Steven James - The Knight

Cheyenne and I exchanged glances. I was pretty sure Kurt didn’t drink, but I knew that his wife Cheryl had picked up the habit after their baby daughter’s death last winter. And, despite all the times I’d visited their home since he invited me to join the task force last January, I’d never seen any half-empty bottles lying around.

Time to change the subject.

“Prints and DNA,” I said. “Anything yet?”

Kurt stood, shook his head. “Not a thing.”

I looked in the kitchen trash can: a granola cereal box, a few crumpled napkins, orange peels. Closed the lid. “Listen, I’ve been thinking we should take a closer look at the victimology.”

Cheyenne spoke, mirroring my thoughts. “The more you know about the victims’ lifestyle, history, and habits, the more you’ll know about the killer.”

“Yes.” She’d obviously read one of my articles from last year too. Impressive. “How is he choosing them? Where did his life intersect with theirs? Let’s go deeper. Not just the typical things like acquaintances, place of employment, home address, club memberships. I want to know what route our victims took to work, where they rented their videos, where they bought their gas.”

I realized I was giving orders and caught myself. “I’m sorry. I mean, that’s the approach I think we should take.”

“We’ll get Robinson and Kipler on it,” Kurt said. He didn’t seem bothered by my tone.

“I need to talk to Kipler anyway,” Cheyenne interjected. “I’ll give them a call.” She pulled out her cell and stepped into the dining room.

When she was gone Kurt glanced at the door at the far end of the kitchen. “Have you seen the garage?”

“Not yet.”

“C’mon. It’s time you had a look.”

Taylor’s garage was a brightly lit sanctum for his freshly waxed Lexus SUV, which sat perfectly centered between the walls. A workbench skirted the west side. The room appeared spotless except for the wide, angular swathe of blood where the killer had done his work.

Most of the evidence had already been removed from the garage and taken to the lab, including the ropes that had bound Taylor, the gag, and his corpse itself; but the manila envelope with the killer’s handwritten message to me was still lying on the workbench: “Shade won’t be bothering you anymore, Agent Bowers.”

I slid the photos out of the envelope and found that they were snapshots of Tessa leaving her high school. Taylor had included a note that read, “She would be such an easy target. You should keep a better eye on her.-Shade.”

My fingers tensed, and as I set down the photos I realized that, despite how much I value human life, I was glad Sebastian Taylor was dead.

According to the case files, the tire impressions that had been found two weeks ago beside one of the mailboxes Shade had used matched the tread patterns on Taylor’s SUV. I asked Kurt, “Both of Taylor’s guns are at the lab?”

“Yes.”

“And neither had been discharged? Neither was loaded?”

“That’s right.”

The door to the house opened, and Cheyenne joined us again.

“I think our guy emptied the guns while Taylor showered,” I said. “It was all one elaborate, twisted game.”

Cheyenne looked a little confused. “Talk me through that.”

“Taylor was well-trained. He never would have carried a gun without a chambered cartridge, and he would have almost certainly gotten a shot off at the intruder if either of his guns were loaded. I’m thinking the killer must have gotten into Taylor’s house, found the guns, and emptied them prior to the time Taylor entered the garage. The perfect time to empty the guns would have been while Taylor showered.”

One of the CSU members stopped dusting for prints on the doorknob and stepped our way. Brown hair. Early thirties. Inquisitive face. I recognized him as one of the men who’d been waiting outside the mine when we investigated Heather’s body on Thursday. We hadn’t met yet, so I guessed he was new to the unit. I extended my hand. “Special Agent Bowers.”

“Reggie Greer.”

We shook hands, then I knelt beside the driver’s door and he squatted beside me. “See the blood here, under the car? Taylor must have approached the vehicle and was opening the door when the killer, who was hidden beneath the car, struck.”

I gestured with my hand, imitating the slicing motion of the killer’s blade. “One, two. First the right leg. See the cast-off splatter over there?” Kurt and Cheyenne nodded. Reggie scrutinized the bloodstains.

With my finger, I traced the outline of the blood spatter. “Taylor was already on his way to the ground when the killer sliced his left Achilles tendon. You can see how the blood spatter from the right leg begins perpendicular to the vehicle and ends parallel to it, so Taylor twisted counterclockwise on his way to the ground. Probably landed on his back. I can’t be certain about that, though. Bloodstain analysis isn’t my specialty.”

I stood and looked around.

Reggie was staring at me. “Blood spatter’s not your specialty?”

“That’s right.” I was studying the sight lines out the window to Brigitte’s car. If the lights had been off inside the garage, her headlights would have partially illuminated the room.

Reggie must have been listening in on my conversation with Kurt a few moments earlier, because he said, “But if the killer snuck into the house and unloaded the guns, why didn’t he just kill Taylor while he was defenseless in the shower? Why wait?”

“Maybe this wasn’t just about killing him. I don’t think he wanted it to be over quickly: trap him in the garage, disable him, but leave him the guns to make him think he’d be able to get away. Like a cat toying with a mouse.”

“Death isn’t enough,” Cheyenne said softly. “He wants to see them squirm first.”

I heard a cell ring, and both Kurt and I reached for our pockets. When I pulled out my phone, I noticed I’d forgotten to turn it on for the day. Kurt tapped at his screen. “I gotta take this.”

He stepped away. I turned on my cell, and Reggie resumed dusting for prints on the doorknob. Cheyenne stood beside me quietly for a moment, then said, “Did you get to the evidence list page in the case files?”

I put my phone away. “No.”

She pointed to a receipt on the far end of the workbench. “It’s for Chinese takeout. CSU found three empty cartons of food.”

“You’re kidding me.” I checked the time on the receipt. The cashier had rung it up at 8:18 p.m.

“No. Brigitte picked up the food on the way here, but none of it was in her stomach.” Then she added grimly, no doubt referring to Brigitte’s dismemberment, “We didn’t need an autopsy to figure that one out.”

But Taylor had showered, changed, and was about to get into his car when he was attacked… He wasn’t expecting takeout, he was expecting to leave…

We could check the incoming calls and text messages on Brigitte’s phone, but for now it looked to me like the killer had somehow contacted her and convinced her to bring over the food.

And the food cartons had been empty when CSU found them.

Which meant that he ate the Chinese food while he killed and dismembered those two people.

This guy was the real deal. As cold and disturbing as they get.

“Has Dr. Bender completed the autopsy on Taylor yet?” I asked Cheyenne.

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

I speed-dialed his number, and when Eric picked up I apologized for calling him so early, then asked how the sleepover had gone. “Good,” he said. “The girls are in Dora’s room right now on the computer.”

It surprised me that Tessa was already awake, but I stuck to the case. “Eric, when is Sebastian Taylor’s autopsy scheduled?”