Damien
It's maybe forty degrees, if I'm being generous, and the wind whips hard enough to plaster strands of hair across my eyes. The port is restless, and beside me, my best friend mirrors its energy.
"They should've been here thirty minutes ago," Roman says, and I check my watch.
He's right. Thirty-two minutes, actually, but I don't correct him. This is the largest weapons shipment we've received in months. It left Toronto six days ago. There should've been no delays—they should've been unloading when we arrived.
I glance back at Vasili, whose scowl matches mine.
"Something's wrong, Damien," Roman mutters, and though I want to crack a joke about chamomile tea, my gut agrees with him.
Vasili types rapidly, likely trying to reach someone on that ship to find out why the hell they haven't docked.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, vibrating against my thigh. I pull it out, frowning at the unknown number displayed on the screen.
Wrong fucking timing for a spam call.
I answer anyway. "Yeah?"
"Good afternoon, this is Professor Leigh. You contacted me a few weeks ago regarding The Bloody Dahlia case."
My pulse spikes at the name. I'd almost forgotten about that call.
"My name is Damien Kaminski. My wife has been targeted by someone we believe is The Bloody Dahlia," I explain. "I wanted to ask if there were details overlooked during the investigation. Anything that might help us identify him."
A bitter laugh escapes him before he answers, the sound crackling through the phone. "Many. Too many to count, Mr. Kaminski. I won't deny my wife and I weren't on the best terms when she died. Maybe she was having an affair, maybe our marriage was falling apart. But when I saw the police profile they released, I tried to add information and they shut me down. Told me I was too emotionally involved, that grief was clouding my judgment."
He pauses, and I hear him take a breath.
"I moved after my wife's death, and I now teach psychology at the University of Michigan. I've spent thirty years studying criminal behavior, profiling patterns. And they treated me like some hysterical husband who couldn't accept his wife's choices."
"What did you want added?"
I keep my eyes on the port, scanning for any sign of movement, and on Roman, who now stares at me with a furrowed brow. He mouths, "Who is it?" but I shake my head. Not now.
"I knew my wife, Mr. Kaminski. Better than the police ever bothered to. I know what type of man she would've let into her bed, what attracted her, what made her feel safe enough to be vulnerable." His voice grows firmer, more confident. "The profile they released was deliberately kept generic. Useless, really. But the person they should've been looking for is definitely dark-haired, tall, probably between six feet and six three. With a preference for refined clothing, expensive tastes. Not flashy, but quality. The kind of man who blends into upscale environments."
I process this, comparing it to what little I know about the killer. About Elena’s past.
"I followed the other cases in the press, every single one. Became somewhat obsessed myself, I suppose. And it always struck me as odd how his last victim was so different from the others. The pattern broke. That's significant, Mr. Kaminski. When a killer breaks pattern, it usually means something triggered him. Something changed in his life or his relationship with his fixation object. But what seemed strange was seeing a newspaper photo of the last victim with her family. Because one of the men in that photo was my student."
Was I expecting a connection like this? Yes. Because I've had suspicions from the start, ever since her memories seemed distorted.
My jaw clenches as I listen to Professor Leigh, and when I hang up, I have my answer, and I feel my blood starting to boil.
He's been so close all along, but now I look at the other vessels that docked today. Too few. Only two ships, one a cruise liner.
My phone buzzes again, but before I can check, I hear Vasili's voice.
"Someone stopped them in Milwaukee for a 'routine' inspection."
My eyes lock on Roman's instantly. There shouldn't have been any routine inspection. We have people and customs officers on payroll specifically for this, and even though I know they won't give us issues with the cargo, something's off.
I'm reaching for my phone again when I hear sirens, and that's when Roman, Vasili, and I all understand what the hell just happened here.
This was a trap, and we walked right into it.
Normally, it'd actually be amusing to watch them haul us to the station, trying to intimidate us as if the power's in their hands, except right now, I'm looking down.
