Audio:

Text:

Damien sat in his Crown Vic, the headlights shining against his garage door, still coming to terms with what had happened. This time yesterday he was looking through Sanders’ files. A day later he’d let a serial killer slip through his fingers.

Darlene’s car was found on the edge of town in the industrial park behind the building that once held the old Hayeston Herald printing press. No prints or DNA.

The killer was slick.

It pissed Damien off even more.

Raquel was asleep by the time Damien returned home. He wanted to lay in their bed and wrap his arms around her, but he didn’t deserve her comfort. Because of Damien, Hayeston had another serial killer out there, living, breathing, reliving his victory over the green cadet who could do nothing to stop him.

He turned off the car and stared at one of Sanders’ file boxes in the passenger seat. He had read so little of the case files. Maybe if he had more time, he could have found a piece of information that would have given him a few more minutes at the cabin before everything went sideways.

From all the material Damien had read in the evidence room at the police station and from Sanders’ notes, the killer was following Mark’s plan, except for two major differences.

The killer went in reverse order, murdering the cashier first and the cheerleader second. Also, Mark’s original crimes were a year apart. The recent murders, only days.

Why the rush? Why kill them in the wrong order?

What was the murderer trying to accomplish?

Damien may not have been able to save Darlene, but the case around her death was going to remain open as long as the killer was on the loose.

There was still plenty of work to do.

Twenty minutes later, Damien had moved all of Sanders’ file boxes into his small garage, pulled out a card table from behind Raquel’s unpacked boxes, a chair from the dining room, and started a fresh pot of coffee.

He was going to go through the files one scrap of paper at a time, put them in chronological order and find some- thing, anything that could point him in the direction of the man who found these murders so alluring.

Perhaps there were other areas where today’s killer had diverged from Mark’s work.

***

Sanders’ personal notebook.

June 4

I’m certain C. Richie and D. Hicks were killed by the same person. Lieutenant thinks I’m bucking for promotion. A-hole. Wouldn’t know his dick from a vagina. Blonde teens.

Red fingernail polish. Big tits. Blue eyes. Our boy has a type and that is what will get the fucker caught.

August 8

Canvased the neighborhoods again. People are tired of answering my questions. Tell me they don’t trust the cops. I don’t blame them, but I don’t give a shit. Murderer is still out there. Talked with neighbor who was out of town for the past two weeks. Mentioned a pizza delivery man in the area. The same as the other case. On the hunt.

August 28

Three suspects give me a hard on. The fat fucker Kent is my number one. Something wrong with that kid. People say he’s too young, but age has nothing to do with evil. He was in the vicinity of both victims around the time of their deaths. Going after him. Hard.

October 15

Arrested Mark homas Kent. Got the bastard. Rushed DNA through the FBI. Matched on the hair found tangled in Daisy’s earring.

November 26

Kent confesses. Death row got itself another resident.

December 25

Kent is rotting in his cell in Raiford, but something’s bothering me. Can’t let it go. Kent was too easy giving up Cathy and Daisy. Too easy. We had the goods on him, but, still, too easy. No serial killer gives up all their prizes. There’s gotta be more out there.

May 10

K. Colson. E. Gomez. T. Lawson. Reported missing prior to C. Richie. They all fit the profile. Mark’s handiwork? Don’t know yet. No body. No crime. Gut tells me they’re tied to Mark Kent. Maybe not all of them, but some of them. Or maybe just one. Keep working the case.

***

Damien pulled open the box tops and scoured the contents until he found the files for Katie Colson, Elizabeth Gomez and Taylor Lawson. He placed each opened file folder next to each other and read through their case notes.

All the women were teenagers, between fifteen and eighteen years old. They were all blonde, blue eyes, well endowed, just as Sanders had noted. Katie, the youngest, went missing when she took a bike ride to the library. Taylor, seventeen, an avid jogger, went for a morning run near Devil’s Bluff, never returned home. Elizabeth, eighteen, went to the grocery store to run an errand for her mother. Car never left the store parking lot and Elizabeth was never seen again.

The morning sun pierced under the base of the garage door, filling the room with a yellow glow as Damien placed the lid on Sanders last file box. The door from the house creaked open and Raquel stood in the doorway, half asleep, dressed in a red robe wrapped around a long t-shirt she usually wore to bed. Her hair looked as if it had sprung from her head in random directions, then froze in mid flight.

She rubbed her puffy eyes and leaned against the doorframe.

“What are you doing up so early?” she asked. “I never slept,” he said.

“Why not? What happened?”

“The mayor’s daughter died last night.”

“I’m sorry, honey. Is there anything we can do?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve done enough.”

She burped. “Oops. Sorry. This morning sickness thing is full of surprises. Do you want me to make something for you to eat? I promise I’ll try not to vomit on it.”

“Sure,” he said.

“Sure? That’s it? No sarcastic comeback about how all my cooking tastes like I threw up on it?”

“Not right now,” he said as he stacked the file boxes on top of the card table.

“Okay. All kidding aside, you want something to eat?”

“Yes, please. And make it to go.”

“To go?” she asked. “Where are you going?”

“To death row – to visit an old friend.”