CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Faith leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. Her second cup of coffee sat empty on the desk next to her. Michael's fourth had been finished hours ago, but he'd refused to drink more lest his heart give out. At his age, heart problems from excess caffeine and lack of sleep were a legitimate concern.

Yes, because he's so much older than you.

Michael was forty-one, and Faith was thirty-four. Younger, but hardly young.

Her thoughts were wandering. She stood and poured herself a third cup of coffee from the fresh pot on the counter. "You want some more?" she asked Michael.

He shook his head. "No, thank you." Then, a second later, "What the hell. Sure, I'll take another. Wouldn't be the worst way to go."

Faith poured him a cup too and returned to the table. Turk slept peacefully in between their mattresses.

"Must be nice," she grumbled.

"What?" Michael asked.

"To be a dog."

"Ah. Yeah, it looks pretty damned sweet, I won't lie."

They had spent the night going over the new evidence they'd found and comparing it with what they knew already. The police were still analyzing the footprints, but the agents had ballparked that the killer would be between five-five and five-seven and between one hundred twenty and one hundred fifty pounds. The shoe prints weren't clear enough to tell them if it was a woman or a man, so they still didn't know that, but they had at least the beginning of a picture of the killer's physical appearance.

Michael had gone a step further, theorizing that the killer had to be athletic because he had gone from a standstill to a sprint within a few strides, something that was difficult if you weren't in peak physical condition.

But those height and weight ranges put the killer dead average for a woman and only slightly below average for men. The athleticism was above average, but not so much that they could limit their pool of suspects to, say, professional athletes.

Looking at the crime scene hadn't yielded anything more useful than the footprints either. They seemed to disappear when they were off the path. Maybe because of the layer of leaf litter, or maybe because the shoes had no tread to make marks in the dirt. Whatever the reason, the footprints seemed to materialize on the path, then disappear when they left the path.

"We know the killer didn't drive there," Michael said out of nowhere.

Faith looked at him. "What's that?"

"He didn't drive there." He straightened, excited to have finally found another thread to pull. "The footprints go in the same direction from arrival to departure. He comes out of the trees ten yards behind her, catches her, kills her, stages her, then continues the same direction before crossing back into the trees nine yards from the body."

"He could have doubled back once he reached the trees," Faith pointed out.

"Yes, but the library security cameras show that there were no cars in the lot when Lorraine Hayes left, and still no cars when she was killed."

"He could have parked on the side of the road."

"Maybe," Michael allowed, "but I don't find that likely. The road wasn't empty. I feel like someone would have reported a stalled car. Maybe I don't have empirical proof, but the most logical conclusion is that he walked there."

"Okay," Faith said. "Let's say he walked there. That means he either lives close, or he uses public transportation."

"I'm going to say public transportation," Michael said. "The three crime scenes are spread out around the metro area. I suppose he could walk there, but we're talking three to five hours one way between each site."

"Call Hilary and have him start looking through camera footage from the buses and trains," Faith said. "Specifically, all of the buses that stopped near the crime scenes near the times the murders were committed. If we find the same person in all three locales, then we'll have a suspect."

"Will do."

Michael called Hilary, enthused by the possibility that they'd actually found a lead. Faith was slightly encouraged, but not so much as Michael. This was something to do, but she wasn't as optimistic as Michael was. Somehow, it seemed too easy to find the killer this way. That wasn't logical of her, though, so she dismissed her fears and tried to think of what else might be useful.

Turk had caught something at all three crime scenes. Something he recognized as being present in all three places, but not strong enough that he could follow it. With the powder being the same powder one could find everywhere that sold art supplies and no bodily fluid of any kind left on the bodies or anywhere else at the crime scenes, Faith didn't even know where to take Turk to look for a suspect.

But there was something there.

She sighed and ran her hands through her hair. This happened so often during their cases. They would put pieces of the puzzle together, but there would be a black hole in the middle of that puzzle, right where the face of their killer was. They would run in circles around the one piece of evidence that would solve the case, but it wasn't until they came across one or two more bodies that they would find what they needed to put the case to bed.

Faith very much didn't want to come across another body. She didn't want the killer to have the satisfaction of killing the final victim and completing the Magnum Opus, even if all that waited for him upon that completion was the crushing disappointment that came from realizing that no eternal life waited for him on the other side.

Practically speaking, letting him kill his final victim was bad because it would mean that he might disappear. He might never act again, and he might never be found.

So it would be better for him to keep killing so you can find him faster?

She frowned and sipped her coffee. I'm trying, Gordon, but damn, it's hard to stay positive.

"Okay, he's going to look at the footage," Michael said.

"Good," Faith said absently.

"Everything okay?" Michael asked.

She gave him a dry look. "Guess."

He chuckled softly. "Yeah, fair enough."

She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. "Let's say he's using public transportation. Why is he roaming so far? The Botanic Gardens are forty minutes from the library by car, and Samantha's apartment is ten minutes away. Figure double that time if he's taking the bus, plus the time spent waiting for the bus. That's another thing too. He's just waiting at the bus stop with a bag of a murder victim's clothes?"

"I believe that," Michael said. "If he's cool enough to stage two bodies in public, one of them at a Botanic Garden with security patrols, then he's cool enough to wait at a bus stop with a backpack."

"Fair enough," she replied. "Still, even if he's central to all three locations, he's ranging far for his victims."

"Maybe he wanted them specifically. Maybe it had to be these women."

"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe it had to be those locations. Maybe he chose his victims because they happened to be near where he planned to stage the bodies."

Michael frowned. "But why them as opposed to any number of other women? And why would Samantha Reynard's loft apartment be important?"

Faith sighed. "Good point."

"So if it's these women in particular, then why them? No sign of sexual deviancy at all, and so far, no indication that he knew any of the victims well. Except that he knew where Samantha Reynard lived, which suggests to me that he knew her, at least."

"So maybe one of her students," Faith suggested. "Maybe she was intentional, and the other two were victims of opportunity."

He shook his head. "No, killers don't change their behavior like that. They're either intentional from the beginning or not intentional from the beginning."

"Usually, yes, but we've already determined that this killer is strict about some things and not strict about other things. He's strict about the poses of his victims but not strict about the distribution of powder."

"That's the only real example we have, though. And maybe we're wrong that he's not strict about the powder. He's using specific colors and matching them to specific symbols matched to specific elements. Maybe it just doesn't matter how much powder you use as long as it's the right kind and present on your victims' bodies."

"So maybe it doesn't matter who your victims are, but it just matters where they were killed."

"Or vice versa," he said. "It's a shot in the dark, but victim one was a long, straight-haired brunette, victim two had short blonde hair, and victim three was a curly redhead. Maybe victim four will have black hair."

"Maybe, but with no connection between the victims, that doesn't help us. We don't know which dark-haired victims to warn."

He frowned. "Yeah. Damn it. I just don't get the apartment. The Botanic Gardens and the river I get, but why would a loft apartment matter? That's why I don't think it's the location. Or if it is, I don't know what the hell the meaning behind it is. Let's say it is the location. We have the nigredo victim in a garden, the albedo victim in an apartment, and the citrinitas victim on a path next to a river. Where would the rubedo victim be?"

Faith shook her head. "I don't know." She yawned suddenly and deeply.

"I think we should get some rest," Michael said. "It's four in the morning already. We're on our last legs, and we're about to fall apart. I think we should at least try to grab a few hours of sleep. Maybe when we wake up, we'll be able to think more clearly."

Faith didn't want to sleep, but they had been spinning their wheels for hours now. And she was tired. She had no choice but to agree with Michael. "All right. Tuck me in?"

"What?"

"Nothing. I was joking."

"Where the hell did that joke come from?"

"No idea. Forget it, I'm just tired."

He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head. "You definitely need sleep. You're getting old, Faith. Your mind starts to wander after twenty hours awake."

"Is that gray hair on your temples?" Faith asked.

"Screw you."

"Looks nice. Distinguished."

"Just for that, you can tuck yourself in."

Faith chuckled and headed to the bathroom to change. Her mirth faded quickly, though. A part of her enjoyed these late- night brainstorming sessions with Michael. It reminded her of the good old days.

But this wasn't for fun. Their killer had already murdered another woman. He was one step away from completing his Magnum Opus. In Faith's experience, the closer a killer got to accomplishing his goal, the faster he worked. They might have less than twenty-four hours before another life was taken. It was Faith's job to make sure that didn't happen.

But as she lay awake, sleep eluding her despite her exhaustion, she feared that the last piece of the puzzle would remain missing until the killer himself placed it.