Chapter 7 Gallery of Fear
The task force meeting the next morning felt like walking into a minefield. I sat in my usual chair, Alex's research burning like a secret in my briefcase, while Jameson outlined our latest leads.
"We've had a breakthrough with the handwriting analysis," he announced. "The note found at the Rodriguez scene was written by someone with medical training. The letter formations suggest surgical precision, steady hands."
Agent Martinez nodded approvingly. "That narrows our suspect pool significantly. We're looking for someone in the medical field—doctor, nurse, medical student, or someone with paramedic training."
I thought about Alex's theory that the killer had forensic knowledge. Medical training would explain the careful positioning of bodies, the respectful treatment that suggested someone familiar with death.
"There's more," Jameson continued. "We've identified a connection between four of the five victims. They all attended gallery events at the same locations over the past three months."
My heart jumped. Alex had been right about the art world connection.
"Which galleries?" Detective David Chen asked.
"The Whitney, MoMA, several smaller galleries in SoHo and Chelsea. We're working with gallery owners to get guest lists from recent events."
This was my opening. I raised my hand. "There's a major exhibition opening tonight at the Whitney. If the killer is targeting women in the art world, shouldn't we consider that a potential hunting ground?"
Jameson frowned. "We can't shut down every public event in the city based on speculation."
"I'm not suggesting we shut it down. But maybe we could increase security, have plainclothes officers—"
"With what resources?" Agent Rodriguez interrupted. "We're already stretched thin with the investigation. We can't provide security for every gallery opening."
"What if we're not talking about security?" I pressed. "What if we're talking about surveillance? The killer has been careful so far, but public events might make him bolder."
David caught my eye across the table. I could see suspicion in his expression, probably wondering where my sudden interest in art galleries had come from.
"It's worth considering," Jameson said slowly. "But we'd need solid intelligence to justify the manpower."
"I have a contact who might be able to help," I said, my mouth dry. "Someone who's been tracking similar cases. Unofficial research, but potentially valuable."
The room fell silent. Agent Martinez leaned forward. "What kind of contact?"
"A journalist. He's been following patterns in serial cases across multiple states." I chose my words carefully. "His research might provide insight into the killer's methods."
"Absolutely not," Agent Rodriguez said immediately. "We don't work with reporters. Too much risk of leaks."
"The media already knows about the case," I pointed out. "Channel 7 ran the story last night. Maybe it's better to control the information flow."
Jameson studied me for a long moment. I could almost see him weighing the options, calculating risks and benefits.
"Set up a meeting," he said finally. "But it happens here, under controlled conditions. And if this journalist prints one word about the investigation without authorization, you're off the task force."
"Understood."
As the meeting broke up, David approached me. "Can I talk to you privately?"
We walked to an empty interview room down the hall. David closed the door and turned to face me.
"The journalist you mentioned," he said. "It's Alex, isn't it?"
There was no point lying. "Yes."
"Rachel, you have no idea what you're getting into. Alex isn't just researching this case—he's obsessed with it. After Lisa died, he lost his grip on reality. He sees connections that don't exist."
"What if they do exist?" I challenged. "What if your brother is the only one who's been looking at the big picture?"
"Then why hasn't he gone to the FBI? Why work through back channels and secret meetings?" David's voice rose slightly. "Because he knows his evidence wouldn't hold up to real scrutiny."
"Or because he knows law enforcement agencies don't communicate across jurisdictions well enough to see patterns that span multiple states."
David stared at me for a moment, then sighed. "You've already decided to trust him."
"I've decided to listen to him. There's a difference."
"I hope you're right. Because if Alex is wrong about this, if his obsession leads the investigation down the wrong path, more women are going to die."
I left the building with David's warning echoing in my head. But as I drove through Manhattan, I couldn't ignore the nagging certainty that Alex was right. The killer was accelerating, taking risks, making this personal. Tonight's gallery opening felt like the logical next step.
My phone rang as I pulled into a parking space near the Whitney. Alex's name appeared on the screen.
"The task force wants to meet with you," I said immediately.
"When?"
"This afternoon. Two PM at One Police Plaza. But Alex, they're suspicious. If you can't back up your research with solid evidence—"
"I can. I've been waiting three years for someone to take this seriously." His voice was tight with emotion. "Rachel, I need to ask you something. Have you noticed anyone following you? Anyone showing unusual interest in your activities?"
My blood chilled. "Why?"
"Because I think he knows. About our meetings, about my research, about the task force getting closer to the truth." Alex paused. "Lisa used to call me the day before she died. Said she felt like someone was watching her. I didn't take it seriously."
"Where are you now?"
"Safe. For the moment. But Rachel, be careful tonight. If I'm right about the gallery connection, the Whitney opening isn't just another event—it's his finale."
The line went dead, leaving me staring at my phone in the shadow of the Whitney Museum. In a few hours, hundreds of art lovers would gather here for what should be a celebration of creativity and culture.
Instead, it might become a hunting ground for a killer who'd spent three years perfecting his craft.
I looked up at the museum's distinctive architecture, its angular lines and modern facade. Somewhere inside, preparations were underway for an exhibition that could either help us catch a serial killer or provide him with his next victim.
By tonight, I would know whether Alex Chen was a brilliant investigator or a man driven mad by grief.
Either way, the Alley Killer's endgame was about to begin.
And I was the only one who saw it coming.