enough of the person's photos to be sure it wasn't who she was looking for, then went on to the next name on their list.

  Sam glanced at the time and realized that it was past one thirty; they'd been at this for almost two-and-a-half hours. “Babe, you getting hungry?”

  “Yeah,” she said, “I am. Want me to make us some lunch?”

  “How about I do that, while you sit here and babysit Herman? We've got some heat-
and-eat burritos, right?”

  “Yep, bottom shelf of the freezer. I could eat one,” Indie said. “And could you bring me a root beer? I'm about coffee-logged.”

  “You got it,” Sam said, then got up and went to the kitchen. The burritos were right where she'd said, and since it took only three minutes to heat up three of them, he stuffed them into the microwave and got out a couple bottles of root beer and some paper plates while they cooked. When they were done, he carried them all back into the office and found Indie sitting frozen and staring at the screen.

  He set her plate and drink down beside her.

  “Okay,” he said, “that expression means you've got something. Give,”

  Indie nodded slowly, without turning to face him. “Well, I had Herman look for baby-related businesses on Facebook, because some companies set up business profiles, y'know? Then you can find the owner of that page, and see who it is. Look.”

  Sam leaned in and looked at the Facebook profile she was staring at. He got a good look at the photo, glanced down at the one Indie was holding—it was the blonde woman—and then looked at the name. Sam suddenly realized why the photo had looked mildly familiar.

  “Holy cow,” Sam said, “that's Samantha Harris!”

  “Yep,” Indie said. “I knew I had seen that face somewhere before, but it was still a bit distorted and I didn't recognize her right off the bat. Since when is she in business for herself?”

  Sam shook his head. “I don't know,” he said. “I never asked what she did for a living. On the other hand, doesn't it seem a bit coincidental that she turns out to be a woman I met in one of my first cases?”

  Indie nodded. “Yeah, it does,” she said. “Sam, it's like this guy knows everything about you. All about your cases, and everything.”

  Sam stared at the screen. Like Indie, the fact that it was Samantha Harris whose profile they were looking at was bothering him. He shook his head again. “I don't know what to think. This is turning out to be pretty weird. On the other hand, if I've identified her, then she should be safe. I guess what I need to do is go and talk to her.”

  Indie nodded. “Yeah,” she said, “but watch your back and look for anyone following you.”

  Sam looked grim. “You can count on that,” he said. “What’s the address of her place of business?”

  Indie looked. “It says she works out of her home. Same place she's lived all along.” She paused, then turned to look at Sam. “Wanna know something weird?”

  “What?”

  “Sometimes Herman scares me a bit. I gave him a whole bunch of different baby-related businesses to search, right? Well, one that I didn't think of was a midwife, but you wanna guess what Samantha does for a living?”

  Sam looked at her. “I'm gonna go out on a limb and say midwife for two hundred, Alex.”

  “Yeah,” Indie said. “Which means Herman added that occupation to his own programming.”

  Sam nodded. “Yeah, so?”

  “Sam, Herman isn't really a person, he's a computer program. Computer programs can't think for themselves; we have to tell them what to think about. But, somehow, he did what he can't do; he deduced for himself that there was at least one other business that caters to new mothers—like, the newest mothers—and added it to his search parameters. That should be impossible.”

  Sam stood there, unsure of what to say. Finally, he settled for, “Hey, Babe? As long as he's on our side, I don't care if he comes to life, but the minute he starts calling himself Skynet, I'm blowing your computer to kingdom come, got that?”

  Indie only nodded, so he kissed her goodbye and left.

  4

  Sam knew exactly where Samantha Harris lived in Arvada, and it took him only about twenty minutes to get to her place. As far as he could tell, no one was following him, but he knew he was dealing with a pro of some sort, so he wouldn't have bet on it. He parked the Corvette in front of her door and went up to knock.

  Sam could hear her moving around inside, and she answered the door after about a minute. He smiled as he saw recognition dawn on her.

  “Mr. Prichard,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Actually, Samantha, this time it's about what I can do for you. Can I come in for a few minutes?”

  She stood there and looked at him for a moment, then shrugged and held the door open for him to enter. “Come on in, I guess,” she said, and he stepped past her.

  He sat down on the same couch he'd sat on the first time he'd been to her place, back when he was trying to find out who really killed Barry Wallace, the singer he'd ended up replacing in the band. As it had turned out, she'd been unintentionally involved in Barry's death, and had withheld a bit of information that almost sent an innocent man to prison. The last time they'd spoken had not been pleasant.

  “So, okay, what is it you can do for me?” she asked, as she sat on the other end of the couch.

  Sam took out the note and pictures and handed them to her. She glanced at the photos, then read the note, and when she raised her eyes back to his, there was panic in them.

  “Someone wants to kill me?” she asked, her voice shaky.

  Sam nodded. “This guy is a serial killer,” he said, “and he's got it in his head that I'm the one he wants to stop him. He sent me that note and those photos last night while the band was playing at the Casino. Now, this morning, I tracked down the man in one of the photos, who turned out to be Caleb Porter, the big preacher in Aurora. While I was there talking to him, the killer left another note on my car, saying that one of the two women would be the first to die, but that if I could figure out who she was, he'd let her live. My wife and I managed to identify you, even though the picture isn't all that good; when I got it, it had been altered to make the face not visible, but my wife figured out how to unscramble it. It wasn't a perfect job, so it doesn't look exactly like you, but when we got some other clues, we were able to determine that you're the woman he had targeted.”

  Samantha stared at him. “But you found me, so he's gonna leave me alone, now, right? That's what you said?”

  “No, that's what he said, but we’re dealing with a serial killer, here. I can't know if he's going to honor his statement or not. Take a good look at that picture; can you tell me whether or not that is actually supposed to be you?”

  She looked at the photo of herself and nodded. “Yeah, this was a pub shot that I had done back when I was singing. Somebody changed the background, and yeah, my face is a little off in this one, but I'd know that dress anywhere. That damn thing cost me almost a grand, but Jimmy said I needed it to make the shot take notice.” She handed the picture back. “I shoulda made him pay me back for it, cause that shot never got me anywhere.”

  Sam sat there for a moment, and then started to rise. “Samantha, if you want, I can ask for police protection for you. I'm pretty sure they'd be willing to station an officer here, just to be safe.”

  She looked him in the eye. “Do you think he's gonna try to kill me anyway?” she asked, and Sam sighed.

  “I honestly don't know. A part of me says he won't, because he's playing a game with me, and I think he wants me to win, at least for now. I think he'll keep his word. But it isn't my life we're talking about here, it's yours, so it's your call.”

  She looked around her living room for a moment, as if the answer was there someplace, then turned back to him. “How about if I just lock myself in for the night? Would that help, you think?”

  “It might. He takes his shots from a distance, so I don't think he'd try to get inside. If you do, I wouldn't open that door for anyone, and I mean not anyone! If I show up here saying I need you to come with me, you better just assume he's got a gun to my head, and the same would go for anyone else you know. Don't trust anyone enough to get yourself in front of a door or a window. Stay completely out of sight, and you should be okay.”

  She nodded. “I've got a shotgun,” she said. “I think I'll just bar the door and hunker down. Watch some TV or something, with
all the shades drawn and the doors locked tight. Anybody comes in, they're gonna get filled with buckshot!” She grinned. “If he gets me, it won't be without a fight. But you see the neighborhood I live in? How well you think it'd go over if I had a cop here all night? I'm better off taking my chances this way, I think.”

  She was right; the neighborhood was one that a lot of drug dealers and other toughs called home, and letting it look like she was getting chummy with cops wouldn’t be good for her reputation. He started for the door, and she said, “Mr. Prichard?”

  Sam turned. “Yes?”

  “Thanks.”

  He smiled at her. “Just doing my job,” he said, then let himself out the door.

  There was a note on the windshield, and Sam kicked himself mentally for going inside where he could not watch the car. He used the tweezers to pull it out from under the wiper and unfold it.

  Very good, Mr. Prichard, it read. You found her, so I'll keep my promise and leave her alone. You now have one more to find, but here's how we'll do this one. You will keep this note secret from Detective Parks, and believe me, I'll know if you don't. The police are not to see it, not even hear about it. In return, I shall give you another hint about the third person, and if you are able to identify her in time, I will meet you at her home. If you come alone, you will get the chance to stop me, and possibly even take me in alive. If you do not, or if there is even the slightest sign that police are involved, she will die and the game is over. My next victim after that will be very painful to you personally, Mr. Prichard, but don't even think that you can figure out who it is. I'm not that transparent.

  As for the Reverend Porter, I have not yet decided what I will do about him. Were you as surprised as I when he declined police protection?

  Oh, yes, the hint: the person you're looking for is married. She has two children at home, and a couple more that are grown. She works as an assistant to a woman who knows you, but doesn't like you. Maybe that will narrow it down, but, then again, maybe not.