Chapter Four
Rory 2014
“I am so done with all this rain. It’s like a goddamn Twilight movie, minus the sparkling vampires and the hot wolf shifters usually running around half-naked.” Rory kicked his black rain boots off, dropping the matching raincoat onto the floor beside them. They were soaked, as was he, to the bone, shivering and dripping on the carpet.
Connie shoved past him, ignoring his cursing protests at being manhandled. “Forks isn’t far from here, ya know. You could drive up and do one of those Twilight tours they do there.”
“Fuck. You.”
She snorted. “Unless you grew a pussy since I last checked, ain’t happening, partner.”
“You kiss your mother with that mouth, Consuela?” Her head snapped up and if looks could kill, he’d be lying on the floor beside his sopping wet rain gear, lifeless. A string of curses the likes of which would make a sailor blush flew from her mouth, a mangled mess of English and Spanish, followed by a purple Wellie that hit the wall when he ducked into the bathroom to shower. He and Gonzales had been in Seattle for a few weeks now, and he was pretty damned sure that it’d been raining nineteen of the twenty-one days.
Another missing persons case had caught Connie’s attention, the details eerily similar to the unsolved murder back in 2005 that had been linked to the 2006 disappearance of Howard Tullor Junior.
Eight years later, young Howard was still missing, and Grandpa Dickweed was still halfway up the director’s ass, pissed because the FBI hadn’t found his grandson yet. So all Rory and Connie had to do was say the words “Tacoma” and “Tullor” in the same sentence, and they were on the next plane to Washington.
Cummings was shadowing both Frank and Taylor, and an agent that just came back off maternity leave was covering Gonzales with Valerie and Charles Stone. As far as Taylor and his parents knew, Marta was visiting her family in Mexico through the end of the year. The three of them had been assigned to Frank, Taylor, and the Stones for eight years, and there hadn’t been any problems. Rory was starting to think that the unsub responsible for murdering Taylor’s parents was in the wind for good. There’d been talk around the office back at Quantico of them being reassigned, but the director assured them that it wasn’t happening. The orders came from higher up the food chain, and that was disconcerting as well.
Three years into the assignment, Rory had approached the director to try and obtain more information from the guarded, secretive man. At the very least he, Connie, and Blair wanted more detailed information as to why they were shadowing the Langford family and Frank Moore. They weren’t politicians or high society; not one of the four led any kind of life that would warrant protection from the FBI. The director would only tell Rory everything he’d said before: Emily and Sean Langford had popped up in certain circles that were monitored by the Bureau and had thus drawn the director’s attention. Their killer could still go after the surviving son, and therefore, anyone close to Taylor Langford was in danger as well. It was the same response Rory had been given since the day he, along with Connie and Blair, had been given the assignment. The director glaring at him and telling him to shut the fuck up and do his goddamn job caught him off guard—he didn’t know where the anger was coming from. A quick, “Yes sir” and a nod of his head had appeased the man. Stalling was a man of few words, something Rory was used to by now. The flash of anger in his eyes and harsh tone, however, were not the norm for his boss. Unanswered questions still brimmed beneath the surface that Rory vowed to uncover eventually.
He was in and out of the shower within five minutes, beyond done with being wet—so done in fact, that he blow-dried his hair. Dressed in sweats, a hoodie, and thick, wool socks, he headed toward the kitchen of the house the Bureau had rented for him and Gonzales, the smell of fresh coffee making him smile.
“Puto gilipollas,” Gonzales snarled at him when he entered the kitchen.
“I am truly amazed that some classy broad hasn’t snatched you up and made an honest woman of you yet,” he teased, filling a mug and taking a few moments to inhale the rich aroma before sliding into the chair at the long dining table across from Gonzales. “What’s all this?”
She was scribbling something onto a notepad, holding up a finger, thankfully not the middle one. “Okay.” She set the pen down and rummaged through a stack of files, pulling three out and handing them to him. “I put in a request a few days ago for any case files that held similarities between the Tullor and Helms cases. Officer Mills delivered them while you were in the shower.”
Rory took the files and set them down, taking a sip from his mug and sighing contentedly. Connie shoved the papers in front of her aside, pulling a laptop from her messenger bag and flipping it open. “Are these the only three you think might be linked to Tullor and Helms?”
“So far, yes, but I’ve got about a dozen more files to go through.”
“Holy shit, really? How many did Mills bring over?” He opened the file on top of the few she’d handed him and skimmed through the report.
“Twenty. And that’s just the ones that he got hits off within the parameters I gave him. I’m quite certain there’d be more if I broadened the descriptives we’re searching for.” She sighed.
By the time they’d gone over each file in the box, there were nine that could possibly be linked to the ongoing investigation. There were nine young men: four unsolved murders, and five missing persons, their pictures spread across the hardwood table. “Jesus, Connie. There is a very real possibility that there is a predator here in Washington, preying on young men.”
“Or in Oregon. Remember, the body of Mitchell Helms was found in…” She reached for her notepad, flipping through the pages. “Ah, here it is. Macleay Park in Portland, Oregon,” Connie reminded him. “Wait a minute.” Brows furrowed, she reached for her laptop, typing furiously.
“What, did you find something?” Rory circled the table, coming up behind her. He leaned over her shoulder to read what she was typing into her Internet browser search engine. “Sauvie Island, what’s that?”
“It’s in Oregon—the largest island along the Columbia River. There was something—back in 2010, I think it was—a boy went missing.” She hammered at the keys, screens popping up left and right as Gonzales navigated through them quickly, and Rory did his best to keep up with her.
“ ‘Portland man, 18, drowns near Sauvie Island.’ Interesting. I’ll bookmark this one and come back.” Connie exited the screen, pulling up the next one.
“ ‘Stepmother of missing Portland boy, Kyron Horman moves to California.’ Yes! That’s the one, but where’s the story on his disappearance?” She skimmed through the article, clicking on a link at the bottom of the page.
“ ‘Kyron Horman search expands to include Sauvie Island.’ ” Rory read the title of the article. “Okay, so do you think a four-year-old case involving a missing second-grader is tied to our two cases?”
She shook her head, leaning back in the chair, arms crossed over her chest. “No, I honestly don’t think the Horman case is our unsub. Our guy likes them a smidge older. But it’s odd and worth more than a cursory look, when you think about it.” Unfolding her arms, Gonzales went back to the previous article about the drowning. “Now, this one—I’ll call for the files on this case because he’s the right age. It may or may not link back to our unsub, but the geographic location and age of the victim fit our parameters.”
Rory soaked it all in: the body of Mitchell Helms, the Tullor kid, the drowning, the locations all in or around Oregon and Washington. They needed a large whiteboard, maps of both states, and a lot more coffee. A run to the liquor store might not be a bad idea either—for after they set up a profile. Best to keep a clear mind while working the case. “Okay, let’s take a step back. Why are you certain that the unsub is male?”
“The damage that was inflicted on the bodies that have been found doesn’t seem like something most women would be physically capable of doing. At least not alone.” She stood and walked over to the end of the table, stopping beside him and flipping the picture of the Helms kid around, pulling his file out and opening it. “The autopsy report shows multiple broken bones and fractures that healed but weren’t set right, going back anywhere from two weeks to three years prior to his death. And the cause of death is listed as strangulation. In each case where a body has been found, the autopsy reports list the same things—broken bones, fractures, and death by strangulation, or their throat was slit.”
Nodding, he leaned across the table, picking up the picture of a young man that looked to be about seventeen. He was smiling at the camera, blue eyes sparkling, blond hair messy on purpose. “Fuck, Connie. We need to call Quantico and see if we can get a few more agents on this. I think we may have wandered onto a serial killer’s playground.”