In truth, the horrific crimes and the long-term manhunt had taken a significant toll, one of the strongest factors in my deciding to leave the FBI.
Against policy, I’d taken personal photos of several of the victims. Now I was flipping through them, reliving the nightmare all over again. I’d made the decision to break the rules at the time after the case had dragged on for two months with not even a single clue as to the person responsible. The bastard had been clever, more so than any other criminal I’d experienced.
He’d taunted everyone with his cunning abilities, especially me.
I shifted my cursor to the dossier I’d developed on the man, discoveries made, and information retrieved that far exceeded the typical rhetoric gained by the FBI administrative staff. Alias. Residences. Work and school histories. Criminal records. They all came into play, but what had enabled me to follow the trail leading directly to him had been very personal characteristics.
Food habits as evidenced by the few fast-food wrappers found at three of the scenes.
Substances on the victims’ shoes and clothes. Debris under fingernails. Records of odors and other items found near the bodies.
And a single phone call, the kind nightmares were made of.
Every scrap had finally led to a twisted trail of blood and carnage, allowing a hunt to ensue. Even then, the asshole had been onto me, taunting me with phone calls and the stalker-type methods he’d used with his victims. I’d dogged him until he’d made a mistake.
I stared at the picture of the man taken just after his arrest. The funny thing was that even after all my psychological training and my understanding of how normal serial killers could be, the look in his eyes hadn’t been what I’d expected.
Maybe I’d assumed that anyone who could stalk, kidnap, and both mentally and physically torture someone before introducing them to the dangers of the Everglades would appear deranged. Lifeless eyes. A maniacal smile. Something to indicate the bastard had been soulless, spawned by the devil himself. Yet Samuel Wells had had a bright smile and twinkling eyes.
Plain James and then some. Nothing special.
The FBI director had convinced me that the expression was nothing more than a mask, and I’d been ready to tie up loose ends and dive into a bottle of booze at the time. But I’d always wondered whether I’d caught the right man.
Given the contacts I had in law enforcement, I knew for certain there were no new murders similar or trying to imitate the depths of horror Samuel had gone to.
Did Alexia have additional evidence and if so, how was she involved? I pushed myself away from the desk, folding my arms behind my head as I twisted and turned in the chair. She’d seemed pointed about the words she’d used. Now, I wished I’d snatched a look at the annotations she’d written. What was the point?
This was getting ridiculous. The case was finished, the monster caught, tried, and convicted. So why was it nagging me as much as it was?
After exhaling until my cheeks were puffed out, I closed my eyes. Maybe I was off my rocker, but one aspect of what she’d said I could check: whether or not a date had been set for Samuel’s execution.
Snatching my phone, I dialed Gabriel Rawlins. As one of two judges on the poker team, he should be able to discover theinformation quickly. I’d searched on the internet. When a savage like Samuel Wells was set to die, the news was usually all over it. I’d yet to find anything.
“Hey, buddy. We were beginning to think you dropped off the face of the earth. Then I saw your face on a building in Times Square.” Gabriel laughed. My buddies loved to make me the center of attention for my success.
Especially teasing me about the romance end of my books.
“Unlike myfriends, I have a job to do,” I teased.
“Ouch. Nice try, but you get to sit on your ass all day while I’m working hard to eliminate the city of dangerous criminals.”
“Speaking of which. I need a favor. Do you remember Samuel Wells, the Python Killer?”
“How could anyone in Miami forget. What about him?”
“I haven’t seen this on the news, but have you heard anything about an execution date?”
Gabriel huffed. “Yeah. It was on the local news a couple days ago. Can you believe that? One of the most offensive murder cases in decades and I find out about the dude’s execution on the television.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“Didn’t the FBI director call you or the prosecuting attorney?”
“Nada.” That pissed me the hell off. Okay, so I didn’t leave on the best of terms, but for God’s sake, what had happened to professional courtesy? I’d spent over a year immersed in the case, so much so I’d gathered a true feel of the monster. Maybemore than I should have given the thoughts and dreams I’d experienced since then.
“Does this have anything to do with your new book release?” my friend asked.
“In a manner of speaking. Just putting some curiosity to bed. Can you find the details surrounding it? The last I heard, his execution hadn’t been on the docket for at least another year or two.” It took fucking forever to work a capital criminal through the system. Just something else about law enforcement to piss me off.
