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For the secondtime in as many days, Dana found herself riding shotgun in an FBI vehicle with Agent Richter. They pulled into position on Dvita’s street to wait for the rest of the team to get to their marks. This time, it wasn’t just the tactical team on location. A slew of unmarked vans followed them; the search and seizure team ready to bag and tag everything the warrant allowed.

Richter checked his weapon, vest and then radio to confirm that the final team was on location. That’s when the call came in. Richter answered. “What is it, Walsh?”

“You’re never going to believe this, sir. I figured out the code.”

“What code?”

“The numbers on each recording file. It’s the date of each murder, multiplied by seven.”

Dana’s breath caught, floored by how devious Dvita’s mind was.

“We knew he was organized,” Richter said. “This helps our case. It shows this was premeditated.”

“Can you use the code to predict the next murder?” Dana asked.

“Way ahead of ya,” Walsh said. “Thing is, I think he messed up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Meredith Kincaid. The date you tried to visit her, multiplied by seven. Her tapes are labeled with that number. According to our parameters, she should’ve been the fourth victim. Meredith’s supposed to be dead.”

Dana swallowed the bile trying to rise in her throat. “He tried to kill her that day.”

“That’s our smoking gun!” Richter said. “Good work, Walsh. We’ll take it from here.”

Richter ended the call and immediately called Hartwell to relay the new information. Dana could practically hear him grinning on the line. “Guess my pep talk worked. Let’s go nail the bastard.”

Dana remained outside Dvita’s home while the agents served the warrant, precise and professional, just like the last time they were here. Only this time things were different. Quiet.

Every window of the brick two-story colonial home was dark. She watched the agents enter the home, a path of light following them from room to room until they reached his home office.

That’s when she heard the call come through the radio Richter had given her. “Boss, you’ve gotta see this.”

Unable to quell her curiosity, Dana left the vehicle and joined the rest of the team inside.

Dvita sat at his desk, head slumped back against his chair revealing the gaping wound in his neck, a bloody scythe resting on his lap. Hartwell swore, donning his gloves to check for the pulse he knew wasn’t there. “Body’s still warm. I want all units patrolling the area. Perp can’t have gotten far.”

Dana stared at Dvita’s lifeless eyes. They were wide open, glossy with the far-off look left behind when life fades away.

“So much for questioning our prime suspect,” Richter said.

“Good riddance,” Hartwell crowed in a voice much too jovial for a crime scene.

“The man didn’t slit his own throat with a scythe,” Richter argued. “This wasn’t a suicide.”

“I know that, but I heard those tapes. He took advantage of his patients. I’m not gonna lose any sleep over one less predator in the world.”

“Looks like we got it wrong,” Richter admitted.

Dana was still reeling. “I was so sure it was him.”

Richter put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ve been there. Best thing you can do is shake it off and go back to the drawing board. I’m going to call this in to BAU, see if Walsh can use the new development to tell us anything.”