The Pennsylvania victims could have passed for the North Carolina women at first glance—blonde, in their twenties, with similar builds. The pennies, the carvings, and the public dump sites tied all six murders together with chilling precision.
Beyond that, the similarities unraveled.
The three local victims had all been working women in legal professions. In Philadelphia, only the third victim had held a steady job and disappeared after leaving a nightclub. Investigators believed the first had likely been a prostitute picked up by the killer posing as a john. As for victim number two, no one had ever figured out where she’d crossed paths with her murderer.
Sean stared at the expanded timeline covering the whiteboard.
Three more victims, and still no suspect or clear victim selection pattern.
A muttered curse slipped from him as he pushed back from the conference table and rose to his feet, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders. The door opened, and Brad, Brian, and Rafe filed in looking as worn down as he felt. One glance at their faces told him their morning had produced no breakthroughs either.
Since they were due in Sheriff Griffin’s office within minutes, no one bothered comparing notes. There would be time for that after they survived the press conference.
Sean had never understood how standing in front of cameras and repeating carefully filtered information was supposed to reassure anyone. To him, it always felt like theater.
The hallway outside buzzed with low conversation and ringing phones coming from other areas as they stepped out of the conference room. Matt was waiting for them, his expression grim. “Let’s get this over with. I hate these damn things.”
Sean didn’t blame him.
The sheriff had traded his usual attire for his formal dress uniform, every crease pressed sharp enough to cut. Sean and the others were dressed to match the occasion—dark suits, white shirts, and subdued ties—professional and controlled. The sort of polished appearance designed to project confidence, even when they were operating on too little sleep and fewer answers than any of them wanted to admit.
The group started down the hall toward the lobby.
“By the way…” Matt glanced back over his shoulder at them. “…the ME can’t make it. His mother broke her hip this morning, and he’s at the hospital with her. Sean, the press will want to hear from the FBI, so be prepared for some questions.”
He gave a short, reluctant nod. “No problem.”
Just as Brad had told them, the department’s press liaison, Sergeant Zweig, and Captain Dworski had set up the conference on the station’s front steps. At the top stood a polished wooden lectern crowded with microphones bearing the logos of news stations from across the region.
Sean followed the others into the bright late-morning sunlight and took his place off to one side. The March air carried a mild warmth that hinted at an early spring, and it was comfortable beneath the cloudless sky overhead. Below them, reporters packed the steps and spilled across the walkway, cameras balanced on shoulders, notepads ready, voices rising in restless anticipation.
The sheriff stepped up to the lectern and spent the next several minutes updating the crowd. His tone remained measured and controlled as he released Daphne Jones’s name while Sergeant Zweig moved through the reporters, handing out copies of the photo her roommate had provided.
Sean glanced down at the image. It had been taken the night she disappeared, probably snapped without a second thought on Cheryl Armstrong’s phone. Daphne smiled brightly at the camera, her expression carefree and alive.
A few hours later, she’d been dead. The reminder sharpened Sean’s resolve.
Griffin asked anyone who might have seen Daphne at Visions the night she vanished to contact the task force and repeated the department’s dedicated tip line. He made it clear they would also accept information related to the other two victims.
Sean scanned the crowd as the sheriff spoke, fighting back a grimace. There were far more reporters than he’d expected. The local coverage of a serial killer operating in Dare County had clearly exploded overnight. News vans lined the street beyond the station parking lot, their satellite dishes angled skyward. Most were from stations across North Carolina, but Sean spotted logos from Virginia, Washington, D.C., and even one from CNN. By nightfall, this case would be national news.
He hated that.
Most serial offenders fed on publicity. Attention validated them, fueled them, and made them feel larger than life. The last thing Sean wanted was to hand their killer exactly what he craved.
Still, public attention brought tips. And right now, they needed every lead they could get.
“I’d like to introduce the members of the task force,” Matt said into the wall of microphones. “Lead detective Brad Lynch of the Dare County Sheriff’s Department. Special Agents Rafe Montoya and Brian Malone of the SBI. And Special Agent Sean Malone of the Greenville FBI office.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Special Agent Malone, would you like to make a statement?”
Not really. But Sean stepped forward because refusing wasn’t an option. “Thank you, Sheriff Griffin.”
He repeated the information already released, careful not to reveal anything beyond the approved details, then added that the FBI was committing every available resource to assist local law enforcement.
The questions came the moment he finished.
“Agent Malone,” a male reporter called out. “Are there any suspects yet? And if not, has the FBI developed a profile of the killer?”
Sean kept his expression neutral. “As Sheriff Griffin already stated, there are no official suspects at this time, but we do have several leads we’re pursuing. We’re asking anyone who may have known or come into contact with any of the three victims before their deaths to contact the task force. As for your second question, an FBI profiler is due to arrive this afternoon from Quantico to assist us.”
