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‘Yeah. We know what they are?’
‘Two customers at Killing Fields accused Brewer of being a little handsy. Two women, around the same age as our victims. Apparently our friend Trixter uses his job to his advantage.’
Ripley raised an eyebrow. ‘Sexual assault. That’s how it starts.’
‘Nothing official, that’s why he wasn’t in the police database. He hasn’t been charged, just suspected.’
‘Hiding in plain sight,’ Ripley said. ‘Perfect cover.’
The comment brought back thoughts of Logan Nash. The man who felt a million miles away yet right next to her at the same time. Ella’s fingers tightened around the coffee cup.
‘We need something concrete, something more than just allegations. And unfortunately, he knows it. That's why he's so smug in there.’
Ripley nodded. ‘His lawyer will probably use those allegations to his advantage. Claim that they were false, that they were disgruntled customers, and that Brewer was just doing his job.’
‘We can present him with the fact he knew both victims, but it’s not concrete enough, might not even be enough to hold him here.’
‘He ran, Dark. He tried to hit you with a baseball bat. I can hold him here for weeks based on that alone.’
Ella's mind wrestled with the facts, but the major question that cropped up was – did Mark Brewer seem like a killer? Sure, he'd attacked her and had unverified allegations against him, but did that translate to him being capable of murder? She stared intently at the dreadlocked clown through the glass. His casual demeanor, the way he kept himself – all of it seemed a stark contrast to the twisted clown persona he projected at Killing Fields. Could someone that cool and collected really be a ruthless killer? Or was it just an act?
‘Don’t do that thing, Dark,’ Ripley said.
She turned to her partner. ‘It's just... Look at him. Can you genuinely see him as a killer, Ripley? Or are we barking up the wrong tree?’
‘He’s a clown obsessed with horror films. He knows the victims. He literally tried to kill you an hour ago. Most of the time, the simplest answer is the correct one.’
Ella felt the doubts beginning to seep in. ‘He’s an actor, Mia.’
‘So is everyone else in this stupid place. I ran into two failed actors just getting these coffees.’
Ella couldn’t deny the truth in Ripley's words. This was LA, a city of dreams, a city where almost everyone wore a mask, playing a role, hoping to be discovered or to hide their real selves. The line between acting and reality could get dangerously thin at times.
Ripley took another sip from her cup, her gaze never leaving Brewer. ‘Actors are the best liars. They get paid to be someone they're not. Maybe Brewer's the best actor of them all, and Killing Fields is just his stage.’
Ella pondered the idea. ‘But if he's such a good actor, why let his guard down and attack me? Why risk it all?’
‘Maybe you cornered him, made him panic. Even the best actors can flub their lines when put under enough pressure.’
A silence settled between the two detectives as Brewer began to hum a tune, his voice barely audible through the intercom. The song was hauntingly familiar, F minor to A flat and back again. It took Ella a few seconds to recognize the notes.
‘He’s humming the Halloween theme,’ she said.
Ripley stepped closer to the mirror and rested her knuckles on the glass. Ella could see her rage building. ‘Then he’s either brave or stupid.’
Ella's mind whirred with the disparity between the psychological profile and the man sitting beyond the mirror. Her initial analysis of the killer had been of someone methodical, organized, mission-oriented. The kind of psychopath who would unravel if their carefully laid plans were disrupted.
And she was struggling to fit Mark Brewer into that box.
‘Mia, you know how goal-oriented offenders get when their designs are interrupted. They try and wriggle free, make up wild excuses, anything to finish their missions.’
Ripley placed her coffee cup on a nearby table. ‘Sometimes there are psychological anomalies, Dark. Not every serial killer fits into a perfect box. Kemper, Manson, Fish, Gein. Unique psychopathologies.’
‘Absolutely, but look at Brewer. He’s a showman. He thrives on reactions. All I’m seeing is a shock artist with no substance. Alice Cooper without the charisma.’
Chief Daniels appeared, hanging up a call, brown folder in hand. He gazed at the suspect for a minute before turning his attention to the agents.
‘Here’s everything we know about this guy. Not much to go on, but it’s something.’
