CHAPTER TWELVE
Marcus pushed open the door to the temporary office, juggling two coffees and the sense that he’d aged ten years since leaving his motel bed this morning. He was ready for Kate to still be in full forensic-fury mode — pacing, muttering, stabbing crime-scene photos with a pen.
Instead he found her standing over the folding table, eyes crackling with a kind of fevered brightness he recognized of old.
“Oh boy,” he said. “That’s your I found something and you’re not going to like it face.”
Kate didn’t look up. “Close.”
She turned the laptop toward him.
Marcus set the coffees down, leaned in, and made a low noise in his throat. “Well. That’s a headshot that says ‘I keep my victims in alphabetized folders.’”
The website was professionally cheap — serif fonts masquerading as gravitas, soft-focus stock photos of clasped hands, an off-white background that aspired to purity and landed somewhere near dental brochure.
At the top:
DR. NATHAN WEBB
Family Reconciliation Specialist
“Bringing Blood Back to Blood.”
“Poppy found him. God knows when that child sleeps. She was scraping for outliers. Forums. Fanatics. People who treat ‘parental duty’ like it’s a religion. Webb popped up three times in one hour.”
“Oh good,” Marcus muttered. “A repeat offender.”
“Literally.” She clicked to the next tab: a court record snapshot. “Two historic convictions for assault. And—”
“Let me guess,” Marcus said. “Couple of lawsuits so spicy the lawyers needed Kevlar?”
She nodded. “Two open civil suits. Both alleging he used ‘coercive physical intimidation’ trying to force adult children to reconcile with estranged parents.”
Marcus gave a low whistle. “So he’s a relationship therapist who beats people until they feel closer to their moms.”
“That’s the gist.”
She clicked again, this time to the blog.
Marcus leaned closer. “Oh hell. That font alone is a hate crime.”
The posts were long, dense, indignant. Paragraphs of biblical posturing mixed with strange pseudo-psychology. Phrases jumped out like claws:
“Loyalty to blood is the first covenant.”
“Unfilial behaviour is societal rot.”
“Neglect of elders should bear real consequences.”
“There must be penalties.”
Marcus exhaled slowly. “Okay. So. He’s angry, judgmental, and badly read. But lots of people are those things. Doesn’t make them murderers.”
Kate’s fingers tapped a staccato rhythm against the laptop casing. “Webb lives in South Boston. Easy reach of both victims.”
Marcus’s eyebrows lifted. “Well, that narrows the pool.”
“And he’s been posting more frequently,” Kate continued, “but with sharper language. More apocalyptic. More punitive.” She clicked one more time, showing a recent entry titled:
THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT IS NOT OPTIONAL.
“Oh for—” Marcus rubbed a hand down his face. “Do these people not realize how obvious they sound?”
“He mentions ‘those who cast off their parents in pride’,” Kate said. “Calls them ‘idolaters of self.’ There’s a whole paragraph about children who avoid their parents’ deathbeds.”
That landed between them like a dropped blade.
Marcus swallowed. “Hayes and Garrett did exactly that. Well, it’s rumored about Garrett, but…”
Kate nodded.
“Jesus,” Marcus murmured. “Okay. Okay. He’s a solid lead. Very solid. Poppy say anything else?”
“That she’s still digging.” Kate reached for her coat. “And that we shouldn’t wait.”
Marcus looked at his watch. “Lunchtime. Let’s go.”
She grabbed her badge, clipped it to her belt.
Marcus stood, grabbed his coat, then something struck him. “You check the overnights?”
“I’ve been checking hourly since six a.m. Thus far, there has been no third victim.”
“You think he might stop at two?”
“I live in hope,” Kate said. “As well as doubt.”
Marcus followed her out, the fluorescent lights humming overhead like a warning neither of them wanted to hear.
*
The Bureau sedan cut through midday traffic, sunlight flashing off the windshield in hard, white jolts.
Boston in mid-May was in that brief, deceptive window of warmth and clarity—trees full, shadows crisp, the air bright enough to hide darker things.
The chilly harbour breeze funneled inland, rattling flags and sending small eddies of pollen skittering across the road.
Kate sat angled toward the passenger window, one hand to her temple as she pieced her thoughts aloud.
“So the heraldic expert—Dr. Lasker—finally called me back,” she said. “She was cool.”
Marcus snorted. “Says one former academic of another.”
Kate ignored him. “The painting references a mediaeval knight who went off to the Crusades and abandoned his mother in the process.”
Marcus blew out a low breath. “Continuing the theme, huh?”
“And they’ve each got a tiny crow on them. A micro-crow. The two paintings, not the drawing.”
“I didn’t see that.”
"No one did. It's about two millimeters in height, in the bottom left corner, where an artist would normally put a signature. Laser-printed onto the canvas, I’m thinking, perhaps from an original painting by our murderous artist.”
“Someone called Crow?”
“Could be. But according to Dr Lasker, crows mean something in painting and heraldic symbology. Loss, grief, bereavement. I’m think the killer might have direct experience of loss; it could even be the founding event.
But there’s something in the crow’s beak.
Like a twig or a plant. Lasker couldn’t identify it.
I’ve got a feeling it could be important, but so far I’m drawing a blank.
I don’t think even Poppy can help with my micro-crows. ”
He hesitated, then said, “You’ll get there. Dehan wasn’t exactly full of surprises.”
Kate turned. “What did he tell you?”
Marcus shook his head, jaw tensing. “Garrett abandoned his father. Loudly. Proudly. The old man needed investment to save his contracting firm, and Garrett practically held a press conference saying he was done with him, contributing to the old man’s early demise.
You’d think that kind of thing would be ruinous for business, but, hey, in the world of commercial real estate… ”
“It’s almost a badge of honor,” Kate finished the thought for him. “So the killer sees them both as sinners in the same catechism.”
“Exactly.”
The waterfront complex came into view—glass, clean lines, the sort of place that charged extra for proximity to sunlight. Boats glimmered on the harbour below, their wakes slicing the water into mirrored shards.
Marcus pulled up to the entry bay, the midday light bouncing off the chrome trim. Inside, the lobby was cool, over-air-conditioned, and smelled faintly of citrus cleaner. The concierge snapped upright as soon as their badges flashed.
“We’re looking for Dr. Nathan Webb,” Kate said.
The man’s throat bobbed. “He—ah—left about an hour ago.”
“Where was he going?”
The man shrugged. “He got in a taxi. Had a small bag with him. Not like his usual work case. Kinda… travel-ish.”
Marcus already had his radio out. “Control, this is SA Reid. Issue an APB for Nathan Webb, male, fifty-two, last seen leaving Harborline Residences approximately 11:20 a.m., in a taxi. Possibly fleeing jurisdiction.”
Kate leaned in toward the concierge, lowering her voice just enough. “We need to see his apartment. Now.”
“I—I really can’t allow that without a warrant.”
Kate held his gaze. “Listen carefully. If someone is planning to harm another person, you are legally permitted to grant law enforcement access in good faith. You’ll be protected. If you refuse and someone dies, that won’t sit well with Internal Affairs. Or with you.”
A beat.
The concierge swallowed, pressed a keycard to the secure panel, and murmured, “Sixteenth floor. Elevator two.”
As the lift carried them upward, Marcus murmured, “You know that wasn’t quite a threat, but it wasn’t not one either.”
“It was encouragement.”
“Uh-huh.”
The doors opened on a carpeted hallway that smelled faintly of new paint. Webb’s door clicked open after a moment of keycard coaxing.
Inside—disorder.
Not violent. Not ransacked. But rushed. Intentional haste hanging in the air like static.
Drawers half-open. Closet disgorged. The small safe in the bedroom wall stood open and empty, the LED still blinking red from a forced shutdown. Shirts lay in piles as though he’d rummaged for a favourite and given up halfway.
“Packed in a hurry,” Marcus murmured.
“Or fled.”
Kate moved to the bookcase. The spines were telling: treatises on parental estrangement, philosophical tracts on duty and piety, and—more unsettlingly—true-crime case studies. Serial killer psychologies. Ritual offenders. Historical penance structures.
“This is not a healthy syllabus,” Marcus added from behind her.
On the desk, a framed certification photo caught Kate’s eye. Webb, heavier than in his website portrait—broad-shouldered, thick-necked, his smile stretched too tight. The kind of build they’d seen on the CCTV from two other crime scenes.
Marcus jostled the computer mouse. The screen woke.
A row of open tabs.
Online supermarket.
Facebook messages.
Ebay searches for art supplies
A map of Paris.
Flight aggregator.
“Come on,” Marcus muttered, clicking through.
The last tab loaded slowly—then resolved into an airline confirmation page.
Boston Logan → Paris Charles de Gaulle
Departure: 14:45
Boarding: 14:00
Passenger: NATHAN THOMAS WEBB
Kate checked her watch: 13:36.
“Shit,” she said, breath tightening. “He’s going to Logan.”
Marcus was already on the radio again. “Control, upgrade APB to urgent. Suspect is attempting international flight. Repeat: international flight. Notify TSA and airport PD—hold all outbound access for Webb. Send his picture to every gate.”
Kate snapped the monitor off and headed for the door.
Marcus jogged after her. “Traffic’s going to be a nightmare.”
“Then we’ll make it worse,” Kate said.
May sunlight poured through the hallway windows as they ran, hot and bright and oblivious.
They didn’t have an hour.
They barely had half that.
Webb was already on his way to the airport.
And they were going to have to catch him before he vanished above the Atlantic.