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My gaze lifts to scan the rest of the room, filled with boxes on victims and countless bits of evidence that led to his arrest. I’ve read them so many times now I’ve lost count. After Natasha is Rosie, then Deirdre, then Jennifer. Down the line until we reach Porscha and Joelle.
That’s where my thoughts take me, crossing past thirteen other files to reach the last two victims. They practically take up one box entirely for themselves, the details still a little dicey. Jo doesn’t remember a lot of things since she was drugged, and Porscha isn’t around anymore.
I still don’t know how they all ended up there together. Alastair claims Porscha followed them, but the evidence is fuzzy after that.
It was still enough to get a conviction, and drop fifteen life sentences on his head. Death Row is his only future, but with so many people ahead of him he’ll be waiting around for many years still before it’s his time in the chair. His time will come.
Porscha’s file is smaller than Jo’s, mainly because Porscha’s ends with her death and Jo’s kept going after her care and treatment, the multiple surgeries, and ultimately anything else documented on her before and after the trial. I know most of those details, and turn my attention to Porscha’s papers instead as I flip through the pages.
Victim 15 presents with very little remains. Fire burned through soft tissue and destroyed skin and ligaments. Hands are missing. Teeth show dental records for Porscha Surwright and hint at large dental procedures throughout the course of her life. Nothing documented in the case of the CGS that includes dental torture.
Burns are consistent with the gas fire that is the cause of death for the victim. It’s believed that Victim 15 was alive prior to the burns, consistent with Victim 16’s report.
Victim 16 is Jo. I stand and grab the two first files for each of them, dragging them to the large table we’ve set up in the center of the room. It’s a bit like what we have at the precinct, but these are the files the FBI doesn’t want falling into anyone else’s hands. To be frank, if this case takes much longer the large majority of these will be transferred back to Quantico.
Laying the two files next to each other, I flip them open. Both of the intel photographs are the driver license photos of the two women. It’s easier to look at those than the remains.
I study the two images. Jo looks a lot like her mother now that she’s close to her age, and Porscha was always considered beautiful. Even when I lived here Porscha was always wandering around, doing odd jobs to keep her and Joelle in their home.
Her job title in the file ishandy-woman.I scoff, wondering why the hell that’s what we’re calling it. I wasn’t direct friends with her daughter since I’m four years older than she is, but I remember Porscha always did paint jobs for a bunch of complexes. She did a little bit of everything: painting, doors, hinges, locks. She was handy, and people liked to hire her for jobs. I never saw Porscha without some type of tool or brush in her hand.
She seemed nice, always had a smile on her face. She fit the victim type too - blonde, thin, local. It was always someone who looked similar to the last, like each murder was a surrogate for the true offender. Porscha was also the only victim who went outside Alastair’s preferred age group, but his story coincides with the bits Jo managed to remember. She ran across them after he had abducted Jo, and her death was due to her interference, not because Alastair specifically targeted Porscha.
My fingers drum over Porscha’s photograph, her green eyes sharp and snake-like compared to her daughter’s softer baby blues. Dad always said Porscha was a young mom, and I can see it plain as day in their pictures. I know from the birthdates on the files that she was seventeen when she had Joelle, and it was a scandal in town.
Come to think of it, I don’t really remember hearing anything about Porscha’s extended family. Even when Jo lost her only parent, I kind of remember hearing something about a wealthy family member helping to pay some of the costs, because I caught Vinny in the hall once arguing on the phone with someone about it. But I never physically saw anyone except for Vinny at the hospital with her all those years ago. His four siblings were children back then.
It’s sad to think of how alone she really was after her mother’s death until she woke up and married her high school sweetheart shortly after. Jo’s background check years before only revealed an estranged uncle and aunt, and two younger cousins. When I decided to contact Jo and Vinny that information still held true, although her husband is now her emergency contact for everything. Her uncle appears to be Porscha’s brother, but again, he never showed up to claim the body after her death. They had to wait for Jo to wake up to even claim her mother’s body from the morgue.
Shaking my head, I decide it’s time to stop drifting down memory lane. I pick up my phone and call one of my favorite people. She answers on the second ring, perky and upbeat like usual. “Give it to me, honey. What’s the latest news?”
“Soto,” I say, smirking down at the phone. There’s no contact picture, but I can almost imagine the way Finley Soto would raise a brow and smirk, ready to make some sort of joke to lighten the mood. “I assume Gabe mentioned the latest victim to you?”
“Already making the digital files and they’ve uploaded to your phone, boss man,” she replies. “He sent me the pictures. Who has the patience to cut people up like that?”
“I don’t think it’s a patience thing, Soto,” I remind her.
“Well it’s gruesome,” she says, and I can hear the disdain in her voice. “And gross. That poor girl.”
“Did you find anything interesting about the victim since we sent you her info?”
“Yes, I did, sir,” Soto replies, and I can hear the click of her keyboard. “Candace Swan was a twenty-three year old transplant to Citrus Grove from the neighboring town Walters, looks like she got her bachelor’s in Tallahassee and came back to the small town life to continue working. Her socials show a morbid fascination with serial killers-”
I groan. “Tell me Swan didn’t go and get herself a job at the penitentiary because of Alastair?”
“That would be speculation, sir,” she says, her voice turning coy. “She had an extensive search history on the Citrus Grove Slayer prior to her first day at CGP.”
“I swear if she’s one of those Slayer obsessors I’ve heard about,” I begin, grumbling my reply before the sentence trails off. I get it, people are curious about those they are working with and Alastair has a reputation. If she had any interest in history or horror she would recognize his name and connect the dots easily enough. I mull over what Soto said, trying to piece together the puzzle in my head without all the pieces.
It’s not getting me anywhere.
“The victimology is different,” I continue instead, filling the silence where I let the sentence hang unfinished. “So the copycat is already veering off course. Alastair could be feeding them intel. It seems meaningful that it was Swan who was chosen over every woman in Citrus Grove, not to mention she doesn’t fit the established profile.”
“Maybe someone’s watching the penitentiary?” Soto muses. “I’m not a profiler, sir, but if Swan knew Kyle Wallsburg and he’s involved, her interest could make her a target, right?”
I hum in response, nodding to myself. “We’ve considered that. We need more proof to pin anything on Wallsburg, unless you have something new for me on him?”
“Not yet. Is there something else I can search for, sir?” Soto asks.