Chapter 4
MALICIOUS INTENT
LONDON
Press conferences have a distinct aroma. A mix of stale coffee and aftershave, with an undercurrent of breath mints and leather. The way church smells. Even the man standing at the podium wears a gravely serious expression like a pastor, delivering his practiced speech for the masses.
I’ve learned to stare at the center of the podium. This way I don’t mimic the speaker’s facial expressions as I zone out. People have a tendency to take facial cues from others. An inherent trait we all learn early on to convey empathy.
And with so many eyes and cameras directed on me, it’s important that I don’t frown or smile, giving the media a thread to twist and tangle.
“Having gone over what remains of the evidence, I’ve concluded there was a gross negligence in the handling of victims’ cases.
” States Attorney Kyle Sandow addresses the press with a stern glare into the cameras.
“Therefore, the Mize Sheriff Department has been instructed to relinquish all pertinent evidence pertaining to the deceased Sheriff Malcolm Noble and the victims to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
I’m seated in the front row, flanked by Agent Nelson and Detective Foster, who has become my shadow this past week. Every prominent member of law enforcement is here. Even the head of the FBI task force conducting the manhunt.
No one is interested in the Mize investigation. That’s so five weeks ago. The assembled congregation is waiting to hear the update that will confirm the Angel of Maine’s return.
The news stations are already capitalizing on the murder in Rockland, jumping ahead of authorities to declare that either their very own avenging angel has come home, or there is a new player in town, hope alive in their assertions.
The people embrace Grayson as their vigilante, and the media adores the ratings he provides.
I’m here against my lawyer’s advice in order to study the crowd. A copycat killer isn’t unlike any other serial killer—he feeds off his celebrity, requiring recognition of his acts. He would insert himself close to the investigation, but not close enough to get caught.
After the murder of Larry Fleming was revealed to the public, with the media’s help, Bangor has once again become the hub—a prime feeding ground for a narcissistic imitator. A collection of all the major players gathered in one place would be impossible for him to resist.
Sandow’s face tightens into a solemn expression. “The FBI are now heading up this investigation as the search for Grayson Sullivan continues. We have no updates on his whereabouts at this time.” Sandow collects his notes. “Thank you.”
A collective barrage of questions rises in the room.
One reporter stands and demands to know why Malcolm Noble, the confirmed Hollows Reaper, is being honored as a deceased sheriff, instead of the killer he was.
Another pushes for a response to a recent article claiming the FBI’s focus on me has hindered their efforts to apprehend the Angel of Maine Killer.
More shouts inquire about the murder in Rockland and its “alleged” connection to Grayson Sullivan.
Sandow quickly exits the stage, leaving the journalists’ questions unanswered.
I take my cue and flee the room before the vultures descend on me.
Secured near the green room, I find a good spot to observe the departing crowd.
Sandow’s refusal to talk about the murder will most likely irritate the copycat.
He needs information—facts about the case.
Not theories and hyped sensationalism from the media.
On a professional standpoint, I’m more than curious to observe the copycat’s response to the murder—his reaction and retaliation; how he’ll progress.
I’ve never had the opportunity to interview a copycat killer before.
I admit, ever since Grayson told me, my excitement to conduct research on the subject has manifested in an unhealthy obsession to reveal his identity.
A press reporter spots me, eagerness lighting his face. Before he can corner me, I push past the gathered bodies in the green room and through the back exit door.
An overcast sky greets me outside. The muggy humidity sinks right into my skin. There’s a charge in the air, a summer storm brewing. The alley darkens as looming, rain-bloated clouds cross the sun.
I fill my lungs with a deep breath, still astonished at how fast I moved to reach the outside. Not a stitch of pain to hinder my getaway. I arch my back and suck in another fresh breath, just to test my lumbar.
The mind never ceases to amaze. One moment I’m suffering acute back pain that has plagued me since the accident, the next it’s as if I can’t recall what that pain ever felt like.
Am I free, or is this sweet glimpse of liberty a prelude to my end? Like the brief reprieve you’re given before death, when all pain receptors shut down.
“They’re not getting any easier, are they?”
I close my eyes at the sound of Agent Nelson’s gruff voice. “No,” I answer simply, honestly.
“I wish I could say this was the last press conference,” he says. “But the public is intrigued with your story. They’re curious.”
A sardonic laugh slips free. “Appalled is more like it.” The number of enraged emails and letters I’ve received since my initial press conference announcing the buried dead girls that I—suddenly—recalled in my childhood home backyard has garnered me a lot of negative attention.
I’m accustomed to being despised for what I do; my career isn’t a glamorous one. But I’ve never before been loathed with such vitriol on a national level. The narcissist in me wants to set the record straight, but my lawyer has smartly kept me from engaging in any more conferences myself.
I turn and face the agent. “Has there really been no updates on Sullivan’s whereabouts?”
His expression shutters. That expert close-off agents are so skilled at. “You’re not in danger.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He drives a hand through his shaggy, dirty-blond hair. His slight rebellious act against the FBI. And it’s his tell. Whenever he means to misdirect me, he goes for the hair. A clear sign that it’s worked for him on other women in the past.
“What about the murder in Rockland?” I hedge. “The press seem to believe there’s a connection. Sandow didn’t even dance around it—he deliberately ignored it. To me, a blatant omission like that is very revealing.”
“Always analyzing,” he mutters.
“Occupational hazard.”
His nostrils flare. “You shouldn’t be following the news, London. You, more than anyone, know how reporters distort the truth.”
It’s risky, my own methods of misdirection. Nelson is intelligent, and the more time we spend together, the more he’s learning my tells. But I need some shred of information from him. A hint as to whether or not he’s looking into the murder of one Larry Fleming in connection to Grayson.
When the stakes are high enough, you go all in.
As Grayson doesn’t do anything halfway, I’m sure he left his calling card with Larry. His DNA, or another decisive marker the FBI will uncover soon, if they haven’t already.
Why else would Agent Nelson be here?
“There’s some speculation that Sullivan has left the country,” Nelson says, stuffing his hands into his suit pockets. “But I’m not giving you those details. It’s not confirmed, and anything I might tell you could put you in danger. The less you know—”
“The better,” I finish for him. He’s lying. I cross my arms. “You do understand what my specialty is. There’s no one else that can help you get inside Sullivan’s mind like I can. I’m an asset, agent. Not a victim.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Detective Foster interrupts. “Does that mean you’re ready to confess your part?”
My attention shifts to the bulky detective exiting the back door. Detective Foster has been the loudest conspirator against me, citing publicly that I was Grayson’s accomplice in helping him escape.
The fact that certain unfavorable details from my past have come to light only adds fuel to his fire.
I push my glasses up, getting a better look at him. He’s gained a considerable amount of weight since the trial. “Detective Foster, should I schedule a session soon in regards to stress eating? You know it’s not healthy to eat your weight in disappointment.”
A mock smile stretches his ruddy face. “Thanks for the offer, doc. But truth be told, I’m a little terrified to be under your care. Or should I say, influence?”
Agent Nelson huffs his frustration. He’s not a particular fan of the New Castle detective, either. “You’re not required to attend the press meetings, Foster. Why are you here?”
The detective adjusts the dipping waist of his cheap slacks.
“I like to stay in the loop firsthand. It’s interesting that Sandow didn’t state anything about Rockland.
” He reaches into his inseam for a pack of cigarettes.
“Don’t you find that interesting, Agent Nelson?
With Sullivan’s DNA having been found on the vic…
it’s like the FBI are trying to conceal the evidence. Why is that?”
Disbelief snatches my breath. My shocked gaze swings to Nelson. “Is this true?”
When Nelson didn’t return right away after the summit in Mize, I believed he remained there to press forensics on my sister’s remains. Like he claimed. The fact that he had a lead on Grayson and didn’t tell me proves I’ve made very little progress with him.
Nelson steps to Foster aggressively. “I want you out of my crime scenes, Foster. I’ll take out a restraining order if I have to.”
Foster chuckles. “You Feds don’t threaten me.”
“If you leak one word of this to the press—”
“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” I say, glancing between the two men. “This is my testosterone limit for the day. I need to get back to my patients.”