3
AFTER THE HELICOPTER ride, Aiden was escorted by two officers to Clarks Hill Lake. He showed his credentials to the officer standing behind the crime scene tape. When he was waved through, Aidan continued his way to where a crowd of police investigators was still surveying the scene. A petite man with a receding hairline, wearing a pinstriped suit stood next to a tall, dark-skinned man near the body. Aidan assumed the small man was Lieutenant Christenson.
After introducing himself, he found he was right, and the other man was Agent Shaun Henderson, the senior resident of the field office in downtown Augusta.
Aidan shook their hands—Christenson’s shake was wilted, while Henderson almost crushed his fingers.
When Aidan politely referred to Henderson as “agent,” he’d requested to be called by his first name, stating they were going to be working long days together trying to track the killer.
With an affirming nod, Aidan turned his attention to the body, kneeling for a closer look. He took note of every bruise, the black dress, white carnations, the taser marks.
He knew right away the killer he had hunted for the past ten years had returned, and Augusta was his new hunting ground. The memories made Aidan’s heart drum against his rib cage. He balled his fists in anger, then released them, hoping his new peers didn't take notice.
Aidan remembered the chilling call he received the night before his final victim year. It was a simple phrase meant to taunt them.
To taunt him.
And he remembered his cold laughter.
I can kill, and you can’t catch me.
Aidan wanted nothing more than to erase the voice from his memory, but it was something he thought about almost every day. He wondered if he would spend the rest of his life hearing that voice.
“Do we know the approximate time of death?” Aidan asked, trying to push his thoughts to the back of his head.
“M.E. believes it to be around seven hours ago, more or less,” Christenson replied.
“Any personal belongings?”
“No. And my forensic team combed through every inch of this place. It’s clean.”
Aidan nodded. He knew the offender planned the murders long before he ever approached his victims.
Aidan imagined the offender studied his victims’ daily routines. He knew who they were with. He likely knew what grocery store they frequented and the day of the week they took out the trash.
He planned it to the tiniest detail.
But Aidan also knew after eluding capture for so long, most killers were bound to make a mistake. He hoped this would be the case with The Carnations Killer.
“The husband?” Aidan pressed.
“I have men questioning him as we speak,” Shaun replied.
Aidan asked about the letter, the reason he was personally called.
Christenson passed it over.
They hadn’t opened it but had slipped it into an evidence bag. Donning a pair of latex gloves, Aidan pulled it out of the protective bag and removed the letter from the envelope.
He glanced between Christenson and Shaun before reading the letter’s contents.
FBI Special Agent O’Reilly—
How good it is to see you again. I’ve really missed you. Have you missed me? Well, I left a present for you in hopes to make up for that. I do hope you enjoy her. You always seem to have to come to me, don’t you? Well, I decided I’d do you a little favor and come to you for once. Ah, it’s so good to be back in your acquaintance, isn’t it? I’m looking forward to us continuing our little game.
Your friend—
The Carnations Killer
Every part of him wanted to rip the letter into pieces. Aidan noticed his hands beginning to shake, so he replaced the letter in the bag in order to mask it. It had been hard enough returning to Boston for his sister’s wedding. He hadn’t been back since he first came across The Carnations Killer ten years ago. And now to come home to this?
“Do you know why he’s singling you out, Agent O’Reilly?” Christenson burst into his thoughts, drawing him back to the real world.
Aidan hesitated as he looked at Christenson, then Shaun, and back again.
“He’s killed fifty women,” he told him, clearing his throat. “That we know of. He likes to leave me notes. He’s always seemed to be fascinated by me.”
Christenson frowned. “Are you telling me we really have a serial killer in my city?”
Aidan nodded glumly, still looking at the note the offender left for him.
“They are all blonde, in excellent shape,” he continued. “That’s the only link our victims seem to have. As far as we can tell, none of them knew the other. He first uses a taser in order to subdue them. Then he takes his victims elsewhere. I think he gets off on the abuse. He uses a rod or something of that nature. After holding them for about a week, he strangles his victims with a thin wire in order to finish them off. He dumps the bodies where he knows they will be found. The offender redresses his victims in a black dress, leaving off their undergarments. He usually poses them in this manner, except for the last victim. He seems to enjoy going out with a bang. Last year, he chained his victim to cement and dumped her in the middle of the Hudson River. He had anchored the boat, called to give us the tip, and when we came to it, a note told us to ‘look down.'“
Aidan pushed to his feet, his eyes on the lifeless shell of the young woman.
“What’s with the carnations?” Christenson said.
Aidan hesitated before he spoke.
“Black dresses are usual funeral attire. It’s his sendoff for the women. As for the white carnations, I believe it’s a message for us.”
“What’s that?”
It was Shaun who answered. “It means ‘good luck.’”
Aidan nodded his
