the places in question. That’s a big order, but we’re trying.”
“Thank you, Wade.”
“Thank me by seriously considering the FBI again. You belong here, Sam, and before you push back, I’ve got my class to get back to anyway. I have to go, but the name and number of the profiler I recruited to help you out is in your email, too. You also have contact information for the lead tech I have helping out. Gotta run.”
He disconnects, and I am ready to beat my head against the desk. I have murders. I have a killer. I have no proof. My mind goes back to my grandfather, and I’m not sure why it’s pulling me to him. I need to go see him. I stand up and then immediately lean forward, hands on the desk, with the punch of an idea. But I can’t go.
What if I lead The Poet to him and The Poet doesn’t see him as worthy?
Chapter 63
The profiler is Judy Garland.
For real.
Her parents loved the movie star Judy Garland and named their daughter Judy. No wonder she chose to spend her days hunting killers. She needed to be bigger than the name. I know Judy well. I hide out at my desk for our talk, which is an easy one. She was one of my mentors in profiling, and it doesn’t take long on the phone with her before we’re batting things back and forth and creating a solid profile that ultimately matches mine with a bit more detail.
“You didn’t need me,” she says. “Why am I on the phone with you?”
“A wise man once told me you’re never too good for a second opinion.” That wise man was also a foolish man, but I leave that part out. He was my father.
Once I’m done with Judy, I head into the conference room and join the team, where I set up my computer and begin scanning the security footage. In the meantime, half the team is working on Newman and the other half opening the door to other suspects. Roberts, Summer, and Gaines shared the same cable company. They all had DIRECTV. The rabbit hole of information could drag me under, but I’m not tempted. I remain focused. The security feed at my building is useless.
I pull up the coffee bar footage for first thing this morning, and I’m about ten minutes in from the time they opened the doors when I freeze-frame on a shot of a tall man walking in, wearing a hoodie and a baseball hat. The same hoodie and baseball hat my stalker had been wearing in the film by my door. It’s a bold move on his part, returning to the place where he’d chosen a victim. It’s also a stupid mistake. The barista might remember him. The camera might catch his face. His mistake will be our gain.
My heart thunders in my chest as I push play again. He walks to the back of the room, where the condiments station sits, grabs something and then turns to leave, his chin low, his hat lower, his hoodie pulled over it. I can’t see his face. “Damn it!”
Eyes turn on me with my unexpected outburst and I motion to Jackson. He stands and hurries over. I rewind and play the feed. “Holy shit,” he murmurs, and Chuck is quick to join us.
I eye Officer Jackson. “Go and see if anyone remembers him, please.”
“On my way.”
He heads out of the room, and Chuck and I share a look. We know he isn’t going to come back with what we want, but we have to try.
My cell phone rings and it’s Lang. I answer. “Please tell me something good.”
“The crime scene photos for the local victim, the female veterinarian, look identical. The use of a chair. Tying the victim up with bindings from her curtains. The way the ties are positioned. And once again, there was no DNA found.”
“What about the drug that killed her?”
“The city had people dropping dead from a synthetic drug at the time. It read a lot like cyanide does postmortem. It looks to me that the testing wasn’t properly conducted. We can’t question the ME. He’s dead.”
“How did he die?”
“Car accident. And it gets worse.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I almost don’t want to know.”
“The lead we had on the cyanide dried up. Martin’s contact is deleted off the dark web and MIA.”
“Jesus, Lang.”
“I know. We’re working the case. We’re backing into it. We’ll find something.”
“You better. Right