Page 6 of Hunting the Crossbow Killer

“The arrows that were found today, couldn’t they be shot with a regular bow, not just with a crossbow?”

“Not likely. Arrows for a crossbow are shorter. Some call them bolts, rather than arrows. They’re not interchangeable with the kind I use, for a regular bow. They’re not even interchangeable with a compound bow.”

“Compound bow?”

“It’s something barely resembling a traditional bow. It has gears and pulleys and a lot of plastic. Not to my taste. If the arrows you’ve found at crime scenes are less than, say, twenty-two inches, they come from a crossbow. The kind I use are around thirty inches. But I’m guessing you knew that already. That’s basic information to have researched when looking for a killer using a bow.”

“You’re right, to an extent. I knew the experts concluded the killer’s using a crossbow because of the size of the arrow. But I wanted to make sure there wasn’t some kind of exception, thattheir conclusions are correct. Like maybe a particular bow is supposed to use a different length arrow, but the killer is using another kind to throw us off.”

“Not likely. Using the wrong length or even weight of arrow can not only destroy accuracy, it can be dangerous. Think of it the way you do guns. Different ammunition is designed for different types of guns. They’re not interchangeable. I don’t think you’re dealing with a bow-and-arrow expert here, though. Even if he did want to throw investigators off in some way, he’s not smart enough or experienced enough to know how to do it without hurting himself.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The fletching on the arrows that were found today is all wrong.”

“Fletching. You’re talking about the fins on the end of the arrow.”

“You did your homework.”

She smiled. “I’ve read the files. We’ll leave it at that. I know the fletching is for aerodynamics. Sometimes it’s feathers, sometimes plastic. Our guy uses both.”

“Technically, no. He doesn’t. The arrows I saw today had—”

The door to the conference room opened and Chief Dawson stepped inside, holding a thick manila folder. Behind him was Officer Ortiz.

Ortiz headed to the end of the table where Aidan was sitting and knelt on the floor beneath it. The sound of chains falling had Aidan blinking in surprise. A moment later his handcuffs were removed and Ortiz left the room.

Aidan remained seated, rubbing his wrists and testing out the new freedom of movement of his legs, all while suspiciously watching Dawson.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Is this some kind of game?”

“No game. The interview is over. Mr. O’Brien, you’re free to go. There will be no charges pressed against you for today’s…incident.”

Aidan eagerly stood, but his pathway to the door was suddenly blocked by Malone.

“Just a minute,” she said. “Chief, even if you’re dropping charges, I’d like to speak to Mr. O’Brien about my case. We were just discussing—”

“You can speak to him later,” Dawson said. “Mr. O’Brien, I didn’t see your truck in the parking lot down the street or anywhere out front. Do you need a ride home?”

“My motorbike’s parked a few blocks down.”

“Chief Dawson,” Grace said. “I really wish you’d wait and—”

“Excuse me.” Aidan brushed past her and quickly left. Once he reached his motorcycle, he hesitated. The man he’d been so long ago seemed to be stirring to life inside him, trying to guilt him into going back to finish answering the questions Malone had. But he viciously tamped down those softer feelings. She didn’t need him, not really. She was with the FBI, after all. There were plenty of resources she could use to find out what he’d already figured out.

That this so-called Crossbow Killer wasn’t targeting his victims.

They were all random. If law enforcement was focusing their investigation on learning about the victims and looking for links between them, they were wasting their time.

The aerodynamics of that arrow would have been thrown off so much by that long dangling feather that hitting that boat this morning was completely by chance. The shooter was more than likely just letting the arrow fly and didn’t care who it hit. Did Special Agent Malone know that? How could she not? Someone in the FBI would have studied those arrows and come to the same conclusions he had and put it in that large file of hersshe’d had sitting on the table. Which meant that Malone didn’t actually need him.

More than likely, her questions had all been a pretense. She just wanted to keep him talking, hoping he’d get comfortable, slip up and confess to a crime he didn’t commit.

His conscience quietened, if not fully assuaged, he put on his helmet and sent his bike roaring down the street.

CHAPTER FOUR

Grace caught a brief glimpse of her only potential suspect zipping past the front windows of the police station on his motorcycle. If it was up to her, he’d still be sitting at the end of the conference table answering her questions. Instead, she was reorganizing her documentation and stowing it back in her satchel as the police chief stood on the other side of the table, still holding the folder he’d brought with him when he’d come back into the conference room.

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