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“We’ve got this guy on tapeandwe have his voice. We should be able to pinpoint this asshole in seconds, especially in a town this small.”
“That’s what the sheriff is doing. We’ve only been here a day. I think we need to get this voice sample out to the public. I reckon this town is full of lifers so someone might recognize it.”
“I’d agree if the voice wasn’t so plain. It’s bog-standard middle America, maybe with a little southern thrown in. Not to mention it’s about as clear as a pint of Guinness. I don’t think we’re gonna get a whole lot from this to be honest.”
Ella sat back in her chair and breathed a heavy sigh. If not for the circumstances, she’d have to laugh. Ripley had become the person she always vowed not to be, the I’m-not-paid-by-the-hour cavalier that just wanted to get in and get out as soon as possible. Ella would have loved to have made some serious headway too, but something as serious as homicide required diligent effort out of respect for the victims. As frustrating as the fact was, serial killers just didn’t walk into precincts and hand themselves in. Ella was happy to put the work in and beat this monster at his own game, and besides, all she had to go back to in D.C. were her own unsolvable mysteries.
The door swung open and Sheriff Halestepped intotheroom, his boots heavyandloud onthewooden floor.Inonehand heheld a sheaf of papers, rustlingin thesilence like a flock of birds taking flight. “Got something for you,” he said. “A list of people who own units at Securicall Storage. The owner just sent it over.”
“Excellent,” Ella said. She welcomed any new information, even just a list of names. The sheriff placed the papers down on the desk and went on his way. Ella took the list, speedily reading the names then glanced over at her partner doing the same. Each name had a name and a number next to it: the date each unit was first rented and the unit number.
None stood out.
“Any of these mean anything to you, Dark?”
“Nope. None except David Harper, number three-hundred.”
“Yeah,” said Ripley. “Maybe we need to start looking into the scam business David fell for. There could be something in that.”
“I took a quick look already. Two guys, known scammers, both in jail. Nothing to do with David’s scam, but still, it puts them out of the picture.”
“For Christ’s sake,” said Ripley. “What about David’s creditors? His ex said someone loaned him money, didn’t she?”
“Couldn’t find anything,” Ella said. “No records of anything other than David’s income goingintohis account. Lots coming out, but nothing sketchy being deposited.”
Ripley angrily crumpled the paper in front of her, her frustration palpable. She looked through the list of names as she retreated on her chair, forgetting it wasn’t a recliner and jamming the base into her back with a sudden thud. She didn’t sell the embarrassment. “So one of these four-hundred names could be our unsub,” she said.
“Four-hundred and ten,” Ella confirmed, “but it’s better than two-thousand.”
“Our killer knew that David was living here, so he had to know the basic details about his life, but that could be a huge circle. Could be a friend of a friend. Anyone could have let that information slip.”
“His ex said he didn’t have many friends, and evenshedidn’t know he was living in that unit. It had to be someone close to him.”
“Or someone that just happened to see a potential target in an isolated area,” Ripley said.
Ella wasn’t buying that for a second. “Ripley, this town is nothing but grass and mountains. If this was a random lust kill, our killer couldn’t have chosen a worse spot. He picked one of the few places in the town that actuallydoeshave cameras. David was always an intended target.”
Ripley’s eyebrows knit together asElla’swords sunk in, accepting the explanation in silence.
“That could have been part of the thrill,” Ella continued. “He technically invaded both victims’ homes. The violation of sanctuary. The interaction with the victims. The intimate killing method. If the victimology was consistent, I’d say there was a sexual element at play.”
“He was in and out too quickly for there to be a sexual component,” Ripley argued. “Think about it. You’re alone with these victims. You can do whatever you want without interruption. Why would you stab and run without savoring the moment?”
Ella pondered the idea, drawing on past serial killers for reference. It was true that lust killers preferred to spend intimate time with their victims when possible, usually dispensing mutilation or dismemberment postmortem. It wasn’t an exact psychological science, more so a general rule, and there were always exceptions. Ripley had a point in this case. Usually, knife wounds were a symbolic substitute for penetration, but if sexual release was this unsub’s goal then he certainly didn’t show it.
“Fair enough. Sexual gratification is off the table. If he’s not the hedonistic type, then he’s either a thrill seeker, revenge seeker, or a mission-oriented killer.”
“Let’s hope it’s the latter,” said Ripley.
Even in the context of homicide investigations, Ella had to pray for the best case scenario, and the best possible outcome was that this killer was on some kind of mission. Usually driven by delusions or the desire to right some perceived wrong, mission-oriented offenders were so dedicated to their goals that they’d go to extreme measures to carry them out. It was a double-edged sword, because it meant they wouldn’t stop hunting their targets until death or imprisonment intervened, but it also meant that they were more prone to mistakes. They also had a much smaller pool of victims, and while most mission-oriented killers targeted select groups like ethnic minorities or sex workers, there was a sub-category of this offender that targeted specific individuals. From what Ella had discerned so far, this unsub fell into this rare category.
The deeper she thought about it, the more she went back to her original belief: these two victims had to be connected, no matter how ambiguously. Her eyes still swept across the names on the new lists; if their killer was on here, it meant that person would also have a link to Joanne Gustafson.
But replaying the conversation she’d had with Joanne’s ex-husband, she realized she knew barely anything about the woman. She was a troubled drug addict who’d lost a child and that was pretty much the extent of it. She recalled the previous conversation in full detail, but there didn’t seem to be anything she could grasp onto despite the intimate details her ex had shared.
Ella’s gaze drifted across the list, her shoulders slumping in resignation. No matter how hard she clawed for a connection, none of the names were familiar. Night began to set in outside and it seemed defeat had won the day.
But motivated by prospect of having to face this brick wall again tomorrow morning, Ella zoned out and willed her subconscious into the driver’s seat. The old artist’s trick. The age-old method that historical authors apparently used to combat writer’s block. She didn’t know if it worked, and debates about the subconscious even existing at all were numerous, but it was a last-ditch attempt to make progress with the current information at her disposal.
