Face of Death
- -
- 100%
- +
The image of the dipstick kept flashing back into her mind, lying there on the grass. The man’s car really had been in need of some attention, and it had not been a deadly weapon he was holding. That didn’t sit right. Their killer wasn’t about to let car troubles get in his way. Their killer was meticulous, studied, precise.
Not only that, but there was nothing in the car that told them anything. No trace of a murder weapon of any kind, not even anything that could be used as a blunt instrument. It was littered with empty plastic bottles and food wrappers on the back footwells, and long blond hairs had been found easily on the passenger seat. If there was anything she knew about the killer, it was that he was clean and tidy. Neat. And he would not leave the evidence of a passenger sitting in his vehicle, easily traceable via DNA.
He would have been waiting with the garrote. Zoe knew that. She could feel it in her bones. Why would he play the innocent victim to such an extent that he was not even ready to attack if someone approached? The only answer she could think of was that this was not their man.
Which was problematic, because she had already been called by her superiors and warned that she was going to be in trouble for firing her weapon if it turned out that the man was an innocent victim.
She needed to get to the bottom of this, and fast. Zoe cast around the room, her gaze flying to the left and the right. Privacy curtain, monitoring equipment, drip, shelving with Bradshaw’s clothes…
There—a cabinet. She walked over and opened it, ignoring the conversation behind her as Shelley continued to question him.
“Were you at the fair alone, or were you meeting someone there?”
Zoe rifled through the drawers, looking for something that would work. There wasn’t much kept in the room—no syringes or bottles of pills, nothing that a patient could use to harm themselves. But there was a box of Band-Aids. Thinking, Zoe opened it up, pouring them out onto the top of the cabinet with her body blocking Bradshaw’s view.
“I was meeting my sister. She had her kids with her, so she went home early. I was going to go home too, but the car wouldn’t start.”
Zoe began tearing the strips of connected Band-Aids into singles, making quick and regular movements, two or three sets at a time. She dropped each single back into the box in a haphazard manner. She didn’t want them to be regular or uniform, not for this.
“Ivan, help me out here. I want to understand so we can let you rest. Just talk me through what was going through your mind, okay? You were at your car, checking the oil levels…”
“And next thing I know, there’s someone yelling crazy stuff about the FBI.”
“Did you think she was yelling at you at that point?”
“No, why would I? I was just minding my own business!”
Zoe walked back to the bed and yanked a wheeled food tray over Bradshaw’s lap. He was watching her with a kind of baffled panic.
“What’s she doing now?” he demanded, looking back between Shelley and Zoe as Zoe upended the box and allowed the Band-Aids to tumble out. “Is this a threat?”
The Band-Aids sailed down, scattering across the tray, some of them slipping over to land on the covers of the bed. There was no particular pattern or shape to them, but Zoe knew their guy. She knew he would see a pattern there. She stared down at it herself, starting to organize lines and vertices, checking for the links.
It took her thirteen seconds, but she saw it. Because of the way the box had tipped and the even distribution of the Band-Aids down onto the surface, it had created a more or less distinct sixteen-sided shape. Not an even one, but a shape all the same. The killer would see it—would know it for a sign in his deluded mind.
“What is she doing?” Bradshaw asked again, his voice hissing with fear and confusion, addressed only to Shelley. “I want someone in here with me. This isn’t safe.”
Zoe watched his face closely. “Do you not see it?”
“See what?” Bradshaw looked down at the Band-Aids again, before raising his head. “See what?”
It was tricky, but there was always the chance that he was faking it. Pretending not to see the pattern. Zoe knew she had to up the stakes, and show him that she knew what he was doing.
He wouldn’t be able to prevent his reaction if she drew the one pattern that meant more to him than any other.
She lifted her index finger and slowly, carefully, drew as near an approximation of a Fibonacci spiral as she could in the shifting mass of Band-Aids, clearing out a route like a path through a maze.
But when she looked up, with her task complete, Bradshaw was watching her with even more confusion than before.
“I want a lawyer or something,” he said. “You can’t do this. This is intimidation, this freaky stuff. She shouldn’t be anywhere near me.”
“Shelley?” Zoe cut across him, looking over at her partner.
Shelley shook her head. “I was watching his face the whole time, Z. He doesn’t recognize the shape. I don’t think he has any clue what’s going on here.”
Zoe slammed her hand down onto the tray, pushing the Band-Aids over onto the floor as she shoved the tray back away from the bed. Another dead end. Another waste of time.
She strode out into the corridor, not waiting for Shelley to follow her, and marched until she found a vending machine. Punching the buttons with more force than was necessary, she waited for the machine to pour out a weak cup of burnt coffee and threw it into her mouth without waiting to check whether it was cool enough.
“Z?”
Zoe turned to see Shelley approaching her cautiously, her steps light and careful. Zoe counted them. One, two, three, four, five. Counted anything, to try to get her heart rate back under control and stop the boiling in her blood at making yet another mistake.
“I told him that we’ll send the state troopers to talk to him later. Debrief, get some particulars, see if he really does have anything to hide or not.”
“I do not care about Bradshaw,” Zoe bit out. “He is not the man we were looking for.”
“I know.” Shelley sighed, placing a hand lightly on Zoe’s upper arm. “Don’t blame yourself. We all made the same mistake. We thought it was him.”
“It was my idea.” Zoe shook her head bitterly. “I was the one who suggested that we go after him. I took the shot.”
“Do you…” Shelley paused, biting her lip. “Do you think we got the wrong place?”
“No.” Zoe felt the conviction still strong in her chest, in her forehead. The pattern did not lie. “Right place, wrong man. I do not know how, but he slipped away from us. Now he knows that we are after him, we may not get the chance again.”
“Ma’am?”
It was Max, hesitating a good few feet away. He had, perhaps, seen Zoe’s violent attack on the coffee machine, and was unwilling to move closer. “We’ve just had word from the station. The story about his sister checks out. She had gone home with her children just a short while before we approached him. It sounds like he was just there for a day out with his family.”
Zoe did not trust her own voice to answer him. It was a relief when Shelley did it for her, simply thanking Max and dismissing him.
“We missed it,” Zoe said, as soon as he was out of earshot. She crumpled the paper coffee cup in her hand, a few last drops of the brown liquid dropping to the floor. “We had the best chance to catch him, and we missed it. He will kill again, if he has not already.”
Shelley said nothing, but moved closer and rested that light touch on Zoe’s arm again. Though it was hardly anything, almost not even there, somehow it was reassuring. A mother’s touch, Zoe thought. Something so alien to her that she had not ever understood it.
The moment was broken by the sound of buzzing at her hip, her cell phone vibrating with a call.
Zoe checked the caller ID, cursed inwardly, and then answered. “Special Agent Prime speaking.”
“I’ve received a report that you have shot a suspect while taking him into custody.” It was not her direct boss, but the man above him. A serious kind of phone call.
Zoe sighed. “Yes, sir.”
“And you’ve since ascertained that this man was innocent, is that correct?”
There was no point in denying it, or attempting to provide reasoning. “Yes, sir.”
“Why do I not have your report on my desk? Why am I hearing this from someone else?”
“We have just left the suspect after interrogation, sir. I am heading back to begin my report now.”
“This is not an acceptable mistake, Special Agent Prime. The reputation of the Bureau is on the line. In the current political climate, we cannot have agents going around shooting whoever they want to.”
“I apologize, sir,” Zoe said, taking a breath to form an explanation—but it was wasted.
“One more misstep on this case and you’re done, Prime. That’s two wrong arrests, one of them with the incorrect use of a firearm. One more and I’m pulling you out of there. Your partner too.”
Zoe’s eyes darted toward Shelley. “Special Agent Rose had nothing—”
“I’m sure she didn’t, but you work as a team, and I expect you to get it right. The rookie will get off lightly. I’m holding you responsible as senior agent, Prime. If this all goes to hell, it’s your job. Do you understand me?”
Zoe wet her lips. There was no other acceptable response. “Yes, sir.”
The line disconnected, going flat in her ear, and Zoe dropped the cell back into her pocket.
“Not good?” Shelley winced sympathetically.
“We should just get back to our investigation room. We have only a day before he will strike again—the real killer.” Zoe rubbed her forehead in an attempt to clear the heavy headache that was forming there, and set off through the winding corridors of the hospital for the exit.
As they passed the state police moving in the opposite direction to take up questioning of Ivan Bradshaw, Zoe could not fail to notice their scowls. They were clearly unhappy with the direction that the night had taken, and their frustration appeared to be directed solidly at the two agents.
“We just made a mistake,” Shelley said, charitably including herself in the blame as she strode along to keep up with Zoe. “We will get him. We still know his pattern. We just missed something this time. Next time, we won’t.”
Zoe wished she could share Shelley’s conviction. The truth was, she had messed up, and she wasn’t sure how. And if she made another mistake, it wasn’t just her job that was on the line—but an innocent stranger’s life.
She picked up her cell again, making one last call to the state troopers. Something had been clicking away in her mind, and now it made itself known. An urgency that came with the realization that they did not have their man after all.
“Hello? I need you to send a patrol back to the fair right away. The man we arrested is not the killer. There is a chance he came late, and we missed him.”
“A chance?” The chief sounded skeptical, even through the phone.
“This is an urgent order,” Zoe told him, wishing he would just do as she said. “Lives are on the line. Get a patrol back there now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
He drove without really looking, watching his rearview mirror for flashing lights and keeping the window wound down to listen for sirens. The cold air pouring in through the window like waves was the only thing keeping his head grounded in the present moment. The reality of it was a slap in the face, constantly bringing him back to himself enough to stop him from crashing the car.
Without it, he might have been lost. Just as lost as he felt the pattern was, now that he had no chance to complete it.
What was he going to do?
He had failed—he was going to fail. The night was not over, but the cops had known where to find him. They knew where he was going to strike next. It was all over. How was he going to complete the pattern now?
Putting on his turn signal, he pulled over on the side of the road, resting for a moment with his forehead on the steering wheel. Could it really be all over now, so late in the game, so close to finishing it all?
He sat up straighter, realizing something. They had made an arrest, hadn’t they? He had seen the FBI woman point her gun and shoot, and the troopers swarming in to arrest that other man and take him away. In his rearview mirror as he pulled out, he had seen them manhandling him, their mouths open in shouts.
If they had made an arrest, maybe they thought they had him. That the suspect for all of the murderers was in custody, and everyone was safe.
And if they thought that everyone was safe, then they would not bother to guard the fair any longer.
With this new thought running in his mind, he started the car again and pulled it in a U-turn back toward the fair. Maybe there was still a chance. In spite of everything, maybe he could still turn this night around.
If he could make it work, then he owed it to the pattern to see it through.
Despite the excitement growing in his blood, fizzing through his veins at a renewed sense of hope, he kept the car steady and smooth. He respected the speed limit, staying just under it all the way, even though there was no longer any sign of law enforcement on the road. He would stay calm, play it cool. Approach them with caution, not rush in without thought.
When he reached the area where the cars had waited in a group as he left the fair—the group that he assumed had been made up of police officers in unmarked cars—there was no one in sight. He slowed down, pulling in on the grass next to the road and switching off his engine. If he was caught here, if someone came to question him, he could just say that he was feeling unwell. That he had pulled over to catch his breath and settle his stomach.
But no one approached, and as the minutes ticked by, he began to feel more confident that no one was watching at all.
He got out of the car, staying close to it in the shadows, even bending over and placing his hands on his knees as another vehicle flashed by in a gleam of headlights on the road. Playing the part. And when still no one came to challenge him, he made up his mind.
It was not too far from the fair, here. He could easily walk to the parking lot and slip through it on foot, right up to the gates. It was closed, past time to allow new visitors, but he could sneak over the fence and see what he could see. Maybe there was still a way to make this work.
He stuck close to the trees, hiding himself in the shadows, glad of his decision to dress in dark colors. This way, he could avoid being seen for as long as possible. If there was anyone still waiting in the parking lot, he could slip away, back to his car and away from detection.
The parking lot was empty. He saw that as soon as he reached the edge of the trees, the broken-down fence he had been watching earlier. It seemed much larger now, without all of the cars to fill it. There was no one in sight, and even the lights of the fair had been turned off. Past the entrance, he saw the tall looming shapes of the dinosaur statues, like sentinels over the empty fair.
No one was here. It was closed, and everyone was gone.
He had missed his chance, after all.
He lingered, wanting to kick something or tear his hair out, fighting back an angry scream of frustration. What was he supposed to do now? There was no one here—no one to complete the pattern. He was never going to make it!
How could he have been so stupid? He should have covered his tracks better—made it less obvious that the pattern was in place. Maybe he should have moved more of the bodies right from the start, since it was the location of the kill that mattered! Why had it taken him so long to realize that? And why had he waited—sat in his car without making a move—instead of just going into the fair to make his attack earlier?
All hope was lost. He contemplated going into the fair and checking, just checking. Even so, a heavy weight had dropped into his stomach, and he did not know if he would even be able to move.
A light flashed out before him, illuminating the parking lot in a wide sweep, and he turned in fear. This night was getting worse by the minute. As the dazzle of the headlights faded from his eyes, he made out the insignia of the state police painted on the side of the car.
“Can I help you, sir?” the cop asked, leaning out the window. His voice had an accusatory tone. It was not really a question of help. The man understood that. It was a suspicion.
He had to think fast—tell him something that would take away the suspicion. Make him a normal person in the eyes of the cop. “I was here earlier, and I think I must have dropped my wallet,” he said quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets in an approximation of glumness. “Thought I would come and check, but looks like they’re closed up for the night.”
He waited then, tense. The cop was still inside his car—not an easy target. Maybe if he would get out, that would be a chance. He could loop the wire around his neck, catch him, make him tonight’s piece of the pattern. But he had wanted to avoid cops right from the beginning, avoid anyone that would make too much of a buzz. Cops wanted cop killers more than any other kind.
The other thing was that the cop might try to arrest him, and then he would have to do something. Pull the garrote out of his pocket and stop him before he got the cuffs on or radioed it in. The man couldn’t make out the cop’s eyes in the darkness, couldn’t read his facial expression. He had no idea what he would do next. He couldn’t even see how tall the cop was—what if he was too tall, too strong? He had targeted women for the most part, and for a reason. That first guy by the farm had almost overpowered him, almost gotten away. He couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t happen again.
“Well,” the cop drawled, making it take longer than it needed to, setting all of the man’s nerves on edge. “You’d best come back in the morning, son. We’re patrolling this area because of an arrest made here earlier. You can ask the staff tomorrow whether someone turned it in.”
The man scratched the back of his head, letting his shoulders slump. “Yes, sir,” he said, dropping into a lower tone, a disappointed sound. “Guess I’d better just hope for a good Samaritan tomorrow, then.”
The cop rolled up his window and started to peel out, and the man waited for the car to move before going as if to follow it. He walked toward the entrance to the parking lot, where it led out onto the road, as if he was about to walk out and back to his car.
And stopped as soon as the patrol car was out of sight, unwilling to leave the parking lot just yet. This was where it had to happen. There was no doubt about that. The pattern was clear. But how was he going to do that without any target in the area?
He lingered, unsure of what to do or where to go. There was nothing for him here, yet still he felt compelled to stay. All night, if need be, until the sun rose in the morning and it was finally all over.
But he did not have to wait until sunup. In fact, he barely had to wait long at all.
It had been just a matter of minutes since the departure of the state cop when another sound caught his ears. The light laughter and conversation of two voices coming from a distance away, far enough at first that he could hear sounds only and not make out words. They were originating somewhere in the fair, and seemed to be coming closer.
Holding his breath to hear them more clearly, the man crept toward the entrance gates. He stuck close to the shadows at the edge of the parking lot, where the encroaching trees gave him some shade. With a rising pulse, he realized they were approaching closer—close enough that he could soon make out their conversation fully.
Two women, one older than the other. They were talking about their day, about visitors and their behavior and how busy it had been. One of them was jingling a set of keys as they walked. They sounded unhurried, calm, cheerful. Probably pleased at the prospect of another day of work done. He watched them come into view around one of the fence posts, moving toward and through the entrance to the fair.
“Let me just lock up,” one of them said, bending down slightly to look at the gate more closely. “God, it’s dark out here. I wish they would at least leave the lights on over here so we could see.”
“You know what Mark’s like,” the other laughed. “We’re lucky he even pays us to lock up. If he had his way, he’d pay us until the end of the shift and make us work for free.”
“Cutting every corner to save a bit of money,” the older woman agreed. The other turned on a bright flashlight on her cell phone, pointing it at the gate.
The man held his breath again, examining them in the new light as the older woman finally fit the key into the lock. She was in her late twenties or early thirties, perhaps, her brow furrowed in concentration as she attempted to complete the motion. The other was only a teen, maybe working her first ever part-time job. The perfect way to save up some money for college.
There was opportunity here. The man had never tried for two at once, but they were women, and both of them not expecting anyone else to be around. It was pitch dark in the parking lot without the lights from the fair, and they were on foot, moving toward cars perhaps parked down the road away from the customer area.
Not only that, but the bright glare of the flashlight was in their eyes. As the older woman finished her task at last and shoved the keys into her handbag, the man knew that this was his chance. Once the light was off, they would be functionally blind in this darkness. He would see them, and they would not see him.
This was his chance to keep the pattern going.
He waited until the light went out, and then leaped out from his hiding place to strike.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Zoe punched the pillow, trying to make it somehow comfortable even despite the fact that this felt like a futile effort. There was not much hope for the thin, almost brick-like pillow, if it could even be called that. It was as uncomfortable as anyone could possibly make it, exactly the kind of thing provided in these low-budget motels.
Zoe had not wanted to try to sleep, but Shelley had pointed out that they needed rest for what was likely another long day ahead. Zoe had been in favor of returning to the investigation room and working through the small hours of the night, but Shelley, driving their car, had pulled in outside the motel and insisted.
It was hard to sleep, knowing that you had failed. That you had had a killer in your grasp and still missed him. Just how she had done that, she still struggled to understand. Everything had been right—the car matching the tire tracks, the color the same as the paint under the dead girl’s fingernails, all the numbers adding up. The right suspect for the case.
But he had not been the right suspect, and there was no way now that Zoe could hold on to that futile hope.
She had failed, and when she closed her eyes, she saw those dead women staring back at her from the crime scene photos she had spent so long studying. Not enough, they seemed to be telling her. You didn’t do enough to stop him. She had followed up with the state trooper patrols, but no one reported seeing anything.
She rolled over, switching to her other side. The sheets were already tangled around her legs from over an hour of tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable or quiet the noise in her head. She kept going over and over it, the pattern, the numbers, the coordinates on the map. No matter how she looked at it, she felt right. Like there had been no possible way that she had made a mistake on any of it.
And yet the suspect had been the wrong man, all the same, and the real killer had gotten away. Maybe to kill someone else. Most likely, she had to admit to herself. You didn’t get this far and then stop because the cops were too close.
Zoe forced her eyes shut again, trying to find something Zen deep inside her that would allow her to relax and drift off. It was not easy. The faces of dead girls swam in her vision, taunting her with her failure. She had failed them. She had failed someone else, someone whose face would join them before long.
She couldn’t think about this. She rolled again and tried to crush herself into sleep, squeezing her eyes so tightly shut that her whole face wrinkled inward.