Page 21 of Killer Knows Best (Fallon Baxter FBI Mystery #4)

21

SPECIAL AGENT FALLON BAXTER

A fter a quick breakfast at my mother’s diner, Jack, Buddy, and I head to the coroner’s office in Denver, to the morgue attached that houses the latest victim of our rather prolific serial killer.

The morgue smells of industrial-grade cleanser mixed with the faint, lingering scent of something far worse. The air feels heavy and a little too cold because, let’s face it, it’s designed to slow everything down, maybe even your heartbeat. The hum of the refrigeration unit is the only sound we hear, constant and grating, but I’ve gotten used to it over the years. Doesn’t mean I like it.

Jack pulls the final door open, and Buddy trots in with his tail wagging as if this is just another stop on his walk. We don’t usually bring Buddy to this place, but we figured it’s probably time to introduce him to the bleak side of our careers.

Miller Thompson, the coroner, sheds a wide grin when he sees us, or maybe it’s just for Buddy. You never know with Miller—he could find the silver lining at a funeral.

“Morning, Miller,” I say, stepping in after Jack. The walls are all steel, and the lighting is fluorescent—harsh and sterile, with no mercy for the bags under your eyes. And it feels as if I’ve got some serious luggage.

We make our way past doors marked Autopsy Room and Cold Storage . It’s a testament to the fact that even the signs here feel clinical. Everything is stripped down to the bare essentials, just enough to make you feel like a number instead of a person.

“Morning, Agents.” Miller gives a nod and crouches down to give Buddy a good scratch behind the ears. “And morning to this big guy. I see you brought the chief,” he teases before lifting Buddy’s face toward him. “Been keeping these two out of trouble?”

“Not even close,” I say with a dull laugh.

“You have no idea.” Jack steps over to metal tables lined with bodies covered with sheets and his mouth curls at the corners.

Miller belts out a rumble of a laugh. “I’d ask what happened, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know.”

“Good call,” I say, leaning against one of the cool steel counters. “What’ve you got for us?”

“Sherry Kent.” Miller moves to one of the tables and pulls back the sheet with a quick flick of his wrist as if he were a magician. And if he were a magician, he’d be a lousy one. It looks as if his assistant just bit the big one. “Her throat has a nice clean slice across it, no signs of struggle,” he muses. “Someone knew what they were doing.”

The body on the table looks as peaceful as it can in a place like this. The woman is naked. Her body is on the thin side, her skin is on the blue side, but heck, it’s been cold out, and it probably doesn’t help to have death on your side. There’s a deep gash across the poor woman’s throat, and that part doesn’t look quite as peaceful. The infinity scar on her chest doesn’t either.

“That’s starting to look familiar,” Jack says as he leans toward the symbol .

It’s identical to the ones we’ve seen before, but upon closer inspection, it looks as if it’s been etched into her skin with some kind of tool. It’s so very neat and precise.

“Looks familiar, indeed,” I mutter, my mind going back to the previous victims. Delaney, Gwen, and those two women who turned up in Elmwood—Sharon Oaks and Jane Doe. “One odd thing, though. It looks nearly the same size as the others.” I shoot a look at Jack and he nods.

“I thought so, too. Uniform and exact.”

“Funny how it lines up so perfectly,” Miller says, tilting his head with his eyes narrowing in on it. “It’s almost as if whoever’s doing this has got themselves a little device for it.”

“Something like a brand,” Jack says, his voice low. “Or something close.”

“A nefarious cookie cutter,” I offer and Jack nods my way.

“Exactly that,” he says. “One with razor-sharp intentions.”

“Well, it’s obvious our killer loves the attention,” I add as that familiar knot of frustration twists in my gut. “It’s nothing but a little game of cat and mouse to them. Like they want us to catch them, or better yet, prove that we can’t.”

“I’m guessing it’s the latter,” Jack says as he shakes his head at the woman. “But we’ll catch them. We always do.”

It’s almost sweet he said those words straight to her as if he were making the corpse a promise. It’s one I intend to keep with her, too.

Miller crosses his arms and gives a slow nod. “They’ve done this before and they’re just getting started.”

Right on cue, Nikki walks in, looking like she hardly survived a warzone. Her hair is every which way and her clothes are askew.

“Late night?” I tease, although taking a better look at her I may not be .

“You have no idea,” Nikki groans. “Let’s just say I didn’t get much sleep, and I wasn’t alone.”

“Exciting as ever.” Jack glances at Miller. “It’s not her first rodeo.”

Miller chuckles, shaking his head. “Do I want to know?”

“ No ,” the three of us say in unison.

He shrugs. “How about we get back to business? I’d like to introduce you to Mrs. Sherry Kent.”

“Socialite,” Nikki says. “She was a homemaker up in Garter, a high-end zip code. Her husband is some big shot in the financial sector. No kids. He wasn’t in the state when she died. Hale says the alibi checks out, so he’s not our killer, but that doesn’t mean we’re ruling him out.”

“Clean hands don’t mean much these days,” I add.

“That’s how I’d off my spouse,” Nikki says, straightening her jacket and wrangling her hair into a messy bun. “Murder for hire. Not only would I keep my hands clean, but I’d try to peg it on one of my enemies. Two birds, one stone.”

“I’m glad you’re on our side,” Jack flatlines.

“Anyway, I dug around a bit.” She leans in toward the woman and gives her a good inspection. “She was into charity work, lots of it. She could have made some enemies there, but nothing screams motive.”

“Up until now, it seemed as if our killer had a type,” I say, my eyes still pinned on the infinity scar. “Or at least a pattern. What was she wearing? Where was she going?”

“Heels, fancy gown,” Miller says, pointing to a table with the woman’s things spread over it, waiting to be itemized.

Nikki, Jack, and I exchange a look.

“She was found across the street from the Drummond Hotel.” Nikki tips her head as if to allude to what we’re suspecting .

“Do you think Mrs. Kent was a high-end escort?” I shake my head, hoping it’s not so.

Jack takes a breath. “I’m thinking we need to find out if a hotel room went unused last night.”

“If her john was there, we may not know,” I say.

Nikki measures the infinity symbol with her fingers. “I’ll do a deep dive and talk to the hotel. CSI has her phone and they said they’d release it to me this afternoon. If she contacted Kiki, then we’ve got another connection.” She looks up at Miller. “How many people have come through here with this symbol engraved into their skin? It’s identical to the ones those girls had carved into them last week.”

Miller heads over to his monitor and pulls up images from the previous cases.

“Here’s what I have on Delaney and Gwen,” he says, clicking through the files. “Same scar, same size.”

He keeps clicking, pulling up images of Sharon Oaks and Jane Doe. The same twisted infinity symbol was carved into their chests.

Nikki leans in. “It’s a signature, all right.”

“A signature, a brand, a message,” Jack says, voice tight. “Whatever it is, it’s the same across the board.”

Miller runs a quick search through his database, and three more files pop up on the screen. “Found these. All within the last year, all with the same symbol. Their deaths were deemed domestic accidents.”

“Looks like we’ve got more victims to add to the roster,” Jack mutters.

I tap the monitor. “He’s using something to mark them—clean, fast. It looks almost surgical. This is deliberate but of a different nature.”

Miller nods. “And well practiced.”

Before I can respond, Nikki raises a hand. “Oh, I almost forgot. Before my night took an unexpected turn, I found our girl. Karen Holt.”

Jack and I exchange a look. “Where is she?”

Nikki’s smile turns smug. “I know exactly where we can find her.”

Looks as if we’ve got our next move.