I could’ve taken her with me on the run. Settled in Canada. She could’ve even opened a new practice under an assumed name. We could’ve moved around, never staying in one place too long, never getting caught.
But what kind of life would that be for her?
No, with London’s talents, she deserves better. Bigger. Brighter.
What’s more, why remove a perfectly positioned chess piece?
Now the image is coming into focus. She’s right in the center of the investigation. She can reach out and physically touch our enemies. She plays the most pivotal role of all.
Process of elimination.
Once you’ve eliminated your obstacles, you’re free. The FBI manhunt can’t use tax dollars forever. Resources run out. Cases go cold. And eventually, criminals at large are assumed dead when leads die off.
Now that the big picture is revealed, it’s time to break down the details. Cut them up into tiny, chewable pieces.
I tack a marker to the newest location. Rockland—the crime scene that will tip the first domino. I string the black thread to the marker. Maine is my final destination. It has to begin and end here.
Agent Nelson in the red and Detective Foster looking so blue, trail behind. Who will be the first to reach the Rockland crime scene?
4
Malicious Intent
London
Press conferences have a distinct aroma. A mix of stale coffee and aftershave, with an undercurrent of breath mints and leather. The way church smells. Even the man standing at the podium wears a gravely serious expression like a pastor, delivering his practiced speech for the masses.
I’ve learned to stare at the center of the podium. This way I don’t mimic the speaker’s facial expressions as I zone out. People have a tendency to take facial cues from others. An inherent trait we all learn early on to convey empathy.
And with so many eyes and cameras directed on me, it’s important that I don’t frown or smile, giving the media a thread to twist and tangle.
“Having gone over what remains of the evidence, I’ve concluded there was a gross negligence in the handling of victims’ cases.” States Attorney Kyle Sandow addresses the press with a stern glare into the cameras. “Therefore, the Mize Sheriff Department has been instructed to relinquish all pertinent evidence pertaining to the deceased Sheriff Malcolm Noble and the victims to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
I’m seated in the front row, flanked by Agent Nelson and Detective Foster, who has become my shadow this past week. Every prominent member of law enforcement is here. Even the head of the FBI taskforce conducting the manhunt.
No one is interested in the Mize investigation. That’s so five weeks ago. The assembled congregation is waiting to hear the update that will confirm the Angel of Maine’s return.
The news stations are already capitalizing on the murder in Rockland, jumping ahead of authorities to declare that either their very own avenging angel has come home, or there is a new player in town, hope alive in their assertions. The people embrace Grayson as their vigilante, and the media adores the ratings he provides.
I’m here against my lawyer’s advice in order to study the crowd. A copycat killer isn’t unlike any other serial killer—he feeds off his celebrity, requiring recognition of his acts. He would insert himself close to the investigation, but not close enough to get caught.
After the murder of Larry Fleming was revealed to the public, with the media’s help, Bangor has once again become the hub—a prime feeding ground for a narcissistic imitator. A collection of all the major players gathered in one place would be impossible for him to resist.
Sandow’s face tightens into a solemn expression. “The FBI are now heading up this investigation as the search for Grayson Sullivan continues. We have no updates on his whereabouts at this time.” Sandow collects his notes. “Thank you.”
A collective barrage of questions rises in the room. One reporter stands and demands to know why Malcolm Noble, the confirmed Hollows Reaper, is being honored as a deceased sheriff, instead of the killer he was. Another pushes for a response to a recent article claiming the FBI’s focus on me has hindered their efforts to apprehend the Angel of Maine Killer. More shouts inquire about the murder in Rockland and its “alleged” connection to Grayson Sullivan.
Sandow quickly exits the stage, leaving the journalists’ questions unanswered.
I take my cue and flee the room before the vultures descend on me. Secured near the green room, I find a good spot to observe the departing crowd. Sandow’s refusal to talk about the murder will most likely irritate the copycat. He needs information—facts about the case. Not theories and hyped sensationalism from the media.
On a professional standpoint, I’m more than curious to observe the copycat’s response to the murder—his reaction and retaliation; how he’ll progress. I’ve never had the opportunity to interview a copycat killer before. I admit, ever since Grayson told me,
my excitement to conduct research on the subject has manifested in an unhealthy obsession to reveal his identity.
A press reporter spots me, eagerness lighting his face. Before he can corner me, I push past the gathered bodies in the green room and through the back exit door.
An overcast sky greets me outside. The muggy humidity sinks right into my skin. There’s a charge in the air, a summer storm brewing. The alley darkens as looming, rain-bloated clouds cross the sun.