Don't Breathe: A Gripping Serial Killer Thriller (Darkwater Cove Psychological Thriller Book 6)

by Dan Padavona

  Ali’s memory works in overdrive. He offered himself to her? Who is this man?

  “You must mistake me for someone else.”

  He wags his finger at her.

  “This is why you’re in the chair, Ali. Because you’re never truthful. It hurts that you play this game, pretending you don’t remember.”

  Ali shakes her head and lowers her eyes. She can’t recall. He’s confusing Ali with another woman. That’s the only explanation. Then a memory shoots back to her. Last spring at the assembly, a young man accompanied the mayor to the school fundraiser. What was the son’s name? Kealan, she thinks. Yes, that’s his name. Though she can’t deny Kealan turned her head with his toned body and boyish looks, something about the man worried Ali. A wolf hiding in sheepskin. He complimented Ali and made his interest clear, though he never asked her on a date. It was more of a creepy, uninvited flirtation. It hits her. Kealan had blue eyes.

  Why would he kidnap her months later if she’d offended him?

  His name rests on the tip of her tongue when he strides toward her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he glares down at Ali.

  “You claim I’m as lonely as you,” he says, motioning at the enclosures. “Does it look like I live alone? I have plenty of company.”

  Night basks at the window. She can’t see the meadow beyond the black veil. Where is she? Twice today, he escorted Ali to the bathroom, placing a black sack over her head. The inside of the sack smelled like vermin droppings. Once inside the bathroom, he removed the sack and closed the door, waiting outside while she finished. The worst diarrhea of her life struck her when she sat down. She stayed in the bathroom for ten minutes as he pounded on the door and demanded she finish. The second trip to the bathroom wasn’t as bad. By then, she’d emptied her stomach and left behind nothing but acid and a hollow pit. Both times, she examined the casement window. Past the curtains, the meadow stretched toward infinity. Craning her neck at the pane, she thought she discerned a gray strip moving past the front of the house. A road with no marker. Cranking the window open, she wiggled the screen. It wouldn’t take much effort to pop the screen out of place, though he’d hear from the other side of the door. The problem was the size of the window. No way she could squeeze her hips between the glass and frame. As if he knew what she planned, he inserted a key into the lock and warned her to finish before he opened the door.

  Now she stares at the rows of glass enclosures along the wall. What is his final test? Her stomach roils, and she worries she’ll become sick again. He reaches into the enclosure and pulls a gargantuan tarantula from the tank. The spider’s legs dangle like alien appendages as its massive abdomen rests upon his open palms. He carries the arachnid to Ali as he would a tray of food.

  He drops the spider on her lap. The arachnid’s weight presses on her full bladder.

  “Calm yourself, Ali. It’s time for your next test.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Saturday, September 19th

  10:55 a.m.

  Smith Town High School is a three-tiered, yellow brick building with a concrete walkway cutting through a grassy mall. Bleachers rise at the end of the parking lot, and cars congregate at the athletic field. As Darcy scans the crowd filing through the stadium gate, Ketchum parks away from the ruckus and climbs down from the vehicle.

  “Principal Diaz is here on a Saturday?” Darcy asks, fixing the bag strap over her shoulder.

  A gust of wind tosses her hair around.

  “Half the administration is here for the football game,” he says, nodding at the crowd. “Diaz agreed to meet us at eleven. Hate to tell you, but I have bad news on the thumbprint inside Ali Haynes’s closet.”

  “CSI couldn’t lift the print?”

  “It’s too smudged. No chance they’ll be able to use it.”

  “What’s the latest on Kealan Hart?”

  “A Smith Town PD cruiser parked down the road from his house all night. The officer says Hart was gone all evening and returned home after four in the morning.”

  “Strange that someone so distraught over losing a loved one would stay out all night, partying.”

  “We can’t confirm where he was last night. He might have been with Ali Haynes. Someone with Hart’s finances can afford a hiding place or two. There’s another issue. Pinder involved himself with the case again last night.”

  Darcy raises an eyebrow.

  “Why the change of heart?”

  “Pinder and his partner parked outside Chris Doyle’s apartment and followed him to a club after sunset. Doyle gave them the slip.”

  “Great, so we don’t know where Doyle was, either. Not surprising Pinder directed his attention at someone other than Kealan Hart.”

  “Par for the course.”

  Checking the time on her phone, Darcy follows Ketchum up the walkway to three sets of glass doors. Ketchum pulls each door and finds them locked.

  “I don’t get it,” he says, peering through the glass. “Diaz told us to use the front entryway.”

  “Maybe he’s already at the field.”

  “The game doesn’t kick off until noon. He should be here.”

  Darcy knocks and presses her face to the glass, cupping her hand over her eyes so she can see inside.

  “Hello? Anyone inside?”

  Ketchum groans and fiddles with his phone.

  “I’ll call Diaz and see what’s up.”

  Before Ketchum enters the number, a man turns the corner and pushes the door open.

  “Can I help you?” he asks, blocking the entrance.

  The twenty or thirty-something man wears a Smith Town High hooded sweatshirt with a football on the front. He’s built like a former player, and he has a firm chin and flawless complexion. Dark brown hair sticks out beneath a baseball cap.

  Ketchum displays his identification and makes introductions.

  “We’re meeting with Principal Diaz at eleven o’clock,” Ketchum adds.

  The man eyes their badges, then glances over his shoulder.

  “Come back Monday. Principal Diaz isn’t here on the weekends.”

  “He should be in his office. The principal told me he’s working at the football game and would be here by eleven.”

  The man purses his lips and shuffles his feet.

  “I can’t allow anyone inside the building. Our security team is at the football game.”

  “If you check the office, Principal Diaz will confirm the appointment.”

  He gives Ketchum a doubtful stare.

  “I’ll check,” he says, shuffling away.

  He leaves the door locked, and he watches Ketchum and Darcy from the corner of his eye as he vanishes down the hallway.

  “I figured this would be a pain in the ass,” Ketchum says, checking his phone. “If this guy doesn’t return in thirty seconds, I’m calling Diaz.”

  A buzzer sounds when the door unlocks. Darcy stares in question at Ketchum before he opens the door. The man who refused to let them inside waits in the hallway, hands set on his hips.

  “Principal Diaz confirmed the meeting. Sorry for being a hard ass.”

  “Not a problem,” Darcy says, following him down a dimly lit hallway. “Can’t be too careful allowing visitors into schools.”

  On the wall, a framed photograph of a gray-haired woman announces Mrs. O’Donnell as Teacher of the Month.

  “I’m Tod McHugh,” he says, offering his hand to Ketchum. “I teach senior high earth science.”

  “Have you worked here long, Mr. McHugh?” Ketchum asks.

  McHugh runs a hand through his hair. He throws his shoulders back as he walks.

  “This is my eighth year at Smith Town High.”

  “Impressive. Forgive me for asking, but you’re young, considering your experience.”

  “The district hired me out of grad school at twenty-three. It’s difficult to win a job in the Smith Town district without experience, but they recognize talent.”

  Darcy hides a snicker when Ketchum rolls h
is eyes.

  “Here we are,” McHugh says, stopping outside the office.

  The lights are off inside, the room gloomy. Darcy wonders if McHugh took them to the wrong office before a bald, copper-skinned man with gray in his eyebrows emerges behind the desk. He doesn’t look like a man prepared to work at a football game. The dark blue suit and wingtip shoes seem appropriate for corporate work.

  “You’re the FBI agents?” Diaz asks.

  “Yes, sir. Agents Ketchum and Haines.”

  Diaz looks Darcy up and down and scrunches his brow in thought.

  “You must be the agent from Genoa Cove, the profiler I read about in the newspapers. I thought your name was Gellar.”

  “I’m married now,” Darcy says.

  McHugh watches from the entryway.

  “Fascinating,” Diaz says, bouncing on his toes. “Tracking serial killers across the country. I can’t imagine. After your experiences, you should write a book. If you don’t mind me saying, I’m friends with the CEO of a prominent publishing house in New York City. I’d be happy to forward your name.”

  “I’m not interested in writing a book,” Darcy says. “But I’ll keep the offer in mind.”

  “Shame. I’d be the first to purchase a copy. Well, I won’t keep you waiting. Follow me to my office.” When McHugh strolls behind Ketchum and Darcy, Diaz turns back to the teacher. “I’ll take it from here, Mr. McHugh.”

  “Are you sure, sir?”

  “I’ll lock up after I’m finished and meet you on the field.”

  “As you wish, Principal Diaz.”

  The floor-to-ceiling window in Diaz’s office looks out on the mall. Plaques adorn the walls, highlighting the principal’s achievements. Seated on a leather chair, Diaz clasps his hands on the table.

  “Now, how may I aid the FBI?”

  “We’re helping the Smith Town PD locate one of your teachers, Ali Haynes.”

  Diaz waves a hand through the air.

  “I’m aware of the investigation. One of their detectives, Moshen, I believe, phoned me yesterday afternoon. It’s wasted effort, if you want my opinion.”

  “How so?” Darcy asks.

  “Ms. Haynes involves herself in too much drama, always finding problems where they don’t exist. She doesn’t belong at Smith Town High and should teach younger students. Fewer challenges. She’s not cut out for a senior high job.”

  “That doesn’t explain why she disappeared.”

  “It does. Ms. Haynes got in over her head with a student named Tina Marquez. Haynes claims students bully Marquez, but she’s on an island with her opinion. Now that the mother is calling Haynes, my theory is Haynes stepped away from the pressure. She should have come to me for help. I would have advised her to recuse herself from the accusations. Teenagers poke fun at their classmates. If we cried bullying every time someone got their feelings hurt, we’d need to expel the student body.”

  Ketchum shifts his chair forward.

  “Principal Diaz, the police found Ali Haynes’s car in her driveway. That decreases the odds she left town.”

  Diaz rubs his chin.

  “That is odd, but perhaps a friend picked her up, and they went away to blow off steam.”

  “Was Haynes dating another teacher?”

  The principal straightens in his chair.

  “I hope not. We forbid dating among the faculty. It sends the wrong message to our students.”

  “Did a faculty member harass Haynes or pay her too much attention?”

  “Doubtful. I run a tight ship. Three years ago, I caught an aide flirting with the calculus teacher in the copy room. I demoted the aide to the elementary school. Problem solved.”

  “I understand flowers arrived for Ali Haynes last week,” says Darcy, clicking her pen.

  “Yes, I overheard the gossip.”

  “Your administrative assistant claims the bouquet appeared on her desk while she was away. Who delivered the flowers?”

  “I can’t say. The delivery occurred during my break.”

  “Don’t you have security at the front door during school hours?” Ketchum asks.

  Diaz loosens his collar.

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Seems unusual in today’s climate of school shootings.”

  “We employ two security officers. They patrol the school until the last bus leaves. The school has cameras on the entry doors, and only the front doors remain unlocked.”

  Darcy glances at Ketchum. Anybody can enter the school with a gun or bomb.

  “I need Wednesday’s footage,” Ketchum says, holding Diaz’s eyes.

  “No problem. We store the recordings on a hard drive in the back room. I’ll copy the footage right away.”

  “What about the back doors?”

  “We have cameras on those doors too. But nobody uses those doors except the food delivery crew, the teachers, and students going outside for gym. I’ll copy all the recordings.”

  Ketchum displays photographs of Chris Doyle and Kealan Hart.

  “These are two of your former students. Do you recognize them?”

  Diaz holds the pictures close to his face, glaring down his ski slope nose at the photographs. He shakes his head at Doyle and slides his picture behind Hart’s. Poking his finger against the photo, he nods and hands them back to Ketchum.

  “I recognize the blonde gentleman. Kealan Hart. I expected great things from the young man, and he’s made a place for himself in Smith Town.”

  Yes, by living off his father’s money, Darcy thinks.

  “We understand Mr. Hart visited the school last spring with the mayor. He met with Ali Haynes.”

  Diaz shrugs his shoulders.

  “I recall the Hart family attending a charity fundraiser. But whether he met Haynes, I can’t recall.”

  As Ketchum questions Diaz about Ali Haynes’s disappearance, the principal insists she left on her own accord.

  Diaz doesn’t convince Darcy.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Saturday, September 19th

  11:55 a.m.

  A cheer rises from the stands as the Smith Town football team storms the field. Through the mirrors, Darcy watches confetti rain down on the spectators as the pep band plays the fight song. Then the SUV turns the corner, and Darcy loses sight of the school.

  “Everyone in Smith Town seems enamored with Kealan Hart,” says Darcy. “Talk about pulling the wool over their eyes.”

  Ketchum clicks the turn signal and pulls the vehicle toward the police station.

  “Tomorrow, I want to bring Hart and Doyle in for second interviews.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Any ideas on the killer’s profile? I realize we have little to go on. And if you say he looks like a tarantula, I’m hiring your replacement.”

  Darcy snickers. She likes this side of Ketchum. It’s about time he showed a sense of humor.

  “I sketched out a few ideas in my head. But I wouldn’t stake my life on their accuracy.”

  Stopping at a red light, Ketchum says, “Do your best. This is why I wanted you back with the BAU.”

  Darcy sets the case folder on the seat.

  “We’re looking for an erotomanic.”

  Ketchum squints.

  “An erotomanic is delusional, right?”

  “Yes, people who believe a person they’ve never met or barely know is in love with them. But the object of their affection doesn’t have to be famous. It can be someone important in their lives, or a person they see every day. The erotomanic develops romantic delusions. When he makes contact, and the object of his affection spurns him, he becomes angry and feels cheated.”

  “Is it common for erotomanics to become obsessive?”

  “Yes, and that explains the hangup calls. He needs to hear their voices, but can’t bring himself to speak. Violent obsessives take it to the next level and stalk their obsessions. Our killer is bolder than normal. He’s kidnapping and murdering people he believes wronged him.”

  “What e
lse?”

  “The killer has an ego. In his view, he’s superior to people around him. Women should never turn him down, as he’s above them. He lives in Smith Town and knew the victims. Based on the women’s ages, I’d place in him in his twenties or early thirties. Whoever this guy is, he’s been close to the victims for many years.”

  “Sounds like Kealan Hart and Chris Doyle. You favor one over the other?”

  “Hart displays tendencies consistent with a sociopath, treating Nadia Ames like he owned her while he pursued Brit Ryan. He broke inside Nadia’s house, stole the necklace, and slept in her bed.”

  “That puts him at the top of my list,” Ketchum says, scratching behind his ear.

  “And mine. But I’m not convinced he’s our guy. It’s difficult for a man of his prominence to fly under the radar and get away with murder. On the other hand, Chris Doyle has a violent streak. Any man who strikes a woman is the lowest form of humanity.”

  Back at the Smith Town Police Department, Chief Winger lends the back office to Ketchum and Darcy. Stained yellow from dust and dirt, a computer that appears plucked from the previous century hums and groans in the corner.

  “Will that thing eat the USB drive?” Darcy asks.

  “One way to find out.”

  Ketchum inserts the drive. The computer makes a grinding sound, but the footage loads. While Darcy reviews the Hart and Doyle interview notes, Ketchum scans the footage. The video cameras record in black-and-white. Nobody thought to position the cameras to avoid the sun glaring through the glass. Though brightness washes out the upper half of the camera frames, Ketchum can make out faces. Between nine and eleven o’clock, students file through the entry doors, and a woman with an intense glare accompanies an obese boy into the school. That’s the only adult passing through the doors.

  The cameras along the rear of the school pick up less action. Two gym classes use the doors, the male teacher carrying a kick ball with a whistle dangling around his neck. No deliveries. Nobody carrying bouquets. When the footage hits eleven o’clock, Ketchum releases a frustrated breath.