CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The usual tranquility of Liberty Meadows Park had been shattered by the flashing lights of police vehicles and the restless energy of a crime scene.
Early morning sunlight filtered through the park’s ancient oaks, casting dappled shadows across the gathering of uniformed officers and yellow tape that marked another life cut short.
As Riley guided her car along the access road, she was dismayed by the sight of news vans parked haphazardly near the northwest entrance.
“News travels fast,” Ann Marie murmured, glaring at the cluster of reporters with their microphones and cameras at the ready, drawn to the scene of tragedy.
Riley nodded grimly. “Third victim. Same MO. The press was bound to catch on eventually.” She pulled into a space currently reserved for law enforcement, killing the engine with a sharp twist of her wrist. They exited the vehicle in unison, badges already in hand as they approached the edge of the park where the collection of journalists had congregated.
A woman in a tailored blazer spotted them first.
“Are you an FBI agent?” she called, stepping directly into Riley’s path.
“Let me by,” Riley replied sharply, moving past her.
But the woman was insistent. “I’m Jennifer Sloane, with Channel 7 News. Can you confirm that this is the work of the same killer responsible for the deaths of Rachel Bennett and Brittany Hall?”
Riley kept her face neutral, moving on without acknowledging the question. Ann Marie stayed close beside her, their shoulders nearly touching as they navigated through the press of bodies.
“Is it true that all victims were found with origami figures?” another voice shouted, a microphone suddenly thrust toward Riley’s face. “Does the FBI believe these are serial killings?”
The questions continued, a barrage of speculation and demand that Riley had learned long ago to filter into background noise. She walked steadily ahead, refusing to provide the sound bites they craved.
Their progress was nearly halted when a burly cameraman stepped directly into their path, his lens trained on Riley’s face.
She felt her muscles tense, the familiar flare of irritation rising in her chest. Before she could speak, Ann Marie placed a gentle hand on the camera, firmly redirecting it away from them.
“The FBI has no comment at this time,” the younger agent stated clearly, her tone polite but leaving no room for negotiation. “Please respect the integrity of this investigation.”
The momentary distraction was enough for Riley to sidestep the remaining journalists, ducking under the police tape. Ann Marie followed, and they both exhaled slightly once they crossed that threshold into the controlled environment of the crime scene.
Detective Brookman stood several yards ahead, deep in conversation with a uniformed officer.
His shoulders were hunched, his expression pinched with the particular strain of a case gaining unwanted publicity.
When he spotted Riley and Ann Marie, he excused himself from the conversation and strode toward them.
“You made it through the sharks,” he observed, nodding toward the reporters hovering at the perimeter. “They showed up about twenty minutes ago. Someone at dispatch must have tipped them off.”
“What do we know?” Riley asked, focusing on the reason they were standing in a park so early in the morning.
Brookman gestured toward a massive oak tree where several figures in ME jackets were clustered around what Riley presumed was their victim. “Patricia Walsh, thirty-four, paralegal at Haddon and Mills. Body was discovered at approximately 6:30 this morning by a local resident walking her dog.”
“Not Mae Simmons,” Riley remarked. The killer had left alone the woman they’d gone to so much trouble to keep safe, claiming instead a victim they’d failed to predict.
“Same cause of death?” Ann Marie asked.
“Medical examiner hasn’t confirmed officially, but preliminary observation suggests yes—puncture mark consistent with injection, no signs of struggle, victim positioned as if resting.” Brookman’s voice dropped slightly. “And there’s an origami piece, just like the others. A swan this time.”
“Three now,” Riley muttered. Three victims, each killed the same way, each left with a paper creation that seemed to mock the fragility of the lives that had been taken.
“The woman who found her is still here,” Brookman continued, turning to point toward a park bench situated a respectful distance from the crime scene but still roped off, away from reporters.
“Margaret Brogden, retired elementary school teacher. Lives a couple blocks away. She’s been cooperative, but understandably shaken. ”
Riley followed his gaze to where an elderly woman sat with a small terrier-mix at her feet.
Despite the shock of what she’d witnessed, Mrs. Brogden maintained a certain composure—back straight, hands folded in her lap, eyes alert.
She looked like the kind of witness who would observe details others might miss.
“Ann Marie, would you...” Riley began, but her partner was already nodding, understanding the request without needing it completed.
“I’ll speak with her,” Ann Marie confirmed, her natural empathy and her skills making her the ideal person for the task. They headed toward the bench together.
Margaret Brogden looked up at their approach, her eyes reflecting a lifetime of assessing strangers—a teacher’s skill that never quite faded.
“Mrs. Brogden,” Riley began, her voice gentler than the professional clipped tone she’d used with Brookman. “I’m Special Agent Riley Paige with the FBI, and this is my colleague, Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer. We understand you’ve had a very difficult morning.”
The woman nodded, one hand absently stroking the dog’s head. “I’ve answered a number of questions already,” she said, her voice steadier than Riley had expected. “But I’m happy to go through it again if it helps.”
Riley glanced at the uniformed officer standing nearby—a young woman with kind eyes who had clearly been tasked with keeping the witness comfortable. A paper cup of coffee sat beside Mrs. Brogden, steam still rising from its surface.
“I’ll leave you in Agent Esmer’s capable hands,” Riley said. “She’ll walk you through everything.”
As Riley turned toward the cluster of medical examiners, she heard Ann Marie’s voice behind her—warm, gentle, the perfect tone to coax details from a traumatized witness without adding to her distress.
“Mrs. Brogden, would you mind telling me about your morning routine? You walk your dog here regularly?”
Riley returned to the oak tree where Patricia Walsh’s life had ended. The medical examiners parted slightly at her approach, allowing her a clear view.
Patricia Walsh sat with her back against the massive trunk of the oak, her position so natural that, in different circumstances, one might have mistaken her for someone taking a peaceful moment of solitude. Her dark hair framed a face that death had rendered serene, eyes closed as if in meditation.
She wore running shoes and casual jogging attire.
Most striking, however, were her hands—positioned in her lap, cradling a pristine origami swan.
The paper gleamed white in the morning light, its folds precise and deliberate, its neck curved in an elegant arc that seemed to mock the stillness of the woman who held it.
“Dr. Wexler,” Riley addressed the lead medical examiner, a woman in her fifties with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. “What can you tell me?”
Dr. Wexler straightened, removing her latex gloves.
“Preliminary examination suggests the same cause of death as your previous victims, Agent Paige. There’s a puncture mark on the upper arm consistent with injection.
Based on body temperature and rigor mortis, I’d place time of death between 10 p.m. and midnight last night. ”
Riley nodded, absorbing the information while her eyes remained fixed on Patricia Walsh’s face. Something about the positioning, the careful arrangement of the victim, held her attention. This wasn’t just a killing; it was a display, a message written in the language of death.
“Has she been moved?” Riley asked, though she already knew the answer.
“Like the others, the body was probably repositioned post-mortem,” Dr. Wexler confirmed. “This is how the killer left her.”
Riley knelt beside the victim, close enough to see the delicate tracery of veins beneath the waxy pallor of her skin. A faint scent lingered—not decomposition, not yet, but the subtle absence of life, like a room just vacated.
“She’s wearing a fitness tracker,” Riley observed, indicating the black bracelet. “Be sure we get whatever that has recorded.”
“I’ll have it checked out,” the M.E. agreed.
“The swan,” Riley murmured, looking closely at the origami sculpture. “It’s different from the others.”
“How so?” Dr. Wexler asked, crouching beside her.
“The first victim had a fan with a written warning not to unfold it. The second had a crane that disintegrated when touched.” Riley’s voice dropped lower, her focus narrowing to the pristine paper creation. “Each figure has become more complex, more sophisticated, and somewhat … inconsistent.”
As Riley studied the swan, something shifted within her—that indefinable awareness that her colleagues whispered about, that critics dismissed as luck or coincidence.
She felt a whisper of connection to the mind that had crafted this scene, a fleeting glimpse into the purpose behind the precisely positioned body and carefully folded paper.
This killer wasn’t just taking lives; they were creating moments frozen in time, tableaus meant to be discovered and interpreted.
“Succinylcholine confirmed in the preliminary toxicology,” Dr. Wexler said, consulting a digital tablet one of her assistants handed her. “Same as Bennett and Hall. Paralyzed her respiratory system but left her conscious until death.”
Riley closed her eyes briefly, imagining the terror of Patricia Walsh’s final moments—fully aware but unable to move, unable to call for help, unable even to draw breath as her consciousness slowly faded. The cruelty of such a death …
When she opened her eyes again, they fixed on the swan. Without speaking, she reached into her pocket and withdrew a pair of latex gloves, sliding them on. Brookman, who had been conversing with another officer nearby, noticed her movement and approached quickly.
“What are you doing, Agent Paige?” His question carried a note of caution.
“I need to examine the swan,” Riley replied, her decision already made.
Brookman stepped closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “We should wait for forensics. If it’s like the crane from Bennett’s scene, it’s been treated with some kind of acrylic that makes it fragile. One wrong touch and it disintegrates, along with whatever message it might contain.”
Riley remained still, her gaze fixed on the paper creation. “That’s exactly what the killer wants us to believe,” she said softly. “That each figure contains a message we can’t access without destroying it. But I don’t think that’s what it’s about this time.”
“And you’re willing to risk losing evidence on a hunch?” Brookman’s skepticism was strong.
Ann Marie approached, having concluded her initial interview with Mrs. Brogden. She sensed the tension immediately, her gaze moving between Riley and the detective.
“What’s happening?” she asked quietly.
“Agent Paige wants to handle potential evidence without proper forensic protocol,” Brookman said, his frustration evident.
Riley ignored him, her focus narrowing to the swan.
As she leaned closer, something in the quality of the paper held her attention.
The one that disintegrated had a slightly roughened surface that spoke of chemical treatment.
This swan, though just as precisely folded, looked different—the paper smoother, more supple.
The three origami pieces were not made exactly the same way. Why would the killer do that? The first had contained a warning about the second, and the second has crumbled when unfolded. But this was the third…
“It hasn’t been treated,” Riley said with sudden certainty.
“You can’t possibly know that,” Brookman objected.
Riley reached forward, her gloved fingers hovering just above the swan.
“The killer’s tactics are evolving. The first figure contained a warning not to unfold it.
The second disintegrated when handled, reinforcing that warning.
But this...” She gestured to the swan. “This is meant to be unfolded. The message isn’t in the destruction this time; it’s in what’s written inside. ”
“Riley,” Ann Marie’s voice carried concern rather than objection. “Are you sure about this?”
Without answering, Riley carefully lifted the swan from Patricia Walsh’s hands.
The paper actually felt slightly flexible.
She felt the edge of one wing bend very slightly, suggesting that the paper hasn’t been treated at all.
She turned it gently, examining each fold, the deliberate crafting of wing and neck and tail.
“I’m going to unfold it,” she announced, her decision made.
“Agent Paige, I must strongly object,” Brookman’s voice rose in frustration. “This is a breach of protocol. If you destroy potential evidence—”
“If I’m wrong, I’ll take full responsibility,” Riley interrupted, already working at the first fold of the swan’s wing.
The paper yielded beneath her touch, confirming her suspicion.
There was none of the brittle resistance she would have expected from a treated surface, none of the threatening crackling that had preceded the crane’s disintegration.
Instead, the swan was transforming back into a flat sheet smoothly, without protest.
Riley was vaguely aware of Brookman’s continued objections, of Ann Marie’s tense silence, of the ME team watching with professional interest. But her focus remained on the paper as it gradually revealed its secret—dark ink becoming visible as the final folds were carefully undone.
Five words, written in the same precise hand as the first message, now lay exposed on the pristine white paper:
“You don’t know, do you?”