The Last Move (Criminal Profiler 1)

“She was last seen at the coffee shop where she worked. It was her turn to close. She was supposed to meet a friend but didn’t show. That’s not like her, so the friend called it in. A passing motorist spotted her car.” Palmer looked at Kate. “Would love your take on this one.”

“It’s not like the Samaritan, so why call me?”

“Just have a look,” Palmer said. “This shit is right up your alley.”

Mazur and Kate followed Palmer across the field. Without any trees and the sun directly overhead, the warm autumn quickly cut through her dark jacket. She’d be covered in sweat eventually. As she stripped off her jacket and draped it over her arm, she noticed Mazur’s attention shifted to her and then back to the path ahead.

Several officers and deputies huddled just beyond the yellow crime-scene tape, perfectly still in the motionless air, that was strung between two poles staked in the desert dirt. The forensic technician snapped pictures of the woman’s body. In the dry heat the belly had already bloated. The red Texas dust never hesitated to reclaim its dead.

As Mazur and Palmer ducked under the tape, Kate remained on the outside, knowing the less contamination the better. She glanced around the open field and saw the heat rippling on the horizon.

She turned to the victim’s car, which had a temporary license plate suggesting she’d bought it in the last thirty days. The license plate holder read “Sanchez Motors.” It was a small, perhaps irrelevant connection to Gloria Sanchez, but it was there.

She scanned the area. Killers liked remote areas like this. It gave them the privacy and time they needed to visit with their victims. Over the course of her career, she’d seen hundreds of crime-scene photos set in areas just as remote as this one. She’d also listened to and watched countless recordings made by killers while torturing and murdering. No matter how many she captured, more would take their place.

Mazur waved toward her. “Kate, would you mind having a look at this?”

She ducked under the tape and was greeted by the heavy scent of death that would only grow more putrid by the hour. Palmer’s face was solemn, and any hints of her biting humor had vanished.

When Palmer stepped aside, Kate looked at the woman who lay spread-eagle on the ground. Her hands were tied to spikes and her eyes removed. Revulsion slithered through Kate, but she refused to react as she mentally armored herself against the scene. The body was no longer a person. It was rotting meat. Evidence.

A very odd sense of déjà vu overcame her as she knelt by the slender body and studied the chest and abdominal stab wounds. However, when she lifted her gaze to the mutilated eyes and the third eye painted in dried blood on the woman’s forehead, her memory tripped back to a case she’d worked.

As she studied the message the killer had sent via the body, she automatically compared and contrasted it with her case, which had resulted in an arrest.

Like the old case, there appeared to be thirteen stab wounds in total. All the cuts were near the heart, lungs, and abdomen, except for one across the throat. The mutilated eyes and the painted eye were the killer’s signature.

But that killer, Michael Carter, had covered his victims with dried leaves. This woman’s shirt remained ripped open, leaving her exposed to the elements. Some killers, like the Soothsayer, redressed their victims after the violence and posed them in a demure position—arms crossed over the chest, ankles crossed, and face covered. These were all signs of remorse and regret.

However, Rebecca Kendrick’s arms and legs had been left flung wide and the mutilation of her eyes displayed. The killer’s intent was to humiliate her and leave her vulnerable to the world.

Kate had seen this scene displayed before. “Something is not right.”

“Pretty messed up, if you ask me,” Palmer said.

“What I mean is that I’ve seen this before. There was a serial killer in North Carolina. They called him the Soothsayer.”

“You didn’t mention him after the briefing,” Mazur said.

“Because the case is closed. He stabbed three women over the course of two years and left partly buried bodies in a field. All the women were young prostitutes. When I asked him why he cut out the eyes, he told me he was certain the women could see into his soul.”

“You arrested him?” Mazur asked.

“I did. Based on a profile I drew up for the local police. His name is Michael Carter. He was a lawyer from a well-to-do family near Asheville, North Carolina. He was just convicted and sentenced to life in prison.”

“He’s behind bars,” Palmer clarified.

“Yes.” Kate studied the wounds, noting that they were almost identical to the patterns of Carter’s three victims. “There is no way he could have done this.”

“You were the chief profiler on the case?” Mazur asked.

“Yes.”

“Two murders in three days,” Palmer said. “And you worked on cases similar to both. This ain’t a coincidence, Agent Hayden.”

Kate stared at the body. Sadness and regret tried to breach her composure, but she wouldn’t allow it. Later, when she was alone, the emotions might get the better of her, but not here at the crime scene. “No, it’s not.”

Mazur nudged Kate. “We need to talk.”

She allowed him to guide her away from the body.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked. “I’ve spent the last two days following the trail on a case that appears to be a copycat of one of your cases, and now I’ve another killer impersonator?”

She tipped her head up to meet his gaze. “I can’t explain it except to say someone is following my cases.”

“Was Carter working with anyone?”

“When I did his profile I determined he was a loner who was living out his own fantasies toward women. And when he was arrested we discovered he lived alone, had lost his job, and was having his food delivered to the house. A shut-in, he only went out when the moon was full. That’s when he picked up a prostitute, stabbed her to death, and left her just like this woman here. When I interviewed him after his arrest, he was very proud of the fact that he did the work alone.”

“Could you be wrong about an accomplice?”

“Of course. There’s always the chance. But my team checked his online profile, and though he commented often on certain occult sites, he never appeared to be in communication with anyone.”

“What are the chances that I’d have two murders mirroring your cases?”

“Zero. Clearly my work and I are the common denominators.”

“Who has access to your case files?”

“A few people in the bureau. And each of the jurisdictions had copies. But all those are closely guarded.”

“What about boyfriends, lovers, friends, family? Ever left files out and someone got a peek?”

“No. Never.”

“I want a list of all the cases you’ve profiled.”

She shook her head. She’d worked several very grisly cases that still woke her up in the middle of the night. She wouldn’t wish that list on anyone.

“Could this be Bauldry?” Mazur asked. “Could this be his way of sending you another message? Could he be following your work?”

“He would have been incarcerated at the time of the Soothsayer murders, but the case received quite a bit of press locally and some nationally. It would have been easy to research considering the case is now closed. And it’s clear whoever killed this woman wanted her left in a humiliating position to send a message.”

“We need to find out more about this woman.”

“Start with her vehicle. It’s new and it was purchased from Sanchez Motors.”

Kate stood apart from the cops and dialed her boss, Jerrod Ramsey. He picked up on the third ring. “There’s another complication.?

??

He cursed. “I hate complications, Kate.”

Her voice was steady and gave no hint to the growing worry that threatened to cloud her thoughts. “There’s been another homicide.”

“A Samaritan shooting?”

“No. The victim was killed like the Soothsayer’s victims. She was stabbed, her eyes removed, and an eye drawn on her forehead.”

Silence crackled over the line. “That case was solved.”

She could take his yelling and his curses. That’s what Ramsey did to blow off steam. He only worried her when he was quiet, careful. “I know.”

“How much does this crime scene resemble the ones in North Carolina?”

“It’s almost identical.”

“Almost identical.”

She could picture him standing at his desk now, his hand pressed to the small of his back. He’d be pacing past the multiple diplomas framed on his office wall toward the window.

“I’d like to stay and work with the local authorities. Though I’ll tell you right now, they aren’t pleased with me.”

“No wonder.” He dropped his voice a notch. “Do you have any idea what the defense for Richardson and Carter will do with this information? They’ll argue you’ve not botched one case but two. Both legal teams will file for retrials.”

So much hard work unraveling. A recreation of one of Richardson’s murders had been surprising enough, but a second murder mirroring one of her investigations was not a coincidence. She pressed her fingers to her temple. “Do you have any updates from Nevada regarding Drexler?”

“Don’t worry about Drexler. Nevada is on his trail.”

Promises made to Sara Fletcher felt as flimsy as old tissue. But her business allowed no personal feelings or ego. You did what you could, when you could. “I’ll stay in San Antonio and figure this out.”

“How are you holding up? Do you need Nevada to back you up?”

“No. His priority is Drexler. I’m fine.”

“Understood. Who’s your local contact again?”

“Detective Theo Mazur.”

“He’ll shadow you for this entire investigation.” No inflection at the end of the sentence. It was a statement, not a question.