She took in the clean floor, the furniture, the rumpled bed—everything seemingly in its place. Centering herself in the door frame, she focused on the bed. “But there aren’t any defensive wounds on his hands or skin under his fingernails, as far as I can tell. He could’ve known his attacker. It’s possible he let them in, and whoever killed him took him by surprise.”
The sergeant scribbled in his notebook. “We’ll know more once the medical examiner has a chance to do the autopsy.”
“You obviously connected my last case in Delaware to this one, Sergeant, and I can’t lie, there are a lot of similarities.” Remi forced herself to take a calming breath, to detach from the case that’d ended her career as the sheriff of New Castle, Delaware, and secured her emotional armor in place. But having Cove here—having another investigator who shouldered as much blame as she did for what’d happened on that case—threatened to resurrect the past. She kept her gaze on the corner of the bed and not on the pool of blood that’d seeped into the cracks of the hardwood floor around the body. “The manner of binding the victim to a chair, the dozens of cuts that most likely caused him to bleed out, the lack of struggle and the fact there are no signs of forced entry.”
This scene ticked all the boxes neither she nor Cove had been able to solve. But what were the chances the killer who’d gotten away with three murders of college-aged men back east had come to Oregon?
“Do you believe this could be the work of the New Castle Killer?” Sergeant Nguyen poised his pencil above the notebook that doubled as a barrier between him and the victim. “That he followed you here from Delaware in order to taunt you?”
Cove’s head snapped up.
“I’m not ready to make that jump yet, Sergeant.” Now why on earth would the sergeant think she was connected to this case at all? There were hundreds of thousands of murders a year in the United States but only so many different ways to kill a human being. There was bound to be some overlap from one case to another. Remi moved around Del Howe’s body toward the back of the bedroom. No sign of company while he’d been in Oregon. No female clothing, long hairs on the pillowcases or feminine touches. The crime scene unit would be able to confirm the victim hadn’t had any visitors, but the knot in her chest wouldn’t let her discount the possibility Nguyen had a point. Of all the locations this killer could’ve caught up to his prey, why take a cold case she’d worked in New Castle and recreate it here in Gresham? To get her attention? To send a message?
“I’m more inclined to believe whoever did this was a copycat,” Cove said. “The investigation got a lot of national attention after the last victim went missing and, no matter how hard we tried to prevent it, the media uncovered a lot of details we never released to the public.”
“I’m happy to turn over my case files and notes if you want to compare the scenes.” Anything to dislodge the knot of guilt twisting in her gut. She hadn’t been able to bring any of the victims home, but there might be something in her old files that could help Gresham PD prevent it from happening again. A soft click registered from the corner of the large bedroom, and Remi realized the crime scene photographer was documenting everything inside the walk-in closet.
Confusion rippled up her neck and across her shoulders as something compelled her to look inside. Had there been more blood evidence found in the closet? She forced one foot in front of the other as the crime scene photographer angled his camera at the floor, backing out of her way as he studied the LCD screen on his camera.
Revealing the surveillance photos taped over every square inch of the closet.
Remi froze as recognition flared.
It was her. The photo to her left showed her crossing the office parking lot. Then, straight ahead, one of her coordinating a manhunt at Heceta Head Lighthouse when a serial killer had taken one of her marshal’s witnesses. To her right, the photo was of her debriefing the firefighters at the scene of a thermite bomb explosion. Every photo was of her. Hundreds of them.
She didn’t understand, turning to Cove in a desperate attempt to make sense of what the surveillance meant. This was why Gresham PD had pulled her into the investigation.
Nguyen stepped up behind her as the world threatened to rip straight out from under her. “You can see why we might’ve wanted to question you concerning the murder of Del Howe, Chief Deputy Barton.”
GRESHAM PD WASN’T going to pin this on Remi.
Deputy US Marshal Dylan Cove pushed into the police station. Battle-ready tension tightened the muscles down his spine as he scanned the folding chairs directly ahead of him then the long desk with a single officer on the other side. Remi wasn’t there. The sergeant who’d been at the scene hadn’t put her under arrest, but Dylan had read the officer’s desperation to connect Remi to the scene through the discovery of those surveillance photos.
Most of Gresham’s crime fell into domestic and burglary offenses. The local police didn’t have a whole lot of experience with a murder investigation, but when they had one, they wanted it handled quietly. With only one hundred thousand or so residents, Gresham, Oregon, tried to hold on to a small-town feel while growing every year. That meant keeping the news of a victim viciously murdered in a cabin outside the city limits under wraps and solving the investigation as quickly as possible to prevent panic.
And those photos of Remi... Dylan curled his fingers into fists as he pushed past the front desk and stalked toward the back of the station. They’d done their job in giving the chief
