Childhood had been cruel. The kids had been crueler.
“My penchant for investigative work ended in the sixth grade when my father dumped the entire contents of my detective kit into the garbage and told me to grow up.” Reclining into my chair, I waved around the room. “You’ve already got two career investigators. I think it’s safe to say my detective work won’t add anything beneficial.”
“But I need one who thinks like an attorney, and that’s where you come in.” Dad waited, anticipating additional objections. But I didn’t have any. Yet.
“You managed to compile all of this information in a matter of a few days?” I asked, flipping through the pages of the thick folder.
“You’ve got your contacts who feed you morsels of information.” Dad took his fresh drink from the server, pointing around the table at the nearing empty glasses. “Mine are better.”
Will chuckled from his perch at my father’s right hand.
I distracted myself by scanning the divider that read Evidence.
“This is all of the evidence you’ve got? There’s hardly anything here.” I stabbed my finger at the solo page of evidence for thirty-three murders.
“Because no one’s been looking for any,” my father answered calmly.
“Some of these deaths go back over a decade,” I continued. “They’re so cold they’re glacial.”
“I think everyone in this room can attest to the fact that a cold case doesn’t mean it’s unsolvable. Throw enough manpower and money at anything, and you’ll get an answer.” Dad crossed his arms over his big, barrel chest, daring me to keep going.
I stared him straight in the eye. “If all of these men were truly murdered, someone would have figured it out before thirty-three died.”
“You sound more like a defense attorney than a prosecutor, Grace.”
Taking a drink of my club soda, I chewed on a chunk of ice. “You’re the one who taught me to think like the defense if I wanted to win an argument before I could write my ABCs.”
Dad shoved away from the table and paced slowly at the front of the room. “I know we’ve got basically jack for evidence. I know that based upon the fact this perp has managed to cover up thirty-three murders as suicides, we’re dealing with an intelligent psychopath who would make Bundy look like a drooling invalid. I also know that every odd is not stacked in our favor, but no one—no one—takes the law into their own hands in my country. Not without facing the consequences.”
I waited for someone else to bring it up since my devil’s advocate card was about to be revoked. The five others circled around the table stayed quiet.
Reaching for my pen inside of my purse, I made a note in the margin of the evidence sheet. “Won’t we be taking the law into our hands by launching this private investigation?”
“The purpose of this task force is to gather the evidence that leads us to the perpetrator, who we will promptly hand over to the proper authorities upon capture.” Dad slipped his hands into his slacks’ pockets, still pacing. “We will reserve punishment for the justice system, a courtesy this person has not been compelled to trust in.”
“You catch this guy, you realize you’re going to have a mess of people cursing your name for nabbing the guy killing pedophiles, right?” the bulging tower of Titus said, his voice sounding exactly the way a person would assume it would given the mass of the man in possession of it. “I think it’s safe to say at least half the population is not going to congratulate you for finding this perp.”
I tipped my pen at Titus in agreement. What this person was doing might have been wrong in the law’s eyes, but the public would view it differently.
“Maybe not at first.” Dad stopped moving, staring at the wall across from him. “People will come around after the dust settles. They’ll come to understand that if we allow one citizen to operate as though they know better than the law, that kind of thinking becomes dangerous, spreading like a contagion.” The creases at the corners of his eyes bled into his cheeks, the corners of his mouth tipping downward. “We’ll have neighbors shooting neighbors for encroaching on their property, people on the street dealing out death penalties for an exchange of heated words. Those damn kids shooting up schools because they get picked on is going to increase ten-fold. You want the Wild West out on those streets”—his finger stabbed at the door—“I dare you to let this vigilante go unchallenged. With each kill, he becomes more emboldened, convinced he’s invincible.” Retrieving his bourbon from the table, Dad lifted it as though making a toast. “Let’s force him to question that notion.”
A stretch of silence followed, no one about to be the first to follow up that speech with a question or statement. As designated daughter who’d lived under the cloak of my father’s disappointment, I didn’t have any acclaim to lose in his eyes anymore.
“What’s your motive for doing this?” My pen tapped the binder. “Using your time and money to catch someone the police aren’t convinced is out there?”
One silver brow breeched into his hairline. “Does a person need a motive to
do the right thing?”
“Not to mention it won’t look too shabby when you finally decide to run for mayor like everyone’s been pushing you to consider.” Don finished what was left in his glass, winking at my dad.
“That’s a little short-sighted.” Dad’s mouth worked. “Why settle for cleaning up this city when the whole country’s in need of a good scrubbing?”
“Silas Payne, 2028.” Will’s hand moved as though he were reading from a billboard in the air. “The American Dream a Reality.”
That earned Will another shoulder clap from my father, a gleam in Dad’s eyes suggesting Will was the son my parents had never birthed. Ages ago, my parents had been hopeful Will and I would one day become Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham, but those dreams were promptly vanquished when a recess could rarely pass without the two of us getting into some sort of scuffle involving words or fists. And then there was the whole getting pregnant by a mere stranger on a one-night stand. That really solidified the notion that dear Will and me would not wind up together in unholy matrimony.
“Let’s stick to the case,” Dad continued, patting Will on the back before motioning across the table from me. “Samantha, would you go over your initial profile with us? I know it’s in its infancy, but it will be helpful to begin sketching an image of this criminal in our minds.”
She flipped to another section in her binder, though she didn’t consult it. “He feels his kills are justified, righteous even.” Her eyes swept over each of us as she spoke. “We’re dealing with someone who knows the law and is able to get close to these kinds of men. Maybe he grew up disadvantaged or is a former criminal himself.”
“I think the label of serial killer allows us to drop the former justifier,” Phinn interjected.
Samantha barely deigned to acknowledge his rebuttal. “He has the means to roam the nation for his victims. Whether that suggests the time, money, or career that allows it, we’re looking for someone who lives an uprooted existence. Likely single or divorced.” Her gaze drifted my way again, her attention dipping to my binder. She didn’t continue until I’d flipped to the profile section. “This is a male, white, likely middle class, with a list of priors. Probably assault charges stemming from getting into fights. He’s in his late twenties to thirties, larger framed, and strong enough to overpower other men in their primes.” When she finished, she scanned the table, waiting for questions.