Byte moved to stand next to him. Hutch blocked out everything else as he tried to understand what he was seeing. Something was there. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he felt it. He always trusted his gut, and the way it was flip-flopping told him he was on to something. But what?
“Nearly every twelve weeks like clockwork, just like I said,” Byte commented with a cocky lilt to his voice. “Only a couple variations where they occurred sooner, like the guy was on vacation or something.”
Maybe that’s what he was seeing, shit he already knew, but his sleep-deprived mind was twisting facts. “Goddammit,” Hutch cussed in irritation as he ran a hand across the stubble on his chin. He needed a shave and, fuck, he needed sleep, but he didn’t see either of those things happening anytime soon. He needed to figure this out.
“Why? Why twelve weeks? It’s not like the urge to kill pops up on a set schedule. It’s always there, just below the surface, waiting for the next victim. Why twelve weeks?”
“I don’t know,” Byte admitted.
Hutch tapped his fingers against his pursed lips as he continued to stare at the map. “I get the random dump sites. He’s doing it on purpose. He’s making sure they’re in different jurisdictions to avoid their being tied together. He’s smart, so there has to be a reason why there’s a pattern to the timeline between kills.”
Byte nodded slowly. “Yeah, I think so too, just can’t figure it out.” Byte headed back to his chair and opened his laptop. “But I will,” he said confidently.
“Well, just figure it out faster, will ya?”
As Hutch turned around, he ignored the one-finger salute from Byte and started searching through the case files from 2007. He grabbed Jared Martin’s file and scanned the contents. He wouldn’t find much. He’d been through the file with a fine-tooth comb. Jared Martin had been a vibrant twenty-two-year-old effeminate gay male. He’d worked only a month at the infamous hard-core BDSM club Ram Rod before he was found dumped in a ravine. Ram Rod was a far cry from the exclusive clubs that catered to the lifestyle. The appeal of Ram Rod was that there were no rules. When a Dom was blacklisted for disregarding safewords and causing his sub true harm, he could still find admittance at Ram Rod. No one batted an eye when Jared wound up dead. The heavy bruising and castration had been attributed to a Dom with a seriously sick kink. The case had been stamped as a coldfile almost immediately, and Hutch highly doubted anyone had really tried to solve the crime.
If the killer kept to his schedule, Hutch had about eleven weeks to figure out who his man was. But as he reached for another file, something gnawed at his gut. For some reason, he wasn’t sure why, but something was telling him he had a lot less time to catch this psycho before he stuck again.
Hutch checked his watch, surprised to find it was only eight forty. It felt later. He pulled his cell out and dialed the number for the Jefferson office. It was answered on the second ring by a pleasant female voice.
“This is Special Agent Hutchinson, any chance Sergeant Struk is in tonight?”
“I’m not sure, sir, but I can connect you with his office.”
“That would be great, thank you.”
“One moment, please.”
Hutch tapped the file in his hand against his thigh along with the elevator music that played through the phone line as he stared at the wall of information. The sheer volume of information was staggering, making it difficult to hone in on individual facts. His mind raced through the data like the rapid fire of a machine gun.
“This is Sergeant Struk. What can I do for you, Agent Hutchinson?”
Hutch hadn’t expected Struk to be in this time of night, had figured he’d get his voice mail, so he floundered for a moment before he responded. “Uh… yeah. Good evening. I was hoping you could answer a few questions about the Akira Kimura case.”
There was a long pause
“Nearly every twelve weeks like clockwork, just like I said,” Byte commented with a cocky lilt to his voice. “Only a couple variations where they occurred sooner, like the guy was on vacation or something.”
Maybe that’s what he was seeing, shit he already knew, but his sleep-deprived mind was twisting facts. “Goddammit,” Hutch cussed in irritation as he ran a hand across the stubble on his chin. He needed a shave and, fuck, he needed sleep, but he didn’t see either of those things happening anytime soon. He needed to figure this out.
“Why? Why twelve weeks? It’s not like the urge to kill pops up on a set schedule. It’s always there, just below the surface, waiting for the next victim. Why twelve weeks?”
“I don’t know,” Byte admitted.
Hutch tapped his fingers against his pursed lips as he continued to stare at the map. “I get the random dump sites. He’s doing it on purpose. He’s making sure they’re in different jurisdictions to avoid their being tied together. He’s smart, so there has to be a reason why there’s a pattern to the timeline between kills.”
Byte nodded slowly. “Yeah, I think so too, just can’t figure it out.” Byte headed back to his chair and opened his laptop. “But I will,” he said confidently.
“Well, just figure it out faster, will ya?”
As Hutch turned around, he ignored the one-finger salute from Byte and started searching through the case files from 2007. He grabbed Jared Martin’s file and scanned the contents. He wouldn’t find much. He’d been through the file with a fine-tooth comb. Jared Martin had been a vibrant twenty-two-year-old effeminate gay male. He’d worked only a month at the infamous hard-core BDSM club Ram Rod before he was found dumped in a ravine. Ram Rod was a far cry from the exclusive clubs that catered to the lifestyle. The appeal of Ram Rod was that there were no rules. When a Dom was blacklisted for disregarding safewords and causing his sub true harm, he could still find admittance at Ram Rod. No one batted an eye when Jared wound up dead. The heavy bruising and castration had been attributed to a Dom with a seriously sick kink. The case had been stamped as a coldfile almost immediately, and Hutch highly doubted anyone had really tried to solve the crime.
If the killer kept to his schedule, Hutch had about eleven weeks to figure out who his man was. But as he reached for another file, something gnawed at his gut. For some reason, he wasn’t sure why, but something was telling him he had a lot less time to catch this psycho before he stuck again.
Hutch checked his watch, surprised to find it was only eight forty. It felt later. He pulled his cell out and dialed the number for the Jefferson office. It was answered on the second ring by a pleasant female voice.
“This is Special Agent Hutchinson, any chance Sergeant Struk is in tonight?”
“I’m not sure, sir, but I can connect you with his office.”
“That would be great, thank you.”
“One moment, please.”
Hutch tapped the file in his hand against his thigh along with the elevator music that played through the phone line as he stared at the wall of information. The sheer volume of information was staggering, making it difficult to hone in on individual facts. His mind raced through the data like the rapid fire of a machine gun.
“This is Sergeant Struk. What can I do for you, Agent Hutchinson?”
Hutch hadn’t expected Struk to be in this time of night, had figured he’d get his voice mail, so he floundered for a moment before he responded. “Uh… yeah. Good evening. I was hoping you could answer a few questions about the Akira Kimura case.”
There was a long pause
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