NOT EDITED

Chapter Nineteen

12:00 PM; CLINSTONE, LITTLE DELIGHTS DINER

“Look, all I’m saying is the man has issues,” Carter said.

“Damn straight he has issues,” Jacob said, swiping a fry through the ketchup on his plate. “You and Gwen accused him of being a killer, and you referred to him as a power tool instead of, I dunno, a human being.”

“Not to his face.”

“I guarantee you that he heard it, Carter. He does have ears, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Carter sighed. “I’ve apologized to him. Several times.”

“An apology doesn’t mean shit if you try to knock him the fuck over when he’s trying to do his damn job.”

“Okay, fine. Point proven. But my point still stands. The dude needs help.”

“Why? Because he’s smarter than we are?”

“Did you know he smokes?”

Jacob shrugged. “Isn’t really any of my business what he puts in his lungs.”

“Well, I was in the parking lot when he was smoking, and instead of dropping it to the ground like a normal person, he ground it into his palm, Jake.”

Jacob winced. “Isn’t that a form of self-harm?” Caleb nodded. Jacob cleared his throat. “We can’t really do anything about it, you know. We can’t.”

“I know. But I–I feel like it’s my fault,” Carter said.

“It’s not your fault,” Jacob said, shaking his head. “You may have attributed to the way he feels about the station, but it didn’t begin with you.”

Carter sighed heavily, passing a hand through his brown hair. “How can you be so nice to him? I mean… how do you do it? He talks down to us.”

“No, he talks down to you, because you’re rude to him. He’s level with me, because I’m polite. And when he is rude to me, when he does talk down to me, you know what I do? Move the fuck on, you know, like adults do. His mind doesn’t function like ours, Carter. His social skills are a lot different. The fact that he can be nice to any of us without being irritated by our stupidity should be more than enough for you,” he said. “Better question, Carter. Why are you such a dick to him? Poor kid never did anything to you.”

“Because he—Well, I don’t know. He’s a douche.”

“No, he’s not,” Jacob said, shaking his head. “You know he’s not. You and Gwen tore him down in one day. It took Gwen, what, six hours to succumb to jealousy and drag you down with her? Grow up, Carter. You’re a fucking adult.” He stood up, pulled out his wallet, and dropped a twenty onto the table. “I hope you come around to learn that you’re just being a total dick to someone who didn’t do shit to deserve that treatment. He’s just a dude. Just a lab geek. You don’t even have to see him most of the time as long as you aren’t in the basement. Just…” Jacob sighed. “Just apologize, man. And mean it. I miss my best friend, and whatever the hell this is now? This isn’t him. This isn’t you. Fix it. Please.”

7:00 PM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, LAB

Bo had clocked out at five so that the station wouldn’t have to pay him for overtime. He hadn’t actually been working on anything case-related. He simply hadn’t wanted to return to his house, for it wasn’t home. Now, deciding that his cat needed supper, he slung his satchel over one shoulder and left the lab, shutting the door behind him. Gwen was in the morgue, and Bo made it his goal not to look at her as he walked past the door.

Hands shoved into his coat pockets, he walked out of the station and headed to his car. He unlocked his car and pulled open the driver’s side door. “I can smell your cologne, Mister Pitman. You can come out, now,” he said as he slid into his seat.

Jamal Pitman, an imposing older black man, stepped into Bo’s field of vision and offered a tired smile. “Hey, Austen.”

“Mister Pitman.” Bo turned the key in the ignition, clearing his throat. “Even if you kidnap me, I’m not going to California until this case is over.”

“I know. This isn’t about Regina. I just want to talk,” Jamal said softly.

Bo sighed. “Get in here. It’s cold out there.” Just as Jamal made it to the passenger side, Bo leaned over the console and pushed open the door.

“Thank you,” Jamal said as he slid into the seat.

Bo nodded as he shut his own door. “No problem, Mister Pitman.” He lifted his satchel over his head and set it in the backseat. “How’d you get here? I don’t see Frank lurking around.”

“Got on a plane this afternoon and took a cab to the station,” Jamal said.

“So… no Frank?”

Jamal shook his head. “I figured I could survive an evening without the man. I figured that’d put you more at ease too.”

It did. “When’s your flight back to L.A.?”

“Tomorrow night. I figured the more time we had to chat, the better.”

“Well… you can stay at my house tonight,” Bo said. After buckling his seatbelt, he shifted into gear and backed out of his parking spot. “I’m sorry about Regina, Mister Pitman,” he said finally.

Jamal leaned back. “Our department’s taking care of it. We’ll find who killed her.”

“The department’s great, Mister Pitman. Of course you’ll find who did it,” Bo said. He glanced over at Jamal, catching sight of the pistol holstered on his hip just as Bo pulled out onto the road. “If you’re going to kill me, let me pull over before you do it, all right? I don’t need to veer off into traffic and kill anyone.”

“What? Bo, Jesus Christ.” Jamal grabbed his gun and set it in Bo’s lap. One of Bo’s hands fell from the steering wheel to cover the gun. “The safety’s on, kid. That’s not what I’m here for.”

Bo’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Then what is this for, Jamal?” he asked, finally willing to drop the formality of Jamal’s last name.

“Kathy’s sick.”

Bo looked over at Jamal, brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Cancer. Liver. I–it’s not bad, but… she’s sick, nonetheless.”

Bo’s gaze shifted back to the road. He cleared his throat. “You didn’t have to come all this way just to tell me that.”

“You were close to her, Bo.”

“A lot of people were close to her. You adopted her. What’s your point?”

“I… thought you might like to know, visit her as a precaution,” Jamal said. He shifted in his seat. “You know… in case she takes a turn for the worse.”

Bo shook his head. “How long ago?”

“They’ve been running tests for almost two weeks. They found it yesterday.”

“She’ll be okay.”

Jamal blew out a breath, shaking his head.

“What?”

The older man lifted his shoulders. “I don’t know. I was expecting a different reaction. I was actually… worried about how you’d react when you found out. It’s why I wanted you in California, so we could talk in person.”

“I’m not that close to Kathy. She wanted me to solve cases for her, and that was about the extent of it.”

“The way you reacted when I arrested them says otherwise. You refused to testify against them. You use to talk to them both on the phone… often.”

Bo chose not to remind Jamal that he was the reason Bo no longer spoke to either prisoner consistently. “Yes.”

“So how the hell do you not care?”

“My reactions and refusals weren’t about Kathy.”

Jamal glanced up for a moment. “Ah. Silver.” He nodded. “I should’ve known.”

Bo’s brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I’ve just never known Katherine to make many friends. I should’ve known that was no different with you. Plus, she was never a fan of people who were admittedly smarter than her.”

“Then she should hate Dallas too.”

“Watch it,” Jamal said, his voice dipping into its lower, more ominous register.

Bo had come face-to-face with that register one too many times to be too bothered by it. “Does Dallas know?”

“Yes. They told him this afternoon, I believe.”

“Is he okay?”

“Dallas is fine,” Jamal said. “Still a bastard, but he’s fine. That’s all I have for you in regards to Silver.”

“So you don’t visit him? Ever?”

“Of course I don’t.”

“He’s your son-in-law.”

“He can go fuck himself. If he were the one who was sick, there would be true justice in this world,” Jamal said.

Bo’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles turning white. “If you’re going to ambush me outside my workplace, the least you can do is respect Dallas while you’re in my car.”

Jamal looked over at the blonde, a frown etched on his face. He had never seen the young man so full of tension. “Of course. I’m sorry,” he said softly.

Bo shook his head. He reached over Jamal to open the glove compartment and grabbed his unopened pack of cigarettes. He needed something to fiddle with one-handed, and with his only other option being Jamal’s gun—still seated in his lap—he’d prefer the plastic wrap on the pack.

Jamal cleared his throat. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Not often. I try to regulate higher stress situations with it,” Bo said. “You know, like the day you forced me to testify against one of the only people I’ve ever truly allowed into my life.”

“Ah.”

“You could’ve called me. You didn’t have to come here to tell me this,” he said, flipping on his turn signal.

“I assumed you would ignore my call. Again,” Jamal said. “And I said, I assumed you would be more bothered by Kathy’s illness. I was worried about…” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know what you would do.”

“I have a case to solve. This man, or men, are dropping victims like flies. I have no intention of taking myself out with an open case in my lap.”

“Bo—”

“Don’t. I don’t—I can’t talk about this. I have more than enough to deal with here, I don’t need this tacked on right now,” Bo said. He pulled into his driveway and shut off the car. He leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. “Have you had supper?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“No.”

Bo nodded. “Come on in then. I’ll make you something. Gotta eat, old man.”

“I can stay in a hotel, Bo. I have a room booked. You don’t need to take care of me.”

“Making sure you’re fed isn’t the hard part of any of this. Knowing that you turned against me, knowing that you hate me, because I can’t bring myself to hate Dallas… That’s the hard part.”

“I don’t…” Whatever emotion had been on Jamal’s face disappeared, like it always did. “Are you coming back to California when this case is over?”

Bo sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Yes. I already know who hates me and who tolerates me there. I should’ve stayed.”

“You should have.”

“You fired me.”

“You gave up much too easy. You’ve always disobeyed and wormed your way back into the department. I was disappointed that this time wasn’t the same.”

“You sentenced Dallas to life in prison. You and Kathy took away one of the only people who ever truly understood me. I had no reason left to fight for my job.”

For a fleeting moment, Jamal almost looked… saddened. It didn’t stay long, of course. “I expect you to be back in LA and at the station within a week of this case ending. Otherwise, you’re out of a job in Los Angeles on a permanent basis. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jamal nodded tersely and shoved open the door. “I’ll see you then.”

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NOT EDITED

Chapter Eighteen

Friday: January 10, 2020

5:00 AM; CLINSTONE, THE GRANGER HOUSEHOLD, BATHROOM

Nora Granger, a beautiful married woman in her early forties, stood in her shower, washing her hair as she sang to Cyndi Lauper’s True Colors as it played on the radio. Nora, with a rough alto voice, was the kind of woman that could belt out nearly any song without sounding too bad, True Colors included.

Her hands stilled in her hair and her words died on her lips. She was almost certain she had heard something. A door, maybe. She pulled back the shower curtain, lifting her gaze to the clock on the wall. Five after five. Her husband, Edgar, would’ve left for work five minutes ago, as he always insisted on punctuality. The noise she had heard definitely hadn’t been caused by Edgar.

Nora turned off the water and grabbed a towel from its hook on the back of the bathroom door. Bending over, she wrapped it around her hair. Straightening herself back out, she grabbed her bigger, fluffier towel and quickly dried herself off. Wrapping the towel around her body and tucking it into itself at her chest, she stepped out of the bathtub.

She unlocked and opened the bathroom door, leaning out into the hallway. She looked to the right, and then to the left. Nothing. She rolled her eyes. She hated being alone in the house. It made her feel crazy, every quiet little noise amplified into something much bigger and scarier. Still, she stepped out into the hall and walked into the kitchen. She heard something, and before she could turn around, a hand covered her mouth and nose with a rag. She breathed in on panicked instinct, and the dizzy feeling that set in quickly made her regret it.

An arm banded around her waist, holding her still until the chloroform did its job. “Shh… You won’t feel a thing,” he murmured just as she slipped from consciousness.

6:15 AM; THE GRANGER HOUSEHOLD, BEDROOM

“Edgar Granger, forty-four years old, the man in the living room, wasn’t killed in the living room. I’ll have a look at his car before we leave, see if that’s where it happened. Either way, it was still dark outside when it happened, so it’s unlikely we’ll find any witnesses,” Bo said before his gaze shifted back to the bed. “Nora Granger, married to Edgar, forty-two years old, A-positive blood type. She’s Cleo Marshall’s match. She was taking a shower when the killer came in, judging from the wet walls in the bathtub, and he took her by surprise in the kitchen, since that’s where her towels have been discarded. He chloroformed her and brought her in here, laid her out on the bed. Mark on the inner arm. Blood was most likely drawn there, probably two pints. Small mark on the neck, most likely etorphine. And then the breasts were removed. I’ll know more in the morgue,” Bo said. Jacob nodded, yawning. “Am I boring you, Detective?”

Jacob shook his head, running the heel of his palm under his eye. “Nah. Just haven’t gotten much sleep. I was up ‘till four,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“Alice.”

A surprised laugh bubbled past Bo’s lips. “That’s… nice, Detective.”

“I thought so,” Jacob said with a shrug. Bo squatted down beside the bed, raising his camera for a picture. Just as he took it, Carter walked past him, bumping his shoulder and nearly knocking him off balance. Bo caught himself, gripping the sheets with one gloved hand, his camera held tightly in the other hand. “Hey, knock it the fuck off. You are only here because Bo insisted I bring you back onto the case. Touch him again and I’ll knock you on your fucking ass,” Jacob said.

Carter chuckled. “Yeah, Jake, sure. You and your ‘violence is never the answer’ ways will really teach me a lesson.”

“It’s fine, Detective Mason,” Bo said. “I’m leaving soon, anyway. I don’t need special treatment,” he added, tilting his camera for a better angle.

“What’re you talking about?” Carter asked. “You’re leaving soon?”

“I’m not exactly welcome here, Detective Lehmann,” Bo said as he pushed himself to his feet. “My serial killer best friend treats me better than you and Miss Tanner do, so once this case is solved, I’m going home and you can all pretend I didn’t exist.” He cleared his throat. “Now, let’s get Mrs. Granger here to the morgue so I can do my job.”

8:43 AM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, MORGUE

“How you doing?” Jacob asked as he stepped into the morgue.

“I just finished some notes for you, actually,” Bo said.

Jacob exhaled softly. “No, Bo, I meant how are you doing?”

“Oh.” Bo cleared his throat. “I’m… fine, Detective. Is this where I ask how you’re doing? Or is it only okay for you to assume that I need to be checked up on?”

Jacob held up his hands. “Sorry. Forgot you were supposed to be emotionless. I’ll just pretend that I don’t give a shit, okay?”

“That’s fine with me.” Bo held a notebook out to Jacob, his gaze drifting back to his laptop. “That’s all I have.”

Jacob crossed the room and grabbed the notebook from Bo. He leaned back against one of the counters in the morgue, rolling his eyes. And to think he used to believe Alice was complicated. He read through the sticky note on Edgar Granger first, even though he knew it wouldn’t make much sense to him.

Edgar Granger – F Jan 10, 2020

– 4th found victim

– TOD: 4:50 AM F Jan 10, 2020

– H: 6 f 10 in

– NHC: black

– EC: brown

– DOB: W Aug 13, 1975

– LKM: AL 1 hr BTOD

– no SA, FP, PA

– DW: etorphine

– TL: PS 5 in TPB (PK)

“What’s ‘DW’ stand for?” Jacob asked.

“Drugged with,” Bo said, never lifting his gaze from his laptop.

Jacob cleared his throat as he scanned through the actual written information on the page. “So, he was killed in his car?”

“Killer in the backseat, one hand pressed firmly against the forehead to make the flesh of the throat taut, and then one clean swipe of a pocket knife. Mister Granger didn’t really stand much of a chance once he walked out of that house.”

Jacob nodded. “And he was drugged, too?”

“More etorphine, yes. One shot to the neck and you’re rendered immobilized and unconscious. That’s when the throat laceration occurred. Again, The Surgeon doesn’t want his victims to feel pain.”

“The what?” Jacob asked.

“Oh. Yes, sorry. The Surgeon. That’s what I’ve labeled this case as,” Bo said.

“Because of the whole… make his victims look like someone else thing?”

“That’s the basics of it.”

Jacob nodded as he flipped the page, his gaze falling on the sticky note for Nora Granger.

Nora Granger – F Jan 10, 2020

– 5th found victim

– TOD: 5:45 AM F Jan 10, 2020

– H: 5 f 6 in

– NHC: brown

– EC: blue

– DOB: T Nov 29, 1977

– LKM: AL 6-8 hrs BTOD

– no SA, FP, PA

– CHCl3

– DW: etorphine

– BR + 2 pnts blood: A-pos

“ ‘BR’?” Jacob asked.

“Breasts removed,” Bo said.

“Do you ever have to look at a calendar when you’re writing these?”

For the first time, Bo’s gaze lifted to the detective’s face. “Why would I need a calendar?”

“Umm, because when you write their birthdate, you add the day of the week they were born on,” Jacob said.

“Ah. Yeah, of course I use a calendar,” Bo said as his eyes fell back to his laptop screen.

“July eighteen, 1985,” Jacob said.

“Your birthday,” Bo said dismissively.

“What day of the week is it?”

“I’d have to check.”

“Of course. So, Nora heard the killer come in?” Jacob asked as he scanned the page.

“Presumably. She still had shampoo in her hair, so she wasn’t done with her shower. She got out to see what the noise was.”

“October 26, 2019.”

“Saturday,” Bo murmured. His brow furrowed as he looked back at Jacob. “Stop that.”

“Sorry,” Jacob said. “That’s… impressive. How far back can you do that?”

“What? The days of the week thing?” Bo asked. Jacob nodded. “All the way back to ‘65, if it matters,” he said quietly, looking back down at his laptop.

“Damn.”

“It’s just memorization of a pattern, Detective Mason,” Bo said.

“Memorization of, what, fifty-four years?”

“No, memorization of approximately twenty-eight years. The calendar repeats itself roughly every twenty-eight years.”

“That’s pretty fucking impressive, Bo,” Jacob said. Bo lifted his shoulders. “Who treated you like shit and told you that you had to be ashamed of yourself?”

“A lot of people,” Bo said off-handedly. “Your coworkers, for starters.”

“Well, they’re assholes, Bo. We went over that.”

Again, Bo shrugged. He closed the lid of his laptop and stood up. “Maybe, but that doesn’t mean they were wrong. It just means they approached the topic with a bit too much aggression,” he said. Jacob watched as the younger blonde walked past him and left the morgue. Jacob’s brow furrowed. It was unusual, to say the least, for Bo to leave in the middle of a conversation. What the hell was that about?

9:02 AM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, PARKING LOT

Bo leaned back against the driver’s side door of his car, closing his eyes as he took another drag of his cigarette. He wasn’t a smoker, not really. It only happened once in a great while, but he always kept a pack in his glove box, just in case. He liked the thought that, if he smoked enough of them, it could help kill off some of his brain cells as he aged, dumb him down at least a little bit.

He crossed his arms over his chest against the cold, his cigarette balanced between the first two fingers of his right hand. God, he wanted to go home. Not to his house in Minnesota. No, he wanted to go home, back to California. Maybe he’d visit his adoptive parents while he was there. They were divorced now, but they both still lived in Los Angeles. Maybe he could take some time away from being miserable and pretend he was normal if he was in the house with one of them.

Maybe they could go out for lunch.

“What’re you doing?” Carter asked just as Bo took another long drag.

“You have eyes, Detective. You tell me what I’m doing,” Bo said, blowing smoke out of one corner of his mouth.

“You know smoking’s bad for you, right?”

“No,” Bo said, feigning surprise. He cleared his throat, shaking his head. “Yes, Detective, I’m well aware. That’s why I like it.”

Carter crossed his arms over his chest. He hadn’t taken Bo for a smoker. His voice certainly didn’t reveal it. “Are you trying to get cancer?”

“They actually can’t declare that smoking gives you cancer,” Bo said, kicking one foot back against the car door. “Common misconception. They can say the toxins in a cigarette are known to cause cancer, but smoking can’t be labeled as the real cause.”

“Why the hell not?”

Bo scoffed, pressing the tip of his cigarette into the palm of his hand. Carter winced. “They can’t create a study for it. It’d involve purposely giving people cancer, and that’d pretty much be illegal,” he said, dropping the cigarette to the ground. He ground the toe of his shoe into it, even though it was already out. “Smoking can lead to a stroke, damage to the mouth, throat, lungs… you name it. But they can’t actually declare it as a cancer inducer.”

Carter cleared his throat. “I… never took you for a smoker.”

“It doesn’t really happen a lot. Only when I’m in the mood to damage a couple brain cells,” Bo said. He chuckled softly. “I’ve felt that urge a lot since I arrived in this hellhole you call a station.”

Carter’s gaze fell to the ground. “I’m sorry. Umm… for my part in that, I mean.”

“You sure have a funny way of showing it,” Bo said. “Actions speak louder than words, Detective, and your actions tell me that you have a personal vendetta against me.”

“I’m an ass, I know.”

“I didn’t call you an ass,” Bo said. “You’re rude, crass, and cruel, but you’re not an ass,” he explained.

“Is that better or worse?”

“Dallas Silver was an ass, and he was my best friend. You decide.”

Carter cleared his throat again. “And what was Kathy?” “Mrs. Baker, to you,” Bo said. “Kathy… was a bitch, and a damn proud one at that. A bitch who married my best friend and ran away with him.” He pushed himself away from his car. “If you don’t mind, I have a job to do so that I can get the hell out of this state. Nice chat, though. The false apologies are greatly appreciated, Detective Lehmann. Keep them coming, and one of these days, you might just actually mean it.”

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Yet another one of my animals unexpectedly passed away on the third of this month, this time one of my cats. I don’t expect to be writing for a little while… again, but I still had this chapter sitting around from my writing streak in the middle of last. Thank you again for your patience as I continue navigating through what has genuinely been the worst six months of my entire life.

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NOT EDITED

Chapter Seventeen

8:13 AM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, LAB

“Based on your thirteen-minute difference on punctuality, can I assume you had a second breakfast?” Bo asked without looking up from his computer.

Jacob laughed. “Damn straight, I did.” Bo chuckled softly and patted the seat beside him. Jacob crossed the room and sat down beside Bo. “What’s up?”

Bo cleared his throat. “I thought you might want a, uh, walkthrough, of sorts, on this case.”

“That’s what you were working on earlier, right?” Jacob asked. Bo nodded. “Pssh, and you said you weren’t working on the case.”

Bo smiled faintly. “I’m quite the liar when I want to be.”

“You’re damn good at it. You don’t have a tell.” When Bo didn’t respond, Jacob cleared his throat. “Well, show me what you got.”

Bo rubbed at the back of his neck. “There’s a lot of… assuming going into this. A lot of it isn’t fact,” he said.

“Cases can never be completed without assuming somewhere along the line. It’s how we connect the dots.”

“There is… a lot of information that I’m going to spit out, here. If you need me to stop so that you can gather how insane I am, tell me and I’ll give you a few minutes to recover before I overwhelm you again.”

Jacob chuckled. “Sure thing, Bo.”

Bo opened up a document on his laptop. A timeline. “Sometime between eight o’clock AM on Saturday, December twenty-first, 2019 and Monday, December twenty-third at noon, Tess Brown is kidnapped, presumably from her home. Monday, December twenty-third at twelve-fifteen PM, Tess Brown is reported missing by her boyfriend. Tuesday, December twenty-fourth, 2019, sometime before ten in the morning, Natalie Lambert, fifteen years old, is kidnapped. Her parents arrive at the station at ten, and fill out a missing person’s report The AMBER Alert goes out fifteen minutes after the report’s filled out, ten forty-six AM. Thursday, December thirty-first, 2019 at ten-thirty PM, Victor Law is killed in his home in Clinstone. Mister Law is poisoned with conium maculatum, known as hemlock in layman’s terms. He’s killed to guarantee that Cleo Marshall will be lonely and desperate because she’s been ditched on New Year’s Eve.

“At eleven PM, Tess Brown is killed, presumably, in the killer’s kill room. She’s chloroformed rather heavily and her throat is slit with a five-inch, partially serrated tanto-point pocket knife. In line with the fact that we know he’s trying to replace someone, his kill room is most likely in his actual house. Basement, probably.

“Killer arrives at Ivory Hill before eleven forty-five PM so that he can scout Cleo Marshall, watch her, wait until she’s at her most desperate. We can assume that didn’t happen until shortly after midnight. So, after midnight strikes, on January first, 2020, the killer approaches Cleo Marshall at the bar and buys her a drink. It’s probable that he flirted with her, called her beautiful, called Victor foolish for leaving her alone. He talks her up, makes her feel good about herself, and convinces her to go home with him.

“He’s not drunk. He wouldn’t have wanted to inhibit his senses like that, nor would he have wanted to be forced to take a cab or find someone to drive them. He doesn’t want to be seen by anyone. He wants to blend in with the crowd, be nothing but an average guy. His goal isn’t to stick out, or else he would be ID’d long before he completed his work.

“He takes Cleo Marshall to his house and takes her to her room. Presumably, a cell of some sort, designed to look like the original bedroom of the person that Cleo Marshall is supposed to replace. It probably has a cell door rather than a wooden door. It’s not a solid surface because he needs to be able to see her without opening the door and running the risk of her escaping.

“Natalie Lambert has been in a room since Christmas Eve. Assuming the rooms are in a basement, side-by-side, the girls likely can’t see each other. They aren’t fixed yet. They don’t look like the women they’re supposed to replace, so they can’t see each other until they look exactly like the women they’re replacing.” Bo cleared his throat. “You still with me?”

In silence, Jacob nodded.

“Thursday, January second, Tess Brown’s body is found in a dumpster outside of the Clinstone ER. We get to the alleyway just after eighty-thirty that morning. Based on Miss Brown’s autopsy, we know that he’s feeding them. Most likely three meals a day, most likely on a strict schedule. Like… breakfast at six, lunch at noon, and supper at six. Before he goes to work, lunch break, when he gets home.

“Monday, January sixth, 2020, Victor Law’s body is found in a dumpster outside the Clinstone Community Center. We get there around ten AM. His corpse has been hidden somewhere relatively warm before being dumped in the dumpster. Otherwise, the cold outside would have slowed down the decay process.

“Tuesday, January seventh, 2020, Jane Bishop is killed in her home around nine-thirty AM. She’s home alone, doing college homework, when the killer comes in, grabs her from behind, and chloroforms her. He draws two pints of blood through her arm before injecting her with etorphine. He undresses her, cleans her skin, and removes her breasts. This is done with a number ten surgical knife. She’s dead by the time he’s finished, and then he leaves. As I’ve told you before, Jane Bishop isn’t the only victim like this in Clinstone, but we won’t go into that right now.

“Jane Bishop is O-negative type, just like Natalie Lambert. The breasts will, more than likely, be surgically attached to Natalie Lambert’s chest after her own breasts are removed. The killer doesn’t want implants. He wants something that looks entirely real, feels entirely real, and that’s why he needs to kill another woman for them. And, truthfully, he has most likely already done the surgery. Which is good for us, because it means she didn’t die, or else we would’ve found her body.

“Now, this is where I’m going to throw a wrench in everything,” Bo said. He cleared his throat. “I believe there are likely two killers.”

Jacob’s brow furrowed. “Why do you think that?”

“Killer’s have comfort zones. The ones who don’t want to taunt the police, anyway. He’s not doing this for fame. He’s doing it to replace someone he lost. Tess Brown and Cleo Marshall were and are forty-four. Natalie Lambert is only fifteen. The age gap is too great. Jane Bishop was only in her twenties. The age gap is drastically greater than what most comfort creatures are, well, comfortable with. So we assume we have two killers. One of them kidnapped Tess Brown and Cleo Marshall, and killed Tess Brown and Victor Law. The other killer, a younger man, kidnapped Natalie Lambert and killed Jane Bishop.

“They’re both intelligent, both have experience with drugs, medicine, knives, and surgeries. One of them, probably the younger one, is a veterinarian, and that’s how he got his hands on etorphine,” Bo said. “The other one, the older of the two, could also be a vet or a doctor, a surgeon. If that’s the case, the older one is most likely the ones performing the surgeries on the women.

“The older man makes a lot of money, based on his cologne and his suits, as described by Will Foreman at the bar. He’s most likely a surgeon, possibly plastic surgery, simply based on possible income.” Bo opened a new document, a fingerprint. “I told you that Cleo Marshall probably wasn’t the one that removed that top sticky note, and I was right. I pulled a fingerprint off of it, a thumb, but it’s not in the system. See this line?” Bo asked, touching his finger to a place on the screen.

“Yeah,” Jacob said, nodding.

“It’s a scar. The older of the two men has a scar on his thumb. That makes him a lot easier to find, Detective,” Bo said. He reached over and grabbed a thin stack of papers that were paper clipped together. He laid them down in front of Jacob. “That’s everything I just told you. That’s all I have.”

Jacob stared at Bo for a moment, his lips parted slightly. “What the fuck was this department doing before you?”

One corner of Bo’s mouth lifted in a smile. “Working and solving cases just the same as every other department that’s never had me in it,” he said. He stood up, shutting the lid of his laptop. “I’m not special, Detective Mason. I just… get things done a little quicker than other analysts. You’d eventually arrive at the same conclusion without me. I’m not special. I’m just a lab geek.”

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NOT EDITED

Chapter Sixteen

Thursday: January 9, 2020

12:00 AM; MINNESOTA, THE SURGEON’S HOUSE

“Gordon,” Cleo said as he walked out into the main room in the basement. “Gordon,” she repeated, her voice louder than before. “Gordon, is she okay?”

“Yes,” he said finally. “She’s resting, but she’s okay.” He crossed the room and covered Cleo’s hand with his own. “She’s fine. Surgery went well. She’ll be back in her room in three days.” He stared at her for a moment before clearing his throat. “Goodnight, ma’am.”

Cleo rested her head against the cell bars, her eyes closed. “Goodnight, Gordon,” she whispered.

2:00 AM; CLINSTONE, BO AUSTEN’S HOUSE, LIVING ROOM

Bo sat up on the couch, rubbing at his eyes. He didn’t remember falling asleep, especially not on the couch. Acamas stood up on Bo’s lap, purring as she stretched, arching her back. Bo sighed, smoothing a hand over her head. He picked the tabby up, holding her to his chest as he rose to his feet. He turned off the lamp on the end table and swiped his phone from the coffee table.

Bo walked back to his bedroom, flipped on the overhead light, and set Acamas on the bed. He sat down at the foot of the bed and unlocked his phone. He had a text from Jamal.

Jamal: Your services are being requested.

Bo: By whom?

Jamal: Me, LAPD, the whole department.

Bo: I’m on a job, Mister Pitman.

Jamal: Do we really need the formalities, Bo? We’re all friends here.

Bo frowned, his thumbs hovering above the keyboard. They certainly weren’t friends. Jamal had called him a few choice words that most people wouldn’t call their friends. More than once.

Bo: What’s the case?

Jamal: I’m not discussing it over text, Bo.

Bo: Then I’m going to bed.

Bo’s brow furrowed as his phone rang, Jamal’s name flashing across his screen. Pushing a hand through his hair, he accepted the call and pressed his phone to his ear. “Mister Pitman.”

“Again, we don’t need the formalities. I don’t want that from you, Bo,” Jamal said.

“What’s the case, Mister Pitman?” Bo asked.

Jamal let out a heavy sigh. “Regina’s dead.”

Bo closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Mister Pitman. Regina… was a good analyst.”

“She was. A good woman too.”

“Did she suffer?” Bo asked.

“I think so.” A pause. “I need you for this one, Bo.”

I thought I was useless? I thought you didn’t want to hear my fucking voice ever again? I thought you wanted me dead?

“I’m in the middle of a rather large case, Mister Pitman.”

“So you’re leaving all of us, high and dry?”

“You are the one who fired me, Mister Pitman,” Bo reminded.

“You deserved it.”

“I did, yes, thank you. I’m sorry about Regina, I am. She was great at her job, and she was a good person. I am sorry. I hope you find her killer, but it won’t be with my assistance. Goodnight, Mister Pitman.” Bo ended the call and dropped his phone to his lap. When his screen lit up with another call from Jamal, he held down the power button until it shut off.

He wasn’t tired any more. He scrubbed his hands over his face, squeezing his eyes shut. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well work on the case. The sooner it was over, the sooner Cleo Marshall and Natalie Lambert were back home, the sooner he could go back home to the boss who hated him, the serial killer best friend, and the serial killer’s wife.

7:00 AM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, LAB

Bo looked up as Jacob walked into the lab. He held the back of his hand up to his mouth as he finished chewing his food.

“So you do eat breakfast,” Jacob said.

Bo cleared his throat. “I, umm, didn’t know you’d be here this early.”

Jacob offered a shrug. “Had nothing better to do.”

Bo nodded once. “Is there anything I can help you with, Detective?”

“Nah. Just wanted to come down and see how you were doing.”

“Great.”

“Whatcha working on?” he asked.

Bo glanced at his computer screen before his gaze shifted back to Jacob’s face. “Nothing.”

Jacob chuckled. “Yeah, okay.” He scratched at his jaw, clearing his throat. “Why do you always come here early?”

“To get work done.”

The detective raised a brow. “You’re doing nothing now.”

Bo frowned. He had assumed that would come back to bite him in the ass, just not so soon. “I’ll rephrase that for you, Detective. I am doing nothing that relates to your case.”

“Our case,” Jacob said.

“Pardon?”

“You called it my case. It’s our case, Bo. You are working on it too.”

“Oh. Of course. That’s what I meant,” Bo said quietly. “At eight o’clock, my work will shift to the case. Until then, I’ll be doing nothing that pertains to this town or the criminals within it.”

“I wasn’t asking what you were doing to scare you or anything, Bo. I was asking because I’m taking an interest in your life,” Jacob said.

“Why?”

“Because that’s what friends are supposed to do.”

“We’re coworkers.”

“Right,” Jacob said, stretching the word out over several beats. “I forgot that you weren’t allowed to befriend the people you have to see eight hours a day.”

“Well, you may befriend anyone in this station that isn’t me, Detective. I’m just not going to be here long enough to need friends,” Bo said. He smiled faintly. “Besides, I… only get along with serial killers and their wives.”

“I wish you’d give yourself more credit than that,” Jacob said. “You don’t deserve to think of yourself like you’re an idiot.”

“Anyone and everyone can be stupid, Detective, no matter what a test reveals about them. My IQ doesn’t make me intelligent,” he said as he stood up. “It’s just a number assigned by the manner in which you answer a list of questions.” Jacob watched him walk across the room and throw away his unfinished breakfast. “Idiocy is defined by a person’s point of view. Kathy, for instance, was believed to be an idiot when she fled California. I was believed to be an idiot when I couldn’t find them. You were believed to be an idiot when you were in love with a married woman, yes?”

“Okay… fine,” Jacob said finally. “But still. You’re not an idiot for not knowing he was a killer. He hid it. That’s what killers do.”

Bo sat back down behind his laptop, folding his arms over top of the table. “Detective Mason, I respect you deeply. I do. I’m not trying to be an asshole, not to you, anyway. I just don’t want to let you get close, that’s all. I left behind my entire life in California, all of the people that I was close to. When I leave here, I don’t want to feel as though I’m disappointing anyone, as though… I am leaving someone behind.”

“I’m sorry, Bo.”

Bo waved a hand. “Don’t be. I’m not here for pity, Detective Mason.” He offered a smile. “I’m here to do my job, that’s all.”

“Of course.”

“You should bring Detective Lehmann back onto the case.”

“Fuck that. That’s not happening,” Jacob said.

“He has worked here much longer than I have, Detective Mason.”

“Yes, and that’s why he should know that disrespecting, harassing, bullying, and stealing from another member of CPD is never okay,” Jacob said. “So he’s staying off that case.”

“If that’s what you want to do, Detective.”

“It’s what you should want to do, too. You shouldn’t be a doormat You don’t deserve that.”

Bo shrugged. “Sticks and stone, Detective. They may insult me all that they’d like. It’s when they start throwing stones that I’ll fight back.”

“Well, if you ever decide to throw a punch, let me know. I’ve got your back.”

Bo couldn’t help but chuckle. It was almost adorable, really, that Jacob believed Bo would need backup if he were to go into a fight. Bo had once kicked Dallas’s ass. Dallas, a tall, muscled-out ball of serial killer-fueled rage, had been beaten by a much shorter, skinnier, intellectual Bo Austen. Still, he appreciated the thought.

“Thanks, Detective. I appreciate the sentiment.”

Jacob nodded. “No problem,” he said. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your non-work-related work, and I will see you at eight o’clock.” He shrugged. “Give or take a few minutes, depending on whether or not I want a second breakfast before then.”

Bo raised an eyebrow. “Can I assume that your fiancee doesn’t know you’re eating two of every meal?”

“She doesn’t need to know,” Jacob said. He laughed. “All Al cares about is making sure I don’t swear around the twins, says that if their first word is a curse of any kind, she’ll kick me out of my own damn house. So, you know, I gotta get all my swearing out of the way while I’m at the station.”

Bo laughed. “Good luck with that, Detective.”

“Thanks. I’m gonna need that, Bo,” Jacob said. He saluted the forensic analyst, a smile on his face. “See you at eight.”

“Sure thing, Detective Mason. I’ll be here.”

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NOT EDITED

Chapter Fifteen

12:00 PM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, LAB

“You know you’re, like, crazy intelligent, right?” Jacob asked, kicking his feet up onto the table as he leaned back in his chair. “I mean, honestly, do you know that and pretend you don’t? Or do you really, genuinely not know?”

“I don’t consider myself intelligent, if that’s what you’re asking,” Bo said, lifting his gaze from his notebook.

“What the hell do you consider yourself, then?”

“Abnormal,” Bo said simply. He dropped his gaze back to his notebook, clicking the end of his pen before writing out the notes on Cleo Marshall’s apartment.

“You think you’re not normal?” Jacob asked.

“Well, Detective, either I’m not normal, or the rest of the world isn’t normal. You may take your pick on that.”

“No one’s normal. Who are we to judge the definition of normal?”

“Detective Mason, I taught a chemistry class full of sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds when I was ten.” Bo looked back up at Jacob. “Again, I am not normal. No matter what the possible definitions of the word are, I am rather far from every single one of them. There is no denying that.”

“I personally think that’s pretty fucking cool,” Jacob said.

“In all fairness, Detective, that’s because you aren’t exactly normal, either.”

Jacob laughed. “Damn right, I’m not. Normality is overrated, Austen.”

“Normality is overrated,” Bo repeated. He shook his head as he looked back at his notebook. “Normality is what this country is based upon, Detective Mason. There’s a reason most presidents are elected to two terms. There’s a reason why farmers plant corn one year and beans the next. There’s a reason why the prices of meats and produce fluctuate at an expected price at expected intervals. The human race doesn’t like change, and when change occurs, it takes far too long for them to accept it, and by the time they do accept it, do you know what happens?”

Jacob clapped his hands together once. “More change.”

Bo smiled faintly. “Bingo.”

“See, kid, this is why I like you. You’re mind-blowingly intelligent—despite what you say—and you still don’t talk down to me,” Jacob said.

“You’re not exactly stupid, Detective Mason. It’d be hard to talk down to you without intentionally putting in the effort to do so.” Bo said. 

Jacob blew a short burst of air from his nose, shaking his head. “Not exactly stupid, huh?” he questioned. “My Alice would disagree.”

“I can only imagine she believes you’re stupid because she loves you,” Bo said. He looked up at Jacob, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Not as much as you love her, I think, but she cares quite a lot about you.”

Jacob smiled. “I loved her for just over ten years before she ever knew that I did. She’s got a lot of catching up to do. I’m okay waiting.”

“Dallas was like that with Kathy,” Bo found himself saying. “He was… head over heels for her. He felt… normal when she was around him, I suppose,” he said. His gaze fell to his notebook once more, but he had nothing left to write. “Kathy normalized the killer urge inside of him, made him feel like he could control it just a little better whenever she was around.” 

Jacob crossed his arms over his chest, rocking back in his chair. “Dallas was Hangman, right? That’s what you called him?”

“Well, Kathy’s the one who named the infamous killer ‘Hangman’. I played little to no role in that case until after she and Dallas fled California.”

“He only killed criminals, you know. I did my research on that,” Jacob said.

“Yes, I know.”

“Nearly pain-free, instantaneous. According to what I read, anyway. He didn’t torture his victims, if you could even call them that.”

“Except for Max,” Bo said.

“Max?”

“Never mind,” Bo said quietly. He clicked the end of his pen several times, thinking. He remembered looking at the crime scene photos of Max Baker, the man Dallas had stabbed a total of thirty-two times, some prior to death, some post-mortem. It wasn’t only Max that had suffered at the hands of Dallas. Douglass Brass had suffered greatly, a murderer who had wanted Kathy to feel emotional pain before he killed her, too. Douglass had been beaten and left nearly unrecognizable. Dallas had waterboarded him, according to both the evidence and Dallas’s testimony. Dallas had broken all of the bones in Douglass’s fingers and, after he had suffered enough, Dallas had slit his throat.

Why? Douglass Brass had murdered a young woman that Kathy Baker considered a daughter. Kathy had begged Dallas to kill the man responsible, to torture him so that he felt like a victim before he finally died. With the amount of injuries, there was no way he hadn’t felt like one before Dallas had finally given him the mercy of death.

“Bo?” Jacob asked, almost cautiously. Bo lifted his head, but he didn’t respond. “You okay?”

“Marvelous,” Bo said.

“Right,” Jacob said quietly.

“I’m just… going to finish these notes, Detective. I’m not going to have anything of use until tomorrow morning. I’d like to compile information and… whatnot before I report back to you.”

“Is that Austen code for, ‘Get the hell out of my lab’?” Jacob asked.

“No, that’s Austen code for, ‘I’m done talking for the day’,” Bo said.

“Ah.” Jacob dropped his feet to the floor, tipping the chair back to all fours. “Well, I’ll head upstairs and let you do your thing, then.” Bo nodded. “I’ll see you later, Austen.” Again, Bo only offered a nod.

6:00 PM; MINNESOTA, THE SURGEON’S HOUSE

Cleo watched in silence as the older man and Gordon worked in tandem to carry Natalie’s unconscious body out of the cell and lift her onto the gurney that stood just outside the open cell door. Cleo took in the oxygen mask over Natalie’s mouth and nose, the IV bag that Gordon held in one hand.

The older man glanced back at Cleo, smiling softly. “Eat your supper, darling. Everything’s going to be okay,” he promised. The two men pushed Natalie away from the cells, opening a door that Cleo had never noticed before. They disappeared into the room, turned on a light, and shut the door.

Cleo sank to the floor, hands wrapped around the bars of the cell door. Natalie was strong. Natalie was a survivor.

God, she hoped Natalie was still a fighter, too.

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NOT EDITED

Chapter Fourteen

Wednesday: January 8, 2020

6:00 AM; MINNESOTA, THE SURGEON’S HOUSE, BASEMENT

The older man, the one that had taken Cleo from the bar, came down the stairs, a plate in each hand. He slid one under Cleo’s door and the second under Natalie’s door. “This is your last meal today, Brooke.”

Natalie’s eyes widened in panic. “Wh–what? What do you mean last meal?”

“Honey, calm down,” he said, his voice unreasonably soft and calm. He reached through the bars, placing a hand on the young girl’s shoulder. “You’re going into surgery tonight. You can’t eat or drink anything for twelve hours, that’s all.” Natalie swallowed roughly, but she didn’t respond. “Honey, don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you. I would never hurt you. The surgery is for your own good, to make you complete again.” He squeezed her shoulder and rose to his feet.

“Hey, hey!” Cleo exclaimed, sticking an arm through the cell bars.

He grabbed her hand as he squatted down in front of her. “What is it, darling?”

“What surgery?” Her green eyes searched his blue ones as he reached through the bars, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “What surgery?” she asked again.

“Just a surgery, darling. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“She’s a child,” Cleo whispered.

“It’s for her own good, Lauren,” he said, his voice much sterner than before. Cleo leaned away from his touch, fear coursing through her veins. “I’m sorry, darling,” he whispered. “I don’t mean to scare you. She’ll be okay. It’s just a surgery. I do them all the time. Four, five hours tops. I won’t hurt her. She’s our baby.”

“She’ll… she’ll be okay?” He nodded. “I will kill you if she doesn’t come back,” she said through her teeth.

He seemed amused that she would speak to him in such a manner. “If I hurt her, you have every right to kill me. I’ll even give you the gun. That’s my promise to you, darling.” He pushed himself to his feet and smiled faintly at both women. “Eat. I’ll see you both tonight.” He tapped a hand against the bars of Natalie’s cell door. “After breakfast, get some rest. You’re going to need it, love.”

8:14 AM; CLINSTONE, CLEO MARSHALL’S APARTMENT

Bo stepped into Cleo Marshall’s apartment, and Jacob followed shortly thereafter. Bo’s attention was immediately drawn to the dark pink pad of sticky notes sitting on a small table by the door. A landline phone was set up on the table, a pencil set down between the phone and the sticky notes. Bo pulled the strap of his camera over his head and carefully lowered the camera to the carpeted floor.

He could feel Jacob’s eyes on him, could feel the questioning look he was receiving, but he didn’t mind it. Jacob’s questioning stare was much different than the questioning stares of other people. Jacob wasn’t wondering what kind of freak Bo was, what kind of killer he could be. Jacob was simply curious, and Bo could easily respect that. Genuine, innocent curiosity was intelligence.

With gloved fingers, Bo picked up the pencil and used the graphite to neatly scribble over the sticky note. The words transferred from the previous sticky note showed up clearly among the scribbled sea of graphite on the small surface. “ ‘Date with Victor L.’ There’s a phone number, and then a time and a place,” Bo said. “Eleven forty-five PM at Ivory Hill.”

“That’s a bar in town.”

“It’s likely the bar Cleo Marshall was taken from, assuming she made it there before she was grabbed. I want to go there, and I want to go to Victor Law’s place.” Bo picked up his camera, draping the strap back over his neck.

“Sure, we can head out now and—”

“After I take pictures,” Bo interrupted. He offered a smile. “Pictures are important, Detective Mason, even if this isn’t where she was taken from or killed.”

Jacob smiled. “Of course. Sorry, man, just got ahead of myself. Take all the pictures you want, Bo. I’ve got all day.” Bo raised an eyebrow as he glanced up at the detective. “Well, not all day. I’ve gotta get back to Al and the kids at some point.”

Bo chuckled as he pulled an evidence bag from his shirt pocket. “Of course,” he said softly. He picked up the pad of sticky notes and dropped it into the bag. He handed it back to Jacob. “Somebody pulled off the top sticky note, and I’m doubting it was Cleo Marshall.” Bo tapped a finger against the back. “That might get us somewhere.”

“You just turn every damn stone, don’tcha?” Jacob asked.

One corner of Bo’s mouth lifted slightly. “Just living by Kathy’s motto, Detective.” He cleared his throat. “You can’t explore a case until you’ve turned all the stones that line the path to the resolution. Th–that’s what Kathy used to tell people.”

Jacob’s expression softened. “I’m real sorry about her, Bo.”

“Don’t be,” Bo murmured. He turned away from the detective, powering on his camera. “She made her bed, and she’s lying in it now. That’s all.”

Jacob laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I meant that you were forced to testify against her. And Dallas. From the bits and pieces you’ve let spill, you were really close to him. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Bo’s brow furrowed. No one had ever apologized to him for that specific reason. Sure, he hadn’t wanted to. Sure, it was against the law when Jamal fired him just to make him testify against one of the only people he had ever cared about, but no one had ever felt sorry for Bo, certainly not for that reason. “Well, thanks,” Bo said quietly. He shrugged Jacob’s hand off his shoulder. “Can we just… not talk about it? About them?”

“You betcha, kid. I’ll just be here then. You take your pictures, and… I’ll be here.”

9:02 AM; CLINSTONE, VICTOR LAW’S HOUSE, FOYER

Bo’s eyes took in everything around him as he stood in the foyer of Victor Law’s house. He pointed in the direction of the living room and glanced back at Jacob. “See the depression area in the carpet here?” he asked, circling a finger in the air.

Jacob raised an eyebrow. “Not from here, I don’t.” He walked around Bo and made his way into the living room. “Okay, here? This… area?”

Bo nodded. “That’s very likely where Victor Law died. And, by the looks of it, he stayed there for several hours, probably a day, before he was moved. I couldn’t tell you where they put him before throwing him in that dumpster, though.”

“Hmm.”

“Anyway, umm…” Bo cleared his throat. “I’ll get pictures taken, dust for prints… and then we’ll head out to Ivory Hill. If that works for you, that is?”

“You betcha.” Every time Jacob said ‘you betcha’, it took a fair share of Bo’s self-control to not smile. It was a rather stereotypical Minnesotan thing to do, and Jacob always walked right into the statement. Jacob lifted his right hand, checked his watch. “I mean, if you’re willing to stop for food beforehand, I mean. I’m starving.”

Bo forced himself to nod. “Sure, Detective. Food first.”

10:15 AM; CLINSTONE, LITTLE DELIGHTS DINER

Bo slid into one side of the booth, a frown set on his face. He looked around the diner, blue eyes narrowed. There were too many people there, too many smells, too many—

“You hungry?” Jacob asked, placing a hand on the table.

Slowly, Bo shook his head. “I ate breakfast, Detective.”

Jacob chuckled. “So did I. Doesn’t stop me from wanting to eat again.”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you want a coffee?” Jacob asked.

Bo felt like it was his job to throw the poor detective a bone. Anything else seemed cruel. “Sure,” he said finally.

Jacob smiled. “Awesome. What kind?”

Bo lifted his gaze to the menu board hanging on the back wall, behind the counter. “The Delight Caramel. Iced,” he said.

“Oh, I knew you were a caramel kind of guy. Just like Allie,” Jacob said. “Size?”

“I… suppose that depends. How long are we going to be here?” Bo asked.

“Well, longer than, like, two seconds. Man’s gotta eat.”

“A medium.”

Jacob slapped his palm against the table. “You betcha. Back in a sec.”

11:35 AM; CLINSTONE, IVORY HILL

“Hey, Will,” Jacob greeted as he and Bo walked up to the counter in the bar. 

William Foreman smiled. “Hey, Jake.” He saluted the detective with two fingers before going back to wiping out a glass with the cloth in his hand. “Alice managed to domesticate you yet?”

Jacob chuckled, nodding. “Little bit.” He crossed his arms over the top of the bar, leaning forward ever so slightly. “That’s a lie. Totally whipped. No ‘little bit’ about it.”

William laughed. “Nothing wrong with that, Jake.” He nodded to Bo. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh! Bo Austen, forensic analyst,” Jacob said. Bo nodded once in greeting. “We’re here to ask a few questions, if that’s all right?”

“Go for it,” William said. Jacob looked over at Bo, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Me?” Bo asked, touching a hand to his chest. “You’re the detective.”

“You’re the genius. I can Google too. I know you liked asking questions in LA.” Jacob waved a hand in his direction. “Ask away.”

Bo cleared his throat, slowly dragging his gaze away from Jacob’s face. “Were you working on New Year’s Eve?”

William nodded. “Yeah. I was behind the counter and two coworkers were out and about with drinks,” he said, gesturing to the rest of the bar with an open palm.

Bo nodded and pulled a picture—folded into perfect fourths—from his pocket. He unfolded it and handed it over to William. “Do you know this woman?”

Again, William nodded. “Yeah, that’s Cleo. She’s a regular. Light drinker, but a regular,” he said. “She was in here for the New Year’s party. I assume that’s what you wanted to know, right?”

“Was she with anyone?”

“She came in alone,” William said. He handed the picture back to Bo, scratching at his jaw. “Some guy bought her a drink. She left soon after.”

“Did she leave with him?” Jacob asked.

“Shit, Jake, I don’t know. It was hectic. It was New Year’s Eve. I think so,” William said. 

“Do you remember anything about the guy?”

William offered a shrug. “I don’t know, Jake. He was a man,” he said, opting for the obvious. “He was wearing some expensive-ass suit, though, if that helps.”

“Do you know the brand?” Bo asked, lifting his gaze to William’s face.

William chuckled. “Nah. Way out of my budget,” he said. A pause. “Mm,” he declared, holding up a hand, index finger extended toward the ceiling. “You know that expensive cologne they spritz you with when you walk into Hazel’s Bath & Body?”

Jacob nodded. “Shit almost makes me sick to my stomach,” he muttered.

“Right? Anyway, that’s what the dude smelled like. So, you know, if you’re looking for him, look for super hoity-toity dudes.” He cleared his throat. “So… is, uh, Cleo dead? I guess you wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t, right?”

“No,” Bo answered immediately. “She’s missing, but it’s very likely she’s alive.”

“How can you know that?” Bo tilted his head to the side for a moment, one side of his mouth scrunching up as his mind worked through the question and the answer. “Humans live by patterns. Ever since we started living in houses instead of scouring the land for temporary places of safety, we’ve developed patterns, and we’ve become comfortable with them, and we live by them. They define us. If Cleo Marshall has already been killed, if she’s dead and we haven’t found her, he’s not living by his pattern, and it would drive him insane.”

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NOT EDITED

Chapter Twelve

10:02 AM; MINNESOTA, THE SURGEON’S HOUSE, BASEMENT

Cleo looked up as the younger, green-eyed man came down the stairs. He slid a plate under Natalie’s cell door and another under Cleo’s. When their eyes met, he smiled softly. “Hi,” he greeted.

Cleo swallowed roughly as she climbed off the bed. “Hi.”. She crossed the room, wrapping her hands around the cell bars. “Who are you?” she asked.

He tilted his head to the side, debating. After what felt like an eternity, he finally offered up, “Gordon,” as an answer.

“Gordon,” Cleo repeated. “I–I’m…” She licked her lips nervously, recalling that she wasn’t supposed to use her real name around these maniacs. “I’m Lauren.”

Gordon wrapped a hand around hers. “I know.” He stepped back, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I’ll be back down to get your plates. Eat up. You need your strength, especially you, Brooke,” he said, looking over at Natalie. The girl nodded, but she didn’t give a verbal response. Gordon cleared his throat. “I’ll be back soon to collect your plates. Umm… enjoy.”

“Enjoy,” Cleo whispered as he walked back toward the stairs. Once the door at the top closed, she leaned her forehead against the bars, closing her eyes. “Why do you ‘especially’ need your strength?”

“I don’t know. They’ve talked about… things before. Alluded to them, I guess. But I haven’t been able to piece anything together. Whatever it is, after it happens, you’ll probably meet a new Brooke.”

“My God. Don’t say that. You’re not gonna die, Natalie. You’re going to be okay. We are going to be okay.” Cleo waited for a response. When she didn’t get one, she turned toward the wall between them. She wished so desperately that she could see the girl. “Natalie? We’re going to be okay.”

“We’ll see.”

11:25 AM; CHESTERWICK, MOE AND ELLEN LAW’S HOUSE, LIVING ROOM

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice my own son was missing,” Ellen Law whispered.

Jacob offered a sympathetic smile. “I’m so very sorry for your loss, Ellen, Moe. I know it’s so hard not to feel guilty or like you could’ve done more, but your son’s death is not your fault. It never will be. He doesn’t live with you, Ellen. It isn’t your fault that you didn’t know he was missing. You never could’ve known, not this soon,” he said. “Do you remember the last time that you spoke to him?”

“New Year’s eve, I-I guess,” Ellen said. “He, umm… he was going on a date that night. I–I didn’t even think anything of it when he didn’t call to tell me how things went. I just…”

“Ellen, this isn’t your fault,” Jacob repeated. He leaned forward, laying a hand over top of Ellen’s hand. “You have to know that,” he added. Beside him, Bo shifted uncomfortably, uncrossing his legs to cross them the opposite way. “You can ask them anything you want to. I wouldn’t have brought you along if I didn’t want you to help.”

Bo forced himself to nod. “Mrs. Law, I’m sorry to ask, but do you know who your son was going on a date with that evening?”

“Umm… I–I don’t remember her name. I think he texted it to me.” She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and opened up her texts with her son. “Here you go,” she practically whispered, handing her phone over to Bo. He wrote the name out on the notepad sitting on his leg.

Cleo Marshall. That was a start.

2:35 PM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, LAB

Bo sat down at the table in the lab, opening up his laptop. He ran Cleo Marshall’s name through the system but received no hits on any missing person’s reports. Of course. It was never that easy. He brought up a copy of her license instead. His fingers froze above the mousepad.

Five-foot-eleven. Blonde hair. Green eyes. Born on November second, 1975.

Bo’s brow furrowed as he quickly flipped open his red notebook. He scanned over the information written on Tess Brown’s sticky note.

Five-foot-eleven. Blonde hair. Green eyes. Born on November fifth, 1975.

“Austen.”

Bo looked up at the sound of Jacob’s voice. The detective stood in the doorway, one hand on either side of the doorframe. “Wh-what can I do for you?” Bo asked, mind still reeling from the obvious and undeniable similarities between Tess Brown and Cleo Marshall.

“We have a crime scene. Just you and me,” Jacob said.

“Umm… Yeah. Sure, okay.”

Jacob frowned. “You find somethin’?”

“Maybe. I don’t know yet. It isn’t worth getting into until I do.” He closed the lid of his laptop, shoved it back into his messenger bag. “I’ll fill you in as soon as I know more.”

Jacob nodded. “Sounds like a solid plan. In the meantime, let’s roll.”

2:45 PM; CLINSTONE, JANE BISHOP’S APARTMENT, BEDROOM

Bo held his camera up to his face and snapped a quick picture of the victim. One hand wrapped around the underside of the lens, he held the camera against his chest. “She didn’t put up much of a fight,” he said quietly. He lifted his camera, took one last picture, and held it out to Jacob. “You still want me to be me?” Bo asked.

“Of course. Be you.”

“Then take the camera, please.” Wordlessly, Jacob did. Bo walked to the doorway, hands locked behind his back as his eyes scanned the room. The mess of the room was all one big clue, but the little pieces of that mess—those were each individual clues, individual pieces of the puzzle. If you knew how to jigsaw them back together, you could get a pretty good idea of a victim’s last moments. Of course, it was all just a guess. An educated one, led by clues and observations, but without video footage, it would always be a guess.

“Jane’s doing homework, Intro to Psychology, when she hears a noise,” Bo said, his gaze falling on the open Psychology book on the floor of the room. “She stands up, leaving her phone and earphones on the nightstand,” he said, pointing in the direction of the nightstand. Jacob followed the gesture, his eyes inevitably landing on the cell phone in question. “She walks here, to the doorway. She grabs either side of the doorframe, leans out into the hall,” Bo said, using the first two fingers of his right hand to trace the line of fingerprints on the door jamb, fingerprints he had already dusted and identified as those belonging to the victim, not the killer. “She waits, doesn’t hear anything else, so she turns around and starts to head back for the bed.”

He took a step back, turning to face the bed. “He comes down the hall and grabs her from behind. I assume he chloroformed her, a cloth being placed over her mouth. I won’t know that for sure until I get her into the morgue.” Bo pulled off a glove, scratched at his hairline, pulled the glove back on. “She panics, throws them both back against the bookcase,” he said, tracing a vertical line in the air in the direction of the bookcase and the collapsed shelf, the fourth one from the bottom. “He doesn’t release her, though. He holds on until the chloroform—again, that’s just an assumption—takes hold.

“He pushes the Psychology book to the floor and sets her on the bed.” Bo crossed the room and turned the victim’s head to the side. “See this mark?” Jacob took a small step forward, nodding. “Twenty-six gauge Hypodermic needle, I’d guess half an inch in length. Again, I’ll verify that when I get her to the morgue. I could hazard a guess as to what it was filled with, but I couldn’t give you any solid answers at this moment. I’ll know more with some testing.”

He looked up at Jacob. “Am I freaking you out yet? You said you wanted me to be me, but you look like you might pass out.”

Jacob shook his head quickly. “No, not freaking me out. I’m just taking it all in.” He vaguely waved a hand over the room. “Keep being you.”

Bo offered a terse nod. “Whatever he injected her with was likely to keep her from moving or from coming to as she was being cut into. I should have a better answer by the end of the day, but for now, all I can truly say is that it was probably some time of analgetic or paralytic. Either would’ve done the job he needed it to. Regardless of what it was, she was still alive when both breasts were cut off. The surgical precision of the cuts confirms an inability to struggle, and the lack of evidence of her being bound anywhere also helps lend credence to the analgetic or paralytic theory.”

Jacob’s lips parted for a moment as he struggled to process any real, fully structured sentences. “Bo Austen, you are a fucking genius. I know you don’t wanna hear that, but it’s true.”

“I’m not entirely sure that a load of assumptions about a crime scene makes me a genius.”

“Well-informed assumptions require intellect. Ask how I know.”

One corner of Bo’s mouth curled upward ever so slightly. “Thank you.” He pulled off a glove and scratched the back of his neck. “I say we get her back to the morgue and let me work some more magic there.”

Jacob smiled. “Hell yeah, Austen. Let’s roll.”

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NOT EDITED

Chapter Eleven

Tuesday: January 7, 2020

3:21 AM; CLINSTONE, BO AUSTEN’S HOUSE, BEDROOM

Not for the first time since it had come out that Dallas Silver was the long-sought after Hangman, Bo flinched himself awake from the Kathy Baker dreams. He hated them. They weren’t exactly nightmares, but they did force him to relive all the times Kathy Baker spoke to him like he was worthless, all the times he allowed himself to feel like he was nothing more than chewed gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe. All the times Kathy wedged her way in between him and Dallas, weaseling her way into Dallas’s life, taking over every piece of it. The Dallas that had existed pre-Kathy Baker never would have run away from Jamal Pitman, forcing Bo to try and track them down, losing his job and his whole damn mind if he didn’t succeed.

The Dallas that had arisen post-Kathy Baker had run away in the middle of the night, leaving Bo to be one of the last people in the country to find out that his best friend was the FBI’s Most Wanted.

Bo glared at his bedroom wall as though it had wronged him in some way, like it was somehow the wall’s fault that he had been oblivious to Dallas’s serial killer tendencies the entire time they had worked together and lived together.

Usually he could avoid the dreams at least to some degree. At the very least, he could scare them away a little easier once they started, but work the day before had drained him, had taken away his will to fight away the Kathy Baker dreams. He felt weak, tired.

Hell, he almost felt normal. Miserable was a feeling normal people felt, right? He was pretty sure that it was. He dragged his gaze to his alarm clock. Nearly four. He was acutely aware of Acamas curled up behind his head, purring softly. He reached back over his shoulder and scratched the place between her ears.

He let out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes again. Jupiter, he did not want to go to work today. How long had it been since he had truly dreaded going to work?

The day after Jamal Pitman had called him useless for the third time, he guessed. Jamal had hated him after Kathy ran away, as though Kathy’s disappearance was his fault, as though it was his fault that Kathy was in love with a serial killer. And maybe it was. Once Bo had learned of Dallas’s interest in Kathy, he had encouraged him to pursue her if she made him happy, even though he so desperately wanted to tell him what a witch she could be to those around her.

Pursue her, he had, and he had succeeded. In marriage, in children, in living together, in running away together and becoming fugitives. Would any of it had happened if Bo had been selfish and told Dallas to leave her alone? To not chase after her? To leave his wants and desires behind simply because they bothered Bo?

Bo felt like screaming. He couldn’t wait to get out of this damn town. Even if they solved the case today, it still wouldn’t be soon enough. If he packed his bags and left that very moment, it still wouldn’t be soon enough.

He opened his eyes and sat up, rubbing a hand across his jaw. He couldn’t sleep, not here. He scooped up Acamas and climbed off the bed. Maybe the couch would help.

4:12 AM; CLINSTONE, BO AUSTEN’S HOUSE, LIVING ROOM

The couch hadn’t helped. Bo couldn’t help but feel disgusting. Disgusting for pretending to be ‘just one of the guys’ as he encouraged Dallas to pursue Kathy even though she was married. It didn’t matter that Kathy had always treated him like a tool for her to use for her own gain, a ladder to climb for her own success—he still felt like a monster for the pain he must’ve caused her by setting Dallas loose on her. Hangman. The vigilante. A serial killer. He had played devil’s advocate to Dallas Silver, and if that wasn’t something that would send him straight to Hell, if it existed, he didn’t know what would.

No amount of atoning would ever undo that sin.

8:12 AM; CLINSTONE POLICE DEPARTMENT, MAIN FLOOR

As soon as Bo stepped through the doors of the station, he felt eyes on him. Maybe it was because he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Maybe it was because they all believed he was a serial killer. Maybe it was because he was late to work for the first time in his entire career. 

Whatever the reason, he did his best to pretend he didn’t care. Let them stare. The normal façade had already fallen. They were officially through the looking glass on that one. What the hell did it matter anymore what they thought or if they started? 

He was planning on leaving soon, anyway. As soon as he got the chance, he’d be out of this hellhole and back home, closer to his serial killer best friend, his criminal wife, and their children. Home, where his friends were liars, where his boss hated him for everything that he was worth, which wasn’t much, really. That hell was a better home than this one. At least he knew where he fit in there, where he belonged.

“Hey, Austen.” 

Bo stopped walking, a frown forming on his face. He turned to face Carter. “What?” 

“You’re late.” 

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. It’s not like you all suffered from being separated from a killer for ten minutes, right?” Bo asked. Carter didn’t respond, only cleared his throat. “Can I go? Or do you have a serial killer joke up your sleeve?” Bo asked. “Because, if you do, I would love to hear it.” 

“No, I don’t… have a joke. I wanted to apologize.” 

“You’ve started off your apology rather terribly, Detective Lehmann.” 

“I’m sorry,” Carter said. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes, okay. I’m not sure what you wanted. An apology in return? I’m not sorry for being late. I’m not sorry for standing up for myself and my property yesterday. And I’m not accepting your half-assed apology or telling you that it’s all okay, because it isn’t. Yesterday wasn’t okay, this isn’t okay, and I’m not okay. I see no point in pretending that it is or that I am. I just ask that you go to your desk, let me go to the morgue, and you not approach me unless it’s for work. Can we agree on all of that?”

Carter’s brow furrowed, but after a moment, he nodded and stepped out of Bo’s way. Apparently, being a little rude was the way to go to get what you wanted in Clinstone. After clocking in, Bo headed down to the morgue. His gaze landed on Jacob, seated behind the table, feet kicked up on the steel surface. Bo frowned. He’d have to clean the table again once the detective left. 

“Hey,” Jacob greeted. 

“I know. I’m late. I’ve already been through that,” Bo said. 

“Don’t care about that. I’m late all the time. It happens,” Jacob said. 

“You have kids, Detective Mason, a reason to be late,” Bo said. 

“So do you. The reason, I mean. Not the kids. Unless… you do?” Jacob asked.

“I don’t. I am very much not father material.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Jacob said. “But you still have a reason. You were emotionally and verbally attacked yesterday. Hell, I wouldn’t have even come into work today. You’re braver than I am,” Jacob said.

“Brave isn’t the terminology I would use. I’m still on my probation period. I simply had no choice.” Bo walked across the room and set his notebooks on the table. “What can I do for you, Detective Mason?”

Jacob raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you just call me Jake?” he asked.

“Because I respect you.”

“I respect you too. Calling you Bo doesn’t lessen that.”

“I suppose not,” Bo said after a moment. “But unless ‘Detective Mason’ bothers you, it is the way I prefer to address you.”

“Your preference is totally okay, then.” He cleared his throat. “Did you identify the male vic?” he asked.

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Bo confirmed.

“And that… doesn’t bother you?” Jacob asked. “That you went home without finishing your work?”

“No.” Bo crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against one of the counters in the lab. That was very much a lie. He had hated himself for going home without identifying the victim. It made him feel even worse about himself than he had after Gwen and Carter worked their asses off to call him a killer, and until he had gone home yesterday, he hadn’t thought that to be a possibility.

“See, my Alice, she always hated leaving the station until her work was done,” Jacob said, pulling Bo back to now instead of the day before. “And she’s a lot like you, Austen. So I can only imagine you feel about the same as she always did.”

“I… think you may be forgetting that I met your fiancee just yesterday, Detective. She is far too likable of a woman to be a lot like me.”

“You aren’t unlikable because you’re you. You’re ‘unlikable’ because of the people around you. Gwen’s jaded, paranoid, and suspicious. Carter is apparently very susceptible to the power of suggestion from that paranoia. It isn’t about you. They would’ve targeted anybody new who came in. It just happened to be you.”

Bo couldn’t help but chuckle as he shook his head. “Detective Mason, if it were because of the people around me, Clinstone would be the first time I had experienced this issue. It’s not. I’m the problem. At the very least, in this universe, on this earth, my very existence is the problem. I accepted that a long time ago. It’s simply the way the world turns.”

“If your existence was the problem, nobody would ever like you at all. Everyone would hate you. You know, like… mosquitos. Or ticks. Everyone hates ticks. You’re like, I dunno, a spider.”

Bo raised a brow. “A spider?”

“Yeah. A lot of people are scared of you. You know, because you’ve got eight legs or whatever. But there are people who love you and think you’re a marvel of the world. They think you’re amazing and special and that everyone should truly watch and learn just how special you are. If everyone would take the time to sit down and watch the spider build his web, maybe they wouldn’t be so scared.”

Bo stared at Jacob for what felt like an obscene amount of time. Despite that, he couldn’t find anything wrong in his eyes or on his face. It didn’t seem like a joke or a prank. It didn’t seem dishonest or cruel. It just seemed… normal. Like it was totally normal to compare a man to a spider to try and convince him that he wasn’t the problem in the equation. Bo cleared his throat, finally settling on, “I do not have eight legs,” as a response.

Jacob snorted. “True. We’ll assume your intelligence is your legs. That’s what scares people. And in this, uh, comparison or metaphor thing, ‘scare’ doesn’t always mean genuine fear, either. It could mean, y’know, intimidated or jealous.”

“I’ve never met anyone jealous of a spider.”

“Okay, first, I definitely have. And second, I’m not saying jealous of a spider-spider. I’m saying jealous of the you-spider.” Jacob pointed at him. “You’re being intentionally difficult now.”

“And you’re in my lab with your shoes on my clean table. It seems only fair.”

“I thought it’d give my presence a more casual vibe.”

“I… am too high-strung these days for anyone’s presence to have a casual ‘vibe’.”

“And no one should blame you for that.” Jacob leaned back in his chair, dropping his feet to the floor. “Yesterday, you said you were leaving after this case was done. That still the plan?”

“Yes.”

“But you haven’t ID’d our vic yet?”

“No.”

“And… yet you’re still standing here talking to me.”

“You’re in my lab, Detective. I need the morgue for some of my work, and I need the lab for the rest of it. I’ll be working on ID’ing the victim as soon as you’re out of the room.”

“Why? You can’t work around other people?” Jacob asked.

“It’s a personal choice.”

“It’s a ‘personal choice’ because you don’t want people to see how smart you are,” Jacob said. Bo scratched the side of his head before offering a shrug. He couldn’t quite pinpoint Jacob’s end-goal, aside from trying to annoy him, but he didn’t enjoy the journey to said goal. “Right?” Jacob asked.

“I simply don’t work in front of other people.”

“You identified Tess Brown in front of two people.”

“Yes. That was different.”

“How?”

“Identifying this victim will be… different than identifying Miss Brown,” Bo said quietly.

“Yeah, it’ll require more intelligence,” Jacob said.

“Stop saying that like I’m the smartest person you know.” Bo sat his satchel on the table with a thud. “I’m not. I-I’m just a lab geek.”

“Bo, you are the smartest person I know. Your progression or title or whatever—none of that changes anything. You are the smartest person I know,” Jacob said. Bo shook his head, his teeth sinking into the scar on the inside of his bottom lip. “Why not?”

“My best friend was a serial killer, Detective Mason. I’m not as intelligent as they claim that I am. An intelligent person wouldn’t have missed that,” Bo said.

“I told you about our police chief, about our killer defense attorney. He conned the ever-loving shit outta Alice, and she’s the second smartest person I know. So if you think you’re dumb for accidentally befriending a serial killer, then Alice and I are fucking Idiots of the Year, because we helped free one from prison.”

Bo raked a hand through his hair, pausing to tug at the blonde locks. “Why do you even care? Why does it matter how I feel about my supposed intellect?”

“Because you don’t deserve to feel like shit just because you’ve been through shit,” Jacob said. Bo watched him for a moment before pulling his laptop out of his messenger bag. He rounded the table and sat down beside Jacob. “Are you really giving me the silent treatment so I’ll leave? Because my daughter does it to me now, so it has basically no effect on me. I’m immune, Austen. Totally immune.”

Bo shook his head. “No. I have something to show you.” Jacob raised an eyebrow as Bo typed in his password. After his desktop loaded, Bo used the mousepad to double-click on an application Jacob had never heard the name of before. The app opened, and Bo double-clicked ‘open’. He scrolled through the files on his computer, opened the one labeled ‘CLINSTONE’.

Jacob couldn’t help but scan the file names Bo scrolled through. The man was the poster boy for organization. They were laid out by month and year, by police department, and apparently by the detective he dealt with the most during each case. In the Clinstone folder, he opened up a file labeled ‘First Case’ and then another labeled with three question marks. “I don’t know his name yet. That will change soon,” Bo said as he looked over at Jacob. “The same goes for the First Case folder. That’ll be replaced with the killer’s headline once we know what it is.”

“What do you think it is?” Jacob asked.

“There are too many factors to make a reasonable guess, and any guess I make simply hampers our ability to see past the guess to figure out the truth. He’s up to something much bigger than just slitting their throats. That’s not his M.O. There’s something… larger than life in this case, and we haven’t found it yet. That’s all I do know.” Bo said. He scrolled through the images in the question mark file and double-clicked one. Jacob leaned back as a picture of the John Doe’s face opened on Bo’s screen. “Never seen a body that decayed?” Bo asked.

“Not for a long time, is all” Jacob said quietly. He scratched the side of his head. “I cannot believe that you were nearly face-to-face with him in that dumpster.”

“I needed information,” Bo said simply. Jacob chuckled, and Bo knew that he wasn’t mocking him. His laugh was missing the nasty inflection of a mocker.

Jacob Mason thought he was funny.

Dallas had thought he was funny too.

Bo cleared his throat. “Anyway, I use this to… repair and reconstruct the faces of vics that aren’t in the system. When I fingerprinted him, he didn’t show up, and his face is too… well, you know… to be ID’d through the system.”

“Is this another one of yours?” Jacob asked. “Like the fingerprint thing?”

“Yeah.” Bo nodded, swallowing down the nagging fear that told him to shut up, to close the damn laptop and walk out of here while he still had some of his self-respect, which wasn’t much, but it was still technically something.

Jacob leaned forward again. “How’s it work?” he asked.

“Well, it’s like an… improved version of Photoshop for facial recognition,” Bo said. “It, uh, it’s like a virtual, umm, reconstruction.”

“You don’t have to be so nervous,” Jacob said softly. “There’s only one person in this room who’s judging you, Bo, and it’s not me.”

“Yeah,” Bo whispered. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, if I come in with this, I can remove the puffiness in his face, as well as the discoloration. I know he was white, so I can go through and edit his skin tone to white so the system can recognize him a bit easier than before. And once we remove the swelling and whatnot, we’re left with… this,” he said.

Jacob blinked several times, one eyebrow raised. “That’s… impressive.” The victim looked nearly alive again, minus the few faults Bo had yet to fix.

“And, umm, I can take this and get rid of the protruding tongue and eyes. And then I reshape the lips like… this.” Bo fell silent as he deepened the philtrum on the victim. He cleared his throat. “John Doe appeared to have green eyes, so if I open the lids and edit the color back in, we’ve got this,” he said.

“Holy shit, Bo,” Jacob breathed. Bo nodded as he clicked a button at the bottom of the screen, comparing the picture with the database. “Bo, that’s—”

“—Victor Law,” they said in unison. Bo tapped a finger against the name in the lower right-hand corner of his screen. “System just matched it,” he said, turning to look up at Jacob.

“Christ, Bo, you’re a… Well, you’re a fucking genius,” Jacob said. Bo chose not to acknowledge that one. He just didn’t have it in him to fight Jacob’s less than sound reasoning of how he wasn’t stupid. Jacob stood up, clapping a hand down on Bo’s shoulder. “Thank you for this. I’m going to inform Victor’s family. You wanna come with?” he asked.

“I… have some cleaning to do,” Bo said. 

Jacob glanced around the lab. “Didn’t you just clean this place yesterday?” he asked.

“Yes.” Jacob frowned. “I’m not normal, Detective Mason, and I think I’m going to have to give up on trying to hide that fact from the people at this station. My cover’s been blown on that, cat’s out of the bag. You can finally begin to process the fact that there’s something wrong with me, and cleaning is one of my outlets.”

“Is there something wrong with you? Because being intelligent isn’t a disease or a flaw or a bad attribute. It’s just a thing that you are. A kickass thing that you are,” Jacob said.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I’m successfully diagnosed.” Jacob didn’t respond, but the frown returned. “I’ll see you around, Detective.”

“Sure, Bo.” Jacob slapped a hand against his thigh before turning and heading toward the door.

Bo almost felt… guilty for turning him away. Bo had had scattered friends here and there in his life, but he’d really put Jacob’s desire to be kind and friendly to the test, pushing it to limits he’d never pushed anyone else’s. He’d be a fool if he continued to try and shoulder his way through this case without at least one person on his side. “Umm… Detective?” Bo asked. 

Jacob turned back to him. “Hmm?”

“I–is Detective Lehmann going with you?”

“Not if you don’t want him to. Truth be told, I’m still kind of pissed at him,” Jacob said.

Bo nodded. “Umm… let me wipe down the counters and the table here, and then I’ll go with you.”

Jacob smiled. “Awesome. I’ll be upstairs.”

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