Whether or not the case is solved, whether or not the killer is caught, varies. Every book is different just as every person is different. Like a fingerprint, each book is unique.
Some writers lay the facts out and lead readers on a quest for that truth with one major theory, expounding on the details until they’ve made their case, like a lawyer arguing before a jury. In the end, the writer hopes to prove their theory and convince readers.
For me, it wasn’t enough to investigate and hammer down a theory. I wanted—needed—a resolution. I craved to look into the eyes of the killer once caught. To know he had stolen life for the very last time. He had met his finality.
Of course, this must happen from a safely removed distance. Poring over Internet images of perpetrators in handcuffs from my dark living room. Watching clips as officers walk them through the doors of a jailhouse. This is also why writing under a pseudonym is important. The “bad guys” can’t have access to the author. It’s dangerous, but it’s also…
Succinct satisfaction.
Then it starts all over again.
I’ll pull out my box of files and start the dig. Seeking the next case.
It’s a drug. Once I experienced that first moment of completeness after we closed the Patterson case, it didn’t take long before the hunger returned, more ravenous than before. I have an insatiable desire that I fear will never be sated, no matter how many murderers we catch.
I’m not oblivious. My major in psychology gave me a pretty healthy insight into myself; not allowing me the excuse of denial. My own unsolved case is sitting on the backburner, boiling over, demanding attention.
It won’t let me experience relief for very long.
Not every case becomes a book. But every case must be solved. That’s the unspoken promise Rhys and I made to each other after we shut my file permanently.
The USB drive on my key chain feels weighty in my pocket. The incomplete book a heavy burden to constantly lug around.
I’m an open ending.
I hate open endings.
The only thing in my control is the next case. The next victim. Like Joanna Delany. She deserves my complete focus, not my pity, or self-pity. I’m here and she’s not.
Lucent Lake West is muggy. Mosquitos already abuzz before noon. I spray my arms with repellant and hand the bottle to Rhys. Just another thing I don’t miss about living in Florida.
“I remember when the mosquito truck used to drive down our street,” I say, staring out over the flat lake top. The wind picks up briefly and feathers a current of ripples across the surface. “My mother would scream at me to run inside, or else I’d die from breathing the fumes.” I smile at the memory, though it’s rather morbid.
Amber and I had been playing in my backyard one day, climbing the orange tree, when we spotted the mosquito truck. We raced each other down the tree. She let me win. I know this, because she was faster, more agile.
I fell and broke my wrist trying to beat her, anyway.
That was the moment I absolutely acknowledged I could not win against the Ambers of the world.
As Rhys puts the bottle of spray in my bag, I slip my sleeve up and snap the band around that wrist.
“I didn’t realize there was such a thing as mosquito trucks,” he says as he pulls up the crime scene photos on his tablet.
I raise an eyebrow. “Lucky you.”
A tight-lipped smirk rims his mouth. Rhys once told me he grew up on the northwest peninsula. It rains in that part of the country more than any other, and the winters are cold and harsh. Must be what gives him such a warm personality. I deliver my own knowing grin in return.
He hands me the tablet. “Medical examiner placed the time of death around eight p.m. This isn’t the most secluded spot.” He glances around the marsh scenery. “Yet she went unnoticed for over twenty-four hours before the dog walker called it in the next evening.”
Sometimes it’s difficult to follow his train of thought, but I latch on to his theory in this instance. “Someone familiar with the victim’s schedule or the area, to know she’d be alone, and that they’d have enough time. Her mother said she used to walk in the evenings almost every day. She used it to decompress after work.” Part of the victim’s extended sobriety program as a recovered meth addict.
Ms. Delany was hesitant to go into details, regardless that she knows it’s already in her daughter’s file. Drug addiction is a storm that tears through a family. Time doesn’t heal all wounds.
Rhys nods and looks at the apartment complex that abuts the lake. “The police only canvassed neighbors in the complex where the vic lived. What about the others? There are three apartment buildings that surround the lake area.”
“Maybe a witness that didn’t come forward,” I reason aloud. “And anyone within close proximity could learn her routine.”
“Let’s walk the perimeter. See if we can tell which apartments are in view of the crime scene.” Rhys starts toward the bank.
Before I follow his lead, I look at the tablet in my hand, at the image displayed on the screen. My chest prickles as a sinister awareness slithers over me.
Last night, I was able to get through most of the case file while lying in the hotel bed. The reports describe the body in grisly candor, but actually seeing the mutilation is different; it stirs a visceral reaction.
With a guarded breath, I zoom in on the laceration that stretches the length of her rib cage. Despite the bloated skin, the washed out, paled appearance, I can imagine what it would look like—feel like—once healed, had the victim lived through the attack.
It’s not the same placement, or size…but the sight of the injury spikes my blood like a shot of alcohol. Dizzy, I lower the tablet.
“Dammit.” Air fights its way into my lungs, and I swallow past the constriction of my throat. I stumble over a mound of reed grass, my legs shaky. “Rhys…” He doesn’t hear me. “Agent Nolan!”
This stops him on the shore. He looks back at me, his suit jacket flapping open as a breeze crosses the lake. His features pull together in question.
I hold up the tablet when I reach him. “Did you see this?”
His hands go to his hips, pushing his jacket open farther. “Hale, what are you talking about?”
“This—” I point to the victim on the screen. “The ME report didn’t record this laceration correctly. Did you know about it? Did you see this image?” The accusation in my tone startles even me. I draw in a breath. “Am I crazy?”
His frown deepens as he squints against the noon sun. Then his eyes find mine. “You’re not crazy.”
My relief is momentary.
“But,” he continues, “I asked if you were comfortable taking this case.” It comes across accusatory.
I drop the tablet by my thigh. “That’s not—”
“I read the report. Studied the images. I asked you before,” he stresses.
“Stop. This isn’t about my reaction. Don’t analyze me. There’s a distinct similarity here.” Now that the words are out there, I can’t take them back.
At his intense silence, I look past him, out to the ripples sheeting the lake.
Take it back.
But I can’t. The remembered pain surges to life, bigger than this moment.
Rhys draws closer. Mercifully, he doesn’t make me elaborate. He doesn’t need me to. He’s seen this reaction before. In victims.