by Cassie Miles
Treadwell threw open the door to the cabin. His silhouette, outlined by the light from inside, showed a stocky, muscular physique. Though Treadwell was a respected academic, he looked more like an athlete than a bookworm. His private practice in southern California must have left plenty of time for working out.
Marisa approached him first, and they exchanged introductions. Treadwell greeted Flynn with a hug, a gesture Flynn found annoying. He’d never been a touchy-feely kind of guy.
The interior of the fishing cabin was small but well-furnished, with a kitchenette and table behind the sofa and chairs. Through the open door to the bedroom, Flynn saw a stack of books piled beside the double bed.
“Have a seat.” Treadwell pointed to the sofa in front of the rock fireplace, where a cozy flame licked at a neat stack of logs. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Just water,” Marisa said. “We’re on duty.”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Flynn said as he took a spot beside her on the sofa.
“Jack Daniel’s on the rocks?”
“Perfect.”
Marisa shot him a disapproving glance, and he wondered if she’d decide to reprimand him, since she was the senior officer on this case. Her flurry of phone calls earlier had reminded him of the bureaucracy he’d escaped when he’d left ViCAP and taken on the running of the safe house.
He wasn’t sure if he could function in that world anymore. Wearing a suit and necktie every day. Spending more time staring at a computer screen than being out on the street. If he had to leave Mesa Verde, it might be time for him to turn in his badge and leave the FBI.
Accepting a tumbler of whiskey from Treadwell, Flynn leaned back on the sofa and listened while Marisa reported the details of the chopper crash and its aftermath. Her carefully chosen words made the abduction sound as efficient and deadly as a Special Ops maneuver. Did the Judge have military training? Had he been involved in law enforcement?
The whiskey warmed Flynn’s throat as he gazed into the flickering orange flames. The pungent scent of burning pinion pine teased his nostrils.
Treadwell’s attention didn’t waver. Not for a second. He leaned forward with his sun-bleached hair falling across his tanned forehead, absorbing every word.
It wasn’t until she recounted Bud’s statement that Treadwell spoke. “I remember his use of aloha from the prior investigation. The Judge used it as a sign-off. It was almost light-hearted in tone.”
“He was laughing at us,” Marisa said. “Daring us to find him.”
Treadwell’s gaze encompassed both of them. “Do you believe the man who abducted Grace Lennox is the same man who committed the earlier murders in this area as well as the killings in San Francisco?”
“Not all of them,” Flynn said quickly. “Russell Graff was a serial killer. He murdered at least three women. Our witness, Cara Messinger, identified him with one-hundred-percent certainty.”
“Then what is your hypothesis?”
“Two years ago in San Francisco, the Judge killed seven women. Then he stopped. ViCAP assumed he was dead.”
Treadwell lifted an eyebrow. “But you disagreed.”
“I believe he came here and started his serial killing again. It was almost two years ago that he left a body close to the Mesa Verde safe house where I was working. I believe that murder was the work of the real Judge. Not Russell Graff.”
“What makes you think this was the real Judge?”
Though Treadwell was a respected psychiatrist, Flynn heard overtones of skepticism in his question. True, there was scant evidence to back up his assertion—speculation from Dr. Sterling, the forensic anthropologist, regarding differences in the remains found near the safe house and Graff’s other victims. And the “aloha” comment to Bud Rosetti.
“Mostly,” Flynn admitted, “it’s a gut instinct.”
He sensed Marisa’s impatience as she shifted on the sofa beside him. “Dr. Treadwell,” she said, “I’d like your professional opinion before I make my report to headquarters. Is it possible that the man who grabbed Grace Lennox is the Judge?”
“Let’s assume for a moment that he is.” His voice lowered, drawing them into his confidence. “He’s a most unusual serial killer. Highly ritualized murders. A cat-and-mouse game with law enforcement. And yet, if Flynn’s gut instinct is correct, he chose to end his reign of terror in San Francisco.”
“Highly unusual,” Marisa agreed. “Serial killers don’t generally retire.”
“He didn’t quit,” Flynn said. “He moved here. In these wide-open spaces, he could continue his rituals with far less likelihood of having the bodies found.”
“If that’s true,” Treadwell said, “he probably had a connection with Russell Graff. I can’t imagine any scenario where two serial killers with nearly identical MO’s would be operating independently in the same area.”
Flynn nodded, pleased that Treadwell’s theory agreed with his.
“A connection?” Marisa asked. “That’s a good place to start our investigation.”
“True,” Flynn said. “When we found Graff’s computer, there were a hell of a lot of files devoted to the Judge and the prior killings.”
He despised those Web sites that glorified serial murderers. Son of Sam. The BTK Killer. Bundy. The Judge. “All the details are there for anyone to read.”
Marisa continued his thought. “The Judge might have tracked Graff through computer chat rooms. He might have gone looking for someone like himself.”
“Interesting theory.” Treadwell gestured expansively. “That behavior fits his profile.”
“How so?”
“His gratification is partly psychosexual when he stalks and kidnaps young women. But he’s also motivated by knowing that he has absolute control over his victims. Literally, he holds the power of life and death. He wants to be seen as a superior individual. A Judge. A mentor.”
Marisa said, “He’d enjoy having a student. Someone who would follow his commands.”
“Absolutely. We’re dealing with an intelligent—possibly even genius—psychopath. Instead of killing Bud, your witness, he left a message. Something that would reopen the game, lead you to suspect the Judge.”
“Does he want us to find him?” Marisa asked.
“No, indeed. He believes he’s superior to law enforcement, but he’s excited by the chase, the opportunity to match wits with a worthy adversary. He’s not really after Grace Lennox. She’s the bait.”
Flynn drained his glass. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about where this analysis was leading.
As Treadwell continued, his features became animated. “Most serial killers aren’t so complex. Like Graff, they’re acting out a childhood trauma. Or they’re driven by a need for sexual domination. Some psychologists believe their behavior is genetically determined. Hence the term ‘natural born killer.’ But that’s not the case with the Judge.”
“You said that Grace was bait.” Flynn squeezed out the words. “What’s he fishing for?”
“You.”
The breath went out of Flynn’s lungs. If Grace Lennox was harmed because of some sick game this killer was playing, he’d never forgive himself. “How do I catch the bastard?”
“Right now, he’s running the show. You have to wait until he contacts you.”
“That’s not exactly true,” Marisa said. “The FBI has a massive manhunt underway.”
“Good police work might catch him,” Treadwell agreed.
“Not likely.” Flynn knew this territory. “He could be anywhere. In the mountains. The desert. Hiding in the canyons and mesas.”
Treadwell gave a slow nod. “If this is, in fact, the Judge, you will hear from him very soon. All you can do is go back to the safe house and wait.”
Never before in his life had Flynn felt so hopeless.
Chapter Four
When they arrived at the safe house, Marisa took note of several other vehicles parked in a row outside the split-rail fence. Tho
ugh it was almost midnight, lights shone through most of the windows. An armed guard in a Kevlar vest paced back and forth on the front porch.
She grimaced. “When I start talking about a search for a dead serial killer, they’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“Probably so.”
“Any advice?”
“For dealing with bureaucracy? That’s not something I’m good at,” Flynn readily admitted. “But you know we’re on the right track. It’s up to us to find Grace before the Judge kills her.”
“I have to say this, Flynn. What if he already—”
“He hasn’t.” His voice rang with hard certainty. “Grace is his bargaining chip. He’ll use her to make us jump through hoops.”
“That’s Treadwell’s opinion. I believe it, and so do you.” She glanced toward the house. “But what about them?”
“They don’t have to agree with us. Their manhunt for Grace’s abductor will continue no matter what you say. They might even get lucky and find him.”
“Right,” she said. “All we want is permission and resources to pursue a different theory.”
Reaching up, she turned on the interior light in the truck and tilted the rearview mirror so she could see her reflection. Her eyes looked tired. Her complexion was washed-out, pale, weak. This would never do. She dug into her shoulder bag, pulled out a lipstick and applied a fresh coat.
From the corner of her eye, she caught Flynn grinning. “What’s so funny?”
“You always put on lipstick before a confrontation. It’s your warpaint.”
“Let’s hope this won’t be a hard battle.”
Feigning confidence, she strode up the walk to the porch, nodded to the agent on guard and entered the safe house. Beyond the front room, three agents sat at the dining room table. Two of them were the cowboys she’d seen when she first arrived. “Where’s everybody else?”
“Bunkhouse,” said Zack Plummer, the agent with medical training. “The man in charge is from Quantico. Senior Agent Hank Mackenzie.”
Marisa knew Mackenzie by reputation. An exemplary supervisor, he was efficient, smart and thorough. His apprehension and arrest of a random freeway shooter in southern California was a textbook example of coordination among various branches of local law enforcement and specialists within the FBI. How would she convince this senior agent that they were after the Judge? A killer who was supposed to be dead?
Even to her, the idea sounded crazy. Why would a psychosexual serial killer abduct a witness? Why take on the FBI?
She trailed Flynn into the kitchen, where he poured himself a mug of coffee and suggested that she do the same.
“I think not,” she said. “Caffeine keeps me awake.”
“Do you really think you’ll be able to sleep tonight?”
Not unless she was knocked unconscious with a baseball bat. “I take it black,” she reminded him.
Carrying a mug, she followed him out the back door. Beyond three tall, leafy cottonwood trees, she saw the outline of a big red barn. The entrance to the bunkhouse was only a few paces away. That long, low building was whitewashed like the house, but there were few windows.
Inside, she and Flynn walked down the center of a barracks where several cots were arranged against the walls. Through a door at the other end, they entered another long room, half of which was office space with computers and high-tech surveillance equipment. In the other half was a long table, where four agents stood looking down at an area map marked off in quadrants. On the wall behind them was an erasable white board with a timeline drawn in various colors. It had been almost nine hours since Grace was abducted. Static bursts of conversation through police radios gave information pertaining to the ongoing manhunt.
Marisa noted that she was the only woman in the room—a circumstance she would have felt better about if she’d been dressed in an authoritative black suit instead of jeans and a sweatshirt.
A tall man in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up faced them and barked, “Agents Kelso and O’Conner?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hank Mackenzie,” he introduced himself and shook hands.
She asked the most important question, “Any contact from the kidnapper?”
“Not a peep.” His mouth pulled down in a scowl, elongating his already narrow face. “What have you learned?”
In concise sentences, she told him about their interview with Bud the snitch. “Then we visited Dr. Jonas Treadwell, who was called in as a consultant on the prior manhunt for the Judge.”
“Russell Graff,” Mackenzie said. “That case is closed.”
Now came the hard part. She needed to persuade him to refocus his investigation by carefully leading him through the salient facts. “In the few minutes he was lucid, Bud Rosetti told us that the man who abducted Grace and blew up the chopper had a message for Agent O’Conner. That message was a code word associated with the Judge and a comment about the time of judgment being near.”
“Case closed,” Mackenzie repeated. He glanced toward Flynn. “Good work on finally apprehending that subject.”
“I didn’t have much to do with catching him,” Flynn said. “Credit for that goes to Agent Dash Adams. And to be honest, I didn’t really approve of his plans.”
“He got results. That’s the important thing.”
“He did,” Flynn agreed. “But I don’t think we apprehended the Judge. Graff was a copycat. The original serial killer—the one who was active in San Francisco—is still at large. He’s the one who grabbed Grace Lennox.”
Angrily, Marisa stepped forward. She didn’t appreciate the blunt way Flynn had presented the case—her case. “Sir, after my consultation—”
“Do you agree, Agent Kelso? Do you believe the Judge is responsible for this abduction?”
“According to Dr. Treadwell, there is a possibility that the Judge is using Grace to assert his superiority over law enforcement. It fits his profile.”
“Hard to believe.” Mackenzie shook his head. “Two serial killers with the same modus operandi in this remote location.”
“Obviously, they’re connected,” Marisa said. “I suggest calling in the Behavioral Analysis Unit for further profiling.”
The senior agent leaned against the wall beside the white board. His frown deepened as he considered. “This abduction reads like a professional job. Mrs. Lennox is scheduled to testify against a notorious crime family.”
“If this is the work of a hit man,” Marisa said, “why wouldn’t he kill her immediately?”
“His goal might be coercion, to terrify her into doing what he wants.”
“Grace won’t terrify easily,” Flynn said.
“She’s a woman in her sixties with children and grandchildren,” Mackenzie said. “I don’t need the behavioral analysts to tell me that she’s vulnerable. She could be convinced to recant her testimony.”
Marisa glanced toward the white board. “Have you turned up any forensic evidence?”
“Not much. The son of a bitch broke into our closed communication circuits. He used the chopper headset to contact the pilot with an emergency code.”
“Which was why he made the landing,” she said.
“The pilot thought he was following orders.”
She remembered how Bud had described the killer as wearing a clear mask. By the time the pilot realized he’d been duped, it was too late. “Anything else?”
“We’re tracing the C-4 explosive used on the chopper. Ballistics can’t trace the bullet to a gun used in any other crime. Our local search is going quadrant by quadrant.”
“What makes you think they’re still in this area?” she asked. “By now, they could be halfway to L.A.”
“We don’t know,” Mackenzie said. “Right now, we’re following standard search procedure, circulating the victim’s photo, putting out a national alert to law enforcement and airports. Our operational assumption is that the crime family is responsible for the kidnapping.”
“But if we’
re right,” Flynn said, “if this is the Judge and he reverts to his former rituals, he’ll kill Grace and burn her body on the fourth day. We don’t have much time.”
“Yeah?”
“He likes to hold his victims in abandoned houses. Maybe a shack at the side of the road. Or a barn.”
In spite of his apparent disbelief, Mackenzie was listening. “What else?”
“Fire,” Flynn said. “The Judge has a thing about fire.”
Mackenzie pushed away from the wall. He was as tall as Flynn but not as physically fit. Inside his white shirt, his shoulders were as knobby as coat hangers. “I think you’re wrong, O’Conner. But I won’t close the door on any possibility. As of now, I’m assigning this aspect of the investigation to you two. Work together on this Judge theory. Keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir,” Flynn said.
“We will, sir,” Marisa echoed.
She disliked the way the power had shifted toward Flynn, but she held her silence until they exited the bunkhouse and were outside. She came to an abrupt halt, taking a stand. The cool night air brushed her overheated cheeks and forehead. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“What?”
He turned toward her. The porch light from the back door shone on the bridge of his nose and his square jaw. She felt like drawing back her arm and punching that stubborn chin. “I should have been the one talking to Mackenzie. This was my call.”
“You think I was challenging your authority.” He scoffed. “Damn it, Marisa. What was I supposed to do? Stand there with my thumb in my ear, nodding like the village idiot?”
“I’m the senior agent on this investigation—the one who gives the orders. You opted out of the bureaucratic loop, remember?”
“Well, I’m real sorry if I got in the way of your next promotion, but there’s only one issue here—finding Grace.”
“I don’t need you to remind me about what’s important.” Grace Lennox—the victim—was at the forefront of her mind, but Marisa knew better than to dwell on the horrors Grace might be suffering. “I need to focus on the task at hand. To stay in control.”