Taylor knew it was time to start raising the red flags. Too many jurisdictions, too many victims. She filled the chief in on her plan, got an atta-girl, then went to the source. Her fiancé was a profiler, after all.

Baldwin answered on the first ring. “Hey, love. How are you?”

“Hi, babe. I’ve been better. Two unsolved cases on my desk from yesterday alone, and just got a report back from ViCAP. I think I’ve got a serial on my hands.” She gave him all the details, then emailed him the ViCAP report. She waited while he accessed it and read the findings. A few minutes later, he agreed.

“You might be right,” he said. “What did you say this guy’s name is again?”

“The license said James Gustafson, but Fairfax County just confirmed that no one by that name exists in the system, and the address is a fake. The license, the cards, all of it, they’re either excellent identity theft or really sophisticated forgeries. Who is this guy? He’s obviously been killing off the radar for years. And he broke his MO with this latest victim. He’s been preying on homeless. Go-Go was a fuck up, she certainly looked the part, but hitting a well-established surgeon from New Orleans? One mistake could be an accident, sure, but the other… there’s a tie to his past, I’m sure of it. The waitress got the impression they were friends, out for a night on the town. Maybe Stover knew the real identity of the killer, and Gustafson felt threatened.”

“That’s a solid theory. He killed a different type of victim out of sequence. The back-to-back kills, I’d bet he’s in some sort of trouble, decompensating.”

“Well, he’s screwed up. Now we know about him. He’s on the radar, and I’m about to make his world hell.”

“He sounds like someone who has spent his life being very, very careful. Listen, I’m totally wrapped up in this case, or else I’d help you myself. But I know who to call. I’ve worked with her on cases before. She’s sharp. I think you should have a chat with her.”

“What’s her name?”

“Maggie O’Dell. Hold on a sec, let me get her number for you.” He rattled off the numbers and she wrote them down.

“I’ll call her right now. Thanks, honey. Call me later, okay?”

“Will do. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Taylor hung up the phone, waited a moment, then dialed. Even if O’Dell couldn’t help, at least the FBI would be aware that something was hinky with the so-called James Robert Gustafson.

The call went to voicemail. Taylor left a message, told the agent who she was, her connection to Baldwin, that she had a significant ViCAP match and wanted to touch base. She hung up the phone, leaned back in her chair and put her boots on the desk.

She’d get some justice for Go-Go, and for Stover. Their deaths would not go unpunished. No matter what. And for the moment, that was the best she could do.

The lights of Washington D.C. greeted JR. Luminous, beautiful, the city was home. He always felt secure once he crossed into Fairfax County, knowing he was just miles from his basecamp. It had been a long trip, exhausting in its way, but so, so worth it.

Sated, he was calm again, the fury of the past month’s excess slaking the thirst in his blood. Now he would lay low. Fit back into his life. Go to work like a good little boy. Recharge his batteries. Maybe a small vacation, somewhere in the mountains, where he could watch the snow fall, listen to birds chirp and water run and feel the cool air pass over his skin.

And remember. Always, always remember.

COLD METAL NIGHT

by

Alex Kava

Sunday, December 4

2:37 a.m.

Downtown Omaha, Nebraska

Nick Morrelli stuffed his hands deep inside his pockets. Damn! It had gotten cold and he’d forgotten his gloves. He could see his breath. Air so cold it stung his eyes and hurt to breathe.

Snow crunched beneath his shoes. Italian leather. Salvatore Ferragamo slip-ons. Five hundred and ten dollars. The stupidest purchase he’d ever let his sister, Christine talk him into. They made him look like a mob boss, or worse – a politician – instead of a security expert.

He was at a private party when he got Pete’s call. Figured he could easily walk the two blocks from the Flat Iron to the Rockwood Building. But it had been snowing steadily for the last ten hours. Now he treaded carefully over the pile of ice chunks the snow plows left at the curbs. He already almost wiped out twice despite the salt and sand.

City crews were working overtime, trying to clear the streets for Sunday’s Holiday of Lights Festival. It was a huge celebration. The beginning of the Christmas season. Live music, carolers, arts and craft events. Performers dressed as Dickens characters would stroll the Old Market’s cobble stone streets engaging with the visitors. The ConAgra Ice Rink would be packed with skaters. Tomorrow night the city would turn on tens of thousands of twinkling white lights that decorated all the trees on the Gene Leahy Mall and strung along the rooftops of the downtown buildings. Even the high-rises.

A festive time would be had by all but a huge security nightmare for people like Nick. The company he worked for, United Allied, provided security for a dozen buildings in the area.

As Nick hurried across Sixteenth Street he glanced up to see the fat, wet flakes glitter against the night sky. It was the kind of stuff he and his sister called magical Christmas dust when they were kids.

Pete was waiting for him at the back door of the Rockwood Building. It was one of Nick’s favorites. A historic brick six-story with an atrium in the middle that soared up all six floors. Reminded Nick of walking into an indoor garden, huge green plants and a domed skylight above. The building housed offices, all of them quiet at this time of night, making Pete’s job more about caretaking than guarding.

But tonight Pete looked spooked. His eyes were wide. His hair looked a shade whiter against his black skin. He held a nightstick tight in his trembling hands. Nick had never seen the old man like this. He didn’t even know Pete owned a nightstick.

“He didn’t show up at midnight like usual,” Pete was telling Nick as he led him down a hallway. Nick wasn’t sure who he was talking about. All he told Nick on the phone was, “to get over here now.”

He was taking Nick to another exit, double-wide doors that opened out into an alley. It wasn’t used except by maintenance or housekeeping to haul the trash.

“He usually stops by. You said it was okay.” He shot a look back over his shoulder at Nick but he didn’t slow down. "Does a little shoveling if I ask.” Pete was out of breath. The nightstick stayed in his right fist. “I made us some hot cocoa tonight. So cold out. When he didn’t show up I took a look around.”

He pushed opened the doors, slow and easy, peeking around them like he was expecting someone to jump out at him.

“Pete, you’re starting to freak me out.” Nick patted him on the shoulder, gently holding him back so he could step around him. “If someone’s in trouble, we’ll help him out.”

After Thanksgiving he had made an executive decision to allow homeless people to sleep in some of the back entries of the buildings he took care of. He told Pete and his other night guards to call him if there was a problem. During the holidays he didn’t have the heart to toss them into the street. He figured he could put up with drunk and belligerent.

Nick took two steps out into the frigid alley and immediately he saw a heap of gray wool and dirty denim in a bloody pile of snow. The man’s face was twisted under a bright green and orange argyle scarf that Nick recognized. His stomach fell to his knees.

“Oh God, not Gino. What the hell happened?”

Nick tried to get closer. The damned shoes slipped on a trail of blood that was already icing over. He lost his balance. Started to fall. His hand caught the corner of the Dumpster. Ice-cold metal sliced open his palm but he held on. By now he was breathing hard. Puffs of steam like a dragon. He took a deep breath, planted his feet. Then he reached over to Gino while still gripping the corner of the Dumpster.