CHAPTER ONE

Despite being in law enforcement for twelve years, Ella Dark had only been in a courtroom once before.

Today was the second time.

She was in New Orleans, Louisiana, and the courtroom was a pressure cooker of suits, ties and rolling TV cameras. The only splash of color in the room was the orange jumpsuit on the man three rows ahead. Ella had last seen this man eighteen months ago, and back then, he hadn't looked quite so timid.

His name was Austin Creed, more widely known as the Mimicker. But Ella remembered him as the first serial killer she'd ever apprehended, back when she was a rookie and was yet to sprout a single gray hair. Creed's time in county lockup had clearly taken its toll, but Ella felt no pity. This was the man who had turned the bayou into his personal hunting ground and had snuffed out four lives in homage to his serial killer idols.

Now, at last, the time had come for him to be tried to the full extent of the law, and today was the last day of his trial. Day nine of nine. And Ella was here to help add a few nails to Creed's coffin. Beside her, a middle-aged blonde woman sat with her elbows on her knees, transfixed on every speaker as though the outcome could be anything other than a life sentence.

The prosecutor, a razor-sharp blonde named Claire Dawson, rose to her feet. ‘The prosecution calls Special Agent Dark to the stand.'

Showtime. Ella pushed her handbag under the chair, smoothed herself down and made her way to the witness box. A hundred pairs of eyes and a few camera lenses burned holes in her, but Ella kept her focus straight. When she took her seat, she couldn't help but lock eyes with Austin Creed. There he was – the man, the human drug that had kick-started Ella's addiction to catching America's biggest cowards. Eighteen months in the slammer hadn't been kind to him, because gone was the stocky farm-physique and the trimmed hair. His measurements had shrunk by noticeable inches, and now he sported haggard skin and scraggly brown locks down to his chin. In a pitiful attempt at respectability, Creed had combed his beard into neat submission, but his hair remained a wild mess.

There, in that box, a sudden thought occurred to her. Ella was the midwife of the criminal justice system. She dragged these people out of the wombs into their new lives, and the courts and prison wardens saw them through to the end. This was a rare taste of the opposite end of the justice spectrum.

‘Please state your name and occupation for the record,' Dawson said, jarring Ella back to the present.

‘Ella April Dark, Special Agent for Behavioral Analysis Unit Four.'

‘And what's your job role?'

‘We investigate what we term ultra-violent homicides, homicides with serial components and premeditated murders. We draft up psychological profiles of offenders and use them as a blueprint to narrow down suspects.'

Dawson nodded. ‘How long have you been with the Bureau, Agent Dark?'

‘Almost five years. I was an Intelligence Analyst for three years, and I've been a Special Agent for eighteen months.'

‘And in your time with the BAU, how many cases have you worked on?'

‘Twenty-one cases, ma'am. Twenty-three cases closed in total.'

Dawson cocked a brow. ‘Twenty-one investigations but twenty-three closed?'

Ella clenched her teeth. She wasn't sure how to word it. ‘Call it overlap. Cold cases aren't always as cold as you think.'

‘Very well. And would you say you've developed an expertise when it comes to serial offenders like the defendant?'

‘Objection!' The defense attorney, a weaselly little man named Simmons, leaped to his feet. ‘The witness's purported expertise has not been established.'

Judge Hawthorn leveled a glare at him that could have flash-frozen lava. ‘We're getting to that, Mr. Simmons. Overruled.'

Simmons sat back down, looking like he'd just sucked a lemon. His phone pinged on the table, and he rushed to grab it. Ella tried not to laugh.

I believe I do have an expertise in this area. Serial offenders follow patterns. Today's perpetrators are no different from last century's. They all like to think they're one of a kind, but they all fall into one of four categories. I've also cataloged the details from every historic case in my head, and I can usually draw on those details to predict modern offenders' next moves or motivations.'

‘I see,' Dawson said. ‘Is this an eidetic memory?'

‘Not quite. Eidetic memories are mostly a myth. What I have is just a really long short-term memory. Combined with observation and inductive reasoning, I can usually get into offender's heads, as I did with Mr. Creed.'

Simmons suddenly piped up again. ‘Your honor, we're putting stock in a good memory ? Inductive reasoning? This isn't a Sherlock Holmes story. This is a man's future we're talking about.' He gestured to Creed, whose lips were pulled so tight they looked sewn together.

Judge Hawthorn raised his voice a notch. ‘Mr. Simmons, I won't tell you again. You need to…'

‘It's fine,' Ella said. She raised a hand to the judge, unsure if she'd just overstepped some courtroom boundary. ‘You're right, Mr. Simmons. It's unconventional, but it's no different to researching historical cases to shed light on modern ones. I just do the research instantly. And inductive reasoning is the backbone of our profession.'

Simmons threw his pen down. His phone pinged again. ‘I'm not buying it. It's just guesswork.'

The man was clearly looking for any excuse to get Ella removed from the witness box, because once she mentioned that Austin Creed was of sound mind, it would land him either a life sentence or a death sentence. No defense attorney wanted that on their record.

'I'll show you,' Ella said. She adjusted her glasses and took in Simmons from head to mid-section. Little pricks on his thumbs. A thin silver ring on one finger above a strip of white flesh. Perfect. 'You're a gardener, and you've got nettles in your yard that you can't keep out. But you haven't done any gardening recently because you're in the middle of a divorce, and you've tried to hide that fact. Your ex-wife is also fleecing you for more money than you're comfortable with. You may also have a drinking problem.'

Simmons' face turned an impressive shade of puce. Ella looked to Dawson, then Judge Hawthorn. Neither seemed to have any objection.

‘Relevance?' Simmons asked. ‘How can you know that?'

The judge leaned forward and took his glasses off. ‘Mr. Simmons, is Miss Dark correct?'

Somehow, all professionalism seemed to have gone out of the window in favor of curiosity. Ella was all for it. Trials were serious business, but no one said they weren't boring as hell.

‘It's irrelevant,' Simmons said.

‘Talk us through that conclusion, Miss Dark,' said Judge Hawthorn.

She hated playing the parlor trick, but sometimes it was necessary to establish credibility.

'Okay. Mr. Simmons' fingertips are a distinct shade of orange, like he handles wild flowers – probably marigolds – regularly. There are also blotches of red from stingers. He's got a band of white flesh on his ring finger, like he's removed a wedding ring. He's covered it with a different ring, but it's much thinner. His phone keeps pinging every five minutes on the mark. The same frequency as the races in the NASCAR semis going on right now.'

‘And?' Simmons asked.

‘No one cares about NASCAR that much, not unless you've got money riding on it.'

A few laughs broke out. Ella didn't know a damn thing about NASCAR, but Luca had spent the past three months bringing her up to speed on modern sporting events.

Judge Hawthorn put his glasses back on with a smirk. ‘Okay. And the alcohol?'

Ella shrugged. ‘As Mr. Simmons said, guesswork. I've never met a defense attorney that didn't have a drinking problem.'

More laughs. Ella resisted the urge to say ‘Thank you, New Orleans. I'm here all week.' If Mia Ripley – her old partner – hadn't already retired and sailed off into the sunset, Ella liked to think she'd be laughing her ass off in the back row. Ripley had actually been invited to the trial, and Ella had hoped for a brief reunion, but Ripley had respectfully declined.

Dawson spoke up. ‘Okay, Miss Dark. Back on topic. Can you tell us how you became involved in the Austin Creed case?'

‘I was called in after the third murder. The local police had connected the dots between the killings, but they were struggling to make sense of the unsub's modus operandi.'

‘Unsub?'

‘Unknown subject.'

‘I see. And what was his modus operandi?'

‘I recognized that each murder scene was staged to mimic the crimes of a different infamous serial killer,' Ella explained. She pointed to the board of the victims' faces. ‘The first victim, Julia Reynolds, was killed in a manner reminiscent of Edmund Kemper. The second, Winnie Barker, bore hallmarks of Richard Ramirez. And the third, Christine Hartwell, was clearly meant to evoke Ed Gein.'

Dawson pressed on. ‘How were they reminiscent of these historical crimes, Miss Dark?'

‘Each crime scene contained specific details that matched the M.O. of the killer being emulated. For instance, the Hartwell murder involved the use of a .22 caliber rifle and antifreeze, both signature elements of Ed Gein's crimes. Winnie Barker had a mark painted on her in lipstick. Julia Reynolds was mutilated and disposed of in the woods. Alone, these elements meant nothing. Together, they formed a clear picture.'

‘And what was the significance of this pattern?'

Ella's eyes flicked to Creed. He was staring at her intently with a faint smile on his face. She suppressed a shudder and focused on Dawson.

‘It indicated we were dealing with a highly organized offender, one with extensive knowledge of serial killers. He wasn't just killing randomly – he was recreating famous murders as a form of homage.'

Dawson nodded. ‘And based on this profile, what was your next step?'

‘We cross-referenced the dates and locations of the murders with significant anniversaries and sites related to the original killers,' Ella replied. ‘We realized he was working his way through a kind of greatest hits of American serial murder. And based on that pattern, we predicted his next move.'

‘Which was?'

‘A shelter for battered women. On the anniversary of one of Ted Bundy's infamous attacks.'

Ella caught a glimpse of the victims' families in the gallery. Her heart clenched. They'd already lived through this nightmare once. Now, they had to relive it all over again.

‘So you set up surveillance on the likely target,' Dawson said. ‘And what happened on the night of the stakeout?'

Ella closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself. This was the part she'd replayed in her head a thousand times, wondering if she could have done something different, something better.

'I planned to pose as a potential victim inside the shelter. We knew the unsub would likely try to infiltrate the house first to scope out his targets. So I went there to intercept him.' She could still feel the prickle on the back of her neck, the eerie sense of being watched. The creak of a floorboard that had made her heart stutter in her chest.

‘And you caught him mid-attack?'

‘Yes. He was already inside when I got in there,' she continued, her voice sounding far away to her own ears. ‘I went to investigate. And that's when I found him. Austin Creed. He was in one of the bedrooms, a piece of lumber in his hands. Just like Bundy used. I intercepted him, took him down, and waited for backup to arrive.'

Creed was grinning now, that same mad rictus she'd seen in the moment before he'd swung at her head. Ella had relived this fight a thousand times, but only now was she speaking of it aloud for the first time.

‘So, in your opinion, what does this say about Austin Creed's psychological state?'

This was the killing blow. She had to get this right.

‘Mr. Creed was in full control of his actions throughout his killing spree. These murders were not the result of psychosis or a break from reality. They were meticulously planned and executed with clear intent and purpose. Mr. Creed is not insane, at least not in any legal sense of the word. He is of sound mind and was fully aware of the nature and consequences of his actions. He knows the difference between right and wrong. What we're dealing with here is a classic case of malignant narcissism combined with an intense desire for notoriety. Mr. Creed craved fame, infamy – any kind of recognition. When he couldn't achieve it through conventional means, he turned to the alternative.'

Ella's gaze locked onto Creed once more. His smile had faded, replaced by a look of intense focus. Ella wanted him to rot in a cell, but she couldn't help but think that she might have just landed him a date with the needle.

‘Your honor,' Dawson said, ‘Mr. Creed made conscious choices at every step. He selected his victims carefully. He studied the methods of past killers to recreate their crimes. He took precautions to avoid detection. This is not the work of a mind removed from reality, despite what he claims.'

The judge turned his attention back to Ella. ‘Thank you, Miss Dark. Any final words before we break for final deliberation?'

Ella hesitated for a moment. She hadn't planned on saying anything more, on giving this monster any more of her time or energy. But something stirred in her; a need to drive the point home, and maybe, deliver the closest thing to poetic justice possible.

‘Mr. Creed.' She locked eyes with the defendant. ‘You have a mind for details, a talent for planning, and the patience to see things through. In another life, you could have been a success, but you went another way, partner.'

It might not have meant much to everyone else in the room, but Austin Creed clearly understood the reference. His face contorted, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, but he remained still. For a brief moment, Ella saw the monster she'd confronted that night in the women's shelter.

The judge's gavel broke the silence. Ella left the witness box. She'd done her job, and now it was up to the jury to decide Creed's fate.