Chapter 11 #2
Hearing her reiterate what he had already guessed made him feel ill. Every time an agent walked through those doors he tensed, worried that another email had arrived.
A more demanding challenge. One I might not be able to meet . . . even with Grace’s help.
It was only a matter of time before another communication came; manipulating names on a list or rehashing what they already knew wasn’t going to stop this guy. The reality abruptly hit like a punch to the gut.
“Damn it!” He plopped his empty cup down on the table.
Grace blinked, her own frustration visibly restrained. On the other side of him, Davis scooted back from the table. “Let me refill that for you.” Davis extended his hand.
Ryan exhaled some of the tension and turned the cup over to the agent. “Thanks.”
“As you know,” Grace carried on, as if he hadn’t just shown how close he was to coming undone, “Katherine Jones didn’t see our unsub.
She stopped at a convenience store and picked up a bottle of wine.
The last thing she remembers is emptying the bottle.
When she woke up, she was in that Reddy Ice container with water up to her waist.” He motioned for Grace to get to the part he didn’t know.
Listening to that summation was like going for a repeat root canal. It hadn’t been fun the first time.
“We may have gotten lucky at the Jones residence.”
Now that got his attention. “How lucky?”
“There were prints, but we’re still ruling out family members. Hair and other fibers appear to be connected to the victim.”
“Grace,” he said with a pointed look, “I’m waiting for the lucky part.”
She met his annoyed look with one of her own. “I’m getting there.” She paused for effect or to irritate him further before continuing. “A neighbor came forward.”
“Wait a minute.” He sat up a little straighter. “I was under the impression all the neighbors had been questioned and that no one saw anything.”
“None of them did.” She tried to suppress a smile but that wasn’t happening and he wanted to shake her. “A neighbor’s beau saw something.”
He frowned. “Beau?”
Grace nodded. “Mrs. Roberta Norris. She’s eighty and a widow. Horace Jackson is her boyfriend. When she called him this morning to tell him about the police questioning her, he told her what he’d witnessed. At the time he wasn’t aware it meant anything.”
“It being . . .” Ryan prompted, completely out of patience now.
“The night Mrs. Jones disappeared, Mr. Jackson stepped out back to smoke. Evidently Mrs. Norris doesn’t permit smoking inside.”
Ryan could do without the asides, but he understood that Grace was yanking his chain.
He supposed, if one took into account the tactics he used on her every chance he got, he deserved it.
What could he say? He was only human. Finding a way to make life bearable without the aid of his usual tactics was a challenge all its own. He hadn’t found a solution yet.
“Mr. Jackson heard Mrs. Jones’s garage door open, and since it was after midnight he was curious. He took a peek around the corner of the house and saw her car leave the driveway. A man wearing glasses was behind the wheel.”
Anticipation zinged Ryan. “Did he give us hair color, approximate age? Anything else?”
“Nothing that specific. He’s only sure the driver was an older male—maybe fiftyish—and he wore glasses . . . the old horn-rimmed style. Hair might have been dark, but he wasn’t sure about that.”
“I’ll be damned,” Ryan said, an epiphany dawning.
“He used her car.” Drove to the scene and then back to retrieve his own vehicle.
That took some major balls. This completely changed the way the vehicle was viewed.
The Buick had been dusted for prints and checked for trace evidence on site, but this required additional analysis.
Ryan turned to Grace. “Forensics will need to—”
“Already taken care of. The vehicle is on its way to the lab as we speak.”
Twenty, thirty minutes. That was how long it took to drive from the residence of Katherine Jones to the Sloss Furnaces.
The return trip would be the one. After unloading the woman from the car, getting in through the gate, and securing her in that abandoned freezer, he would be sweaty.
Sweaty, maybe with an abrasion or a cut, if he had done the air hole drilling during that same time as well.
That would have made him much more likely to leave behind DNA.
Davis returned with the coffee refill.
“We have some additional criteria for you, Davis,” Ryan said with the most enthusiasm he had been able to muster all day.
Davis set his own coffee cup on the table and readied his laptop. “Let’s hear it.”
“Male, fiftyish, and with a very high IQ.”
Grace looked surprised by that last part. “Smarter than the average repeat offender,” she said, “probably, but higher-than-average IQ, how did you come to that conclusion?”
“Think about it,” Ryan said. “He knew exactly how long it would take that box to fill with water. He timed it exactly for us to rescue her, the same as we did Alyssa Byrne.”
“That’s speculation,” Grace countered.
“We found her shortly after three with about seven hours to go, or roughly thirty percent of the time we’d been given.
She was sitting on her butt against the bottom of the appliance, with water reaching her shoulders.
Do the math, Grace. Any way you look at it, this guy knew exactly how much time we needed. ”
She considered his explanation, her expression thoughtful.
“You’re right. He knew the time the tomb Alyssa was in would be resealed.
Katherine Jones said Thursday night was the only night she deviated from her routine of going straight home.
He planned it all that carefully. Down to the minute.
” Her face grew more animated with each deduction.
“Leaves no prints or trace evidence,” Davis said, joining the summation, “and he knows the internet. Can’t catch him by any of the usual means.”
Worth strode into the room, drawing all eyes to him. “Heads up, people. We have a new communication.” Tension rippled through Ryan, setting his already raw nerves further on edge.
Worth, Davis, Pratt, and Schaffer gathered at the workstation for Ryan to open the email, as if they feared some plague would be released among them if they dared do it themselves.
Ryan dropped into the chair and made the necessary clicks. Sure enough, there it was.
Bravo, bravo, McBride!
Another marvelous success! I knew you would show them. I am very pleased! Ah, and your new partner suits you.
Ryan glanced at Grace. The unsub had definitely been watching. Bastard.
I’m certain you are anxious to learn the clues for your next challenge, but tomorrow is the Lord’s Day and you should rest. I will contact you on Monday.
Do not worry, my friend. When this is done and you have surpassed each challenge, they will know the truth and the prize will be yours.
Ever faithful,
Devoted Fan
Fury boiled up inside him and Ryan clicked the mouse to open a reply box.
“What’re you doing, McBride?” Worth demanded.
“What I should have done already.” He wasn’t letting the son of a bitch continue to manipulate him. This had gone far enough!
“Wait,” Grace urged, “this could backfire. This guy could be hanging on by a thread. The truth could cause him to go completely over the edge.”
“Let’s hope so,” Ryan growled from between clenched teeth. “Maybe he’ll do the world a favor and off himself.”
“Damn it, McBride,” Worth warned. “You can’t—”
“My way,” he cut him off, “remember?”
Ryan typed the few, straightforward words.
“What if he already has the next victim?” Grace argued. “This could cause him to—”
Clicking send derailed whatever else she intended to say.
Ryan was finished. This guy needed to understand that his plan wasn’t going to change the facts. Ryan’s FBI career was over. End of story.
Devoted Fan,
I don’t work for the FBI anymore. Let’s leave it at that.
McBride
Before anyone could snap out of their shocked silence, the alert that he had new mail sounded.
Sending the unsub a kiss-off email suddenly didn’t feel like the right thing to do . . . but it was too late to regret it now.
“Open it,” Worth ordered. “Let’s see how badly you screwed this one up.”
Ryan’s hands balled into fists on either side of the keyboard. The urge to pound this dickhead expanded, a palpable force inside him.
Grace placed her hand on his arm. He flinched at the touch. Wished he could trust what felt like a sign that she was on his side.
“Open it,” she urged quietly.
Ordering his fingers to relax, he went through the necessary steps. The box opened, revealing the new mail.
Special Agent McBride,
I sincerely regret any difficulty my actions are putting you through. But please understand that this is for your own good. The world needs you. I need you.
Respectfully,
Devoted Fan
PS. I am aware that they assuredly made you say such a thing. The rats.
Ryan pushed the chair back and stood. “I need a smoke.”
Silence swelled in the room, crowding out the door behind him.
He had a respite . . . before it started again.
Between now and then, he had to find a way to end this before Devoted Fan discovered just how wrong he was.