Never Look Back

by Mary Burton

  “Are you sure no one else survived the Key Killer?” she asked. “Guys like him don’t come out of the womb knowing all the tricks of the serial killer trade.”

  Killers evolved. Initial crimes were generally petty. Peeping Toms. Small fires. However, over time they honed their skills, graduating to animal cruelty, rape, and murder.

  Like everyone else, killers practiced and learned by trial and error. Modifications to the Key Killer’s van had likely been ongoing as the killer learned, adapted, and evolved.

  “If we can identify him,” Ramsey said, “we’ll most likely find someone who got away.”

  “Catch-22. The woman could lead to this killer, but we can’t find her until we find him.”

  “I had an agent search the crime reports in Georgia, South Carolina, Maryland, and North Carolina. We were looking for prostitutes who had escaped a violent john. There were many, but none mentioned a van.”

  “You said ten victims. So far, I count five. Where were the other women killed?”

  “Three in Atlanta between 1999 and 2004. And two in Savannah, Georgia, in 2002.”

  “That’s a rather defined area,” she said.

  “Serial killers often have geographical preferences. Even truckers, pilots, and salesmen have territories or routes.”

  Yellow crime scene tape now roped off a generous area around the open bay of a gray warehouse dotted with signs reading FOR SALE.

  Ramsey parked behind a marked car and the two got out, meeting in front of his vehicle before walking toward the uniformed officer controlling access.

  Each showed their badge.

  The officer noted both of their names in a log that tracked everyone coming and going beyond the tape that Ramsey now held up for her to duck under.

  The warehouse was dimly lit, but she could see the outline of the windowless van shadowed in the far north corner. It looked just as it had when it had emerged from the shadows toward her. Her nerves tightened as she imagined what would have happened if she had not broken free.

  Melina handed Ramsey a fresh set of latex gloves, and then she slid on a pair as Jackson walked up. She offered him a set and he did the same. Their footsteps fell in time, echoing up toward the rafters of the large room.

  Standing beside the van was Matt Piper, head of TBI’s forensic department. He was a tall, lean guy in his early thirties. He wore khakis and a blue button-down with the department’s emblem over the right breast pocket. He wore his hair short and neatly combed, and his shirt’s and pants’ creases were sharp, the laces of his shoes double knotted, and his nails neatly trimmed.

  “Agent Ramsey, this is Matt Piper, head of the forensic team,” Jackson said.

  Ramsey extended his hand. “Good to meet you.”

  A spotlight in the corner switched on, illuminating the van. The plates were missing and judging by the screws that lay on the concrete floor, they had been removed hastily.

  The cleaned tires and the exterior glistened in the new light. The vehicle was older than she had imagined. There was not anything about the vehicle that would have caught a cop’s attention. Bland vanilla. But that was the point. He wanted to go unnoticed.

  A camera flashed as another technician moved around the vehicle snapping pictures. Melina studied the passenger side, imagining the sliding door catapulting open with alarming speed. Whoever this guy was, he knew his way around a toolbox.

  “Piper, have you looked inside yet?” Jackson asked.

  “No,” Matt replied. “We just arrived ourselves. Uniforms cordoned off but didn’t inspect it, per your orders.”

  “Appreciate that,” Ramsey said.

  Melina moved up to the driver’s side window and peered in. It was neat, no signs of anything out of the ordinary.

  More pictures were taken, and finally a uniformed officer arrived with a slim jim, which he wedged between the driver’s side window and the rubber casing. The door lock clicked. He lifted the handle and opened the door.

  The faintest scent of bleach wafted out. Most of the scent had dissipated in the last seven days, but it had enough punch to direct her mind back to a fear she refused to acknowledge.

  Her stomach turned and sweat formed at the base of her spine. Absently, she touched the section of her hair that he had nearly ripped out. Her mind flashed back to the adrenaline-fueled moments when she had fought desperately for her life.

  In the hours after the attack, she had replayed the attempted abduction over and over. She prided herself on being alert, but that night she had let her guard slip.

  Ramsey pressed the van’s power door button. The door snapped open with an uncommon speed, making Melina flinch slightly enough to bring her back to the moment.

  “He was out the door in a matter of seconds,” she said clearly.

  “Ten confirmed kills,” Ramsey said. “It takes practice.”

  “Yes. Every move was choreographed,” she said.

  Another light in the warehouse switched on, and this time she had her first fully illuminated look at the cargo bay.

  “You did retrieve the syringe from last week’s crime scene, correct?” Ramsey asked.

  “Yes,” Melina said.

  “The contents are being analyzed,” Jackson said. “We should know in a day or two.”

  Four O-rings were screwed and welded into the metal floor. Cuffs linked to long chains were attached to each ring. The walls were padded. Hanging on the driver’s side wall was what looked like a toolbar complete with hammers, small saws, and a drill. On the driver’s side door were remnants of duct tape, where she guessed he had kept the syringe.

  It was a do-it-yourself torture van. And she had been less than four feet away from being trapped inside here.

  Melina smoothed her hands over her pant legs. Her father had always told her a good cop kept their emotions in check no matter how bad it got on the streets. Don’t ever let them see you squirm. Do whatever you need to do to hold it together, and later in private you can deal with it. When she had asked him how he dealt, he had laughed and pointed to his garage filled with woodshop equipment and lopsided handmade furniture her mother refused to let him bring in the house.

  “We know this killer has been active for at least twenty years,” Ramsey said. “And over that time, he’s moved between at least five jurisdictions. The only jurisdiction to give him a nickname was Atlanta. There he was the Riverside Ripper because the bodies had been found near rivers or bodies of water. All collected evidence and did their investigations, but no one came close to catching him.”

  Jackson shook his head as he reached for the backdoor latch. “I can only imagine what he did to them. This setup is a house of horrors.”

  Melina glanced up and caught Ramsey’s reflection in the rearview mirror. Tension etched his features. She held his gaze a beat and then looked away, hoping her complexion was not too ashen.

  “I saw the sketch you created with the forensic artist,” Ramsey said.

  “It’s not very detailed,” she said. “I’m frustrated I didn’t remember more. I’d have thought I would be the perfect witness, but not so much.”

  “It was less than a minute of high-adrenaline interaction,” Ramsey said. “Not conducive to memory.”

  “For the average citizen,” she countered.

  Ramsey’s frown deepened as if he understood her frustration. “Mr. Piper, I want you to dismantle this van. I don’t want one square inch left untouched. No one cleans up all the evidence.”

  “Understood,” Matt said.

  “Agent Jackson, you said you studied the security footage of this area?” Ramsey asked.

  “We did,” Jackson said. “We have the van rolling into this warehouse three minutes after Reverend Beckett’s 911 call.”

  Ramsey crossed the warehouse to a section where tire tracks imprinted the dust. “Do you have footage of a car leaving the warehouse?”

  “Not on the same camera,” Jackson said.

  “There’re two entrances to the warehouse
,” Matt said.

  “He had a second car stashed here,” Ramsey said.

  “That’s a lot of work on his part,” Melina offered.

  “He has won every time,” Ramsey said. “It’s why he’s operated for so long. Check the cameras on the west side of the warehouse. See what vehicles were traveling the area minutes after the initial time stamp.”

  “Will do,” Jackson said.

  Melina shifted her attention back to the van. “It’s not a cheap vehicle. Even used, it would have cost some money.”

  “But it’s older. I’d say a 2007,” Ramsey said. “He’s comfortable with it. It’s part of him. There’s a lot of sick history between the two.”

  “He clearly didn’t use it in the early murders,” Melina said.

  “I think he settled on it after some practice.”

  “That makes sense,” she said. “A used van is cheaper and doesn’t stand out as much. It also doesn’t have GPS.”

  “He has to have some serious mechanical skills,” Matt said. “The modifications are professionally done.”

  “Very likely,” Ramsey said.

  “Does he strike in any particular season?” Melina asked.

  “Spring and summer,” Ramsey said.

  “Not fond of the cold?” Jackson asked.

  “All evidence suggests victims vanished in the warm-weather months,” Ramsey said.

  She stepped back from the van, feeling a familiar tension ripple through her as she walked around to the driver’s seat. “You said he’s not in CODIS. Have you uploaded his DNA to an open-source site and traced him through a possible relative?”

  “When we matched the DNA on your knife, that idea came up for discussion,” he said.

  Tracing criminals via DNA and family lineage was a new technique and still required a judge’s approval before a law enforcement agency could traipse through family trees. “Ancestry is a hot topic these days,” Melina said.

  As an adoptee, she had always had an interest in ancestry sites. However, she rarely discussed this with anyone, because she was never comfortable sharing anything more personal than her favorite football team, barbecue joint, and country music band. The real personal stuff stayed locked away.

  “It’s worth a try,” Ramsey said. “I have an agent at Quantico who’s used this technique on another case.”

  The ideal match in an ancestry search was a sibling, half sibling, first cousin, or parent. That was the DNA equivalent of hitting gold. The further back the matches went, the more family trees branched and would have to be built out. But it was a start. Melina had had her DNA analyzed about a year ago but could not force herself to look at the results.

  “As far as we know, this guy has not struck for almost five years,” Ramsey said. “We thought he might have died or just gotten too old. Now we know he’s still active and in your backyard. And thanks to you, we just might catch this guy.”

  “Tell that to my boss,” Melina said.

  A faint smile tipped the edges of his lips. “I’d like to meet Reverend Sarah Beckett.”

  “The Mission is right around the corner.”

  “Perfect.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Monday, August 24, 2:00 p.m.

  Fatigue born from endless cases stacked up back to back was settling into Ramsey’s shoulders. He would power through today and get enough shut-eye tonight to fuel him for the cases waiting for him back at Quantico. But right now, it was one foot in front of the other. This kind of fatigue was worrisome because it led to mistakes and missed leads. He was too close to catching the Key Killer to make a mistake now.

  Ramsey and Shepard left Jackson with the van. The two walked back to the vehicle and climbed in.

  Shepard removed sunglasses tucked in the side pocket of her backpack, and within minutes they were headed toward South Nashville. Ten minutes later, they parked in front of the one-story community center.

  The board-and-batten siding was a faded blue and looked in need of a fresh coat of paint. But the small patch of grass bordering the front was neatly trimmed with two planters filled with yellow marigolds. The Mission did not have a lot of financial resources, but it made the most of what it had.

  “Sarah started her ministry about three years ago. Like I said, she gets women off the streets. As a group, they make herbal soaps and scrubs and sell them in town. The products are quite popular.”

  “What’s the percentage of women under her ministry who stay clean and off the streets?” Ramsey asked.

  “Over seventy percent.”

  “Impressive.”

  They got out of the car and walked to the double front doors. He deliberately reached it first, pulling it open.

  “You might have to stop doing that,” she said as she passed.

  “Opening doors?”

  She paused as she raised her gaze to a large cross hanging on the wall. “If any of the guys see you treat me as a prim and proper lady, I’ll never live it down.”

  He cracked a small grin, and for the first time in a long time felt a lightness of spirit. “I’m not worried about you. My guess is that you can eat the lunch of anyone at TBI.”

  “True. But they can turn into a bunch of middle school kids. And that gets annoying.” She walked up to a bell hanging on the wall and rang it.

  Seconds later a petite woman appeared. In her midthirties, she had a thick shock of red hair tied up on her head, ivory skin, and freckles that splashed over the bridge of her nose. Her jeans and sweatshirt were covered in speckles of blue paint. She was wiping the same hue from her hands with an old rag.

  “Melina,” she said, smiling.

  “Sarah, I’d like you to meet FBI agent Jerrod Ramsey. Agent Ramsey, Reverend Beckett. She runs the Mission.”

  Ramsey extended his hand. “Pleasure.”

  “I’d shake your hand, but you don’t want to be near me. I know a good suit when I see one.”

  His hand remained extended. “I’m not worried.”

  She wiped her hands on a rag and grasped his. “Can I get you two some coffee? We just put a big pot on. You can ask me anything you want.”

  They followed her into the kitchen where a tall stocky man dressed in jeans and a white apron was setting up a row of plates on a stainless steel counter.

  “This is Sam Jenkins,” Reverend Beckett said. “He’s my right-hand man.”

  Sam was in his late thirties and was carrying an extra twenty pounds on his frame. Dark brown hair brushed the top of his collar. He wiped his hands on his apron and extended one to Ramsey. “I hope you’re keeping Melina out of trouble?”

  Shepard shot him a look that was both familiar and irritated. “Sam.”

  Grinning, Sam held up his hands. “I get it. Official business.”

  Shepard’s cheeks burned as her shoulders stiffened.

  “Agent Shepard is the reason I’m here. She tangled with a man I’ve been chasing for years.”

  Frowning, Sam poured three cups of coffee. “We all heard about it. Some of the residents are still upset. Hell, I’m still upset.”

  Shepard cleared her throat. “What are you doing now?”

  Sam’s brow rose, as if he knew she was trying to divert the conversation. “We’re setting up for a catering class. The goal is to teach the residents practical job skills. In this town, someone’s always looking for food-service workers. Melina’s one of our best instructors.”

  “What do you teach?” Ramsey asked.

  “Self-defense,” Shepard said.

  “And cake decorating,” Sam added. “She makes one hell of a sugar flower.”

  Shepard groaned. “You’re killing me.”

  Sam winked. “What? Can’t wield a gun and a piping bag?”

  Ramsey did not comment as they all took their coffees and left the kitchen, finding their way to a small conference room. The walls were decorated with large snapshots of residents in the kitchen, in Bible study, and in self-defense class. His gaze was drawn to the latter, keying in on a p
icture of Shepard wearing sweats and a determined grin as she flipped a man nearly twice her size.

  Reverend Beckett closed the door and sat. “There’s been no sign of the two missing women. Melina has called twice a day to check.”

  “Are you sure they didn’t leave town?” Ramsey asked. “It’s not unusual.”

  “Both women have children, which I know doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll stay. But both were making progress toward getting clean.”

  “Easy to fall off the wagon,” Ramsey said. “Failure rate with addicts is high.”

  “I’ve considered that. But I don’t think that’s the case. Something feels really off about this,” Reverend Beckett said.

  “Do you have pictures of the missing women?” Ramsey asked.

  “I do.” She reached in her pocket and pulled out two images printed onto computer paper. “I take a picture of every woman who enters the program here. It’s not only for identification purposes, but I also document it as their ‘before’ picture. You’d be amazed at some of the transformations.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “Anyway, I also try to collect a full history, but they aren’t always forthcoming at first. And others tend to tell you what they believe you want to hear.”

  Ramsey studied the unsmiling, drawn faces. Both women had shoulder-length dark hair and appeared to be in their early twenties. “Did any of the women mention the man in the van?”

  “A few girls remembered seeing it two weeks ago. They all joked that he was a virgin, meaning he’s never paid for sex in the Bottom before. I didn’t even remember the van until Melina’s encounter with its driver,” she said. “All of them thought there was something off about the guy.”

  Ramsey wondered how many of the women really remembered the van after Agent Shepard’s attack by the Key Killer. Memories were a tricky thing. They were easily suggestible and not wholly reliable. The women’s fear of a killer hunting women like them could easily inject itself into their subconscious and taint their recollections.

  “And you think the missing girls got into that van?” he asked.