by Mary Stone
To her side, white light glinted off Noah Dalton’s eyes as he scrolled through his smartphone.
“He did,” Bree confirmed. “Same thing as the others. Names and dates, all typed, no prints. Standard index card with no special markings. Ever since the press found out a few days ago, they’ve been writing articles about how he’s ‘taunting’ the bureau. But, personally, I wouldn’t call this taunting. I’d call it something more like ‘being informative,’ or ‘leaving an explanation.’” She ended the statement with a shrug.
Aiden swept his gaze over the photographs of the notecards that were left with the bodies of the six most recent victims. “Every time he tells us what one of these guys did, he’s telling the press by proxy. He wants everyone to know why he’s doing what he’s doing.”
“They’re calling him The Norfolk Executioner,” Noah put in as he glanced up from his phone. “And let me tell you, the comment sections for these articles are something else. The only other time I see people at each other’s throats like this anymore are in political debates. But these aren’t really political. I mean, there’s people from both sides who think the FBI ought to pin a medal to this dude’s chest when we find him, and then there’s people on both sides who think he ought to be locked up just like any other serial killer.”
Winter rubbed her face with both hands. “Might be the first time you get people from opposite sides of the political spectrum to agree on something.”
“With elections coming up, you’d better believe we’re going to hear about it from whoever’s running for whatever office.” Noah sighed and pocketed his phone. “Sooner we find this guy, the sooner we get the press off our backs. I’m getting sick of going to press briefings every other damn day.”
“Well,” Bree said, “when we finally do catch him, there’s going to be a pretty long line of people who want to shake his hand. Or her hand.”
“There’ll be more than a few federal agents in that line. Plus, the medical examiner,” Aiden advised. “If it weren’t for the press on our backs, I doubt the bureau would even allocate the funding to catch this person.”
Bree stepped away from the whiteboard to observe her handiwork. “You’re not kidding. He’s doing half of our job for us, and he’s saving the state of Virginia a lot in trial costs. How much do you suppose he’s saved us all in tax dollars, anyway? That’s eight cases that never have to go to trial. It’s got to be in the millions by now, right?”
“A killer’s still a killer.” Winter’s voice was as flat as her unimpressed stare. She was clearly tired of this same old argument.
“At least this one’s doing us a favor,” Aiden shot back.
“By making us look bad?” There was a glint of petulance in Winter’s blue eyes as she shifted her attention to him. “There are just as many people talking shit about the FBI and the cops as anything. He’s pointing out what these guys have done, and it makes law enforcement look like they don’t know what they’re doing. I mean, if one guy can figure out all these cases, then why the hell didn’t the cops?”
“That’s not on the bureau,” Aiden reminded her. “None of these would’ve been federal jurisdiction, at least not at first.”
“And besides,” Bree said. “If the local PD, or even if the Bureau was missing all these cases, cases that are apparently so obvious even a civilian can find them, then maybe we deserve for them to be dragged out from under the rug. Seems like LEOs dropped the ball more than once, and that deserves to be pointed out, especially since it cost these young women their lives. It just goes to show that even when we pat ourselves on the back for doing a good job, there’s still room for improvement.”
Bree’s stony expression took him aback. Even in the midst of a case as stressful as the hunt for Douglas Kilroy, Bree’s mood had been amiable and even upbeat. She was quick with a smile, and he had yet to witness her humor falter.
Until now, that was.
Though Winter’s countenance softened in understanding, the spark of determination didn’t so much as waver. “Maybe, but I don’t think a vigilante serial killer is the best way to shine a light on what needs to be fixed.”
“Seems to me that the only thing everyone’s willing to stop and take note of is a vigilante serial killer,” Bree replied as she straightened a stack of papers. “Because God knows they didn’t pay attention when all those girls went missing.”
“Yeah,” Aiden answered the unspoken question when the argument appeared to be over. “That’s everything. You’re all free to go. I’ll update Agent Brandt and Agent Ming when they get back. By then, Agent Weyrick should be in the office too.”
“Looks like we’re right on time for me to make another phone call,” Noah Dalton muttered as he rose to stand. Noah followed Bree into the hall, but Aiden stopped Winter before she could step out of the conference room.
“Hey.”
One eyebrow arched, she turned to meet Aiden’s gaze. “Yeah? What’s up?”
“You really think we should treat this guy like any other killer?” he asked before he could think to refine the question.
She crossed her arms over her black blazer. “What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t think we should work this like a normal case?”
“It’s not a normal case.” His response was so dry it might have crumbled if it was touched. “It’s a case where the perpetrator probably has experience in law enforcement, and where the perp is more than likely a decorated combat veteran. All the victims are, for lack of a better term, pieces of shit. So, no, Winter. I don’t think this is a normal case.”
“We can’t hold back or work something differently just because we don’t like the victims,” she returned, her eyes narrowed. “What we do isn’t always black and white. I’m pretty sure you’re the one who told me that when I got out of Quantico, aren’t you? It’s hardly ever black and white. We’re almost always in the gray area. That was you, right?”
Aiden narrowed his eyes. “How is what he’s doing any different from what you were gunning for during the Kilroy investigation? Hell, if Kilroy had been identified while this guy was around, we would have found his body next to a notecard too.”
If there was one surefire way to grate on Winter Black’s nerves, it was by mentioning Douglas Kilroy.
“But the difference is that I didn’t do that,” she bit back. “I didn’t go all cowboy and start murdering people. I pulled my head out of my ass and played by the damn rules, Aiden. Besides, if I remember right, I wasn’t the only one who acted like a jackass during the Kilroy investigation, was I?”
He clenched his jaw at the candid observation. She wasn’t wrong.
“And if I can control myself and keep myself from going rogue on the guy who killed my family, who raped and mutilated my mother, then I don’t think it’s too much to ask that someone else restrain their anger too. I know what you’re going to say, Aiden. I’ve seen the profile, and I know you think that the killer went through something like that as well. And that’s exactly what I’m saying. There’s a right way and a wrong way to deal with all that pent-up aggression, and murdering people isn’t the right way.”
Before he could offer another rebuttal, she turned on her heel and stalked out into the hall.
He hadn’t expected such a convicted stance from the same woman who had thrown morality to the wind to sniff out even a tentative lead on Douglas Kilroy.
Apparently, he had misjudged her ideals. He had assumed she would fall in line with his assertion.
After all, hadn’t he been one of the main sources of her inspiration to join the Federal Bureau of Investigation in the first place?
So much of her life had been modeled after her idolization of him that he assumed she would defer to his stance in a moral gray area. And until now, he had not even realized the bias through which he viewed Special Agent Winter Black.
Six months ago, he might have been disheartened by her break away from his expectation, but today he could find no such holdup.
Today, the s
mirk that crept to his lips was borne of pride.
The emotion was alien to him, and he could only assume the sentiment was akin to what a parent might feel when their kid graduated with a perfect grade point average.
He and Winter may not have shared the same view of The Norfolk Executioner, but they still shared one major trait: they didn’t waver in their commitment to a given principle.
He had taught her well.
31
I didn’t like to think of myself as a serial killer, but that was exactly what the media had labeled me.
The term “serial killer” evoked images of a man who had lost touch with reality, a man who killed for no better reason than the dirty thrill.
Even though I was sure my actions wouldn’t lead to a revolution, I picked my targets for a damn good reason. After I collected the debt they owed me and the rest of humanity, the world was a little less dark.
Maybe I was technically a serial killer, but I preferred the term “vigilante.”
At the least, the writers of all these damn articles could add “vigilante” in front of “serial killer” to differentiate me from scum like Ted Bundy, Richard Ramirez, or more recently, like Douglas Kilroy. It was a good thing the Feds had put down Kilroy. Otherwise, I would have had to find a way into prison to kill him myself.
I hadn’t been to mass in an age, but I had been raised in a religious household. Until the day she died, my mother had been a devout Catholic, and her faith had gotten her through some hardships that most people could only imagine.
She didn’t gain her citizenship until I was already in the military, and there were more times than I cared to count where we were shielded from deportation by my mother’s friends from church.
Even though I might not have been devout like my mother, I knew the good that could come from religious communities. Every breath drawn by men like Douglas Kilroy—men who used their so-called faith to justify rape and murder—was a slap in the face to those communities.
I glanced down to the crescent-shaped bow and arrow tattooed on the inside of my forearm to pry myself from the unsavory thoughts.
Raking one hand through my hair, I unlocked my smartphone with the other. The photo that lit up the screen was old—there wasn’t any silver sprinkled throughout my hair like there was now. Tina’s dark, wavy locks had been pulled away from her face in a ponytail, but Evie’s fell over her shoulders like it always did.
The day we took that picture was still etched clearly in my mind, almost like it had happened yesterday and not more than a decade ago.
If Evie was still alive, she would be in college by now. Maybe she would have turned her obsession with Greek mythology into a degree in history. By now, she could have even been a graduate student.
Evie was the reason for the tattoo on my arm. She had been in seventh grade, and their history class spent an entire semester on Ancient Greece and Rome. Evie was already a Greek mythology buff, so it was no surprise that she hadn’t learned much new material from the course.
I could still remember the day she came home and huffed about how the teacher had glossed over the story of the goddess Artemis.
“I’m sorry, girls,” I murmured to the photo as I sat in the empty living room, dropping my face into my hands.
Even I wasn’t sure why I made the apology. I knew it wasn’t my fault that Tina’s brother, Brian, had crept into Evie’s room that summer, but I don’t think Tina ever realized that it wasn’t her fault, either.
For some fucked up reason, Tina’s parents blamed me, but Tina only ever blamed herself.
We thought we were such a great family when we offered that prick a room to stay for a few months so he could get back on his feet financially. We thought we had done a good deed, thought we had stepped in to help someone who needed it, but all we had done was lead a predator to his prey.
He was down on his luck at the time—his wife of five years had filed for divorce, and they had been in the midst of a vicious custody battle over their two children. A custody battle that, thankfully, the children’s mother won.
I came back on leave over the Fourth of July that year, and the atmosphere in the house felt off.
I wrote it off as change, but I should have trusted my gut. I should have dug deeper, should have asked the right questions, should have made it clear to my little girl that, even though I would be across the Atlantic for the next few months, I was still just a phone call away.
Then again, if I could travel back in time, I knew exactly what I would do.
I wouldn’t hesitate, wouldn’t second-guess myself, wouldn’t wait until after that scum had killed my little girl. Before he could lay another finger on Evie, I’d slit Brian’s throat from ear to ear. I would still dismember his body and bury the parts in five different Texas fields, but I would do it sooner.
That was why I did this.
I killed men like Ben Ormund, Tom Cotman, and Mitch Stockley so that another mother and father wouldn’t have to face the same pain. I killed those men so they couldn’t hurt anyone else, though they had done their share of damage by the time I got to them.
Like the saying went, it was better late than never.
Tonight, I had another debt to collect.
32
“Matt Lewin, age forty-three, was murdered in his home late last night.”
Noah hardly suppressed a groan as Bobby Weyrick recited an early morning news article.
“Authorities believe Lewin was allegedly killed by the same person who has been involved in eight other murders over the past six months,” Bobby went on as he leaned back in his chair. “Hold on, y’all. We haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”
Noah linked his fingers behind his head. “The good part?”
“That’s right, Agent Dalton.” Bobby chuckled. For emphasis, he waved his phone at the small gathering before he began to read, “The killer, also known as The Norfolk Executioner, has amassed a cult-like following in his short tenure as a serial killer. Sources indicate that Matt Lewin was targeted due to reports of his alleged attraction to underage girls.”
“Wait,” Winter interjected, her blue eyes wide. “What? How the hell do they know that and we don’t? I didn’t see anything like that in Lewin’s file.”
“Because none of it’s official,” Sun Ming answered before Bobby could speak.
The Tennessee native nodded. “Exactly. They don’t need probable cause to put something in an article. They get it on decent authority, and if they slap the word ‘alleged’ on it, they can publish it wherever the hell they want. Only thing at risk for them is their credibility, and if they’re really unlucky, maybe a libel lawsuit.”
As Noah glanced back to the front of the room, Max Osbourne cleared his throat. “Agent Weyrick’s right. That’s how our killer has known about all these guys’ crimes even when we didn’t. He can snoop around and break the law, and he doesn’t need probable cause. But what I’m more interested in is why he hit someone last night. Parrish? Any ideas?”
From where he sat in the corner of the dim room, Aiden Parrish looked like he had just been roused from sleep. His attire and his hair were as neat as always, but there was a weariness in his pale eyes with which Noah had become well acquainted.
Truth be told, he suspected they had all been hit with the same level of fatigue. Once the case was over, Noah planned to sleep for sixteen hours straight.
“It means he’s getting close to the end of his list,” Aiden replied after he stifled a yawn. “We know he’s had a list. There’s no other way he could’ve been prepared with the names and the dates of these men’s victims. But his list is finite, and it has an end. The murders have all been spaced out, but now that they aren’t, it could mean he’s getting close to the end of the list.”
A silence descended on the space as he and Winter exchanged paranoid glances.
“What happens when he gets to the end of the list?” Winter asked. “Does he move to another state? Like he did after
finishing his ten in Texas?”
Aiden adjusted the silver band of his watch as he shrugged. “It depends. Based on what we know about it, and based on the profile we’ve put together, there’s a possibility he’ll just stop. He might start looking for more rapists and pedophiles so he can make a new list, but there’s no telling if he’ll stay in Virginia. A lot of serial killers are transient.”
“Shit,” Noah spat. “Then our window to find him is about to close, isn’t it?”
In response, Aiden Parrish merely nodded.
“Crime scene was clean,” Bobby Weyrick put in. “Just as clean as all the other ones. No security cameras, no witnesses. ME estimated the vic’s time of death was somewhere around four in the morning.”
Winter stretched her neck to one side, trying to work out a knot. “Explains why there weren’t any witnesses.”
“What about the index card?” Sun asked, her dark eyes flicking to the man at her side.
“It was there. Two names and two dates, same as the last ones.”
“All right, then,” Max said as he uncrossed his arms. “You know the drill, agents. Same drill we’ve done four other times in the past two weeks. Research the victims, look through friends and family members, so on and so forth.”
By now, the fact that the killings were impersonal had been well established, but the lack of forensic evidence meant there were no alternative leads to pursue.
None of the men who had been killed shared any social or professional connections, and virtually, the only common thread among them was their penchant for abusing women and girls.
So far, each name typed on the index cards had led them to a woman or a girl who had been forgotten, whose file had been dropped into the “cold case” catalog. But that was only if the police had investigated their disappearance or assault in the first place.
Though almost all the so-called victims had killed at least once, there were only a couple who could be classified as serial killers: Ben Ormund and Mitch Stockley.