Blood of Dawn Read online

  Speaking in the most general terms, the FBI classified serial killers in one of three broad categories—organized, disorganized, or mixed. Organized killers were the Ted Bundys and John Wayne Gacys of the world. They were intelligent, selected their victims with care, generally killed strangers, and planned their crimes methodically. And they took measures to cover up their crimes and avoid capture.

  Disorganized killers, like Ed Gein, were very different. They tended to have average or below-average IQs, were impulsive killers, using whatever weapon was available at the crime scene, and tended not to hide the body. Their crime scenes often showed excessive violence and sometimes necrophilia or sexual violence.

  It was fairly clear, by the lack of evidence, as well as the lack of violence, that we were dealing with an organized killer.

  As far as gender went, I was leaning toward a male killer, but I didn’t have any facts to support my theory. Female killers tended to kill for material gain. They often had a relationship with their victims. They killed their spouses, their children, or elderly friends or family members. And they frequently employed covert methods to kill, like poison. At this point, I wasn’t seeing the fingerprint of a female killer. But I wasn’t going to completely dismiss the idea either.

  And then there was motive. This was the big question mark in our case. Why? Why were Stephanie Barnett and Emma Walker dead?

  The motives of serial killers were generally classified into four categories: visionary, mission-oriented, hedonistic, and power or control. Killers motivated by lust, thrill, and profit fell under the hedonistic category. Because we weren’t seeing any sexual torture or mutilation, I was willing to eliminate lust from the list of potential motives. I also didn’t see any signs that the victims were being killed for profit. Their belongings were left at the crime scene. But the remaining motives couldn’t be crossed off the list yet, including thrill.

  Thus, we had a very sketchy picture of our killer.

  The one thing we had was the signature. Unfortunately, as I scoured the Web for information about killers who used electrocution to murder, I found more about killers who had been electrocuted. As in, put to death using the electric chair.

  I tweaked my search terms and hit pay dirt.

  One man in Russia had electrocuted six people using his home-built electric chair. The power station worker also claimed to have made an electrified carpet that would kill people when they stepped on it, as well as a camera that would blast victims with an electromagnetic ray. That was the only case I’d found. And the reason for his choice of MO seemed obvious.

  I wondered why our unsub had chosen electrocution as his method. Maybe he had some kind of unusual fascination with electricity. Interesting. If he was a student, that kind of thing might be noticed by a perceptive science teacher, like my chemistry teacher, Mr. Hollerbach. I made a mental note to share my idea with JT. Being undercover, I couldn’t question the teachers without raising suspicion. He could.

  Deciding I needed to know more about electrocution, I searched that term next. I skimmed several articles on electrocution. One thing that leapt out at me was our victims’ lack of burns. From what I was reading, burns were common in electrical shock, and they fell into three broad categories: electrical burns, arc burns, and thermal-contact burns. Our victims weren’t showing any of the three, outside of the strange branching red marks. And yet, the ME was convinced they had received a large enough shock to stop their hearts. According to what I read, it would take as little as one-tenth of an amp to do that. There were no exit wounds, where the electricity left the body. Nor were there any marks where it had entered. I wondered if a Taser or some other stun gun could be the source of the jolt.

  As I was about to look up stun gun injuries, JT wandered into the unit, glanced at me, then went to his cubby. He sat down, dumped his stuff on his desk, and just stared.

  I waited at least a minute for him to say or do something. When he didn’t move, didn’t speak, I walked over to his cubicle and said in a quiet voice, “Knock, knock?” He didn’t respond, so I said it again. Finally, when I said it a third time, he seemed to shake himself out of his stupor. He looked at me. “Skye.”

  “JT, what’s wrong? Did something happen? Was there another killing?”

  “No.” His gaze dropped to his desk.

  “Are you ill?”

  “No.” He was still staring down at his desk. Something was wrong. I hadn’t seen him act this strangely since he was clobbered on the head at the bagel shop during my first week. His shaggy hair wouldn’t let me see if he’d suffered some kind of head injury. His forehead was clear. No bumps. But that didn’t mean anything. If his head had been jarred, like in a car accident, he could still have an injury. I crouched down to get a look at his eyes. “JT, did you have some kind of accident?”

  “No.” He blinked, then met my gaze. “I’m just wiped out.”

  “What are you doing here, then?”

  “I didn’t want to go home. Didn’t want to be alone.” Gabe Wagner came over too. He leaned against the cubby wall. “I was about to head out for some dinner. Do you two want to join me?”

  JT gazed up. He didn’t look surprised to see a strange man inviting him to dinner. Then again, he didn’t seem to be all that responsive about anything. “No thanks. I’m not hungry.”

  “I just ate,” I said. “I’m heading out in a few. Thanks, anyway.”

  “Okay. I’ll be back in a bit.” Gabe left.

  JT stared at his desk.

  I stared at him. “JT, I had a thought at school. I wonder if any of the science teachers might have noticed a student who has an unusual interest in electricity.” I tapped his shoulder. “JT?”

  Nothing.

  Finally I gave his shoulders a little shake. “JT, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong? Is it something I did? Was it about that situation this morning? Things have been awkward between us, but I care about you. If I’ve done something to upset you—”

  “It’s nothing like that. You’re fine.”

  “Then what is it? I can see you’re upset. Is it about Hough?”

  He didn’t respond right away. He just sat there, staring down at his hands, deep in thought. I was beginning to think he couldn’t talk to me.

  Even with his eyes averted, I could see they were becoming red and watery. His face was flushing. Was he . . . crying?

  “JT?”

  “When we first talked about it, everything was set,” he murmured. “I knew what I was doing and why, and I was okay with it. I was helping out a friend. Giving her something she wanted very badly. But when her marriage fell apart, things changed.”

  Okay, so this was about Brittany and the child she was carrying. But what exactly was going on?

  He continued to share. “I took Brittany to her ultrasound. And when I saw that first image . . .” He visibly swallowed. And finally his gaze lifted to my face. The hurt in his eyes nearly took my breath away.

  “JT, did something else happen to Brittany?”

  His head fell forward again. He shoved his fingers into his hair and pulled. “She attempted suicide last night.” A sob echoed through the empty room. “I just found out. A little while ago.”

  My knees suddenly felt soft and gooey. I sat on his desk to avoid falling over and lifted my hand. I needed to touch him, to give him some small sign of comfort. But I pulled it back before it had made contact with his shoulder. As much as I wanted to do it, I couldn’t.

  I clapped one hand over my mouth. Through my fingers, I said, “Oh, JT. I don’t know what to say. Is she . . . ?”

  “Critical condition. At Bon Secours. I’ve already lost our child. I can’t lose her too.” He started to cry harder, and every sob tore at my heart. It was awkward and painful, and I wanted to do something to help him, but I had no idea what that something should be. It continued for a while, and I sat there, helpless and useless, wishing I could take away his pain, but knowing I couldn’t. When his crying let up a bit, I breathe
d a little easier. I heard something. A noise. My head spun as I lifted it to check the door. Nobody was there.

  With his hands flattened on top of his downturned head, he said, between sniffles, “I realize now not only how much I wanted that child, but also everything that went along with her. I want a wife. A family. All of it. I want Brittany.”

  “Wow. JT.” I took a long, slow inhalation and let it out. He was right. He was messed up. This morning, he was trying to shove his tongue down my throat; and now, hours later, he was telling me he wanted to marry Brittany Hough? My gaze switched to the clock. As much as I wanted to be there for JT and help him sort through his feelings, I was under some pressure to get going. I had a couple of hours before the house party, but I calculated that Mom and Dad’s place was a decent drive from the Baltimore suburb where the party was going to happen. And it was an even longer drive from Quantico to my folks’ place. I needed to change my clothes. I didn’t have any party-appropriate outfit in my go bag. “Can I get you something to eat? Something to drink?”

  “No. Thanks.” He pulled his laptop out of his bag and hit the power button. “I need to keep busy. That’s the only way I’m going to get through this.”

  “I can’t stick around much longer. But do you want to see what I was working on?”

  “Sure.”

  I hurried back to my cubby, grabbed my laptop, and hauled it to JT’s desk. “I was looking into stun gun injuries.”

  “Stun gun?”

  “That’s the only way I can think of for our unsub to deliver a potentially fatal charge, but I wonder about burns or other marks.”

  “Interesting. Let me see what I can find.”

  My eyes flicked to the clock again. I really needed to get home if I was going to make it to the party. I stood.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I need to head out.”

  “Why? Do you have a date?” His face flushed. His lips thinned. “Sorry, that’s none of my business.”

  “Actually, it’s work related. I’m going to a kegger.”

  One of his brows lifted.

  “Stephanie Barnett died shortly after going to a party.”

  He stood. He didn’t look very steady on his feet. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Are you sure you’re in the frame of mind to deal with a bunch of rowdy, obnoxious, drunk high-school kids?”

  “No, I’m probably not.” He stuffed his hand into his pocket and rooted around in there. Probably looking for the keys that were sitting on his desk. “I don’t want you to go to a party like that by yourself.”

  “I’ll be fine.” I handed him his keys.

  “Thanks.” He shut his laptop. “I’m going.”

  “But what about the research?”

  “It can wait.”

  I gave him an up-and-down look. His crisp button-down shirt, rolled up to the elbows, and dress pants weren’t going to cut it. “You need to change your clothes.”

  “I can do that. We’ll stop at my place first.”

  My timeline just got a whole lot tighter. “Are you sure about this, JT? It really isn’t necessary.”

  “I’m sure. You’re not going by yourself.”

  “Fine.” I scurried to my desk, threw my laptop in its case, flung it over my shoulder, and, with JT at my heels, headed for the exit. We met Gabe out in the hall. He stepped out of the elevator and gave us a questioning look.

  “See you tomorrow, Wagner,” JT said.

  “Yeah.” Gabe’s gaze captured mine as I stepped into the elevator. And it didn’t let go until the door shut, cutting him off from me.

  At the end of your life, you will never regret not having passed one more test, not winning one more verdict, or not closing one more deal. You will regret time not spent with a husband, a friend, a child, or a parent.

  —Barbara Bush

  10

  A half hour later, I was sitting in JT’s living room, waiting for him to change his clothes. We’d taken separate cars, so I could have gone straight home. But I hadn’t wanted to leave him alone. Despite his repeated assurances that he was okay, he didn’t look okay. He looked depressed and on the verge of breaking down.

  I wandered over to the hallway leading to the bedrooms and shouted, “Why don’t you plan on spending the night at my folks’ house tonight? We can pick up your car tomorrow morning, on the way to work.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  I headed back to the living room, checking the clock on the wall as I sat. Time was slipping away; and if we didn’t get going soon, I wasn’t going to have much time to make myself look party ready. Anxious, I stood and paced a few times. What was taking the man so long? I knew from our past undercover work that even if he showered, he would be ready to head out in no more than twenty minutes. It had been almost an hour since he’d closed himself in his room.

  I knocked. No answer. I pressed an ear to the door. Was that . . . crying?

  The poor man. He was brokenhearted.

  I knocked again. “JT?”

  I listened to his heavy footsteps as he came to the door. It swung open, revealing a red-faced, watery-eyed JT. “Sorry, Sloan. It’s taking me a little longer than normal to get ready. But I’m going to get my shit together. I promise.”

  “JT.” I stood there, watching a grown man struggle to contain his emotions. And I felt like an ass for even thinking about putting pressure on him. I wasn’t sure what to do. I needed to get to that party. And yet I didn’t like the idea of JT sitting home alone. He needed to have someone there with him. “Is there news about Brittany?”

  “Nothing new. She’s still in critical condition.”

  “You have no business going to a party tonight,” I said, stepping into the room.

  He headed toward the en suite bathroom, located off the far side of his bedroom. “I said I’ll be fine.” The sound of him blowing his nose echoed in the small, tiled room.

  “But—”

  “Stop it.” He charged out of the bathroom like a bull that had been prodded in the ass. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

  He was halfway to the front door before I realized it. The man could move fast when he wanted.

  When we headed outside, he made a beeline for his car, and I went for mine. “Leave your car here,” he shouted. “We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

  I hated being stranded without a car. But I guessed JT hated it more. It wouldn’t kill me to ride shotgun—as long as JT was in an okay condition to drive. I grabbed my laptop case and locked up; then I hurried over to his car. Off we zoomed, heading toward the freeway.

  His jaw was clenching, I noticed, as he drove. We were bending the speed limit laws slightly, weaving between cars and trucks that weren’t. I needed JT to slow down—but more than that, I needed him to concentrate on keeping us alive.

  When we hit an open patch of road, I said, “JT, we have plenty of time. No need to risk a ticket.”

  His gaze shot to the speedometer. “Shit. I didn’t realize I was going so fast. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. You’re not yourself today. I understand. If you need me to drive, I can.” When I’d first started with the PBAU, I’d had to drive JT’s old car. He’d been clobbered over the head and had a concussion, so I had to drive him to the hospital. That was a different car. It had had a manual transmission. I think I’d pretty much destroyed the clutch by the time I’d pulled up to the emergency entry. That car burned to a crisp after a hard rain, and now JT was driving a Ford Fusion. And it was an automatic. I could handle this car just fine.

  “I can drive,” he growled for the third time. Typical male. He wasn’t about to admit anything that might be viewed as a weakness. He continued, “I got top marks in my driving class. We’re not talking about puttering along at fifty-five here. We’re talking about high-speed maneuvering.”

  And la-dee-dah to you. “Fine.” I tightened my hold on the handle above my window and stared straight ahead.

  Forty hair-raising minutes la
ter, I was standing on solid ground, outside of Mom and Dad’s place. I’d never been happier to be out of a vehicle. JT was being a stubborn ass. As I stomped up to the back door, I vowed that I wouldn’t get near that vehicle again if he was driving. The man had almost killed us at least a dozen times.

  Inside, I shouted a greeting to Mom, Dad, and Katie, and received nothing in return. The house was quiet. Not even Sergio was anywhere to be seen.

  As I had been doing since I was at the PBAU, I checked the clock. It was after nine now. The party was probably getting going, and I wouldn’t have time to shower or blow-dry and straighten my hair. I opted for a quick change into something sluttier than my daytime outfit; then I went to the bathroom to do what I could with my hair and makeup. It was about nine-thirty when I click-clacked down the stairs.

  JT was in the den, staring at Dad’s ginormous TV. When he heard me, he glanced my way. His eyeballs protruded. His gaze dropped to my toes, then wandered north again. It seemed to hesitate at the hem of my skirt—and at my Victoria’s Secret–enhanced boobs—before climbing up to my face.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “Is that a bad ‘wow’ or a good ‘wow’?”

  “Um . . . good. But I think my job as your bodyguard just got a hell of a lot harder.”

  “Stop it. All the girls dress like this.”

  “No girls dressed like that when I went to school.”

  “Where’d you go to school?”

  “Catholic.”

  “Ah, I see.” I teetered toward the door. “Ready?”

  “Sure.” He stuffed his hand in his pocket and pulled out the keys. I snatched them away before he realized what I was doing. And then, because I was pretty sure he would put up a fight, I ran as fast as I could in three-inch heels toward the car. He beat me. He wasn’t even out of breath.

  Standing sentry in front of the driver’s-side door, he gave me stink eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you think you’re doing?”