Page 18 of Just Right

The phone stopped and then restarted again.

Was this urgent? Cami had the feeling that it was. Ethan wouldn’t be trying to call again and again unless something serious had happened.

Cami got her own phone out and dialed the office.

In a few rings, Ethan answered. He sounded stressed.

"I saw you were trying to get hold of Connor," she said. "He's getting changed into dry clothes after chasing a suspect. Is there a problem?"

"Yes, there is. There's been another murder," Ethan said, and Cami gripped her phone tighter, feeling horrified.

"Same MO," Ethan explained. "Same signature left at the scene. The victim lives south of Milwaukee. She's just been found, drowned in her own bathroom."

CHAPTER TEN

As Connor approached the crime scene, he saw it was already swarming with cops, as well as concerned bystanders. He parked the car and got out, feeling frustrated and worried that this killer was clearly on a spree. He—Connor was guessing it was a man, though not ruling out a strong woman—was making these kills at a rate that seemed far swifter than the average serial murderer.

It was almost as if he was on a specific mission. This felt like a rampage of death. That was how the angry mayor had referred to it.

“The FBI had better stop this rampage of death!” he’d said. “Our tax dollars aren’t going to be wasted on incompetence and delays!”

And that had been before this latest victim had been found. He could only imagine what the mayor was saying now.

Distressing and devastating as another murder scene was, Connor hoped this one would provide more clues, because so far, there had been a worrying lack of them. Cami had realized that the victims were advertising their locations on social media, but it wasn’t as if they weren't alone in that.

It sometimes seemed to Connor that everyone, apart from himself and a few others, was living their life firmly in the social spotlight. He acknowledged how dangerous it was. Connor didn't have children himself, but he had nieces and nephews whom he was constantly advising to be cautious. To think about what they put online. To not tell the world where they were going.

It only took one wrong person to follow you.

And this proved it.

"Let's take a look at the scene," he said, climbing out of the car, feeling heavy hearted as he always did when approaching the scene of a murder. A life had been taken, and Connor couldn't help feeling in his heart that he'd failed. That he should have been faster, should have somehow prevented this death.

One of the cops at the scene saw him approaching and hurried over, calling out, "FBI's here."

"I'm Detective Davies," the cop said.

"Agent Connor. This is IT expert Cami Lark."

Connor was used to the curious stares that Cami attracted with her edgy hairstyle—even though it was camouflaged by an FBI baseball cap—and her tattoos, even though they were mostly invisible under the jacket. Her multiple earrings in both ears were on display. It was only now that he saw her fingernails were painted black. To his surprise, Connor found he'd stopped noticing these physical details. It was as if his eyes passed over them, even though they'd annoyed him intensely on the first case he had handled with her.

Connor strode over the tidy lawn to the open front door of the house.

"The killer broke in. In broad daylight," the cop explained. "A passing neighbor was coming home from the shops, and saw the door standing ajar, and realized that the lock had been smashed. They went in, took one look, and called us."

That was interesting,Connor thought. Even though he knew Cami would be more focused on the online world, he was intrigued by that behavior. Because it did not signal clear planning. Rather, it was an impulsive, almost reckless crime. This killer could have broken in at night and killed this victim with far less risk of being discovered.

But he hadn't. He'd smashed the door and stormed the house in the late morning. That was hugely risky. And it indicated that they were dealing with a killer who was—in Connor's mind at least—probably not an organized or rational killer.

The smashed lock spoke of desperation, of seizing the moment. That was the mindset he sensed here.

He trod inside, through the small hall where he stopped to put on head and foot covers. In a scene like this, where the killer had acted frantically, there was far more chance that he'd made a mistake and perhaps left some trace behind. Maybe they'd been lucky.

"What's the victim's name?" he asked, knowing that Cami would be at the ready, researching it.

"Marion Albert," the detective replied. "She's forty years old."

Sure enough, Cami was already researching the victim.

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