He’s back.
The old case file was dry and cracked and dusty. But Norton was still there, whispering from the pages as if the words in the file had taken on a life of their own, more frenzied, more insane, with each passing day. Their killer.
In the file photographs, Dylan Acosta’s body lay facedown in the mud, naked, back punctured with ugly gaping wounds from where he’d been stomped to death with Norton’s boots—boots equipped with removable copper spikes. Acosta had died of a punctured lung, drowned in his own blood. Eleven. Eleven fucking years old.
Petrosky turned the page. The following week, a twenty-nine-year-old woman, Natalie Bell, had been stabbed to death with the same weapon used on Acosta. Punctures to the belly. The groin. Just like the infant.
He can’t be back. Petrosky had convinced himself, somewhere in the far reaches of his brain, that this fuck-o was gone. That after Norton’s partners were put away, the killer had taken off forever, and he’d surely never show up on their beat—Petrosky had seen his face. Spoken to him. The fake IDs Norton had used for work might not have looked like him, but they still had composite sketches.
And they’d been closing in. Wasn’t that why Norton had outed his partners to begin with? He’d told Petrosky exactly where to find Shannon. Though Dr. McCallum had told him afterwards that Norton had likely gotten bored.
Seems Norton had found something more exciting, more perverse, than torturing a cop’s wife and sewing her lips closed. Unless … was it possible they had a copycat instead? Though the department had tried to squash it, Shannon’s lips being sewn shut had hit the papers—too juicy a story to pass up. But the department had managed to keep much of the rest off the news, including the #1 etched in the victims’ flesh.
He flipped the page to Dr. McCallum’s profile. Piqueristic tendencies—stabbing as a source of sexual pleasure. Suspect insecure, threatened by any challenges to his manliness. Probably why he went after vulnerable—read: young or slight—victims. Attacks about control, possibly paying back those who rejected him in one form or another. And a paragraph detailing McCallum’s concern that Norton had been learning to kill, learning to groom a victim, by watching his partners. Will kill again, escalation likely.
Escalation. Norton had never raped his victims before, but they’d find out if he was a rapist soon enough—the DNA from the infant should be back today. They’d know whether he raped this girl and forced her to carry his baby before hacking her apart. But if the baby wasn’t his, then what? A copycat could have found out about the #1 and taken the rest into his own hands. Adam Norton had never hacked a woman apart like the gruesome scene they’d just come from. And Norton would have to be a fucking idiot to stick around here where the cops already knew his face. Then again, Norton had made it a point to meet Petrosky in person during their investigation into Shannon’s abduction … He was going around in circles. Petrosky massaged his throbbing temples.
“Shannon’s at home with the kids.” Morrison dropped into the chair beside Petrosky’s desk looking more haggard than even an hour before. “Valentine’s parked in front of the house, and later they’re going to stay at his place with the dogs. In case. Roger freaked a little when I told him, said he’d pick up the slack at the office.”
Roger McFadden, Shannon’s ex-husband and the lead prosecutor, was probably worried he’d be dragged into it—last time he'd been at the scene when they pulled Shannon and Evie from the house where they’d been kept prisoner. Not that Roger had minded being the hero—that narcissistic asshole would probably do it all over again just for the fame.
“Valentine’s going to be the detail on Shannon and the kids, until we catch Norton. Chief’s orders. But I think this killer has moved on from our family.”
Petrosky nodded. Our family. Including him? And had Norton really moved on?
Probably. Norton hadn’t had a grudge against Shannon or anyone in particular. He’d tortured and killed whoever was convenient, or whoever his partners told him to. And if he was back, without partners, it meant Norton had learned to take his own victims. Now he had a type. Shannon didn’t fit it … did she? If he’d been after her, he would have made another play for her sometime in the last two years. Again … if it was Norton. Though better to assume Norton was back for round two and take appropriate precautions than risk fucking up and costing another innocent girl her life.
Petrosky could see the guilt in Morrison’s eyes—Shannon had been taken and tortured, because of Morrison. Because Norton’s partner, a woman from Morrison’s past, blamed Morrison for the death of a man she considered her brother. She’d watched and waited for years until Morrison had something to lose—then tried to take it from him for good.
But she’d underestimated Shannon. So had Adam Norton.
“I ran the social security number Norton used at Xtreme Clean too,” Morrison said. “Not being used. No taxes filed. Either he’s moved on with a different social, or he’s got work that doesn’t require one.”
Xtreme Clean. Norton’s last known place of employment—where he’d been working while he had Shannon locked in an iron collar in his closet. The job that had given him access to many buildings he wouldn't have been able to enter otherwise—like the rehab center where he’d shown himself to Petrosky. Had Norton stumbled upon a good hiding spot during his cleaning gigs? They’d look, but that was too obvious and those buildings were occupied: offices, clinics and the like. Not like you could just stash a kidnapping victim in the janitor’s closet.
Petrosky flipped another page and glowered at the composite sketch. Young, god, Norton’d been so young, only nineteen or twenty when he’d taken Shannon, which is why they’d checked every high school in the area, every college, to no avail. He was probably around twenty-two now, and slight—five-nine or so, gangly. A lanky computer nerd that no one would ever look at and think “murderer.” But based on the footprints, he was heavier now. Fatter? Or had he put on muscle? He could have changed other aspects of his appearance, too—glasses or a beard could make a big difference, so could growing out his hair. He was bald in their picture, with dark eyebrows, dead eyes. A crawl of pimple scabs along his jaw. Petrosky could almost hear him speaking in that growly voice he had. If Petrosky had his way, the fucker’d never speak again.
“I want to go talk to Janice,” Morrison said suddenly. The blind fury in Morrison’s eyes burned so hot Petrosky could practically feel it. The kid hadn’t forgotten how Janice had conspired to kidnap Shannon and Evie. “She’s up in Ypsi now. I can be there in an hour.
Petrosky nodded and smacked the file closed. It’d be a little while before they got anything from the autopsy, and at this point Janice was their best lead—she was the only one who’d been close to Norton in the months before he’d kidnapped their latest homicide victim. “I’ll go with you.”
“You don’t have to.”
Morrison was trustworthy, but when it came to his family … Yes I do need to go with you. And you know why. Petrosky stared him down until Morrison averted his eyes.
Besides, instead of helping California, this bitch would probably try to slice the kid’s balls off. At least Petrosky could choke her out first.
Maybe he’d strangle her anyway.