Velocity

“Maybe the vic’s from yesterday,” Dixon said, “before we grabbed up Mayfield.”

“My first thought, too,” Brix said. “But no. According to first-on-scene, she’s fresh.”

Dixon looked over at Vail, who was staring out the windshield. Thinking . . . what the fuck is going on? How could this be?

“Sounds like the same MO,” Brix said. “I mean, same ritual. Gotta be a copycat, right?”

I’ll be the judge of that, thank you very much. Vail’s phone buzzed. She absentmindedly pulled it from her belt and glanced at the display. “Is this the address?” she asked Brix.

“I had Mann text it to everyone.”

Vail rotated her phone to face Dixon, who, after digesting the location, turned the car around and headed back down 29, toward downtown Napa.

Unfortunately, even Vail knew the address.

DIXON PULLED TO A HALT at a makeshift barrier created by haphazardly parked Sheriff’s Department cruisers blocking Third Street. Deputies and Napa Police Department officers milled about. A news van sat skewed at the end of Brown Street, where it intersected with Third: at the Hall of Justice complex, where the courthouse and the Napa jail were located.

Dixon parked behind Brix’s vehicle, and she and Vail made their way toward the clot of detectives surrounding a quad area nestled between three large gray buildings. As Vail picked her way through the crowd of law enforcement bodies, she caught sight of Matthew Aaron holding a digital SLR up to his face. The burst from his flash illuminated the area of interest: a black square water fountain that sat atop two concrete rectangles.

And seated on the lower step was a woman, posed in such a way to make it appear as if she was reclining against the stone, her right leg extended in casual repose. Except that a trail of diluted blood cascaded down from her hands. A set of handcuffs dangled from her left wrist and her head was canted back, hanging at an unnatural left-leaning kink. The water from the fountain was lightly spraying her head, which now featured stringy-wet brunet hair.

“Can someone shut that fountain down?” Dixon asked.

Brix pushed his way toward her. “Working on it. Called Public Works. They’re en route.”

Vail stepped closer, to within a couple feet of Matt Aaron. “Was she—is her trachea crushed?”

“Haven’t gotten to that yet, but my money’s on it.”

“I’m not interested in betting,” Vail said. “Just give me goddamn answers.”

Aaron hardened his jaw, then said, “There’s bruising over the trachea. It looks like it’s been crushed. But until I can get my hands on her, I can’t really answer your question.” He pointed at the body. “That said, the toenail’s missing. Right second toe. And her wrist has a transverse gash.”

Emerging from the far end of the quad was Austin Mann and Burt Gordon. And a haggard Sheriff Stan Owens. Brix motioned them to an area near the twin flagpoles, a few feet from the jail building’s facade. Owens remained at Aaron’s side—something the forensic technician probably wasn’t too pleased with, but would no doubt keep to himself.

The remainder of the task force gathered between the flag poles and stood there staring at one another until Brix spoke up. “Okay, what the fuck are we dealing with here?” He looked at Vail. “Karen—did we or did we not arrest the Crush Killer?”

Vail brushed a lock of red hair behind her ear. “John Mayfield’s the Crush Killer. We didn’t release any details of the murders to the press, so the only people who know what Mayfield did with the bodies would be Mayfield himself—which isn’t possible because of the timing—or he had a partner. That wasn’t evident at any of the crime scenes, so if I had to guess—and that’s what I’m doing here—he was mentoring someone, teaching him how to kill. Someone with a similar personality. Narcissistic.”

“James Cannon,” Brix said. “Mayfield’s bodybuilding buddy.”

“That’d be the first place I’d look.”

“Cannon’s out of town,” Dixon said.

“Says who? Cannon?” Vail turned to the others. “I called him a little while ago and left a voice mail, told him I was sorry for turning him away, that I wanted to grab lunch or dinner with him. He texted back and said he’d love to, but he’s out of town.”

“Which could be bullshit,” Brix said.

Vail kicked at a dead branch by her feet. “If he’s our guy, yeah, it’d be bullshit.”

Gordon shifted his thick legs. “Do you think your call tipped him off?”

“Anything’s possible,” Vail said. “But if he’s a narcissist, he probably wouldn’t permit himself to think we’re on to him so soon. He thinks he’s smarter than us, and my message was a little suggestive of some sexual rendezvous, which would play right into his mind-set. I think we’re okay.” She thought a moment, then added: “If this body is fresh—and it looks like she is—then clearly, he’s comfortable killing. And he’s comfortable bringing the body to a public place.”

“What do we know about the vic?” Austin Mann asked.

“Not a whole lot,” Brix said. “We didn’t want to disturb the scene till we got that water shut.” Thirty feet away, as if on cue, the fountain stopped bubbling. Heads turned. Aaron moved toward the woman’s body.

“We should have a few answers soon,” Burt Gordon said.

“Why here?” Brix asked. “Why did he dump the body here?”

“He didn’t just dump the body,” Vail said. “He posed her. And he placed her facing the street. Posing is a very different behavior. The Crush Killer left his victims out in the open where they’d be found, for sure. But this woman wasn’t just left in public. She was placed at the Hall of Justice, right in the front, posed. For all to see. You can’t get much more insulting to law enforcement, much more ‘in your face’ than leaving her right on our doorstep. He’s sending a message.”

Mann shifted his gaze beyond Vail to the area around the fountain. “And that message would be?”

“That he’s better than us, smarter than us. That he can kill this woman right in front of the Hall of Justice and get away with it. That he’s above the law, that we can’t stop him. That he’s in control.”

“You talked to this James Cannon,” Gordon said. “Based on what you saw, is he capable of doing that?” He gestured with his chin toward the victim. “I mean, is it possible?”

Vail and Dixon shared a look.

Dixon answered. “Yeah, I think so. His demeanor when Karen rejected him. He took it personally, almost as if he was so far superior to any other man—how could she reject him?” She held up a hand. “Now, that’s looking at it in hindsight, maybe with a slightly skewed view. But you’re asking if it’s possible. I think it is.”

“I agree,” Vail said. “But it could also be more complex. By doing the kill this way, he could be saying, ‘I’m my own guy. I’m my own killer. So I’m going to do things differently.”

Mann said, “Differently meaning the posing, the location of the victim.”

“Yeah.”

“What about the handcuffs?” Mann asked. “Gotta be some meaning behind that.”

“For sure. It’s part of the message. He left her at a police station.”

“Nothing deeper?” Dixon asked.

“Who can say at this point? Is it a taunt? That we’re prisoners to his reign of terror? Yeah, okay. At this point, it’s just a guess.” Vail pulled her Glock, stepped forward, and carefully lifted the cuffs with the tip of the barrel.

“What are you doing?” Gordon asked.

“All cuffs have serial numbers, manufacturers and model numbers, right?” Vail leaned in close. “Serial number should be just below the key post. Four-five-three-five-one-one.”

Brix typed the numbers into his phone.

“Model number’s a seven hundred. Peerless.”

Brix looked up. “Peerless. That’s what we use. The Sheriff ’s Department.”

“That’s what most law enforcement agencies use,” Mann said.

“You can buy a set on Amazon for thirty bucks,” said Aaron, who’d moved beside Vail to look at the cuffs. “I wouldn’t make too big a deal out of it. Security guards use ’em, too.”

Vail frowned. “Track the serial number. You keep records at the department, right? Who gets which set of cuffs?”