CHAPTER TWENTY
Elaine Cooper’s colonial home sat nestled among mature oak trees, its well-maintained exterior speaking of both pride and practicality.
As Riley guided the car onto the paved driveway, she immediately spotted Elaine herself—kneeling in her garden, silver hair gathered in a practical bun, hands buried in the rich soil between rows of late-season vegetables.
“Just as her message suggested,” Ann Marie observed as she parked the vehicle. “She’s been out here gardening.”
Despite the urgency of their visit, Riley felt a moment of hesitation at interrupting the tranquil scene.
But the two agents got out of their car and followed the flagstone path that curved through a front yard more abundant with herbs and vegetables than decorative plants.
Elaine looked up at their approach, shading her eyes against the late afternoon sun.
Riley saw that Elaine hadn’t changed much in the decades since she’d first seen her command a room of eager trainees—still tall and straight-backed even as she approached seventy, still radiating that particular blend of intelligence and warmth that had made her such an effective teacher.
Recognition flickered across Elaine’s features, followed by a smile that erased years from her face.
“Riley Paige,” she said, rising from her knees with a grace that belied her age.
She pulled off gardening gloves, revealing hands strong and nimble from decades of both forensic work and practical hobbies.
“This is an unexpected pleasure.” Her keen blue eyes shifted to Ann Marie, curiosity evident but not unwelcoming.
“Elaine,” Riley returned the smile, though hers felt tight with the tension she carried. “I’m sorry to drop by unannounced. I tried calling, but—”
“Left my phone inside,” Elaine finished, gesturing toward the house. “One of the benefits of retirement—I can ignore technology whenever I please.” Her gaze sharpened, reading the urgency in Riley’s posture. “But I suspect this isn’t a social call.”
“No,” Riley confirmed. “This is my partner, Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer. We’re here about a case. A series of murders in DC.”
Elaine’s smile faded. She nodded toward a canvas bag full of freshly harvested tomatoes, bell peppers, and what appeared to summer zucchini.
“Let me wash up, and we’ll talk inside. Would you mind bringing that in? I was just finishing up.”
Ann Marie stepped forward, lifting the bag. “Happy to help, ma’am.”
“Elaine, please,” the older woman corrected gently. “Only judges and drill sergeants are ‘ma’am’ in my book.”
She led them up three wooden steps to a wraparound porch dotted with comfortable rocking chairs and potted herbs.
The front door opened into a welcoming living room where bookshelves lined every available wall, interrupted only by windows and artwork—mostly landscapes and botanical studies.
The space reflected its owner: orderly but not rigid, intellectual but not sterile.
“Through to the kitchen,” Elaine directed, already rolling up her sleeves at a utility sink in a small mudroom. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll just be a moment.”
Ann Marie carried the vegetables to the kitchen counter while Riley took in the space.
Like the rest of the house, Elaine’s kitchen balanced function and comfort—professional-grade appliances alongside handmade pottery and well-worn cookbooks.
A large wooden table occupied the center of the room, its surface bearing the marks of decades of use.
“Tea?” Elaine called from the mudroom, over the sound of running water.
“That would be great,” Riley answered, settling into one of the chairs at the table. Ann Marie joined her, eyes still taking in the details of the home.
Elaine appeared moments later, hands clean, her gardening apron exchanged for a simple cardigan. She moved efficiently around the kitchen, filling a kettle and setting it on the stove, then retrieving a wooden box of tea bags and three mugs.
“Now,” she said, turning to face them fully, “tell me about these murders.”
Riley met Elaine’s direct gaze. “Three victims in the past week. All women, all killed the same way—injected with succinylcholine, which paralyzed them but left them conscious until death. Each body was carefully positioned, staged to look peaceful, almost meditative.” She paused.
“And each one was left holding an origami figure.”
Elaine’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Origami? That’s... distinctive.”
“That’s not even the most distinctive part,” Riley continued as the kettle began to whistle. “Each origami piece contained a message or a challenge for investigators.”
Elaine turned to remove the kettle, pouring steaming water into a teapot. She brought the pot and mugs to the table, then sat across from Riley and Ann Marie. “Tell me about these messages,” she said, her voice taking on the analytical tone Riley remembered from her lectures.
Riley withdrew her phone, pulling up the crime scene photos Brookman had forwarded. “The first victim, Brittany Hall, was found holding an origami fan. When unfolded, it contained a written warning: ‘Do not unfold.’“ She passed the phone to Elaine, who studied that image.
“The second victim, Rachel Bennett, had an origami crane,” Riley continued as Elaine swiped to the next photo.
“Following the warning from the first scene, we tried to preserve it intact. But when forensics eventually attempted to unfold it, the paper disintegrated immediately—it had been treated with some kind of solution that made it extremely fragile.”
Elaine looked up from the phone. “So the killer created a no-win scenario for investigators—ignore the potential message inside, or destroy it by trying to access it.” She nodded slightly. “Clever. Manipulative.”
“Exactly,” Ann Marie confirmed. “It forces investigators to make an impossible choice.”
“The third victim was found just this morning,” Riley said as Elaine poured the tea into three mugs. “Patricia Walsh. She was holding an origami swan. This time, I made the decision to unfold it, believing the pattern had shifted.”
“And had it?” Elaine asked, pushing a mug toward each of them.
Riley nodded. “The swan wasn’t treated. It unfolded normally, revealing a message: ‘You don’t know, do you?’“
“A taunt,” Elaine observed, wrapping her hands around her own mug.
“The killer is clearly playing games, setting up scenarios where investigators must choose between following protocol and following instinct.” She took a thoughtful sip of her tea.
“Your killer almost certainly has law enforcement background.”
“That’s my assessment as well,” Riley agreed, pleased to have her own instincts confirmed by someone she deeply respected. “The crime scenes are too deliberate, too knowledgeable about evidence procedures. They understand exactly how to create dilemmas for investigators.”
Elaine studied Riley over the rim of her mug. “While this is fascinating—and disturbing—I’m still not clear on why you’ve come to me, specifically. Surely the Bureau has plenty of profilers and consultants available.”
Riley set down her tea, the moment of truth approaching. “Because the killer sent me a message, Elaine. One that references you directly.”
Ann Marie withdrew her own phone, displaying the image that had been texted to Brookman. “This was sent to Detective Brookman this afternoon, specifically addressed to Riley.”
Elaine’s eyes widened as she took in the Chinese finger trap, recognition immediate. “I see,” she said softly.
“You used this as a teaching tool,” Riley explained, though Elaine clearly needed no reminder. “In your ethics seminar back in 2000. I was there as a new trainee. You passed it around the room, had us all try it, then explained how it was a metaphor for certain law enforcement dilemmas.”
“Yes,” Elaine confirmed, her expression growing distant with memory.
“The counterintuitive solution—that sometimes you must move toward a problem rather than pull away from it.” She focused again on Riley.
“And our killer referenced this particular lesson? One from more than twenty years ago? I mean, I have used that teaching tool in other situations, too.”
“Of course,” Riley said. “Which means they either attended a seminar themselves, or at least they’re intimately familiar with your teaching methods.”
Elaine set down her mug carefully, her movements deliberate.
“I taught that seminar repeatedly over nearly fifteen years, Riley. Hundreds of law enforcement professionals would have encountered that particular metaphor.” She frowned.
“Though I admit, the specific reference to you does suggest a more personal connection.”
“That’s what concerns me,” Riley admitted. “The message was addressed to me. The killer knew I’d make this connection to you, and that suggests the one particular presentation.”
Elaine rose from her chair, moving to the kitchen window. She stood there for a moment, looking out at her garden now bathed in the golden light of approaching sunset. When she turned back, her expression was grave.
“These victims,” she said, “was there any connection between them beyond the manner of death?”
Riley nodded. “All three women suffered from impulse control disorders. All three had found relief through origami as a therapeutic practice.”
“And all three were killed with succinylcholine,” Elaine added, almost to herself.
“A paralytic that leaves the victim fully conscious but unable to move or speak.” She returned to the table, her movements measured.
“Your killer isn’t just playing games with investigators, Riley.
They’re making these women experience a particular type of helplessness before death. ”
The insight had already struck Riley with its simple, terrible truth. The choice of poison wasn’t just practical—it was deliberately cruel, forcing the victims to experience complete powerlessness in their final moments.
“There’s something else,” Ann Marie added. “We’ve identified a potential next victim—a woman named Olga Swinson. She runs an origami therapy group at a community center, and she also has an impulse control disorder. Detective Brookman is arranging protection for her now.”
“It’s not just about the victims, though,” Riley said, returning to the central question. “The finger trap message was meant for me, specifically. It’s personal, Elaine. And it’s connected to you.”
Elaine’s blue eyes held Riley’s for a long moment.
Then she reached for Riley’s phone again, swiping through the crime scene photos with renewed focus.
Her expression changed subtly as she studied each image—a slight narrowing of the eyes, a tightening at the corners of her mouth.
Finally, she set the phone down and folded her hands on the table.
“I think I know who your killer might be,” she said quietly.