“Holy s… that was you?” Ella said, her jaw hanging low. She remembered the case very well but had no idea Byford was involved. Byford was manipulated by a terrorist to watch mass slaughter. There were no words in the English language to comfort him. “Sorry. That’s just…”
“Unforgivable,” he said, “I know. I’ll never forgive myself for it. It eats me up, day after day. I took a year off. Had to go through extensive counseling, but I learned to live with it. Harness the contempt I hold for myself and use it to make the world a better place for others. Sorry I had to get so dark, but I hope that puts your own problems into perspective. You talked to someone your partner didn’t like. The grown woman will get over it, alright? Now how about we get a coffee, get back to work and stop this son of a bitch before he kills anyone else, yes?”
She suddenly felt like kind of a jerk for judging Byford so readily. The man had been through a war, lived to tell the tale and dealt with the trauma like a soldier. He didn’t cower or retreat into a hidey-hole for the rest of his life. He took responsibility, Ella realized. That was what she had to do.
“Hell yes,” Ella said, rising to her feet. “Let’s do this thing. That was a brutal story, but you’ve helped me put things in perspective. Thank you for coming.”
“Any time, partner. I’ll let you sort yourself out. Meet you downstairs when you’re done.” Byford jumped out of his chair and left the room. Ella took a moment to herself, processing the past ten minutes in silence. She went to the bathroom mirror, threw some water on her face then checked her reflection. Not great, but there were more important things to worry about than how she looked. Back in the bedroom, she saw the letters again, realizing now that she hadn’t even read the second letter.
She grabbed it, pulled it out of the envelope and saw the same ink, same handwriting.
I’LL SEE YOU SOON.
This time, it didn’t scare her. It didn’t faze her at all. She grabbed the other letter, crumpled them both up and threw them in the trash.
“Yes, you will see me soon, you piece of shit,” she said as she walked out the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Across their office table, Byford looked different now, like he had something substantial behind that corporate exterior. Ella had arrived at the precinct with new determination to break this case open, so her first point of call was research. Something in her copious notes would give them a direction to explore; she and Byford just had to find it.
“Where to start?” asked Byford. “You got us this far, so consider me your servant.”
“Please, don’t say that. We’re equal. You’ve played your part too. Have any new reports come in that we can take a look at?”
Byford organized his paperwork. He pulled out two new sheets. “These came in while you were gone. The sheriff got an expert in to appraise all of the coins. Here’s what he found.” He pushed the papers over to Ella’s side of the desk. She read them through.
“So, nothing particularly rare here then. Middle-of-the-road value too.”
“Yeah. Have you noticed that they increase in value with every crime scene? The Kennedy nickels are pretty much worthless, the yens are worth about twenty dollars each, and the Chinese coins are about fifty.”
Ella saw the same pattern. “Interesting. It suggests our killer is evolving. Or that he’s targeting his victims in terms of importance.” The next section of the report stated that the coins could have come from a countless number of sources, so tracking them back through previous owners would be impossible.
“I think we need to go further into this world of coin collecting,” said Byford. “What if we went through the police archives and found any crime that involves coins or money or debt. Then we could cross-check their names against the people in coin collecting communities.”
Ella liked the optimism, but the suggested task was a massive undertaking. “Local officers did that yesterday. The results ran into multiple thousands. Plus, with how many coin collectors there are in Newark alone, even narrowing it down by known collectors’ names would yield too many results to sift through. It’s a great idea, but we’d need some manpower.”
Ella’s phone flashed up. For once, it wasn’t from Mark. It was a notification that her takeout coffees had arrived. “Back in a second. Breakfast is here.”
She left the office, went through the open-plan area of the office, and down the steps to the foyer. She opened the door and collected her order from the deliveryman. Just before she closed the door, she heard a voice.
“Miss Dark?”
Ella peered around the door. Standing against the outside wall was Aleister Black. He appeared to be shuffling back and forth as he gripped his forearm with the opposite hand. Ella recognized the signs immediately. Overbearing anxiety. Withholding a secret, maybe.
“Aleister. Are you okay? What are you still doing here?” She put her coffees down and joined him outside.
“I was on my way home, but I came back.”
His face was a wreck. He looked like he’d been through the wars. “Why? You need to go and rest.”
“I had something I wanted to tell you. It’s only something small, but I thought you better know.”
Ella’s curiosity piqued. “Of course. I’m listening. Please say whatever’s on your mind.”
“You mentioned that you found an Okinawa 1964 coin alongside Jimmy’s body, didn’t you?”
“Yes, we did. Gold. One thousand yen.”
“Those parts aren’t important. What’s important is the year. It’s always about the year. Forget everything else about the coins. Focus on the year.”
Ella raised her eyebrows. As far as she knew, Aleister wasn’t aware the other coins were also from 1964. “Is that symbolic of something?”
“No,” Aleister shook his head. “But if your killer is also a coin collector, then he was born in 1964.”
Ella checked their surroundings to make sure no one was within earshot. “What do you mean? Why do you think that?” she asked.
“It’s the collector mindset. It might not make sense to regular people, but every collector has what we call a special interest inside their own collecting niche. For me, it’s Soviet coins. Others might focus on wartime coins. But for most collectors, especially older generations, it’s the year of their birth. I think it’s his way of leaving something of himself at each scene. Collectors are naturally possessive people. They like to boast of the things they own.”
Now that she’d heard it from someone else’s mouth, it seemed obvious. She was so focused on thinking the coins were symbolic to each victim that she didn’t stop to think the coins might be symbolic to the unsub. If the killer was born in 1964, that would make him 57 years old. Based on the sneak attacks, she’d profiled the killer to be young and agile, but was it really so necessary that he was? Why couldn’t an older male pull off the same level of cunning?
“Aleister, thank you so much,” she said. She reached out and hugged him, hoping such affection might lessen his sense of vulnerability. Even though she couldn’t see his expression, she sensed his awkwardness.