Chameleon's Copycat Killer

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

THE AUDITOR

“A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.” — Alfred, Lord Tennyson

You don’t notice how much something matters until it stops showing up.

The workshop hadn't changed.

The task lamp cast a clean pool of light across the oak workbench where ledgers, financial statements, deposition transcripts, and photographs lay arranged in neat rows. Nothing overlapped. Nothing remained where it didn't belong.

The regulator clock still lost exactly three seconds every month. My kettle still clicked at precisely six-fifty each evening so I could prepare a pot of lapsang souchong. At seven o'clock every evening, I still turned on the television.

The television occupied a shelf above the filing cabinets opposite my workbench. I rarely looked at it unless she was on and for the past nineteen days, Mallory McBryan hadn't been there.

The replacements had all been competent, professional, and utterly forgettable.

None of them understood the story.

None of them understood me.

And none of them were Mallory.

One relied almost exclusively on prepared statements. Another confused confidence with authority and never once challenged a police spokesman when the opportunity practically begged for it.

They didn’t notice patterns or ask inconvenient questions. They didn’t seem to understand the difference between evidence and narrative. They reported whatever story had been placed in their hands.

I told myself her absence didn't matter. It was another disruption in a series of them caused by the FBI’s meddling with Mallory. This particular hiatus merely provided an unexpected variable. Our routine would reestablish itself.

Except it hadn't.

Guy Reardon had lingered for eleven days before finally succumbing to his injuries.

Long enough for surgeons to operate.

Long enough for hospital spokespeople to issue optimistic updates.

Long enough for every network in Chicago to speculate about whether he might survive.

He hadn't. His death launched a dozen rehashes of the story, but Mallory disappeared. She offered no field reports, no evening broadcasts, no interviews, and worst of all, no questions.

Only carefully worded statements from the network thanking viewers for their concern while asking for patience during an ongoing federal investigation.

Brewster.

The conclusion presented itself almost immediately. He’d successfully convinced someone to pull her off the air and keep her off. Or she'd finally become enough of a liability that someone above her had made the decision for her.

Neither possibility sat well with me.

The copycat had already demonstrated a willingness to weaponize my work. Removing the only reporter who understood it would have been the logical next step.

The television flickered.

I glanced up before I realized I’d stopped reading. It was too early for the evening tea. Early enough that the mug at my elbow still held coffee.

A brightly lit studio replaced the financial reports I'd had on in the background.

Soft chairs.

Warm lighting.

A live audience.

Morning television.

The host—I’d already forgotten her name if she’d even used one—smiled with practiced sympathy as she turned toward her guest.

"...joining us for her first television appearance since the attack that claimed the life of our network Vice President Guy Reardon, investigative journalist Mallory McBryan."

An almost unexpected relief flooded me. Though, the set’s bright optimism felt obscene for a conversation about murder.

The camera focused on her and I leaned back in my chair. Mallory looked—tired. More than just physically. They’d done a stellar job with her cosmetics. Her complexion appeared flawless, but the weariness in her mismatched eyes seemed magnetic.

The right eye was hazel, the left blue. The mixture of green and brown in her right always reminded me of the earth while her left eye was the sea.

The woman sitting beneath the studio lights wore the same careful posture. The same measured composure. But the pauses were different now. Someone had sanded down the sharper edges.

She chose each word as though someone else would be grading them afterward. Brewster could have coached these responses.

The cautious tone seemed utterly at odds with the fearless journalist who dug deep into her stories and tore them apart to see what made them tick.

Someone had taught her this caution or she’d learned it the hard way. Neither idea pleased me.

The host offered an expression that suggested concern without actually experiencing any.

"How are you doing?"

Mallory smiled politely. It never reached her eyes. "I'm working," she said.

An answer. Not the answer.

Interesting.

She was talking.

And for the first time in weeks, I could finally begin listening again.

The host leaned forward, her smile softening into something more sincere.

"First, Mallory... I'm really glad you're here."

The audience applauded.

Mallory acknowledged them with a small nod.

"Thank you."

"You've had an incredibly difficult few weeks."

"I imagine a lot of people in Chicago have." The immediate deflection was compellingly elegant and delivered with pristine grace.

"No," the host said gently. "I mean you."

A brief silence. Mallory folded one hand over the other in her lap. A habit she employed while buying herself time to make a choice. Usually when she was deciding how much truth she was willing to share.

"I've been fortunate." Another deflection.

"Fortunate?" The host’s gentle smile flickered. Had she not prepared for this interview?

"I survived." The matter-of-fact delivery lacked any self-pity and seemed to change the vibe in the room immediately. The camera angles allowed me to see some of the audience.

Mallory wasn’t inviting sympathy or empathy. She was just acknowledging a fact.

The host hesitated before asking the question everyone expected.

"Some stories detail that you were one of the last people to speak with Guy Reardon prior to his attack.”

“That’s what they say,” Mallory said, accepting the premise without actually confirming it. She moistened her lips, a brief movement, almost a blink and you’ll miss it. But she didn’t reach for water or take a drink.

"And you visited him while he was in the hospital."

"I did." How frustrating for the bubblegum host with her toothpaste commercial bright smile and cheerful demeanor. Mallory wasn’t giving her a lot to work with.

The host exhaled. "But he never regained consciousness?" It wasn’t quite a question.

"No." That single syllable carried more weight than any prepared statement the network had released over the previous two weeks.

The audience grew noticeably quieter.

"I've spoken with a number of people who work with you," the host continued. "One thing they all said was that Guy believed in your work."

The tension in her shoulders easing at the apparent topic shift, Mallory smiled, a genuine one this time. But there was a mingling of sadness and amusement. When Mallory focused on the host, she shifted almost uncomfortably.

"So I’m told." A beat—not a long one, but a pause so effective, I got it. Mallory chose it. “So he said himself previously.”

"And now he's gone."

I took another sip of the coffee. They really should have found someone more competent to handle this interview. Mallory gave her no room to work, at all. I respected Mallory’s choices, but I had more questions.

Mallory seemed to wait a moment as if she expected the host to say something more. When she didn’t, Mallory said, “Yes.”

"Has that changed how you look at the story?"

Finally, a question Mallory could sink her teeth into. She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she cast a glance toward the audience. It made me wonder what thoughts traveled behind those vivid eyes.

"It reminded me," she said at last, "that headlines have families attached to them."

There you are. She didn’t answer the host’s bland question, she addressed a far better one.

Undeterred, the host nodded slowly. "But you still intend to keep covering this investigation?"

"I'm a journalist." Mallory's smile disappeared.

"That's not what I asked." It was the first real pushback from the woman with her sunshine demeanor.

Mallory met her stare for stare. "I'm still committed to finding the truth."

The audience applauded at her conviction, but I focused on her omission. She was committed to the truth. Not the investigation, the story, or even the vaunted FBI.

Truth.

The distinction mattered.

"So," the host said carefully, "do you believe the man known as the Auditor is responsible for Guy Reardon's death?"

The studio became impossibly still. One woman in the front row clasped her hands tightly together and compressed her lips into a thin white line. She seemed almost disturbed to have applauded earlier.

Mallory didn't look surprised. Why should she? I had no doubts that she’d prepared for any question they could throw at her. This interview had been mostly softballs.

"I believe," she said slowly, "that two people are dead."

The host frowned slightly. "I'm not sure I understand."

"I know."

I almost laughed. Mallory took a measured pause after she acknowledged her own superiority. I doubted she would see it that way, but this host was not one who could ever control the interview. Not the way Mallory could.

"The investigation is ongoing. Federal authorities have not publicly confirmed every aspect of what they're examining, and I won't speculate beyond the evidence."

"But—" The host leaned in. "You've never been afraid to speculate before."

No. She hadn't. Which meant she wanted someone to notice the difference.

"I've learned," Mallory said quietly, "that certainty is expensive."

My fingers tightened against the edge of the workbench. Was she trying to send me a message?

The host waited but when Mallory said nothing more, she pressed again. "So... do you believe the Auditor killed Guy Reardon?"

Mallory met her gaze.

"I believe," she said, choosing each word with surgical precision, "that someone wants us to stop asking questions."

Us.