CHAPTER ELEVEN

The evidence locker was a concrete tomb, all gray walls and harsh fluorescent light. It smelled like dust and old secrets, the kind of place where the ghosts of a thousand unsolved crimes came to die.

And there, squatting in the middle of the room like twin altars to some forgotten god, were the stocks. The devices that had cradled Archie Newman and Georgia Bolton in their final moments.

Ella felt her guts clench at the sight of them. Even empty, even stripped of their grisly cargo, the damn things radiated a palpable aura of menace. Like they were just waiting for the next poor bastard to come along and fill the void.

Harland stood off to the side, his craggy face unreadable. ‘Just got ”em moved here,’ he grunted, jerking his chin at the macabre display. ‘Thought you might want to take a gander. See if anything jumps out at you.’

Ella nodded, not trusting herself to speak past the lump in her throat. She”d seen a lot of disturbing sights in her time, a lot of twisted trophies and souvenirs. But there was something about these crude instruments of torture that set her teeth on edge.

‘Good call, Chief,’ she said at last. ‘Never miss a chance to get up close and personal with a psycho’s handiwork.’

She stepped forward. The first set of stocks, the ones that had held Archie Newman in his final embrace, were a twisted marvel of blackened metal and rust. The iron was thick and sturdy, the craftsmanship disturbingly elegant. Luca sidled up beside her, his face a shade of green usually reserved for moldy bread. He reached out a tentative hand, fingers hovering over the pitted surface like he was afraid it might bite.

‘Damn, this thing is solid,’ he said. ‘Metal. Iron. Heavy gauge. Looks like it could have been forged in the fires of Mount Doom.’

Ella snorted. ‘Nerd. But you”re not wrong. Damn thing”s built like a tank. Definitely not some DIY job cobbled together in a basement.’

She traced the contours of the metal, feeling the nicks and scratches that spoke of age and use. This was no one-off, no spur-of-the-moment creation. Their unsub had put time and effort into this monstrosity, honing it to perfection like a demented craftsman.

‘So our unsub’s got a background in metalworking,’ she mused. ‘Or at least access to the tools and know-how. That narrows the field a bit.’

Luca nodded, still studying the stocks like they held the secrets of the universe. ‘Could be a welder, a machinist. Maybe even a blacksmith, if he”s got a taste for the old-school.’

Ella snorted. ‘A blacksmith? In this day and age? What, you think our guy’s some kind of Renaissance faire reject?’

Luca shrugged, unperturbed. ‘You never know. People are into all kinds of freaky stuff these days. Maybe he”s got a thing for ye olde torture devices.’

Ella shook her head, a grudging smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The kid had a point. In a world where people got their rocks off by dressing up like furry animals and dry-humping each other, a blacksmithing serial killer wasn”t too far outside the realm of possibility.

Still, something about it didn”t sit right. The level of skill, the attention to detail. This wasn”t some hobby gone wrong. This was the work of someone who knew their stuff, who had the tools and the talent to turn their sick fantasies into cold reality.

She moved on to the second set of stocks, the ones that had played host to Georgia Bolton”s final performance. This one had been made of wood, and even under the fluorescent lights of the evidence room, Ella couldn’t see any gaps in the creator’s craftsmanship. It was as solid as the first, but she struggled to reconcile the two disparate images. Why the switch from metal to wood? Was it a choice born of necessity, of expediency? Had the unsub simply used what was at hand, grabbing whatever materials he could find in his mad rush to bring his twisted vision to life?

‘Metal for the male victim, wood for the female victim,’ Ella said.

Luca cocked his head, considering. ‘Maybe he ran out of scrap iron and had to improvise?’

Ella thought about it but had to disagree. ”No chance. This took planning, premeditation. Our unsub wouldn”t have started his murder spree without making sure he had all his ducks in a row first.”

Luca shrugged, his face scrunched in thought. ‘Could be a lot of things. Availability, convenience.’

‘You said it yourself, these metal stocks are professional grade. The kind of thing you”d need specialized tools and skills to make. If he had access to that kind of setup, he”d have access to more materials. Enough to make a matching set, at least.’

‘So, what then? You think it”s intentional? Some kind of message, or…’

Frustration buzzed under Ella’s skin. None of this made a lick of sense. The mismatched stocks, the demented stagecraft of the crime scenes. It was like trying to piece together a jigsaw puzzle blindfolded and shit-faced drunk.

She was about to say as much when Luca let out a low whistle, eyes narrowing to laser-focused slits. ‘Hey, check this out.’

He was crouched down by the metal stocks, gloved finger tracing over a spot near the wrist hole. Ella sidled up next to him, squinting at the offending blemish. At first glance, it looked like just another scratch in the pitted surface. But when she angled her head and let the light catch it just right, it looked like a signature.

‘Is that what I think it is?’

‘A signature? Initials? Or a symbol, maybe. A circle with some kind of squiggle inside.’

Ella leaned in until her nose was almost touching the metal. Luca was right. There, etched into the iron like a cattle brand, was a rough circle. And inside, a series of jagged strokes that might have been letters might have been the ravings of a lunatic.

‘The hell?’ Ella muttered. ‘Our unsub leaving a calling card?’

Ella”s gears spun, the hamster wheel in her skull hitting lightspeed. A signature spoke volumes: arrogance, ownership, a fat middle finger to the cops. If that”s what it was, then it was bold, ballsy as all hell. Most killers tried to hide their involvement, bury any trace of themselves at the scene, but this guy was stamping his name on his handiwork like a demented artist signing a canvas.

But she had to concede that it could be something simpler. A maker”s mark, a logo of whatever twisted metal shop welded this house of horrors.

”Bag it and tag it,” she said abruptly, jerking her chin at the stocks. ”I want high-res photos of that mark, from every angle. And see if we can get a print of it or at least a clearer image. If this joker”s leaving us love notes, I wanna know what they say.”

Luca nodded, already fishing out his phone to snap a quick pic. ‘On it. Who should I send it to?’

‘The lab back at HQ. See if they can work their magic.’

She was just opening her mouth to bounce a few more theories off Luca when Harland”s gravelly voice cut through the musty air like a chainsaw.

‘Hate to interrupt your little CSI moment, but we got company.’ He wiggled his cell phone at them. ‘Just got a message saying the Archie’s parents just rolled up. Asking a lot of questions, demanding a lot of answers.’

Ella glanced up, eyebrow cocked. ‘You informed them already, right?’

‘Yeah. This morning.’

‘How much info did you give them?’

‘Not much. The basics. Nothing about the contraption.’

She prayed that the specifics of the murders hadn’t reached the family. If they had, no wonder they were asking questions.

‘Alright. I’ll go and talk to them.’ Ella cut a glance at Luca, taking in the sudden pallor of his cheeks.

‘Me too?’ he asked.

Looking into the eyes of the bereaved, the shattered. Seeing the moment when their world crumbled to ash, when the last shred of hope was ripped away and replaced with a yawning, endless grief. It was a special kind of hell reserved for the unlucky few who chose to walk the path of justice. And Ella had been down that road more times than she cared to count, had borne witness to more tears and screams and hearts breaking than any one person should ever have to.

But this time was different. Because this time, she had a rookie in tow. A bright-eyed, bushy-tailed kid who still thought he could make a difference, still believed in the fairy tale of good triumphing over evil. If he had even a shred of human decency in him, this was the part of the job that ripped it out by the roots and stomped it into a bloody smear.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You too.’