Chapter 19 #2
In what had been the bedroom, Harper noticed fresh vacuum marks on the carpet. In the bathroom, the faint smell of bleach. Sutton had scrubbed this place clean, removing any evidence that could tie him to the murders.
“When did he move out?” Silas asked.
One of the officers checked with the building manager. “Manager says Sutton gave notice yesterday morning. Said he got a job offer out of state, needed to move immediately. Paid his lease termination fee in cash, cleaned the apartment, turned in his keys last night around nine p.m.”
Yesterday morning. Right after they’d collected samples from his patrol car.
“He knew,” Harper said, ice flooding her veins. “Somehow, he knew we were building a case against him.”
“The vehicle inspection,” Silas said grimly. “He must have noticed. Put together what it meant.”
Harper wanted to scream with frustration. They’d been so close. Four hours away from arresting him, and he’d slipped through their fingers.
“Put out a BOLO,” Holloway ordered over the radio. “Dale Sutton, armed and dangerous, wanted for multiple homicides. Alert all neighboring jurisdictions, highway patrol, airports. I want every exit from this city covered.”
But Harper knew it was too late. Sutton had a twelve-hour head start. He could be anywhere by now.
The search team processed the apartment anyway, looking for anything Sutton might have missed. In the trash chute, they found a few items he’d discarded—old mail, empty cleaning product containers, a crumpled receipt.
The receipt was from a storage facility across town, dated three weeks ago. Monthly rental payment for a 10x10 unit.
“He has a storage unit,” Harper said. “That’s where he’d keep the trophies. Things he couldn’t risk having in his apartment where someone might see them.”
They got the address, raced across town to the storage facility. The manager let them into Unit 237, Sutton’s rental.
Just like the apartment, the unit was empty. Recently emptied—fresh tire tracks on the concrete floor showed where something heavy had been wheeled out.
“He cleared this out too,” Silas said. “Probably yesterday, same time he cleaned out the apartment.”
Harper felt despair threatening to swallow her.
They had DNA evidence, GPS data, employment history…
But without Sutton in custody, without the physical trophies to show the jury, the case was weakened.
A good defense attorney could argue the DNA was planted, the GPS data was falsified, the employment history was coincidental.
They needed Sutton. And they needed the evidence he’d taken with him.
“Where would he go?” Holloway asked, joining them at the storage facility.
Harper closed her eyes, thinking like a profiler instead of a frustrated investigator. “He’s been planning this. He knew eventually we’d connect the dots. So he’d have an exit strategy prepared.”
“New identity? Flee the country?”
“Maybe. But I don’t think he’s done yet.” Harper pulled up a map on her phone. “He’s obsessed with me. With proving he’s smarter, that he can stay ahead of us. Running means admitting defeat.”
“So what’s his play?”
“He makes a statement. One final kill that proves he won.” Harper’s blood ran cold. “And I’m the target he’s been building toward all along.”
“Then we use that,” Silas said. “We do what you said, use you as bait, draw him out—”
“No,” Holloway cut in. “Absolutely not. We’re not putting Agent Sinclair in danger.”
“It might be our only option,” Harper said, glad to finally have an ally.
“Sutton’s in the wind. We don’t know where he is, where he’s going.
But if he’s fixated on me—and all the evidence suggests he is—then he’ll come for me eventually.
Better to control the circumstances than wait for him to strike on his terms, right? ”
There was a long pause, and then, “We’ll discuss it,” Holloway said firmly. “But first, let’s exhaust every other option. Morris, pull Sutton’s financial records. See if he’s made any recent large purchases—plane tickets, rental cars, anything that might tell us where he’s headed.”
Back at the station, the team worked frantically. Morris tracked Sutton’s credit cards—no activity since yesterday. His bank account showed a large cash withdrawal two days ago, then nothing. His cell phone was turned off. Last ping was near his apartment yesterday afternoon.
“He’s gone dark,” Morris said. “No electronic trail.”
“Check traffic cameras,” Harper said. “His car, his license plate. Where was he heading when he left his apartment?”
Sanchez pulled up traffic camera footage. They tracked Sutton’s sedan leaving his apartment complex at nine-fifteen p.m. the previous night. Heading east. The car disappeared from camera coverage at the edge of the city.
“East toward the mountains,” Silas said, studying the map. “Lots of rural areas, logging roads, places to hide.”
“Or he ditched the car and switched to something we’re not looking for,” Harper suggested. “He’s had twelve hours. He could have a different vehicle by now.”
“We need to think like him,” Holloway said. “If you’re Sutton, you know we’ve identified you, you know we have evidence. What’s your next move?”
Harper closed her eyes, putting herself in Sutton’s mind.
“I’ve been planning this for years. Collecting trophies, documenting my kills, proving I’m smarter than the investigators.
But now I’m caught. The FBI profiler I’ve been obsessed with has tracked me down.
Do I run and start over somewhere else? Or do I finish what I started? ”
“Finish how?” Silas asked.
“By completing the pattern. By making the ultimate statement.” Harper opened her eyes. “By killing me.”
The room went silent.
“If he’s fixated on you specifically,” Holloway said slowly, “if all these murders were leading up to you as the final victim—”
“Then he won’t leave Blackridge until he’s tried to finish it,” Harper finished. “He’s still here. Somewhere close. Watching. Waiting for his opportunity.”
He had to be. It was their only hope.