Chapter 8 The Meeting
Two PM at One Police Plaza arrived faster than I wanted. I sat in the conference room with Jameson, David Chen, Agent Martinez, and Agent Rodriguez, waiting for Alex to arrive. My palms were sweating, and I kept checking my phone.
At exactly two o'clock, Alex walked into the room carrying his messenger bag. He looked professional in a dark suit, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. His eyes met mine briefly before he focused on Jameson.
"Detective Jameson," Alex said, extending his hand. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."
Jameson studied him carefully before shaking his hand. "Mr. Chen. I understand you have information about our case."
"I do." Alex set his bag on the table and pulled out several thick folders. "I've been tracking similar murders across twelve cities over the past five years. I believe your New York victims are part of a much larger pattern."
Agent Martinez leaned forward. "What kind of pattern?"
Alex spread out a large map of the United States with red pins marking locations. "Forty-seven victims total. The killer moves from city to city, staying exactly eight weeks in each location. He kills between four and six women, then disappears."
"Why hasn't this been noticed before?" Agent Rodriguez asked skeptically.
"Different jurisdictions, different timelines. Each police department thinks they're dealing with an isolated case." Alex pulled out crime scene photos from different cities. "But look at the positioning. Every victim is found the same way."
The photos showed women in alleys, hands folded, legs straight. The similarities were undeniable. Even Agent Rodriguez looked surprised.
David spoke up from across the table. "Alex, you can't prove these are all connected. Similar doesn't mean identical."
"Look at the hands," Alex said, showing close-up photos. "Three fingers extended, two folded down. Same positioning in every single case. That's not coincidence."
Jameson examined the photos carefully. "This is... compelling. But why come to us now? Why not approach the FBI three years ago?"
"I tried. No one would listen to a grieving brother with theories." Alex's voice was steady, but I could hear the pain underneath. "My sister Lisa was the first victim I could definitely connect to this pattern. She was investigating missing women when she was killed."
"Your sister was a victim?" Agent Martinez asked.
"In Chicago. Three years ago. The police ruled it a random attack, but I knew better. Lisa had been working on a story about creative women who disappeared from cities across the country."
I watched the task force members process this information. Alex's personal connection to the case could either give his research more credibility or make them dismiss him as emotionally compromised.
"Show them the timeline," I said, speaking up for the first time.
Alex nodded and pulled out a chart showing the killer's movements. "The gaps between cities are getting shorter. He's accelerating toward something. And look where the pattern leads."
He traced the route on the map. The cities formed a spiral pattern across the country, ending in New York.
"This is his endgame," Alex continued. "Five victims so far, but he's breaking pattern. Taking more risks, leaving notes, making it personal."
"You think he's planning something bigger?" Jameson asked.
"I think tonight's Whitney opening is where it happens. Every New York victim was connected to the art world. They all attended gallery events in the weeks before they were killed."
The room fell silent. Everyone was studying Alex's materials, trying to find flaws in his theory.
"This is a lot to process," Agent Martinez said finally. "We'll need to verify your information independently."
"I understand," Alex replied. "But you don't have time for a full investigation. If I'm right, he'll strike tonight."
"And if you're wrong?" Agent Rodriguez challenged. "If we waste resources on your theory while the real killer strikes somewhere else?"
"Then I'll take full responsibility," Alex said. "But look at the evidence. Really look at it. Can you afford to ignore the possibility?"
Jameson was quiet for a long moment, staring at the crime scene photos. Finally, he looked up. "What exactly are you proposing?"
"Surveillance at the Whitney opening. Plainclothes officers, undercover work. Look for someone who fits the profile—medical training, familiarity with the art world, someone who blends in but watches the women."
"That could be dozens of people," David protested.
"Then narrow it down," Alex replied. "Look for someone alone, someone who's been to multiple gallery events recently. Check the guest lists against medical databases."
I could see the task force members weighing their options. Alex's research was compelling, but it required them to commit significant resources based on the theory of a grieving journalist.
"I'll need copies of everything," Jameson said. "All your research, all your evidence. And this stays classified—no media coverage until we solve this case."
"Agreed," Alex said immediately.
"One more thing," Agent Martinez added. "If we do this, you stay away from the Whitney tonight. This is police business now."
Alex hesitated. "But I know more about this killer than anyone—"
"That's exactly why you're too close to this," Jameson cut him off. "You want justice for your sister, I understand that. But you let us do our job."
I watched Alex struggle with the decision. Three years of hunting this killer, and now he was being asked to step aside just when we might catch him.
"Fine," he said finally. "But I want updates. If something happens tonight..."
"You'll be the first to know," Jameson promised.
As the meeting broke up, Alex caught my eye. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
We stepped into the hallway while the task force members discussed logistics inside.
"Thank you," Alex said quietly. "For believing me, for setting up this meeting."
"Just promise me you'll stay away from the Whitney tonight," I replied. "Let us handle this."
"I promise." But something in his eyes made me doubt he was telling the truth.
"Alex, I'm serious. If you show up tonight and compromise this operation—"
"I know. I won't." He handed me a card. "That's my hotel room number. Call me when it's over."
As he walked away, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was far from over. Tonight would either prove Alex's theory right or destroy both our careers.
But first, we had to catch a killer who'd been one step ahead of law enforcement for three years.
The Whitney opening was in four hours. Whatever happened next, there was no turning back.