Splintered E-Book

SJD Peterson

• Herausgeber: DSP Publications
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 341

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Hunting Evil: Book One A string of murders targeting effeminate gay men has the GLBTQ community of Chicago on alert, but budget cuts have left many precincts understaffed and overworked, and homophobia is alive and well within the law enforcement community so little has been done to solve the mystery. When the FBI calls in Special Agent Todd Hutchinson and his team, the locals are glad to hand the case off. But Hutch finds a bigger mystery than anyone originally realized—seventeen linked murders committed in several different jurisdictions. Hutch's clues lead him to Noah Walker. Working on his PhD in forensic psychology, Noah has been obsessed with serial murders since he was a child. Noah finds himself hunted, striking him off Hutch's suspect list, but not off his radar. To catch the killer before anyone else falls victim, they'll have to work together to bring him to justice.

Leseprobe

Splintered

By SJD Peterson

Hunting Evil: Book One

A string of murders targeting effeminate gay men has the GLBTQ community of Chicago on alert, but budget cuts have left many precincts understaffed and overworked. Not to mention, homophobia is alive and well within the law enforcement community and little has been done to solve the mystery. When the FBI calls in Special Agent Todd Hutchinson and his team, the locals are glad to hand the case off. But Hutch finds a bigger mystery than anyone originally realized—seventeen linked murders committed in several different jurisdictions. Hutch’s clues lead him to Noah Walker.

Working on his PhD in forensic psychology, Noah has been obsessed with serial murders since he was a child. But coming to Hutch’s attention as a suspect isn’t a good way to start a relationship. Noah finds himself hunted, striking him off Hutch’s suspect list, but not off his radar. To catch the killer before anyone else falls victim, they’ll have to work together to bring him to justice.

To my editor, Erika, I’m so, so, so sorry. I promise not to fire you (at least not this week).

Prologue

HOMOSEXUALITY IS an abomination. A sin. Those who practice such ungodly and disgusting acts will rot in hell along with murderers, pedophiles, and those who seek pleasure in bestiality.

Filth.

Abomination.

Unclean.

Unholy.

Damned.

Why me?

What did I do to deserve such a fate? I was a scrawny little kid with buck teeth and a severe stutter. I was given to a hateful bitch that never let a day pass without reminding me how much of a burden I was on her limited resources. So why had the devil picked me? I was nothing but an ugly little poor kid. Why did he think I was worthy of his attentions?

WHY! WHY! WHY! WHY!

The sound of my hands slamming down on the steel gurney echoed through the small room as my anger reached a fevered pitch. No matter how many sacrifices I offered God, he ignored my pleas. How many abominations would I have to rid the world of before he bestowed his grace upon me? No matter how hard I tried to rid myself of the devil, there were always those who, through their sinful ways, tempted the evilness within me, giving power to the beast.

I stood before the wall of mirrors, my nude body covered in sweat as I fought to keep the beast under control, but he was strong. So very powerful. I was disgusted with the way my pulse raced with excitement, the trembling of my limbs, my weakness.

Good and evil battled within me. My mind knew what I must do. My heart and soul demanded vengeance for the crimes committed against God. My body, however, my very flesh belonged to the devil. He knew my weaknesses, my sins, and he preyed on them. He used my lust against me. My hardened cock sickened me.

But I would not fail in my promise. I’d rid the world of the unholy creatures. Make them suffer as I had. It is my due.

I am the conductor, leading the sweet symphony of pain and agony.

I am the musician. Each flick of my wrist, slide of steel or press of fire, produces a unique sound. Together they create a pleasant harmony that flows along my nerve endings. Igniting me.

“When I say unto the wicked, O wicked man thou shalt surely die; if thou dost not speak to warn the wicked from his way, that wicked man shall die in his iniquity, but his blood will I require at thine hand.” I leaned down till my lips brushed against the wicked man’s ear. “Your blood is my sacrifice.”

The scream that came from him as the blade met flesh was like music to my ears.

Chapter One

THE DEW glistening on the grass in the early-morning light gave the impression that each blade had been infused with brilliant, flawless diamonds. The sun just beginning to crest above the horizon cast the field in a stunning orange glow. Special Agent Todd Hutchinson, known simply as Hutch, stood on a slight rise and looked down at the beautiful sight before him. It reminded Hutch of scenes he’d seen in photography magazines. He’d tried his hand behind the lens, but found he didn’t have the eye for it. Still, he enjoyed looking at the work of others. Hutch could get lost in imagining being there; it was calming. The only thing keeping the sight before him that morning from being postcard perfect was the easterly breeze bringing the stench of rotting flesh to his nose.

Turning back to the forest behind him, Hutch scanned the area. He saw no indication of any disturbance in the foliage, no signs of a struggle or that the body had been dragged here. He was convinced the murder had occurred elsewhere, and whoever the killer was, they were fit and strong. They’d carried the body some distance to dump it.

The body was that of a naked man, facedown in the center of a small grouping of trees. He was thin, weighing no more than about one hundred twenty pounds, and small of stature, approximately five foot six inches. His hair was dyed an unnatural shade of red with black streaks running through it and medium in length. He had ligature marks on both wrists and ankles as well as on his neck. Insects feasted on his pale skin.

Granite, Hutch’s best friend and associate, bent under the yellow crime scene tape and made his way toward him. “Glad you could join us this bright early morning. How are you doing, Hutch?”

“Well, other than a little disgusted at the fine men and women in blue of Jefferson County traipsing all over, fucking up the crime scene—” He took a cigarette from his coat pocket, lit up, and blew out a long stream of smoke. “—I’m good. What have ya got?”

“Not much, other than the obvious,” Granite drawled. He pushed his long bangs out of his eyes and flipped open the small notepad he always carried. “Woman, one Florence Carmine, fifty-four years of age, local resident, came upon the body while walking her dog. The body appears to have been dumped at the site. Still waiting for the coroner to get here before we can fully check out the vic, but the dark blue color on his wrists, ankles, and neck make it pretty obvious he didn’t do this to himself.” He shrugged, closed his notepad, and returned it to his pocket. “Then again, I’ve seen some pretty messed-up shit. Remember that guy with the gas mask hanging from the bedpost by his tie? Fuck, after that scene, nothing surprises me anymore.” Granite shuddered.

Hutch shook his head as he remembered the accidental death. Young guy alone in a sleazy downtown motel playing autoerotic asphyxiation games. Poor bastard had a dildo up his ass, hand on his dick, and had hung himself from the bed by his tie. Probably wasn’t the way the man ever imagined leaving this world. Hopefully, for his family’s sake, those crime scene photos wouldn’t make it onto the World Wide Web, though in this day and age, they were more than likely already there.

“Got an ID on the vic?” Hutch took another deep pull from his smoke. It was a nasty habit, but the world was a lot safer for others when he got his fix of nicotine.

“Not yet,” Granite responded as he scratched his head. “Unless he’s hiding it beneath him, we’re not going to know who he is until they run prints. It’s like whoever dumped him here flew in and flew right back out. Hell, maybe he was teleported here, who knows? We’re not going to get shit for evidence with this one.”

If Granite said there wouldn’t be any evidence, then Hutch wouldn’t waste his time looking. Granite was rarely wrong. To look at him, it was hard to imagine that beneath the unusual outward appearance was an intellect that few would ever come close to matching. His straight jet-black hair was cut long, so his bangs were always hiding one eye. He had a propensity for anything gothic, including his wardrobe. That morning he wore a Pure Psycho black T-shirt. Granite’s shirts were always black; only the words or pictures changed. Black skinny jeans, a Crombie three-quarter black wool jacket, and heavy-soled black boots completed his ensemble. He looked like the poster child for the Goth Nation. The adage “Don’t judge a book by its cover” was written with Granite in mind. He might have looked like a punk kid, but that was just a flash of frosting to cover what lay beneath, and what was under that crazy façade was impressive as hell.

Granite’s real name was Travis Green. He graduated from Simon Fraser University’s School of Criminology in British Columbia, Canada, top of his class, specializing in geographical profiling. He had soon surpassed his professors, and now, if not the best in the field, he was damn close to it. The guy was an absolute genius, which was one of the reasons Hutch wanted Granite on his team, despite his freakish appearance. Hutch also respected the hell out of the man. They had connected the instant they met. Anyone who could sit in the room with Hutch for more than an hour and not piss him off was a hell of a guy in Hutch’s book. Granite was one of the few. Although to be quite honest, Hutch wasn’t sure Granite could say the same thing. Hutch had a way of rubbing people the wrong way. It was a gift.

Hutch spotted the coroner’s van pulling up and stabbed a finger at it. “Well, there’s the man of the hour. Hope he’s not one of those who take ten hours to process a scene and weeks to pop out a prelim,” he grumbled.

“You wanna assist, get a closer look?” Granite asked as he watched the older balding guy step out of the van.

“What the hell for? You said we’re not going to get anything out of this one. I’ll wait for the photos.” Hutch snubbed out his cigarette on his boot. He started to toss the butt but thought better of it and pocketed it. He watched as the doc pulled his kit from the van and moved to the scene, before turning and heading back to his car.

“Hey! Where the hell are you going?” Granite called out. “Don’t you want to know if I was wrong? What if the doc finds his ID, the perp’s signature, social security card, and a formal invitation to his house under the body?” Granite asked slyly as he chased after Hutch. “I have been wrong before, ya know.”

“Really? When were you ever wrong?” Hutch asked dubiously.

“What about that time I set you up on a double date with Carrie’s girlfriend from college?”

What a clusterfuck that had been. Carrie—Granite’s girlfriend—was nice enough, and Hutch was sure she was just trying to be helpful. Hell, her friend, umm… he couldn’t remember her name, was nice enough too. But friends should not let friends set them up on blind dates. Not if they wanted to remain friends. However, as soon as Granite learned Hutch was gay, he didn’t try a second time.

“Okay, let me rephrase it. You’re never wrong about a case,” Hutch amended. He pulled opened the car door and raised a brow at Granite. “Look, you go play nice with Dr. Coroner, find out what you can, and I’ll see you back at the hotel.” Hutch slid behind the wheel.

Granite opened the passenger door and stuck his head in. “You’re not staying? Why the hell do I have to talk to him? They called you, not me,” he complained.

“Because I have a three o’clock meeting with Jefferson’s finest. Why should I have all the fun of dealing with these yahoos?” He gave Granite a dismissive wave.

“Great, now we’re even sharing yahoos,” Granite muttered before slamming the car door and stomping back to the crime scene.

There was still plenty they weren’t sharing, but Hutch didn’t see any need for pointing it out. He grabbed his shades and slipped them on, then started the car and headed back to the hotel.

“SPECIAL AGENT Todd Hutchinson,” he said by way of greeting to the dark-haired young woman standing behind the counter.

She took his badge and studied it, then lifted her blue eyes up at him and batted her lashes, literally batted her eyes and gave him a come-hither grin. Guess in a town this small, the dating pool was rather slim. He did his best to keep his features neutral, but more than likely it came across as bored.

“Good afternoon, Special Agent Hutchinson,” she drawled and handed him back his badge. “They are waiting for you in the conference room.” She pointed one of her long, painted claws toward the hall behind her.

He muttered his thanks and made his way down the hall. Ten sets of eyes turned toward him when he walked into the room.

“Good, we can get started. Have a seat,” the captain ordered.

There hadn’t been time for the receptionist to have announced him, but it wasn’t hard for them to guess who he was. The boring dark suit and the fact that he was holding up his badge was a dead giveaway. Hutch slid into a chair at one of the tables at the back of the room. He’d never liked having anyone at his back. Hutch drummed his fingers against the fake wood tabletop as he ran a critical eye over the men around him.

The captain, who kind of reminded him of an older Bill Murray, ran down the list of facts Hutch had already gathered at the crime scene. The captain’s tone sounded disinterested, or maybe that was just the way he always sounded. As he rambled on, Hutch realized the former was correct, and it pissed him off. There had been three murders in the past two months, and no one seemed particularly concerned. He had a sneaking suspicion the only reason he and his team had been called in the first place was due to criticism from the media after the first two murders, not out of any real inclination to solve the crimes.

“Look, Cap. Those guys put themselves at risk by doing those unnatural things,” an officer at the front said as he waved a hand, his voice dripping with disgust. “I don’t see how we’re going to save them from each other.”

The officer sitting directly in front of Hutch leaned over to the officer sitting to his left and mumbled, “I’m not working overtime for a couple dead faggots.” But aloud he only said, “Harris is right—they put themselves at risk.”

“Good riddance,” another muttered under his breath.

Hutch was having a difficult time remaining silent as the officers threw around their homophobic bullshit. In fact, he was fucking seething. He wanted nothing more than to put his fist upside their idiotic heads, but he’d learned a long time ago to keep his mouth shut, watch, and listen. It did absolutely no good to engage idiots. No matter how appealing the idea, going Rambo on their asses wouldn’t help him solve the case.

It was obvious a couple of dead “faggots” wasn’t on the list of priorities for some members of the department. Hutch couldn’t tell if the captain or the lieutenant had overheard the exchange, but the smirk on the lieutenant’s face made it likely he had. Although he didn’t respond, too smart to have it put on record, bastard probably harbored the same homophobic ideologies. Hutch’s attention kept shifting back to one officer who was sitting at the other end of his table. The young officer, late twenties to early thirties, flinched with each offensive remark. No one was saying anything of real importance, so it gave Hutch plenty of time to study the cop. He sat rigidly, back ramrod straight, hands folded on the table. He kept his eyes low, but Hutch could tell by the thoughtful expression on his face that he was taking in everything around him. By the end of the meeting, Hutch hadn’t decided if the man—who he later learned was Sergeant Struk—was gay, an open-minded ally, or had some information he wasn’t sharing. Whatever it was, Hutch planned to find out.

BACK AT the hotel, Hutch sat in a cheap faux leather chair and stared at lifeless wide brown eyes from the glossy eight-by-ten photo. The young Asian male had been identified as Akira Kimura, who had been reported missing by his roommate the day prior to the discovery of his body. Akira was an openly gay male who attended community college during the day and worked as a go-go dancer at the Torch at night to help pay tuition. The Torch wasn’t natty for the rich and flamboyant, like Hard Candy or the Purple Moon, but it was a decent enough place. At least the Torch was a step up from Ram Rod or some of the other sleazier joints on the Gideon strip.

“What the hell happened to you, and how did you get so far away from home?” Hutch asked the man in the photo.

He set the picture aside and picked up the preliminary autopsy report to study once again. The ligature marks he could easily dismiss as a bondage game gone wrong. He’d read enough cases and witnessed some scenes firsthand that he knew it wasn’t unheard of for Dom/sub games to go bad. A couple would check out a website or read an erotic story, ignore the warnings, and instead of getting the rush of orgasm, the “Dom” got prison time and the “sub” got a one-way ticket to the morgue. Considering the state of Akira Kimura’s body and mutilated genitalia, though, it was highly doubtful this was a consensual role-play game gone wrong.

Akira’s vocal cords showed signs of severe inflammation and swelling, normally seen in prolonged screaming. The perp obviously either lived in a rural area where the homes were isolated or he had one hell of a soundproofing system. The amount of torture the young man endured over approximately three to five days also gave credence to that theory. This guy—Hutch was sure he was looking for a male—had some seriously warped views of sexuality. It was also quite possible he had at least one accomplice, possibly more. Hutch would need more facts before he could answer that question for sure.

He threw the report on the table, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed the throb that had begun in his temples. Too bad he couldn’t rub the lifeless brown eyes from his brain. Those eyes would be haunting him for a while.

“Check this out,” Granite said as he threw a file on the table in front of Hutch, pulling him from his thoughts.

He glanced at the manila folder but didn’t reach out to take it. “I’ve already seen the report. They didn’t find anything.” He arched a brow at Granite. “You know, gloating isn’t one of your more endearing qualities.”

“Oh, right, that would be one of yours. Just look at the file.” Granite pulled up a chair and sat next to Hutch. From the sullen expression on his face, Hutch was relatively sure he wasn’t going to like what he was about to see.

Hesitantly he picked up the file and studied its contents. A map of Chicago and the outlying areas, dotted with numerous red, yellow, and green dots caught his attention, and his pulse began to race as realization set in. “This can’t be what I think it is. There have to be at least ten green markers.”

“Twelve to be exact,” Granite corrected. “The yellow dots are another possible five cases. I haven’t confirmed them yet, but my gut tells me they belong to our guy.”

Hutch’s brows rose as he gawked at Granite incredulously. “You mean to tell me we have a possible seventeen dead attributed to one man and we’re just now getting wind of it?”

“Given the fact they tend to all be”—Granite made the universal symbol for quotation marks—“queers, hustlers, or homeless, it doesn’t surprise me at all. Factor in that we’re dealing with eight different jurisdictions, and I’d say it’s a miracle we got called in at all.”

Rage began to brew in the pit of Hutch’s gut. His hands curled into fists around the map as he struggled to keep his anger under control. What the hell was wrong with people? Nobody deserved to die as Akira had, and the way those fucking cops had behaved earlier…. Jesus! The bile worked its way up from his gut to burn his throat. It was times like these that Hutch was truly ashamed to be associated with the law enforcement community, a profession where closed-minded, bigoted assholes not only ran rampant, but in some cases were encouraged by the upper brass. Fuck them. If they wouldn’t do their goddamn jobs and solve these cases, then he sure as hell would.

He forced the execrable thoughts away and struggled to focus on the case. “Why these men? What do we know about them?” Hutch asked and rubbed his tired eyes.

“Byte’s working on finding a common trait. He’s still in the process of compiling a complete dossier on each vic. He should have it ready for us soon.” Granite twirled his pen as he spoke. “What I do know so far is each man was tortured and his genitals mutilated. Also, they are all small in stature and openly gay. Race, age, and economics don’t seem to play a role in his chosen targets.”

Granite tossed his pen aside and went to the small minibar. He brought back to the table two glasses of ice and a bottle of bourbon.

He continued speaking as he poured them each a drink and handed one to Hutch. “From the reports I have, they all frequented one gay club or another. Which is like saying they’re all from Chicago. It doesn’t mean shit. Per capita, Chicago has more gays than any other city. A large percentage of whom, I might add, also frequent nightclubs, and they didn’t end up on a stainless steel slab.”

Hutch swirled the dark amber fluid in his glass before taking a healthy swig. He could only hope that Byte could give them some kind of lead, something they could work with, since at the moment he was coming up blank. Finding one man, and his gut was telling him it was a lone perp they were looking for, in a city the size of Chicago was like the proverbial needle in a haystack.

Byte, like Granite, was a genius. There wasn’t a computer system on the planet that was secure enough when Byte wanted information. Andrew “Byte” Caswell was, in a word, tenacious. He was hard as hell to understand too—although he spoke perfect English. When Byte started rambling about byte-codes, binary numbers, and volatile data, it was as if the man was possessed and speaking in tongues. However, what he could do with a computer was awe-inspiring, and his knowledge of computer forensics was invaluable.

If Granite was the poster child for the Goth Nation, then Byte was the GQ King. Dark Armani and Versace suits were his calling card. He was always impeccably dressed, hair cut and styled, not a single strand out of place. It described him even when relaxing. His dark hair and nearly black eyes combined with his deep olive skin gave him an exotic flare. Add in his aristocratic air, and there wasn’t a woman or man alive who could withstand his charms. At well over six foot and built like a linebacker, one would never believe the geekish, shy disposition that lay beneath.

Hutch downed his drink and threw the file back on the table. “I’m gonna go shower off the stink of Jefferson’s finest,” he informed Granite as he pushed up out of his chair. As he headed to the bathroom, he tossed over his shoulder, “Tell Byte to stop stroking his hard drive and get his ass back here. I have a feeling this guy is going to be adding to the data soon.”

The stink wasn’t the only thing Hutch needed to scrub away. Too bad a little soap and water couldn’t wash away the images of wide dead eyes and geographical maps from his brain, nor was it going to do a damn bit of good to cleanse him of his anger.

Chapter Two

“KACEY MURRAY?”

“Who wants to know?” asked the young man, his tone wary as he peeked out the crack in the door.

“I’m Agent Hutchinson,” Hutch responded, holding up his badge, and then nodded toward his partner. “This is Agent Green. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Kasey opened the door farther. “I’ve already told the police all I know.”

“Yes, sir, but we’d like to ask you a few follow-up questions,” Hutch informed him. “Do you mind if we come in?”

The thin young man appeared to be not much beyond his teens, with mousey brown hair and green eyes. He glanced back and forth between Hutch and Granite, looking unsure. After a long, tense moment, Kasey shrugged and stepped to the side to allow them in.

The apartment was small, but the open floor plan and the sleek, modern furniture kept it from feeling claustrophobic. The main color scheme of the room was black, white, and chrome, with splashes of bright red. It was stylish and trendy, and Hutch tried to picture Akira living there. Kasey flopped down on the red leather couch and clutched one of the throw pillows to his chest, his expression closed.

Hutch and Granite sat in the black straight-back chairs directly across from Kasey. Granite pulled out his notebook and pen.

“You’re actually going to take notes?” Kasey asked Granite with obvious disdain.

“Yes, sir,” Granite responded. “I want to make sure I don’t forget anything.”

“That’s more than the last officers did,” Kasey spat, then tilted his head and studied Granite. “You don’t look like a cop.”

“He gets that a lot,” Hutch piped in with a smirk at his partner. He didn’t comment on the obvious anger Kasey felt for the previous officers. After what he’d witnessed at the precinct, they no doubt deserved Kasey’s disdain. “So, Mr. Murray, I understand Akira Kimura was your roommate?”

Kasey nodded.

“We’re sorry for your loss,” Granite added at the obvious distress Akira’s name caused Kasey. “Can you tell us when the last time you saw him was?”

“A week ago Tuesday.”

“Why did you wait so long to report him missing?” Hutch asked.

Kasey visibly stiffened and glared at Hutch. “Akira often didn’t come home at night.”

“It wasn’t an accusation,” Hutch said gently.

Kasey sighed heavily. “I told Akira he was crazy for going home with strangers from the club, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Had he ever gone missing for a week before?” Granite asked.

“No,” Kasey said, vigorously shaking his head. “He always came home the next day. When he still didn’t come home on Thursday or answer my texts, I tried to report him missing, but they refused to file a report, saying he hadn’t been missing long enough.”

“Did you notify his family?” Hutch inquired.

“Akira doesn’t have any family. They disowned him when he was a teenager.”

“Because he was gay?” Hutched clarified.

“Yeah. Pretty fucked up, don’t you think? I mean, what kind of parent disowns their child, especially someone like Akira? He was such a great guy. He worked hard to put himself through school, was an honor student, and so damn sweet.” Kasey’s voice cracked, and his eyes filled with tears.

What kind of parent, indeed. Anger caused tension to settle in Hutch’s neck, and he rolled his head as he struggled to keep a calm outward appearance. Hutch had heard the same story time and time again. Young teens being kicked out of their homes forced to live on the streets when their biggest worries should have been homework and what to wear to the dance on Friday nights.

“Do you know if he was seeing anyone regularly?” Hutch asked, keeping his focus on the case rather than his personal feelings and anger.

“No. He dated, but Akira’s life was too busy to have had a full-time relationship.” Kasey sniffled, then pulled a tissue from his pocket and wiped at his damp eyes.

“Did he happen to mention anyone bothering him, making him feel uncomfortable, anything out of the ordinary?” Hutch inquired further.

“Akira had a lot of admirers at the club. Sometimes he’d complain about guys getting a little aggressive, smacking his ass or coming on too strong, but….” Kasey’s brows furrowed, and he wiped at his nose.

“But?” Granite prompted gently.

“It goes with the job, right?” Kasey said angrily. “Look, I know what a lot of people are saying, that Akira somehow deserved what happened to him because of his lifestyle and the people he associated with. But that’s bullshit! He was a go-go dancer to pay for college, not a whore. And even if he was, no one deserves what happened to him.” Kasey choked on a sob, tears streaming down his reddened face. “No one.”

“You’re right. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. That’s why we plan on finding out who did this to him and making sure he pays,” Granite said adamantly. He grabbed a tissue from the box next to him and handed it to Kasey. “Can I get you a glass of water or something?”

“No thanks,” Kasey said, accepting the tissue and wiping his tear-streaked face. “There has been so much death in our little community, and no one seems to be doing a damn thing about it. Just another dead faggot.” Kasey looked up at Granite with red and pleading eyes. “He was so much more than that.”

Hutch’s outrage bubbled to the surface, causing his pulse to speed, and his hands curled into fists. Kasey was right, Akira deserved more than what the local authorities were doing for him. All of them were worth more.

Hutch pulled a card from his pocket and laid it on the coffee table. “This is my card. If you can think of anything, hear a rumor, or just want to talk, you call me. Day or night.” Hutch pushed to his feet and met Kasey’s gaze intently. “I will catch this guy.”

He stormed out the front door, nostrils flaring, heart hammering. Once behind the wheel of his car, he slammed his fists against the steering wheel in rage. “I’m coming for you, you son of a bitch,” he growled and hit the steering wheel again. He ignored the throbbing in his knuckles as he breathed harshly, trying to use his anger to focus on what to do next. Focus, Hutch, it’s just another body. No name and no family. This is just a job. He reined in his anger, holding on to just enough of it to propel his thoughts, hone them as he went through the facts of the case, but he had so little to go on.

He was going to need to get his hands on the files from the other deaths, start pounding the pavement, and build a profile of the killer. Get inside the man’s head. The idea made Hutch’s stomach roil. Each time he entered that evil place it took its toll, tarnished a piece of him. So many years he’d been dealing with death and destruction, and he was beginning to lose all faith in humanity and in himself. He wouldn’t let his fear or his faithlessness deter him, however. He had to be the one who brought justice to those no longer able to speak, be their voice. He had to.

The passenger door opened, and Granite slid into the passenger seat with a concerned expression on his face. “You okay?”

“No the fuck I’m not okay,” Hutch growled and glared at his partner. “I am very far from fucking okay. Seventeen dead, Granite! Seventeen dead men and no one is doing a goddamn thing to stop this bastard. How many more have to die before someone does their motherfucking job?”

“None,” Granite barked. “Because we are already doing ours, and we will stop him.”

Hutch stared at Granite for a long moment through the red haze of rage, shaking, pulse roaring. He wanted to hit something, to kick and maim. He needed to punish, to find an outlet for his anger. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to take in deep breaths, knowing his anger was selfish. It wouldn’t help him catch the killer if Hutch allowed it to control him. He needed to channel it in the right direction, propel him toward a positive outcome. One more deep breath and Hutch opened his eyes. With a slightly better handle on the rage, he ran a hand through his hair, sighing heavily.

“Sixteen deaths too late.”

“I know,” Granite agreed. “We can’t dwell on things we can’t change. It’s not going to help us stop him. Let’s swing by the diner, grab us something good and unhealthy to eat, and then we’ll head back and see what Byte has for us, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed with a nod and fired up the car. “I also want to set up a meeting with Sergeant Struk.”

“Who’s that?”

“I think he may be the one cop in Jefferson who might want to help find the killer.”

“See, things are looking up already,” Granite pointed out.

Hutch gave him an exasperated look. “I said might,” he reminded him.

“Might be one decent cop on the fucking force is better than not a one. We got hope.”

Hutch shook his head. Granite and his hope. God how he missed the days when he was as optimistic as Granite. It was true that ignorance is bliss.

They parked the car. Since their hotel was located close to the center of the city, they had no difficulties in finding a restaurant nearby. Hutch followed Granite into a small fifties-style diner and slid onto a stool next to him at the lunch counter. The heavy scent of onions and fried grease permeated the place, but rather than being an unpleasant scent as it normally would have been for Hutch, his stomach growled. He was going to pay for it later, but the thought of burgers dripping in grease was appealing at the moment.

Granite snatched a menu from the counter and studied it. Hutch waved to the waitress pouring coffee at the other end of the counter instead. She nodded in acknowledgment.

“You’re not going to look at the menu?” Granite asked.

“What for? The best thing at this kind of place is a greasy burger and fries.” Hutch shrugged.

“What can I get you, fellas?”

“Good point, we order the same thing every time,” Granite chuckled and returned the menu to the holder. He turned to the waitress with a grin. “Can we get three greasy cheeseburgers with the works and three orders of fries, please?”

She looked a little stunned as she wrote Granite’s order down and then asked Hutch, “And for you?”

“I’ll just have a glass of water.”

“I’ll have one too,” Granite added and rolled his eyes at the grin Hutch gave him. “Could you make the burgers to go?”

“Sure,” she responded with a wink.

The waitress set two glasses down in front of them as she passed by, and Granite picked his up, stabbing the ice with his straw as he sat back on his stool. “Didn’t learn anything from Akira’s roommate that we didn’t already know,” Granite said cautiously. “A lot of dead men and little is being done to find the perp. Where do we go from here?”

“Burns my ass,” Hutch grumbled. “This case is way bigger than I anticipated, and to be honest, I don’t know where to start.”

“At the beginning is always a good place,” Granite pointed out. “You know this guy is smart. Not only is he choosing victims that law enforcement cares little about, but he’s also counting on the cases not being linked by spreading their bodies over multiple jurisdictions.”

Hutch swirled the ice around in his glass, staring at it as he chewed on Granite’s words. He only concurred with part of Granite’s assessment. “I agree he’s choosing his dump sites carefully, but he’s not choosing his prey based on the homophobic attitudes of cops, but his own,” Hutch surmised.

“You think he’s part of some hate group out to rid the world of fags?” Granite asked crudely.

Hutch thrummed his fingers on the counter as he tossed the idea around in his head. He supposed it was a possibility, but it didn’t feel right. The ritual of torture and mutilation, the careful planning of dump sites, the fact that all the victims were small and effeminate, spoke of a much more personal need than anything associated with the teachings of a hate group. Had the killer simply hated gay men, wanted them to suffer, he wouldn’t care about their size or their demeanor.

He was still pondering it when the waitress set a brown paper sack in front of Granite, the bottom of the bag already saturated with grease. Hutch pulled his wallet from his pocket and threw some bills on the counter.

“At least I’ll have plenty of time to work on the case tonight.”

“Yeah, in between trips to the bathroom.” Granite started to stand and froze, eyes wide. “Shit. I’m sharing a room with you.”

Hutch just grabbed the bag and smiled as he headed for the exit. “All I need is to stop and grab some beer, and my night will be complete.”

“Oh hell no, you don’t,” Granite complained as he followed Hutch out the door. When Hutch didn’t respond, Granite grumbled, “I’m getting my own room.”

They walked back to the hotel, and despite his threat, Hutch didn’t stop at the liquor store. In the lobby, he hit the button on the elevator and leaned his shoulder against the wall as he waited.

“I don’t think he’s part of a hate group or any other group, for that matter,” Hutch said, picking up the conversation as if it hadn’t abruptly ended fifteen minutes ago.

“So what’s his major malfunction?”

“I’m still trying to get a feel for this guy, but I think in some way he’s destroying what he hates most in himself.”

The bell dinged, announcing the arrival of the car, and the doors slid open. “You think he’s gay?” Granite asked as he stepped into the elevator.

“If you asked him, he’d steadfastly deny it and actually believe it.”

“Yeah, well, I hope I get to ask him about it soon.”

Hutch hit the button for their floor. “So do I.”

Chapter Three

HUTCH HAD been with the bureau for fourteen years and at Quantico as a profiler for the last six. He’d caught plenty of serial killers but never one as prolific as the one he was tracking now. Stacks of files covered the small hotel table, the beds, the TV, and any other space he could find to sort through the mountain of paperwork. Seventeen dead men left one hell of a mountain.

He munched on his cold fries as he tried to focus on the maps and profile pictures of the victims tacked on the walls. “What the fuck am I missing?”

“Other than a large portion of your brain? Don’t know,” Byte deadpanned.

“If that’s your attempt at humor, you need to step up your game. It wasn’t even remotely funny, and if I wasn’t so fucking tired, I’d come over there and slap you upside your thick skull,” Hutch threatened.