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The arrogant bastard. A practice that had most likely resulted in compromising the investigation. Because how thorough could detectives really be without all the details of their own case?
Chandler Reed leaned forward in his chair. “Mismatched number of stab wounds. Could be a copycat.”
The federal investigator was right. The man who’d killed her brother and Derek Garrison wouldn’t have mistaken the number of times to stab these recent victims, and her experience studying crime statistics and profiles of the country’s worst murderers said he wouldn’t have changed his MO either. Thirty-one wasn’t random. It’d been chosen for a reason. It was important for him to leave his signature. It was the number that would’ve fulfilled his craving and kept him going until the next victim came along.
“We’re looking into why there’s a change in MO. Aside from the obvious difference in age and gender, the killer didn’t actually know how many times to stab Michelle Cross and Gresham Schmidt because there’s no report or news article to tell him.” Livingstone slid one hand into her blazer. “It would explain the toy soldiers, too. Whoever killed our recent victims may not have had access to the original set.”
Boucher practically growled. “Joel Brody could’ve had a partner police didn’t know about.”
“Or he was actually innocent.” Chandler Reed seemed to be exactly what she needed him to be. A believer in a well of deniers trying to pull her beneath the surface of the water. So far, he’d been nothing but supportive, friendly, and understanding. How the world hadn’t cut those traits from him after he’d obviously suffered at the hands of violence, she didn’t know. And, strangely, she wanted a bit of that softness to bleed off on her. Just for a little while. “In my experience, serial offenders rarely change their MOs or their hunting grounds, and they sure as hell don’t disappear for two decades without a trace. I’m not sure we’re looking for whoever killed those boys for these murders now, but it’s possible someone wants us to believe we are.”
Weight solidified on Leigh’s chest. No matter how much she wanted it to be true, Chris Ellingson was potentially not the killer they were looking for today. She hadn’t been able to prove it as a seventeen-year-old, and she couldn’t prove he was responsible for Michelle Cross’s and Gresham Schmidt’s deaths now. “Whatever the case—whether we’re dealing with a copycat or not—this isn’t over.”
“What makes you say that?” Boucher asked. “You got a crystal ball hiding under that blazer we don’t know about?”
“Not at the moment, but Michelle Cross and Gresham Schmidt can’t be the only ones digging up the past.” Apprehension lodged in her throat. Journalists, authors, true crime podcasters, TV series producers—they’d all tried to get their pound of flesh. College had been the hardest. The wounds had still been fresh, and her fellow students’ curiosity never faltered. But watching a true crime documentary and experiencing it firsthand didn’t give a voice to the victims. It didn’t help her talk about her feelings. They couldn’t solve a case that was already closed by police. “If the connection between both victims is their private investigations into the Joel Brody case, there could be more victims out there we’re missing.”
“Damn armchair detectives.” Boucher collapsed back in his seat. “Crime isn’t entertainment or escapism from problems. It’s real. It’s what people have to live with every day. Hell, Michelle Cross didn’t care about those boys she was looking into. She just wanted a distraction from her pathetic life.”
“And Gresham Schmidt?” Livingstone lost her practiced detachment right then. In curiosity’s place something antagonistic and abrasive clawed from beneath her expression. “What about him?”
“I can tell you one thing, Director. The only reason a retired cop is looking into a case outside of his jurisdiction is to keep himself from facing the truth.” Boucher flipped his hand up as though he’d suddenly started conducting a chamber orchestra of fifty musicians. “Nobody needed him to solve cases anymore, and he couldn’t live with that.”
“You didn’t know him,” Chandler Reed said.
Boucher half turned to face him two rows back, hands fisted with battle-ready tension. Practically looking for a fight. “Did you?”
“Enough.” Livingstone took back command of the room with a single warning. “Our killer knows the original case enough to replicate the MO, but he doesn’t know the fine details. He’s playing pretend. If the original killer is still in Lebanon, we might be looking at an escalation from the unsub to get his attention.”
“Or a response.” Leigh didn’t even want to think of the possibilities. “Serial offenders leave signatures for a reason. They’re egotistical, and they don’t like to share the spotlight.”
“You know, you keep saying serial killer and serial offender, but from where I’m sitting, we’ve got two bodies. Michelle Cross and Gresham Schmidt. That stuff that happened twenty years ago? You said it yourself, we’re looking at a copycat.” Boucher’s impatience had reached a high point. Muscle tightness and fidgeting suggested he wanted to be on his feet, uncovering the next lead, getting this sickness out of his town so things could go back to normal. But that was the problem. Lebanon would never be the same again. Not after this. “Don’t you guys down at the FBI have a rule about the number of victims this guy would have to kill in order to call him a serial? It’s three. Shit, even I can count.”
A phone chimed with an incoming call from the head of the room.
Chandler Reed made his way down the stadium seating and into the hallway, his voice low as he answered his cell.
“Agen’ Brody, go through the evidence recovered from Michelle Cross’s home. Find out what the victim was doing in the days leading up to her death and construct a timeline of her movements. I want to know who else she talked to and who she intended on interviewing.” Livingstone’s authority bled into every word as Leigh collected her notes. “Boucher, get back to doing what you do best and get me something I can use to identify the bastard behind this before he kills someone else. I’ll have Reed find me someone who can give us answers on the lab reports we’re waiting on until our medical examiner decides to grace us with her presence.”
“That’s going to be a problem.” Chandler Reed centered himself in the doorway, his phone still in hand. “Dr. Jennings was just reported missing.”
FOURTEEN
Lebanon, New Hampshire
Saturday, March 13
4:00 p.m.
A medical examiner attached to this investigation was missing.
Leigh tried rubbing the study-induced fatigue from her eyes. It was no use. She’d been staring at these same newspaper articles, surveillance photos, and handwritten notes for nearly two hours while Livingstone took the lead on Dr. Jennings’s missing persons case. Her head still hurt, but it kept her from replaying what led to the concussion at the same time. She was lucky she hadn’t sustained more internal damage during the fall.
She flipped through yet another page. Michelle Cross had kept meticulous notes. Dated, too. From what she’d been able to tell, the victim had stopped collecting information three days before she’d been found on the bridge. It was consistent with the amount of time both her brother and Derek Garrison had been missing. Three days. Police had never been able to figure out where the boys had been held during that time. It was starting to look like not even an elite FBI unit would either. Michelle Cross and Gresham Schmidt had simply disappeared from their homes without a trace until their bodies had been left for display.
They needed something concrete.
There was a debit card purchase made to a coffee shop on the opposite side of town, but no activity on Michelle’s phone at the time. Whether the battery had died or the GPS had been disabled, she didn’t know. A barista or a regular in the coffee shop might be able to tell her more. Maybe point her in another direction if Michelle had been meeting with someone.
