by Regan, Lisa
Mettner said, “East Stroudsburg? That’s almost a hundred miles from Bloomsburg. Why so far?”
“We don’t know,” Drake admitted. “There doesn’t seem to be any pattern to where he leaves the bones.”
“Except places where there are no cameras,” Noah said. “I’ve been to the Bloomsburg fairgrounds. When the fair isn’t going on, they’re empty. There aren’t any cameras there, and the area is pretty large. Was a note left for someone that time so the bones could be located?”
“No. He left them in a part of the fairgrounds where they could easily be seen from Route 11 or the overpass going to Route 42. Someone spotted them as soon as the sun came up.”
Trinity’s home screen showed a photo of the entire Payne family in front of a Christmas tree. Josie recognized it from the year before, only about four months ago. The sight of it pained her now. She had the same photo printed out and framed in her and Noah’s living room. She pulled up Trinity’s email app and started trawling through her inbox while she listened to her team and Drake discuss the Bone Artist.
Gretchen said, “So this guy is careful enough to not be caught on camera taking people, careful enough to stage their remains where there are no cameras, but takes the risk of delivering notes. He always leaves the bodies in April exactly thirty days after he’s taken them, but there’s no pattern at all to where he leaves them. I mean, those first three victims were found relatively close to where they went missing but the last one was very far from where he went missing.”
“What about the victims themselves?” Noah asked. “Any commonalities? Did any of them know each other or have mutual friends or acquaintances?”
Drake shook his head. “Nothing.” He went through more photos in the file until he came up with photos of each victim. All of them looked as though they’d been pulled from the victims’ social media profiles. “They have no friends, family or acquaintances in common. Nothing job-related in common. They don’t even look alike, other than they’re all Caucasian. We even had their medical histories compared. There’s nothing. We believe that the victims are chosen for convenience. The killer sees an opportunity to abduct someone where there are no cameras or witnesses or, as with Terri Abbott, in such a crowded place that no one would notice her going off with him.”
“So he’s not choosy,” Mettner said. “He doesn’t have a type.”
Josie found nothing in Trinity’s emails to indicate she had ever known or come into contact with Nicci Webb. Nothing in her email was unusual or sending up any red flags. It was all work-related. There were three emails exchanged between Trinity and her assistant three months earlier where she asked Jaime to see if the network had ever done any pieces on unsolved serial cases. Jaime had later sent her links to segments about the Zodiac Killer, the Alphabet Murders, the Tylenol poisoning and the Freeway Phantom. It looked as though the only link Trinity had clicked on and viewed was the one for the Alphabet Killer. Josie clicked on the link as well. She muted the video segment but quickly read the transcript below it. The killings had occurred in the 1970s in Rochester, New York. The three victims’ first and last names all started with the same initial. Josie saw that Trinity had only visited the site once. Her search history didn’t turn up any more links for the Alphabet murders, only the Bone Artist and several news stories about Codie Lash’s murder. Josie kept skimming Trinity’s emails. The email exchange between Trinity and her assistant regarding Lash’s personal effects was exactly as Jaime had described it. There was no clue as to why Trinity had wanted the items.
Josie sighed and closed the laptop. They had nothing.
Thirty-One
Josie turned her attention back to Drake and the team as they continued to review the Bone Artist file. Noah said, “Also there’s a break in the geographical pattern. Three victims on the eastern side of Pennsylvania and one on the western side. Why?”
Drake said, “We really don’t know.”
Josie thought about the Post-it notes she had managed to glimpse in her guest room before Trinity had torn them down. OCD? Symmetry? Mirror killings? She said, “Are you absolutely sure there haven’t been any other Bone Artist cases on the western side of the state?”
“None,” Drake answered.
Trinity had been looking for patterns just as they were now. As if reading her mind, Noah said, “That one outlier, the killing in Pittsburgh, was a woman. The other three victims were men. Today’s victim was a woman. Don’t serial killers usually stay with one type of victim?”
“There are always exceptions but yes, usually serial killers have a type.”
“Why, then?” Josie asked. “Why would he go all the way to the other side of the state for his next victim and choose a woman? It couldn’t be a copycat because by that point you didn’t even know you had a serial killer on your hands.”
Drake said, “That’s right. Terri Abbott was the second victim. We think perhaps he meant to zig-zag the state and alternate the sex of his victims, but for some reason, with the fourth victim, Robert Ingram, he took a man instead of a woman.”
“What would make him break his pattern?” Josie pressed.
“Some kind of personal stressor,” Drake offered. “Or he may have had to change his plans based on his ability to get away with it. Perhaps Ingram was a more convenient victim. Perhaps he meant to head west again but logistically he wasn’t able to do it, so he took someone on this side of the state. We have no way of really knowing why he changed his pattern—if his pattern was indeed to alternate male and female victims and east and west of the state.”
“You’re assuming he has patterns because of the thirty-day thing,” Mettner pointed out. “The ages of the victims are disparate. Their socioeconomic status. Some have kids and some don’t.”
“True,” Drake said. “For every pattern we can establish, there are other things that aren’t done according to a pattern. Other than the way the victims are taken, like vanishing into thin air, and the way their bones are staged exactly thirty days after they go missing, there aren’t any similarities.”
Mettner said, “He could be trying to throw us off by breaking that pattern with Nicci Webb’s murder.”
Noah said, “Were there ever any viable suspects?”
Drake pulled out another report. “The short answer is no.”
“How is that even possible?” Mettner asked.
Drake didn’t answer. Instead he said, “We concentrated our search on funeral home workers, orthopedic surgeons, hunters, taxidermists, anthropologists, archaeologists, orthotists, prosthetists, artists, and art students in the eastern area of the state. We even looked at coroners and medical examiners. We found a couple of odd birds, for sure, but no one who looked good for these killings.”
“What about ornithologists?” Josie asked.
“I’m sorry, what?” Drake said.
“Ornithologists. Bird experts.”
Drake stared at her.
Noah said, “You said he uses avian scavengers to accelerate decomposition. It makes sense that it could be someone who knows a bit about birds.”
“There are carrion birds all over this state,” Drake said. “Driving here, I saw at least two dozen groups of them feeding on roadkill. You don’t have to be a bird expert to know what scavenger birds do.”
“It’s still worth looking into,” Gretchen said.
“Did you check veterinarians or veterinarian techs?” Josie went on.
“Why would we?” Drake asked.
“Because you’ve obviously covered the bone angle, which makes sense. Look for someone who works with bones or is around bones or has some affinity for bones. Or look at artists, cause this guy thinks he’s an artist. But none of those produced any suspects. If you know he uses animals to accelerate decomposition, the next logical step would be to look at people who work with animals.”
“We looked at hunters and taxidermists,” Drake repeated.
Josie said, “Makes sense. What about anyone who worked at a z
oo? Or even someone on the state game commission? They’re in charge of collecting and disposing of roadkill.”
Drake said nothing.
Mettner tapped a note into his cell phone. “We’ll look into those as well.”
“How about large properties?” Josie asked. “He would need a large enough property to leave a body out for days or weeks for the vultures to get to it without drawing attention.”
Drake took a packet of pages out of the folder and slid them across the table. “These are all the property owners we checked out. We went halfway across the state. No red flags.”
Josie remembered something she had seen among Trinity’s things when she was cleaning out the guest room. “What about the psychological profile?”
Drake sifted through the pages left in the file until he came up with the report. “Caucasian male, mid to late thirties. That was based on the sophistication of his crimes—being able to abduct adult individuals without leaving any evidence or being caught on camera; being able to accelerate the decomposition of the bodies using avian scavengers without drawing attention to his activities; and being able to stage the remains, again, without getting caught. We also believe he has at least some college education. Make no mistake, this guy is smart. He’s probably got a higher than average IQ. He can likely function just fine in society, but he is a loner. Other people may grate on him.”
“Why?” Noah asked.
“Because he’s got an inflated sense of self,” Josie remarked.
Drake nodded. “Exactly.”
“What makes you think that?” Mettner asked her.
Josie said, “Because he felt the need to contact the press. It wasn’t enough for him to kill. He wanted people to understand how smart he is, how clever, how sophisticated. He wanted people to see that he was getting away with it.”
“That’s what our profiler believed,” Drake said.
Gretchen said, “The messages he sent to members of the press show he wanted to control his own story, especially the way he wanted to be known as the Bone Artist and not the Boneyard Killer.”
“Thinking of himself as some kind of artist definitely tracks with the inflated sense of self,” Mettner agreed.
Noah asked, “Who in the press did he contact?”
Drake answered, “A handful of anchors from most of the network morning shows.”
“The position Trinity holds now,” Gretchen said. “Or used to hold.”
“Right,” Drake said. He fished through the pages of the file again until he came up with a large color photograph. He slid it across the table so they could all view it. Black, block letters filled a piece of copy paper, the writing just like on the packaging Trinity had received and the notes the killer had left at the steel mill and junkyard. Gretchen shifted her reading glasses on the bridge of her nose and read it out loud:
Ladies and Gentleman: This is the murderer you call the Boneyard Killer. It’s true I have done evil things. The devil inside me has grown strong. Not even I can stop him now. The police can’t stop him. They have never caught me. They won’t catch me. No one is smart enough to stop what is happening. Now the devil has grown bored. He wants a new game. I invite you to play. If you signal me on air, you can save a life. The next victim is ready. Will you save?
Yours in life and death,
The Bone Artist
Mettner gave a low whistle. “Is this guy trying to tell us he’s batshit crazy?”
“Hardly,” Drake said. “These guys like to make themselves out to be out of control or overcome by some otherworldly force because, like Detective Palmer said, they’re trying to control the narrative. By saying all the heinous things they did are the result of some monster or evil, they seem more sympathetic or even innocent. ‘It wasn’t me, it was the devil.’ H.H. Holmes, a serial killer out of Chicago in the 1890s said he had the devil in him—just like this guy. Dennis Rader, the BTK killer in Kansas said there was a monster in him. It’s all meant to manipulate their own image. These killers know exactly what they’re doing, and they enjoy it.”
“He’s gotten away with it for years and now he wants to play a game?” Noah remarked.
Josie said, “Because he thinks he’s smarter than anyone else. He gets satisfaction out of this. He’s outwitted the police all this time. They’re not worthy opponents. Contacting the press, playing his ‘game’ is another way for him to flaunt what he sees as his high intelligence.”
Drake nodded. “That’s right. Except that no one played his game. The members of the press who received this letter turned them over to the FBI immediately.”
Gretchen pointed at the top of the letter where someone—presumably an FBI agent—had handwritten Received by male anchor at CBS on April 3, 2014. She said, “You didn’t think you could save the victim? By having one of these anchors pretend to play his game?”
Drake sighed. “Engaging this guy like that, with him holding all the cards and making all the rules, was deemed too risky by both the bureau and the networks. No one on the task force really believed he would let a victim go. That was confirmed five days later when the remains of Robert Ingram were found. He never had any intention of letting Ingram go. In fact, we believe that Ingram was already dead when he sent those letters.”
Mettner raised a brow. “What was the signal, anyway? He never even said.”
“Exactly,” Drake agreed. “It was just a stunt to try to engage the press. The press didn’t bite, and he stopped killing. Until now.”
“Why did he start again?” Mettner asked to no one in particular.
Drake said, “Because Trinity drew him out.”
“Trinity drew him out,” Gretchen said, “But he was killing long before she made contact, and he would probably have killed again even if she hadn’t made contact. For all we know, he’s been killing nonstop since 2014 but not putting any of his victims on display, so no one is the wiser.”
Josie could tell by the look on Drake’s face, as though he’d been slapped, that he didn’t like this idea—because it was likely true.
“The psychological profile—what else does it say?” she asked. “Besides him being an almost forty-year old white male with some college and a higher than average IQ? Does it mention the possibility that he has a job that involves driving? He’d have to, wouldn’t he? His victims are all over the place.”
“Yes,” Drake said, turning his attention back to Josie. “We believe his job involves him driving but with very little oversight, which he will prefer because he won’t like having a supervisor. He’ll always believe he is smarter and better qualified. He likely drives a pretty nondescript vehicle but one that could accommodate his activities, so a van or a pickup truck but likely an older model, nothing that would draw a great deal of attention. Also, he is someone who is quite comfortable outdoors and with animals.”
Drake pushed the report across the table to Josie. “Look, you can read that yourself, but none of it has ever helped us find this guy.”
Josie’s cell phone rang. Everyone stared at her as she pulled it out of her pocket. “It’s Shannon,” she said, hyper aware of everyone’s gaze boring into her as she swiped Answer.
“Josie?” Shannon said. “You there?”
“Yes, what’s going on? Are you still in Callowhill?”
“We are. Is there any word?”
Josie’s eyes were drawn to the photos spread across the table. The ghastly displays that the killer considered art. Her stomach turned. “No word,” Josie said. “My team is still running down leads. Did you find the letters?”
“No, I’m sorry. We’ve got the whole attic turned upside down. There’s nothing here. Christian checked our old things as well, thinking maybe one of us kept them since they were part of her therapy, but they’re not here.”
“What about the therapist?” Josie asked. “Maybe we can get in touch with him or her.”
Silence filled the line. After a beat, Shannon said, “That’s not possible. We had the same thought, so Ch
ristian Googled her. We were just looking for her phone number. We figured we’d call her as soon as her office opened, but all we found was her obituary.”
“Oh God.”
“I’m so sorry, Josie. She wasn’t very young when Trinity saw her. Apparently, she developed ALS—Lou Gehrig’s disease—in her later years and died of complications from that. What do we do?”
“I guess just come back then. You can stay with me. Lisette’s in the guest bedroom, but we can figure something out. I—”
She broke off. Lisette’s words from earlier whispered in her ear. You know her well enough, Josie… she was trying to tell you something, dear. Point you in a direction.
“Josie?” Shannon asked, her voice reedy.
“I’m here,” she replied quickly. “Shannon, the letters that Trinity wrote to me for her therapist—were they in shorthand?”
“Well, no. The therapist read them. They were like a homework assignment.”
“Did you ever read them?”
“No. Trinity asked her therapist if she could keep them private from us. She said it was bad enough that she had to show them to the therapist. Neither one of them shared them with us, but we thought Trinity kept them. Why?”
“I need to come there.”
“Josie,” Noah said. “It’s 11:30 at night.”
Ignoring him, she told Shannon, “Stay there, would you? I’m going to drive down. Try to get some rest. Sleep, if you can. I’ll see you soon.”
“Boss,” Gretchen said when Josie hung up. “You need to rest as well.”
Josie stood up. “I’ll sleep when I get there, okay? I promise. There’s something I need to do.”
“Will someone tell me what letters you’re all talking about?” Drake asked.
Josie said, “Mett can fill you in. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Josie,” Noah said. “I’ll go with you.”