Blind: Killer Instincts (12 page)

There would be another letter today. The media coverage at the station was going to be crazy, but that was now the domain of the FBI. In a way, it was nice to not have to deal with those details. He might only be playing a supporting role, but he could expend all his effort on finding the killer.

E

mma took her foot off the gas as Jacob’s Wrangler exited the highway some distance ahead of her. She’d kept her distance as much as she could and still tail him.

I shouldn’t have followed him
, she thought for the hundredth time
.

It was too late to turn back now, despite what her conscience said. The car she’d borrowed from Amanda was running on E.

Jacob was getting out of his Jeep at the station by the time she coasted down the ramp onto the service road. She slouched in her seat on the off-chance he’d glance her way, but he never did. The little store was clogged with people from one side to the other, most in uniform or with a news crew. Two vans bearing the emblem of TV stations rolled down the ramp ahead of her. Word was getting out fast. The bad part for her was that there wasn’t anywhere else to stop for gas. It was one of those exits to nowhere, with one station and what looked like a livestock supply store across the street operating out of a shed held together by duct tape and bailing wire. There was another truck at the pump, so at least she could get gas. Eventually.

The influx of reporters could entertain the officers while she got gas and hightailed her ass out of there. If Jacob caught her at this scene, he might never forgive her, and that was becoming unacceptable.

She wanted to see the scene with her own eyes, even if she knew it wasn’t going to happen. The next best thing was being near it. Killers often came back to their crime scenes to relive the kill. Maybe she’d see him.

Then what?

What could she possibly hope to learn from this?

“I’ll get gas, and go. It’s not a crime,” she muttered to herself.

Jacob was never going to forgive her, and she had no one to blame except herself.

She clung to her decision to leave as soon as she could as she cruised down the service road. The cars and people were little flecks in the distance, growing larger as she approached.

Somewhere between sex and cuddling, she’d begun to fall for the man, against her better judgment. But the heart never listened, did it?

Emma rolled into the station and took the farthest pump from the action. She killed the engine and glanced around, but Jacob was nowhere to be seen. The front of the store appeared to be business as usual, so maybe she didn’t have anything to worry about. The only pumps roped off were those for the long-haul truckers.

“Get your ass in gear,” she told her reflection in the rear-view mirror.

Emma pumped gas, keeping her head down and minding her own business. There was no way Jacob would see her. He had way too much going on to pay any attention to random people pumping gas. Except the skin between her shoulder blades prickled, as if she were being watched.

Glancing over her shoulder, she only caught sight of the news vans. No Jacob. No one that appeared out of place.

And yet, if anything, she felt the sensation even stronger.

What the hell was going on?

She peered around, trying to appear casual, but no one seemed to be taking any interest in her. There was one other person pumping gas, some suits in the gas station. Across the street at the feed store a couple of trucks were clustered together. No doubt the locals gathering to rubberneck and talk about each other. There was also a car up on the overpass. Maybe it was broken down, or maybe they were curious locals. That was it. Nothing too out of the ordinary.

Whatever. She needed to get her happy ass out of there.

Emma filled up the tank as a thank you to her roommate and sped out of the station, relieved more than anything else she hadn’t seen a single thing of note. She didn’t breathe easy until she was headed north once more. Sitting at the red light she pulled out her phone and texted Jacob a quick, “I’m sorry,” message to ease her conscience.

He didn’t need to know her transgressions, but she had to make this right. She’d keep her nose in her own business from now on.

Okay, that was a lie. She’d still be curious as hell, but she wouldn’t follow Jacob to another scene. That was right out.

The room Jacob had set up to run his investigation from had a whole new look. The FBI had taken his dry erase board for Harold Espinoza and begun one for Laura Winthrop.

“Detective Payton, Stevenson said you had a theory about the first victim,” Brooks said as they entered. “I’d like to hear it.”

The FBI agents turned almost as one toward him, their gazes falling on him and hanging like weights around his neck. He was a good detective—it was born into his blood—but these guys lived and breathed serial killers. What did he know they wouldn’t?

“Yes.” Jacob cleared his throat and approached the first board.

“Your father arrested TBK, correct?” Brooks asked.

“He did.”

“Sir?” The red-haired woman, Special Agent Jade Perez, held up her hand.

Brooks gestured to the woman.

“Thank you.” She nodded at her supervising officer before turning toward Jacob. “Before we look at that, I’d like to establish that we are not looking for the original TBK, and that we are—in fact—looking for a copycat. I think this will help us with the profile.” She turned to him. “The original signature, will you show it to me?”

“Does this need to happen now?” Brooks asked.

“Yes, because I know what you’re going to ask, and that’s if the correct person was convicted of being TBK. I have a theory. Please, give me a moment?”

Brooks nodded and gestured for Jacob to continue.

The contents of the original evidence boxes he’d retrieved were spread out on a table against the wall, as far from the window as you could get. He appreciated the deference shown for the older documents, already yellowed from age.

Jacob leafed through the box until he came to the folder containing the documents. “TBK never sent in anything in his own handwriting. It was typed on an old typewriter, one of his letters was done at the public library, he even cut and pasted words from a magazine. The only thing handwritten was the signature.”

“The new signature isn’t hand written. Was that detail made public?” Perez followed him to the table, her intense gaze nailing him to the spot. She had no concept of personal space. Hell, if he wasn’t careful he’d knock her over.

“Not at the time of the murders. Dad told me they didn’t tell anyone for fear of exactly this. A copycat.”

“But people know this now?” Perez’s gaze was intense, unwavering. She gave him the fucking creeps.

“I would say it’s highly likely. There have been letters from TBK uncovered since the murders that were sent to the victims pre-murder and to the families postmortem that were never given to the police.”

“Where are these documents now?” Brooks asked.

Jacob rubbed his fingertips together. Well shit.

“In a private collection,” he replied.

“What are the chances we can see those? To determine if they’re real?” Perez asked.

Fuck, but that was going to piss off Emma, and he couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad thing. He should want to push her away, make her angry enough to refuse to see him ever again.

He cleared his throat and pushed the uncomfortable knot of emotions aside. He had to focus.

“I think I can make that happen. Here are the originals.” Jacob laid the documents out on the table. He could almost recite these word for word.

Perez immediately bent over them, her nose almost pressed against the paper. “Can I see the new letters? Do we have the letter from Laura’s truck yet?”

“No, forensics hasn’t finished with it,” Jacob answered. They’d found it in the trash can at the station, wadded up with other fliers Laura might have picked up along her route.

Mullins shook his head and brought the documents over. The smothered smile spoke volumes. Perez was the kind of officer—agent—who only saw the case. Jacob could relate.

Mullins laid the print next to the first generation letters.

“Here, in the first set, they are signed as TBK. This signifies his MO, which was to torture his victims, take out their eyes and then kill them. It was assumed the removal of the eyes was to steal or preserve that experience for the killer. The eyeballs were his trophy—”

“Perez,” Brooks barked.

Jacob folded his arms tightly over his chest, gripping his arms with both hands. He’d heard all of the theories. Every damned one of them.

“The point?” Brooks prompted.

Perez blinked at him, clearly taken by surprise. “Oh. Right.” She glanced at him, her cheeks growing pink. “Sorry, the point. The original killer was TBK, the man your father arrested and the same one who died in prison. This one,” she gestured to the new letter, “he signs it as TBKiller. It’s both a copycat and a killer trying to find his own identity. There are probably more bodies out there we don’t know about. His learning victims, while he was trying to figure out how to reproduce the kills.”

“Mullins, call Lali and get her to look up bludgeoning and any murders to do with the orbital cavity. She might be able to find those. Let’s keep this piece to ourselves. I’d like to mitigate what the public knows. I want to control his public image. It will enrage the suspect to hopefully make a mistake.” Brooks leaned over the documents, examining the differences.

Jacob blew out a breath.

It was a copycat. He’d known it in his gut, but hearing the FBI confirm his suspicion was all the confirmation he needed.

TBK was dead. Who was the new person? Where had they come from? And when would they kill again? Was Emma in danger?

“Uh, Brooks?” The agent in charge of PR, Benjamin Johns, stared at his phone, gaze growing wide.

“Yes, Ben?”

“I think you should see this.” Ben grabbed the remote and clicked the power button on the TV mounted on the wall. The noon news flickered into view—with Lieutenant Miller on the PD steps.

Miller was decked out in his full uniform, giving the cameras his warmest
trust me
face. The lying bastard’s ability to spin stories was what got him the LT job in the first place.

“We want to settle our citizen’s fears,” Miller said. “These TBK-style murders are not the same person. We are dealing with an incompetent, lowlife copycat—”

“Damn it. Ben, get out there and fix this. Get him off that microphone,” Brooks snapped.

Ben hustled out of the room while Jacob grabbed his phone and dialed the chief’s cell.

“I turned the news on,” Stevenson snarled on the other end of the line. “Do the feds know?”

“They’re working on it now,” Jacob replied, his vision hazing red. He should have known Miller wouldn’t go without a fight. “Fucking cocksucker.”

“I’m going to have his head over this. Tell Brooks I’m dealing with it.” Stevenson hung up. Jacob hoped the chief tore him a new asshole.

“Mullins, Abraham.” Brooks turned toward the two men. “I want you two to work on our copycat. He’s going to react to this statement. I want to know how. Also, have Lali look into the mailman Detective Payton said the first victim’s neighbors saw. I don’t buy it for an instant he happened to be named Mitchell.” Brooks glanced at Jacob. “Go over the details of the old cases. Look for connections, a pattern we might not have considered before. TBK picked his victims out far in advance. Our copycat will mimic that, and we might be able to narrow down who the next target is.”

“Excuse me.” One of the mousy receptionists danced in the doorway with Mullins. The agent stepped back and allowed the woman into the room. She peered at Jacob.

“What’s up?” he asked, ambling toward her. She held a large pastry box.

“This was delivered for you, Detective.” She set it down on one of the empty tables.

Jacob frowned and flipped the lid open.

Inside was a dozen strawberry-frosted donuts with donut holes in the center of each, dipped in white frosting and painted to look like an eyeball. In the center of the box was a letter, and on top of the letter—a finger. A human finger.

A present, just for you, Detective.

Iron: I have new stuff uploading.

Mercy: Can’t wait to see what you got.

Iron: How are the others doing? Havent had time to check the logs.

Mercy: Good, as far as I can tell. Joker is having storage issues.

Iron: Hes a prick.

Mercy: That’s not very nice.

Joe: How do you get blood out of a white shirt?

Mercy: ...you don’t

Iron: Dude, burn it already. Remember the rule? No evidence left behind unless you mean to.

Private Window

Mercy: You have to be more careful about what you say in the group, Max.

Iron: I know I forget.

Mercy: You can’t fuck up. She’ll kick you out of the club, and you know what happens when people get kicked out.

Iron: I dont know, but I can guess.

Mercy: I’d hate for that to happen to you.

Iron: Yeah at least not until I get to meet you.

Mercy: Seriously?

Iron: Yeah I mean I was.

Mercy: Iron...

Mercy: I don’t think that’s a good idea.

Mercy: If we start meeting up, it’ll draw attention to us.

Iron: Yeah, I guess youre right. It was stupid.

Mercy: No, it’s not. I like you, I just think what we’re doing—it’s bigger than us, you know?

Iron: Yeah.

Iron: I think I can hear him.

Mercy: Who?

Iron: Mitchell Black.

Iron: I can hear him speaking to me.

Mercy: What does he say?

Iron: To kill the girl. Finish what was started.

Mercy: Are you sticking to your plan?

Iron: To the letter.

Mercy: Good. I always thought your plan was one of the best.

Mercy: Hey, got to go. Rounds are starting soon.

Iron: Me too. Want to try to do some scouting tonight.

Emma kept her gaze on the top of the hill. She revved the bike and it shot up, up—she hunched down and at the last possible second, kicked out of the seat—she soared over the last hill before the designated stop of the course. Adrenaline pounded in her veins, and her heart thundered in her chest. There was nothing like those brief few seconds she was airborne to really make her feel free. Like she could do anything.