“And the signature in your theoretical case … it involved the relative travel time and distance between each crime scene?” Dixon knew the answer, but she wanted to draw him further out.
“Yes. And in my example, I had the class map out what a similar trajectory of murder sites might look like on the other side.” Nick’s voice was low.
“The other side?” Amelia was cross-examining him.
“Of the letter Y. I had them assume for this exercise the imaginary killer was mirroring his kill spots, using similar travel times and distances between crime scenes … traveling up the other side of the Y.”
Amelia pressed a button on a small power strip on the table in front of her, and a map of Wisconsin filled the screen.
The first four murder scenes were represented by black stars, with the stats for each underneath the star. Just like the images from Nick’s computer. A line snaked down the screen past the first four cities. It seemed to pause, forming a base between the Portage and Baraboo stars.
And then it started climbing back up the other side. The stats between the Reedsburg and Baraboo murders were an exact match to the time, date, and distance data points between the Baraboo and Portage murders.
I’d been in the business long enough to know that killers had distinct patterns and that cracking the puzzle was the quickest way to catch the killer. Once Nick shared with us the details of a simulation he’d taught in Madison, we were spellbound. The class assignment, randomly designed by Nick to demonstrate how a psychopath might create a mirror pattern, looked exactly like the map taking shape before our eyes. We were pretty close to convinced we were on the right trail.
We were in Nick’s world now. I’d never heard of a killer operating based on some sort of murder map, but if Nick had used this exact example in class, his students were looking better and better for the crimes. Knowledge did nothing to stem the tide of nausea rolling over me. I closed my eyes, stretched my head up and took a long, deep breath, hoping against hope to get ahead of it.
I shook my head to clear it, opened my eyes and turned to look at Nick. “So, if this guy is from your class, he’s taunting you? Showing you his homework?”
“Maybe. We can’t discount the possibility.” He tapped his finger on the arm of his chair, wondering out loud as much as answering my question.
“Well, I’ve never seen this before.” Amelia put the marker down. “But I have seen killers mess with agents, Nick. And while this may somehow be connected to you, it’s not your fault. The students you asked us to look into?”
“Burdock and White. Both were overly interested in the pattern. The minute I’d drawn the map of Wisconsin, it was as if they were the only two in the room for the rest of the hour.”
“What do we know about them? Hector?”
“As we speak,” he said, indicating he had agents looking into all of Nick’s students.
“I want priority on these two.”
I squeezed Nick’s thigh, keeping my voice low. “Burdock stood out to you.”
Nick let out a long breath. “He had a chip on his shoulder, that’s for sure. He stayed after class every single session. And, more often than not, when he left would take something.” He looked down. “Of mine.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“My pen. My notebook. And once I’m almost sure he took my jacket. Just a few weeks ago, I reached out to him, left him an email telling him I’d heard he may have taken my jacket by mistake. The next day, I found it in my office, hanging from my chair.”
“Did you call security?” Anger pressed in at the back of my neck.
“No, of course not. I wasn’t sure I hadn’t just left it there myself.” Electricity swirled in the air around us.
“After that, I just kept everything as close to me as possible. I figured he had a man crush on me, and I didn’t want to either embarrass or encourage him.” Nick’s eyes focused on the wall as he walked through his recent memory.
“And the last time he was in class, did he take anything?” Fire roared through my nerves.
“My black leather gloves.”
The dull roar that had been sounding through my body reached my temples and turned the volume all the way up.
Hector was punching his cell phone furiously. “I’ll see if they’ve turned up in evidence at any of the crime scenes.”
I looked up at him. “If he does have your gloves, what’s it mean?”
He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “So, when a psychopath fixates on a person, their goal is to own them, become them in a twisted way. They stalk their prey, obsessing about them, wanting to know what it feels like to live their life; feel what it feels to be in their skin.”
“Like wearing your gloves?” A chill swept over me. “Or your coat?”
Silence filled the room. Amelia and Hector exchanged a glance. She shifted her weight. “It’s definitely a bad sign if Burdock really is that far advanced, that into Nick.”
An iceberg nestled in the pit of my stomach. “So, let’s pick him up. Kick him around a little. Get to his house. Find the stupid gloves. Have you sent teams to check out his residence?”
The group’s stares unnerved me. “Screw the legal requirement! Can’t you send a team to just hang around, see if you can cook up a reason to get inside, look around?” My bias for action was stronger than ever.
Hector’s phone lit up. He paused to read it aloud. “No gloves matching your description.”
“At least they haven’t been found at a crime scene.” Nick shook his head. “Yet. It’s probably going to happen, might as well be prepared.”
Chapter Sixteen
After a five-minute break, now armed with bottles of water, we turned our attention to Hector while we waited for Amelia to return to the glass-box conference room.
His phone buzzed. He read a few texts and reached for the remote. “Check this out. Burdock’s elementary and middle-school records show scores of contacts with counselors and deans. Most of them involve reports of bullying.”
I looked at him. “Any descriptions of the alleged bullies?”
Hector pushed a button on the remote and scrolled through a half-dozen pages on the screen. He stopped at a picture of a smiling young man with black hair, brown eyes, and olive skin.
I was unable to stop myself from reading out loud. “Says here one Daniel Salvatore, one of Burdock’s counselors from Camp Oshewan in Northern Wisconsin, resigned under unsubstantiated accusations of abuse. No further information available.”
Goosebumps skittered over my arms. Daniel Salvatore looked a lot like a much younger version of Nick. “Burdock’s abused by a camp counselor years ago, and then, what? Marches into class, spots Nick and places himself in victim mode, starts imagining the abuse all over again, with a bigger, badder, grown up version of Daniel Salvatore?”
“And he snaps!” Hector’s voice sparked through the air. “But what about White? Is he involved?”
“They met in class, I’d swear to it.” Nick’s color returned as he spoke. “Either that or they’re Academy Award–level actors. And trust me, they’re not.”
“Dare I ask what White looks like?” Dread spread over me like a shadow.
“Ugh.” Hector texted. “You don’t want to know.” But he put the man’s picture on the screen. Just like the others.
“Crap. So vic number, what? Six, will turn out to be Burdock’s classmate?” In my mind’s eye, I could see agents running in all directions at once. Where would I be sent?
The door opened and Amelia stepped back into the room. “We’ve got teams heading to last known addresses for both White and Burdock.”
“Great.” Now, something about Camp Oshewan was swimming around in the back of my mind.
Amelia started scribbling on the whiteboard. “Melvin White. Last known addresses include both Waupon and Portage, rents
a one-bedroom apartment in each town. He’s not exactly a pillar of either community. Co-owns a barely-legal puppy mill in one and is suspected of running dog fights in the other. Teams should be on site in about ten more minutes.”
She looked away from the whiteboard, staring over our heads for a fraction of a second longer than I was comfortable. Then she snapped her head back to center, shiny-eyed, muscles twitching under her alabaster skin. “Mr. White is a person of extreme interest. He has a rather significant history of mental illness. Variety of run-ins with the law from an early age. Juvenile record includes violent outbursts and, I quote, ‘featuring uncontrollable fits of rage.’”
“Wow. Reads like a serial-killer résumé.” How’d they miss all this on the background check for the profiler class? What had the guy been doing in the front row of Nick’s back-to-school nights? “He got more than one identity maybe?”
Amelia nodded slowly. “Apparently, our Mr. White spent the greater part of his youth in an Amish colony in Wisconsin.”
“Amish?” I leaned forward in my seat. “There is a significant Amish presence near Camp Oshewan, where Burdock was abused. White and Burdock have to be working together. Way too many connections popping up for this to be random.”
“It’s not enough,” Nick said. “Why me? What led him to me or to Special Agent Lafferty before me? Maybe that’s our connection.” Nick must’ve shared my feeling of being one off on this case.
The tremor in Nick’s fingers told me he was struggling too. I sighed. We were missing something. Something big. “Or maybe it was just dumb luck. Burdock walks into your class, sees you and BOOM! He regresses. Something’s triggered. Sees White’s true crime obsession, and cozies up to ol’ Mel like bees to honey. If White has two identities, maybe he’s using his Wisconsin persona to make it look like he’s killing people from Illinois. Throwing us off the scent, when what he’s really doing is playing out this victimization over and over again.”
“But we have a New Yorker now.” Nick was nodding slowly, lost in thought. “And there’s only one way this can end.”
I nodded. “Wait—what do you mean?”
“What if Burdock’s become the ultimate bully? He’s killing men that remind him of his abuser. Who triggered him?”
“You did. Oh crap.” A medicine ball of realization slammed into my stomach.
Amelia scrolled down to another page of the report on her screen, brows knit together.
Hector’s fingers flew over the keys. “We better see what else the boys have to tell us about my friend Burdock.”
I nudged Nick. “So, White totes creepy library books to school. Attracts Burdock’s attention. I can buy that connection, Burdock falls in love with you for aforementioned reasons.”
Photos of Burdock and White appeared on the screen above me, side by side. “They could have been the original Mutt and Jeff. Says here Burdock is 5′10″ to White’s 6′3″. Blond, blue-eyed beach boy with attitude meets lean, swarthy Mr. Average with a serious ax to grind.”
Hector chuffed. “Yeah, and you might easily pass either of them on the street without a second thought.”
I shivered. “Not me. Look at those eyes.” White’s physical dominance was no match for the evil glittering from Burdock’s face.
“Burdock is a high school guidance counselor. From a western suburb in Du Page County.” Nick said.
My curiosity danced out of a corner of my mind, landing front and center.
Amelia kept writing. “White is still my frontrunner. As Nick said, Burdock is currently living in Hinsdale and works at a private Catholic high school a few suburbs over. He’s in his eleventh year there and is apparently a well-respected, tenured member of the faculty. Pretty sure there’s a ground team at his house already.”
I rolled my eyes. “Figures.”
“What, him being a tenured faculty member? That figures for you?” Nick seemed genuinely curious.
“No. The plaids with stripes and the bowtie. Right up the Catholic schools’ alley.” I recalled my own brief stint as a Catholic school girl.
I’d been the smartest kid in my grade every year. Had it not been for the perfect storm of a cute Italian boy named Amado and a pack of cigarettes whirling through the halls when I was twelve years old, I’d probably still be a practicing Catholic. I looked over at Nick and smiled, wisely choosing to keep my reminiscing to myself. Always have had a soft spot for cute Italian boys.
I took a deep breath and invited in thoughts of ocean kayaking and gentle sea turtles until my head cleared and I was ready to return to the crazy stream of information on the screen. Refocusing my thoughts on Burdock’s profile, I searched for anything that might help explain my theory.
Amelia’s face turned beet red. “The man left articles of his own clothing specifically for you to find. Of course I’m going to have him thoroughly checked out.” She was a mama bear if anyone got between her and the safety of one of her agents. And Nick was part of her FBI family. Messing with him was messing with one of her own.
Hector nodded. “This could matter.”
Amelia’s impatience swirled around her. “What?”
“Melvin White owned a small outfitters’ shop in Wildcat Mountain. Is that a real place?” He stared at me.
“Yes. Sort of. Go on.” It would take too long to explain the enchanting beauty of Wildcat Mountain to a city boy. Let alone the fact that anyone claiming to own a business “on Wildcat Mountain” typically owned one in Hillsboro. I let it slide.
Hector shrugged his shoulders. “Catered to hunters and river enthusiasts. Sold guns, crossbows, all kinds of knives. Rented out a few fishing boats, canoes, kayaks, and the occasional paddle board.”
Amelia tapped the table. “And he has been known to frequent online dating sites.”
I stared up at the olive-skinned faces of the five victims, willing one of them to reveal the puzzle to me. The image of my eldest cousin’s online dating “stable” came to mind.
“We’re looking into expedited subpoenas from the dating sites now.”
“Thank God, no one’s ever done that on us.” I winked at Amelia, trying to lighten the mood.
Amelia’s face lightened to sunburn pink, rendering her even more attractive and in charge. “He never married. No family mentioned in his file, so it’s unclear how he got from spending time at an Amish colony in his youth to the list of foster homes listed. One brother MIA from the Gulf conflict. Parents died in a car accident. That’s where it gets fuzzy between the Amish and the foster homes.”
The shiver up and down my spine caught me by surprise. Samantha. Her beautiful heart-shaped face came into my mind, superimposed over faceless shapes in the foster system. I was praying before I realized it. God, thank you for plucking her out of there and into my heart, into my home, into my life.
“Yeah, well lots of great kids live in foster homes too.” I stubbornly defended kids in the system every chance I got.
“The guy raises dogs and makes them fight each other for sport. I’m thinking that’s not so good.” Amelia had a hand on her hip.
“Yeah, sure. But killing dogs is different than killing people.” Not all that different, not really. “But, you’ve definitely got to keep him in the mix.”
“Not the one he wants us to believe,” I said. “But, okay, I’ll play along. What else do we know about good ol’ Melvin White? Besides his cruelty to animals phase, how’d he wind up running a convenience store, and where’s the guy from?”
“His geography works a little better for me.” Amelia brightened. “He’s got two convenience stores. One in Waupun and another in Portage.”
“Puts him in between one set of murders and dead-on-the-money for the third.” Nick smacked his hand on the table top.
“Slow down, Slick. I’m not buying it. Too convenient.” I said. “Anything that looks that obvious … well, can
’t be.” It wasn’t very scientific, but it just didn’t feel right to me. But I was right. I could feel it.
“Sometimes the obvious is the answer.” Amelia was scanning files as she talked.
“And sometimes the obvious, or what’s obvious to you, tends to shield you from what’s right in front of you.” I wasn’t sure why I was so dead set against White being the killer, but I was. Always trust your gut.
“They know each other. They ‘met’ in my class. Burdock finds White. Killer instincts.” Nick’s voice had dropped back down to normal. He’d gone from almost over the edge to taking it all in. Amazing what a few facts could do for the psyche.
We sat around the table looking at each other without speaking for several seconds. I couldn’t have been the only one wondering why the two chief suspects had decided to take an FBI class together. Or what they did for fun outside of class.
“So, they meet each other. That doesn’t mean they kill together.” I looked from Nick to Amelia and back as if I expected to see confirmation in their eyes. I didn’t. I saw blank stares tinged with fear. Did they kill together? Were they planning to kill together again? I pointed at White’s photo next to the victims. “It’s entirely possible that he’s the next target.”
Amelia sighed. “Whether they’re co-conspirators or hunter and prey almost doesn’t matter. What does matter is we’ll all be to blame if we don’t figure out where the killer’s going to strike next.”
Chapter Seventeen
I leaned back in my seat. “But I don’t get it. Why would the killer show his hand by copying Nick’s pattern theory? He’d have to know he’d be relatively easy to catch.”
“Apparently not that easy—we’re five bodies in.” Nick’s voice was flat with defeat. His fingers curled and uncurled around the armrests of his chair.
“Why is he painting the target on the bull’s eye now? What’s different?” It hit me as I formed the questions. “He’s got an endpoint in mind.” I paused. The two suits had already done the math, Nick too. “And?”
Anchored by Death (A Jo Oliver Thriller Book 3) Page 10