Chapter 2 Firefly
Firefly
The total number of stars in the universe is greater than all the grains of sand on all the beaches of the planet Earth.
— CARL SAGAN
COLLINS
My life is defined by a before and after.
Before I took my last breath, and him.
We shouldn’t be so fragile that one moment out of the whole of our existence should alter us. But that’s the cruel reality every victim of a crime comes to realize, just how delicately fragile we truly are when caught in the fury of a storm.
I clench my hand until the seashell crumbles. The frail, spiral exoskeleton is reduced to chalky clusters in my palm, and I let the broken pieces drop to the sandy dune.
With a resigned breath, I swipe my hand down my slacks and send a reply text to Laurel. She gets anxious when I don’t check in while working a case. She’s retired now, hasn’t been my psychiatrist in years, yet she has always been more than that to me.
Family.
It was Dr. Laurel Montgomery who pulled the canvas away and breathed new life into my lungs.
She saved me in more ways than one.
I drop my phone into my wool-blend coat, the pressure in my chest eased enough to focus on the crime scene below.
There’s a reason he chooses such vast spaces. Right out in the open, so exposed.
It’s intentional.
Majority of ritualistic offenders select remote locations to discard their victims, like the woods, even though such sites are typically familiar to the perpetrator and can tie them back to the scene.
They still believe there’s a less likely chance of discovery.
The trees give a false sense of security. Secluded. Secret.
The thought provokes the unwanted mental image of dusty green branches and the smell of earth.
But that’s not him. It’s not that he desires an audience; he’s not bragging or unintelligent. He doesn’t want to be caught, despite his choice of a public area. He has his reason, and that reason lies somewhere along this coastline.
I lift my gaze from the victimized remains to stare out over the darkened shore, the night too dense to discern much else other than the blanket of stars dusting a midnight sky.
A pale crescent moon hangs partially obscured by a swipe of hazy clouds.
The roar of crashing waves competes with the harsh wind as it rips through brittle dune grass and sea oats the color of sawdust to toss strands of my loose hair across my face.
The night feels violent.
“Damn, they’re setting up the spotlights already.” FBI Special Agent Zeke Darby moves in beside me, his towering, stocky build blocking the activity of the busy scene.
My gaze still cast on the ocean, I blink to try to keep the horizon in sight, that nearly invisible line where the ocean meets the sky. Like an optical illusion, the longer I stare at that seam, the more it starts to blur, disappear.
Darby’s right. Once the crime-scene analysts turn on those beaming lights, we’ll lose the offender’s perspective, blurring our evaluation like the vanishing horizon.
Anxiety swells in my chest, the urgency to uncover a new piece of the puzzle before it’s lost. The fear that this could be my last chance to find him steals my breath like the next gust of wind across the dunes.
Serial offenders don’t stop killing. They often experience a cooldown period, or they’re incarcerated for other crimes—but he’s different.
He’s searching for something. And I fear once he finds it and his ritual is complete, the trail to him will go completely cold.
“Least his dump sites are always scenic,” Darby comments, glancing around the darkened dunes.
“We’ll make sure to send him a thank-you note for his consideration.” My sarcasm earns a scowl from the agent.
“Fucking smartass.” He shakes his head. “I just meant, we’ve never had to literally sift through a dumpster or landfill. Done that more times than I want to recount.”
A slight smile breaks free despite the grisliness around us, because he’s not wrong. There’s a sort of elegance to the offender’s scenes, a sophistication. It speaks to his confidence, why he leaves his victims on display, unafraid of being caught.
He’s fearless, not reckless.
Sifting through the filth and vileness of a case can make you appreciate a well-thought-out crime, even the artistry in it.
And while art isn’t always beautiful, it is interesting.
The mutilated body lying below in the depression of sand is a prime example. This isn’t just the perpetrator’s dump site.
It’s his kill site.
He works quick, methodical. Each time, faster and more efficient than the last. He’s gotten his ritual down to a meticulous science.
Since the inception of this case, I’ve alleged that location is key, confident his victim selection is tied to the sites as much as the victims themselves.
The first one was discovered buried in the Arizona desert.
The remains so badly charred, fingertips severed, it took the local agency weeks to identify.
Once the media broke the story of the murder victim, he stopped bothering to cover his kills. It wasn’t long before more bodies started turning up across the country, and it took two years to link the cases across states and jurisdictions.
The fact is, he’s not tied to any one area, making it near impossible to predict where he’ll turn up next.
The most recent vic—male, mid-fifties, Caucasian, local resident—was discovered four hours ago by a wildlife conservationist scouting the coastal interdunal swale. I only know this terminology because she repeated it incessantly while berating the Feds for tromping through the habitat.
The body hadn’t even reached full rigor mortis before our plane was touching down in Salisbury.
From there, it was a forty-five-minute ride into the coastal town of Bethany Beach, and then another ten-minute hike toward the Delaware Seashore State Park, where a stretch of barrier island is bounded on one side by the Atlantic and the other by Rehoboth Bay.
Apparently, one of the few places left where one can glimpse a rare Bethany Beach Firefly.
Which brings my thoughts full circle as I drop my hands into my coat pockets and turn toward Darby. “Let’s use the conservationist,” I say.
His thick brows draw together over tapered dark eyes, then he chuckles as he catches on to my scheme. “God, you’re a menace, Hol. Don’t start that dark psychology shit here.”
“I’ve told you, that’s a pseudoscience,” I say, for what feels like the hundredth time. “Not what I do.”
Technically, there are verified studies into the art of dark psychology and its tactics. Manipulation, deception, persuasion, or any application of psychological techniques used for unethical purposes—strategies to exploit and control.
One must know how to recognize such tactics in order to counter them.
“Right, and yet, I don’t hear any denial there,” Darby mocks, but humor softens his eyes. “I wonder how often you’ve used your witchery on me.” His tone deepens to take on a serious note. “You’re going to piss off McCallister if you’re not careful.”
I arch an eyebrow in challenge. “Only if you tell him it was my idea.”
He shakes his head, but the devious grin remains on his tan face. Since we paired up on this case a little less than two years ago, the field agent has been the closest thing to a partner I’ve ever had.
“Her name is Dr. Lancer,” I say to him. “She’s been advocating to get this special firefly put on the endangered species’ list. I’m sure giant spotlights would disturb their natural habitat even more.”
On cue, the wind carries the shrill voice of Dr. Lancer our way as she schools Agent Valdes on the mating habits of the female firefly, or what she calls the femme fatale lightning bug. Interest piqued, I cock my head to absorb a few facts.
With a defeated sound of acceptance, Darby situates the braided leather band around his wrist, then nods. “I’ll handle it. Just don’t do shit else until I get back,” he warns.
I use my index finger to cross my chest.
He frowns. “That’s not even where your heart is located.”
As he sets off, I breathe in the salt air, considering the irony of his words. The truth is, despite claims that I’m somewhat heartless, the location of the hollow organ inside my chest is never far from my thoughts.
If Laurel were here, she’d send me a knowing glance, filled with the tense silence of our very last session before I was accepted into the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program.
I pick up my slim leather briefcase and anchor the strap to my shoulder. Feet shuffling through the loose sand, I track down the dune toward the enclosed crime scene. Caution tape sections off the low-lying depression between sandy ridges.
After I flash my lanyard to the uniformed officer standing guard, I duck under the shiny strip of yellow tape. Two Feds in basic black suits are talking to the chief medical examiner, his occupation made apparent by the tactical khakis and collared shirt emblazoned with the county ME seal.
Having escaped Dr. Lancer, Agent Valdes offers me a slight chin nod in greeting. He was assigned this case out of the BAU last year when the victim count reached double digits.
For reference, there are several departments housed under the FBI National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, or NCAVC. One being the Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU), and another ViCAP.
As a ViCAP crime analyst, I’m assigned cases of a serial nature in order to document in-depth analysis and compile intelligence into Crime Analysis Reports.
Geography, offender profiles, suspect lists, victims—all relevant data is provided to investigators, and also keeps the largest, most comprehensive violent offender database up to date: ViCAP-WEB.
I tuck my lanyard beneath my blazer and remove my tablet before I lower my briefcase to the ground, knowing I’ll be haunted by this sand for weeks, discovering it in every crevice of the leather.