Ashley stuck her heels in the carpet and shoved her chair backward, away from the scene she had no business witnessing. This intimidating male cared about his secretary, but there was no satisfaction in knowing she’d guessed correctly, that Mother had lost a child. So, apparently, had Alex and his wife. What a way to meet the man who owned The TEAM.
The meeting Tripp was in must’ve been more important than he’d expected. No matter. Ashley knew her way home.
Chapter Fourteen
Tucker jerked the chair beside Jameson out from the table, turned it around, and straddled it. “So you think we’re dealing with a male?” he asked, snapping his fingers. “Any idea what age? What he might do for a living? What’s he look like?”
Tripp tipped his chair back onto its rear legs. Damned if he wasn’t as surprised as Director Chase that Jameson actually had mad ninja skills.
“Age doesn’t matter, sir,” Jameson replied steadily. “Frankly, neither does this guy’s appearance, though he’s probably as ordinary-looking as everyone in this room. What can you tell me about his previous three murders? You said he struck two years ago, then went silent. Do you know that for sure, or is that a calculated guess? If not, let’s check into all nearby states to see if they have unresolved murders that match this guy’s MO. We should investigate prison sentences and release dates that fit his timeline. Military service records, dishonorable and honorable discharges, police officers who might’ve been fired or injured in the line of duty, who might hold a grudge against Alexandria’s police force. Academy candidates, ones who dropped out or who didn’t make the cut. Obvious indicators like those.”
“Already did,” Tucker answered. “Even had my team run over the crime scenes, looking for psychic hits. Usually Eden can pick up auras or psychic signatures or something. As far as—”
“Wait.” This Tripp had to hear. “Psychic signatures? Auras? What kind of team do you operate? A bunch of ghost hunters?”
“They’re really psychics, Tripp,” Beau answered quickly. “Two are Level Tens. I didn’t believe it at first, either, but these guys are good. You ever hear about Doctor Zaroyin? The mad scientist who came up with a way to mechanize living soldiers, but turned them into mindless drones instead?”
Who hadn’t heard about Zaroyin? “You’re shittin’ me. He works for the FBI?”
“No, he’s in a maximum-security federal prison for the rest of his life, but Isaiah, his son, works for me,” Tucker answered without a speck of levity in his tone. If anything, his attitude had turned fiercely territorial, like he dared Tripp to say one more word against his team. “And he’s damned good. So are Special Agents Eden and Ky Winchester, Tate Higgins, Keller Boniface, and Harper Kincaid. You got a problem with that?”
“No, sir, sure don’t.” Nonetheless, Tripp scanned the room, looking for any hint this was a joke on him. Or something. Psychic FBI agents? Really?
“Agent Chase, tell me about the recent murders,” Jameson said.
Scowling, Tucker ran a hand up the back of his neck. “Same MO. Three women, all found in the exact same locations as his first three kills. The bodies were positioned like the originals. He staged them, right down to the white roses he put in their mouths. The only thing different is he targeted college students last time, prostitutes this time. Two years ago, he went after single women living alone. Never any in the dorms.”
“He’s reenacting those old murders,” Beau muttered. “The sick bastard.”
“Possibly,” Tripp said, tapping his index finger to his bottom lip, wondering why the change. “But why students then, prostitutes now? Serial killers generally operate under specific MOs. If they take a trophy from one vic, they take one from the rest. Could it be this guy’s not particular, just likes killing women?”
“No. That’d mark a significant shift in his MO, if—and this is just theory—he committed his earlier murders for the same reasons,” Jameson said, “which we still don’t know. Is there any similarity between the victims? Same hair color? Weight, height, anything?”
“The only things all six have in common is they were nineteen when he killed them, and all attended the same college,” Tucker replied.
“Which college?” Tripp asked. “Where?”
“Northern Virginia Community College, here in west Alexandria,” Mark replied. “And yes, I’ve already checked student rolls and teacher backgrounds for any correlation between the males on campus and the victims. Even dug into NVCC’s maintenance employees, grounds keepers, and delivery personnel. Haven’t found anything that stinks, yet.”
“This creep take any trophies?” Beau asked.
Tucker nodded across the table. “You saw the crime scene photos. The bastard cuts their throats, then carves their tongues out, clean and neat. We haven’t found anything yet to corroborate that theory. He used a razor-sharp blade, possibly a scalpel. There was one co-ed who got away two years ago. Can’t find her, either. Suspect she moved out of town and changed her name.”
Tripp’s gut clenched like his fist had earlier. “There were four victims two years ago? Three murdered, but one got away?”
Chase nodded glumly.
“Could she be in Wit Pro?” Mark asked Tucker.
“Witness Protection has nothing on her. We just know that two years ago, she checked into the free clinic after her assault. She was bruised and bloodied, but wouldn’t submit to a rape kit. Said she didn’t need it. Dumb asses didn’t get her name or ID. Because it’s a free clinic, they don’t always demand identification before they treat someone. They have no written record of treatment, and all I’ve got is hearsay from the nurse on duty that night, a Miss Glenda Buckler. She retired last year, but according to her, the vic came in alone and left after the on-call doctor stitched her. Said she
