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“I understand, but you surely have some idea. What do you think?”
“That someone is killing people, and we need to find them.” The correct thing for a cop to say.
“Where do we start?” I rubbed my hands.
He hesitated. “Are you sure? The pics and descriptions can be gruesome. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”
“Is that supposed to deter me? I watch crime shows all the time. I blame my youthful love of Scooby-Doo and the gang.”
His lips quirked. “I doubt we’re looking for a ghost, in this case.”
Funny thing was, Scooby and the gang only rarely found a supernatural reason by the end of each episode. A person usually ended up being the one perpetuating the evil.
Despite a scolding from my nurse, Brayden and I spent the next few hours poring over case files. He’d not exaggerated when he’d called it grim reading.
The victims all those years ago had all died similarly, meaning a triple blade slicing them open. For some, the bleed-out happened quickly as the slash went across the throat and the severed jugular pumped the body dry. Others got it in the gut, the evisceration spilling their intestines, a deadly wound that took longer to kill, meaning they suffered before they died.
The one thing they all had in common?
“The killer only ever went after really shitty people,” I observed after the first four files showed the victims with lengthy arrest records.
“Even shitty people deserve justice. It’s not up to a vigilante to be judge and executioner. And not all the victims were criminals. Two people don’t fit the profile.” He handed me two files. One for a college girl working at a bar on the weekends, and the other for a young man—a paramedic who’d stopped on his way home to help someone overdosing and had paid with his life.
They did seem oddly out of place.
“What about the newest one?” I’d not yet looked at the file.
“You have to promise not to say a word about what you see,” he cautioned.
“Swear.” I crossed my heart, and he handed over the file.
Flipping it open, my brows rose. “The most recent victim really was a cop.”
“Not just any cop, but someone who worked on the Mahoney case way back when.”
“Could be a coincidence. Or—” As all the crime shows I’d ever watched suddenly turned on my super suspicious brain, I blurted, “The killer is back, and he’s out to get those who tried to capture him. Which would implicate Mahoney. But what if the killer isn’t Mahoney, and they’re pissed that you got it wrong all those years ago?”
“That’s a lot of conjecture.”
“So, what’s your theory?” I sassed. At least, I’d come up with some ideas.
“The one thing you didn’t mention. That the Trikillz gang has resurrected in Ottawa. Borenson, the guy we found dead, was also part of the drug squad for a while. He might have been the first to spot their return, and they tried to silence him.”
My nose wrinkled. “How does that make more sense? By silencing him with the three slashes, they announced their presence.”
“Or did someone want to pin it on them to divert attention? Once we figure out the motive, we’ll have a direction for a suspect.”
“Where should we start checking first?”
“Me, not we. I am going to leave you now to get some sleep and check in on your dog. He’s due for a walk. I’m hoping not to get dragged into a cornfield and left for dead.”
“Blade is scared of cornfields, but not thickets. Wear long sleeves.” At his expression, I chuckled and explained that no walk was necessary given the dog run in my back yard.
“What if I want to walk him?” was his riposte.
To which, I laughed and said, “You like him. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”
“Maybe.” He dropped a kiss on my lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Get a good night’s sleep.”
