Page 3 of Hunting the Crossbow Killer

Collier seemed unfazed by his boss’s criticism. “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it right away.” He picked up the brown bag and carried it toward a line of metal cabinets along the back wall, to the left of the glass-enclosed conference room.

The chief stopped in front of Grace as Ortiz took a seat at his desk. “Ms. Malone, I’m Police Chief Beau Dawson. How can I help you?”

She stood and shook his hand. “Special Agent Grace Malone.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “FBI? Homeland Security? ATF?”

“FBI.” She showed him her badge, then hefted her satchel. “I need to speak to you. In private.”

“We can use my office.”

“Actually, unless your office is really large, the table in that conference room might work better. I have a lot of papers and photographs to spread out.”

“All right. Ortiz, Mr. O’Brien’s parole officer is on her way. When Mrs. Whang arrives, let her speak to her client about what happened at the festival before I interview him.”

“Will do, Chief.”

As soon as the conference room door closed behind them, Grace set the satchel on the table and faced Dawson. “Your prisoner is on parole? What did he do that landed him in prison?”

Instead of answering her, he asked a question. “Why did the FBI send an agent to Mystic Lake? And why is this the first I’m hearing about it?”

The displeasure in his voice was nothing she hadn’t heard dozens of times before from other police or sheriffs. Jurisdiction or just a general distrust of Feds who might try to take over or take the glory for some operation was a real obstacle in her line of work. And as always, she did her best to tamp down her own irritation at once again having to soothe someone’s ruffled feathers.

“I’m from the FBI field office in Knoxville. An anonymous tip sent me here to see whether the man I’m looking for might be in Mystic Lake. I did come to the police station first to introduce myself and bring you up to speed. But the station was locked.”

His mouth tightened. “Sorry about that. Small town, small police force. When there’s a festival, like today, we’re spread pretty thin. This anonymous tip you got, what did they tell you?”

“That the killer I’m investigating might be here, that someone who lives in the mountains above town has a bow and arrow and keeps to themselves.”

“That’s the tip that sent you all the way here from Knoxville?”

“Pretty much. We can’t risk ignoring a tip, however weak. You never know which one will pan out. Or which unexplored lead a defense attorney will use to try to drive holes through a future case.”

He let out a deep sigh. “I wouldn’t put much credence in what they said. You might have noticed the stores up and down the street outside, Main Street, are small boutique shops offering clothes, jewelry, local-made items that are more for the tourists than the town residents. We do have one convenience store of a sort, a locally run place with essentials, perishable goods, medical supplies. But for anything more than that you have to drive at least an hour out of town. That’s why most of the peoplehere own rifles or handguns. And for bow hunting season, a surprising number have bows and arrows. Hunting isn’t just for sport in Mystic Lake, it’s a way to feed our families. Someone telling you to check out a person with a bow and arrow around here is wasting your time.” He cocked his head, studying her. “But you don’t seem surprised by anything I just said. You knew all of that, didn’t you?”

She smiled. “I know what I researched on the internet about this town. I don’t pretend to be an expert and I’m sure what I read is likely half the truth, if that. But, yes, I knew most of the inhabitants hunted and likely quite a lot have bows and arrows. But I’m searching for someone who uses something a bit more sophisticated, the kind of bow not allowed for hunting in many places. A crossbow. I’m searching for the Crossbow Killer.”

He swore and slowly sat in one of the chairs, a look of dread on his face. “The serial killer I’ve heard about on the news. He’s killed, what, six people so far?”

“That we know of. Yes, sir.”

“You think he’s here?”

She sat across from him and pulled her satchel toward her. “That anonymous tip was light on details. There’s no proof he’s operating here or fled here when the heat got bad in Knoxville. But, as I said, we have to follow up on every lead. If it’s accurate, and we don’t perform our due diligence, people could die.”

“And the Feds would be eviscerated in the press, giving the FBI a black eye.”

“True. But we’re people, too. While we don’t want our reputation smeared, it’s more important to us that we save lives.”

He smiled for the first time since she’d met him. “Touché. All right, I’ll answer your original question. The reason that Aidan O’Brien is on parole is because he was convicted of murder. He served ten years in prison and was paroled a little over ayear ago. He’s not from around here. He’s from the Nashville area. From what his parole officer has told me, he petitioned the parole board to allow him to move here. He wanted a fresh start, somewhere that the people might not have heard about his case.”

She glanced past him at the man they were discussing. He was still sitting on the cot in his cell. When his dark gaze met hers, he didn’t turn away or try to pretend he wasn’t watching the chief and her. She vaguely wondered whether or not he could read lips.

“Mr. O’Brien seems keenly interested in our discussion.”

Dawson didn’t bother to turn around to look. “No doubt. Strangers make him nervous. When the tourists arrive to see the leaves turning or to enjoy our lake in the summer, O’Brien disappears. He’s not exactly the outgoing type.”

“Understandable. It’s hard for a convicted felon to get past people’s expectations and fears that he might reoffend. I noted he made a point of avoiding you in particular at the festival.”

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