Chapter Nine #2
Today is her birthday. I feel like an asshole realizing I have her chained to my bed, on a day that should've been celebrated. Now, her 18th birthday will be a day she never forgets for all the wrong reasons.
I stare intently at the whiteboard, my eyes tracing over every inch of the information mapped out before me.
"I know there has to be something I'm overlooking.
I've been staring at this damn board for months.
I've analyzed every one of these cases inside and out.
I'm still no closer to catching this guy than I was when I started. "
I feign frustration, putting on a show for Sterling. The pictures of the people I’ve killed, maps of the county with red pins marking where the bodies were discovered, and timelines are all spread out. It's a mess, but it's my beautiful mess.
"Well, Voss, when you figure out what it is you’ve been missing, be sure to fill me in. I haven’t been able to find a single piece of evidence that could tell us who this guy is since I landed in this god forsaken town.”
My eyes flick to Blake who is standing in front of the whiteboard. His own look of frustration on his face, but his is actually genuine.
"You sure you don't want a break, Sterling? You haven’t even touched your lunch yet."
Sterling shakes his head, taking a step closer. He stares intently at the pictures on the whiteboard, all hanging in a neat row. He looks at those photographs as a puzzle, trying to put the pieces together of what happened to each one of them.
I don’t see that at all. When I look at those faces, I see the abuse they inflicted and the lives they shattered. I see the tears of the innocent. These people aren’t victims. They were tormentors, abusers, and cowards.
I may have gotten the satisfaction of hearing their pained screams as they took their last breaths, but I hear the screams of their victims louder. They sound just like my mother’s, and mine.
Tapping on the whiteboard draws my attention back to Sterling. He is pointing to each picture, one by one.
“They seem to all be chosen at random without a single thing that connects them all together.
" He runs a hand through his hair. "This guy is way too methodical to choose his victims at random. He carefully plans out each murder, going as far as designing how each one will die. The execution is flawless. He isn’t going to put that kind of effort into killing a random victim. Each one of these kills meant something to him, and so does the single rose he leaves. This is a hit list. We just have to figure out why each victim made the list.”
Well, bra-fucking-vo, Agent Sterling.
"Most would look at these cases and assume he isn't working alone," he continues.
"There is no usable evidence left at any of the crime scenes, no one is ever seen, no witnesses.
To be this meticulous, it takes a great deal of research, planning, and a hell of a lot of time.
That typically indicates there is more than one suspect working together to pull this off.
But unless we're looking for a team of abused, angry avengers, I believe it's more likely our guy is a lone wolf. "
"Okay, Mr. FBI, what makes you say that? You're the behavior analyst, what is your gut telling you?" My question is a challenge; he just isn't aware he's already in the game.
Sterling seems to consider his next words carefully.
"It's one of us. Someone in law enforcement, working on the inside with training and expertise.
They know exactly what we are looking for and how to avoid being caught.
Whether it's an officer, someone working in forensics, I don't know.
My gut tells me we are looking for someone close to us. "
Closer than you think, asshole.
"I think we're dealing with a local, who knows the area and its people intimately. This killer is either a loner or very good at keeping a low profile. The execution of the murders indicates a high level of intelligence."
I smirk at the accuracy, but there's more to it. So much more. I motion for him to continue, curious to see how far he’ll go .
"Presumably our killer is a 'he'. It would take a great deal of strength and a high level of physical fitness to subdue the victims, move bodies, and stage the crime scenes as we have found them.
The attention to detail, the level of planning, it all speaks to a very obsessive personality type.
I think we are looking for someone with a need for control, someone with a history of trauma that triggers this need. "
He gestures to the board. "These victims might not be connected in the present, but they could be connected to something from his past. And that won’t be easy for us to uncover or figure out.
It's personal for him. He's not just killing; he's sending a message.
Each victim is a symbol of something larger. "
I raise an eyebrow at Sterling, impressed despite myself. "You got all that from these pin-up boards I've made?"
"Sometimes it’s not about what you see, it’s what you don’t see that can lead you to the truth. And honestly, I don’t see shit from these boards you’ve made."
I bark out a laugh. "Keep going, dickhead."
"Our killer may have his own warped personal code of ethics he's following. A vigilante."
"A vigilante?" I echo. "You make it sound like he's out there doing good."
"Not good, no. But there's a method to his madness that makes perfect sense to him. Whatever his reason, he believes it's a noble one. It’s how he justifies his actions. He may even be a sociopath, but he wouldn’t see himself that way.
He's driven by a purpose. This isn't just random violence, he’s targeting people.
Vigilantes tend to have a personal stake in their cause. Usually, they or someone close to them has suffered a trauma or injustice, and they're seeking revenge. Maybe they witnessed a crime, or worse, they were victims themselves. "
How ironic, the FBI agent with all the answers, yet so fucking clueless.
"Most likely, our guy is a bit of a control freak,” Sterling continues. “Everything has to go according to his plan. He's got a set of rules he follows religiously. But there's something else." He pauses, his eyes scanning the board. "He enjoys the game."
I smirk, maybe I didn’t give Sterling enough credit. He does know he’s entered the game. "The game?"
"Yeah. He loves the chase. The cat and mouse game he plays with us, and with his victims. He gets off on it," Sterling says, his face now inches from the board, his eyes glued to the photos of my handiwork.
I chuckle. "So, what you're saying is, he's a sick fuck."
Sterling turns to face me. "Well, that's obvious, Voss. Isn't that why we're here? To catch the sick fucks and put them behind bars?"
I smile at him. "Then let's catch the sick fuck."
His eyes lock with mine as if he’s seeing right through me, and I get the feeling he knows more than he’s willing to share.
"And the calling card left behind at the scenes? Why a rose?” I probe, wanting to see if I can get anything else out of him. “What do you think the significance is?”
His eyes never leave mine as he answers. “That’s something only the sick fuck himself can tell us.”
A loud knock at the door breaks the awkward tension in the room. We both turn as the door to the war room swings open and Sheriff Campbell steps into the room.
"A call just came in. Someone reported a large metal box left in the middle of a tractor path off Township Road 22. The caller stated there is a white rose lying on top. You boys better get out there and take a look. Sounds like the Pastor may have just turned up. "
I turn to Sterling. "Let's go. I'll drive."
As I make my way towards the door, I catch the sheriff's eyes, giving him a subtle nod. "We're on it. Have forensics meet us at the scene, and inform the coroner there is a high probability of a 10-55. I'll confirm once we arrive."
As we near the spot where I left the Pastor, I see familiar flashing lights.
Three patrol cars are parked haphazardly along the dirt road.
Two of the responding officers are securing the area, marking the perimeter with crime scene tape.
The remaining officers stand around the steel box blocking the tractor path—my box.
A single white rose lying on top just as I had left it this morning.
I picked the perfect spot for the Pastor, or rather what remains of him, to be discovered quickly.
A set of dirt tire tracks lead from the road through a grassy field to a gap in the tree line just large enough to get a tractor through.
Just beyond, stands nearly thirty acres of cornstalks, ready to be harvested.
The rain in the forecast for the next week guaranteed someone would be out here today, eager to get this field cleared before the weather turned.
It’s an odd sight, seeing a scorched metal box the size of a coffin sitting against the backdrop of a rural landscape. I know leaving it here for a farmer to find will no doubt fuck up his day, but it couldn't be helped. Sometimes, sacrifices have to be made for the greater good.
Sterling needs to be occupied. I need his attention on this case, this box, and what’s inside of it, not on me. Especially since I’ve just kidnapped someone and left them handcuffed inside my home. It's not as easy to make evidence go away when it’s still breathing.
I step out of my truck, recognizing one of the deputies securing the area as Deputy Brooks. He looks rattled.
"Who brings a body all the way out here, just to leave it in the one place it will be found?" Brooks says, gesturing to the box .
"Someone who wants it to be found but doesn’t want to be seen dumping a body. Let's not jump to conclusions, Brooks. We don’t know what is in that box until we get a look inside."
"No disrespect, detective, but there is a white rose." Brooks eyes flick up to meet mine while unwinding more crime scene tape. “We all know what’s inside.”
"Who found the box, and where are they now?"
"A farmer, last name Thompson, reported the box. He's over there by his tractor." Carter points to a man standing beside a large, green John Deere tractor.
Walking towards the tractor, I see Mr. Thompson is in his mid-forties, tall with salt and pepper hair that's receding slightly at the hairline. He's talking to one of the other responding officers.
"Detective Silas Voss, Lancaster County Sheriff's Department." I introduce myself as I approach, holding out my hand for him to shake. "Are you the one who found this box?"
He nods, looking nervous. "Yeah. I was heading out to work in the back field.”
I nod, glancing back at the box. "Did you touch it at all?"
“No, sir. I called it in right away. I knew exactly what it was when I saw the white rose. The White Reaper has been all over the news."
That fucking name. The White Reaper. Seriously? That’s the best the local media could come up with?
"Good. Thank you for your time Mr. Thompson. Please give your information to one of the officers, and then you’re free to leave. I’ll be in touch if I have any further questions. "
I make my way back over to Sterling who is examining the outside of the metal box. I approach with caution, careful not to disturb any potential evidence. Or at least make it look like I care.
"We need a crowbar down here!" I call out to the forensics team as they suit up by their van. A new guy I’ve never worked with before hurries over with the tool.
"Alright, boys, let's see what we have here," I say as I take the crowbar and begin to carefully pry off the top of the metal box.
Sterling grabs a pair of latex gloves from his back pocket and begins pulling them on while taking a step forward.
"There was someone inside, but there isn't much left of them now. "
Dropping the crowbar, I peer inside. The pastor had been reduced to little more than a pile of ash, with only a few teeth and charred bone fragments remaining.
I turn to the forensics team. "Bag and tag everything. DNA, fingerprints, anything we can get. Canvass the surrounding area for any evidence."
"This guy may be good," Sterling adds, standing next to me. "But he's only human. This could be the time he slips up. One mistake is the only thing standing between us and his identity. Let's get to work and hope he left something behind for us."
Not today, fucker. Nice speech though.
"Do you mind stopping at the gas station just up ahead? "
Sterling's voice pulls me away from my thoughts of Charlotte and trying to figure out what the hell I'm going to do with her. Leaving her cuffed to my bed is only a short-term fix to a long-term problem.
"No problem, I need to get gas anyway."
I pull into the gas station and get to work filling up the tank while Sterling heads inside.
I'm still thinking about Charlotte and the fact that it's her birthday today.
I feel like an asshole for keeping her locked up, but I can't exactly let her go.
Not yet at least. I'm so distracted that I don't even notice Sterling is back.
When I finally do, I can't help but stare at what he's holding. Two hotdogs slathered in fucking mayonnaise. I told him not to eat that shit around me. Sterling follows my gaze, no doubt seeing the anger in my eyes.
"Yeah, I know, your allergy," he says. "But don't worry, I'll eat them before I get back in the truck. You won't have to worry about anything. No mess, no stress."
"I told you, no mayo around me. Period," I snap. "It's not worth the risk of having a reaction."
I'll have a reaction to it, just not an allergic reaction.
Sterling shrugs. "I couldn't pass up the deal, man. It's happy hour, and you get two all-beef hot dogs for two bucks. Can't beat that."
You have got to be shitting me.
"So I've heard." I have to turn my head, trying to calm the disgust threatening to take over from watching him.
All while swallowing down the bile that is slowly rising in the back of my throat.
I quickly remove the nozzle from my truck and hang it back up on the pump.
"Hurry up and get your ass in my truck. I have places to be. "
Rule Number Four: Never let the mask slip, even when the monster stirs beneath. You must create and maintain a carefully crafted public persona at all times. No matter how intense the dark impulses rage within, never allow your composure to crack, or your true nature to be revealed.