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“Yeah. I just wanted to move off the day, and I didn’t want to dump on you the minute you moved off yours.”
“If I didn’t want you to dump, I’d be eating a grilled cheese sandwich solo. Tell me about the wall you’ve hit.”
“They haven’t taken anyone since Lori Preston.”
“That’s a bad thing because?”
“They have a pattern, and it goes back to what I’ve found at the end of May. The pattern didn’t set until Celia Russell in September, but it’s been consistent since.
“Seven people are missing that fit their victim type, and all but the first two went missing at the end of the month or within the first week at the start of the month. Not always the same day of the month, day of the week, but within that time frame. Preston edged over to the beginning of March, Tarrington start of February. The rest end of the month.”
“So they changed their pattern. Couldn’t it be whoever they hoped to take wasn’t available? Moved, died, went on vacation?”
“Can’t discount that. Which would mean they don’t have a backup. They focus on only one at a time, and have gotten really damn lucky seven times. Maybe more if we haven’t connected others.”
She blew out a breath, stabbed at some fish.
“You like the logic of patterns.”
“Well… yeah.”
“Don’t you have to consider the people doing this are lunatics? No offense to the dog.”
Since the dog currently sat hopefully at the door, Nash rose, let him in. Then got out a bully stick. Tic spun in a crazed circle, then plopped down to sit before accepting it and racing off.
“That’s a pattern.” Sloan pointed at Nash. “Feed the dog, let the dog out, let the dog in, reward the dog.”
“Or domestic routine.”
“Routine, pattern, semantics.” She picked up her wine, considering as she sipped. “Seven people are dead. It’s not possible at this point to know how long they keep their victims alive or for what purpose, but they’re not holding multiple people.”
“No. I can’t argue with that.”
“They select them, and that has to be a process, and has to be due to the one thing all seven have in common.”
“They experienced clinical death.”
“Yeah. They select on that basis, which means access to medical records or nine-one-one logs, hospital admissions. It’s possible they find the targets otherwise. News articles, social media posts.”
“Then stalk.”
She glanced at him. “Correct.”
“Not only do I occasionally watch movies or series, read books, but it follows they’d have to know their targets’ patterns, too.” Then he shrugged. “And I confirmed that by reading up a little on serial killers.”
She smiled. “Got you hooked.”
“Looks like it.”
At the sound of squeaking and running, Sloan looked around.
“Never,” Nash said, “ever buy a ball that lights up and squeaks for a lunatic dog. Especially one who figures out how to pick it up and toss it for himself to chase.”
Amused, Sloan leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You’re a good dog pal.”
And the sound of Tic happily entertaining himself took more of the edge off.
“Stalking phase,” she continued. “Learning the victim’s routine, establishing the best time and place for the grab. But in Janet Anderson’s case, they couldn’t have known she’d run out to the store.”