CHAPTER THIRTEEN #2
"I promise we're doing everything we can to solve these murders," Kate replied. "But I need you to promise me that you'll be careful. And that you'll call me if anything seems even slightly unusual."
Kate left Eleanor's house feeling frustrated by the woman's inability to consider that someone within her trusted circle might be responsible for the murders.
She understood Eleanor was emotionally invested in protecting her friends, but if she failed to recognize danger from someone she trusted, then that same loyalty could make her vulnerable.
As Kate walked toward her car, she considered her next moves.
She needed to contact the other book club members with safety warnings, but doing so risked alerting the killer that the FBI was closing in on the book club connection.
If the killer decided to flee rather than risk capture, they might never be found.
On the other hand, if she didn't warn the potential victims, another member might die before she could identify and arrest the perpetrator.
Kate was reaching for her car door handle when her phone rang. DeMarco's name appeared on the screen.
"Hey DeMarco, please tell me you have good news."
"I wouldn’t go that far. I don't have one hundred percent confirmation on Jennifer's cause of death yet," DeMarco said without preamble. "The coroner is still completing the full autopsy. But I do have something interesting from the Records and Research department."
Kate slid into her car but didn't start the engine, giving DeMarco her full attention. "What did you find?"
"David Fletcher, the nervous guy from last night's meeting… the one you said seemed to be uncomfortable the entire time?"
"Yes, he was fidgeting constantly and left early. What about him?"
"Well, it turns out Mr. Fletcher has been going through some significant life changes recently.
He was laid off from his job as an insurance adjuster about four months ago.
The company gave him a fairly substantial severance package, and according to his bank account and listings, he's been using the time to pursue his dream of becoming a mystery novelist. Though…he’s not making much at all from it. "
Kate felt a surge of professional interest. "A mystery novelist?"
"Yeah, and it gets better. I managed to get in touch with his former supervisor, who said Fletcher had been obsessed with detective fiction for years.
Apparently, he used to spend his lunch breaks writing mystery stories instead of eating.
His coworkers nicknamed him 'Sherlock' because he was always reading crime novels at his desk. "
"So we have an unemployed man with extensive knowledge of mystery literature, time on his hands, and possibly some resentment about his life circumstances," Kate summarized. "That's a profile that fits our killer."
"There's more. The supervisor also mentioned that Fletcher had become increasingly bitter about his job situation in the months before he was laid off.
He felt like his intelligence was being wasted in insurance work, and he resented people who he perceived as less educated or less dedicated to serious pursuits. "
Kate immediately thought about the tensions within the book club that had surfaced during her undercover observation.
Margaret's critical approach to literary discussion, the conflicts between serious readers and casual participants, and the frustration with members who didn't meet certain intellectual standards.
"DeMarco, I think we need to bring David Fletcher in for questioning. Where are you now?"
"Still at the coroner's office, but I can meet you at the office in thirty minutes."
"Perfect. I'll head there now." Kate started her car, feeling the familiar surge of energy that came with a promising lead.
"And DeMarco? Let's also run a background check on Fletcher's writing activities.
If he's been self-publishing his work, there might be samples of his work that could give us insight into his thinking patterns.
Hell, it may even provide us with a blueprint. "
"Already on it. I'll see you soon."
As Kate drove toward the FBI field office, she found herself wondering if David Fletcher's discomfort during the previous evening's meeting had stemmed from guilt rather than social anxiety.
If Fletcher was their killer, he had sat in Eleanor's living room listening to expressions of grief for victims he had murdered, watching the group struggle to make sense of deaths he had orchestrated.
And Kate had been sitting right there with him.
The thought made Kate's hands tighten on the steering wheel.
She remembered Fletcher's nervous fidgeting, his early departure, and his obvious discomfort with the emotional atmosphere.
At the time, she had attributed his behavior to being the only man in a group of grieving women.
Now she wondered if she had been watching a killer struggling to maintain his facade while surrounded by the friends of his victims.