“You could say that.” She’d tried to go to sleep, but visions of him staring in her window kept her far too tense to sleep. Every creak and whine of her old house just made it worse. Finally, she’d given up. “I also ran a list of all the defendants I unsuccessfully prosecuted and separated them out by the ones who got off on technicalities versus legitimate defenses.”
“How many were there?” Reagan asked.
“I had to replace my printer cartridge midway through,” Kristen answered dryly. “Did wonders for my professional self-esteem.”
“So how many could you have won?” Reagan asked, his tone practical. She’d wondered the same thing herself and had been compulsive enough to do the math. “Twenty-five percent, maybe,” she said honestly.
“Twenty-five percent with the benefit of twenty-twenty hindsight.” Reagan made a humming sound in his throat. “That means on seventy-five percent you wouldn’t have changed a thing. That sounds pretty significant to me.”
Her first instinct was to take his words as lightly as he’d likely meant them. But she glanced up, found his blue eyes trained on her face, and knew he’d been quite serious. Awkward pleasure warred with a nagging feeling of déjà vu. And because dealing with the déjà vu was far less uncomfortable than accepting his praise, she focused on his face with a frown. “I know we’ve met. Last night you said my hair was up. What did you mean?”
His mouth opened, but his first words were drowned out by Jack’s shout.
“We’ve got something. Come and see.”
Reagan and Mia lurched forward. Kristen’s approach was a little more tentative, hindered by her skirt even in her sensible shoes. She rounded the pile of dirt and gingerly stepped to the edge of the three-foot-deep hole. And swallowed hard.
He was right, was her first thought. We’re lucky it’s winter. Had it been summer, the flesh would have been so decomposed it would have been unrecognizable. But being winter in Chicago, the body was fairly well preserved. Enough that she could provide a positive ID.
“It’s him. Anthony Ramey.” Her voice was shaky, but she doubted anyone would fault her for it. Jack’s men wore identical grimaces that said they’d rather be fingerprinting anything anywhere than be here, in the hole with a decomposing body. Mia pressed a handkerchief to her face and walked around the hole to get a view from a different angle.
“Most of him, anyway,” Mia said through the handkerchief. “Hell, Kristen, your humble servant sure did a job on Ramey. Nothing like a little vigilante justice with a biblical twist.”
It was true. Nude and rotting, the body of Anthony Ramey had been laid to rest minus his pelvic region. In its place was about a baseball-sized expanse of nothing.
“Eye for an eye,” Kristen murmured, wishing to high heaven she’d brought along a handkerchief of her own. Even with the benefit of Nature’s freezer, the body’s odor was enough to turn her stomach and suddenly she felt like cursing Reagan’s kind breakfast gesture. Bagels and lox threatened to gag her.
“Shotgun?” Reagan said to Mia, and she nodded.
“Probably.” Mia crouched to get a closer look. “Definitely not the same gun that brought him down. Probably done after he was dead. The Polaroids don’t show any pelvic damage.”
“The ME can tell us for sure,” Reagan said, crouching beside Mia. “What’s that?”
Mia squinted over the edge of the handkerchief. “What’s what?”
Reagan pointed to Ramey’s throat. “That pattern around his neck.” He got down on his knees and bent down for a closer look, then looked back up at Mia. “Could be ligature marks from strangulation,” he said. “Jack?”
Ligature marks. Oh, no, was all Kristen could think. No, no, no.
Jack brushed some dirt from Ramey’s neck with a soft-bristled brush. “Looks like it.”
Mia swung around to look at Kristen, her eyes narrowed. “Kristen, didn’t Ramey—”
Kristen’s mind was already there. Her gut tightened, the implications far too disturbing to contemplate. But contemplate they must. “He would come up to his victims from behind and strangle them with a thick necklace-like chain, but only to cut off their air supply so they couldn’t scream. When they stopped struggling, he stopped strangling, then dragged them off to a dark part of the parking garage to rape them. It was the chain that the defense said police obtained through an unlawful search of Ramey’s apartment. If we’d had that evidence, I could have gotten the conviction. But the jury never saw it.”
“So we have a copycat,” Reagan said, still staring at the ligature marks.
Kristen shook her head, seeing from Mia’s expression that she understood, that any way it turned out, this would be very bad. “That was a detail we never gave to the press.”
Reagan’s head turned slowly, his expression as dark as Mia’s. “Then—”
Kristen nodded. “He’s got access to restricted data.”
Mia stood up and brushed at her slacks. “Or he’s one of us.”
Reagan’s breath hissed out. “Shit.”
Thursday, February 19, 7:45 A.M.
The bagels and lox were still in her stomach, but they weren’t happy to be there any more than Kristen was happy to be standing at the makeshift grave of three young men who’d taken the lives of two children so heedlessly. Once again their humble servant’s map had been accurate and once again he’d left behind the headstone.
Carved with the names of two little kids who’d never see the age of eight.
Jack had radioed ahead to the uniforms guarding the final scene, where they’d presumably find the body of Ross King, and sure enough, waiting for them was a headstone with the names of six innocent victims of a hideous theft of their childhoods. Their trust. Those six boys had testified so bravely, it still made her heart ache. They’d relived their terror and trauma to a closed courtroom, empty but for the boys’ parents, the judge, the defense attorney, Ross King, and herself. And the jury. She’d forgotten about the jury.
“Their names weren’t released,” Kristen said out loud, and both Mia and Reagan turned to stare at her. She blinked, bringing their faces into focus. “The names of King’s victims were never released. They were minors. The arresting officers knew and the lawyers knew and the jury knew. I forgot about the jury.” From her briefcase she pulled out the printouts she made during the night. “Here’s the list of anyone associated with the three trials. Victims, family members, anybody who testified. I ran copies for both of you.” She handed each detective a stack. “But I forgot the jury. It may not mean anything, of course. The Ramey jury wouldn’t have known about the chain, but the King jury knew the names of his victims.”
Mia flipped through her stack. “Wow. How long did this take you?”
“To get the list, about ten minutes. I keep a personal database of all my cases so the hard work was already done. It took three hours to print it all up because my home printer is ancient.” She frowned, watching Reagan’s face darken. “What?”
He looked up, his blue eyes cold. “There are cops on this list,” he said too softly.
Kristen felt her stomach gurgle, a sure sign of stress. As always, she pulled into herself, growing still. It was one of the most valuable skills she possessed. She met Reagan’s gaze unflinchingly. “Of course there are. They participated in the investigation.”
Twin flags of dark color appeared just above Reagan’s clean-shaven cheekbones. “And for too long they’ve watched the guilty go free?” he said, quoting the killer’s letter.
Kristen clenched her jaw, but kept her voice level. “You said that, not me. But it’s true. And now we know he has an inside track.” A glance from the corner of her eye showed Mia watching the exchange with a puckered brow.
Reagan riffled through the pages impatiently. “Where are the lawyers, Kristen?”
“They’re on there. All defense attorneys and their staff.”
He dipped his head, an intimidating move she wasn’t entirely sure he did on purpose. “What about you
r office? What about the prosecutors?” he asked, his voice falsely calm.
She let out a quiet breath. “You’re looking at her, Detective Reagan.”
“But you have assistants, right, Kristen?” Mia asked neutrally. “Secretaries?”
Truthfully, she hadn’t considered that fact, but it was only fair and complete to add everyone to the list, especially now they knew he had an inside track of information. “I’ll revise the lists and send them over to your office after lunch.” She shouldered her laptop case, readjusting the weight. “I’ll see you later.”
“Where are you going?” Reagan demanded and irritation had her straightening.
“Motion hour is at nine.” She leveled him a stare. “We all have jobs to do, Detective.”
He nodded stiffly and lifted the printout in the air. “Thank you. This would have taken us hours to complete.” It was an olive branch and she accepted it with a civil nod.
“Days,” Mia corrected. “We’ll get started interviewing the original victims later today.”
Kristen’s gut clenched. “So they get steamrolled by the system yet again.” She looked at Mia. “I’d like to come along, especially for Ramey’s and King’s victims.”
Her expression sympathetic, Mia opened her mouth, but Reagan cut her off before she could utter a word.
“Why, Counselor?” he asked, his tone one step from caustic. “Think we’ll bully one of them into confessing?”
Mia blew out a frustrated breath. “You’re outta line, Reagan. She—”
Kristen held up her hand. “No, Mia, it’s all right. I can understand Detective Reagan’s misperception under the circumstances.” She looked up at him, challenging him to meet her eyes, waiting to speak until he did. “Let’s get a few things straight, Detective. I have a good working relationship with Spinnelli’s office. Anyone will tell you I’m fair and thorough. I don’t know if we’re dealing with a cop or a lawyer or just some nutcase with really good sources, but at this point none of us can afford to overlook any potential suspect. Even if it’s a cop. Especially if it’s a cop. Because I respect your badge and don’t want to see it tarnished by one bad apple who doesn’t represent any of you.”
He opened his mouth and this time she cut him off. “I’m not finished,” she said, her voice still calm. If people only knew how hard she practiced to keep that calm voice even when her insides were shaking like Jell-O in an earthquake. “Based on my limited personal experience, I don’t believe you’d bully a rape victim who’s already been through hell, but based on the last few minutes, the jury’s still out on your sensitive side.” He looked away, abashed, and she sighed. “I do know those people depended on me to get justice and nine out of ten of them blame me because I didn’t. I don’t want to feel like I owe them, but I do. So I want to go. Call me a masochist or a bleeding heart if you want, but don’t call me unfair, because that’s what you’ve done.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. He looked at her, his blue eyes piercing. “I was out of line.”
For just a moment, Kristen stared, his gaze almost as palpable as a physical touch. She swallowed and shook her head, whether to break the tug of his stare or to deny his words, she wasn’t sure. “It’s all right, Detective. I understand.”
Mia cleared her throat and Kristen started. She’d almost forgotten Mitchell was there. “We’ll call you when we’re ready to start talking to the victims, Kristen,” she said dryly.
Kristen felt her cheeks heat. For heaven’s sake. Caught staring like a brainless teenager. It was just that the man had the most intriguing eyes. And she was sure she’d seen them before. “Thank you,” she said briskly. “I’ve got to go now or I’ll be late.” She turned on her heel and had made it halfway to the Arboretum’s parking lot when she felt a hand on her shoulder. He didn’t need to say a word for her to know it was Reagan. Her shoulder tingled with awareness, even through the layers that separated his hand from her skin.
“Do you need a ride, Kristen?” he asked and she shook her head.
“No,” she said, mortified when her voice came out husky. Resolutely she kept her gaze forward. “I’ll take a cab. I’ll have a rental car delivered this morning, so I’ll be fine. I really need to go, Detective.”
His hand lifted and she made her way to the street without looking back. But even still, she could feel his eyes watching her all the way.
Thursday, February 19, 8:15 A.M.
“Well, isn’t that interesting,” Zoe mused, sipping at a cup of black coffee.
Her cameraman yawned. “What?”
“Mayhew, walking up the courthouse steps. Get some film of her, okay?”
“Why?” He frowned. “You’re not getting one of those stalking complexes are you?”
“Just do it. And get a close-up of her feet.”
“You’re creepy, lady,” Scott groused, but did as he was told, his video camera following Kristen all the way up the stairs until she disappeared into the building.
Zoe took the camera from his hands. “Let’s take a good look.” She rewound the tape and stared into the viewer. “See that? Look at those shoes.”
Scott reached for his own coffee. “I did. Nike high-tops. Didn’t match her suit.”
Zoe rolled her eyes. “No. Look at her shoes. They’re all covered in mud.”
Scott shrugged. “So? She went for a morning run.”
Zoe shook her head. “No, she doesn’t run. She does aerobics twice a week at her neighborhood Y.” She looked up to find Scott’s unshaven face twisted in a disgusted grimace.
“You have been stalking her.”
Zoe blew out a breath. “Don’t be an idiot. Of course I’m not stalking her. I’m just acquainting myself with her usual routine. So I know when something’s up, like now. She went someplace this morning before motion hour.” Her eyes narrowed, her mouth all but salivating. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood straight up. Good investigative reporting was instinct and persistence. And preparation. This morning all that preparation was about to pay off. “Something’s cooking with our devoted public servant.” She turned to Scott with a satisfied smile. “We’re about to hit pay dirt.”
Thursday, February 19, 10:15 A.M.
John stood staring out the window, his back visibly tense. His hands gripped his upper arms and Kristen saw his knuckles grow whiter with each new detail she told him.
“I had a message on my voice mail from Detective Mitchell when I got out of motion hour,” she finished. “They’d uncovered the bodies of three gang members. Everything was the same except the pelvic shot.” Watching his reflection in the glass, she saw his mouth tighten. “They were on their way to the final scene, Ross King.”
“Do you know what time it is, Kristen?” John said flatly.
He sounded like an annoyed father asking her if she was aware she’d missed curfew and that, in turn, annoyed her. “Yes, John. My watch is accurate to the second.”
“Then why did you wait until now to tell me? Twelve hours later?”
Kristen frowned. “I did try to call you. I left three voice mails telling you it was urgent.”
He turned from the window with a frown of his own. “Three voice mails? I didn’t get any of them.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched buttons. “I’ll have Lois call the wireless company. This is unacceptable service.” His frown smoothed from angry to worried. “You’re all right?”
Kristen shrugged. “I kind of hope somebody else in the office gets a special surprise—then it won’t be just me he’s chosen.” She vividly remembered every creak her house made during the night, wondering if he was out there, watching her. Relieved that Reagan had checked every closet and under every bed, then pushing Reagan and his intriguing eyes right out of her head. “I don’t necessarily feel like I’m in danger, but it’s unsettling all the same.”
John buzzed Lois on his intercom. “Lois, please set up an emergency department meeting this afternoon. One o’clock. Mandatory. Those in court
need to see me before they leave tonight.” He looked at Kristen. “If he tries this with one of the rest of us, we’ll be ready.”
Thursday, February 19, 12:00 P.M.
“Thanks for squeezing us in, Miles,” Mia said, leading the way into the office of Dr. Miles Westphalen, their staff psychologist. “We’ve got a unique situation.”
“What’s happened?” Westphalen’s eyes focused on Mia as she filled him in. “Let me see the letters,” he said and Mia handed him copies of all three. He read them twice before looking up and removing his glasses. “Interesting.”
“I thought you’d think so,” Mia said. “Well?”
“He’s sincere,” Westphalen said. “And smart. He either has an academic background in literature or he’s an avid reader. There’s a … poetic cadence to his writing. Refinement and … culture. He writes like a cultured grandfather passing wisdom to his grandchildren. He’s religious, even though he never mentions God or any specific organized religion.”
Abe’s mouth tightened. “He’s a hypocrite, claiming to avenge victims yet preying on ASA Mayhew.”
One gray brow lifted and Westphalen turned to Mia. “What do you think, Mia?”
Mia pushed out a breath. “He has a special hatred for sex offenders. We found five bodies today. The rapist and pedophile both had their pelvis blown away while the murderers just had the head shot. And the last guy, King?”
“The pedophile,” Westphalen supplied.
Mia grimaced. “Yeah. Anyway, either he walked into one hell of a wall or our humble servant beat him to a bloody pulp. His own mother wouldn’t have recognized him.”
“Kristen did,” Abe commented.
Mia frowned, swinging around to look at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Abe shrugged uneasily. “Just a comment. She has a good eye.”
Mia’s eyes narrowed. “You’re still pissed with her.”
Abe shook his head. “No, I’m not. I was, but I’m not now.” Westphalen was waiting and damned if Abe didn’t feel compelled to explain himself. “She made a list of everyone connected with the original crimes and added the cops. I was just… surprised.”