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Riley’s gaze was fixed on the figure seated behind the glass.
She thought Derek Aldrich looked younger than when she had been chasing him.
She knew he was in his mid-twenties, but bent over the table he looked more like a skinny teenager.
His light brown hair was combed neatly, and his dark eyes darted anxiously about the room.
A typical young geek , she thought. He’d been skillful at evading capture or even detection, but his flight on foot had been clumsy.
Aldrich sat flanked by his public defender—a young man with earnest eyes whose name was Jonah Bell—and the city’s prosecuting attorney, a sharp-featured woman known for her tenacity, Elise Hammond.
Ann Marie Putnam, and Prendergast all stood outside the interrogation room beside Riley, watching through the glass that was a mirror when seen from the other side.
“Can’t hear a damn thing,” Ann Marie complained.
It was inconvenient but true. The two lawyers had insisted on keeping the room’s mic turned off until they’d finished their consultation.
“Body language says it all,” Riley replied. Aldrich’s fidgeting hands, the way he leaned forward, then recoiled, spoke volumes of his desperation.
Bell seemed to be doing most of the talking, gesturing emphatically toward the paperwork before them, while Hammond listened, her expression unmoved, the pen poised in her hand like a sword ready to strike.
Derick Aldrich sat slumped, displaying none of his former bravado, his public defender’s hand resting reassuringly on his back.
As Riley and her colleagues watched, he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the stark fluorescent lighting casting pallid shadows across his features.
His hands fidgeted, and he swallowed too frequently.
“Looks like our Mr. Aldrich is worried,” murmured Ann Marie.
“We’ve got him dead to rights,” Prendergast noted. “And he knows it.”
Putnam turned his attention toward Riley. “So, Agent Paige, you still haven’t told me—how did you find Aldrich holed up in that old house? It was like you had a map straight to him.”
Riley couldn’t help but let a small smirk form on her lips. She enjoyed the enigma she presented to Putnam, the seasoned agent who found her methods unorthodox at best and infuriating at worst. She met his gaze squarely, letting silence stretch between them before answering.
“Trade secrets, Putnam,” she said with a nonchalant shrug. “But trust me, sometimes it’s all about connecting the dots no one else sees.”
Putnam snorted, folding his arms across his chest. “You expect me to believe it was just good detective work? There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Believe what you want,” Riley countered, her voice light. She turned back to the glass, watching Aldrich interact with his public defender.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Putnam muttered, but there was a grudging respect in his tone.
Riley heard Ann Marie suppress a chuckle, knowing full well the covert role Van Roff has played in the suspect’s capture. Riley was glad Ann Marie was keeping quiet about her “trade secret.”
A sharp rap on the glass jarred Riley from her thoughts, snapping her back to the situation at hand. Elise Hammond tapped a staccato rhythm on the one-way mirror.
“Looks like it’s showtime,” murmured Detective Prendergast, his voice a low rumble beside her.
Riley, with Ann Marie and Putnam in tow, filed into the sterile room, leaving Prendergast to watch and listen from outside now that the mic was turned back on. Jonah Bell, Aldrich’s public defender, stood up, his suit ill-fitting and crumpled like a paper bag.
“Mr. Aldrich has made a decision,” Jonah Bell announced, his voice betraying a hint of triumph. “He’s prepared to plead guilty and provide information crucial to your investigation, in exchange for a reduced sentence.”
The prosecuting attorney nodded her iron-gray bob and retreated to a chair away from the table. “Make your case then,” she challenged them.
Aldrich’s eyes flickered among them, the arrogance that once filled them now diluted with something akin to desperation. A plea deal was his lifeline, but what he offered in return would determine the weight of the anchor he’d have to carry.
“Start talking, Aldrich,” Riley commanded. “This had better be useful.”
She perched on the edge of the table, deliberately invading his space. Her proximity was a silent assertion of control, a reminder that she was the gatekeeper between him and the freedom he so desperately sought.
“Look, I didn’t kill those people,” Aldrich began, his voice rough, like gravel underfoot. He leaned back in his chair, trying to reclaim some semblance of the power he had wielded before his capture. “You’ve got the wrong guy if you think I’m behind any murders.”
Riley observed him closely, her every sense tuned to the nuances of his speech, the telltale signs that separated truth from deception.
Every BAU agent developed skills of reading the subtext so often woven through words.
Combined with Riley’s unusual perceptions, that made lying to her very difficult.
“Let’s hear what you have,” she said.
As she waited for more, Aldrich shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny. Whatever game he had been playing, he seemed aware that he was no longer the one making the rules.
“It’s kind of a complicated story,” he muttered. “It goes back more than twenty years.”
“We’re listening.”
“There was a mathematician, a woman,” Aldrich told them, “who was like royalty to the Cipher Society—actually more like a patron saint. A martyr who has never been forgotten.” He drummed a staccato rhythm on the table, betraying a nervous energy.
“Maybe you’ve heard that the Cipher Society has a vendetta against the Virginia Educators for Excellence in Mathematics—VEEM. It began with her.”
“And her name was …?” Riley prompted.
“Martha Lancaster,” Aldrich continued, his gaze distant. “She was brilliant, misunderstood. She was a math professor at Corbin College.”
He seemed to be reciting a legend. “She was a shining light in the Cipher Society, but she also sought validation from VEEM, tried to become a member, and nearly did. But there were people who cut Martha’s ambitions short.
” Aldrich drew in a breath, then continued, “The first was Garrett Fenn, an esteemed professor at Blenheim College.”
Riley sensed Ann Marie grow tense beside her, and heard Putnam’s sharp inhale near her other shoulder. Garrett Fenn’s lifeless body had been found several nights prior in Roanoke.
Riley’s gaze fixed on Derek Aldrich as he leaned back in his chair. “Go on,” she commanded.
“Martha’s application to VEEM was solid,” he said, “until Fenn exposed what he claimed was plagiarism.” The word “plagiarized” rolled off his tongue with scornful emphasis.
“Martha’s ideas weren’t all hers,” he continued. “Not originally, anyhow. They came from a high school teacher in Slippery Rock. Margaret Whitfield was her name.”
A jolt of surprise shot through Riley at the mention of her former algebra teacher, Mrs. Whitfield.
There had been a rumor, she remembered—a whispered tale of stolen scholarly work.
Mrs. Whitfield had never wanted to talk about it.
Riley felt a pang of guilt for not recognizing her favorite teacher’s pain, for being just another student who was oblivious to the scars left behind on a dedicated teacher’s heart.
“What sort of ideas are we talking about?” Riley asked.
“Curriculum ideas. Creative methods to use in a classroom.”
Of course, Riley thought, thinking of those moments of inspiration in Mrs. Whitfield’s class.
“So Martha’s problems began when she was caught copying Whitfield’s work,” Putnam commented, trying to clarify the story.
“Yes, and her department head, Clive Brown at Corbin College, fired her from her teaching job at Corbin College. Destroyed any chance she had at redemption.” He seemed to be struggling not to smile when he added, “And then there Patricia Warren, then-President of VEEM. She didn’t just deny Martha’s application—she spearheaded the charge against her.
Both of those people, Clive Brown and Patricia Warren, disappeared soon after the scandal broke. Vanished off the face of the earth.”
“So you think that Martha Lancaster …?”
“Oh, I’m certain of it. Martha avenged herself by murdering both of them.
Patricia Warren, Riley thought.
Her body had been the one buried all those years ago in the Blue Ridge Wilderness Park. And now Riley was sure of something else. The latitude that had been found pinned to Robert Nash’s body, the longitude still unknown, pointed to the long-missing Clive Brown’s unknown grave.
“But Martha Lancaster didn’t survive the disgrace,” Aldrich continued. “After both of those people disappeared, she... she took her own life.” He gazed downward pensively for a moment.
Riley’s thoughts were interrupted as Putnam leaned closer, his breath warming her ear. “Kinda ironic, isn’t it? The Cipher Society venerating a plagiarist as their patron saint?”
Glancing at him, Riley saw the disbelief in Putnam’s eyes. He was trying to make sense of it all, just like she was.
“I don’t guess you can understand,” Aldrich said, leaning forward. “The Cipher Society has got some specific ideas about ownership of knowledge. To us, Martha’s story is a cautionary tale—a martyrdom.”
“You’re saying this killer was a martyr?” Putnam snapped.
Aldrich’s public defender glanced at him, tension in his posture.
Aldrich ignored both of them. “Plagiarism,” he replied, the word dripping with mockery, “is a specious notion—a made-up idea meant to benefit people with power. The Cipher Society doesn’t acknowledge its existence.
We don’t believe in hoarding knowledge like it’s some kind of precious commodity.
” He leaned back, his chair creaking under the shift.
“Martha Lancaster was ahead of her time, becoming a symbol for a fundamental truth we uphold—information must be free.”
Riley remained silent, processing what she heard.
The Cipher Society had chosen their saint not despite her flaws, but because of them—a symbol of a belief that ran contrary to everything the academic world stood for.
It was a twisted form of justice that made her skin crawl.
She thought of the hours she’d spent studying case files, teaching eager minds the importance of intellectual property.
“Yes, Martha was …” Aldrich paused as if to emphasize the word, “a martyr to this foolish conventional belief. There’s no other way to put it.”
A martyr. The word echoed in Riley’s mind.
Martha Lancaster, a woman scorned by academia, now sanctified by radicals for her transgressions.
Her impulse was to call an end to the discussion, to let Aldrich face a judge unsupported and face the longest sentence that came from his guilt.
But her own sense of justice warred with the perverse logic presented; her gut told her there was more she needed to learn from this man, layers beneath layers waiting to be peeled back.
She noticed that Hammond, the steely-eyed prosecutor, appeared equally focused on Aldrich’s responses and was taking copious notes.
“Free information doesn’t justify murder,” Riley said sternly. “Knowing the Cipher Society’s creed is one thing, but if you can use it as justification for murder, I see no reason why you yourself should be free in the world. You’ve made yourself complicit.”
“But I’m not the one using it as a reason,” he protested. “I’ve never killed anyone in my whole life. Remember, the murders I’m talking about happened when I was a baby.”
“But there have been more since then,” Ann Marie said. “Margaret Whitfield has been killed. And Garrett Fenn and Robert Nash.”
“So I’ve heard,” Aldrich said.
“They all must be connected,” Putnam said.
“Of course they are,” Aldrich said softly, then fell silent.
When he spoke again, his voice gaining strength, he sounded angry.
“Martha’s suicide wasn’t enough to stop the chain of events that her work and her unjustified fate had set into motion.
More people who associated with Martha Lancaster’s downfall and death have been struck down, and I wouldn’t be shocked if more were to follow. ”
“What was their involvement?” Riley asked.
“Well, I don’t suppose Margaret Whitfield was guilty of anything,” Aldrich said with a shrug. “But it was her work that instigated the trouble, and somebody decided she should die for it.”
And she did nothing to harm anybody, Riley thought sadly.
She was simply very good at math. Riley’s mind reeled, memories flooding back.
Mrs. Whitfield’s gentle patience when explaining complex equations.
She could still hear the scratch of chalk against blackboard, see the dust motes dancing in shafts of sunlight through the classroom windows.
“What about Garrett Fenn, who was killed several nights ago?” Riley asked.
“And Robert Nash, who was killed just last night?” Ann Marie added.
“Garrett Fenn was a math professor at Blenheim College in Roanoke,” Aldrich said.
“He was an admirer and friend of Margaret Whitfield, who knew about her work. He’s the one who reported Martha Lancaster’s plagiarism to VEEM.
And back then, Robert Nash was Vice President of VEEM, and he made it his mission to ensure everyone knew of Martha’s so-called plagiarism. ”
“That’s what we’re faced with now,” Putnam said. “Somebody has continued the vendetta.”
Riley felt her heart rate pick up, a silent drumroll in her chest. Who had taken up Martha’s mantle? Who saw fit to judge and execute based on the twisted ideals of a society that defied the very foundations of education and law? And who had kept the notion of revenge alive for twenty years?
“You need to tell us a lot more, Aldrich,” Riley demanded. “Why do you think we should show you any consideration, even think about lightening your sentence?”
“Because I think maybe I do know who the killer is,” Aldrich said, glaring directly at Riley with a spark of something unreadable in his gaze.