The Stranger You Know (Forensic Instincts 3)

Hutch frowned thoughtfully. “It’s interesting. He never refers to himself by name, never throws the whole Glen Fisher charade in your face. That goes along with our theory that he’s a different offender, one who’s alluding to—or pretending to be—Fisher, but is, in fact, eager

to outdo him. I’d lay off any personal reference. Just keep treating him the way you are—as an anonymous enemy. The more he toys with you, the more he talks, the more likely he is to give something away.”

“Okay.” Casey sent Hutch a questioning look. “Are you officially on the case?”

“Yup. I got the call from my supervisor while you were out. Brian Gardiner is driving up as we speak. He’s a good guy and a good agent. We’ve partnered up quite a few times recently. We’ll be assisting the NYPD and the Hoboken police department in this investigation.”

“Any other Feds coming that I should know about?”

A corner of Hutch’s mouth lifted. “That you should know about or that you should avoid?” He shook his head. “Right now, it’s just us. The NYPD is on top of things. If that changes, there’ll be additional agents assigned.”

Marc heard their voices, and came downstairs from the kitchen, half a sliced turkey sandwich in his hand. “I got a call from Captain Sharp.” He took a bite of his sandwich, chewed and swallowed, holding Casey’s gaze as he did. He was alerting her to the fact that he was about to deliver the news that she both wanted and dreaded.

“The lab ran the traces of semen found on Holly Stevens’s clothing through NCIC,” he said gently. “The DNA conclusively matched Glen Fisher’s. You have your answer, Casey. Glen Fisher was responsible for both Holly Stevens’s and Jan Olson’s murders.” He paused. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” Casey’s reply was firm, with absolutely zero element of surprise. “The horrifying part happened fifteen years ago. Putting a name to the offender is good news, not bad. Now Jan and Holly can get the justice they deserve. I’ll make sure of it.” She continued without missing a beat. “FYI, you’re a minute too late with your announcement. I was just told about Holly from the horse’s mouth.”

“You got another phone call?”

“Indeed I did.” Casey relayed the details of the phone conversation—as well as of Hutch’s analysis—to Marc.

“This psychopath really wants to get all the accolades he feels he deserves,” Marc responded.

Hutch’s forehead was wrinkled in thought. “He wants to be Glen Fisher, but better than Glen Fisher. His technique is more polished than Fisher’s. His signature red ribbon and the lock of hair is more intricate than anything Fisher did. All of that suggests he wants to outdo the master. On the flip side, he’s obsessed with revenge against Casey, and with letting her know it every step of the way. That suggests he wants to convince us he is Fisher. Also, the original two bodies—Jan’s and Holly’s—had semen present. The current crimes have none.”

Marc pursed his lips as he digested that. “There was no semen present on the bodies recovered last year, either.”

“True,” Hutch acknowledged. “Clearly, Fisher realized that DNA analysis had become far more sophisticated, and he didn’t want to get caught. But that’s not what this is about, at least not entirely. Sure, the new offender might be in the system and is protecting himself. But he’s also taunting Casey. The lack of DNA evidence is meant to keep her off balance and wondering, on some level, if it just might be Glen Fisher committing these crimes—even though that’s a virtual impossibility.”

“Head games.” Marc nodded. “Good point. So we can’t assume the killer’s in NCIC and is using condoms to avoid getting caught.”

“Right. It could very well be that he is in the system. But it could just as easily be that he’s not.”

“So we’re standing here with nothing.” Casey sounded as if she wanted to slug someone—and that was exactly the way she felt.

“No,” Hutch corrected her. “We’re standing here with lots of information that we have to process in order to come up with answers.” He glanced at his watch. “We’re due at Fisher’s residence in a few hours. Who from FI is coming?” He shot Casey a questioning look. “You and Marc?”

“I’m coming, too,” Claire said at once. She and Casey had discussed this earlier in the day. “Casey and Marc will join you and the detectives for the search and questioning. I’ll go where the energy takes me. Maybe I can pick up on something that will translate into a lead.”

Hutch nodded, but said nothing. It was no secret that he was on the fence about the whole psychic phenomenon. The BAU operated on scientific and psychological principles that were all rooted in logic. But on a personal level, Hutch couldn’t argue with Claire’s success rate. He felt tremendous respect for her. So he might not be an active proponent, but he didn’t condemn it, either.

“It looks like we’ll have a full house,” he noted.

“That’s good. We’ll cover all the bases.” Casey inclined her head. “Hutch, can you give us a half hour of your time before you take off for the Fisher place? Anything you can share that would help us profile Suzanne Fisher would be great. Nothing from the classified section,” she said. “Just something beyond the basics that might be useful.”

Hutch seemed mildly amused. “I think I could make that happen—if I’m invited to the meeting you’re about to have with Ryan.”

“Fair enough.” Casey was more than happy to meet him halfway.

“Good. Then we’ll pool our resources.” Hutch gestured toward the stairway. “The main conference room?”

“Yes.” Casey quickly texted Ryan to meet them upstairs with everything he had on Glen and Suzanne Fisher. “Let’s do this now.”

Chapter Thirteen

At a true New York pace, Casey, Claire and Marc strode from the Lexington Avenue subway stop to East 52nd Street and Glen Fisher’s midtown apartment. Casey’s gaze darted up and down the block. Tree-lined sidewalks. Low-rise brick buildings. A local deli. A few small restaurants. A produce store. A stream of people arriving home from work. Some were hurrying inside their apartment buildings, ready to call it a day. Some were walking their dogs. And some were carrying bags of groceries they’d stopped to pick up for dinner.

Everything seemed so normal, just as it probably had last year, when a homicidal monster was living here without a single person’s knowing it.