Chapter 11 #3
When she emerged, Silas was waiting in the hallway.
“You ready for this?” he asked.
“No. But I’ll do it anyway.”
“That’s my girl.” His smile was tight, and he squeezed her shoulder briefly. “I’ll be right there. If you need a break, just look at me and I’ll create a distraction.”
Harper almost smiled. “What kind of distraction?”
“I’ll improvise. Maybe knock over a podium. Maybe fake a seizure. Keep things interesting.” He winked.
This time Harper did smile, just a little. “Please don’t fake a seizure.”
“Your loss. I do a very convincing seizure.”
The moment of levity helped. Harper felt some of the tension ease from her shoulders. She could do this. She’d done it before in Nevada. She could do it again.
At 7:45, they gathered in the lobby. The press conference would be held outside on the station’s front steps—better optics, Holloway said. More official. The media was already setting up—cameras, microphones, reporters checking their notes.
Harper spotted at least five local TV stations, two radio reporters, and what looked like print journalists from the Blackridge Gazette and the Portland Tribune.
“Deep breath,” Silas murmured beside her. “Remember, you’re in control. Not him.”
At precisely eight a.m., Mayor Carolyn Reeves stepped to the podium. She was in her sixties, silver-haired and composed, wearing a navy-blue suit that screamed authority.
“Good morning. Thank you all for coming on short notice. I’m here today with Captain Darius Holloway of the Blackridge Police Department and Special Agent Harper Sinclair from the FBI to address a matter of public safety...”
Harper listened as the mayor laid out the basic facts. Four women murdered in six days. Ongoing investigation. No imminent danger to the general public if basic safety precautions were followed. All the standard reassurances that were probably lies.
Then Holloway spoke, providing more detail about the investigation—increased patrols, task force established, resources being devoted. He made it sound like they had everything under control.
They didn’t.
Finally, it was Harper’s turn.
She stepped to the podium, the bright lights from the cameras momentarily blinding. She could see Silas standing just off to the side, his presence grounding her.
“Good morning. I’m Special Agent Harper Sinclair with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. I’ve been working with Blackridge PD on this investigation since the first victim was discovered six days ago.”
Harper pulled out her notes, but she barely needed them. She’d profiled enough killers to do this in her sleep.
“Based on the evidence collected so far, we believe we’re looking for a male subject, likely between the ages of thirty and forty-five.
He’s intelligent, organized, and methodical.
He selects his victims carefully, likely observing them for some time before making contact.
All four victims were women in their twenties with similar physical characteristics—brunette, petite build, professional employment. ”
A reporter shouted a question, but Harper continued.
“We’re asking the public to be vigilant.
Women who fit this general description should take additional safety precautions—don’t go out alone at night, vary your routines, be aware of your surroundings.
If anyone has seen suspicious activity near the paper mill on Riverside, the construction site on Fourth Street, the alley behind The Brass Tap bar, or the parking garage at Third and Superior, please contact the tip line immediately. ”
More questions. Harper fielded them as best she could without revealing tactical details.
“Is this connected to other murders in other states?”
“We’re examining all possibilities, but our focus right now is on the four Blackridge victims.”
“Do you have any suspects?”
“We have several persons of interest we’re investigating. I can’t provide details on an ongoing investigation.”
“Are women in Blackridge safe?”
“With proper precautions, yes. We’re asking people to be smart, be aware, and report anything suspicious.”
Finally, blessedly, Holloway stepped in. “That’s all we have time for. Thank you.”
They filed back into the station, Harper’s heart pounding. The camera lights had been blinding. The questions had been aggressive. And somewhere out there, she knew the killer was watching.
Watching her.
Listening to every word.
Planning his next move.
“You did good,” Silas said as they reached the conference room.
“I basically painted a target on my back,” she said with a sneer. If she had it her way, she’d never find herself in front of a podium again.
“You already had one. Now we just made it bigger and shinier.” Silas pulled out his phone. “Which means he’ll have to react. And when he does, we’ll be ready.”
Harper wanted to believe that. But looking at the board with twelve victim photos staring back at her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were still playing the killer’s game.
Still three steps behind.
She just hoped they could close the gap before anyone else died.