“We don’t know yet, but we’re working on it.”
“So the killer contacted Channel Six News exclusively?”
“Yes. He didn’t say why.”
“Wait, I’m getting something from the producer.” The anchor lightly touched his ear. “We’ve got a bunch of hits on our Facebook page. People are trying to decipher the message.” He glanced at Jerrod. “We’ll be sure to share possible solutions with the authorities.”
Jerrod nodded, trying to cover his excitement with a somber expression, missing the mark. “Whatever else is going on, the killer appears to be focused on Special Agent Guerrera,” he said. “Let’s hope the FBI is hunting him down right now.”
“Thank you for this report, Jerrod, and please let us know about any future developments. This guy is as much of a cipher as the clues he leaves behind.” The anchor swiveled to address the camera. “After the break, we’ll catch up with a pest control company in Reston that uses psychics and crystal power to keep bugs out of your home.”
“Shut that damn thing off,” Buxton said, then looked around the table. “Did anyone get that?”
Breck read from her laptop. “Thirty-two, eighteen, ten, and thirty-six, followed by an F and an R.”
Wade glanced up from his scribbled notes. “If the first number is thirty-two, he didn’t use a simple substitution cipher this time.”
“I’ll forward it to Cryptanalysis,” Buxton said. “The game has changed. The unsub is pulling the public directly into the middle of our investigation.”
“He wants to control every aspect of the case,” Wade said. “Including the information we release. He’s also enjoying the spectacle, as long as it concerns him. Classic narcissist.”
“What’s our best guess for his next move?” Buxton’s pinched expression told Nina he dreaded the answer.
“He’ll double down,” Wade said. “Go after Guerrera personally. Prove his superiority by taking out a Fed.”
Nina had no intention of letting that happen. The monster believed he had unfinished business with her, but he had no idea what she had become. Their paths seemed destined to converge again, but this time she would be ready for him. “And if he doesn’t succeed?”
Wade’s eyes bored into her. “Then someone else is going to die.”
Chapter 10
Nina did not miss the implication. Sofia Garcia-Figueroa had died in her place and, if she couldn’t stop the monster, another girl would do the same. She felt a pall of culpability descend, settling over her.
Breck broke the silence. “What kind of killer communicates in code?”
“In my experience,” Wade said, “serial killers.”
“But we only have one victim.” Flicking a glance at Nina, Breck added, “One deceased victim, anyway.”
“That’s another problem I’m having with this case.” Wade dragged a hand through his coarse gray hair. “The ones who engage in this way have killed before, but the physical evidence—or lack thereof—says he’s only had one prior unsuccessful attempt.”
The room fell silent again.
“Hope is dead,” Nina said, mulling over the first coded message. “What the hell does that mean?”
“If the victim was a substitute for you, that means he ritually killed you,” Wade said without inflection.
“Then why did you say someone else will die?” Breck said to Wade.
“Good question,” Buxton cut in. “In fact, can you update your assessment of this unsub based on what we’ve just heard, Agent Wade?”
“The surest path inside the mind of a killer is his behavior, particularly at the scenes of his crimes, when he’s acting out,” Wade began. “Between Guerrera’s case and this new one in DC, he’s established a definite pattern in both victimology and methodology. The fact that he wore gloves, avoided committing the crime on camera, altered his appearance, and obtained a delivery uniform tells me he’s organized and disciplined. The stunt with the media indicates that he craves attention and further underscores his need for control. He wants to show the world that he’s in charge of the investigation, not the FBI.” He cut his eyes to Nina. “And he has a fascination with you.”
Nina felt the spotlight shift to her. Like they all thought she was withholding some critical piece of information that would lead them to his door. “I have no idea why,” she said, trying to keep any sign of defensiveness from her response.
Wade kept his gaze on her. “In the instance of a repeat offender, the most important cases to scrutinize are the earliest, which will be near the perpetrator’s place of residence and reveal more about what prompted the crimes.” He paused, apparently weighing his words. “If you were—as his note says—the one who got away, that could indicate you were also his very first victim. He hadn’t perfected his skills, so you might have critical information about him. Things you may not even realize you know.”
“You believe he’s a serial killer?” She crossed her arms. “We don’t have three victims.”
Like all other agents, she had studied different types of murderers in the academy. Serial killers were defined as having at least three victims, with a chronological or psychological separation between each event. Mass murderers were characterized as killing at least four individuals in one incident. Finally, spree killers had two or more victims in different locations with no de-escalation period between.
Wade lifted a shoulder. “I’m not saying he’s a serial killer, but he’s definitely a repeat offender. It’s possible that something about you sparked him initially, caused a reaction. When you escaped, that set him back, perhaps shook his confidence. He may have repressed his violent urges until he saw you in the video.”
Kent nodded slowly. “And now the unsub’s out to prove to the world, and to himself, that he can have her.”
“It would be essential to him,” Wade said.
Buxton dug a finger into his shirt collar and drew in a deep breath. “We need actionable intelligence to ID this guy. We’re going to have to go over the incident involving Agent Guerrera.” He hesitated, then added, “In detail.”
His grim expression told her he was giving her a chance to back out gracefully. If she weren’t in this room, part of this team, Wade would interview her privately and report his findings to the others. Everything would be filtered, protecting her from the scrutiny and judgment of her colleagues. If she remained here, she’d have to recount her story and answer questions as they arose. Basic training had taught her that firsthand interviews were always the best source of information. And she was the most valuable source they had right now.
This was her moment. The time had come for her to talk about what had happened and everything that led up to it. To speak about the most intimate, most humiliating hours of her life. She would either deal with it or she would sit on the sidelines while other agents worked the case.
As Nina looked around the table at her colleagues, she remembered recounting her story for investigators and counselors when she was only sixteen. If it would help catch the monster, she could do it again now as a grown woman.
Wade spoke out of the corner of his mouth in a voice only she could hear. “You don’t have to do this.”
What Wade didn’t understand was that this was exactly what she had to do. She squared her shoulders and directed her gaze at Buxton. “What do you want to know?”
Buxton exchanged a covert glance with Wade. They must have planned for this ahead of time, designating Dr. Jeffrey Wade, forensic psychologist, to take her through the account. Buxton clearly knew Wade had already gone over the incident with her during her applicant process. He must have decided it would be easier for her to open up to him again.
As if.
Wade swiveled his chair to face her. “Nina, why don’t you start with what you remember about the abduction?”
He had never used her first name before. He also referred to “the abduction,” distancing her from the attack. She had used the same interview tactics with crime victims.
; “It was late at night,” she began. “I had run away from the group home and was crashing with some women camped out behind a strip mall in Alexandria.”
He nodded, encouraging her to go on.
“The first time I saw the van, it passed by slowly, then came back a second time and stopped across the parking lot from us. One of the women got up to see if he wanted to do some business.”
She remembered the woman as clearly as if it had happened yesterday, her stilted shuffle making her greasy blonde hair swing as she affected a streetwalker strut.
“I just hung out with the others,” Nina said. “Didn’t have a habit to feed, so I wasn’t in the trade.” She found herself focusing on Wade’s cool gray eyes as she poured out her story. “The woman came back to us. Said he was interested in me, not her.”
She could still hear the woman’s bark of laughter, her blackened teeth and swollen gums making a cavernous void contrasting with pale skin in the moonlight.
“Without warning, the man threw open the driver’s-side door, jumped out, and ran straight toward me.” Nina steadied herself as the stark terror of that night washed through her, bringing memories of pain and anguish in its wake. “He wore a black ski mask and bright blue latex gloves. It was kind of chilly, but not cold enough for a ski mask. Once I saw his face was covered, I tried to get away, but he was already sprinting. He caught up to me in a few strides, grabbed my ponytail, and yanked me to him.” She absently touched her cropped hair. “He wrapped one of his big hands around my throat and squeezed.”
“What did the others do?” Wade said.
“Took off.”
She had been certain they would rush to help her. They were five adult women. Together they could have fought him off. Instead, they had watched her being dragged away and had done nothing about it. Like so many others in her life, they had abandoned her. This was the moment when she had truly accepted she was alone. That she could only count on herself.
“He didn’t even have a weapon, but they just scattered.” She swallowed hard, forcing down the lump congealing in her throat. “Left me behind.”
“What happened next?” Wade prompted gently.
“He picked me up and carried me to the van, then choked me until I blacked out.”
“And when you came around?” Wade’s even tone betrayed no emotion. He was in interview mode.
“I’d start to fight, and he would hit me in the head. Kept me disoriented.” She continued to concentrate on Wade, who anchored her to the present as she sank deeper into the past. “I was dizzy and sluggish. I remember him pulling off my clothes and taping my wrists and ankles together. He also taped my mouth.”
“Do you remember what kind of tape he used?”
She tried to dredge up a clearer picture. “No.”
“What color was it?”
“It was dark. I don’t remember.”
No doubt sensing her agitation, Wade moved on. “Please don’t take this next question the wrong way, but I have to ask to understand what personality type he is.” He waited until she acknowledged him before speaking. “Did you fight him?”
“Like my life depended on it.”
“How did he respond?”
“The more I struggled against him, the more violent he got. Actually, I think it turned him on.”
Wade gave her a brief nod as if he’d been expecting that answer. “Okay, what happened next?”
“He opened the van’s back doors. There were trees around. A lot of trees. He dragged me out, threw me over his shoulder like a bag of sand, and carried me to a shed. It looked small, but sturdy.”
She stopped, gathering herself for the next part. Wade did not push her. Everyone waited for her to take up her story.
“After he got me inside, he shut the door and laid me facedown on a steel table. He used nylon rope to bind my left wrist to a pole at the upper left corner. Once I was secure, he cut the tape off, grabbed my right wrist, and tied that to the other corner. He did the same to my ankles.”
“So he made sure you were restrained at all times?” Wade asked.
“I couldn’t get away.” It came out as a whisper.
“It’s okay,” Wade said, his voice low and soothing. “Then what?”
“He disappeared for a few minutes. When he came back, he was wearing a black cloak with his mask and gloves still on.”
“What did his cloak look like?”
“I was on my stomach, but I could see that it was long and opened in the front. He had a rope tied around his waist.”
“You’re doing good. Go ahead.”
She wasn’t certain if anyone but Wade had read the Fairfax County police case report and knew exactly what had happened to her. She had planned to compartmentalize, shifting into her investigative role to create emotional distance. Her goal had been to recite the facts as if they had happened to someone else and she was merely reporting them, but the images from that night had assaulted her, threatening to overwhelm her. Steeling herself with thoughts of Sofia Garcia-Figueroa, she plowed on.
“He kept touching the marks on my back. Said he . . . he wished he had been the one to give them to me.” She paused, rethinking her words. “Actually, he said ‘bestow’ them on me, like he was talking about an award.”
Apparently, the fuzzy bits of memory Wade had found problematic during her application process were beginning to clear a bit.
“I’m sure this must be difficult.” Wade’s tone grew sympathetic. “What did he do after that?”
She rubbed damp palms against her slacks, readying herself for the next part. “He took out a cigarette and lit it. I watched him from the corner of my eye. He talked to me the whole time, asking me questions about the belt marks and whether I cried when I got them. That’s also when he asked me to tell him my name.”
Breck’s hand went to her mouth as she listened.
“Did he specifically mention belt marks?” Wade asked.
She closed her eyes, scouring her subconscious for details. “I believe he did.”
A note of urgency tinged Wade’s voice. “How would he know a belt made those marks?”
She knew where Wade was going with this line of questioning. He was working on the assumption that the unsub knew her before he had taken her. She punched a hole in his theory. “The welts were fresh. I’d only gotten them a few days earlier. He could probably still see where the buckle had cut the skin. Pretty obvious what caused them.”
Wade tried a more direct approach. “Can you recall seeing him before that night?”
A question the police had asked a thousand times. One she had asked herself many times more.
“I can’t.”
Wade studied her in silence, taking her measure. The air conditioner kicked on, its hum filling the air around them. “What did he do with the cigarette?”
He knew damn well what the monster had done with the cigarette.
“He used it on my back three times.” Her pulse raced, but she held herself still, unflinching with her answer. “He made a triangle. A burn hole at each point.”
She remembered the sound of her own scream drowning out the sizzle as the glowing tip seared her. The odor of burning flesh reaching her nose. Her chest heaving against the cold steel as she braced herself between each contact of the cigarette against her bare skin, once on each shoulder blade, and finally in the center of her lower back.
She didn’t want to go on but knew she had to. Something she recalled could provide a clue to stop the monster, some seemingly insignificant detail that had never come up before. She owed Sofia that. And she owed whoever he undoubtedly had in his sights right now.
“After he finished, he seemed . . . excited. He untied the rope around the cloak’s waist and spread the front open.” Pulse pounding, she proceeded to describe all three times the monster had raped her. He had held her for hours, repositioning her between each assault.
Wade listened without interruption. When she finished, he asked, “Did he say anyt
hing to you at that time?”
“He laid on top of me. Spoke into my ear.” She scrunched her eyes closed, willing his words to come to her. “Dammit, I can’t remember what he said.”
“It’s okay,” Wade said, unable to hide his disappointment.
After that, she answered every one of their questions in turn. Yes, he had worn a fresh condom each time. No, he hadn’t bitten her. Yes, he had struck her repeatedly. No, he hadn’t broken any bones, but she had sprained her left wrist trying to get away.
She felt spent. Mentally and physically drained. But it wasn’t over yet.
“How did you escape?” Wade said, moving on with obvious reluctance.
“After he was . . . done with me, he left. I was still tied to the table, and I could only move a little. He had hurt me.” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “A lot. I was soaked with sweat. My hands were so damp, they were sliding on the plastic rope. I kept pulling. My hands are small. I made them narrower like this.” She raised her arm, tucking her thumb into her palm to demonstrate. “I kept pulling until my left hand slid out. After that, I managed to untie myself.”
Wade’s brow went up. “You didn’t know when or if he was coming back, did you?”
“I had to work fast. The knot on my right ankle took the longest. I had regained my equilibrium by that point, but I had a terrible headache. I slid off the table, tiptoed to the door, and opened it. It was still dark, but the sun would be coming up soon. I didn’t see anyone around. The van was gone, so I took off running through the woods.”
“Still naked?” Breck spoke for the first time.
“There were no clothes in the shed, and he must have left mine in the van. Either way, my life was more important than my modesty at that point.”
Wade silenced Breck with a glare. “Go on, Nina.”
“I had to run a long way before I finally came out near some houses. I didn’t know the area but found out later that he’d taken me to Chantilly. It’s in the western part of Fairfax County, about thirty-five minutes from where he’d grabbed me.”
She thought back to her frantic search for help, her terror at knocking on the door of a stranger when she was hurt and vulnerable. A stranger who could be worse than the monster she had just escaped.
The Cipher Page 6