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“Could be an hour. They still haven’t collected everything from Abigail Cartwright’s place.”
Ella stepped back and took in the scene. A public murder in a large building. The victim was a well-known figure in the community. How did this connect, if at all?
“He’s got some stones to do this,” Ripley said. “How did he even get in here? How did he get past security? Why would he take such a risk?”
“I’ve requested copies of the CCTV footage. If he was in the building, something would pick him up. He’s not invisible.”
Ella moved to the door, checked the locks. No signs of forced entry. The same as Katherine Parkinson’s apartment. “I doubt he just walked in here. He wouldn’t be that bold, or that stupid.”
Ripley said, “Agreed.”
But like at Katherine’s place, Gail Brookes’s office had another exit point. Or at least, an exit point for someone who might want to cover their tracks.
Ella checked the other side of the office. There was a sliding window that opened out onto a stone balcony. The outer section wasn’t made for standing, more of a visual aid, but it wouldn’t stop someone from using it to gain leverage.
Or access.
“Window’s unlocked,” Ella said. She climbed outside, stood on the tiny balcony, and looked over the ten-foot drop to the concrete below. It overlooked the rear of the City Council HQ, high-rise buildings beyond a graffiti-tagged alleyway.
“Reminds me of Katherine’s place.” Ripley had stuck her head out of the window.
“Yeah. Anyone with an athletic bone could climb this,” Ella called back. “Just an alleyway down here. He could have mounted the wall then climbed up one of the drains. We know he’s got good coordination because of how he got into Katherine’s apartment.”
Ella scoured the balcony for any discarded evidence but found nothing but old stone and a cigarette filter. She climbed back into the office and said, “Forensics need to check out there, but if I was a killer, that’s the route I’d take.”
Sergeant Grant said, “He must have blitzed her as soon as she sat down. You couldn’t hide in here for long.”
“The closet disagrees,” Ella said. “Look at how Gail is positioned. We know our killer – or killers – don’t pose their victims. Gail’s been stabbed in the stomach, then she dropped forward. If our killer had attacked her head-on, Gail would have been jolted back away from her desk, maybe out of her chair.”
Ripley opened and closed one of the cupboard doors. “Right on the money. You could hide a cow in here.”
“Why has he killed in the middle of the day?” Grant asked. It was an obvious question, but neither Ella nor Ripley had chosen to address it yet. Ella was still compartmentalizing all the details, and this day-killing could be the element that tied everything together.
Ripley offered her thoughts. “Because he targeted Gail specifically and this was the only place he could confidently grab her.”
“I don’t know,” Ella said. “If that was the case, this guy is being unnecessarily brazen. He could have offed Gail on the street, and I doubt it’s hard to find her address.”
“So why the day killing?” Ripley asked. “No other theories make sense.”
Ella said, “Because this murder is a message.”
“They’re all messages.”
“Yup, but this one isn’t for us.” Ella kneeled down and inspected the body of Gail Brookes, careful not to disturb anything. Given that this scene was a drastic deviation from the usual M.O., there was a chance the killer could have slipped up and left significant DNA evidence behind. He didn’t have the comforts of a private space here. He could have been interrupted at any second, so he would have been in a hurry.
Grant asked, “What the hell are you talking about?”
Gail’s body was pressed against the desk, but the ring bindings of a notebook peeked out from beneath her shoulder. It was concealed in shadow, but there was just enough of a gap between the book and Gail’s shoulder for Ella to pry it free.
Ripley and Grant moved closer, watching Ella as though she was performing life-saving surgery. In a way, she was.
“Dark, don’t tamper with the evidence.”
“Like I said, he’s sending a message, and this is the perfect way to do it.” She extracted the notebook, coaxing it free, and pulling it into view with two fingers. The old pickpocket technique.
The notebooklay openon thedesk, its glossy page reflectingthepale light fromthenearby window. The top page was weighed down with thick, reddish-brown letters, like someone had tried to write with watery paint.
“Oh Christ,” said Ripley, her jaw dropping an inch. “This is… something else.”
