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Damien pulled into the Hayeston High campus behind the football field and followed the single lane gravel road to the parking lot behind the far end zone. It was the first time he’d been on the school grounds in over a decade.

When he hit his snooze button one March morning during his junior year, he vowed never to step foot on the high school campus again.

Back then, the daily machinations of teen life were confusing and a waste of time. He felt he was too smart to put up with such petty crap. He had better things to do with his time.

Turned out being a dropout and making minimum wage at a bookstore wasn’t what he had hoped.

Yet, it was more than bruised pride that kept Damien away. It was Mark’s actions. The people Damien saw as classmates, Mark saw as targets. His murders tainted what little of high school Damien wanted to remember.

Damien parked his Crown Vic next to Lieutenant Decker’s cruiser and hurried out of his car, ducking under the police tape and up to his commander, who was surrounded by Hayeston’s finest and a few well dressed suits Damien didn’t recognize.

The semi-circle of men and women hung on Decker’s every word.

“We can’t officially say this is the work of someone trying to recreate Mark Kent’s original crimes, but it is similar,” Decker said. “Mayor Willis’ friends from a local security consultancy have offered to help find his daughter Darlene. We’ll take it. I’ve also reached out to the state and federal law enforcement points of contact for assistance. Blowback from the locals irritated that the mayor’s daughter will be getting special treatment more than poor Mandy Templeton is inevitable. I can’t argue with them. But, this has become more than just a kidnapping of a politician’s daughter. This could be validation that Hayeston has raised itself another serial killer. You all have your assignments. Get to it.”

As the group dispersed, Damien stepped forward.

“It was a year later,” Damien said.

“What are you talking about, Hill?” Decker asked.

“The time between Mark’s murders. Cathy Richie first. A year later, Daisy Hicks. These two are not only in the wrong order, they’re way too fast.”

“If the mayor’s daughter is the next victim.” “She fits the profile,” Damien said.
“A lot of girls in town do,” Decker clarified. “Still…”

“If so, then, yes, our killer seems to be more of a general fan of Mark’s work than interested in creating a strict recreation.”

“What can I do?” Damien asked. “Where’s your shadow?”

“Ted?”

“No, Sanders.”

Damien looked to the parking lot and saw Sanders exiting his car. The large, pale man broke into a jog and hurried toward them.

“He’s right there,” Damien said. “In all his glory.”

“Listen, Hill,” Decker said. “Sanders may be a prick, but he’s a damn good investigator. Work with him. Keep him engaged. Learn everything you can. His gut instinct rivals many of the feds I’ve worked with, so put up with his shit and help solve this case.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sanders huffed and coughed as he reached them.

“Give me the bullet points,” Sanders said through a heavy pant.

“It’s Cathy Richie all over again,” Decker said.

“The mayor’s daughter was at cheerleading practice?”

“Yes. Darlene had sprained her knee yesterday, so she watched her team practice a bit, then headed into Study Hall to talk with Mr. Atkins.”
“Never made it there?” Sanders asked.

“It appears not,” Decker said.

“Got it.”

“Do you have a picture of her?” Damien asked.

Decker pulled out his cellphone and swiped a few times, before showing them an image of her school picture.

She looked like she could have been Cathy’s cousin.

“Oh shit,” Damien and Sanders said in unison.

“Sir, why the smokescreen earlier?” Damien asked Decker.

“Why downplay what we’re facing?”

“I didn’t,” Decker said. “I’m just trying to buy us some time. It won’t take long before the news outlets get a hold of this. No way to stop the leaks on that sinking ship. But, I can’t have my people confirming another serial killer is on the loose. I’ll let the media connect those dots. We’ll neither confirm nor deny. That’s how the game is played during an active investigation. Hopefully, we’ll be able to hand this off to the feds by tomorrow and let them deal with the spotlight.”

“Bullshit,” Sanders said. “I didn’t break a sweat getting down here to watch you numb nuts play babysitter to witnesses and evidence. I’ll solve this case.”

“Then stop wasting your time bitching at me,” Decker said. “You and Hill get to it.”

Sanders was about to add one more insult when he was overcome with a coughing fit. By the time he caught his breath, Decker had disappeared into the crowd of investigators.

“You all right?” Damien asked.

“Don’t get your panties in a wad,” Sanders said. “Haven’t had much exercise lately. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Damien said, biting his tongue.

Sanders’ personality was like forty grit sandpaper on an opened wound.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sanders said. “Yeah, I’m a dick. Move on. Solving the case is all that matters. Pleasantries are for politicians and funeral directors. You want to find the murderer, you worry about people’s feelings later. Lock up the killer and they’ll get over it.”

Damien nodded in agreement, but Sanders’ advice flew in the face of everything he believed.

Remembering the victim’s humanity seemed to be critical to solving a case. Feeling their pain. Suffering their loss. Comforting those affected by the victim’s death. Then he’d know why he would put in the long hours, wake up people in the middle of the night, and accuse strangers of things they’d never do just to see how they’d react.

Maybe, in the real world, it wasn’t that easy. Perhaps capturing killers left a stain on the investigators somehow, one that makes them a little less of who they were when they started, the consequence of having to think like a killer and witness the results of their brutality.

Yet, Damien hoped he could find the murderer without it tainting himself or pissing off everyone that crossed his path. There had to be a way of getting answers without alienating everyone in the process.

Compassion had to be a part of the equation too.

“What’s next?” Damien asked.

“You look like a puppy waiting for a treat,” Sanders said. “Stop humping my leg and get busy. Talk to Atkins, the teacher Darlene was supposed to visit. See if he saw anything, knows about a grudge, secret boyfriends, and so on. Ask about Darlene’s family. Her friends. Murderers usually live in the center of the victim’s lives, not on the outskirts.”

“Unless it’s a serial killer.”

“Even Mark knew his victims,” Sanders said. “He went to school with Cathy. Used to shop at the store Daisy Hick worked. He may not have been in their inner circle, but he wasn’t too far outside of it. Always start in the center and work your way out. Even if the killer doesn’t live inside, those who know the victim may have seen something or noticed a change in the victim’s behavior.”

“Yes, sir,” Damien said.

He meant the sir part this time. Sanders knew his shit.

Damien couldn’t help but respect it.

“What are you going to do?” Damien asked.

“I’ll talk to the mayor’s people,” Sanders said. “I’ve worked with them in the past. I can talk shorthand. Find out what they’re too embarrassed to tell a real cop. Every family has skeletons. Time to dig them up.”

***

Damien found Mr. Atkins standing alone in an empty class with twenty desks all facing the front of the room. The walls were decorated with corny inspirational posters with pictures of oceans and sunrises, as well as phrases about overcoming challenges and believing in oneself.

Atkins had his back to Damien and seemed intrigued by one poster with a sea captain in a small boat facing stormy seas. Below it was written, Remember the silver lining.

“That’s good advice,” Damien said.

Atkins glanced over his shoulder, then returned his gaze to the poster.

“I wonder,” Atkins said. “They’re empty words without results.” He turned to face Damien. “I’ve already been interviewed. Multiple times.”

“I know,” Damien said, opening a notepad and readying his pen. “But, I’d like to ask you a few questions anyway.”

“Why not,” he said, pointing to a school desk. “Have a seat.”

Damien cringed at the thought.

“This won’t take that long,” he said, remaining standing. “Do you have study hall every Saturday?”

“Normally. Misbehaving students can avoid a mark in their records if they spend a few hours with me doing their school work.”

“Was Darlene one of those misbehaving students?”

“She wasn’t a saint, but, no. She knew how the system worked, who to suck up to, and who to avoid. She was her father’s daughter, after all.”

“Was she well liked?”

“Not really. The other students thought she got special treatment.” Atkins looked through the class window at the hum of activity by the football field. “From the interest of the local authorities outside, who can blame them?”

“Anyone have a special interest in her? Anyone who spends a lot of time in study hall?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “As I said, she never came here, so I never saw her interacting with any of my regulars.”

“She never came here?” Damien asked. “Not once?” “No.”

“Even to talk to you?” “No.”

“Then why did she tell her cheerleading squad she was coming to your class?”

“I don’t know,” Atkins said.

“Perhaps you and her met outside of study hall?”

“Are you asking me if I’m having an inappropriate relationship with her? Is that all you people think about?”

“Is that a no?” “That’s a no.”

“Any of your students in study hall leave during your class?” Damien asked.

“You mean long enough to kidnap her and return to finish their calculus?”

“Something like that.”

“Alli Wilkes went to the bathroom. Took her fifteen minutes. But, she uses a wheelchair. Muscular dystrophy. In case that helps scratch her off your list.”

“Can you think of anything else, anyone else, that could point us toward someone who would want to hurt Darlene or her family?”

“Well, for Darlene, no. People who wouldn’t mind taking a swipe at the mayor? Get in line.”

“You don’t like him?” Damien asked. “Do you?”

“I don’t really know him.”

“After a tropical storm damaged our school a few years back, the media was on site to do a report for the local news. The mayor showed up, dressed to work, hammer in hand. He started helping the teachers and volunteers board up the windows of my room until replacements could be installed. He was all smiles, glad handing, seemed like the nicest guy in the world. The second the camera lights turned off and the reporters drove away, he dropped his hammer and went back to City Hall. Then he delayed school funding to repair the damage so he could pay for one of his pet projects. He’s a used car salesman. A duplicitous jerk. Plus a number of other words I’ll refrain from speaking. If he could treat the student and teachers as a photo op in a moment of crisis, then what else was he capable of? He’s an ass. You’ll need a bigger notepad if you want to find everyone he’s pissed off.”

Damien nodded and closed his notebook.

“I understand,” Damien said. “Thank you for your candor.”

Atkins rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It’s been a long day,” he said. “I was supposed to be home three hours ago.”

“Darlene’s been missing that long?” “You tell me,” Atkins said.

“One more question,” Damien said. “Did Darlene wear nail polish? Red, to be exact?”

“I have no idea. Why?” “Just curious.”

***

Damien returned to the bustle near the football field as crime scene techs processed every scrap of paper and soda can littering the ground.

He scoured the group of investigators, whose number had diminished since he went to talk with Mr. Atkins, and realized Sanders’ wasn’t among them.
He pulled out his cellphone and called the number Decker had given him. It immediately dumped to Sanders’ voicemail, which said, “Don’t waste my time. Make it quick.”

Then beeped.

“Where the hell are you?” Damien asked. “We’re supposed to be working this together. Don’t make me hunt you down.”

Damien shoved his cellphone into his pocket and spotted Decker waving him over.

“Where’s your shadow?” Decker asked. “He’s working the case.”

“Where?”

“He said he had some contacts with the mayor’s office. From his security work.”

“You have no idea where he is, do you?” Decker asked.

“No, sir,” Damien said. “And he’s not answering my call.”

“Dammit, Hill.”

“I can either babysit him or help try and find Darlene.”

“I expect you to do both,” Decker said. “Did you get his files?”

“Yes, sir. His personal files about Mark’s crimes. Twelve boxes in all. They’re in my car.”

“Then read them. Find a link to what’s going on here. Learn to think like Sanders, see the connections like he did. Get into his mind through his work. I need him. If I can’t count on him, I’m left with you.”

“Yes, sir. Will you keep me apprised of the search?” Damien asked.

“Of course.”

“Oh, and Lieutenant, could you find out if Darlene normally wore red nail polish?”

“Sure. You onto something.”

“Maybe,” Damien said.

“I’ll let you know.”

“And sir, Darlene has already been gone for three hours?”

“At the most.”

“Cathy Richie was already dead by then. Burnt to a crisp.”

“Look around, cadet,” Decker said. “Do you see any plumes of smoke in the distance?”

“No, sir.”

“Then we still have time.”