“He could also idolize you in a way,” Brandon said. “But don’t miss the message that he’s giving you. He wants you to know that he can get to you.” His face went very somber. “He’s demonstrating a very volatile and fragile psyche, Amanda. You should watch your back.”
“Wow. So happy I stopped by.” She laughed stiffly, trying to make light of what Brandon had said, but her attempt fell heavy in the room. “Maybe we’re just getting ahead of ourselves. The killing could stop here.”
Brandon locked eye contact with her. “I hope so, but I don’t think it will until you stop him.”
She gripped tighter on the back of the chair, then flailed her arms. “I’m open to any suggestions. I’ve never hunted a serial killer before.”
“Well, serial killers don’t become such overnight. There are contributing factors.”
“Like childhood abuse, which you’ve mentioned.” Amanda kicked that back with a smile. She really wanted to make light of this conversation because honestly it was scaring the shit out of her. This guy had been at her daughter’s grave. He knew that he could reach Amanda there. What else did he know? Where she lived?
Becky smiled awkwardly, as if to support Amanda.
“Not always. That was just one possibility I mentioned. He could have been affected by something else during his childhood or teenage years. This could have made him feel invisible, something that greatly hurt him. He could have witnessed something or had a loved one who wounded him by becoming a prostitute, maybe even a victim of sex trafficking.”
“That would be crazy if that’s the case. These girls don’t exactly sign up for it.”
Brandon angled his head. “What we call crazy, serial killers justify in their minds. They’re not wired like the rest of us.”
“Not disputing that.” She sat back down.
“You might want to look up previous cases that involved some of the parameters from these two cases. It doesn’t have to be all of them. Say, young women who were victims of arson and/or strangulation, and so on. I could have my go-to analyst run a search in ViCAP for you.”
Amanda was familiar with the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. It was a database that housed unsolved crimes, but any searches needed to be handled through the FBI. “I’d have to get something like that approved by my sergeant.”
“If you end up deciding you want to go ahead, let me know. But you could very well find your killer by looking at closed cases too. He may have served time and recently gotten out. I would recommend getting a media ban in place. Sounds like this guy wants the spotlight, and you’d be further ahead not to shine it on him.”
At least she’d sort of done something right. She had sent Diana Wesson away in her PWC News van.
“More importantly, and I can’t stress this enough—” Brandon let those words hang for a minute, his voice sullen, before continuing “—really watch your back with this one.”
Goosebumps pricked her flesh. They were after a monster and had no idea which closet to find him in.
Twenty-Four
It was midnight, the fresh start of a new day. Nothing yet had hit the news about Fox’s murder. Probably all because Detective Steele had shut them down. He’d seen her turn that reporter away. How could she be so obtuse? His message needed to get out, and she had stopped that from happening. She had made herself his enemy, and he felt betrayed. Just like all those years ago when he’d been stung by the same emotions—the rejection, the abandonment, the utter helplessness. The invisibility. The detective would pay for what she’d done. He just had to figure out the best way to hit her. Because when he did, he wanted it to be such a blindside, she’d be spinning. That thought brought a smile to his face.
He looked down at his arm where Fox had clawed him. The skin had welted from her attack. He just hoped she hadn’t infected him with something.
He grabbed a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the medicine cabinet over the sink. It was probably expired, but it would have to do. He grabbed a tissue from his pocket and dabbed at the wound. No sting. He swiped the area, cleaning it yet again. Still feeling nothing but emotional angst. Rage, heartbreak, and confusion whirled like a tornado within him.
How could the detective turn on him like she had? Had she not received his message at the grave? Did she not appreciate how important his work was? No one ever seemed to understand him.
He caught his eyes in the mirror. They were dark and clouded, unlike his mind and soul, which were, in a lot of ways, clearer than ever.
He returned to the sitting area in his loft and logged into his laptop. He checked online again to see if anything had hit the news about Fox, and there was nothing. He balled his hands into fists. Detective Steele would pay for this. The public had a right to know about his work, and couldn’t the detective see how meaningless Fox’s death was without the message getting out?
He brought up an article on the fire, from two days before, and settled on the reporter’s name. Fraser Reyes. He should just call this Fraser guy and get him to tell the story. He could keep his anonymity, block his number, and say he was a neighbor—or even a friend of Fox’s friend. He’d seen the woman hugging the yoga mat and sobbing. She was the one who had found Fox, and she must have been close to her.
But he had to think this through. Did he want to make the call? Was there any way it could be traced back to him? But from what he understood, reporters protected their sources. It could work out blessedly.
The contact page on the newspaper’s website took him to an online form.
He’d pass. That wasn’t what he wanted.
He dug around the internet and found Fraser Reyes’s LinkedIn page. There was a phone number listed on his profile—out in the open for anyone to see.
He went into his phone’s settings and chose to hide his number. Then he entered Fraser’s digits into his phone and stared at it, his finger poised over the call button.