the security man, wondering if he might be a problem. He had a gun under the seat that he would use if he absolutely had to, but he’d rather not. He hadn’t had to use it yet. He actually abhorred guns. There was something impure about then, something almost slothful.
Finally, they all split up, getting in their cars and heading off.
He watched others emerge, and then he sat upright. He could feel his heart pounding. That was her. That was the one.
She was short, with fake blonde hair that bobbed just over her shoulders. He watched her get into her car and he did not drive forward until her taillights were around the corner.
He drove around the other side of the building, so as not to draw attention to himself. He trailed behind her, his heart starting to race. Instinctively, he reached under his seat and felt the strand of rope. It eased his nerves.
It calmed him to know that, after the pursuit, there would come the sacrifice.
And come, it would.
CHAPTER FOUR
Mackenzie sat in the passenger seat, several files scattered in her lap, Porter behind the wheel, tapping his fingers to the beat of a Rolling Stones song. He kept the car tuned to the same classic rock station he always listened to while driving, and Mackenzie glanced up, annoyed, her concentration finally broken. She watched the car’s headlights slice down the highway at eighty miles per hour, and turned to him.
“Can you please turn that down?” she snapped.
Usually, she didn’t mind, but she was trying to slip into the right frame of mind, to understand the killer’s MO.
With a sigh and shake of his head, Porter turned down the radio. He glanced over to her dismissively.
“What are you hoping to find, anyway?” he asked.
“I’m not trying to find anything,” Mackenzie said. “I’m trying to put the pieces together to better understand the killer’s personality type. If we can think like him, we have a much better chance of finding him.”
“Or,” Porter said, “you can just wait until we get to Omaha and speak to the victim’s kids and sister like Nelson told us.”
Without even looking at him, Mackenzie could tell that he was struggling to keep some wise-ass comment in. She had to give him a little credit, she supposed. When it was just the two of them on the road or at a crime scene, Porter kept the wisecracks and degrading behavior to a minimum.
She ignored Porter for the moment and looked to the notes in her lap. She was comparing the notes from the 1987 case and the Hailey Lizbrook murder. The more she read over them, the more she was convinced that they had been pulled off by the same guy. But the thing that kept frustrating her was that there was no clear motive.
She looked back and forth through the documents, flipping through pages and cycling through the information. She started to murmur to herself, asking questions and stating facts out loud. It was something she had done ever since high school, a quirk that she had never quite grown out of.
“No evidence of sexual abuse in either case,” she said softly. “No obvious ties between the victims other than profession. No real chance of religious motivations. Why not go for the full-on crucifix rather than just basic poles if you’re going for a religious theme? The numbers were present in both cases but the numbers don’t show any clear significance to the killings.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Porter said, “but I’d really rather be listening to the Stones.”
Mackenzie stopped talking to herself and then noticed that her notification light was blinking on her phone. After she and Porter had left, she’d e-mailed Nancy and asked her to do a few quick searches with the terms pole, stripper, prostitute, waitress, corn, lashes, and the sequence of numbers N511/J202 from murder cases over the last thirty years. When Mackenzie checked her phone, she saw that Nancy, as usual, had acted quickly.
The mail Nancy had sent back read: Not much, I’m afraid. I’ve attached the briefs on the few cases I did find, though. Good luck!
There were only five attachments and Mackenzie was able to look through them pretty quickly. Three of them clearly had nothing to do with the Lizbrook murder or the case from ’87. But the other two were interesting enough to at least consider.
One of them was a case from 1994 where a woman had been found dead behind an abandoned barn in a rural area about eighty miles outside of Omaha. She had been tied to a wooden pole and it was believed that her body had been there for at least six days before being discovered. Her body had gone stiff and a few woodland animals – believed to be bobcats – had started eating at her legs. The woman had a lengthy criminal record, including two arrests for soliciting sex. Again, there had been no clear signs of sexual abuse and while there had been lashes on her back, they had not been nearly as extensive as what they had found on Hailey Lizbrook. The briefing on the murder said nothing about numbers being found on the pole, though.
The second maybe-related file concerned a nineteen-year-old girl that had been reported as kidnapped when she did not return home for Christmas break from her freshman year at the University of Nebraska in 2009. When her body was discovered in an empty field three months later, partially buried, there had been lashes on her back. Images were later leaked to the press, showing the young girl nude and engaged in some sort of lurid sex party at a fraternity house. The pictures had been taken one week before she had been reported missing.
The last case was a bit of a stretch, but Mackenzie thought they could both potentially be linked to the ’87 murder and Hailey Lizbrook.
“What you got there?” Porter asked.
“Nancy sent me briefs from some other cases that might be linked.”
“Anything good?”
She hesitated but then filled him in on the two potential links. When she was done, Porter nodded his head as he stared out into the night. They passed a sign telling them that Omaha was twenty-two miles ahead.
“I think you try too hard sometimes,” Porter said. “You bust your ass and a lot of people have taken notice. But let’s be honest: no matter how hard you try, not every case has some huge link that is going to create some monster case for you.”
“So humor me,” Mackenzie said. “At this very moment, what does your gut tell you about this case? What are we dealing with?”
“It’s just some basic perp with mommy issues,” Porter said dismissively. “We talk to enough people, we find him. All this analysis is a waste of time. You don’t find people by getting into their head. You find them by asking questions. Street work. Door to door. Witness to witness.”
As they fell into silence, Mackenzie started to worry about just how simplistic his view of the world was, how black and white. It left no room for nuance, for anything outside of his predetermined beliefs. She thought the psycho they were dealing with was far too sophisticated for that.
“What’s your take on our killer?” he finally asked.
She could detect resentment in his voice, as if he really hadn’t wanted to ask her but the silence had got the best of him.
“I think he hates women for what they represent,” she said softly, working it out in her mind as she spoke. “Maybe he’s a fifty-year-old virgin who thinks
