Chapter 12
The press conference fallout was immediate and overwhelming.
By nine a.m., the tip line had received over two hundred calls.
Most were useless—neighbors reporting suspicious activity that turned out to be perfectly normal behavior, anxious parents calling about their adult daughters who hadn’t answered their phones that morning, conspiracy theorists convinced the killer was a government agent or an alien or both.
But buried in the noise might be something useful. So Harper, Silas, Morris, and Holt spent the next three hours reviewing every single call, cataloguing, cross-referencing, looking for patterns.
“White male, thirties, seen loitering near the paper mill two weeks ago,” Morris read from his notes. “Caller is a night security guard, says the guy was just sitting in his car watching the building.”
“Get a description, run it against known offenders,” Harper said. “And pull security footage from that night if it still exists.”
“Woman reports her ex-boyfriend fits the profile and has been ‘acting weird’ lately,” Holt added. “Weird how?” Harper asked.
“Quote: ‘He’s been really quiet and distant and won’t tell me where he goes at night.’”
“So like every guy going through a breakup,” Silas muttered. “But check him out anyway. Get his name, run his background.”
The work was tedious, exhausting, and necessary. This was how cases got solved—not through brilliant deductive leaps, but through grinding, methodical elimination of possibilities until only the truth remained.
At eleven a.m., Harper’s phone rang. Oregon State Police.
“Agent Sinclair? This is Detective Kelly Kowalski from OSP Major Crimes. I worked the Portland murders three years ago—Sarah Williams and Christina Park.”
Harper put the call on speaker. “Detective. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve been reviewing our case files after your people reached out about the connection to your current investigation. I think we might have more victims than we initially thought.”
Harper’s stomach dropped. “How many more?”
“Potentially three. All killed within a two-month window around the Williams and Park murders, all with similar victim profiles, but the bodies were found in different jurisdictions so we never connected them. Two in suburbs outside Portland, one in Salem.”
“Were they carved with symbols?”
“That’s the thing—no. But they were killed with a single deep cut to the carotid, positioned carefully post-mortem, and all three resembled the confirmed victims. We assumed they were unrelated because of the lack of ritualistic elements.”
Harper exchanged a glance with Silas. “He was experimenting. Trying different approaches.”
“That’s what I’m thinking now,” Kowalski said. “I’m sending you everything we have. Maybe fresh eyes will see something we missed.”
“Appreciated. And Detective? If you find any more possibles, send those too.”
“Will do.”
Harper hung up and added three more pins to their map. Fifteen victims now. Fifteen women dead over five years.
“He’s been more active than we thought,” Silas said quietly, not for the first time.
“Or we’re just now seeing the full scope.” Harper studied the map, the pins spreading across six states. “We need to coordinate better with other agencies. There could be more victims we haven’t found yet.”
Morris looked up from his computer. “I’ve got California on the line. Detective Domingo from Sacramento wants to talk to you about their unsolved case.”
Harper spent the next hour on the phone with California, then Washington, then Idaho. Each jurisdiction had evidence to share, theories to discuss, questions about the Blackridge investigation. By the time she finished, it was past noon and Harper’s head was pounding.
“Break,” Silas said, appearing at her elbow with a bottle of water and two aspirin. “You’ve been on the phone for three hours straight.”
Harper swallowed the pills gratefully. “We’re making progress. Building a comprehensive timeline across all jurisdictions.”
“And you’re burning out. When’s the last time you ate?”
Harper tried to remember. Breakfast had been coffee. Lunch had been...more coffee.
“That’s what I thought.” Silas grabbed his jacket. “Come on. We’re getting food.”
“Silas—”
“Not a suggestion. You’re useless to this investigation if you collapse from exhaustion and malnutrition.” He looked at Morris. “We’ll be back in thirty minutes. Call if anything urgent comes up.”
They ended up at a diner two blocks from the station—vinyl booths, checkered floors, the smell of grease and coffee. It was nearly empty, the lunch rush over, just a few stragglers finishing late meals.
Silas ordered a burger and fries. Harper ordered a salad, then changed it to a burger when Silas gave her a look.
“You need protein and calories,” he said. “Not rabbit food.”
“Yes, Dad.” She rolled her eyes for good measure.
“Don’t make me regret forcing you to take care of yourself.”
It didn’t take long for the food to arrive, and they ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Harper hadn’t realized how hungry she was until the smell hit her. The burger was greasy and perfect, the fries crispy and salty. She felt some of her energy returning.
“Talk to me,” Silas said. “What are you thinking?”
“That we’re drowning in data but starving for actionable intelligence.” Harper wiped ketchup from her fingers. “We’ve got fifteen victims across six states, hundreds of hours of security footage, thousands of potential suspects. But we’re no closer to identifying him than we were six days ago.”
“That’s not true.” He pointed a fry at her. “We know more about him now than we did before.”
“Like what?”
“Like he’s been following you specifically for five years.
Like he has resources for extensive travel.
Like he knows law enforcement procedures well enough to evade detection across multiple jurisdictions.
Like he’s building toward an endgame that involves you directly.
” Silas counted off on his fingers. “That’s not nothing. ”
“It’s not enough.”
“Not yet. But we’re closing in.” Silas pulled out his phone, showed her notes he’d been compiling. “I’ve been thinking about the geographic pattern. Look at the cities—Nevada, Portland, Seattle, Boise, Sacramento, Spokane. What do they have in common?”
Harper studied the list. “They’re all western states. But that’s because I’ve been working cases in the western region.”
“Right. But look at the specific cities. They’re all mid-sized. Not huge metropolises like LA or San Francisco, but not tiny towns either. Big enough to have anonymity, small enough to not have overwhelming law enforcement presence.”
“You’re suggesting he’s selecting his hunting grounds strategically.”
He was already nodding. “And look at the timing. He goes quiet between locations, sometimes for months. That suggests he’s not just randomly following you. He’s planning ahead, scouting locations, establishing himself before he starts killing.”
Harper felt something click into place. “Which means he knew I’d be in Blackridge before I got here.”
“Or he was already here for another reason and took advantage of the opportunity when you showed up.”
Her phone buzzed. Captain Holloway.
“Sinclair, we’ve got another body. Abandoned building on Fifth and Cascade. Same MO.”
Harper’s appetite vanished. “On our way.”
They left cash on the table and headed for the car, the brief respite over. Another victim. Another woman dead.
Another failure.
***
The abandoned building had once been a warehouse—three stories of crumbling brick and broken windows, scheduled for demolition next month. Now it was a crime scene.
Harper ducked under the yellow tape, Silas beside her. The smell hit her first—blood and decay and something chemical. The building’s interior was dark, lit only by the harsh glare of police spotlights.
The victim was on the second floor, positioned against a support column exactly like Jennifer Cross had been. Brunette, petite, mid-twenties. Symbols carved into her skin post-mortem. No visible signs of struggle or sexual assault.
But there was no message this time. No words carved into flesh. Just the symbols, precise and deliberate.
Dr. Reynolds looked up from examining the body. “Agent Sinclair. Detective Kane. We gotta quit meeting like this.”
“What can you tell us?” Harper asked, cutting to the chase, forcing herself to catalogue details instead of seeing a person.
“Female, approximately 24-26 years old, cause of death appears to be exsanguination from carotid artery incision. Same as the others.” Reynolds gestured to the symbols. “Post-mortem carving, same geometric patterns. Time of death approximately eighteen to twenty hours ago.”
“Eighteen hours?” Silas checked his watch. “That puts it at around six p.m. yesterday. During the press conference prep.”
“While we were at the station,” Harper said. The realization was bitter. “He killed her while we were getting ready to announce to the world that we were looking for him.”
“He’s taunting you,” Reynolds said quietly. “Showing you he can kill whenever he wants, regardless of your efforts.”
Harper approached the body, studying the symbols. They were identical to the previous victims. But something was different about the positioning.
“Her hands,” Harper said. “They’re positioned differently. Previous victims had arms at their sides. She’s got her hands crossed over her chest.”
Silas moved closer. “Like she’s sleeping. Or laid out for a funeral.”
“He’s changing his ritual,” Harper said. “Evolving it. Why?”
“Maybe he’s trying to tell you something,” Reynolds suggested.
Harper pulled out her phone, took photos of the positioning from multiple angles. She’d compare them to the previous victims later, look for patterns in the evolution.
“Do we have an ID yet?” Silas asked.
“Not officially, but her purse was left at the scene,” Morris said, appearing from the stairwell. “Driver’s license says Rachel Kim, 24, lives in the Riverside Apartments. Works as a nurse at Blackridge General.”