CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Riley reached out with her thoughts, pulling at strands of possibility and intent, drawing them together for insight into a killer’s mind. It was her gift—and her curse—this ability to slip into their mindset, to see through their eyes, even if only for moments.
At first was as though her consciousness floated through the darkened theater below. She could almost see the eerie glow of the screen as Crystal Keene had watched, too unsuspecting to sense danger.
Then she felt the presence of the killer watching in the control room.
Her mind put together everything she had glimpsed or felt or been told about this person, subtleties she wasn’t even consciously aware of, anything from previous discussions, both actual details and mere wisps of possibilities.
It was her talent to turn all of that into a sense of connection with the mind of a killer.
She felt this killer’s satisfaction, the snug fit of the plan, the intoxicating sense of control and artistry. And something else …
Revenge.
As her eyes opened, Riley saw Anne Marie watching her, but didn’t think anyone else had taken special note of her brief mental absence.
She reached for the box of latex gloves Detective Hayes had brought, snapping them onto her hands.
“I need to look at the film,” Riley said, her voice steady despite the sense of the killer still strong in her mind.
Now she would turn to more tangible physical evidence, starting with the film itself, deliberately sabotaged to set up this macabre scene.
Hayes nodded, gesturing to a crime scene technician who had been documenting the evidence. “Let Agent Paige examine the splice.”
Riley approached the projector, careful not to disturb the position of Crystal Keene’s body still chained to the machine.
The melted film hung like a grotesque ornament, its edges blackened and curled from the intense heat of the projection lamp.
She peered at the section of film just before the burn, where the frames remained intact enough to examine.
“There,” she murmured, pointing to a spot several inches before the melted portion. “That’s the slice Coonfield mentioned.”
Ann Marie moved closer, her shoulder nearly touching Riley’s as they both studied the sabotaged film. “It’s almost invisible unless you’re looking for it.”
Riley nodded. “It’s deliberate—meant to catch in the gate after running for a specific amount of time.”
“So the killer knew exactly when the film would jam,” Hayes observed, leaning in to see the detail Riley had identified.
“More than that,” Riley said, straightening to face them.
“The killer knew exactly how a projector works, how film moves through the mechanism, precisely where the weak point would be.” She glanced around the booth, taking in the complex array of equipment.
“This isn’t amateur work. It’s calculated—someone with knowledge and experience. ”
Hayes and Ann Marie remained silent, giving her space to process the scene.
“The killer clearly came prepared,” Riley said, her voice dropping slightly as the various impressions clarified in her mind.
“Knew the exact layout of this booth, where everything was positioned.” She gestured to the corners of the small room.
“Knew where to hide, how to ambush someone entering. And where to stash someone they wanted out of the way.”
She turned to face Hayes directly. “The killer must have known that Crystal had arranged a private screening. And not just that—they knew Ted Coonfield would come early to prepare, that he would be alone, vulnerable.”
“How would they know that?” Hayes asked, his brow furrowed.
Riley’s gaze drifted to Crystal Keene’s body. “Either they overheard the arrangements being made, or they have a connection to the film community here. Maybe both.”
Ann Marie tilted her head thoughtfully. “Crystal Keene was in Atlanta for the Roberta Rimes festival. After Veronica’s murder, she might have mentioned to several people her disappointment about the festival being postponed. If she was looking for a way to see Dandelion Days on her own...”
“Word could have gotten around,” Riley finished the thought. “In a community still reeling from Veronica’s death, people talk. The killer could have learned about Crystal’s plans through conversation, maybe even overheard Crystal herself discussing it.”
Hayes nodded slowly, processing this angle. “So our killer either had a key to this place—”
“Or knew how to pick a lock,” Riley interjected. “The theater’s been closed for a month. Security probably isn’t a priority.”
“No,” Hayes agreed. “Not a single working surveillance camera in the theater. I’ve directed one of my team to find out if any cameras picked up something outside The Velvet Screen, but there aren’t a lot of those nearby.”
Riley moved toward the door of the projection booth, reconstructing the sequence in her mind. “The killer came early, before Coonfield arrived.”
“Waited in here?” Hayes suggested.
Riley scratched her chin.
“No, Coonfield himself told us otherwise. The killer surprised him by a knock on the projection room door. Coonfield opened the door, and the killer knocked him out with a single blow to the head.”
Riley walked through the space, following the invisible path of the killer’s movements. “After Coonfield was unconscious, the killer bound him, gagged him, and moved him downstairs to the janitor’s closet—out of the way, but not killed. Why?”
“Because Coonfield wasn’t the target,” Ann Marie suggested.
“Exactly,” Riley agreed. “The killer needed him alive but incapacitated. Needed him to be found eventually, to discover the body, to recognize the scene from The Broken Window. That was part of the message.”
Hayes leaned against the wall, his expression grim. “So after securing Coonfield, the killer returned here and prepared the film.”
Riley nodded, turning back to the projector. “Made the slice that would cause the film to jam and burn through. Loaded everything correctly, just as Coonfield would have done. Then waited for Crystal Keene to arrive.”
Hayes nodded. “We found the outside door unlocked. So the victim could have entered without any help from whoever was in the projection room.”
“Exactly,” Riley said. “The killer could just stay up in the projection room until Crystal was seated in the theater below. She had no way to know it wasn’t Coonfield.”
She closed her eyes again, seeing the scene unfold.
“Then the killer starts the film, letting it run normally at first. Crystal watches, unaware that anything is wrong. The film plays for perhaps twenty minutes, long enough for her to become fully engaged. Then, exactly as planned, the film catches in the gate.”
Riley opened her eyes, focusing on the melted section. “The frame burns through. The screen goes white. Crystal calls out for Coonfield, but of course, he doesn’t answer. After waiting, growing increasingly concerned, she decides to come up to the booth herself.”
Hayes straightened from the wall. “Walking right into the trap.”
“Right into the trap,” Riley echoed softly. “She enters, expecting to find Coonfield dealing with a technical problem. Instead, she finds the killer waiting for her.”
The silence that followed felt heavy, charged with the grim reality of what had happened in this small space just hours ago.
“The killer killed her with a garrote wire, based on this wound,” Ann Marie said finally, her gaze toward Crystal’s neck.
Riley nodded. “Quick, efficient. Once she was dead, the killer chained her to the projector—completing the re-creation of the scene from The Broken Window.”
“My God,” Hayes muttered, running a hand over his face. “The level of planning...”
“This wasn’t just murder,” Riley agreed. “It was craftsmanship. The same careful attention to detail we saw with Veronica Slate’s poisoning.”
“And it’s personal,” she emphasized, her voice firm with conviction.
“These aren’t random theatrical murders.
First Veronica Slate, poisoned like her mother’s character in The Night Walker.
Now, Crystal Keene was murdered like the critic in The Broken Window.
Both connected to Roberta Rimes’ legacy, both killed in ways that reference specific films from that era. ”
Riley paused before offering another idea.
“Film is the killer’s very life. They live, breathe, and eat motion pictures.
They love the way movies make stories come to life.
They love the way movies make their magic, the same way a stage magician makes his audience believe his tricks are real.
They love turning make-believe into something that seems realer than real. ”
The words seemed to fall out of Riley’s mouth, and she herself was surprised by them. She wasn’t even sure exactly what she meant. But it came from a strong gut feeling.
She turned to face Hayes directly. “You already know Malcolm Hartley isn’t your killer, Detective.
He was in a jail cell when this happened.
He’s still there even as we speak. And he wasn’t involved with the killings in any way, not even indirectly.
He may be guilty of running a dark web extortion operation, but these murders require a different kind of obsession—a decades-long grudge connected to Roberta Rimes’ testimony before HUAC. ”
Hayes didn’t immediately refute her assessment, a stark contrast to his defensive posture the previous day. The second murder had shaken his certainty, forced him to reconsider his theory of the case.
“What do you need?” he asked finally, his voice subdued.
“I need to talk to Malcolm Hartley again,” Riley replied without hesitation. “Not about his obsession with Veronica or his extortion business, but about what he discovered in his research on Roberta Rimes. Specifically, the names she gave during her HUAC testimony.”
Ann Marie added, “If we can identify who Roberta named, we can trace their connections—find out who might still harbor enough resentment to exact this kind of elaborate revenge decades later.”
Hayes considered this for a long moment, his gaze moving from the carefully staged body to Riley’s determined expression. “I’ll arrange it,” he conceded. “I’ll call ahead, have them prepare an interview room.”
“Thank you,” Riley said simply.
Hayes nodded, then stepped outside the booth to make the call, leaving Riley and Ann Marie alone with Crystal Keene’s body.
“You really think Hartley will tell us?” Ann Marie asked quietly.
“I think his obsession with exposing Roberta’s secrets might outweigh his hatred for Veronica,” Riley replied. “Especially if we appeal to his expertise, his pride in the research. Make him feel like the authority he always wanted to be recognized as.”
Ann Marie glanced at her watch. “It’s almost seven. How long do you think it will take Hayes to set up the interview?”
“At least an hour,” Riley estimated. “Maybe longer, considering Hartley’s lawyer will need to be notified.”
“We should get something to eat then,” Ann Marie suggested. “Neither of us has had breakfast, and it’s going to be a long day.”
Riley nodded, feeling the hollowness in her stomach that she’d been ignoring since Hayes’ pre-dawn call.
“There’s a diner I noticed on the way here,” she said. “We can grab something quick before heading to the station.”
Hayes returned, sliding his phone into his pocket. “They’re setting up the interview. Hartley’s lawyer is throwing a fit about the early hour, but he’s on his way in. Should be ready in about ninety minutes.”
“We’re going to get some breakfast,” Riley informed him. “We’ll meet you at the station afterward.”
Hayes nodded. “I’ll finish up here, make sure we’ve documented everything properly.” He hesitated, then added, “Thanks for coming out so quickly this morning. Your insight...” He trailed off, seemingly uncomfortable with the admission that his own thinking had been woefully inadequate.
Riley spared him the need to continue. “We’re all after the same thing, Detective. Justice for the victims and an end to this killer’s activity.”
As the crime scene technicians prepared to remove Crystal Keene’s body, Riley and Ann Marie made their way out of the projection booth and down the narrow stairs.
The theater below remained dimly lit, the screen no longer illuminated by the projector’s harsh white light.
Their footsteps echoed in the empty space, a hollow sound that matched the grim reality of what they’d witnessed.
At the lobby, they paused to thank Ted Coonfield for his cooperation, promising to be in touch if they had further questions.
The projectionist looked small and frail in the harsh morning light filtering through the glass doors, a man whose world had been irrevocably altered by violence that had nothing to do with him.
“I’ll drive,” Ann Marie offered as they stepped outside into the cool morning air. The sky had lightened to a pale blue, the sun just beginning to warm the streets of Atlanta. A few early commuters hurried past, oblivious to the horror contained within the old theater behind them.
Riley nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of the early wake-up call and the emotional toll of immersing herself in the killer’s mindset. As they walked toward their car, she found herself wondering what this day might bring—and who else was already in this killer’s sights.