Pose for Me

Chapter 1

One

Lane

“This,” I say, aiming my laser pointer at the man on the screen, “is Ryan Welsh. White male, age thirty-one. Medium height and build. Does anything about him stand out to you?” I ask the new FBI agents assembled in the room. No one speaks up. “Anyone?”

A thin, Black woman in the front row raises her hand. When I point to her, she says, “He blends in?” There’s an inflection in her voice, as if her statement is a question.

“Yes,” I say. “He blends in. He looks like he could be my cousin.” A few people laugh.

Ryan Welsh and I resemble each other slightly. We both have the same brown hair, light brown eyes, and tan skin. The only things that differ are the shape of our eyes and the curve of our mouths.

“That’s what made his arrest so hard,” I continue.

“He could be any of our neighbors. Any of our friends.” I look around at the crowd, making eye contact with a few.

“Welsh was my first arrest, my first major bust. He was only caught because he spat at a crime scene and forgot to clean up after himself. On a hunch, I asked for the evidence to be collected, and that hunch proved correct. We apprehended him the moment we had a name.”

Another agent, a burly white guy that also looks like he could be my cousin, raises his hand. “Did he have DNA in the system, or did you have to canvass for potential suspects?”

“We got lucky on that front. Welsh was prior military.” I click the remote again and pull up an image of Welsh in his dress blues, saluting the camera. “His DNA was on file with them, something a lot of service members don’trecall giving. Welsh sure didn’t.”

“Was there any other evidence against him?” someone nearer the back asks. “Other than his saliva on the scene?”

I shake my head. “No, and that’s the bitch of it.” I turn off the projector, and my partner clicks the lights on so I can see everyone. “Had he not slipped up, I’m sure he would still be active.”

My partner, Brock Long, comes to stand on the stage with me, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

He’s a lanky redhead with startling blue eyes and wears thick-framed black glasses.

Even though we’re both thirty-two, Brock looks more like a college student than a seasoned FBI agent.

“When you’re on the job, you learn to trust your instincts.

The location Welsh left his last victim wasn’t in the cleanest area, so the saliva could have been easily overlooked.

Agent Bauer was spot-on in the collection, and we were able to put away a monster. ”

Brock shoots me his signature lopsided grin, and I return it with a pat on his shoulder.

He always compliments me when we discuss this case, like he wasn’t a part of the bust. Brock advocated for me when our supervisory special agent wanted to overlook the saliva, saying it could belong to anyone that trounced through the scene.

We both stood our ground, and because of it, we helped with a major arrest.

He hasn’t ever complained about holding these seminars for new Federal Bureau of Investigation agents. He would rather not delve into past cases, but I think discussing how we solved those crimes can be what helps another agent solve one in the future.

It’s also an opportunity to interact with the agents that will one day take our places. Mentoring is important in our field, as well as making connections with agents at other field offices.

Turning back to the crowd, I say, “Being alert and aware is important in this job, but following your instincts is just as important. Sometimes, we use science only after we use our intuition.”

Another agent raises their hand, and I give a head nod, acknowledging them. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you the agents working on The Poser’s case?”

Unease sinks in my belly, though I don’t let it show.

The Poser is the moniker the press gave the serial killer that’s been active in California for the past three years. A moniker I fucking hate.

We’ve turned over every stone, used all the technology at our disposal, and pounded the pavement to get some suspects, but we’ve come up empty-handed.

I hate that The Poser is the dark spot hanging over my career. There isn’t a single seminar that goes by where someone doesn’t ask us about that case. But there’s not much I can tell anyone because we don’t know anything.

We know the victims, their manners of death, and where they were posed, but we’re in the dark when it comes to the perpetrator.

Sighing imperceptibly, I say, “Yes, we are. Before you ask, no, we can’t disclose any information on an active investigation.”

“Why is he called The Poser?” the same woman that answered my earlier question asks.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and walk slowly back and forth across the stage.

“We’re not sure if The Poser is male or female.

Whoever the perp is, they kill their victims, arrange them into a position that makes sense only to them, then sketches the murder scene.

The victims are never dumped lazily; they’re put into positions deliberately. Hence, The Poser.”

“Can you at least verify that the perp doesn’t have a type when it comes to their victims?” the woman asks as a follow-up question.

Brock answers. “That’s true. That’s why this case is so difficult to solve.

Welsh went after white women that reminded him of his sister, whom he was sexually attracted to.

When his parents found out about his infatuation, they sent him away and uprooted him from his home.

That was his motive. He wanted to make those women pay because he couldn’t hurt his sister.

Another case, Jennifer Long, was a black widow, killing her husbands, who were always Black men that were either well-off or had a sizable life insurance policy.

She was after money. But The Poser? Their victims are all across the age, race, and demographic spectrum. ”

I continue with, “One of The Poser’s victims was a young Hispanic man on his way to his afternoon college class.

Another was a white middle-aged woman abducted leaving a yoga studio later in the evening.

Neither victim had any known acquaintances or mutual friends.

They were from different demographics, the college student from a large, wealthy family that owned several restaurants in the city and the woman a teacher that lived in a lower income area.

I could give you more examples of victims—thirty-six to be exact—and none of them have similarities. ”

“So,” someone says, “you’re chasing a ghost.”

I don’t answer, letting Brock continue the seminar.

In the ten years I’ve been at the Bureau, this has been the only case that has kept me up at night. Sure, some victims I’ve come across have given me nightmares, but The Poser and how they’re in the fucking wind has me staying up to ponder if I’m really cut out for this job.

We have more than enough victims to nail the perp to the fucking wall, but we have to catch them first.

A few minutes later, when all the questions have run dry, Brock wraps up the class, and the agents disburse. Several come over to ask other questions or get information on how I caught a certain criminal. I answer, but my mind is still stuck on the comment about chasing a ghost.

Because that’s what the fuck we’re doing. Trying to catch a fucking ghost.

In the years they’ve been active, The Poser has never slipped up, never made a mistake. They’re too meticulous, and we’re no closer to capturing them than we were when they first started their reign of terror.

My fucking career hinges on if I apprehend them or not.

When the room clears out and we pack up our materials, Brock and I leave the hotel we held the seminar in.

“Wanna hit Drab Dragon?” he asks. I nod and head to my car, tension settling between my shoulder blades.

Drab Dragon is a bar Brock and I found when we first moved to Claymount, a small city about an hour from Stockton. We go often after work to toss a few back and talk shop.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling up to the bar. I climb out of my car and roll up my sleeves as I head inside. I wish I had brought a change of clothes—my current attire screams law enforcement—but that can’t be helped. If I go home now to change, I won’t want to come back out.

I take a seat at the bar, and my favorite bartender, Emmy, slides my usual three fingers of Jack in front of me. “Long day?” she asks, cracking the top off a beer and placing it beside my glass.

“Yes and no.” I sip the Jack and grimace as the liquor lights a fire down my esophagus. “Had seminars.”

“A lot of talking,” she says with a nod.

“Unfortunately.”

Brock sits beside me, and Emmy sets his usual beer in front of him. “Holler if you two need anything else,” she says and walks away to take other orders.

After downing half of his beer, Brock sets his bottle down then bumps my shoulder. “We’ll get them. I promise.”

I grunt and toss back the rest of my Jack. “Yeah? When? In twenty, thirty years when they finally slip up? When they have a body count in the hundreds?”

Brock purses his lips, his face drawn. “I know it’s rough, but what’s the alternative? Stop working the case because the killer hasn’t made a mistake? We’ll get them. Not all ghosts stay hidden.”

I sigh and nod. There’s not much else I can do.

Brock and I sit at the bar and converse for a little while longer. A woman who has been eyeing Brock since she walked in ventures down to our section and chats him up. I take that time to order another drink and talk to Emmy about her week since the last time we were here.

A few minutes later, Brock stands and reaches into his pocket to grab his wallet and pull out some bills. He places them on the counter and says to Emmy, “Give him another round. There’s enough money there to stuff him in a cab if he gets too shit-faced.”

I scoff and sip my second drink, the burn not bothering me as much.

My partner leans in and mutters, “Stop being such a downer and you can pick up any one of these guys in here. But with you looking so fucking mean, they don’t think you’re approachable.”

An unexpected laugh bubbles up my throat. “Yeah, because there are so many men lined up to get in my pants, they only stop because I look mean.”

The woman waiting for Brock chimes in. “You do look unapproachable. Try smiling. That’s what men tell women, right?”

She and Emmy crack up at how they turned the tables on me.

To humor her, I smile widely, making her and Emmy laugh harder.

Brock claps me on the shoulder. “Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.” He puts his arm around the woman’s waist, and they walk toward the door. “Don’t get too fucked up,” he warns with a smile and a wave.

My smile drops as I turn back to my drink, swirling the glass around, watching the amber liquid make a mini whirlpool in my glass.

Not every killer is easy to catch; some have given us hell. But they’ve always made a mistake after a while. They got sloppy or forgot something. They have victimology; they use the same weapon as some sort of signature.

The Poser does none of that.

They’re in the wind, and I can’t catch them. I’m stuck.

I swallow my glass of Jack in one go and hold my hand up to Emmy. “Another.”