AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Ella read the few details she had available, but according to the logs, the victim had only been discovered a few hours ago. All she had was a name and an age.
‘Miles Rampell, thirty-six years old, killed in his house in Glendale. Cause of death isn't specified, but if police have linked this murder to the others, chances are he was asphyxiated too.' Ella's ears popped with the rising altitude, but she yawned them back to functionality. 'One female victim, two male victims. Broad victimology, no indication of sexual assault, despite strangulation being a sexual crime. Looking at it on paper, these victims might not even be connected.’
‘Look at the pattern, Dark. I can see two common threads a mile off.’
‘Proximity?’ she asked.
‘That’s one thread. It’s pretty rare to have three strangulations in three days in a single city.’
Ella mentally scanned the details again. She saw it on second glance. ‘All the victims are the same age. They’re all thirty-six.’
Ripley went back to staring out of the window. ‘You think that’s a coincidence?’
Another one of Ripley’s rhetorical questions, one designed to penetrate the veil of probability. ‘No, but it’s impossible to say for sure.’
‘This is a three-piece puzzle, Dark, and all you need to do is fit the pieces together.’
‘Given the lack of any sexual component, these victims aren’t surrogates for anyone. Our unsub isn’t killing his ex-girlfriend over and over again.’
‘Nope. These people are the intended targets. They’re not random. He’s killing the actual source of his trauma. How do we know that?’
‘Because the odds of a serial killer selecting three random targets the exact same age is….’ Ella did the quick math, ‘about one percent.’
‘Yup. And he breached personal spaces – three times. He’s able to get close to his victims, either through cunning or manipulation or….’
‘Or they know him,’ Ella interrupted. ‘Our guy is suffocating a certain subset of people.’
‘Now we just have to find out why – and who he is.’
Ella mulled over the facts, her analytical mind at work. ‘If these victims knew the killer, there's a good chance they shared some part of their lives. We need to find that intersection point.’
Ripley added, ‘We're looking for a connection that ties a thirty-six-year-old energy operator, a technical writer, and this latest victim, Miles Rampell. It's specific, which means it's traceable.’
Ella tapped her pen against the notepad. ‘Workplace, community event, social group. We need to dig into their pasts, find where their paths crossed.’
Ripley nodded, her gaze sharpening. ‘And we need to move fast. If this killer is following a pattern, he might not stop at three.’
Ella felt the weight of urgency. ‘Let’s head straight to the most recent crime scene when we land. If our guy is evolving with each kill, there might be something there we can zone in on. A ritual that reveals the truth behind the surface.’
Ripley started making notes of her own. ‘We should also check for any recent anniversaries or events related to that age group. Maybe it's a grudge, or a traumatic anniversary the killer can't move past.’
Ella took it all in, welcoming the complexity of the puzzle. Anything to distract herself from Logan Nash’s death. ‘We've got our work cut out for us. But we'll unravel this. We have to.’
‘And Dark, I don’t have to tell you that wrapping this case up in record time will be a huge middle finger to Randall Carter.’
Ella couldn't help but crack a smile. ‘Yeah, a victory here would definitely send a message to Carter, but justice first. Anything else is a bonus.’
‘Sorry, I just can’t shake that weasel’s comments.’
Ella found herself absorbed in thought, tracing the intricate web of this bizarre case. She felt a sense of purpose, a drive that went beyond just proving a point to Carter. It was about bringing closure to the families of the victims, about serving justice where it was desperately due. Ella decided to leave the politics in the hands of those who cared more about reputation than morality. Justice was waiting to be served, and Ella was ready to deliver it.
CHAPTER SIX
Ella stepped out of the car into a neighborhood ripped straight from a postcard. Pristine lawns, picket fences, and rows of white uniform houses basked under the morning sun. It was the kind of place that epitomized suburban tranquility, where every home seemed to cradle its own slice of the American dream.
But a barrier of yellow tape cut through the tranquil scene, a grim reminder that horror lurked in the most unexpected places. Ella led the way to the front door and flashed her badge to the officer on duty. He nodded his acceptance, pulled out his radio and summoned a new face to the door.
‘FBI?’ the man asked. He was late-thirties at most, Latino heritage, chiseled jaw sharp enough to cut gravel.
