The case involved a mob soldier—the guy who kills people and disposes of their bodies, when needed, or leaves them for all to see as a message to a rival or snitch. They had been after him for years, hoping to turn him.
He tells the team how the guy was finally caught and convicted using evidence found in his apartment and one severed finger unearthed by a dog in Queens. His MO was to cut up his victims and bury their body parts in different boroughs. He knew each borough worked its own cases, so a hand found in the Bronx and a torso in Central Park and a finger in Queens were not likely to be connected. But, he said, there was a book in the suspect’s apartment about hiding bodies. It was aself-publishedhow-toguide only sold in the places one might suspect—S&M shops, the classifieds of fringe magazines. Step by step, the guy followed that book. Cutting up the bodies in his bathtub. Pulling the teeth. Burning the fingertips and face with acid. Then burying the pieces in different jurisdictions.
Once investigators found that book, they reached out to neighboring jurisdictions and coordinated their investigations—in the end they had partial remains of nine different bodies. From there, they looked into missing persons cases to identify the victims. The bodies, the book, and traces of blood in his bathtub drainpipe were all used at the trial.
The trouble here, his colleagues reminded him, was that they didn’t have a suspect. If they did, they could, possibly, connect him to some browser history that matched the forensics. Even that would be a stretch, though. They would need the equivalent of blood in the drainpipe to seal the deal.
Still, it was all they had, so they looked, for hours on end, for anyone or anything they could connect to the pull rake story, and for a possible victim.
One of the areas of focus is the killing from three years back, the one that made the Kill Room a thing people talked about. The one that exposed the shelters and the cremation oven. The media attention was fleeting, not enough to get any kind of momentum to tear these things down or put an end to the hunting season. They compile a database of all the sites that carried the story, from major news outlets to chat rooms and social media. They plan to do this for the pull rake story from Colorado, specific information about cremation, and eventually, perhaps, find one source where all of these stories have been present. Where they’ll go from there, they don’t know. But at least they’ll have an idea of what site this killer frequents to add to his toolbox.
They have yet to discover the local community college that allows a former professor to update her online materials with new cases. Access to that portal requires enrollment, which costs money, and does not appear in their Google searches.
What seems promising is a new lead from missing persons in Westchester County. Because of the traces of Oxy found in the red jacket, and the fact that the killing here three years ago was drug related, and also a new discovery made in the well that fed the water pump in the Kill Room—a rope connected to a mesh bag that had balloons of Oxy, indicating the well was used as a hiding place for the supply—they had focused on narcotics CIs and missing persons who had not been reported as missing.
The CIs knew who came and went and who didn’t return. This was not uncommon. People in this line of work moved around, changed locations, went to jail in other jurisdictions. Their families didn’t file reports when they failed to show up for Sunday dinner. No cops. No cops. No cops. Not ever.
But now a CI from a small city halfway between the shelters and the Bronx had been asked and given the answer that became the subject of this new lead. A young guy, a kid really, who’d been on the scene for over a year or so hadn’t been around lately. The CI gave a description, and the cops working that area matched it to a surveillance photo. He went by the name Nix.
That photo was then circulated to narcotics units in other areas, including Connecticut.
There was nothing local, but “sure as shit,” they got a match from surveillance down near the river in the town where the Nichols shooting happened just last month. The river under the bridge.
One of the investigators recalls that the shooter, Clay Lucas, had been seen under that same bridge days before walking into the department store and shooting up the place.
But unlike the “situation” with the rake, they write this one off as a coincidence.
Chapter Thirteen
I don’t tell anyone about my discovery in the early morning hours inside my home or what the message on the burner contained and what all of this implies. I don’t have a plan. I just know that it gives me options beyond Rowan and Aaron and the department that is tracking Wade’s communications with me. I can see the risks if I tell them, so keeping it a secret, for now, feels safer.
Wade wants a direct line to me. A private way to communicate. He wants my attention while he plays his game. Is he proving himself to me so I’ll see that we are somehow connected? Is he torturing me for not wanting it? Whatever this is, it has to do with me and only me, and if I let people get in the way of that, I could push him into a deeper psychosis. Force him to take more drastic measures.
This limits my resources. He’s accessed the portal at the college where I posted my updates, which means he’s registered for a class or hacked his way in. He might have stolen a student’s ID and password. There are so many ways he could have gained access, and our techies might find it. But that feels remote. He’ll know how to cover his tracks.
Maybe I’m the delusional one, thinking I can contain him on my own. That by having complete control of my chessboard, without others telling me what move to make next, instilling doubt andsecond-guessing, I can beat him. But it feels like the only way out. To play this private game with him. If I tell the people who love me, who want to protect me, I know they’ll stop me. And if I bring the department in, they’ll make me follow rules. So I walk down this road—alone. I hope I’m taking small enough steps that I can find my way back if I’m making a mistake.
Rowan and I visit the missing social worker’s parents when they arrive from Oregon. Their daughter, Laurel Hayes, has been out of touch for two weeks, and it is only now sinking in that she might be in danger. Or worse.
They move as though they are two parts of one person, finishing each other’s sentences, anticipating the needs of the other without a word.
Richard Hayes gets his wife a glass of water from the bathroom of their hotel room. They are visibly shaken and aren’t sure where to go or what to do. Laurel’s apartment has been turned upside down by forensics, and they don’t want to be at the police station. So they stay here, waiting for news.
Cora Hayes sits on the edge of the bed while Rowan and I lean on the bureau across from it.
“Did she ever mention a patient named Clay Lucas?” Rowan asks her.
“The man from the shooting?”
“Yes,” he confirms.
Cora seems surprised. “Well, of course. He was at the day care center not two months ago.”
Richard is back and chimes in. “We called her when we heard about the shooting, made sure she was safe and sound. But then she called back later that night to tell us about this young man after his name was released. She was pretty upset.”
Rowan looks at me, wondering if I’m going to pick up on this and ask the next question. Partners develop a kind of dance with interviews, and this is ours. But I’m not paying attention to the music. Wade’s burner phone is in my pocket, and I feel like a walking time bomb—like he could trigger it at any moment.
Rowan gives up on me. “Did she say why she was upset?” he asks.
