by Jenna Kernan
Despite her vague description, Skogen and Demko had homed in on several of the males from the database.
Two in particular. One was an employee at the gun shop that Demko and she had visited, because Skogen’s attempt to question the man caused him to immediately lawyer up. Skogen would be speaking to him this afternoon in the presence of his attorney.
The second man, Simon Kilpatrick, had agreed to come in for another interview this morning.
Nadine didn’t like the son of the owners of the outdoor adventure outfit for their unsub because, unless he was playing them, he seemed incapable of orchestrating such a plot. He had already been interviewed, and had been in custody when the first letter from the killer had been mailed. Despite her opinion, they’d obtained his phone and Simon had furnished the password, which rather proved her point.
She sat in on the interview. Simon was smallish, muscular, approximately thirty years in age and had a definite lisp and a high voice.
The longer she listened to him, the more convinced she was, yet again, that he wasn’t smart enough to pull this off. Regardless of a high IQ, he didn’t have the façade of normalcy necessary to operate successfully as a killer.
The interview went sideways when Skogen asked for permission to release Simon’s medical records. He refused and asked for his parents, a request that Skogen denied. Simon had then asked if he was under arrest and when Skogen replied that he was not, their suspect kicked over a chair and departed without his phone.
As Skogen left to see a judge about gaining permission to release Kilpatrick’s medical records, Nadine went to meet Demko for a debrief.
Clint had stopped at a food truck that he said had the best Korean barbecue he’d ever tasted and brought her beef tacos with caramelized kimchi and sriracha mango, topped with shredded purple cabbage, and a dish of pot stickers on the side. The fusion of foods was amazing.
They sat at a picnic table behind the sheriff’s office under the shade of an enormous old oak beneath fluttering Spanish moss. The day was dry and clear with a pleasant breeze from the north driving off the humidity.
Molly found a branch and flopped down to chew on it as they focused on their meal. Her protection kept her in view, sitting on a bench near the door.
Midway through their meal, Skogen returned with the judicial order.
“Medical records should be up on the file share soon,” he said, heading past them and disappearing inside.
A few minutes later, a jeep pulled into the lot and a gaunt young man exited, smoking and pacing until the arrival of a gray Mercedes. He met the occupant at his driver’s side and the two men began a conversation.
“Who’s that?” asked Nadine.
“The guy from the gun shop. I’m guessing the other is his attorney.”
Nadine eyed the potential suspect. His olive-green tank top made it easy to see how painfully thin he was.
Demko studied him as well. “Not him,” he said as the two passed them and entered the station.
She turned to face him. “How do you know?”
Demko finished his last pork dumpling. “Santander got into a pickup truck. This guy drives a jeep.”
“Could have used someone else’s vehicle.”
“True. But the driver had a medium build and wore short sleeves. His arms were visible.”
“No tattoos,” she said as the realization struck.
“And that one has a full sleeve on his left arm.”
She nodded and sipped the remains of her water as Demko finished his last taco.
“I canvassed the neighborhood back at that town house. No one owns a Jack Russell terrier,” said Demko. “But animal control recorded one recovered tied to a mailbox two streets over.”
“Is it okay?”
“Yeah. Has a microchip. The owner’s been contacted. The interesting part is that the collar and leash were missing. Whoever it was secured the dog to the post with a lightweight chain and clip.”
“You think I saw him again?”
“Very possible. I gave the information to Skogen.”
“Why use a chain?”
“Let us know it was him, maybe.”
They shared a long silence as Nadine thought of the chain marks found on the torso of both Nikki Darnell and Rita Karnowski.
“Prints?” she asked at last.
He shook his head. “Special Agent Vea said maybe they’ll get DNA.”
She very much doubted that.
“Did they find the guy from the hotel? The one who left without notice?”
Demko gave her a grave look and shook his head. Clearly, he thought the man was dead.
She lowered her gaze and it fell upon Molly, who had fallen asleep with the stick still in her mouth.
“I heard from Arlo’s attorney,” she said.
Demko lifted his eyebrows.
“He told me that the DA is willing to recommend early release, but that’s no guarantee. They’re going to charge my mom with two more counts of homicide. She’s denying it, of course.”
Demko used the napkin briskly on his hands and wadded it into a ball before tossing it into the empty paper container before him.
“She’s trying to leverage a confession for a reduced sentence.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
She conceded that point. “I checked the timelines. Dennis Howler would have been in the army when my mother got pregnant with me.”
Demko nodded.
“It could be anyone. And Arleen won’t tell me.” Nadine sighed. “If she even knows.” She’d already shared with Demko her conversation with Arleen and the one with Arlo, including her brother’s promise to try and remember any men who had been with Arleen when he was five. It was a lot to ask for many reasons, among them that he’d been so young and that there had been so many men.
“You going to look for him? Your dad?”
“I was thinking of doing that DNA thing. Maybe get lucky and find a stepsister or cousin or something.”
Demko scrunched up his face.
“Or find one and get unlucky,” he murmured.
“What does that mean?”
“Nadine, you’ve taken considerable pains to distance yourself from members of your family. And with good reason. Do you really want to know who your dad is, or is this one of those sleeping dogs?”
There was a myriad of possibilities. Her father was someone her mom knew back when she was drinking too much, hopping from dead-end job to dead-end job and murdering couples. It was doubtful that he would resemble one of those sitcom dads she’d latched onto as a kid. More likely the DNA match would be an unknown unsub wanted by authorities.
“You’re probably right. It’s just… It’s a hole in my personal history.”
“Like being adopted.”
“Yeah.”
“Just think about it. Carefully.”
Her computer chirped. Nadine checked the alert and found the first of Simon’s medical records had appeared.
Everything Nadine saw in Kilpatrick’s medical records was deeply troubling. Simon exhibited a hatred of women. His inability to follow orders from a female officer resulted in his discharge from the military. Psychological reports delineated Kilpatrick’s hatred of his mother stemming from her constant belittlement, which Nadine had witnessed firsthand.
As she scanned the clinical notes, she discovered that each of Simon’s known attempts to engage in a sexual relationship had been universally humiliating. She was surprised to see he had a higher-than-average IQ, but despite that, his low self-esteem had driven him to a suicide attempt with a bizarre contraption designed to shoot arrows at him. It was this detail that caused Nadine to request that Skogen detain him.
Even worse, both she and Demko agreed that he resembled the man captured on the hotel’s security cameras the morning of Santander’s abduction. Yet she’d dismissed him as a suspect. Had that mistake cost April Rupp and Linda Tolan their lives?
Could Simon have left custody and gotten to Lind
a that same night?
His parents reported taking him directly home and that he did not leave that evening. They also had the statement from the naturalist and handyman who reported seeing him at the marina late that afternoon.
Simon Kilpatrick was a solid suspect who ticked all the boxes. Smart, with a history of women troubles, failed military service, psychological problems, depression and a suicide attempt. He also was known to have met at least one of the victims. Textbook, she thought, and frowned.
Perhaps too perfect a fit?
Nadine requested that Special Agent Coleman make the arrest because she wanted to see how Simon reacted to a female agent detaining him. The arrest didn’t take long and Coleman arrived with the Putnam County sheriff with Simon in custody. Nadine met them at the county jail just after 3 p.m. Simon had resisted arrest, fought and made a run for it, nearly escaping into the woods before one of the sheriffs and Special Agent Coleman brought him down.
“You were right,” said Coleman. “He hates women telling him what to do. Dr. Finch, I think we got him.”
Simon Kilpatrick did not confess to the crimes but was being held without bond as the arrows in his possession were compared to the wounds found on the victims.
Demko stood with Nadine beside the observation window. Beyond, Simon sat with the sheriff and Special Agent Skogen.
“You think he’s our guy?” Demko asked.
“Not convinced. You?”
He shook his head.
Simon fit her description, but not her profile. She’d always insisted on that, ever since he’d first been arrested. Since the man in the room across from her in the hotel did not speak, she did not know if he had a high voice like Kilpatrick, but was nearly certain it had not been Simon. This guy had been predatory, and Simon was not.
Wait a minute. He had spoken. Tolan had complained that Nadine’s banging had awoken her twice, and he’d said something like, “So help her and go to bed.”
Nadine shuddered as she recalled the cold, fixed stare. She had looked at him. But what had she seen? What had she heard?
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
She told him. “He didn’t have a noticeable accent. And his voice was not unusually high, as Linda Tolan had said.”
“Not Simon?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Better let Skogen know,” he said.
A few minutes later, Skogen emerged from the interrogation room and passed her a sheet of white paper onto which Simon had copied several of the lines from the greeting card.
Demko glanced at the page. “He’s a righty.”
Nadine was no expert, but Simon’s handwriting did not resemble the writing on the two communications in the least.
She was missing something. She scowled at the niggling annoyance stemming from knowing an obvious detail was right in front of her but still outside her conscious mind. It aggravated like a splinter under the skin.
“It’s not him,” she said to the special agent.
“Because?”
She told him about the voice of the man in the hotel. Skogen continued to shake his head, unwilling to consider that this might not be their guy.
“He’s too perfect. The psych background, the arrows, the hatred of women, the outdoor experience and the proximity to your second victim.”
“Rita Karnowski kayaked there before she went missing.”
“Our guy is smart and he’s invisible. I looked right at him, twice, and don’t remember a single defining characteristic. Simon, on the other hand, caught my attention almost instantly.”
She returned the paper. “Did you look at this handwriting sample?”
Skogen rubbed his neck. “Someone else could have written them for him.”
“Really? Who?”
“His mom?”
She shook her head. “It’s not him.”
The stalemate ended with Nadine retreating down the hallway ready to head back to the safe house. She was waiting with Demko for her protection detail when Skogen tracked her down again. She turned, bracing for another battle.
“The Star called. They have a new message. It’s a manifesto of some kind, but the cover letter is one line. Coleman is on her way to retrieve the packet now.”
Her eyes widened.
“Kilpatrick could have sent it before he was picked up,” he said.
She shook her head, rejecting the notion. “What is the one line?”
“‘She says her name is Jo.’”
She blinked at him. “He has another one.”
Twenty-One
The missing woman was Josephine Summerville, known as Jo. Her car had been tagged yesterday by a Putnam County sheriff. Her vehicle appeared to have been rear-ended. The minor fender-bender likely sent her to the shoulder. Thanks to the cover letter they’d received and Demko, who alerted the sheriff’s office that there might be a woman missing named Jo, the patrolman remembered seeing the name on the vehicle’s registration and called the Feds. Further digging showed that Summerville’s golden Lab, Captain, was found on a hiking trail on the eastern side of the forest the same day. Attempts by the forest department to contact her failed. This initiated a search, but they had found nothing as of 4:45 p.m. today, Thursday, when the latest communication arrived priority mail at the Orlando Star escalating the search.
This contact was unlike the others. Beyond the one-sentence cover letter was a seven-page typed manifesto. She read it in the conference room, surrounded by Special Agents Skogen, Coleman and Vea.
“He mentioned in the birthday card he was writing a manifesto,” said Vea.
This seemed like dogma, she thought, scanning.
…believe in the power of an apex predator. We do not submit to your laws. All men must follow but one law—the law of nature. Kill or be killed. Survive to adulthood, establish home territory and defend it from all rivals. Murder is a convention of men. Predators understand that killing ensures the success of the species. We are all links in a chain of survival. An animal must show strength to attract a mate, win the right to breed, defend against rivals, raise offspring and …
She set the statement aside.
“Who is ‘we’?” she asked.
“What?” asked Skogen.
“‘We do not submit…’ Odd, don’t you think? And if he was defending territory, why kill women, who weren’t a threat to his territory in the first place?”
Vea cast her a blank look and Skogen shook his head.
“How do we know he wrote this?” asked Nadine.
“This came along, too. Final page.” Coleman laid down the sheet. “It’s a copy and I’m no expert, but I’d say the writing is a match.”
She recognized the handwriting instantly. The prickling awareness grew to an ear-buzzing rush of blood as she read his demands.
Dear Dr. Finch,
Another bird removed from your territory. If you want a catch and release, read the enclosed pages aloud for me on the local network. I want to see your face… again. You have three days.
I’ll be watching.
The Huntsman
Nadine’s attempts to swallow failed. Her throat felt lined with chalk.
“You still think Simon Kilpatrick is our man?” she asked.
“We’re holding him on the possibility he’s working with someone,” said Skogen.
She shook her head. “He’s not.”
“You’re probably right.” He turned to Special Agent Coleman. “Arrange an additional security detail for Dr. Finch.” He turned back to her. “Seems this is a battle of wits between you two.”
“What do you want to do?” she asked.
“I’d like to hear your suggestions,” said Skogen.
“Well, I think our best chance at recovering Jo Summerville alive is to do as he asks. I need to go on TV and read all this out.” She lifted the pages. The convoluted message made little sense. She’d be spending some quality time with it, that much was certain.
“He might kill her a
nyway,” said Coleman, looking grim.
“What is the downside of doing what he asks?” asked Vea.
They all looked to Skogen, a scowl etched his brow. “Makes us look weak. Makes him more important, gives him a platform and notoriety. Scares the public.”
“Dr. Finch could go on air and call him a lunatic. Say we don’t negotiate with killers. Call him a monster and hint that we already know who he is and are close to an arrest,” said Coleman. “Flush him out.”
“I think that’s a mistake,” said Nadine.
“Why? He’s challenging you. Questioning your abilities.”
“I’m not sure it’s a challenge, exactly,” she said. “But I believe the threat to Jo Summerville is real.”
“Then what? Cave to his demands?” asked Vea.
She blew away a long breath. “I’m not sure. I need to think.”
Skogen pointed at an imaginary wristwatch, tapping his wrist. “Tick-tock.”
FRIDAY
Nadine had spent much of her adult life dodging cameras and avoiding interviews. Now it seemed she would appear live on television to read the ravings of a psychopath. Check that. Possible psychopath.
Much of the diatribe involved natural selection as seen through humanity’s bloody history. Survival of the fittest. The struggle to persist. Rival males battling for territory and females. The importance of hunting in modern-day life as applied to civilization. The need to rid “our race” of the weak in order to create a stronger gene pool. With only a very few tweaks this would be an excellent justification for ethnic cleansing. It turned her stomach to even read the words silently. She could not imagine reading them aloud. But she would. In a few hours, to be exact, because after much discussion, debate and argument, Nadine convinced the team that Jo Summerville’s best chance for survival would be for her to go live with this damn thing.
The hunt for her had yielded nothing. The community organized search parties as the authorities continued their quest for the missing woman.
This was the first time their killer had given them the opportunity to recover one of his victims. She didn’t mean to squander it.