As Rachel and Jack made their way toward the porch, a cop had just finished tying up strips of crime scene tape. They both ducked under it, gave the cop a small nod of acknowledgement, and headed inside.

  The interior was mostly opened along the front—the foyer merging immediately with a surprisingly large living area. A cop was sitting on the couch with a woman of about forty or so. The woman looked shocked, her eyes unblinking as she stared at nothing in particular, rocking slightly back and forth on her backside. Another cop was on the opposite side of the living room, looking at a side door as if he suspected someone had broken in there. The cop on the couch looked at their badges as they flashed them and then nodded to the back of the house.

  The back of the house consisted of a split, where going to the left led to an area that served as a mudroom and laundry room; to the right, there was a hallway with four rooms. The room at the end of the hallway was where all of the activity was centered. Two cops stood in the hallway, chatting to one another. Rachel and Jack showed their credentials once again, and the cops parted to let them into the room.

  Another cop waited inside, an African American woman of about thirty-five or so. The patch stitched to her uniform identified her as Simmons.

  “Agents Gift and Rivers,” Rachel said. “How long have you been on the scene?”

  “I was the first to arrive. My partner is out on the couch with Ms. Moyer right now.”

  Rachel approached the bed and looked down to the shape partially beneath the sheet. It was the small body of a child, maybe a pre-teen at most, but the quiet, still face above the sheets was that of a sixty- or seventy-year-old woman. In the initial moment Rachel saw the lifeless face, ravaged by its condition, a knot of hatred twisted in her heart. For someone to take a life already tormented by such a condition…it was unfathomable. It was an emotion that didn’t last very long, though. She, of course, knew that there was very little that human beings weren’t capable of when it came to heinous acts.

  From her initial study of the victim, she saw no blood, no bruises, no lacerations or signs of assault at all. The only indication that anything at all had happened here (aside from the dead body) was that the victim’s head was positioned just barely on the right side of the pillow. The rest of the pillow looked to have been ruffled and disturbed—almost like a bedsheet that had been twisted. It was a weak sign of a struggle, but it was the only thing of note.

  “Signs of a break-in?” Jack asked.

  "Not a single one," Simmons said. "There are some scuff marks on the knob of the back door, right where the key slot is, but it's impossible to tell if they're fresh or not. Forensics might be able to give a better answer, but for now, I've got nothing."

  Rachel studied the room, looking to the floor for prints, the side of the bed for any sort of loose fabric or smudges. But there was nothing. “Was the woman on the couch the only person here when it happened?” she asked.

  “She was. Her name is Marcy Moyer. She’d raised Brittany from the age of two. Brittany was put up for adoption by parents that couldn’t handle her condition.”

  “And how old is she now?” Rachel hated to ask; such a simple question felt almost offensive, given the circumstances.

  “Nineteen.”

  “Ms. Moyer looked stunned when we came in. Has she talked at all?”

  "A bit. She was understandably hysterical when we arrived. She was able to give us the basic details, and then she sort of crashed…just like you see her now.”

  Rachel nodded and took one last look at Brittany Moyer. She looked at Jack and said, "I'm going to go speak with Ms. Moyer."

  “Unless you need an assist, I’m going to go have a look at that back door. Maybe the side and front doors, too.”

  Jack made his exit first, and Rachel followed behind him. They split up as they came to the small intersection in the hallway. As Jack took the left, Rachel looked after him and saw a kitchen attached to the small mudroom area. She then made her way into the living room, where the scene was very much the same as when they'd come in. The cop who had been sitting with Ms. Moyer remained in the same place; he wasn't speaking but sat rather close, apparently only there for the emotional support.

  “Ms. Moyer,” Rachel said. “I’m Special Agent Rachel Gift. I spoke with you on the phone earlier and—”

  "Yes, dear, I remember," Ms. Moyer said without looking at Rachel. She blinked her eyes slowly a few times and then turned her head slowly toward her. The look on her face wasn't that of someone stirred awake from a dream; it was more like the confused look on the face of someone who had just suffered a concussion. "And I did everything you asked. The doors were all locked. And I had my cellphone right there on the bedside table just in case I needed help. But when I heard the noise…the noise that woke me up…I thought it was the raccoons. I was half asleep, and I thought it was the stupid raccoons in the trash again and…"

  She stopped here, and Rachel thought the woman was going to lose it. She did let out a single moan of sorrow, and several tears came pouring from her eyes. But she took a deep, trembling breath and seemed to regain her composure.

  “I know you’ve already told the cops what happened,” Rachel said. “But I’d appreciate it if you could try to get through it just one more time.”

  “There’s not much to tell, really. I woke up from a noise outside and even though I know you called, my mind went to the raccoons because they've been causing trouble all over the neighborhood—going through people's trash. I looked out of the window and saw someone crossing the yard, heading out toward the trees, and I should have…I should have called the police then."

  Her voice was hitching and growing louder, a tight sort of shout. She took a moment to collect her breath as tears fell from her eyes.

  “But I was thinking of Brittany first,” she went on. “I had to check on her. And when I did and found her…found her dead…I froze up.”

  “And I think that’s completely understandable,” Rachel said. “But if you can…do you think you can give me as estimate of how much time you think might have passed between the moment you saw the person in your back yard and when you placed your call?”

  “I’m not certain. Maybe five minutes, but certainly no longer than ten.”

  “And the last thing I’ll ask…I wonder if you can think back over the doctor’s appointments from the last few months and tell me if there was any tension or maybe a moment that someone seemed to be a little angry or aggressive with you or Brittany? Anything that seemed off at all.”

  The question seemed to confuse her at first—that, or her mind was simply to absorbed with the grief of her recently murdered adopted daughter that she didn't understand what was being asked of her. Slowly, it started to register, though. She slowly shook her head and actually smiled. “No, as a matter of fact, Brittany’s doctors were sometimes the highlight of her day. They’ve all been so caring and kind.”

  “Did she spend much time over at the research center?”

  “A bit. But she…” Again, she stopped and had to wrestle for control of her voice. Rachel wasn’t sure how much longer Marcy Moyer was going to be able to hold it together and wanted to respect her privacy and grief. After this response, she’d leave the woman alone.

  ‘It’s okay…” Rachel said.

  “She didn’t mind those visits, either. Whenever they had Mallerman-Diggs patients on the premises, they always made a big fuss about it—almost made it like this goofy sort of party atmosphere. It was clear that they wanted everyone at ease.”

  “I see,” Rachel said. “Well, I’ll leave you alone for now. But please…if you think of anything or if anything else happens, you have my number from earlier. Please don’t hesitate to call.”

  "Yes. I will. Thank you." She began to cry softly, and as Rachel stood up from the couch, the other officer came back to take up his position by Marcy again.

  Rachel then made her way through the kitchen, heading for the back door. As she approached it, she saw Jack outside, illuminated by the porch light. She slowly opened the door, doing her own meager check along the hinges and frame for any obvious signs of a break-in. From a very cursory glance, she saw nothing.

  “Did you find anything?” she asked Jack as she closed the door.

  “Nothing. The cops’ initial findings were correct. I can’t see any obvious signs that anyone broke in.” He shone his little Maglite toward the doorknob and added, “and if someone picked that lock, they did so without much of a problem. No scratches, no dents, nothing.”

  Rachel looked at the keyhole and then opened the door again to see the lock clasp on the other side. It was a simple one, the sort shaped like an indented knob that you turned up to set the lock. It was one of the easiest to pick, but you still had to have a good idea of what you were doing in order to pop it unlocked without any trouble.

  “If they picked the lock and had any idea at all how to do it,” she said, “I think it’s safe to say it’s another check in the premeditated column.”

  “Yeah, I’d say so,” Jack agreed.

  “And that tells us absolutely nothing new.”

  They filled the back porch with a collective sigh as a daunting thought settled over Rachel. The case should be easier than most because not only did they know the specific sort of person the killer was going after, but because the pool to choose from was so small. But if they didn’t find this killer soon, the local pool might be depleted and the killer would move on elsewhere. And if that happened, the chances of ever catching them would become infinitely smaller.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Okay, so where the hell do we go now?”

  Rachel wasn’t sure of an answer as Jack pulled away from the curb of the Moyer residence. They’d remained there for forty minutes, working with the medical examiner, coroner, and forensics team in an effort to come up with some sort of clues, anything out of the ordinary that might give them something to pursue.

  There were no prints found in the initial sweep by forensics, but they still had the body to look over at the coroner’s office. And with another dead body and still not a single answer, Rachel had no intention of trying to squeeze in a few hours of sleep at home.

  “The office, I guess,” she said. “And I say just hot every single name we have as hard as we can. There has to be a connection buried in all of it somewhere.”

  “So we’re back to doctors and the family members of patients?” Jack asked. She thought she heard traces of sarcasm, but it could also just be her frustration trying to find the smallest thing to be nitpicky about.

  “Hell, and maybe other patients, too,” she said. “We’ve got to be missing something. I mean, think about it…this killer is without a doubt targeting these people for their disability. And what the hell kind of murderer is going to go after such a small population of people?”

  “We could also run some records on criminal over the past ten years or so that have some sort of connection to others that have been diagnosed with Mallerman-Diggs," Jack suggested. "Though that would probably require getting our hands on medical records, and we know how much of a chore that can be."

  “Doesn’t matter. We need to at least put the request in.” He stared out of the windshield with a deep look of worry on his face. She’d only seen this specific look on his face a handful of times before; it was a look of exasperation, of knowing that this case stood a strong chance of getting away from them. She understood it perfectly. On paper, this was a case that should be simple: you find the members of your small pool of victims and protect them. If the killer comes calling, you take him down. And hopefully by the time the sun rose again, the police and FBI could work together to make that happen.

  Until then, though, there was no sense in taking any chances. It would be a long night of searching for links and red flags, of digging through a small mess of details that had somehow become a haystack. And while the thought of continuing that search on her patio was safe and almost comfortable, she knew that such a session needed the solitude and cold-hard thinking that only the bureau field office could provide.

  It was just after one o'clock when they buzzed into the field office. As they made their way to one of the central conference rooms to claim a table, Rachel felt a wave of odd nostalgia wash over her. It had been almost seven months since she'd been in this building after six in the afternoon. It was almost peaceful, a sort of tranquil space she'd been expecting to bring up tension and defeat. It was almost enough for her body to overlook the fact that she’d not slept well in two days—and lately, her body had relied on ample rest to regroup after her therapy.

  They settled in around the conference room table and got to work. Rachel logged their laptops into the database while Jack walked down to one of the break rooms and brewed up coffee. Rachel started with the researchers at the center. One by one, she looked into each doctor, and then ran searches on their family members and previous employers. She did get a few interesting tidbits (a former nurse’s husband had been arrested for selling ecstasy to high-schoolers, and the daughter of one of the researchers had been sent to a juvenile detention center for selling sexual favors around her high school) but nothing that was directly tied to their case. And by the time she’d uncovered these little nuggets, it was already 3:00 in the morning.

  It was the mental equivalent of slamming her head against a wall. She knew there was an easy answer here somewhere. Maybe they were making it harder than it had to be. Maybe they were overcomplicating it somehow.

  She sat back down, thinking things through. She looked over to Jack; he had his head resting on his hand as he looked at his laptop with a slightly glazed expression. "What are you looking into?" she asked.

  "Looking into the neighbors that lived around the deceased and the family members of patients who had passed away over at Trautman Hospice Care. So far, there's nothing—unless you think we need to grill a guy who ran two red lights while rushing his wife to the hospital after she fell off a ladder and fractured her skull."

  She nodded and looked back through her files. Something easy, she thought. Something basic, something at the base level.

  She pulled up the list of Mallerman-Diggs patients who had been seen at the research center again. With the recent loss of Brittany Moyer, there were now exactly seven remaining in the area. And while she was fully aware that this case might eventually reach outside of Richmond, it was so far being contained to the city. She continued to look through the research center’s records, coming up with no notes on notable situations that may have been disagreeable or even violent. But Rachel didn’t see why that search should have to end there.

  She felt almost vile for doing it, but she started putting the names of the patients into the database and looking for results. It was quick work, as nothing came up for any of them…not until she inserted the sixth name on the list.

  “Jack…look at this.”

  He jerked a bit at the sound of his name, making Rachel wonder if he’d been zoned out or even if he’d nodded off. “Yeah,” he said, hopping to his feet right away. “What do you have?”

  “Timothy Eastman. Looks like a promising lead if you ask me.”

  Jack looked to her screen for a few seconds and then back to her as if she’d maybe lost her mind. “He’s a…a patient.”

  “He is. But look at this. Two dings on his record.” And although Jack was clearly starting to read over the hits she’d come across, she went ahead and summed it all up for him anyway. “Eastman is eighteen and has had two visits from the police in the past year and a half. One of the strikes against him is breaking and entering—which makes me think he might know a thing or two about picking a lock. There’s another note here that says he lashed out at another patient while in the hospital and—”

  “Not the research center?”

  “No. It’s listed here as just the general hospital. Maybe just a routine check-up of some kind. What they’ve labeled a ‘physical altercation with a much older patient.’ And there’s a psych eval here that says Eastman seems to lash out in anger, particularly at those with ailments that he perceives to be inferior to his.”

  Jack still looked to the laptop skeptically, back and forth from the screen to Rachel. It was almost like he was trying to determine if Rachel was being serious. When he seemed to understand she truly was considering this, he sighed and sat back down.

  “Okay, I’ll give you the fact that he does seem to fit the sort of profile we’re looking at. But you’ve seen these victims, Rachel. You know what this condition does to their bodies. I find it hard to believe that someone with the build and strength of someone with Mallerman-Diggs would be able to kill someone.”

  “Yeah, but look at the method of murder. A pillow over the head. And the coroner even told us that from what he could tell, the killer wasn’t particularly strong.”

  “Okay…so your train of thought is…what? That this Mallerman-Diggs patient is killing off others with the same condition?”

  “I know it sounds strange and messed up,” she admitted. “But it fits. And as much as I hate the idea, I think we have to look into it.”

  Jack nodded, though it was clear he still wasn’t a fan of the idea. “I just…I don’t get it. What reason would he have to take out people with the same condition?”

  Rachel, already running a search for an address for the Eastmans, said: “No clue. So let’s go find out.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was just after dawn when they left the office and headed for the Eastman home. It was on the exact opposite side of town, but Rachel figured they were getting out just early enough to avoid the often harsh morning traffic. Rachel knew she should feel tired, but the excitement and mysteriousness of the case had her on edge. She’d have to sleep soon; she knew this, not wanting to push the limits of her body while she was currently doing so well in terms of responding to the treatment and, overall, feeling better than she had in almost a year.

 

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