“I’m not considering the media ban.”
“You still don’t think we’re looking at a serial killer?”
“Oh, I never said that.” Malone ran a hand over his stomach. “But I think we need to do the opposite of a media ban.”
“Now you’ve lost me.”
“We’ve got four dead bodies now, potentially due to one man. Before victims continue to pile up, I want to open a tip line. It’s time to reach out for the public’s help. Someone might come forward.”
“The ones who aren’t afraid of their tongues being cut out, I guess.”
“Amanda, consider the full picture. More deaths could prompt a brave soul to speak up. Someone out there might have gotten a good look at our killer, and just like that, the pieces will fall together.”
She considered Malone’s suggestion and weighed the options. When she’d wanted the ban, part of the reason was to deny the killer the attention he craved, and the other was she didn’t want fear to shut people up. But Malone’s viewpoint held some merit, too, and if it could help catch this bastard, she was for it. “It could work. Go ahead.”
He smiled. “Glad you agree, though I didn’t need your permission.”
“I know.” She rolled her eyes, teasingly, a flash of levity at a horrible crime scene.
“Get to work.” He waved her off, but she didn’t move.
“Just one thing… that real estate agent is the same person who was commissioned to sell five thirty-two Bill Drive. Trent and I cleared him for the first fire, but we should probably just get his alibi for this one too. Just in case there’s a hole to be found. Whoever our killer is, he knows these houses were sitting empty.”
“I’ll get someone on it.”
“Thanks.”
She and Trent left Malone.
As she crossed the street, each step became heavier as it sank in that someone was targeting the young women of her town—again. Had these latest victims been caught up in a sex-trafficking ring too? There’d be no tattoos to find on their bodies as they were nothing but bone, but maybe the eyewitness noticed the marking on the girls.
She glanced over her shoulder at what remained of the house, finding it a tough balance between grief and pure rage.
Thirty-Seven
The scene in front of him and around him was spectacular. The police may be able to barricade civilian vehicle traffic, but it didn’t keep his audience away. He stood among a throng of people clustered on the sidewalk. They busied themselves chattering mindlessly—how they felt the explosion shake their houses, the rumors that it was set intentionally, that victims may be inside… All of it pleased him. They were, after all, talking about his work. This was his masterpiece, but far from his finale.
Everything had turned out perfectly and even better than he had planned. He wasn’t a fire expert, but the internet was an endless resource. He’d looked up common household items that were highly flammable. Cotton balls coated with Vaseline were on the list. It was common among outdoorsy types to use for starting their campfires—who knew? The cotton sparked quickly while the petroleum in the jelly kept the fire burning longer, and it was waterproof. He’d paired it with a propane tank left on the property and opened its valve. Enough time for him to get out, and then it was kaboom! The place went up like a Roman candle, and it was a sight to see. And a
ll that without collateral damage.
There’d also be no remains to cement an ID—not easily. Maybe some skilled anthropologist could piece together what was left and form an image, but that would take a very long time.
There was a subtle stench that lingered in the air, that of sickly sweet barbecued pork, and he imagined it to be burnt human flesh.
It had been easier to get the girls to the house than he’d played out in his mind beforehand. Sure, he had to help them into the van, but beyond that it would have just looked like three people taking a stroll after a night of drinking. It was unfortunate that the drugs had hit them a little harder than he’d anticipated, though, and they stumbled more than he would have liked. But overall, everything had gone smoothly. They were both stupid, naive, and gullible. All he had to do to convince them to go with him in the first place was say that he was taking them to a grand party. It had worked out gloriously that it was the one girl’s birthday, and she believed the celebration was for her. Their names had been Candy and Sugar, but nothing was sweet about either of them except for their deaths.
After taking their lives, he returned to where he had parked a couple of blocks away and waited. The fire engines came, roaring their sirens, and he walked up like an innocent bystander and hadn’t left the area since. Why would he want to? The view here was incredible, and he had the right to savor his accomplishment. All these people were here because of him. He’d finally be getting the attention he deserved!
He observed as more responders arrived, including some woman in a truck with a Prince William County seal on the door. She got out of the vehicle and carried herself with pride and determination. Her blond hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and he imagined that it fell well past her shoulders when she let it down. In his mind, he gave her soft curls to offset her otherwise jagged facial features—a small turned-up nose and pointed chin.
After the fire was extinguished, she’d suited up and gone inside what was left of the structure and moved around. When she reached the main area of the house where he’d put the girls, she’d signed the cross on her chest and looked out across the front yard. It felt like she was looking right at him, but it was probably all in his mind.
As pleasant as it was to witness all this, his intuition warned him that it was time to leave. But how badly he wanted to bear full witness to the investigation, maybe even become involved somehow. That thought caused him to smile, but the expression died quickly when a man bumped his elbow on his way toward some woman holding the leash of a teacup poodle. Get a real dog, lady.
When he’d turned his focus ahead again, he saw her. Detective Steele. Red hair, straight. Length to the top of her shoulders and parted to the right. She had a freckled face, but there was something about the way she carried herself that made her quite attractive. She was with a blond man, probably a couple years younger and immature; he had a little more bounce to his step, like working homicides excited him. Detective Steele by contrast had become hardened and all-business. She went toward the house, and the blond vixen in full turnout gear stopped her.
There was a conversation, and an older man joined in. He was pretty sure that was Steele’s boss. Then there were gesturing arms and pointed fingers that seemed to indicate the house behind The Merciful. After they returned their attention to one another, he glanced over a shoulder casually as if he were just stretching his back or neck.