CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Jessie knew she couldn't stay here for long.

The station's courtyard was just too damn cold. This was where she came when she wanted to clear her head and get a new perspective. But it was hard to think outside the box when her fingers were getting numb. Still, she tried to think about other ways to approach the case. A life might depend on it.

It occurred to her that after her frustrating experiences with Marcus Blackwell, and then with Julian Crest, she'd lost a little perspective. She was more focused on catching this person than understanding them. And it was the latter, more often than not, that led her down the right investigative path. She had to think like the killer she was hunting.

And then it came to her: a way to get a fresh take on things that would also meet another obligation that she'd been putting off. Less than a five-minute drive from here was someone who understood deeply how a serial killer thought because he was one.

Mark Haddonfield, the college student who had first tried to win her favor, and then went on a rampage of murder when he couldn't, was currently sitting in a cell at the Twin Towers Correctional Facility, where he was awaiting trial for his crimes.

He was also awaiting a visit from Jessie. She had agreed that she would come to see him periodically, even have him consult on cases, in exchange for retracting the manifesto he'd written calling for the death of all her loved ones.

He'd lived up to his end of the bargain, posting a recantation video that was compelling, and to date, effective. Prior to the release of his video, one of his acolytes had murdered Kat's fiancé, Mitch, while trying to get to her. Another had attacked Dr. Lemmon in her office. If not for her stun gun, the psychiatrist might not be here today. Since the video was posted online three and a half weeks ago, nothing had happened.

But Jessie hadn't yet lived up to her end of the deal. She owed him a visit, partly because she'd promised, but mostly because she feared what he might do if he got antsy and decided to have his minions go after those close to her again .

Plus, this was an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. She was skeptical that Haddonfield would have anything meaningful to offer about this case. But maybe just talking to a man who got a thrill from ending the lives of innocents would give her new avenues of investigation. It was worth a try.

***

They met in the same conference room where they made the recantation deal just two days before Christmas.

Normally, prisoner visits occurred, as one would expect, in the visiting room, but this was a special situation. Jessie sat on one side of the table. Standing at the doors of the room were two prison guards. Notably, neither of them was the guard who had helped tip off corrupt former cop Hank Costabile to her presence the last time she was here, which nearly led to her death.

That guard was busted, just like Walt Crowley, the desk sergeant at Central Station who had secretly helped organize support for Costabile, when his phone number was found in Costabile's cell phone.

Across the table from Jessie was Haddonfield. Jessie studied the young man who had at first tried to ruin her life and then end it. Mark Haddonfield still looked much like the college student who had once approached her on the quad at UCLA, asking for an autograph. He was the same tall, skinny, now-twenty-one-year-old with pale skin, curly blond hair and glasses. Yes, he looked harder and more guarded than the college boy, but that was to be expected considering his new home. She noted that his gray eyes still had the same manic energy that she'd first noticed over a year ago.

There were some differences. His skinniness, bordering on gaunt, was only emphasized by his dark blue jail jumpsuit. That curly, blond hair had been cut short and his wire-rimmed glasses had, for security reasons, been replaced by ones with bookish, black, plastic frames.

When he walked in earlier, she noticed that the limp in his left leg, a gift from Hannah when he tried to attack her months ago and she dove into his knee, was almost gone after successful surgery.

But he still had splints on the broken middle finger on his left hand and the broken ring finger on his right, which she suspected came from getting on the bad side of the wrong prisoner. In addition to those old wounds, his right cheekbone was badly bruised, and his left eye was black .

"I was starting to worry that you'd forgotten about me, Ms. Hunt," he said with a wry smile.

"No," she replied. "I've just been very busy. What happened to your face?"

He rolled his eyes slightly at the question, as if to say that they both knew that the consequences for ratting on the person responsible could be severe.

"I accidentally walked into a bathroom door," he said drily. "The vagaries of public living, I suppose."

"And did your fingers walk into that same door?" she wondered.

He stared at her for a few seconds with an expression that suggested he still couldn't believe she was here.

"For a while there, I was worried you hadn't visited because they'd gotten to you," he said, ignoring her question.

"They?"

"Whoever that guard was calling right after the last time we chatted," he said. "I overheard him and tried to let someone know that you were in danger, but obviously, my resources are limited. I was so happy to see that you had survived."

"Thanks," she said. "I'm surprised you had time to think about me, what with your busy schedule."

He looked perplexed for a second before grinning.

"Oh, you mean my trial," he said. "Don't worry, just because it got delayed a month doesn't mean I won't be facing lady justice."

"Well, I guess it's my luck that you aren't sitting before a jury of your peers just yet because I could use your help," she said, pulling a manila folder out of her bag and resting it on the table.

Haddonfield beamed at the sight of it.

"Is this what I think it is?" he asked excitedly, "our first official case together?"

"I suppose it is."

"May I?" he asked, pointing at the folder.

"Please," she said.

He put his hand on top of the folder and started to slide it toward him. He was on the verge of picking it up when he suddenly stopped, looking hesitant for some reason. She was about to ask what the problem was when he glanced to his left and began murmuring unintelligibly.

She'd seen this before. In their last encounter in this very room, as well as in the hospital room where he attacked her while she was awaiting brain surgery, he'd done the same thing. It was almost as if he was talking to some imaginary, invisible friend.

She watched silently as he paused, as if listening to someone. Whatever he heard made him increasingly agitated, to the point that he slammed his fist down on the table. The two guards both made moves to approach him, but she held up her hand for them to stop. He was still mumbling and she could have sworn she heard him mutter "this is my choice. Stop being so jealous!" Then he closed his eyes and exhaled slowly.

"Everything okay?" she asked.

His eyes popped open.

"Yes, of course," he said enthusiastically. "Just assuaging a few doubts. What have we got here?"

"I'm dealing with a potential serial killer, Mark," she said, using his first name, well aware that the familiarity would melt whatever walls he'd built up in the last few moments. His giddy smile proved her right.

She proceeded to fill him in on what she knew so far, leaving out the victims' names, which were redacted in the file, but explaining their backgrounds, including their shared, nearly unimaginable wealth. As she detailed their biographies, followed by the method of their death, Haddonfield listened intently, his eyes scanning the crime scene photos with an uncomfortable ravenousness.

When she was done talking, he continued to flip through the pages quietly, clearly deep in thought. She was starting to wonder if he was just stalling when he finally looked back up at her.

"Thank you for sharing this with me," he said, almost sweetly.

"It was part of our deal," she replied noncommittally.

"I have some thoughts," he said.

"I'm all ears."

"I don't pretend to have your experience or talent, Ms. Hunt," he said. "But I am a serial killer, as we can both agree."

After Jessie nodded that they could, he continued.

"I don't think that this person is a traditional serial killer."

"What makes you say that?" she asked, sincerely intrigued.

"Well, when I was planning my kills, I spent weeks, sometimes months on them," he said, his eyes getting slightly hazy at the memory. "It was part of the thrill for me: the organization, the build-up. At first, I didn't really enjoy the murders themselves. They were the obligatory endpoint of the mission, although I will concede that I eventually warmed up to them. If you'll recall, I had to make my first victim someone truly objectionable, before working up to people who were, I will acknowledge, less deserving."

"And you think this is different, how?" she asked, keeping the focus on the current case and not Haddonfield's exploits.

"Well, as I learned from reading transcripts of some of your seminars and speeches, sometimes the distinction between serial and spree killers gets blurred. But to me, this person feels more spree than serial."

"Why do you say that?" Jessie asked.

"You said the first murder was last night, around 9 p.m., and the second one was earlier today at 11:15 a.m. That doesn't cleanly follow the pattern of a traditional spree killer, going directly from one place to another to wreak carnage. But it feels more rushed than I would be comfortable with."

"Okay," Jessie said, willing to entertain the idea. "Anything else?"

"Yes, the method of murder, while the same with both victims—what with the knife and all—isn't methodical. It's frenzied. It doesn't feel like your killer planned this out in painstaking detail. Instead it feels like they had a general plan, but in the moment, lost control and just stabbed until they couldn't stab anymore. I know this is an odd thing to say, but these murders just feel so…angry."

Jessie sat quietly, turning over his words in her head.

"I'm sorry," he continued, "but I just don't buy that these killings are exclusively about the victims being—what did you call them earlier?"

"Ultra-high-net-worth individuals."

"Right," he said. "I'm sure that's somehow a factor, but these women have both been super rich for a while now. Why suddenly slaughter them in the last twenty-four hours? What was the catalyst that set off our friend, Stabby Stabberson? I don't accept that this is some ‘eat the rich' scenario. This feels personal more than political."

Jessie let that last comment wash over her and, to her amazement, she had to admit that Haddonfield was right. Whatever economic motive there might be to these acts, there was an up-close intimacy to their rage that suggested something more. This was, for reasons she couldn't yet identify, personal.

"Thank you, Mark," she said. "This could prove very helpful."

She was as surprised to say it as he seemed to be to hear it. She had assumed that this would be a perfunctory meeting that might help her reconfigure how she looked at things. But it had turned out to be much more. She didn't just have a fresh perspective now, she had renewed hope that she could solve this thing. Who would have thought that hope would come from a guy who tried to kill her?

"You're welcome, Jessie," he said.

A shiver ran up her spine as she realized this was the first time he'd ever called her by her first name. She stood up and grabbed the file.

"Please don't take offense," she said, "but I've really got to go. This case is obviously a high priority."

"I totally understand," he said, more relaxed than she'd ever seen him. "And you should go. Based on what I saw in those photos, whoever did this is going to kill again, if they haven't already."