16. Maverick
MAVERICK
WASTELAND
“Where are we at with the DNA results from Clara’s forensic exam and Catherine Bennett? Have they come back yet?”
“Came back this morning, boss,” Jesse says hesitantly, likely remembering that my temper has been like a loose cannon since I came back from the hospital.
“The DNA from Catherine’s autopsy is the same DNA profile as the sample taken from Clara’s exam.
They also came back as a perfect match to the other victims when I ran them through CODIS. ”
God fucking damn it. I knew it. The one time I wish my gut instinct was off, it’s not.
I dip my chin in a nod, attempting to control my expression even though I’m raging inside.
I clear my throat and focus on the facts.
“So our perp buried Catherine’s body in Rollins Orchard roughly five weeks ago, then buried Clara three weeks later.
That doesn’t match his MO— he’s never buried two bodies in the same city.
Not unless we missed a slew of vics where the others were found. ”
“I don’t think we did.” Spencer moves to stand in front of the array of victim photos, examining the newest additions before continuing.
“Either he’s closer to Rochester than we thought, and this is his home base, or something was different with Clara.
Maybe he saw her when he scouted Rollins Orchard and couldn’t help himself.
This guy has raped and killed six women across four states; I think he got cocky. ”
I hum in consideration. Something is off with the timeline.
This bastard has driven anywhere from one and a half to four hours to find his victims. He buried them in the same state—often the same city—from where he took them.
Yet, Clara was taken while the soil over Catherine’s grave was still settling.
A heavy weight in my stomach forces me to face the realization that we might’ve been wrong.
We pinned the burial sites to the map and determined Minneapolis was the central point, linking each crime scene back to it.
But what if the center radius isn’t Minneapolis?
What if it’s Rochester? That changes things.
I study the map on the evidence board, tracing each location and the connecting web of strings.
“We have to recreate the map,” I say, though mostly to myself.
“He didn’t drive from Minneapolis; he drove from Rochester. He’s here.”
There’s a brief tap on the conference room’s glass door before Cruz pokes his head in. “Chief wants a press con tomorrow morning.”
My head snaps up. “Come again? ”
“Press conference, man,” Cruz repeats as he meanders to a chair and sits down. “The task force press release was sent out, but there’s an embargo until 8:30 tomorrow morning. Chief said he wants to get ahead of it and do a conference.”
Fuck me. I hate press conferences. Clara’s face immediately fills my mind, and I’m not sure how she’ll respond to it.
She’s the only survivor—the only one who managed to make it out alive before suffocating to death six feet below the earth.
A press conference has the potential to reveal her identity and upend her life even more.
“And he wants us all there,” Cruz adds. “The entire task force.”
“Shit.” I scrub a hand down my face and sigh wearily. “Okay. Let’s go over the evidence from the Silver Lake crime scene.” I shift my attention to Evie and Riley who are sitting across from me.
“We found four holes near the grave, identical to the other crime scenes,” Evie says, picking up the conversation. “No footprints.”
“The grave was in a semi-public area of the park. It was off the trail, just beyond the woods. Given the season, the trees weren’t dense—he would’ve been seen by runners during the day,” Riley chimes in.
“Six feet is a lot for one man to dig by himself. We’re guessing he started digging at night.
It likely took him a couple of nights to dig deep enough.
There were two mounds of shrubbery and branches that were out of place.
I would bet he used one to cover the hole and the other to camouflage the dirt pile. ”
“He took a risk burying Clara without the cover of midnight. How was he not seen filling the grave? She couldn’t have been buried for long by the time Juno heard her, and there were runners off in the distance. They would’ve passed that area.”
“You would think anyone on the trail would’ve noticed a man with a shovel, even out of the corner of their eye,” Cruz remarks.
“But, you have some people who aren’t as aware of their surroundings as they should be when they’re out running.
They likely wouldn’t have been paying attention to anything that wasn’t directly on the trail and in their way. ”
“True.”
It was pure happenstance that Silver Lake Park was the place I chose to release some tension.
And blind fucking luck that Juno, with his keen hearing and training, heard Clara’s screams from six feet underground and a hundred yards away.
It was simply a matter of time and place that distinguished life or death.
The idea that she might not have been found if I hadn't been at the right place at the right time is enough to make my blood run cold. I retrieve my phone from the table and send her a quick text to check in.
I haven’t seen Clara since I brought her home from the hospital.
That was six days ago. There hasn’t been a day I haven’t wanted to stop by or call to hear her voice, but I wanted to give her space.
So in lieu of unexpected visits and phone calls, I send texts.
She always responds, but they’re short and distant. I don’t like it.
“The rental car came back clean.” Spencer flips through a report prepared by the Evidence Response Team. “Either the rental company has some real good detailers or Samson wiped it before he returned it. It was pristine.”
“Evie and I also ran through it with a fine tooth comb. Not a single speck of trace evidence,” Jesse adds.
At this point, we might as well run a list of all the things we do have on this bastard. It’d be a hell of a lot shorter.
“Also,” Arlo straightens before turning his laptop toward me. “We ran the forensic sketch through the database. No hit to any mugshots or photos. I’m ten thousand percent positive Samson Smith is an alias.”
“Dude sounds like an alias,” Jesse comments with a wiry grin.
“He’s a fucking bastard.” I think back to Clara’s interview and an intense urge to cut off his hands for daring to touch her fills me. “Which reminds me. If you’re ever in front of Clara, don’t say his name. It’s a trigger.”
“Oh, I already heard—don’t you worry.” Cruz rolls his eyes and shoots me a look. “Tamara called and ripped me a new one for waiting so long to tell her about Clara. And she told me to never bring his name up if I wanted to keep my tongue. She’s a violent one.”
“Better stay on her good side, then.”
Cruz laughs as his phone pings with a notification, drawing his attention. He scans the message quickly before looking at me. “Had a few officers do a sweep of the warehouse district. We haven’t found anything yet, but they only canvassed maybe twenty-five percent of the place.”
“We can help with the sweep. Start on the opposite end of the district.”
“That’ll get it done faster. When? ”
“After the press conference tomorrow? Gives us time to prepare, and I can call in a couple of other teams.”
My gut is telling me that fucking warehouse is somewhere in the district.
What a fucking day.
The press conference this morning turned into a media frenzy.
It was a packed house; the floor completely full of reporters.
Hell, even the mayor showed up and made a statement about the safety of Rochester’s residents.
Rochester isn’t a sleepy town that hasn’t seen violent crimes in decades, but the idea that someone is abducting women and burying them alive in their own city makes the fear spread like wildfire.
And to add onto an already chaotic morning, the warehouse sweep was a bust. The entire warehouse district is under construction—it’s been a long standing project—but its overall real estate is vast. Between the Rochester PD and FBI, we were able to search fifteen more warehouses—only a dent in what’s left.
I toss my keys onto the kitchen counter just as Juno rounds the corner and bumps his snout against my leg, demanding a head rub. I oblige. “Hey, boy. Have a good day? We’ll go for a run tomorrow.”
Juno huffs. Ever since we found Clara, I’ve hardly been home. Our daily runs have become practically nonexistent. “Bright and early,” I promise, giving him one more scratch behind the ear before I make my way down the hall toward the bedroom.
Fatigue settles deep in my muscles after too little rest and nonstop movement. It’s days like these where the ache in my shoulder is incessant and unyielding. What I need is a scorching hot shower and a good fifty hours of fucking shut-eye.
I follow the tactical unit into the abandoned barn, moving silently in formation and keeping my weapon poised at the ready.
At night, the outskirts of rural Minnesota are pitch black, and the night vision optics are all that guide our way.
We’re here on a tip—one that suggests our primary suspect is using the barn as a hideout.
Victor Townsend, a prolific serial killer, has been on the run for months.
The FBI has spent years tracking the son of a bitch who has a history of murdering forty-nine women across the upper Midwest.
The air inside the barn is thick with the stench of manure and hay bales, and the barren interior is cast in eerie shades of green. Something isn’t right. The quiet is disconcerting.