1. The Last One

ONE

The Last One

Standing in the doorway staring at a dead woman, Zachariah Lazarus knew this case was going to be his last.

He’d lost his wife to this.

He couldn’t drop everything, fly five hours, drive for two and a half, stand in the doorway of a room and assume responsibility for another lost soul.

He’d see to her. If he caught a break, he’d find the twisted mess of a human being who was behind it, and he’d put him out of commission. If he didn’t, he’d uncover everything he could and leave it for the next guy to use when he stood in a door and stared at a life ended in a grim and tragic way, hoping like hell he’d catch a break.

But Rus was done.

He was heavy with this shit. Struggling to breathe under a boulder he carried, which grew bigger and bigger, threatening to crush him.

He took a single step into the room, fighting against that weight he’d carried for years but only started feeling the day he signed his divorce papers.

The room was cold, incredibly cold. They’d jacked the AC way up to take care of her. It was probably another reason the owner was impatient to get her out of there.

She was lying in a cradle of plastic sheeting, like the other seven had been.

Her back was to the door, just like the others.

She was arranged in a position of sleeping, on her side, one leg hitched and resting on the bunched plastic tucked around her, arms cocked, hands tucked under her cheek.

She’d been anally raped, he could tell by the blood. Rus knew from experience she’d likely also been vaginally raped.

The back of her head had been bludgeoned, her long blonde hair matted and mingled with the color of rust, the stained ivory of jagged pieces of skull and the gore of exposed brain matter showing through the strands.

He’d spoken to his team on the drive there. They’d come and gone and were queuing up evidence to process what they’d found.

At that moment, the local sheriff and two of his deputies were outside, the sheriff not three feet behind him, the deputies trying to calm an irate motel owner who wanted the body removed.

He was going to have to put up with crime scene tape, but cruisers and an active investigation fucked with his ability to rent rooms.

This was too bad, since the man needed the money so he could put some fucking cameras in his reception and parking lot. Perhaps he hadn’t already because their presence made his current clientele nervous, but this meant the zero evidence Rus knew his suspect left behind added to the zero video footage would leave Rus and this woman with less than zero to go on.

She’d been there since discovery by the motel’s maid yesterday morning. She was still there due to the fact the MO was highly publicized, and the call needed to be made that would put Rus on a plane.

This boded well for the start of the investigation. It said the locals weren’t going to mess around. They didn’t try to take lead. They didn’t start an investigation they weren’t going to be able to finish.

They made the call. Rus arranged for agents in the Seattle division to head out and process the scene, gave the locals his ETA and asked that the scene was secured, nothing disturbed, so he could see her as she was left.

Precisely as she was left.

Great emotion put a stamp on a space.

Stand in the doorway after a child’s birthday party, you could feel the joy even if you didn’t see the mess left behind or smell the residue of frosting.

Stand in the doorway of a crime scene, you could feel the suffering.

He normally let it wash over him like this, taking on the added weight of that despair, smelling the residue of misery.

He stood in that doorway longer, though, and not because she was going to be his last one.

He couldn’t put his finger on why, something was just…

Off.

When he couldn’t figure it out, he shook it off and moved farther into the room, down the near side of the bed, noting the coating of blood on her buttocks and thighs left from the violations she sustained, the bruising around her ankles, the smears and pooling on the plastic by her head.

She’d been raped here, and murdered here, tied to that bed.

Before that happened, the plastic sheeting had been spread across the mattress, down its sides, along the floor and up the wall. Once the perpetrator was finished, he’d tidied up, positioned her, but otherwise left no trace.

They’d find her blood and sweat and tears and hair on that sheeting.

Nothing from him.

The profilers had ideas about why she was positioned this way, with the worst of it facing the door.

Rus usually put a good deal of stock into what profilers said.

The first three victims, he bought it.

The last four, now five, he knew this whole show was for him.

Rus set about examining the room even though he knew, if his guy finally fucked up, Rus wouldn’t pick it up by looking around. It’d be discovered in forensics.

He still did it, just in case he saw something someone else might miss.

He was thorough.

As such, he stood gazing curiously at her clothes tossed in the corner that the team had left for him to see.

Not unusual. The victim’s personal effects were meaningless to her perpetrator.

Her purse had been tossed there too.

Again, there was something not right about it.

They were usually in a tidy, discarded bundle. This all seemed flung in one direction to get it out of the way.

It wasn’t a massive shift of MO, but Rus was attuned to everything.

He moved away from his perusal of the room because she’d been there too long. She needed to advance to her next violation, a full autopsy, before she was cleaned up and returned to hands and hearts who loved her.

This meant Rus didn’t further delay what he had to do next, even if it was the worst part.

He moved to the other side of the bed, the side he’d so far avoided.

Yeah.

This was what always punched him right in the gut.

And this was what made her his last.

From this angle, take away the plastic sheeting, the contusions and scrapes on her knees, ankles, and wrists, she looked like she was sleeping.

No damage to her face, not even a shadow of a bruise. No blood splatter. The duct tape, on which they’d found negligible residue from the fourth victim, giving indication it was what he used to keep them quiet, had been removed with no visible trace.

Always, the face clean and tranquil and waiting for him.

Since the fourth victim, waiting for, specifically, Rus.

As usual, she was a beautiful girl. His guess, early twenties. A long life ahead of her she would not lead. Career. Love. Marriage. Children. Birthdays. Holidays. Vacations. Graduations. Grandchildren. Retirement. Books she’d never read. Meals she’d never eat. Laughter she’d never share.

That was done, it was tragic. It added to the weight he carried, he’d wake up from dreams about it, his mind would wander to thoughts of it when he let his guard down.

But in the end, he could do nothing about it.

It was time to get on with what he might be able to do something about.

Taking a deep breath, he retrieved the nitrile gloves he’d tucked into his pocket, pulled them on and carefully pressed his fingers between the prayer position of her hands.

A chill glided over his skin.

He could feel the edges of the “gift” that the killer always wrapped in his victim’s palm, but the other wasn’t there.

It was always there.

From the fourth one, right there.

He felt around.

Nothing.

Carefully, he lifted her top hand, which shifted the weight of her head since her cheek was resting on them, and he peered in.

The crystal resting in her palm glinted, a pink one this time, but other than that…nothing.

He grabbed his phone, turned on the light, and kept her hand and head raised, leaning deeper, looking closer.

Not there.

With great care, he removed his hand, then slid his fingers between her and the sheeting.

He lifted.

It wasn’t there either.

His blood ran cold.

Now he knew what was off about this room, this girl, this murder.

Carefully, he rested her again to the plastic, turned off the light, shoved his phone in his back pocket, and snapping off the gloves, he strode out of the room right to Sheriff Harry Moran.

“I told you not to remove anything from the scene,” Rus stated.

Moran’s brows drew down. “We didn’t.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d given explicit instructions, and his team wouldn’t fuck that up.

“My boys?” he demanded.

“They didn’t either.”

“Nothing?” Rus pushed.

“Nothing,” Moran asserted.

“You’re sure of that?” Rus kept at him.

Moran was getting annoyed. “I’ve been here for twenty-two hours, Agent Lazarus. I was the first on the scene. Your guys came in, but I supervised. And when we sealed it, I personally sat in my cruiser all night and guarded it until your arrival. Nothing has been disturbed, and nothing has been removed.”

Rus was reminded that a year ago, this sleepy town in the Pacific Northwest had some high-profile trouble that was exacerbated by an inept sheriff.

One of the reasons Moran had his current position—the old was ousted, Moran was the new.

This meant Moran wasn’t dicking around.

“What’s going on?” Moran demanded.

“She’s good to be moved. Call your coroner. Bag the crystal. The personal effects. Then get her out of here. We’ll talk at the station.”

And with that, Rus moved to his rented SUV.