Upgraded killer
Aiden's POV
When the girl was on the stand Veronica made her appear dishonest. He was exonerated of all charges. At last a sharp and terrifyingly clear pattern begins to emerge from the noise.
This were just one of the major cases they handled but of course it was a norm for them.
Every victim defended a guilty party. Each of them released a monster by applying their abilities, intelligence and legal knowledge. The hunters are now being hunted down. My gaze focuses on Greta's crime scene photo and I freeze. Her body's posture with her hands crossed over her chest and her eyes wide open and fixed on the ceiling.
It was a show as well as a murder. A scene.
He kills in order to give hope to the offended.
“Retaliation,” I murmur into the silent space. Now that everything is beginning to fit together my notebook is already half-full of crazy theories and unanswered questions. This outburst isn't arbitrary. This is meticulous, incredibly personal and methodical.
The person acting in this manner is not only pursuing the guilty parties he is also going after those who shielded them. He is targeting the system as a whole.
But who could he be?
Perhaps a person who lost a loved one due to a legal system flaw. Or perhaps someone who thinks they are the justices legitimate hand. In order to cross-check case overlaps and look for a single name that could connect all three, I retrieve the victims defense records once more. After that I locate it, five years ago a juvenile case was filed.
Noah Farris is a victim of child abuse. I focus on the screen and narrow my eyes. Gretas and Veronica's records both contain Noah's name. Greta stood up for his abuser. A year later Veronica was part of the appeal team that cleared the man innocent once more.
Although she wasn't directly involved in the case, Amira represented the foster care agency that initially placed Noah with that family according to a cursory look through her firm's pro bono work. My heart thumping in my ears, I gaze at the display. Noah Farris. He would now be about sixteen years old based on the file.
He reportedly fled his foster home the previous year. He was never found.
Three attorneys have died. In addition the murderer's letters contain slow painful and purposeful spelling.
E.T.S.
Could it be that we are reading it backwards and it is actually the end of a word instead of its beginning? S. T. E. Something like Ste or Stepfather.
No. That's not it. It's still out of reach but it feels close. From the corner of the room, I take the corkboard and begin pinning the pictures chronologically connecting them with red thread.
To Graham Telford —Veronica. The stepfathers— Greta. To the pharmaceutical company—Amira. Every thread stands for a transgression or sin of omission.
Every thread then returns to the child which is the same empty spot in the middle. The victim. It's that simple. None of them succeeded in keeping a child safe. Every murder represents the execution of a sentence. Additionally the letters might not be spelling a name. Perhaps they are edging closer to a term that expresses his reality.
JUSTICE. RESTRICTIONS. “Jesus Christ,” I murmur. He's not finished if I'm correct. The fourth victim will be revealed.
And if he follows the thirteenth he will commit another murder within a week. A mix of fear and adrenaline makes my stomach turn as I slump back into my chair.
Harold King's passing suddenly makes sense. Although he was a witness he was not an attorney.
Why kill him? To keep him quiet. since he recognized the murderer's face. He was able to recognize him.
I get up and start to pace once more, completely forgetting about the beer on the table.
My mind is overflowing. Scrawled on my notepad I glance at the letters once more. E. T. S.
And then I notice something that I wrote down an hour ago but brushed aside, observations made during the first sweeps of the crime scenes, minor specifics that at the time didn't seem important. There was a number buried close by in every scene; it was so tiny that it was nearly invisible.
13\. Thirteen all the time. It might not be merely a date. It might be a sign. A curse. Greta's autopsy report is the last thing I see on my screen. I scroll down to the coroners personal notes at the bottom past the cause of death. He was unable to explain a peculiar detail: Faint marks near the neckline that might have healed years ago resembling old burn scars.
I feel cold. I open the autopsy of Amira. The same thing. Veronica's as well. The burn scars on all three women were old and mild. I look through Noah's file frantically, the missing boy. It said that when he was eight years old the year his stepfather’s abuse trial started he was the only one who survived a house fire.
My pen falls away. The wooden floor makes a clattering sound. God please. He's not merely looking for retribution, he's also trying to replicate what was done to him.
He is imprinting them. Put his name on them. Each victim serves as a stand-in for the individuals who have harmed him.
Every death on the thirteenth marked a somber remembrance of the day his nightmare really started. The blaze. The trial. The betrayals one after the other. It all comes back to him. With my heart pounding in my ears I forcefully close my notebook.
We have been on the wrong path. This monster does not randomly select victims. It is the murderer . The overlooked child.
The missing boy. Noah Farris. We have less than a week to track down and stop the next victim if they are a part of the same chain having been let down by a lawyer, judge or social worker. I look at my wall map of the city where each murder scene is marked with a pin.
My eyes follow the pattern they create. It's not at random. As they move from the wealthy west side of the city toward the older dirtier areas they create a faint curve. A way. Additionally the next pin would land close to Downtown East if that route keeps going in the same direction.
Ruthie's wellness clinic is located right there. I feel a heavy cold dread that takes the breath out of my lungs. My phone buzzes again.
I take it from the counter this time. It isn't Dana.
I don't know the number. My intuition tells me to respond. After hovering I press the screen.
“Hello?” I ask in a tight voice.
Not a word. I hear shallow faint breathing. “Ruthie?” I mumble the name, hardly audible. No response, just the open lines empty static. Then a metallic faint click, like the turning of a lock, or
the careful reinsertion of a receiver into its cradle.
The line went dead .