Chapter 1 #2
Lincoln’s old friend stage fright nipped at his heels, but along with it was excitement, bubbling out to his fingers and toes.
The same excitement that carried him into this lecture hall every day, that made him eager instead of terrified to stand in front of each new class of future agents and share what he had learned and the methods he had perfected.
But he wasn’t only here for the Bureau’s trainees.
There were field agents to support, his own curiosity to assuage, and mentors he owed his badge to.
Beverley was offering him the chance to put all of his knowledge to work on a career-making case.
Stage fright could fuck right off. “How can I help?”
Lincoln would be lying if he said he hadn’t walked past the Dr. Fear situation room a time or twenty since news broke of the serial killer’s reemergence.
Yes, he understood how protocol worked, but he was a trained investigator, same as every agent at Quantico, and according to his daughter, he had the disposition of a lovable-yet-pissy house cat.
Curiosity went hand in hand with his kind.
Maybe, he’d thought, someone would notice him pacing outside the situation room.
Would ask him in and request his input on the subject of his thesis, who had struck again after a dozen years of dormancy.
But no one had ever asked him inside, and today no one asked his opinion as Beverley ushered him into the room.
The case agents, several from Violent Crimes, acknowledged them with cursory nods, then those around the table returned to their laptops and those in front of the television flipped the channel to another news program.
Five sets of photos flashed on-screen, all of them couples.
Three of the pairs were the last set of Dr. Fear’s victims from twelve years ago, a different pair were the victims found earlier this week, and the last pair were the couple who’d disappeared yesterday: Chase Wyatt and his fiancée, Ruby Kirk, the latter the daughter of Senator Oliver Kirk, the former federal agent who’d last tracked Dr. Fear.
And Lincoln’s mentor.
“Is there a new development?” Lincoln asked as Beverley led him toward a door at the far end of the situation room. Something had to have prompted the director to finally bring him in.
“We’re not sure yet.”
Was that the first time he’d ever heard Beverley utter an equivocation? Confused the shit out of Lincoln. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”
Beverley opened the door, and Lincoln promptly shut the fuck up.
Standing around the table in the smaller conference room was a who’s who of DC Metro law enforcement—FBI DC’s Special Agent in Charge, MPD’s chief of police, the top US marshal for DC—and a haggard-looking Senator Oliver Kirk.
Beverley closed the door behind them, and despite six men shoved into a room suited for four, it was quiet enough to hear a pin drop.
“What’s going on?” Lincoln asked, his voice megaphone-loud in the eerie silence.
Oliver lifted his gaze, meeting Lincoln’s from across the room. “I need your help, L.”
Lincoln didn’t hesitate. Shoving aside anyone in his way, he rounded the table and dragged the senator into a crushing hug.
Probably not Lincoln’s most professional moment, but this was the one person who, in a time when Lincoln hadn’t been sure of anything, had been sure of him.
By the force of the embrace returned, Oliver needed the comfort too.
“Anything, Ollie, you know that.” Lincoln drew back and patted his mentor’s scruffy cheek.
“I’m honestly a little ticked it took you this long to bring me in. ”
“Not my call.” Oliver sank into his chair and pushed out the adjacent empty one for Lincoln. “I would have assigned you as soon as the first bodies dropped.”
“That was my call,” the DC SAC said as the rest of the men took their seats. “Those bodies were in our jurisdiction.”
“Technically, ours,” the chief of police countered.
Lincoln side-eyed the marshal, awaiting his useless contribution to the pissing match.
The marshal shrugged. “I’m just the referee.” Maybe not so useless.
“Violent Crimes has been coordinating here,” Beverley added.
Lovely, an interagency pissing match too.
Oliver’s hand on his arm forestalled Lincoln’s eye roll. “When Ruby was taken,” he said, “I told them I wanted you on the case. Something feels . . . off. Dr. Fear’s victims were never personal as far as we could tell, and they were never directed at anyone tied to the investigation.”
“The victims were strangers to them,” Lincoln concurred.
There wasn’t a shred of evidence in the three sets of victims prior to this cycle that indicated Dr. Fear had a previous connection to their victims, either directly or through acquaintances.
Victimology was one of the giant blinking question marks surrounding Dr. Fear.
How had they identified their victims? Why had they chosen them?
How had they learned what the victims feared the most?
Dr. Fear had used that to subject each victim to the very thing the victim feared until they either succumbed to it or succumbed to Dr. Fear, begging for their death.
A claustrophobic suffocated, a musophobic set upon by rats, a nyctophobic trapped in a dark basement.
The list went on, and always couples, one forced to watch the other succumb to their fears before succumbing to their own.
“And then this”—Beverley produced two evidence bags, one with a slip of paper, the other an overnight courier envelope—“arrived here this morning, addressed to Senator Kirk.”
Lincoln slid his glasses on and picked up the bag with the single sheet of paper, peering at the handwritten note.
It was a diagnosis, identical in form to the ones found at each place Dr. Fear’s previous victims disappeared from, except this one wasn’t for a victim.
It detailed someone who feared they’d never be noticed, who feared their own crimes wouldn’t be memorable enough, who needed to steal someone else’s MO for notoriety.
A copycat.
The diagnosis—fear of anonymity—was signed by Dr. Fear, in a script Lincoln could verify as certainly as any Bureau handwriting expert.
He’d examined the previous diagnoses more than enough times to recognize the sharp, slanted script with the heavy pen-points at the beginning and end of each string of letters.
“They’re disavowing the copycat,” Lincoln said.
Oliver nodded. “That’s what it reads like.”
“You think that’s from the real Dr. Fear?” the DC SAC asked.
Lincoln tapped the signature line. “That’s their sig, no doubt, and the form of diagnosis and sentence structure match.”
“Information about the diagnoses was out there in the press,” the chief of police said. “Anyone could copy those.”
“The existence of the diagnoses was released, the details of the paper they were written on were not.” Lincoln held the bag aloft so that the overhead lights would illuminate the watermark on the linen paper.
A marker of sorts, like on the back of the Duke Law photo they’d analyzed in class today.
“This is custom paper. Each small batch is stamped and numbered. Dr. Fear’s last diagnosis from twelve years ago was written on paper from Letter Elegant, Batch 301. ”
Lincoln rotated so the SAC could see the paper’s watermark clearly. “Letter Elegant, Batch 302,” the older man said. “Fuck.”
“The notes at the other two scenes this week?” Lincoln asked.
“Same,” Beverley said. “Which is why, until that letter arrived, we were proceeding under the assumption that this was Dr. Fear.”
“If this is a copycat, they know about the paper too.” Lincoln tossed the evidence bag on the table. “Fuck.”
Oliver curled a hand over Lincoln’s arm again. “This is why I told Bev you had to be on the case. Officially.”
Lincoln covered Oliver’s hand with his. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get Ruby and Chase back.”
“I’m glad you said that.” Beverley slid a travel envelope across the table. “You’re on the next flight to Roanoke.”
“Roanoke? Why?” As soon as he asked the question, Lincoln recalled the other evidence bag on the table. “Wait!” He snatched it up and flipped it over to examine the sender address on the shipping envelope. Roanoke, Virginia. “What’s this address? A residence, a mail center, an office store?”
“None of the above, according to Cyber. Spoofed address, with the label printed online from an untraceable account.”
Fuck. “Then why do we think the note actually originated in Roanoke?”
“Because tracking does show it being retrieved from a drop box there.”
But that wasn’t enough. “Just because the letter came from Roanoke doesn’t mean that’s where Dr. Fear is. All their victims were taken from and found in the DC Metro area. It’s more likely they drove out to Roanoke to drop off the letter. There’s no reason to think they live there.”
“In Apex, actually,” Beverley said. “Roanoke is the closest major city.”
“Apex? As in the home of the Mountaineers, last year’s NCAA Division III basketball champions?” And in the hunt this year too. So what if he watched too much SportsCenter?
“That’s the one,” Beverley said. “We’ve already got an agent on the ground there.”
Lincoln’s brows raced north. “But you just received the letter this morning?”
“He was pursuing a separate matter and came across a lead on this one. He has some expertise in forensic genealogy.”
No holding back that eye roll. Between television shows, true crime podcasts, and all the press that came with the Golden State Killer collar, everyone thought they were an expert now.
“Lincoln,” Oliver gently chided.
“What?”
Oliver chuckled, and Lincoln was glad for that, even if it was at his expense. “It’s a casual interest, compared to yours,” Oliver said. “But enough he found a connection to Apex. And taken together with the note . . .”
“You’re the expert, Agent Monroe,” Beverley said. “We would like you to go to Apex and assist our field agent there.”