Oliver’s hand on his arm forestalled Lincoln’s eye roll. “When Ruby was taken,” he said, “I told them I wanted you on the case. Something feels . . . off. Dr. Fear’s victims were never personal as far as we could tell, and they were never directed at anyone tied to the investigation.”
“The victims were strangers to them,” Lincoln concurred.
There wasn’t a shred of evidence in the three sets of victims prior to this cycle that indicated Dr. Fear had a previous connection to their victims, either directly or through acquaintances. Victimology was one of the giant blinking question marks surrounding Dr. Fear. How had they identified their victims? Why had they chosen them? How had they learned what the victims feared the most? Dr. Fear had used that to subject each victim to the very thing the victim feared until they either succumbed to it or succumbed to Dr. Fear, begging for their death. A claustrophobic suffocated, a musophobic set upon by rats, a nyctophobic trapped in a dark basement. The list went on, and always couples, one forced to watch the other succumb to their fears before succumbing to their own.
“And then this”—Beverley produced two evidence bags, one with a slip of paper, the other an overnight courier envelope—“arrived here this morning, addressed to Senator Kirk.”
Lincoln slid his glasses on and picked up the bag with the single sheet of paper, peering at the handwritten note. It was a diagnosis, identical in form to the ones found at each place Dr. Fear’s previous victims disappeared from, except this one wasn’t for a victim. It detailed someone who feared they’d never be noticed, who feared their own crimes wouldn’t be memorable enough, who needed to steal someone else’s MO for notoriety.
A copycat.
The diagnosis—fear of anonymity—was signed by Dr. Fear, in a script Lincoln could verify as certainly as any Bureau handwriting expert. He’d examined the previous diagnoses more than enough times to recognize the sharp, slanted script with the heavy pen-points at the beginning and end of each string of letters.
“They’re disavowing the copycat,” Lincoln said.
Oliver nodded. “That’s what it reads like.”
“You think that’s from the real Dr. Fear?” the DC SAC asked.
Lincoln tapped the signature line. “That’s their sig, no doubt, and the form of diagnosis and sentence structure match.”
“Information about the diagnoses was out there in the press,” the chief of police said. “Anyone could copy those.”
“The existence of the diagnoses was released, the details of the paper they were written on were not.” Lincoln held the bag aloft so that the overhead lights would illuminate the watermark on the linen paper. A marker of sorts, like on the back of the Duke Law photo they’d analyzed in class today. “This is custom paper. Each small batch is stamped and numbered. Dr. Fear’s last diagnosis from twelve years ago was written on paper from Letter Elegant, Batch 301.”
Lincoln rotated so the SAC could see the paper’s watermark clearly. “Letter Elegant, Batch 302,” the older man said. “Fuck.”
“The notes at the other two scenes this week?” Lincoln asked.
“Same,” Beverley said. “Which is why, until that letter arrived, we were proceeding under the assumption that this was Dr. Fear.”
“If this is a copycat, they know about the paper too.” Lincoln tossed the evidence bag on the table. “Fuck.”
Oliver curled a hand over Lincoln’s arm again. “This is why I told Bev you had to be on the case. Officially.”
Lincoln covered Oliver’s hand with his. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get Ruby and Chase back.”
“I’m glad you said that.” Beverley slid a travel envelope across the table. “You’re on the next flight to Roanoke.”
“Roanoke? Why?” As soon as he asked the question, Lincoln recalled the other evidence bag on the table. “Wait!” He snatched it up and flipped it over to examine the sender address on the shipping envelope. Roanoke, Virginia. “What’s this address? A residence, a mail center, an office store?”
“None of the above, according to Cyber. Spoofed address, with the label printed online from an untraceable account.”
Fuck. “Then why do we think the note actually originated in Roanoke?”
“Because tracking does show it being retrieved from a drop box there.”
But that wasn’t enough. “Just because the letter came from Roanoke doesn’t mean that’s where Dr. Fear is. All their victims were taken from and found in the DC Metro area. It’s more likely they drove out to Roanoke to drop off the letter. There’s no reason to think they live there.”
“In Apex, actually,” Beverley said. “Roanoke is the closest major city.”
“Apex? As in the home of the Mountaineers, last year’s NCAA Division III basketball champions?” And in the hunt this year too. So what if he watched too much SportsCenter?
“That’s the one,” Beverley said. “We’ve already got an agent on the ground there.”
Lincoln’s brows raced north. “But you just received the letter this morning?”
“He was pursuing a separate matter and came across a lead on this one. He has some expertise in forensic genealogy.”
