Principal Watkins removed his glasses and began polishing them with a handkerchief. His eyes remained downcast, focused intently on this task, though one corner of his mouth was turned upward in disgust.
“What connects the victims beyond their method of death is their association with art in various forms.” Brook scanned the crowd, noting that the last detail made several people exchangeglances. Some focused on Brett, while others fixated on Figg. “Lila Hartman was a talented florist whose arrangements were considered artistic creations. Wendy Logue worked as a bartender but pursued pottery in her spare time. Shannon Benford was a bank teller who loved to paint. And Heather Moore was, of course, an elementary school art teacher.”
Brian Moore's arm tightened around his wife's shoulders. Jillian leaned into the embrace, her eyes closed briefly as if shuttering herself against the memories. Their momentary support of one another gave Brook pause.
“This connection wasn’t coincidental. The unsub selected these women deliberately, drawn to their creative pursuits.” Brook drew her attention away from the Moores, allowing the significance of the pattern to register with the audience. “Their artistic talents likely reminded him of someone he admired. Someone who served as both inspiration and catalyst for his crimes.”
The room had grown so quiet that the sound of someone shifting in their chair in the back could be heard up front.
“The unsub's use of a Polaroid camera is significant,” Brook continued. “These cameras produce immediate, physical images that cannot be duplicated or traced through development services. Each photograph was a one-of-a-kind original, much like an art piece itself.”
Faith and Kyle Wheat were nodding their agreement to such a description, and Faith even reached out to place her hand on Jillian’s shoulder to show her support. The woman sitting next to Jillian patted her leg.
“The first photograph, showing the victim alive, represented his selection process—his ‘artistic vision’, if you will. The second, taken post-mortem, represented the completion of his work.” Brook kept her tone clinical despite the grim subject matter. “By sending these images to local newspapers, he was seekingrecognition without exposure. He wanted his ‘work’ to be seen and acknowledged, but not in a way that would lead back to him.”
A few people shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Someone coughed, the sound quickly stifled. Brian pulled out a handkerchief and tucked the white cloth in his wife’s hand. Once again, something about his gesture caused Brook’s words to falter. She cleared her throat and managed to continue without anyone noticing her hesitation.
“What truly sets these murders apart is the signature element—the yellow scarves used to strangle each victim.” Brook's words landed heavily in the silent room. “We believe these scarves serve as more than just a murder weapon. They're a symbol, a tribute to someone the unsub deeply admired. Someone who likely wore similar scarves on a daily basis and had a profound influence on his life.”
“No offense, but a lot of women wore scarves back then,” someone called out from the crowd.
“You are correct,” Brook replied, though she didn’t back down from her delivery. “That doesn’t change our belief that a yellow silk scarf reminds the unsub of someone dear to him.”
The tension in the room had become almost palpable, and a thick blanket of unease had settled over the assembled townspeople. Brook could sense their growing discomfort as they began to review their memories of friends and neighbors through this new lens.
“Why did he stop?”
The question came from a male subject somewhere near the middle of the room. Heads turned, searching for the source of the interruption. The mayor shot a disapproving glance in the general direction of the voice, clearly unhappy that the residents had decided it was time to ask questions before she had finished giving her profile.
Several people turned back to her, awaiting her response.
The interruption had created a pivotal point, an opening for the next phase of her presentation that she wouldn’t waste.
“That’s a very good question,” Brook acknowledged with a slight nod. She stepped away from the podium, moving once again to the side to reduce the distance between herself and the crowd in a calculated gesture of intimacy. “There are several possibilities. The unsub may have evolved, developing a different methodology that hasn't been connected to his earlier crimes. He might have died, which we do not believe to be the case. Or he could have become physically incapable of continuing his pattern.”
The mention of physical incapability sent another ripple through the crowd. Whispers broke out immediately, and Brook caught Henry Quinn's name being passed through the audience like a wave.
She waited for the murmurs to subside, deliberately not addressing the unspoken accusation that had just spread throughout the room.
“Another possibility is that he's serving time for an unrelated offense.” Brook met Figg’s stare. “Many serial offenders are ultimately apprehended for lesser crimes—traffic violations, theft, fraud—rather than their more serious transgressions. However, based on our ongoing investigation and analysis, we don't believe that the unsub died, became disabled, or is currently incarcerated.”
Brook paused, ensuring her next statement would land with maximum impact.
“We believe that he is here in Harrowick. Living among you. Perhaps even in this room tonight.”
Bodies tensed in chairs. Eyes darted to neighbors, friends, family members. A woman in the back row pressed her hand to her mouth. An older man near the front straightened his spinedefensively. The collective intake of breaths was audible in the momentary silence that followed.
As her gaze swept across the room again, Brook noticed Brian Moore whisper something to his wife, pulling her closer to his side. Again, something in the gesture—its possessiveness, its timing—caused her to falter momentarily. A fragment of information clicked into place in her mind, but she couldn't fully process it while maintaining her presentation.
She refocused quickly, barely missing a beat.
“Our investigation has led us to believe that the woman who inspired this man to kill was Loretta Whitlow.”
Almost every single individual in the church hall turned toward Figg Whitlow, whose expression had shifted to rage. Brook had anticipated his outburst, and he didn’t disappoint.
“Bullshit!” Figg shouted, rising from his seat with such force that his chair scraped loudly against the floor. “This is complete bullshit! You don’t get to drag my mother into this. She was a good woman.”
Brook maintained her composure, waiting for his outburst to run its course.
