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He watched as Dana scanned the lines of poetry that were written sporadically around the room in large red letters. It looked like a child had taken a crayon and scrawled the eerie words there.
Dana read a line out loud. “My darling—my life and my bride, in her sepulchre there by the sea—in her tomb by the soundingsea.” She turned to face Richter. “This is Edgar Allen Poe’s poem. Annabel Lee.”
“Correct,” Richter said, sharing a look with Dana that told Jake they both understood something he didn’t.
“What am I not getting?” Jake asked.
“Poe’s poem about lost love is widely regarded as the anthem of necromancy.” Dana moved around the room to read another line of poetry. “And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side of my darling.” She looked at the bewildered room of agents. “Lying down beside the dead body in the tomb hints at necrophilia.”
“Christ,” Jake muttered again.
“Exactly,” Richter said. “And look at this.”
He led Dana back to the small desk in the corner that acted as an altar of sorts. Annabelle Sorkin’s framed photo sat atop, surrounded by a mound of melted candles. Richter pulled open a drawer that had been hidden by the wax. Inside were a collection of bones.
“These are human remains,” Dana said. She looked at Richter. “Annabelle Sorkin’s?”
“That’s what we believe.”
Dana’s eyes lit with the excitement of a theory. “He was trying to bring her back! That’s what the Reaper murders were. He needed seven sacrifices. Seven must sleep for all to rise. Dvita was trying to raise the dead and bring her back. He was in love with her.”
“It seems so.” Richter said, walking to another small table in the room. “We found several diaries where he details the intimate relationship between them.”
Jake felt his stomach turn. “The girl in the photograph looks like she’s barely nineteen. Dvita was in his seventies. Whatever sick twisted game he played with the vulnerable girl backfired and she killed herself, leaving him remorse strickenand what, deranged enough to think he could bring her back by hypnotizing his patients into a murder pact?”
“Precisely,” Richter said. “He details it all right here,” he said, pointing to what looked like a scrapbook with written pages pasted into it. “Right down to how he chose which patients to target.”
Dana flipped through the book, her gloved fingers shaking as she read the words Dvita had stolen from his patient’s tragic pasts.
Norton Hayes – My son was stillborn. That’s when it all started. The darkness. The addiction.
Kylie Marx - Losing my father nearly killed me. I did everything I could to numb the pain.
Cash Holloway – My girlfriend died in a car accident. I was driving. My parents pulled me out of school after that, but that just made my depression worse.
Max Durnin – My mother died giving birth to me. I never met her, but I feel the void where she’s supposed to be. It’s like an anchor and I don’t know how to swim.
Meredith Kincaid – I don’t deserve forgiveness for all I’ve done. And those who give it to me make my guilt even heavier.
When Dana got to the page about Claire, she fought against the bile burning her throat.
Claire Townsend – I miss her every day. I’m the only one who knew her. I’m the only one who cares that she died. When I lost her, I lost a part of myself. But I won’t rest until I’m reunited with her.
Tears stung Dana’s eyes as she realized the pain Claire had been hiding all this time. She knew watching Sadie die had scarred Claire, but she hadn’t understood the depth until now.
“They all had the same vulnerabilities. Childhood traumas, deep loss and depression that made them loners, prone to addiction and influence.”
“He preyed on these people,” Dana said, her voice tight.
“He did,” Richter said. “We believe through hypnosis, he was able to convince them of his cause, that sacrificing themselves was the right thing to do, because they’d all come back in the end, renewed, reborn with a clean slate.”
“Why did it keep happening after he was dead?” Jake asked.
“Because the damage was done,” Dana said, without tearing her eyes from the book. “Dvita had already poisoned their minds to do his bidding.” She looked at Richter. “It’s why the profile never fit. There were multiple Unsubs.”
He nodded. “Turns out you were right. We now believe Dvita killed Hayes. Kylie Marx killed Cash Holloway. Max killed Kylie, then Dvita, then himself; suicide by cop, which he confesses to Claire in the letter we found in his car.”
“What about Claire?” Jake asked. “What was her role in all of this?”
