Friday
1
Matt Costa stood rigid in the cramped observation room of the Flagler County Sheriff’s Department, the air thick with sweat and adrenaline. Beside him, District Attorney John Anson buzzed with barely contained triumph—nearly two hours in, and he was still riding high. Garrett Reid had walked straight into a felony: the attempted abduction of two undercover agents. No resistance, no fighting back. Just a quiet, eerie surrender, like a man who already knew the outcome.
Now, behind the glass, Reid sat pale and dazed under the harsh fluorescent lights, looking from Detective Bianca Fuentes to FBI Agent Michael Harris. His confusion had to be an act. Why didn’t he ask for a lawyer from the beginning? Reid couldn’t be this clueless. Yet all he had done for one hour, forty minutes was listen, answer simple questions, repeat that there was a misunderstanding, and shake his head in disbelief. Eventually, he would clam up. Eventually, he would ask to make a call.
Matt, though pleased Reid had been captured without anyone on his team injured, was not as excited about the arrest as theDA. There was something scratching at the back of his mind, an itch that it had all happened too easily, too smoothly. They needed physical evidence or a confession to prove he was the murderer they’d been looking for; if they got the confession, they needed information to lead them to physical evidence. Until Matt had tangible proof in which to wrap up this case with an unimpeachable bow, he wouldn’t be satisfied.
Reid checked all the boxes of Dr. Catherine Jones’s profile. Single, white, male. He was thirty, right in the sweet spot of her twenty-five to forty age range. Above average IQ, and had worked at the resort where the newlyweds went missing, in a position that was below his skill set—Reid was a college graduate who worked in Maintenance at Sapphire Shoals. Attractive, fit, personable, lived alone. Check, check, check, and check.
Flagler County law enforcement had called the FBI for assistance shortly after the abduction of the third pair of newlyweds one month ago. At first, they treated the case as missing persons, but when the bodies of Mitch and Sheila Avila washed up on shore a week later, it became a double homicide—the fifth and sixth murders of what they now knew was a serial killer targeting honeymooning couples at the large, popular resort.
The idea for Matt and Kara to pose as newlyweds had been Catherine’s—and it was a good one. Kara matched the profile of the three murdered women: in their thirties, blonde, petite. She and Catherine crafted a convincing backstory, similar enough to the victims to draw attention but not so exact as to raise suspicion. Kara slipped easily into the undercover role; Matt didn’t. Every quiet moment felt like a countdown. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching, waiting to strike. But he trusted his team.
Five days into their staged “honeymoon,” Garrett Reid made his move. He drugged their breakfast. Knowing the victims had been drugged, Matt and Kara had tested each meal forketamine—when this time the coffee and juice tested positive, they pretended to pass out. Reid crept into their cottage. As soon as he entered with a laundry cart—perfect for transporting two bodies—Matt’s team swooped in and made the arrest.
In the interview room, Detective Fuentes, a seasoned detective who had been spearheading the investigation locally, had already gone through preliminary questions. Name, address, place of employment, a timeline of Reid’s morning. Softball questions, almost friendly. She offered water and soda, tried to make him comfortable, but he maintained that look of confusion.
“I really don’t understand why I’m here,” Reid said, not for the first time.
“We arrested you for assault and kidnapping, do you understand the charges?”
“I understandwhatyou think, but I don’t understandwhyyou think I did anything wrong,” Reid said. “It’s clearly a misunderstanding.” He nodded, as if to emphasize his theory. “Just a misunderstanding.”
Reid didn’t look like a killer, but after nearly fifteen years in the Bureau, Matt had learned never to judge by appearances. Not every killer looked the part. Reid was attractive in an unremarkable way—dark, neatly cut hair; suntanned skin from working outdoors; clear blue eyes; a strong jawline. Fit but not imposing, he looked harmless.
Fuentes said, “At 9:15 this morning, you delivered room service to cottage 14, one of the private beachside suites at the Sapphire Shoals Resort and Spa, registered to Mathias and Kara Costa. Correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Reid said. His demeanor remained polite and confused. That he wasn’t agitated bothered Matt. He should be nervous by now.
“And you delivered the food through the main door, correct?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And then, fifty minutes later, you entered the cottage from the private beachside entrance.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”
“You had a laundry cart with you.”
“Uh-huh,” he said.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you enter the cottage with a laundry cart?”
He frowned, as if thinking. “I saw them, the Costas? I saw them on the floor. I thought they were hurt.”
“Why didn’t you call security? Or your manager?” Michael interjected. He played the part of the stern, disapproving cop. It wasn’t an act.
“I wanted to confirm. You know, it was weird, and I was just walking by—”
“You were walking by with a laundry cart on the beach,” Fuentes said.
“Not the beach—I was on the path,” he said. “The cart was there, but the housekeeping staff wasn’t around, and it was a hazard, so I was taking it back to the storage room, and that path is faster. Like I said, just a misunderstanding. I’m sorry. Can I go now?”
