Chapter 29 #2
“The first photograph, showing the victim alive, represented his selection process—his ‘artistic vision’, if you will. The second, taken post-mortem, represented the completion of his work.” Brook kept her tone clinical despite the grim subject matter.
“By sending these images to local newspapers, he was seeking recognition without exposure. He wanted his ‘work’ to be seen and acknowledged, but not in a way that would lead back to him.”
A few people shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
Someone coughed, the sound quickly stifled.
Brian pulled out a handkerchief and tucked the white cloth in his wife’s hand.
Once again, something about his gesture caused Brook’s words to falter.
She cleared her throat and managed to continue without anyone noticing her hesitation.
“What truly sets these murders apart is the signature element—the yellow scarves used to strangle each victim.” Brook's words landed heavily in the silent room.
“We believe these scarves serve as more than just a murder weapon.
They're a symbol, a tribute to someone the unsub deeply admired. Someone who likely wore similar scarves on a daily basis and had a profound influence on his life.”
“No offense, but a lot of women wore scarves back then,” someone called out from the crowd.
“You are correct,” Brook replied, though she didn’t back down from her delivery. “That doesn’t change our belief that a yellow silk scarf reminds the unsub of someone dear to him.”
The tension in the room had become almost palpable, and a thick blanket of unease had settled over the assembled townspeople. Brook could sense their growing discomfort as they began to review their memories of friends and neighbors through this new lens.
“Why did he stop?”
The question came from a male subject somewhere near the middle of the room.
Heads turned, searching for the source of the interruption.
The mayor shot a disapproving glance in the general direction of the voice, clearly unhappy that the residents had decided it was time to ask questions before she had finished giving her profile.
Several people turned back to her, awaiting her response.
The interruption had created a pivotal point, an opening for the next phase of her presentation that she wouldn’t waste.
“That’s a very good question,” Brook acknowledged with a slight nod.
She stepped away from the podium, moving once again to the side to reduce the distance between herself and the crowd in a calculated gesture of intimacy.
“There are several possibilities. The unsub may have evolved, developing a different methodology that hasn't been connected to his earlier crimes. He might have died, which we do not believe to be the case. Or he could have become physically incapable of continuing his pattern.”
The mention of physical incapability sent another ripple through the crowd. Whispers broke out immediately, and Brook caught Henry Quinn's name being passed through the audience like a wave.
She waited for the murmurs to subside, deliberately not addressing the unspoken accusation that had just spread throughout the room.
“Another possibility is that he's serving time for an unrelated offense.” Brook met Figg’s stare.
“Many serial offenders are ultimately apprehended for lesser crimes—traffic violations, theft, fraud—rather than their more serious transgressions.
However, based on our ongoing investigation and analysis, we don't believe that the unsub died, became disabled, or is currently incarcerated.”
Brook paused, ensuring her next statement would land with maximum impact.
“We believe that he is here in Harrowick. Living among you. Perhaps even in this room tonight.”
Bodies tensed in chairs. Eyes darted to neighbors, friends, family members. A woman in the back row pressed her hand to her mouth. An older man near the front straightened his spine defensively. The collective intake of breaths was audible in the momentary silence that followed.
As her gaze swept across the room again, Brook noticed Brian Moore whisper something to his wife, pulling her closer to his side.
Again, something in the gesture—its possessiveness, its timing—caused her to falter momentarily.
A fragment of information clicked into place in her mind, but she couldn't fully process it while maintaining her presentation.
She refocused quickly, barely missing a beat.
“Our investigation has led us to believe that the woman who inspired this man to kill was Loretta Whitlow.”
Almost every single individual in the church hall turned toward Figg Whitlow, whose expression had shifted to rage. Brook had anticipated his outburst, and he didn’t disappoint.
“Bullshit!” Figg shouted, rising from his seat with such force that his chair scraped loudly against the floor. “This is complete bullshit! You don’t get to drag my mother into this. She was a good woman.”
Brook maintained her composure, waiting for his outburst to run its course.
“Mr. Whitlow, I don't doubt that your mother was a good woman,” Brook said calmly once his initial eruption had subsided.
“From my understanding, your mother was kind, generous, and dedicated to her students. She taught with passion and genuinely cared about helping everyone succeed, regardless of their background or circumstances.”
Figg remained standing, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, but he didn't interrupt again. The tension in his shoulders suggested he was barely containing himself, though.
“Your mother's positive influence on this community is precisely why she made such an impact on the unsub,” Brook continued. “We've learned that Loretta often wore silk scarves as part of her professional wardrobe. They became something of a signature accessory for her.”
Principal Watkins nodded almost imperceptibly, confirming this detail without seeming aware he was doing so. Brook caught the movement from the corner of her eye, but she didn't acknowledge it.
“We believe that on a specific day meaningful to the unsub, Loretta wore a yellow silk scarf. Perhaps it was new. While wearing it, she either helped someone or spoke to someone who misinterpreted her kindness.” Brook began to meet several gazes.
“For this individual, that interaction became significant. It was a special moment when he felt truly seen or understood by someone he admired. And when she died, that yellow scarf became the symbol he used to preserve her memory and influence in a horrifically distorted way.”
Several people began discussing Loretta Whitlow, trying to recall a time when she had worn a yellow silk scarf.
Brook now needed to deliver what the team discovered late last night during a phone conversation with Clyde Weaver.
She met his gaze, and he was no longer slouched with his ankles crossed.
He was sitting up straight, listening to her intently.
“These women were selected because they reminded the unsub of Loretta in some way. Not physically, but through their artistic talents and nurturing qualities. You see, Loretta loved to sketch. Doodle, as she called it.” Brook’s comment had Figg slowly reclaiming his chair.
Not in acceptance, but rather to mull over why Brook believed his mother was significant to this investigation.
“Her son would sometimes take those doodles and turn them into tattoos. Sometimes on himself, and sometimes on others. Her work lived on, but the unsub? That scarf was to him what those tattoos were to her son. The yellow scarf served as both a tribute and a symbolic transformation that could never leave him, as Loretta had by dying.”
Brian Moore tightened his hold on Jillian again. She turned her face toward him, seeking comfort in his embrace. The gesture triggered Brook's earlier thought about the profile missing a crucial piece that could reveal the identity of the unsub.
And suddenly, it came to her in sharp focus.
The unsub hadn’t stopped due to imprisonment or some physical ailment.
He’d stopped killing because he'd found another way to preserve Loretta's memory—through marriage.
He had sought out a woman who embodied the qualities he associated with Loretta, creating a living memorial rather than a dead one.
“These victims and their families deserve closure,” Brook said, not missing a beat.
The spike of adrenaline began to subside, and in its place was concern over how this evening would end.
“If you think of anything, no matter how insignificant it might seem, please speak with a member of my team or me. All conversations will be kept confidential.”
As she regarded the assembled residents, she intentionally locked gazes with a man sitting one row behind the Moores. In that moment of connection, something passed between them.
A silent acknowledgment.
The man’s expression didn't change, his body didn't tense, but his eyes held hers with a calm certainty that confirmed her suspicions.
He knew that she knew.
Brook maintained their bond for exactly three seconds.
Not long enough to alert Theo to her focus, but long enough to establish that this was no random eye contact.
Then she deliberately averted her gaze, turning her attention to the mayor with a nod that indicated she had finished her presentation.
As the mayor rushed to the podium to reclaim control of the meeting, Brook stepped back, arranging her thoughts with the implications of what was about to take place. By giving her profile publicly, she had accomplished exactly what she'd intended…revealing the killer’s identity.