Chapter 2
Maleah and Derek arrived in Cullman
shortly after midnight, checked into the Holiday Inn Express,
dumped their bags, and drove straight to the sheriff’s office. As
they had expected, someone from the Powell Agency had called ahead
so the sheriff himself was there to meet them. Griffin Powell and
his agency had become legendary, their success rate far exceeding
that of regular law enforcement. Only occasionally did the agency
come up against police chiefs or sheriffs who resented Powell
involvement. Thankfully, Sheriff Devin Gray welcomed them with a
cautious smile and a firm handshake. Looking the man in the eye,
Maleah instantly felt at ease.
Gray was about five-ten, slender and
young, probably not a day over thirty-five. Clean shaven, his sandy
hair styled short and neat, he projected a squeaky-clean
appearance.
“Come on into my office.” Sheriff Gray
backed up his verbal invitation by opening the door and waiting for
Maleah and Derek to enter.
The moment she crossed the threshold,
she saw the heavyset, middle-aged man sitting in the corner, his
gaze directed on her. He rose to his feet and waited until the
sheriff closed the door, affectively isolating the four of them
from the activity outside the office.
“This is Freddy Rose, the Cullman
County coroner,” Sheriff Gray said. “Freddy, these are the Powell
agents we’ve been expecting.”
Freddy’s round face, rosy cheeks, and
pot belly made her think of Santa Claus, but his bald head and
smooth face brought up an image of a short, rotund Mr.
Clean.
Offering his meaty hand to Maleah,
Freddy said, “Ma’am.” And once they shook hands, he turned to
Derek.
“Derek Lawrence.” He exchanged
handshakes with the coroner, and then nodded toward Maleah. “And
this is Ms. Perdue.”
“Ordinarily, we wouldn’t share any of
this information with outsiders,” Sheriff Gray explained. “But when
the governor calls me personally . . . Well, that’s a horse of a
different color, if you know what I mean.”
Maleah knew exactly what he meant.
Griffin Powell’s sphere of influence reached far and wide, not only
to the office of state governors, but to the powers that be in
Washington, D.C. Griff’s connections were strictly behind the
scenes, of course, but she suspected he wielded far more power than
anyone knew.
“We appreciate your both being here
this late,” Derek said. “Mr. Corbett’s son Ben is one of our
people. Ben is on his way here now and Ms. Perdue and I would like
to get the preliminaries out of the way before he arrives. He will
have enough on his plate as it is coming to terms with his father’s
murder.”
“Absolutely,” the sheriff agreed.
“That’s why Freddy’s here. He hasn’t performed an autopsy, of
course, since the state boys will be here in the morning to claim
the body, but he’s certain about the cause of death.”
“Sure am,” Freddy said. “No doubt about
it. Mr. Corbett’s throat was slit, pretty much from ear to ear.
Sliced through the carotid arteries on both sides and the trachea
as well. Death occurred within a couple of minutes.”
“Any idea about the blade the killer
used?” Derek asked.
“The cut was smooth and straight,”
Freddy said. “No jagged edges. I swear it looked so damn precise,
I’d swear a surgeon did it using a scalpel.”
Maleah’s gut reacted instantly to that
bit of information. The medical examiners in each of the previous
cases believed that Kristi, Shelley, and Norris Keinan had been
killed with a scalpel, their necks cut with the expertise of a
surgeon.
“Does that fit other murders?” the
sheriff asked. “I was told you’d want to compare this case to some
previous murders.”
“Yes, so far, it does fit,” Derek said,
and then turned to Freddy. “What else can you tell us about the
body?”
Freddy’s gray eyes widened. “Damnedest
thing I’ve ever seen. The killer cut out these little
triangle-shaped pieces from Mr. Corbett’s upper arms and thighs.”
Freddy shook his bald head. “Did it postmortem, thank the Good
Lord.”
“Does that match what was done to the
other victims?” Sheriff Gray looked at Maleah. “Are we dealing with
a serial killer? Is that what’s going on?”
“Yes, the other victims also had
triangular pieces of flesh removed from their limbs,” Maleah
replied. “And yes, with three murders, now four, it appears to be
the work of a serial killer, but—”
“But that’s all we know at this point,”
Derek finished for her. “We’re working under the assumption that a
serial killer has murdered four people now. Unfortunately the
latest victim was the father of one of our agents.”
Why had Derek cut her off mid-sentence
like that? What had he thought she was going to say? My God, did he
actually think she’d been about to reveal the fact that all four
victims were in some way related to the Powell Agency? Did he think
she was that stupid? Up to this point, the press had made a
connection only between Kristi Arians and Shelley Gilbert. But
since no “guilty knowledge” details of either murder were ever
released, it was assumed that Shelley died in the line of duty on
assignment in Alabama and that Kristi’s murder in her Knoxville,
Tennessee, apartment had been the work of another killer. The fact
that they were both Powell Agency employees was believed to be
simply a coincidence. Norris Keinan, a corporate lawyer, had lived
in Denver, Colorado, and the fact that his younger brother was a
Powell agent had not been an issue, either with the Denver PD or
the local Denver media.
“I didn’t know Mr. Corbett personally,”
the sheriff said. “But he and the mayor’s dad played golf together.
I understand he was a fine man, well thought of in the community.
We’re sure sorry something like this happened in
Cullman.”
“Would it be possible for us to get
copies of the reports, once they’re filed, and also copies of the
photos taken at the scene?” Maleah asked.
“Yes, ma’am, I can see to it that you
get copies of whatever you need.”
“Then I can’t think of any reason we
should keep y’all up any later than we already have.” Maleah
glanced from the handsome young sheriff to the fifty-something
coroner. “Mr. Lawrence and I are at the Holiday Inn Express.” She
pulled a business card from her pocket and handed it to Devin Gray.
“We’d like to stay here and wait on Ben Corbett, if that’s all
right with you?”
“Certainly,” Sheriff Gray said. “Feel
free to use my office.”
When Sheriff Gray and Freddy said their
good-byes and started to leave, Derek called to them. “By any
chance, was Mr. Corbett found in or near a body of
water?”
Both men froze to the spot. Freddy
cleared his throat before glancing over his shoulder and saying,
“He was found on the riverbank, face down, his feet in the
river.”
“Were the others found in water?”
Sheriff Gray asked, his gaze sliding slowly from Maleah to
Derek.
“Yes, they were,” Derek replied
quickly.
“Just another similarity, huh?” Freddy
said. “Guess it’s looking more and more like the same person who
killed those other people killed Mr. Corbett.”
“Apparently so.” Derek glanced at
Maleah.
She knew what he was
thinking.
Four innocent victims, their only
connection the Powell Agency. But who had killed them? And
why?
Maleah and Derek waited for Ben
Corbett. When he arrived at the sheriff’s office at a little after
three that Sunday morning, they shared with him all the information
the sheriff and coroner had given them.
Ben had been with the agency for
several years, coming straight from the army after his retirement.
Three-fourths of the Powell agents had either law enforcement or
military backgrounds. A few, such as Maleah, had been chosen
because of their high IQs and willingness to learn on the
job.
Although Ben had managed to control his
emotions, Maleah hadn’t missed the subtle signs of anger and hurt.
While they had explained what had happened and how they suspected
his father’s death was related to the other three murders, his gaze
wandered aimlessly, often focusing on the wall. Once or twice he
had mumbled incoherently under his breath, then quieted suddenly
and clenched his jaw, as if it was all he could to maintain his
composure.
“Dad was a ladies’ man,” Ben told them.
“He loved to flirt. Never bothered Mom. She’d just laugh about it.
He never cheated on her, loved her to the day she died.” He
swallowed hard. “I suspect he loved her till the day he
died.”
“We’ve been authorized to help you in
any way you need us,” Maleah said. “If you’d like us to make the
arrangements or help you make them—”
“Thanks. That won’t be necessary. Dad
made all the arrangements right after Mom died. Paid for
everything. Chose his casket, picked out the suit he wanted to be
buried in. Made his will. Told the minister what songs he wanted at
the funeral. He said he didn’t want me to have to worry with any of
it when the time came.”
For several minutes, the three of them
remained silent. Then Ben asked the inevitable question. “Who the
hell is doing this and why?”
“We don’t know,” Derek said. “The only
thing the victims have in common is their connection to the Powell
Agency. The killer’s MO is identical in all four cases, so we’re
relatively certain we are dealing with one killer. But we have no
idea what motivates him or how he chooses his
victims.”
“At random, maybe,” Ben said. “Anybody
associated with the agency is a target, right? And for whatever
reason, the killer picked my dad.” Ben’s dark eyes misted. He
turned his head.
Derek clamped his hand down on Ben’s
shoulder. “We’re going to catch him and stop him.”
Ben nodded.
“Is there anything, anything at all, we
can do for you?” Maleah asked.
Ben cleared his throat a couple of
times. “No, thanks. I can’t think of anything. I’m going over to
Dad’s place and try to get a few hours of sleep. When are y’all
heading up to Griffin’s Rest?”
“If you don’t need us here, we probably
won’t stay longer than mid-day tomorrow,” Derek told him. “Copies
of the reports and the crime scene photos can be sent directly to
the office as soon as they’re available. I expect Nic and Griff
will be moving forward with their plans to form their own task
force and since I’m the agency’s profiler—”
“Count me in on the task force,” Ben
said. “After Dad’s funeral.”
Neither Derek nor Maleah responded,
knowing it would be up to Griff and Nic to choose the agents who
would lead the investigation and those who would assist. If Ben had
been a police officer, he wouldn’t have been allowed near the case
because his dad had been one of the victims. But Griff’s rules and
regulations differed from regular law enforcement. On occasion, the
Powell Agency came damn close to doling out vigilante justice, a
fact that often created tension between Griff and Nic.
He could go days without sleep and
could easily get by with four hours per night on a regular basis.
He was no ordinary human being. Years of training, self-sacrifice,
and stern discipline had honed both his mind and body into a
superior being. He had no weaknesses, wasn’t vulnerable in any way,
and therefore was practically invincible.
The espresso at the airport coffee bar
was barely acceptable, but it served the purpose of giving him a
caffeine boost. To pass the time while he waited for his flight to
Miami, he flipped open his laptop and scanned the information about
Errol Patterson.
Patterson was a former member of the
Atlanta PD SWAT team, a crack shot and a decorated officer. He had
loved his job, but when his fiancée had insisted he find a less
dangerous profession, he had chosen love over duty and signed on
with the Powell Agency.
He smiled.
You made a
life-altering decision. Too bad for you that it was a deadly
mistake.
How could he or his fiancée have known
that choosing to work for the Powell Agency would cost him his
life?
Patterson had been chosen for two
reasons—he was associated with the Powell Agency and he was
male.
I chose two women and
then two men for the first four kills . . . But after that, I
altered my choices, just to throw them off. I kept them guessing.
That’s how I stayed one step ahead of them.
He did more than stay one step ahead of
the authorities. He outsmarted them, never leaving behind even the
vaguest clue to his identity. Over the years, he had gone by many
names, so many that it was easy to forget who he really was. His
true identity was a guarded secret, known by only a handful of
individuals. In certain circles, he was known as the Phantom.
Nameless. Faceless. An illusion. Unseen. Unheard. A dark angel of
death.
Maleah woke to the sound of incessant
pounding. Inside her head? No, outside her hotel room. Some idiot
was knocking on her door and calling her name.
Go away. Leave me
alone.
She shot straight up in bed where she
lay atop the wrinkled floral spread. Groggy and only semi-alert,
she slid off the side of the bed and stood unsteadily on her bare
feet for a few seconds.
“Maleah,” Derek called to her through
the closed door.
Damn it! What time was it? She glanced
at the digital bedside clock. 8:30 A.M.
She groaned. Three and a half hours was
not nearly enough sleep.
“I’m coming,” she told him as she
padded across the carpet. When she reached the door, she cracked it
open, glared at Derek, who looked fresh as a daisy, and asked him,
“Where’s the fire?”
He shoved open the door and breezed
past her. She closed the door and turned to face him. Obviously he
had shaved, showered, and pressed his slacks and shirt. His
stylish, neck-length hair glistened with blue-black highlights. His
deep brown eyes focused on her with amusement.
“I forgot how grumpy you are in the
morning,” he said.
“You’d better have a good reason for
beating down my door.”
“Duty calls.”
“What?”
He looked her over, taking in her
sleep-tousled hair, her wrinkled clothes and her makeup-free face.
“Griff called. He wants us at Griffin’s Rest ASAP.”
Maleah groaned, and then when Derek’s
smile vanished, she asked, “What’s happened?”
“What makes you think—?”
“Damn it, Derek, it’s too early in the
morning to play games, so let’s not do twenty
questions.”
He clasped her shoulders, turned her
around and urged her toward the bathroom. “Toss your clothes out to
me and I’ll press them while you grab a quick shower. We’ll pick up
coffee and biscuits on the way to Griffin’s Rest.”
She curled her toes into the carpet and
dug in her heels. “I’m not moving another inch until you tell me
what’s going on.”
“Why do you have to be so
stubborn?”
“Why do you have to be such a macho
jerk?”
Derek frowned. “Griff and Nic are
organizing the task force today.” He paused, studied her expression
and then said, “I’m pretty sure they plan to put the two of us in
charge.”
She groaned. “Why us? Why not you and
Shaughnessy or you and Angie or you and Michelle or you and Luke
or—?”
“I get it. You don’t want us to be
partners on another case. But I don’t think it really matters what
we want. It’s what Griff and Nic want.”
“I can’t believe Nic would pair us up
again, not when she knows . . . well, she knows that we mix like
oil and water.”
“I thought we made a pretty good team
on the Midnight Killer case.”
Maleah huffed, hating to admit that he
was right. “Yeah, yeah, I suppose we did.”
“Besides, Shaughnessy is more muscle
than strategist. His expertise lends itself to the physical. And
now that she’s pregnant, Angie isn’t working in the field. Michelle
is on a much-needed vacation after that last two-month case in
South America. As for Luke, you know Griff reserves him for special
duty.”
Accepting his explanation, she nodded
her acquiescence and said, “Give me five minutes.” She turned and
went into the bathroom.
She closed the door, stripped
hurriedly, and then eased the door open enough to toss her clothes
toward Derek. Smiling at the thought of him ironing her slacks and
blouse, she adjusted the hot and cold faucets on the shower and
stepped under the spray of warm water.
The FedEx truck had been stopped at the
front gate by the guards on duty. Shaughnessy Hood had been
dispatched from the main house to drive down and pick up the
package addressed to Maleah Perdue in care of the Powell Private
Security and Investigation Agency at Griffin’s Rest.
Barbara Jean Hughes, Griff’s right-hand
man Sanders’s assistant, best friend and lover, took the sealed,
insulated shipping box from Shaughnessy, placed it in her lap and
carried it with her down the hall to Griff’s private study. The
door stood open so that she could see Griff behind his desk, a cup
of coffee in his hand. Sanders stood nearby, his gaze fixed on the
box she held.
She cleared her throat.
Griff glanced up, saw her, and motioned
for her to enter.
Without hesitation, Barbara Jean
maneuvered her wheelchair into the study. Sanders reached down,
took the box from her and placed it on the desk directly in front
of Griff.
He studied the insulated container for
several silent minutes. “Did you notice the sender’s name and
address?”
“Yes,” Sanders replied. “Winston
Corbett, Cullman, Alabama.”
Griff scrutinized the shipping label.
“What time frame did the Cullman County coroner give for Winston
Corbett’s death?”
“Between midnight and five A.M., yesterday,” Barbara Jean replied.
“Then I’m curious as to how Ben’s
father managed to send Maleah a package after he
died.”