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Carroll’s expression shifted. “You were sick? Do you think you might have been hallucinating?”
Nola’s anger was instantaneous. “Oh, my God, no, I didn’t imagine it. If this is the best you can do, get out! I’ll tell the police myself when I get home, and in the meantime if they fish any more bodies out of the flood, you can blame your damn self.”
“I didn’t—”
“I’m through talking to you! Get out!”
Carroll sighed. “Rest assured I will file the report, Miss Landry. I hope you get well soon.”
* * *
When she folded her arms across her chest, Carroll knew she was done with him. He didn’t know what he thought about the story, but he was obligated to report a witness statement regarding a murder, real or only marginally possible.
He drove back to the department, still doubting most of her story, and was at his desk writing up the interview when his captain came in and began tossing copies of a report on everyone’s desk.
“Heads up, everyone. We just got a fax from the parish police in Queens Crossing. They’ve got seven dead bodies, all of whom were killed with a single gunshot. No suspects, but they were all killed with a pistol, probably the same pistol.”
Carroll looked up in disbelief. “You’re kidding!”
“No, I’m not kidding. Why?”
“I just took a report from one of the flood victims they brought in to Tidewater. She claims to have witnessed three people being murdered.”
“Holy shit! Did she know them? Did she give any names?”
“Yes. Said they were her neighbors. Just a sec, I have the names in my notes.” He thumbed through the pages, then paused. “Here they are. Whitman Lewis, Candy Lewis, Ruth Andrews.”
The captain’s eyes widened. “Those names are on the list.”
Carroll’s pulse kicked. “We’ve got ourselves a witness, and get this. She said the killer was wearing a uniform like the ones from her parish.”
“A cop? The killer is a cop?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Finish that report and fax it to Queens Crossing ASAP.”
“Yes, sir,” Carroll said, and made a mental apology to Nola Landry for doubting anything she’d said.
* * *
The killer’s first victim had been in Dubuque, Iowa, after a tornado had swept through the town. When rescue workers began finding bodies with bullet holes, rather than wounds from storm damage, it didn’t make sense. The police immediately knew they’d been murdered and began looking for a connection between them. But other than the fact that they’d lived through the storm before they were killed, there was none. News of the murders hit the papers, and all of a sudden the FBI was in Dubuque.
Special agents Tate Benton, Wade Luckett and Cameron Winger caught the case and had been following the killer’s trail ever since. The next time he struck was after another storm hit. And the third time was in Omaha after a local flood in Missouri. Once it became apparent that his killings occurred directly after weather-related events, the media, being the media, dubbed him the Stormchaser.
During the past two months, the killer had begun taunting the agents through the media, mocking their inability to catch him and blaming them for the deaths.
Tate Benton’s specialty was profiling, and he had picked up on the messages as being part of the killer’s need to prove his superiority.
One of their first breakthroughs was figuring out that he didn’t strike until after the Red Cross arrived. After clearing the actual Red Cross workers of any guilt, it led the team to suspect he was hiding among the hundreds of volunteers who came with any disaster, and that by working to assist, he was nullifying the sins of murder by helping minister to the ones he spared.
When the Mississippi River began to flood, the Stormchaser struck again, this time in Natchez, Mississippi. They were still working that scene when Special Agent Wade Luckett pulled into the parking lot of the Natchez Police Department and got out. His steps were hurried as he strode through the lobby, then down a hallway to the room that had become their field office. When he walked in, Tate Benton was on the computer and Cameron Winger was on the phone.
They both looked up.
“We have bodies in Louisiana,” Wade said.
Tate frowned. “Damn. We were afraid of that. He’s moving downriver with the flood. Where’s the location?”