by Mary Stone
“Yes, I do, but it’s not murder suspects. And no, I don’t. Now, could I ask you a real question?”
She made a show of appearing thoughtful. “I guess so. What’s up, chief?”
“Chief? No, can we not do that? Please?”
Feigning an exasperated sigh, she planted her hands on her hips. “Fine. What’s your question?”
“Now that you’ve got all the details of this investigation, and now that I don’t have to talk to you in hypotheticals, could I get your opinion on what we have so far? We, meaning the BAU.”
“Sure.” She leaned against the wall. “I’ve got a little time.”
“I appreciate it.” Even as he spoke, he was unsure of his motivation. He wanted to know who had recommended her for the position at Shadley and Latham, but at the same time, he valued her input.
And then, of course, there was the inexorable draw he felt to her.
He was well and truly on the way to being fucked.
26
As I watched a man push open his car door to step beneath the neon glow of a vacancy sign of the Greendale Motel, I dropped my finished cigarette into the ashtray in the cupholder.
After six years in forensic science, I knew better than to leave behind any piece of evidence, even if it was as innocuous as a cigarette butt. The pock-marked parking lot of the shabby hotel might have been littered with cigarette butts, but I wasn’t about to take the chance.
It was a nasty habit I had picked up during basic training for the army. Once my daughter was born, I finally found the motivation to quit.
My wife had given up smoking during her pregnancy, but since I had been overseas for half of it, I hadn’t followed suit right away. That had been a stressful time, and I doubted I would have been able to quit even if I’d tried.
Tina had said as much when she called me to tell me the news. She had suggested I wait until I was back in the States, but that was just the type of person Tina was. She was always more understanding than I deserved, and there wasn’t a day that went by where I didn’t miss her and my little girl with every fiber of my being.
Life had been good. Hell, it had been better than I ever thought it could be.
But then, a man like James Bauman—the sleaze I had tailed for the last couple days—had taken it all away from me.
Once Tina and Evie were gone, I didn’t see any reason to stay away from the nasty nicotine habit. In those dark days, I had wanted to die right along with them, and with every drag, I got a little bit closer.
But as long as I was here, I’d make good use of the skills the army had given me.
Before I lost Tina and Evie, I had been sure I would make my career in the Army Rangers. I was a lieutenant before I turned thirty, and a captain before I turned forty. The military taught me to work as a part of a team, but it had also taught me to be a leader.
More than anything, it taught me how to kill.
There were few groups in the world more skilled at the art of death than the elite factions of the United States military.
While I was in the army, I’d never focused on how good I was at killing. What was more important to me was ensuring all the soldiers under my command made it home to see their families again.
It was ironic, but I never gave much consideration to my unorthodox skill set until after I left the military. Over in the desert, we all knew how to kill, but over here, well…
That was a different story.
Men like Mitch Stockley, Tyler Haldane, and Ben Ormund might have dabbled in death, but I was death.
Those three men thought they held the balance of life and death in the palm of their hands, but they didn’t know anything.
Haldane knew how to fire a gun, Stockley knew how to strangle someone to death, and Ormund knew how to smother someone while they were unconscious. Maybe if they had familiarized themselves more with the innumerable methods to snuff out a human being’s life, they wouldn’t have died so easily.
Sometimes, I wondered if a day would come where I would learn that one of the men on my list met my level of physical prowess, but I doubted it.
Those with a firm handle on the ability to kill weren’t the same types who stooped to the level of Ben Ormund. To be as effective as I was required discipline, and men like Tyler Haldane were far from disciplined. Plus, if they wanted to face me and live to tell the tale, they needed a physique that far surpassed that of Mitch Stockley.
I knew that today would not be the day I met my match, and James Bauman would not be that person.
Despite his six-foot-two, broad-shouldered frame, Bauman was a peon. He was a pitiable excuse for a human being, and he took out his insecurities on some of the most vulnerable, the part of society for whom the media held little sympathy. The part that had been thrown to the wayside by the decent folks of the surface world.
To me, that made James Bauman the worst of the worst, and tonight, I intended to make that perfectly clear to him.
Bauman was a drop in the bucket, and I knew none of what I did would start a revolution in the streets. More than likely, it wouldn’t make an average person look twice.
Not until I made my way through a few more of the names on my list, at least.
Once Bauman obtained his room key from the clerk, he made his way back to the door numbered eight and let himself into the room. When he reemerged, he cast a quick glance up and down the parking lot, but I was slumped down too far in my seat for him to see me.
After the thud of a car door, the quiet drone of an engine came to life. I waited until the sound grew faint and eventually faded away altogether. As I straightened myself, I saw the vacant spot where Bauman’s car had been.
Clenching and unclenching my gloved hands, I patted the sheathed hunting knife inside my zip-up hoodie and double-checked to make sure the lockpick was still in my pocket.
It was showtime.
I kept my hood up and my head down as I strode across the parking lot. The place was a shithole, but there were still a handful of security cameras set up around the perimeter. I didn’t know if they were for show or if they were active, but like I’d decided with my cigarette, there was no need to take the chance.
To any passersby—though there were none, not at this hour—I didn’t look like someone picking a lock. I had picked more locks than I could count, and it took the same amount of time it would have taken if I had a key.
In the relative cover of the dingy room, I pushed the hood away from my face. As I retrieved a matte black nine-mil from beneath my sweatshirt, I stepped back into the shadowy bathroom. There, I waited.
When the metallic click from the door told me that Bauman had returned, I reflexively tightened the sound suppressor I had attached to the barrel of my weapon. I didn’t intend to shoot James Bauman, not unless he made the act necessary.
From where I stood just inside the doorway to the bathroom, I could see Bauman’s tall form block out the lamplight as he led his female companion into the space.
Her green eyes flicked back and forth, her posture stiff, movements rigid. Her denim miniskirt ended at mid-thigh, and her halter top was so low-cut that the red lace of her bra peeked out from the neckline.
By my best estimate, she was barely legal.
That was Bauman’s preference. He liked girls—and they were girls, not women—that were far too young for him. Bauman had turned forty-seven earlier in the year, and he and his wife had been married for sixteen years.
What a miserable union that must have been.
From the way the working girls around the area told it, Bauman had a penchant for luring prostitutes to his hotel room where he inflicted all manner of horror on them. None of the women ever went to the police, and that was precisely why the asshole continued to target them.
At least two, both under seventeen years old, had disappeared after they had been tortured and raped by the lunatic.
Though most of the prostitutes in this part of the city knew to avoid Bauman, there were s
till plenty of newcomers who weren’t aware of the man’s reputation. He knew it, and he counted on their unfamiliarity. He counted on their desperation.
In one fluid motion, I stepped out into the light and leveled the nine-mil at Bauman’s head. He had been speaking, but I didn’t especially give a shit what he had to say.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed as he threw his hands into the air.
At his side, the girl’s mouth gaped open as she glanced from me to Bauman and back.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked. His voice was high-pitched and panicky, and the tone brought the start of a scowl to my face.
I didn’t answer. I preferred to let him stew.
“What do you want?”
“Take out your wallet. Keep the movements nice and slow, James. Or do you prefer Jim?”
“Money?” His question sounded more like a squeak, and I almost laughed aloud. When he produced his wallet, he shot me a pleading look.
“I don’t want your fucking money. Give all your cash to her.” I inclined my chin in the girl’s direction.
“Wh-what?” he stammered.
“Did I stutter?” I kept my voice level. Calm. Dangerous. “Give her your money, or I’ll blow your fucking head off, James.”
His hands shook as he opened the leather wallet and pulled out a wad of twenties. The girl’s wide-eyed stare hardly wavered from me as she accepted the cash.
“All right, kid,” I said. “Get out of here.”
She didn’t pause to question my motive before she pocketed the money, pulled open the door, and sprinted out into the night.
Now, it was just Bauman and me.
James Bauman owed me, and it was time to collect.
27
Noah and Winter hadn’t made it halfway to the office before Max Osbourne called to redirect them to a shabby hotel close to the edge of town. According to what Noah could hear of Max’s dialogue, the Greendale Motel was a shithole just off the exit ramp for the interstate. Drifters and vagrants frequented the area, and murders weren’t uncommon.
This murder, however, was different.
“The guy was killed some time in the middle of the night. There’s another index card,” Winter advised after she returned the phone to the pocket of her blazer. “Osbourne wants us to swing by and talk to Dan Nguyen after we leave the scene. He said Dan got called in in the middle of the night, so he might be a little grouchy.”
Noah was feeling a little grouchy himself. “Should we stop and get him a coffee?”
“Not a bad idea,” Winter replied with a yawn. “And a scone. It’s physically impossible to be angry while you’re eating a scone.”
Noah nodded. “That’s a scientific fact.”
If an outside observer had witnessed their conversation about scones and baked goods on the drive to a gruesome crime scene, they would have thought Winter and Noah were insane.
But as soon as they flashed their badges to the crime scene tech at the door of room number eight, their focus returned, and they walked through the crime scene with keen eyes and clear heads.
“What does it say this time?” Noah asked as Winter retrieved the evidence bag that contained the index card.
“There are a couple of names on it,” Winter replied, holding the card up to the light. “And dates. It’s typed, just like the last one. Same font and everything.”
Noah leaned in to squint at the writing. “Alicia Perez, June twentieth, 2015. Melody Harrison, October thirtieth, 2017.”
“We’ve already sent the names over to have someone take a look at them,” one of the crime scene techs, a woman with a platinum blonde pixie cut, advised. “That was just a little bit ago, but chances are good they’ll have something for you soon. That’s pretty specific information.”
“Victims.” Winter’s tone was grave as she shifted her blue eyes back to Noah. “They’re James Bauman’s victims, I guarantee it.”
“It fits,” Noah agreed. “Is the person who worked the front desk still here?”
The tech nodded. “She is. She’s out in the lobby.”
Winter headed for the door. “Let’s go talk to her.”
They ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and made their way to the end of the row of hotel rooms. The silvery tinkle of a bell sounded out as he pushed open the glass and metal door, and a gray-haired woman and the Richmond police officer at her side both snapped their attention over to the entrance.
Reaching into his suit jacket for his badge, Noah offered them both a smile and a nod.
Though faint, the woman returned the expression.
“Good morning,” he said. “I’m Agent Dalton with the FBI, and this is Agent Black. I know you’ve probably been answering questions all morning, but if you don’t mind, we’ve got a few quick ones for you before we head out.”
“Of course,” the woman replied, straightening in her office chair.
“What can you tell us about the victim? Is he someone you’ve seen around here before? Anyone you’re familiar with?” Noah asked.
She shrugged her bony shoulders. “I’ve seen him around a few times, I think. Always pays in cash up-front, always leaves well before checkout the next day. I’ve been doing this job a while, agents, and I can tell when folks who come through here don’t quite fit in. Mostly business types, you know? Guys with a tan line on their left ring finger come to dip into the slums for a little fun.”
Winter smiled at the woman. “I know their type.”
The woman’s smile warmed a few degrees. “Don’t we all, honey. They don’t give a shit about anyone around these parts. They just come to get what they want, use us up, and then forget we exist until the next time they need their fix. They might walk and talk like they’re better’n me and mine, but they ain’t no different.”
“And that’s what this guy was?” Noah asked. “James Bauman, that was his name. He was one of those?”
Crossing both arms over her chest, she nodded. “He was. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, that’s what he was. Like I said, agents. I’ve been doing this job a long time, and I know the dangerous ones when I see ‘em.”
“Was there anyone with him?” Winter asked.
“Not when he checked in, no. That’s the only time I saw him, and he was alone. They usually are when they pay for the room.”
“Do you have any security cameras around here?” Noah gestured to the doorway. “I saw some on the parking lot lights. Do they work?”
“They do,” she answered with a stiff nod.
“We’ve already got all the footage sent over to the bureau,” the officer put in. “We know this is your jurisdiction, but we’re here to help.”
“Appreciate it,” Noah replied. “All right, ma’am. That’s all the questions we’ve got for you for now. I’ll give you my card, and you just give me a call if you remember anything else, all right?”
Jaw clenched, the woman accepted the business card from his outstretched hand. “Yeah, all right, agent, but I have to say…the world is a better place with the likes of him no longer in it.”
Noah felt strange bringing food to the medical examiner’s office, but he and Winter had stopped at a café to purchase a peace offering for Dan Nguyen.
In all his interactions with Dan, Noah had never seen the man in a sour mood, but he suspected that was a bridge he didn’t want to cross. Even if Dan wasn’t grouchy, the scone and caramel latte would keep the potential for grouchiness at bay.
“Agents.” Dan’s dark eyes flicked away from the computer monitor as he turned in his chair to face them.
The man’s office was impeccable, but then again, the space was minimally decorated. Aside from the computer monitor and a wireless keyboard, a notepad, and a cup of pens, his desk was unadorned. There were a couple succulent plants on the windowsill at his back, and his medical degree and various certifications decorated one wall. Other than the two chairs that faced the desk, the space was unadorned.
“You should get a potted plant or somethi
ng in here,” Noah said as he held out the paper cup of coffee.
“I put up a tree for Christmas,” Dan replied with a shrug. “I usually put it up at the beginning of September and hang little ghosts and stuff on it. Then I switch them out for turkeys, and then actual Christmas ornaments after that. My ex suggested I keep it up year-round and just decorate it for each season, but I’m not sure if that’d be tacky.”
Winter laughed. “Tacky, but awesome.”
The suggestion sounded familiar, but Noah couldn’t place where he had heard it before. They had a long day of sifting through security camera footage and criminal records ahead of them, and he decided to drop the topic altogether.
“We’re here with peace offerings,” he said instead. “A caramel latte and a chocolate chip scone.”
“You guys spoil me.” Dan chuckled as he accepted the brown paper bag from Winter. “My guess is you want to see James Bauman, though, don’t you?”
With a grin, Noah nodded. “You guessed right, my friend.”
“Right.” Dan pressed both palms against the polished wooden surface and pushed to his feet. “You can leave your coffees in here if you want.” He made his way around the desk and beckoned them to follow.
“It looked like there was a lot of blood on the carpet in that room,” Winter observed.
Dan sighed. “Yeah. If there hadn’t been an index card with this guy, I wouldn’t have guessed it was the same killer. This one was up close and personal, not like the last two.”
“Serial killers vary,” Winter said. “They vary in how strict their ritual is, and how many details they include in it. Same with the way they pick victims. Some serial killers will fixate on a certain appearance and age, others fixate on a profession. And while a lot of them kill their victims the same way each time, there are some that just kill their victims without a real ritual. They’re still serial killers since they’re targeting a specific type of person, and the thought process is probably the same for each time they kill someone.”