Chapter 18 #2
“That’s where the traffic camera caught him,” Harper said.
“He stayed there for eight minutes,” Morris said. “Then continued patrol. Made another stop at—” He paused, zooming in on the map. “Riverside Industrial Park. Stayed there for forty-three minutes.”
Harper felt icy fingers of dread slide down her spine. “That’s where Amanda’s body was found. He went directly there.”
“His patrol route includes the industrial park,” Holloway said, but even he sounded uncertain now.
“At seven-forty p.m.? After spending eight minutes at the exact location where Amanda disappeared?” Harper shook her head. “That’s not normal patrol behavior. That’s him taking her there, killing her, staging the scene.”
They tracked the rest of Sutton’s GPS data. After leaving the industrial park at eight twenty-three p.m., he’d continued patrol for another three hours before returning to the station at eleven fifty-five p.m. to end his shift.
Normal behavior after committing murder. Because for Sutton, it was normal.
“We need to search his patrol car,” Harper said. “If he transported Amanda in that vehicle, there’ll be trace evidence. Hair, fibers, DNA.”
“His patrol car gets used by multiple officers on different shifts,” Holloway said. “Any evidence could be explained away as contamination.”
“Not if we find Amanda’s DNA in specific locations—the back seat, the trunk. Places where a patrol officer wouldn’t normally have contact with civilians.”
Holloway considered. “I can authorize a routine inspection of Unit 23. Standard maintenance check. If we happen to collect samples during that process...” He left the implication hanging.
“Do it,” Harper said.
At three p.m., Sutton reported for his shift. Harper watched on the security monitors as he checked out his patrol car, did his routine vehicle inspection, then pulled out of the station garage. Surveillance teams were already in position, ready to follow his every move.
“He looks completely normal,” Silas observed, watching Sutton on the camera. “Calm, unhurried. Like he doesn’t have a care in the world.”
“Because he thinks he’s gotten away with it,” Harper said with barely concealed contempt. “He’s been killing for years and no one’s caught him. Why would Blackridge be any different?”
While Sutton was on patrol, the department’s vehicle maintenance supervisor conducted an “inspection” of Unit 23. He collected fiber samples from the seats, trunk, and floor mats. Swabbed for DNA from the back seat and door handles. Photographed everything thoroughly.
The samples went directly to the FBI lab with a rush order. Results would take at least forty-eight hours.
Two more days of waiting while Sutton was out there, potentially selecting his next victim.
Harper spent the afternoon reviewing cold cases from Sutton’s previous jurisdictions, coordinating with detectives in Portland and Seattle, building a comprehensive case file.
The pattern was undeniable—everywhere Sutton went, women died.
And he’d been meticulous about covering his tracks, using his law enforcement knowledge to stay ahead of investigations.
But he’d made mistakes. The fiber evidence. The GPS data placing him at the industrial park. The evidence tampering that had left electronic records.
They were closing in. Harper could feel it.
At eight p.m., Sutton made a stop during his patrol. Harper watched the surveillance feed as he pulled into the parking lot of Summit Fitness—the gym where Amy Thorne had worked out.
“Why is he there?” Harper asked.
They watched as Sutton got out of his car and walked into the gym. The surveillance team’s body cam footage showed him approaching the front desk, talking to the employee there—a young woman, brunette, petite.
“He’s talking to her,” Silas said, leaning closer to the screen.
The conversation appeared casual, professional. Sutton showed his badge, asked questions—probably something routine about security or safety concerns. The young woman smiled, nodded, answered his questions.
She had no idea she was talking to a serial killer.
After five minutes, Sutton thanked her and left. Returned to his patrol car and drove away.
“He was selecting her,” Harper said. “Getting a closer look, seeing if she fits his criteria.”
“Or he was doing legitimate police work, checking on the gym’s security after multiple murders,” Holloway countered, clearly playing devil’s advocate when they all knew he was their guy. “We can’t arrest him for doing his job.”
“We need to warn her,” Harper said. “That woman at the gym. She needs to know she’s in danger.”
“And say what? ‘One of our officers might be a serial killer, so be careful’?” Holloway shook his head. “That creates panic, tips our hand, and possibly taints any future case against Sutton.”
“So we just let her be at risk?”
“We watch her. Surveillance team follows her when she leaves the gym. We make sure Sutton doesn’t get near her again.” Holloway’s tone was firm. “I know this is frustrating. But we’re doing everything we can without compromising the investigation.”
Harper wanted to argue, but she knew it was pointless. They were trapped between the need to catch Sutton and the need to build a case that would actually hold up in court.
At midnight, Sutton’s shift ended. He returned to the station, checked in his patrol car, and drove home in his personal vehicle—a dark-blue sedan, ten years old, unremarkable.
Surveillance followed him to his apartment. He went inside and the lights went out twenty minutes later.
“Day shift takes over at six a.m.,” Morris said. “We’ve got eyes on him all night.”
Harper and Silas finally left the station around one a.m., both exhausted but too wired to sleep. At the cabin, Harper paced the small living room while Silas made tea.
“We’re so close,” she said. “The GPS data, the fiber evidence, the employment history—it’s all there. Why can’t we just arrest him?”
“You know why. Because circumstantial evidence isn’t enough for a murder conviction.
We need physical proof—DNA, fingerprints, something that directly ties him to a victim.
” Silas handed her a mug of chamomile tea.
“The vehicle samples will help. If Amanda’s DNA is in that patrol car in places it shouldn’t be, that’s our smoking gun. ”
“Forty-eight hours,” Harper said, warming her hands on the mug. “Two more days of watching him patrol, watching him select potential victims, knowing what he is and not being able to stop him.”
“We are stopping him. By watching, by documenting, by making sure he doesn’t get an opportunity to kill again.” Silas pulled her down to sit on the couch beside him. “I know it feels like we’re being passive. But we’re not. We’re being strategic.”
Harper leaned against him, letting his warmth and solidity ground her. “What if the DNA comes back negative? What if the patrol car doesn’t have Amanda’s DNA?”
Silas swallowed down some of the tea before answering. “Then we keep building the case with what we have. The employment history, the evidence tampering, the GPS data. It might take longer, but we’ll get there.”
“And meanwhile, he kills again.”
“Not if we’re watching his every move.” Silas draped an arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “We’ve got this, Harper. We’re going to catch him.”
Harper wanted to believe that. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were running out of time. That Sutton was planning something, building toward some climax that they couldn’t see yet.
She thought about the woman at the gym. About how easily Sutton had approached her, how naturally he’d played the role of concerned officer. That woman had no idea how close she’d come to becoming a victim.
How many other women had Sutton talked to in the past two weeks? How many had he evaluated and dismissed as not quite right? How many were on his list for future consideration?
“I can’t stop thinking about the bait plan,” Harper said quietly.
Silas went very still. “No.”
“Hear me out—”
“No. Absolutely not. We’ve been over this.”
“Just listen,” she said, raising her voice. “What if I create an opportunity for him to approach me? Somewhere public, with surveillance in place, backup ready. He’s fixated on me. All the victims look like me. If I make myself available—”
“Then you become a target. And no amount of backup or surveillance can guarantee your safety if he gets you alone.” Silas turned to face her directly. “I won’t allow it.”
“You won’t allow it?” Harper’s voice rose, and she felt irritation spike. “This isn’t your decision.”
“It is when I care about you too much to watch you put yourself in danger.” His voice was fierce, rock solid. “We’ll find another way.”
“There might not be another way. If the DNA doesn’t—”
“Then we’ll deal with that when it happens. But I’m not using you as bait. End of discussion.”
They sat in tense silence for a moment. Harper knew Silas was right to be concerned. The plan was dangerous, possibly reckless. But it might also be their only chance to catch Sutton in the act, to get evidence that would stick.
She resented him telling her what to do, but decided not to push it tonight. But the idea was planted, growing in the back of her mind.
If the DNA evidence didn’t pan out, if they couldn’t build a strong enough case through conventional means, she might not have a choice.
Better to ask forgiveness than permission.
“Come on,” Silas said finally, standing and pulling her up. “Let’s get some sleep. We’ve got another long day tomorrow.”
In bed, wrapped in Silas’s arms, Harper stared into the darkness and thought about Dale Sutton. About nineteen dead women across four states. About the woman at the gym who didn’t know how close she’d come to being victim number twenty.
They were going to stop him. Whatever it took, however they had to do it, they were going to make sure Sutton never hurt anyone again.
Even if it meant Harper had to put herself directly in his crosshairs.