Chapter 54
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Me
Hey, I thought your flight would have landed by now but maybe you got stuck on the runway again in Chicago? I’m headed into a meeting right now so if I miss your call, I’ll get back to you ASAP.
Me
It might be a late night for me. Do you want to just go to my apartment from the airport instead of driving back to Forrest Falls? Let me know. Love you!
I wait another moment to see if the texts says delivered or read, but it just sits there.
He must not have connected to Wi-Fi on the flight or something, although he was into that new thriller he started on this trip.
Am I surprised I’m engaged to a reader? No, not at all.
We have completely different tastes in genres, but we both love spending time together while reading independently.
Plus, he really does have the most comfortable couch in his den.
Christine knocks on my door as she walks by, letting me know the team is gathering. “Coming!” I call out as I gather my blue and black notebooks, and the iced vanilla almond latte she recently delivered to my desk.
If Christine ever threatens to leave us for another job, I will do whatever I can to keep her on our team.
She’s such an asset and is so attentive.
Which is helpful when I’ve been known to skip meals altogether when I’m in the zone, but that’s been less frequent since Ryan likes to ensure I eat, which could sound strange, but I think it’s sweet.
He not only sees me, but he doesn’t judge, and he just meets me where I am.
I’m so lucky. I still can’t believe this is my life.
I hip check the conference room door as I enter and can tell by Mason’s face that this is not just a routine update meeting.
Walker returned from paternity leave yesterday. I’m proud of how well he’s handling being away from Vivian and their babies—although I’m sure knowing that his parents are there this week to help with the transition eases his mind.
We wait until Kelly arrives, followed by Christine who closes the door once we are all corralled into our places.
“Alright, everyone, let’s get started. Mason is going to walk us through a case that came to us this morning from Quantico. Mason?” Walker nods to the youngest member of our team who has his computer ready to go.
“Right. This came to our attention after a system flagged some test results. The victim is thirty-four-year-old Jennifer Johnson of Watertown, Massachusetts. And I know you’re going to have questions when I walk you through crime scene photos because it doesn’t add up until it does, so just hang tight. ”
That’s not a good caveat.
“Miss Johnson was discovered the morning after her attack by a coworker that was sent to check on her after she missed her shift as a CNA at a nearby retirement home. Miss Johnson’s coworkers said that was extremely out of character, and they knew something was wrong.
The coworker called for a wellness check when no one answered the door, and Miss Johnson’s body was discovered on her kitchen floor. ”
Mason pulls up photos of the scene in an older, nondescript apartment that looks like it’s part of a house that was converted into apartments.
The kitchen’s avocado green appliances and gold tiled linoleum date the space, but it looks well taken care of, except for the obvious signs of a struggle near Miss Johnson’s body.
“Is this related to one of our ongoing cases, or is it a new one?” Walker asks.
“It’s related to The Carnation Killer.”
“That is not a park, Mason,” Kelly astutely observes. “And there is no carnation in sight.”
“It is not a park, but like I said, hang tight. Miss Johnson’s autopsy revealed the cause of death was manual strangulation, with what appears to be traces of black fibers left behind that would match ones found in a leather glove.”
“The killer wore gloves?” Kelly asks as Mason nods.
“Not to say he didn’t at the other scenes, but this is the first time fibers were discovered on the victim to suggest their presence.”
“If it’s the same guy, you mean?” Tara asks.
Mason shakes his head. “No, it’s the same guy.”
“Guys, let him finish. Keep going, Mason.” Walker nods to the screen before anyone can ask additional questions.
“Like I said, fibers were discovered, and while the jarring clues of the scene suggest more differences than similarities, Miss Johnson did us a massive favor when she fought back, likely scratching the suspect’s arms or face in the process.
She had defensive abrasions and her self-defense actions left DNA under her fingernails. ”
“Does it match the profile of one of our cases?”
“There is enough overlap of the trace DNA to be considered a probable match for The Carnation Killer cases. Sorry, Harlow.” I wave my hand at his apology.
I can’t fight the name, and it is a good name, even if I hate it on principle.
“When local PD entered the results into the system, it flagged Quantico because of the partial match.”
“What does the DNA profile tell us? Is there anything new from this additional sample?” I ask Mason, not able to wait until he is done to ask my own questions.
“It doesn’t really tell us anything new, just confirms things we already knew from previous trace DNA left behind at scenes.
Our unsub is a Caucasian male, late thirties to early forties,” Mason replies as he pulls up more documentation.
“However, in this case, there seems to be a deviation from his previous ritual.”
“What else is missing or different?” I question pointedly.
“In addition to it being inside the victim’s apartment instead of a remote location, and the absence of the signature carnation, the victim’s toxicology report was clean.”
“Excuse me?” I sit up straighter at that.
Mason shakes his head and shrugs. “I don’t know what to say, the tox reports did not show any signs of ketamine or anything else that was out of the ordinary.”
“He didn’t sedate her?” Tara asks.
“It doesn’t appear so, and the ligature marks around her neck would suggest intense rage in the moment of death,” Mason replies.
“He is not only deviating, he’s spiraling,” I add. “He’s losing control, and the ritual is no longer required when something else still satisfies his need to kill.”
“What was the date of this attack?” Walker asks.
“Miss Johnson was discovered on the morning of May sixteenth, with time of death placed sometime between nine p.m. and midnight on May fifteenth.” Mason pulls up the autopsy report, and I am already scanning it when Tara speaks.
“Damn … we were celebrating at the same time this poor woman was living her last few moments in a nightmare.”
The room stills and narrows to Tara. I can feel the blood rushing in my ears. I am missing something here. “What do you mean?”
She nods to the screen. “The date. It was your birthday party, and we were all having a great time while this poor girl was being murdered.”
There’s something else missing here, and mentally, I can play with the puzzle pieces, but there’s this gap of something that I know should be there.
My subconscious has put together a pattern, but I can’t see it yet.
What can’t I see?
“Mason, can you pull up our previous DNA profile on the unsub and do a side by side with the most recent incident?” I point to the large screen on the wall as I stand and start to pace while I read through the reports.
Did she know her killer?
Was it a neighbor or someone from work?
“Can you zoom in on the ethnicity part? I can’t see it clearly enough.”
He pulls it up and the whooshing in my ears only intensifies.
The unsub is a male, Caucasian, in his late thirties to early forties, and is of European descent. There is a very strong French lineage, and there’s a note about markers being consistent with someone who comes from the French-Canadian population.
French Canadian.
Above average height.
“Harlow? Is there something here?” Walker asks quietly as I continue to pace and churn over the details.
“Yeah, but I just, I can’t place my finger on what it is. It’s like a … what are those things called when a song is stuck in your head, but you don’t know it?”
“An ear worm?” Mason supplies.
I nod as I continue to pace. “Yes, exactly.”
“You have a worm in your ear?” Kelly grimaces.
“No, an ear worm is like a catchy song stuck in your head, but you can’t name what song it is,” Tara replies.
“Which means something is familiar here to Harlow, but she can’t place what it is,” Walker adds. “Mason, when you run this new case through the CPM, considering the other cases, what does it give for a score?”
“It is a seventy-four, so it’s comparable to the previous score of seventy-two with the murder of the still unnamed victim in California last summer,” Mason replies.
“Can you walk me through the timeline of what we know of Miss Johnson’s murder, please?” I ask as I continue pacing alongside the table.
Was she being watched?
Was she being followed?
Was she a crime of convenience?
And my biggest question—what triggered him to break his ritual and routine? The words about something feeling better than before are trying to land in my subconscious, but on what? And why?
“Miss Johnson was last seen at a corner store, which was routine for her. She was supposed to start her shift at the retirement home at seven a.m., and when she didn’t show or call, her supervisor sent one of her coworkers over to check on her.
Miss Johnson did not answer the door; she lives on the second floor of a home converted into a four-plex apartment.
Police were called for a wellness check, and Miss Johnson was discovered in her kitchen. ”
Walker stands and steps closer to the screen, reading off the reports Mason has pulled up. “It looks like over the course of the next two weeks, they did the autopsy, including tox reports. There was no sign of sexual assault, nor any intentional DNA deposits left on the victim’s body.”
“So, if this crime is a sexual motivation or driver, then he is still unable or unwilling to participate in a sexual act with the victim or near them. This amount of rage makes me wonder if there isn’t some sort of sexual component, though, and if anything, the absence of semen or signs of assault don’t disqualify the possibility.
” I verbally process my thoughts to my team but the missing piece I can’t place feels just out of reach.
“What was the unsub doing before he saw the victim? Was he working? Was he following her? Was he waiting for her? If he was working, I’m assuming they checked the employees of the corner store?
” I stop to look at Mason, who nods. “Right, so maybe he was working somewhere else and then either drove to her apartment … or was driving or walking around and saw her making her way to the apartment.”
“So, not something where he was lying in wait?” Tara asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I think the amount of rage that he is showing from not only the method of killing, but the severity of the degree of escalation and deviation from his ritual suggest he was not only angry, but he was absolutely furious.”
On my birthday.
My birthday.
No … that has to be a coincidence.
And yet, my gut churns.
I have to look at the data.
I whirl on my heel toward the screen. “Mason, can you pull up the dates of the other confirmed kills, please?”
He nods and quickly displays a table with each victim and the date of their death.
Almost every single one correlates to something significant in my life within a few days. The others are dates I don’t remember what I was doing, but my gut says my calendar will confirm something was happening in my life during those dates as well.
When I accepted Walker’s invitation two years ago to join the newly formed task force here in Nashville, it was less than a week after I moved from Quantico when the body of Karlie Voss was discovered in Manchester, New Hampshire.
January of last year, right around the same time of the media coverage with our team’s identification and apprehension of The Susurro killer, was also when Evangeline Lewis was discovered in a park in New York City, again, holding a carnation.
This most recent kill—on my birthday—was fueled by rage, so much so that the killer no longer required the comfort of his ritual.
He just needed something that would feel better to him. His routine was no longer the deciding factor, and taking a life was all that mattered.
No.
It couldn’t be … but as the puzzle piece clicks into place, the whooshing in my ears goes silent, telling me that this is right.
Unbelievable, but right.
“I’m afraid I…” I can barely get the words out. My mouth is completely dry, and I know this is going to sound crazy to my team, but I can’t ignore this hypothesis—it’s already too late for Jennifer Johnson.
“What is it, Harlow?” Walker asks.
I gulp in air needing to get this out but struggling to find my breath.
“I think he needed to feel the rush of the kill, not just the compulsion of the ritual anymore. The ritual itself wasn’t enough …
because something else felt better.” I run my hand through my hair, frustrated that I never saw this.
“I think this escalation suggests a common denominator that I didn’t see before,” I slowly admit to my team as I try to test the hypothesis internally.
Except it all fits.
All of it.
“We thought his ritual was what drove him, but I think he is driven and triggered by a compulsive obsession.”
Walker’s face is completely neutral, but his fingers tap on the table as he clenches his jaw. “What is his obsession?”
“The focus of his obsession,” I admit barely above a whisper, “It’s … it’s me.”