CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The call that four more bodies had been found came in just after 5:00 p.m. the next day as Ambrose was leaving for the ring. He’d tossed his equipment aside and pulled on his dress pants, button-down shirt, and tie. Then he’d taken a minute, just one, to sit there with the situation in front of him. Lennon was off, and so he’d likely be at the scene alone, at least for a few minutes. This was a good opportunity, one he hadn’t thought would present itself. And he had to look at the bigger picture, because lives were involved, ones he felt responsible for.

He glanced at his phone, and for a moment he thought about giving in and calling her. Fuck, he’d practically had to sit on his hands all day not to pick up the phone just to hear her voice. But he’d already made a complicated situation even messier, and so he gathered his resolve and reached for his jacket, wallet, and keys before heading for the door.

Thankfully, an Uber was available immediately, and he was at the crime scene in less than twenty minutes. The abandoned building at Pier 70, located a few miles from downtown San Francisco, looked industrial and was likely once used for ship manufacturing. It had obviously been vacant for many years, however, and was now in a state of advanced deterioration.

Chain-link fences encircled the area, and NO TRESPASSING signs were posted everywhere. Clearly someone had disregarded those warnings. The officer at the door greeted him when he arrived, and Ambrose flashed his badge at the young woman. He felt mildly guilty. In his early years, it’d been somewhat surprising how easily a badge and the right name could get you through a guarded door. But he was used to it now. “Agent Mars. Lieutenant Byrd sent me.”

The woman stepped aside, and he gave her a nod, ducking under the crime scene tape. He smelled the death even before his brain had fully parsed the situation in front of him. Bodies. Bloody. Mangled.

“We meet again,” the crime scene tech he thought he remembered as Teresa said, from where she was kneeling next to one of the bodies to his left.

Dammit. He’d hoped he’d be the only one here. “Teresa, right?”

“Yes. Agent Mars.”

“Ambrose. Have you been here long?”

“Fifteen minutes or so. Just enough time to take stock of the scene.”

“What’s the preliminary cause of death?” he asked.

“These people got violent. They were all stabbed and beaten. It was a melee, Agent. There’s blunt-force trauma and deep lacerations, and the woman near the door back there was practically decapitated.” Teresa pointed to the bloody footprints leading from the center of the room to where the woman now lay. “It looks like she managed to hold her head on as she staggered to the corner and died.”

He grimaced. “Drugs?”

“Yup. The same Benjamin Buttons are on the windowsill over there.” Benjamin Buttons. For a moment, he was confused. Ah, “BB.” They’d nicknamed it because they had no idea what it stood for.

She pointed to the dusty window to his right, and as he walked over to it, he moved past a dead man on the floor wearing the same eternal scream that he’d seen on the face of the woman identified as Cherish. Jesus, that was hard to look at. Because it spoke of the suffering that man had experienced as he took his very final breath. But the term eternal scream naturally made him wonder if they’d landed in the afterlife unable to shake the horror of their death. For this man, and perhaps the others, there hadn’t even been an instant of peace as the air drained from his lungs and his heart slowed to a stop. It disturbed him greatly, because this was the third face at similar scenes that had looked just like that. Two might have been a coincidence, but three meant some devil had figured out how to repeat the terror that occurred for these people just before they died. That face was not natural. That was the face you only saw in the mirror when you woke from the worst nightmare of your life, screaming and sweating and prying invisible hands from around your neck.

He had an idea of how it might have been achieved, but it was too demented to consider just now, especially with the scent of fear and human decay heavy in the air.

The pills were scattered on the dusty windowsill, same shape, same imprint—only these ones were a pale blue instead of lavender. What did that indicate? That something had been changed? Or achieved?

Teresa came up behind him. “Same ‘BB’ imprint. But a different color, so maybe they’re from a different batch? Tests will confirm. I already took photos, but be careful about disturbing them because I haven’t done more than that.”

He gave her a distracted nod. Teresa turned, going back over to the body she’d been working on, collecting samples and evidence and whatever else she was putting in bags using tweezers. He needed some of those pills. And it was unfortunate that the windowsill was so dusty, because there was no way to take some without making it obvious. Not to mention she’d taken photographs of the number of pills. But he was here for a reason, and he had to do what must be done. It didn’t mean he liked it. It meant he had his priorities in line.

He leaned over, pretending to peer at the pills, and brushed several off the ledge into his palm and then turned, walking to the body in the far corner and pocketing them as he moved.

He walked from one bludgeoned, bloodied body to another, his gaze moving over the wounds and specifics that he could see, taking stock.

He cataloged all the items he could see and came to the same conclusion he was sure Teresa would—they’d used any available items as weapons. A massacre had occurred here.

The first two scenes had featured two bodies, the third three, and now this one was four. Things were escalating, the pile of bodies growing. And there was some dreadful point here that he thought he was beginning to understand.

“Could you tell if all the murder weapons are accounted for?” he asked Teresa.

She looked up from the woman on the floor. “From an initial glance, it appears that all the weapons are accounted for and that they used items just lying around,” she said, gesturing over to a piece of twisted metal on the floor by the wall. From this angle, Ambrose could see the blood on the sharp, rusted edge. “I haven’t confirmed yet, but stick around.”

Ambrose gave her a thin smile. That wouldn’t be possible. And he trusted this woman’s initial assessment. She seemed competent and observant, and she’d been doing this job for a long time.

He noticed some disturbed dust on the floor near the corner, where there were a few toppled crates. The marks next to them appeared to be shoe imprints, if the person had worn shoes with completely flat soles. Or booties over his footwear. He looked up to see a wooden beam stretching to the opposite wall. “Teresa, did you see this?” he asked, glancing back at her.

She looked up, her gaze going to the floor where he was pointing. “Imprints?”

“Yes, but it looks like these ones belong to someone wearing booties. The details of the soles are completely missing.”

She frowned and then leaned so that she could see the soles of the shoes on the feet of the victim she was next to. Then she glanced over at the other bodies. “I’ll check their shoes, but if the dust is recently disturbed, those might belong to an unknown subject. Maybe the one who anonymously called this in? I’ll make sure to take some samples.”

He nodded distractedly. Had the person who’d given these victims the pills used the crates to climb up and place something on the beam? A recording device, perhaps? One he came back to retrieve before calling this in? Was he watching it now? Replaying the carnage? The aftermath of this was awful enough. To see it live? And to enjoy it? He couldn’t begin to imagine how sick you’d have to be. “I’m going to go look outside and see if I spot anything,” he said to Teresa, who was once again deeply immersed in her work.

“Okay. See you soon,” she murmured.

His stomach knotted, and regret was a strong acid burning the lining of his gut. Given all the emotions he felt, standing in a room with four people who’d died horrifying deaths, he felt like he might lose his lunch. He took a few deep breaths, managing to contain the nausea. He wished he had another choice than what he was about to do. He really did.

Lennon. What was she doing right now? It was after dinnertime. He pictured her cozied up on her couch, a blanket over her lap, and the picture his mind conjured made his heart squeeze with longing. The department wouldn’t figure out what he’d done for a couple of hours. She’d probably be greeted by the news in the morning. And then she’d hate him.

As Ambrose stepped through the door, a couple of marked cars were pulling up, and two other criminalists were just ducking beneath the tape. He greeted them with a nod and then walked past, going around the corner and then taking up a slow jog as he moved away. He’d call an Uber once he’d gone a few miles. His “job” at the SFPD had come to an end.