Page 24 of Girl, Empty (Ella Dark #27)

In her office, Ella had watched the CCTV footage from First National Bank six times and learned nothing except that their killer definitely used one of those sensory jammer things David Lorraine had told her about.

‘Same pattern,’ Ripley said. ‘Lobby camera blacks out, then the security door, then the elevator, then the area outside the vault.’

‘And we never see the killer.’

‘So, he’s invisible to cameras. So what? When was the last time security footage helped us catch a killer?’

‘Never.’

‘Well then. We know enough about our unsub to put together a profile, so let’s do it.’

‘Tech expert. Probably a white male. Age could be anything, but I imagine you need to be pretty young to be this good at hacking.’

Ripley uncapped her marker pen and began stabbing the whiteboard. ‘He stabbed Michael Rankin in the stomach. There was no postmortem ritual. He got in and got out.’

‘So he’s no sadist, and if he was so quick to kill Rankin, it means he doesn’t have the size or build to physically overpower his victims.’

‘Another tick in the weakling column, which is further proven by how he handled Grayson at the bank vault. He locked him in there. All he had to do was shut the door, which is quite heavy, but once the momentum starts it’s pretty easy. What about victimology?’

‘There’s no overlap between the two victims,’ Ella said. ‘So this isn’t one guy killing off a certain circle of people. They might just be victims of convenience.’

‘Convenience? There’s nothing convenient about luring someone into a bank vault.’

‘Okay, maybe not convenience in the conventional sense, but victims that he can lure to an impossible place. So he obviously stalks these people somehow.’

‘They’re both on social media, and guess what I found while you were moping? That Michael Rankin posted a picture of him and his daughter on there, and her pentagram tattoo is in shot. And before you ask, Rankin’s friends list is private, but I’ve got a request out to un-privatize it.’

‘Wow. You’ve been busy.’ Ella had to wonder if Ripley wasn’t working double-hard just to pick up Ella’s slack. When she took this field job, she promised herself she’d never be the spare part. She needed to pick things up. ‘Since our CCTV is a dead end, I should check out this Sinclair guy.’

‘Do.’

Ella opened up a browser and typed Sinclair Corporation Indianapolis.

The first result seemed to hit all of the marks.

A black-and-silver website popped up that assaulted Ella with technical jargon at the first opportunity.

Engineering A Smarter Tomorrow was the headline, followed by talk of cloud infrastructure and cybersecurity solutions for enterprise clients . None of it meant anything to her.

‘Got ‘em,’ she said.

‘Find the boss.’

Ella clicked through to the About section. 'Founded in 2018 by Alexander Sinclair, former software architect and security researcher. The company specializes in...' She skimmed past the corporate jargon. ‘Quantum encryption, if that means anything.’

‘Of course it doesn’t. Alexander Sinclair. That’s the guy Lorraine said was a nutjob. Does he seem like a nutjob?’

‘A little bit.’ Sinclair’s headshot showed a man with long grey hair tied back in a bun.

He had a sharp jaw, and his skull seemed a little too big for his neck.

Mid-fifties, Ella guessed. The business registry had more meat.

Sinclair Corporation: technology consulting firm.

Everything else was hidden behind the corporate veil.

Revenue was private. Employees were somewhere between 11 and 50, which was like saying someone was between short and tall. Ripley peered over her shoulder.

‘He looks like a mad surgeon. What do we know about him?’

Ella looked for pages that might reveal information about the man behind the photo.

His LinkedIn just had the same picture as the website and nothing else.

His Twitter was last updated eight years ago.

She clicked into his Instagram account. Again it showed the same pale-eyed stare from his corporate headshot, but the content was much different.

The first post she saw was a photo of a knife. Not just any knife, but a long, curved blade with an ornate handle that looked like it belonged in a museum. The caption read: Latest addition to the collection. Bowie knife, circa 1885. Provenance traced to the Colorado Territory.

Ella scrolled down. More knives. Old rifles. Antique handguns.

‘Our guy likes weapons. That’s good to know,’ Ripley said.

Next, Ella enlarged a photograph of what looked like a signed letter, gone yellow with age.

The caption made her stomach turn.

Finally acquired this. Personal correspondence from Albert Fish to his attorney, 1935. The mind of a monster, preserved in his own hand.

‘No,’ Ripley breathed. ‘Hell no. Do not say we’ve got a murderabilia collector.’

More posts followed. Ella clicked through them. One showed a piece of rope that apparently belonged to BTK. Then followed Jeffery Dahmer’s prison Bible, then a crude painting of the seven dwarves by John Wayne Gacy. ‘It looks like we have just that.’

Ripley’s grunt was so loud it made Ella jump. ‘Who collects this crap? It doesn’t even look good.’

‘We’ve met a few of these types, and they’re always… questionable.’

‘You’re not kidding. Let’s pay this Sinclair guy a visit, but I can’t promise I won’t shoot him. You got his address?’

‘No. Wait. He might be at his office.’ Ella went back to the Sinclair Corporation website and found the contact number. She grabbed her phone and dialed.

It rang three times before a man answered. ‘Sinclair Corp, how can I help?’

‘Hi, I’m looking to arrange a meeting with Alexander Sinclair. Is he around?’

‘I’m afraid not. Mr. Sinclair is working from home today. He’s due back in on Friday according to his calendar.’

‘Got it. Thank you.’ Ella hung up. Ripley was buzzing beside her. She had that look about her, the one that reminded Ella of a shark sniffing blood. Once Ripley got her claws into someone she didn’t like, they rarely came out unscathed. ‘He’s not in. He’s at home.’

‘Day after a murder and he’s at home? Address. Now.’

Ella navigated to the police database. She typed in SINCLAIR, ALEXANDER, and got two hits in Indianapolis. One was a 26-year-old, the other was a 52-year-old. Ella dug into the older gentleman's file.

‘Here. 116 Anfield Avenue. Unmarried. No divorces. No next of kin. He’s got a rap sheet too.’

Ripley leaned in and took over mouse duties. ‘Trespassing charge two years ago. Trespassing for what though? It doesn’t say.’

Ella jumped out of her chair. Adrenaline fired up her veins, and it was the kind of adrenaline she welcomed. Not the kind where you feared for your life, but the type where you made a connection that might just lead you to a serial killer’s doorstep. ‘Let’s go find out.’

‘I like this guy, Dark. Trespassing charge. Got a hard-on for murderers. We’re on a good track.’

Ella checked the address on her phone. ‘Anfield Avenue’s twenty minutes from here.’

‘Fifteen if I drive.’

She threw the car keys to her partner. ‘Then you’re driving.’