Jan: I ACCUSE

“I think we’re looking at a serial killer.

Special Agent Tristan Falkner met the sceptical eyes of his colleagues.

“What are you talking about? The guy jumped out of a 27^th story window—there were a dozen witnesses,” said Drew Cormac.

Falkner threw the younger man an irritated look, wishing again that his regular partner hadn’t chosen this month to have her baby. He hated breaking in a new partner.

“Why are we even talking about this,” Cormac continued, “when we have a case load that…”

ASAC Martinez interrupted Cormac’s rant even though he understood the man’s frustration.

“Explain your thinking, Tris,” he said. “What are you seeing that we’re not?”

Falkner grimaced. The connections were tenuous, he knew that, but it was there; he felt it in his gut. Unfortunately, even though the FBI trained its agents to trust their own instincts, they also required facts and evidence—Falkner was short on those.

“Ten years ago, Oliver Davis-Smith attended Burnbridge, a private college in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and was a member of the Digamma Rho fraternity.”

Cormac leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, clearly bored. ASAC Martinez was frowning but listening intently.

“Life was pretty good for him: married his sorority girlfriend, graduated second in his class from Harvard Business School, successful career until two months ago.”

“Jeez, we know this,” Cormac interrupted and this time Martinez didn’t stop him. “His mistress records them having sex, forces him to do some insider trading to pay for her silence but she sends the tape to his wife anyway; his wife divorces him and takes the kids; he’s fired from his job, he jumps. The mistress vanishes. End of story.”

Falkner clenched his teeth. “And two years before that there was Graham Patterson, also a member of Digamma Rho who just happened to be Davis-Smith’s roommate. He was mayor of his town and being groomed for Congress. He’s speaking at the annual conference of the right-wing Family Research Brethren, when oops, his Powerpoint Presentation on the sanctity of family is suddenly showing him having sex with someone who is neither his wife nor female. He’s humiliated, ruined and kills himself later that day by autoerotic asphyxiation. Now I don’t get that—why kill yourself in such a humiliating way? Why not use the gun he has locked in his desk drawer?”

Cormac barked out a laugh. “So the dude wanted one last hurrah before he offed himself. So what?”

ASAC Martinez tapped his fingers on the table. “No, I’m interested. Go on, Tris.”

Falkner knew he was onto something.

“Okay, so going back six years, we have another death that was written up as a suicide: another member of Digamma Rho and another friend of Davis-Smith, name of Garry Bellwood. They were such good buddies, he was best man at Davis-Smith’s wedding.”

Even Cormac looked interested by this snippet.

“Bellwood had a successful car dealership selling Mercedes and Beamers. Business is going great and he’s opened three franchises over a four year period. And then suddenly, he forgets to pay his taxes and goes bankrupt. Injects enough heroin to kill a bull elephant, even though everyone who knew him said he was against drugs, believed in Just Say No. And get this, the accountant who’d been working for him for two years was never found. Becca Stevens just vanished. Local cops thought she must have left because she felt guilty, but Becca Stevens didn’t even exist until she’d gotten the job with Bellwood, and there’s been no trace of her since. And believe me, I’ve dug deep.”

Falkner had their attention.

“Nine years ago, a fourth member of Digamma Rho was murdered: Father Jeff Driver—another close friend of Davis-Smith.”

“I remember this case,” Cormac said suddenly. “I studied it at the Academy. A Catholic priest who was accused of child molestation. He died from blood loss when someone castrated him.”

Falkner nodded. “The police assumed it was someone who wanted to punish him for his crimes. But although the kiddie fiddler name stuck, no one ever came forward to say that their child had been a victim.”

“Not even later?” ASAC Martinez asked.

“Nope. Nothing was ever found and the cops questioned all his parishioners. And get this, the guy had been quite the party animal in college but had some sort of Damascene conversion during his senior year.” Falkner paused. “Almost as if he had something to atone for.”

ASAC Martinez leaned forward. “You think something happened and the killer has been tracking down this bunch of fraternity brothers ever since?”

Falkner nodded. “That’s what I think.”

Cormac wasn’t convinced. “But why make it so complicated? Why not just get a gun and blow the guys’ brains out? If this is some kind of revenge thing, why take ten years?”

“I haven’t figured that part out,” Falkner admitted. “But there’s something here—a pattern. The Catholic priest—there was a lot of rage in that murder, like the killer was less controlled then.”

“But how are you linking the suicides of the other three?”

“That’s the thing,” said Falkner. “A Catholic priest is going to be the one who’s the least likely to commit suicide—it’s a mortal sin, the unforgiveable sin, so…”

ASAC Martinez saw where this was going. “So that’s going to be the one that no one would believe is suicide, so the killer doesn’t even try to make it look like he killed himself.”

Falkner nodded, relieved that his boss saw the pattern, as well. “Yes, and I think the killer decided then to make the others look like suicides—and they’re years apart so it’s less likely that anyone would make the connection and alert the authorities.”

“What made you make the connection?” ASAC Martinez asked.

“It was the Digamma Rho link—something clicked. Whatever happened, the trigger, the source of all this is back at Burnbridge College. I’d bet my badge on it.”

ASAC Martinez nodded. “Okay, what’s your plan?”

Falkner blew out a relieved breath now he’d been given the go-ahead.

“Two-fold: I want to go to Harrisburg and interview the Dean and any members of staff who knew the dead men and the Digamma Rho fraternity; and secondly, I want to talk to Conran Bates, a TV reporter in Baltimore. He was in the fraternity and also at Davis-Smith’s wedding.”

ASAC Martinez stood up. “I can give you a week then I need you back here. Take Cormac.”

Falkner slid a sideways look at Cormac; he’d hoped to work the case alone.

“Looks like we’re taking a trip to Harrisburg, partner,” said Cormac with a grin.

Falkner was happy to let Cormac drive—he was too irritating to be a passenger; at least if the guy drove, he’d have to focus on driving instead of driving him nuts. Unfortunately, Falkner had vastly underestimated Cormac’s ability to multitask.

“You really think there’s something to this Digamma Rho Killer?”

Falkner didn’t even bother to answer that.

“Okay, okay, I know you got Martinez convinced but it sounds like a bunch of hooey to me. It’s just coincidence. I know what you’re gonna say—FBI agents don’t believe in coincidences, but I was a math major and I’m telling you, from a statistical perspective, coincidences are inevitable, like the probability of two people having the same birthday in a group of only 23, that’s more than a 50% chance.”

“And the probability of three people the same age committing suicide over a ten year period, successful men who haven’t been in a war zone? The suicide rate is eleven per hundred thousand people annually, that’s 0.00011%. So three of them in ten years?”

Cormac scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Okay, so it’s not a high probability, but it’s not impossible, especially given all three of them were in high pressure, high achieving environments.”

He side-eyed Falkner as he drove.

“You want to talk to Conran Bates on the way? We’re going past Baltimore.”

Falkner shook his head. “No, we’ll talk to Bates on the way back.”

Cormac was silent for nearly a whole minute.

“Tell me what you know about Becca Stevens.”

Falkner withheld a smile. Cormac wasn’t as dumb as he tried to sound.

“Becca Stevens was born in Winston-Salem in 1991 … and died in 2015—leukemia. But her social security number had her working for Garry Bellwood for 25 months.”

“And whoever this woman was, as his accountant, she had access to all his bank records.”

“Yup.”

“How much was his unpaid tax bill?”

“$5.7 million.”

Cormac whistled through his teeth. “And the money was never traced?”

“No, but I did find something interesting.”

“Is this sharing hour, Falkner?”

“Funny. At the time Becca Stevens went missing, several large donations were made to charities around Harrisburg: a free clinic, an AIDS charity, and a woman’s refuge, totaling…”

“Let me guess, $5.7 million.”

“Ding ding ding, we have a winner.”

“That doesn’t make this Stevens woman a killer—just a very clever thief.”

“It’s a theory.”

Cormac looked thoughtful. “What do you know about the mistress of Davis-Smith?”

“Not much. The tape doesn’t show her face. Fair skin, slender build, no discernible birth marks. Blonde hair but looks bleached. A friend of Davis-Smith said he thought her name was Jenna and she had a southern accent—maybe Georgia.”

“Y’all sure about that?”

Falkner rolled his eyes.

“Any missing mistresses, office staff, female friends of Jeff Driver or Graham Patterson?”

Falkner sighed. “Not that I’ve been able to find.”

They were both silent.

Cormac tapped the steering wheel as they slowed, the traffic congealing where MD-201 N became MD-295 N.

“Anything else hinky about Digamma Rho?”

“There was a serious complaint about hazing the year after the fab four graduated—a freshman lost a finger in a firework explosion but he wasn’t interested in naming names. He later scored a very nice internship with Davis-Smith’s father.”

Cormac gave a disgusted snort. “Rich pricks with deep pockets.”

“Certainly in Davis-Smith’s case.”

“I know you’re working an angle, Falkner. How about you sharing it with your partner.”

Falkner studied the passing scenery. Finally, he spoke.

“It’s just a theory, but I think the killer is a woman.”

Cormac didn’t respond right away. “You know that a serial killer is ten times more likely to be male than female?”

“Yep.”

“And you still think a woman did this?”

“From the questions you’ve been asking about Becca Stevens and Jenna the mistress, you think so, too.”

“How does that fit in with Graham Patterson’s male lover?”

“The man’s face was never shown and he didn’t come forward. He was never found. Sound familiar? And it’s not just that—the killer didn’t want to just kill, she wanted to ruin them, starting with their reputations, their jobs and their relationship with wives and children, if they had them.”

Cormac nodded slowly. “It’s about revenge.”

“Yes.”

“And you think something happened at Burnbridge?”

“I think one of those fraternity parties, or one of those hazing events had gotten even more out of hand than I’ve found out so far. We’ve got to dig deeper.”

Cormac grinned. “Good thing I’m handy with a shovel.”

When they arrived at the college, Cormac waved his badge at the security guard by the Dean’s office and parked in the staff lot. He headed for the entrance but Falkner didn’t follow him.

“I thought we were talking to the Dean about Digamma Rho.”

“You talk to him—push him hard on the hazing incident. Tell him we’re hearing rumors about other more serious allegations. Make him sweat.”

“He’ll lawyer up.”

“Persuade him that talking is in the college’s best interests—lawyers mean more people involved, right?”

“Okay.”

“And get a list of students who dropped out between 2010 and 2012 and text it to me.”

Cormac nodded his understanding. “On it. What are you going to do?”

“Take a stroll around the campus. When you’re finished with the Dean, go on over to the frat house and shake the tree, see what falls out.”

The first place Falkner went was the library. Burnbridge was a private college and small enough that they still had yearbooks for each graduating class.

He asked for the Head Librarian and introduced himself to the worried looking woman, explaining what he wanted.

“Our Annuals are over in this section,” she said, leading him to the stacks on the third floor. “We stopped publishing them five years ago. Fewer students want them and the printing cost is so high. Which year did you want?”

She handed Falkner the yearbooks he wanted, and studied the four men who’d died, as well as Conran Bates who’d survived longer than his fraternity brothers, from their freshmen days to senior year.

When Cormac texted over the list of students who’d dropped out, Falkner looked at the female students first. He already knew that 29% of college students didn’t graduate, but that was down to just 4% in this exclusive private college of just 900 students: that was between 30 and 40 students each year. If his theory was right, the killer was one of the 95 pupils who’d dropped out between 2010 and 2012. Interestingly, more than 70% of the dropouts were female.

Falkner frowned—that was a really skewed number. What the hell had been going on at Burnbridge back then?

He started working through the list of 69 women who’d dropped out of college—all but five he found either on Facebook or Instagram, and of those five, two had died.

Three women unaccounted for. He went back to the Annuals, searching for photographs to go with the names.

Alana Fandre from Texax, Kristy Roberts from Virginia and Molly James from Arkansas. Alana was dark haired and dark eyed, Molly was blonde and petite with a broad grin, and Kristy looked shy and insecure with glasses and a nervous smile.

All of the women would have studied here at the same time as the dead men. Beyond that, he couldn’t find any correlation. They hadn’t left during exam season or at the start of the semester when most students dropped out, in fact the dates seemed random.

Cormac found him an hour later, still poring over the Annuals.

“Let’s go grab a coffee,” Cormac said, looking irritated.

“Tell me what you learned from the Dean and at the frat house.”

“Coffee first,” Cormac insisted.

They made their way to a Starbucks on campus and found an empty table. Falkner was amused that Cormac’s beverage of choice was a double-shot vanilla latte, skinny.

“So, what did you find out?”

Cormac looked disgruntled. “I didn’t even get offered a frickin’ glass of water by the Dean, and the moment I mentioned Digamma Rho, he closed up like a clam. I pushed as hard as I could, but all I got from him was he couldn’t talk about ‘those incidents’. I asked him if he was referring to the kid who lost a finger and he looked surprised but not worried. Then I asked him why so many girls were dropping out compared to guys, and that definitely rattled his cage. He said I’d have to come back with a note from a judge if I had any further questions.”

“Good work,” Falkner said grudgingly.

“But then I did my Columbo impression, you know. ‘Ah gee, I nearly forgot but I gotta ask you this one last question, it just occurred to me, Mr. Dean: does it worry you that four Digamma Rho guys died in unexplained circumstances in the last ten years?’”

“And? What did he say?”

“I thought the guy was going to puke or stroke out. Either way, he couldn’t get me out of his office fast enough. What did you find?”

Falkner tapped his finger on the photographs of Molly James and Kristy Roberts that he’d taken from the Annuals.

“I think one of these girls could be our killer. Both dropped out and off the radar. There was a third girl, but she had olive skin, not like Bellwood’s accountant or Davis-Smith’s mistress.”

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t her.”

“True, but my gut tells me it’s one of these two girls.”

Cormac sighed. “Well, your gut has got us this far.”

“Did you learn anything at the frat house?”

“I talked to a couple of the guys there and they both knew that Digamma Rho had gotten a bad rep back in the day but that things were different now. They were pretty vague, although they acknowledged that there had been rumors. But then one of them said, ‘We always test the drinks now’. I asked him what he meant by that. He didn’t want to tell me but in the end he admitted that the college made them provide testing kits for frat house parties so kids could check to see if their drinks had been tampered with.”

Falkner leaned back in his chair. “Rohypnol.”

“Looks like,” Cormac agreed, his face serious. “So I kept pressing, asking what the rumors said and finally one of them admitted that a couple of parties had ‘gotten out of hand’—his words—and some girls had been hurt. He really didn’t want to say the word ‘rape’ so I said it for him. He said there’d been a rumor about one of the attacks being filmed but he didn’t know anyone who’d seen the footage and couldn’t name any names about who was involved. Believe me, I sat on him hard and the kid was so scared I thought for sure he’d shit his shorts. I’m sure he told me everything he knew.”

“So, we’re talking gang rape and the men who thought they’d gotten away with it.”

“It’s definitely looking that way,” Cormac agreed. “And someone wanted to make sure that they didn’t get away with it. Someone wanted…”

“…justice,” Falkner finished for him.

They sat and drank their coffees and Falkner looked again at the faces of the two girls who seemed to have disappeared from the face of the planet.

“What happened to you?” he whispered.

“So,” Cormac said slowly. “Should we go and rattle Bates’s cage next?”

“Yeah,” Falkner agreed. “And rattle it hard.”

They headed south, reaching Baltimore just before rush hour.

“Bates will be home right now,” Falkner said. “We’ll catch him as he leaves his condo for tonight’s show at the TV studio.”

Cormac pulled up outside the condo where apartments went for three million a pop. The sidewalk was thronged with people going home from work and on their way out for the evening. A busker was singing and a guy was juggling with oranges and telling jokes.

Falkner handed Cormac a photograph of Bates, then climbed out of the car, his eyes scanning the crowd.

“Target leaving the building,” Cormac said to him.

Falkner started walking towards Bates when the lyrics of the busker became clearer. He turned to look at her, a pale Goth girl with dark, smoky eyes.

“Take her arms and hold her down
And hold her down, until she stops moving.

Take her arms and hold her down
And hold her down, until she stops kicking.

Take back the night…”*

Suddenly, the girl dropped the guitar, her hands reaching for a short, snub-nosed pistol that looked huge in her childlike hands.

Falkner swung around to face her, meeting her eyes as recognition flooded through him.

“Molly, no!” he yelled. “I know what he’s done. I know what they all did to you. He’s going to pay! I promise you!”

She swallowed, the gun trembling in her hands. “It’s too late,” she whispered.

As she pulled the trigger, Cormac threw himself in front of Bates who was standing frozen, knocking him to the ground. But not before a neat, round bullet hole appeared between Bates’ eyes and his expression blanked as he fell to the ground. People screamed, crashing into each other as they tried to get away.

For a second, Falkner stared at the girl. “It’s finished,” she said, then turned and ran.

Falkner trained his Glock-19 on her and knew he wouldn’t miss. He hesitated, meeting her steady gaze. A small smile lifted her lips, and a second later she was gone.

Cormac stared at him, wide-eyed.

“I didn’t have a clear shot,” Falkner lied.

Cormac grimaced. “They’ll hunt her down.”

“I know.”

Slowly, Cormac pulled out his phone. “I’ll call it in.”

“What will you say?”

Cormac shrugged. “I’ll say my partner didn’t have a clear shot.”

They both stared down at the body of Conrad Bates: award-winning journalist, millionaire, rapist.

THE END