By 3 p.m. eastern time, Deputy Director Poulton had arrived by helicopter at the Jacksonville office. We prepped him on what we had found on Mad Dog and on our strategy to draw him out.
By three thirty, the parking lot was crowded with news vans, the lobby full of reporters. Poulton and I spoke in a waiting room that Human Resources used. The walls were covered in flyers about employee benefits and discounts to area theme parks.
“That agent at the Houston bookstore who did research for Banning,” Poulton said. “Her name is Lisa Yang. She’s out of the D.C. office.”
“I’ll need to speak with her,” I said.
“She’ll be made available,” Poulton replied. “In the meantime, I emailed you her file.”
“We’ll study it.”
“Per the director, you’ll study lightly, Camden,” Poulton said. “She’s highly decorated.”
I nodded in understanding, and side by side, we moved out toward the ground floor’s atrium.
“You asked me to come here, and I’m giving you an hour,” Poulton said. “But I want to see action, Camden. Arrests, not analysis.”
“Of course,” I said.
We walked up onto a small dais then, with a blue curtained backdrop covered in tiny repeating FBI shield icons.
“Thank you for gathering on such short notice,” Poulton said as the reporters quieted. “I’d like to introduce Special Agent Gardner Camden, who is going to review the details of our ongoing investigation.”
He moved aside, and I stepped forward.
“Good afternoon,” I said, introducing myself and spelling my first and last name.
Fourteen men and women with recording equipment focused on me.
“Twenty-four hours ago, we released a brief statement about the murders of Ross Tignon, Barry Fisher, and Ronald Lazarian. And as much as we regret the loss of any life, one of the advantages of a national law enforcement agency is our ability to make connections. I’m here to announce that, in the last day, we’ve linked three new victims to the same man that killed Tignon, Fisher, and Lazarian. And we have a strong description of the suspect in all six murders.”
The FBI is not known for its transparency. Murmurs moved through the small group of reporters.
“We’ve built a profile of the man we’re searching for,” I continued, “and we’re seeking the public’s help in locating him.”
I produced the digital composite supplied by Marly’s team. Our production department had enlarged it onto poster-size foam core.
“Locating this man is a top priority of the Bureau, as we believe he’s linked to several other cold cases. We know that he drives a white recreational vehicle and is most likely from Houston or the surrounding area.”
Camerapersons elbowed each other, trying to get close-ups of the sketch, and hands went up in the reporters’ pool.
“When will you release more information on these new victims?” a reporter asked.
“By the end of this week,” I said.
“Is there a vigilante on the loose?” a different reporter hollered.
“No,” I said, “these are murders. There’s a murderer on the loose.”
“Would you categorize the suspect as a monster, Agent Camden?”
“I don’t think of criminals in those terms,” I said. “And I don’t use language like that.”
“If you don’t call him a monster,” the reporter continued, “how would you describe him?”
This was the moment I’d been waiting for.
“Isolated,” I said. “Ignorant. Frightened. Reckless. Angry.”
“So a dangerous idiot?” the reporter asked.
The crowd chuckled, and I considered how Mad Dog would react to these words. Then I said, “In plain speech, yes.”
Poulton stepped up to the mic, knowing the goals were twofold: one, get the public calling into our tip line; and two, upset Mad Dog. The deputy director thanked the media for coming and reminded them that the goal was to get the sketch out immediately, so the public could provide help in getting a suspect off the streets. He dodged questions, circled back to our 1-800 tip line, and closed down the conference.
I waited sixteen minutes in the break room for the first news channel to go live. A plastic cereal bowl filled with M&Ms had been left on the table, a sign that Cassie had been there. I calculated how many hands had dug into that bowl. Sixteen employees on this floor. Four building maintenance staff. Visitors. I picked two red candies from the edge of the bowl and ate them.
A moment later, CNN went live with the story, a graphic running along the bottom of the screen. It read “Dangerous Idiot Killer.” I turned the volume up in time to hear my own words, describing Mad Dog as ignorant and frightened.
Then I moved back to my cube. I had been in Houston while the others examined Kagan’s file. Now I took a look at my copy, breaking each section apart and moving them into eight piles, each separated by a two-inch space on my desk. I sharpened eight pencils and placed one atop each pile, along with a single sheet of paper for notes.
As I picked up the first section, Cassie popped her head around the corner of my cube.
“We got a login,” she said.
Mad Dog was using Banning’s password.
I followed Cassie back to our conference room, where Marly from Quantico was on speaker. As we walked, Cassie told me the login had happened in Dallas.
“Are agents rolling?” I asked.
“Already dispatched,” Marly answered on speaker as we entered the room. “The ISP gave us the location of a coffeehouse called Sparrow downtown. If you hold, we’ll give you updates.”
The Dallas office was 9.2 miles from downtown. A twelve-minute drive. Poulton had made the decision to hold off on involving local police, who could typically get to a location faster, but were less discreet.
In the background on Marly’s side, I heard someone say, “We’ve got movement.”
Mad Dog had been on the coffeehouse’s WiFi, but was now on the run. Which meant we were tracking a phone. If he kept the device on, we could pinpoint him to a three-foot location via GPS.
Cassie and I waited five minutes until Marly informed us that agents had pulled over a cab on the side of Elm Street downtown. The phone they were tracking had remained on the whole time, but the cab was empty.
“Put us on with the locals,” I said.
An agent named Jose Salmon came on the line.
“We got an empty yellow cab here, Agent Camden,” Salmon said. “The phone was on the floor in the back. Cabbie didn’t even know it was left there.”
“Damn it,” Cassie said aloud. “He knows we know about Banning’s login.”
“A short-term fare?” I asked.
“It ended three minutes before we got here. Taxi driver said the guy got in at Elm and Seventh. Rode two blocks and got out.”
Leaving the phone inside the cab.
“Per the driver, he was late twenties,” Salmon said. “Five ten-ish with brown hair. Brown or blue eyes.”
“Circle back to the coffeehouse,” I said. “Pull cameras from stores nearby. And be careful, Salmon. He’s dangerous. He might be watching you.”
We hung up, and I thought about Richie. We’d sent him to Dallas and Shooter to Houston, guessing that Mad Dog might be in one place or the other. Richie’s plane had landed just minutes ago. If needed, we could have him coordinate with local feds.
I turned to Cassie. “Do we know what past case Mad Dog was looking at in our database?”
“A program was capturing every keystroke,” she said. “But I told them to prioritize locating him. Give me five minutes, and I’ll find out.”
Cassie headed out of the room, and my cell buzzed. I glanced at the screen.
A number I didn’t recognize.
I held it up to signal Frank that it might be Mad Dog. “Quiet please.”
Then I answered on speaker, placing the phone on the table and sliding up a chair so I could speak closely into the receiver. As I did, I looked to Frank, who’d set up the trace with Quantico and my personal cell carrier.
We’d been expecting this call.
“Camden,” I said.
“So I’m a monster?” Mad Dog growled. “That’s the story we’re going with?”
“That’s not the word I used,” I said. “But we can talk definitions if you want. Someone who threatens others. Who deviates from normal behavior. I think if we consulted a dictionary—”
“I. Am not. A monster,” he said firmly. “I’m a monster hunter. I have rules. Ross Tignon was guilty. Barry Fisher—”
“Was punished,” I interrupted. “Thirty-one years. No monster hunter needed.”
Mad Dog went silent then, and Frank looked up from his laptop. He made a motion with his hand that meant “keep him talking.”
“We have a picture from the bookstore,” I said.
“Must be a bad one,” Mad Dog replied. “Explains why your sketch is so bad.” He paused. “I’m curious, Camden. Did you enjoy the director’s book?”
“I’m guessing by your reaction that you did not.”
“My reaction?”
“The page you shoved down Tignon’s throat. Your questions at the book event. You thought certain crimes should have been included, but were not?”
He laughed, but it was forced.
“Crimes in places like Oklahoma, Texas, and Arkansas,” I continued. “Were you upset that your early work went unrecognized?”
“My early work?” he repeated, his voice raised an octave. More curiosity than concern.
“You left an impression on people,” I said. “Mainly people on the sides of roads.”
Mad Dog made a chuffing noise then, as if what I’d said was insulting. “You saw what I did to Barry Fisher, Camden. Does it look like I’m going after degenerates who stole five hundred bucks from the church kitty?”
In my mind, I saw a riddle with no answer.
The reference to the church kitty was to Lyle Davis, one of the men whose roadside deaths Agent Kagan had investigated. But Mad Dog was not claiming it.
“People remember you,” I said.
“Now you’re just lying. Cops aren’t supposed to lie.”
“Your arrowheads,” I said. “Perfect hundred-degree hertzian cones. People paid good money for them.”
He went quiet then, and I glanced up at Frank. I had gotten this part right.
“Why didn’t you go to LA?” Mad Dog asked, switching up the conversation. “You’ve got a calendar on me. I have one on you.”
“I did go to LA,” I said. “I saw your work in that bathroom.”
“But not right away. When we spoke, you were in Dallas. You could’ve flown there that night. I was waiting for you.”
I pictured the bloody bathroom in Brentwood. My name on the wall.
“You arrived the next morning,” he continued. “It’s curious.”
I felt a line of sweat trickle along my neck.
I had flown to Miami that night to hide Camila. But my flight had been off the books. In no FBI database that Mad Dog could access.
“You mentioned a mentor when we spoke that day,” I said. “I thought you had a helper. I stayed in Dallas to investigate if—”
Ahhnt. He made a buzzing noise, like a quiz show. “Lie again, and I hang up.”
“So the word mentor?” I asked.
“Really?” Mad Dog snorted. “That’s what you want to talk about? Are you going to ask about my mother next? Find out if I was breastfed?”
Poulton came into the room, his steps slowing as he realized we had Mad Dog on speaker.
“I know that you grew up reading ‘The Paddock and the Mouse,’” I said.
Mad Dog was quiet.
“I know what it looks like when someone acts out a fantasy with a tainted arrow. Imitating Odysseus—unclear on what’s real and what’s fiction.”
His voice became stern. “You shouldn’t talk about things you don’t know, Agent Camden.”
“Except it wasn’t fiction. Those were real victims.”
“You shouldn’t talk about people you don’t know.”
I blinked. Mad Dog had become defensive. But not in the way I’d expected.
I put the phone on mute. Looked up at Frank.
“He knows about these early victims.”
“Check,” Frank said.
“But he’s not claiming them as his own.”
Frank bit at his cheek. “Check again.”
I considered what bothered me most.
“The victims from years ago were all people who committed petty crimes,” I said. “Now, two years later, the same guy is after famous serial killers?”
“Well, you thought Mad Dog had a partner,” Frank said. “Kagan considered it, too.”
“Helllooo?” Mad Dog said. “Cat got your tongue, Camden?”
I ignored him, remembering my conversation with Kagan. My statement that the bow-and-arrow attacks, from setup to cleanup, seemed like a lot of work. A lot for one person.
“What are you saying?” Poulton jumped in. We were still on mute. “They’re not the same guy?”
“One man is Mad Dog,” I said. “His partner is Arrowhead.” I looked to Frank. “And you wanted to know your ‘why’ … your ‘why now.’”
“Something happened between the two,” Frank said.
“Pfft.” Mad Dog made a noise. “What am I—on hold? Is the genius brainstorming?”
“Then, it’s 101,” Poulton said. “Force a wedge between them.”
I looked to Frank. There was nothing 101 about this killer. I took the phone off mute, thinking of the right words to use.
One of the drawbacks of my personality is I struggle with nuance. Fail at sarcasm. But I would try.
“You want to know what the worst part of this case is?” I said to Mad Dog.
“What’s that?”
I searched for the sort of terminology that Shooter or Frank would use.
“Hunting someone as unoriginal as you.” The words came out flatly. Without tone. But they were the right words.
“What did you say to me?”
“At least with the bow and arrow murders, there was some creativity,” I continued. “These new ones … you’re just copying old crimes.”
Mad Dog was breathing more heavily now, and his voice shook as he spoke.
“There are words for the type of animal you are, Camden,” he said. “You feign weakness, but advance in the dark.”
Frank stood up from behind his laptop. He wrote “Lake Ashland” on a piece of paper in red marker. We had Mad Dog’s location.
“This has always been about business,” Mad Dog said. “Me, getting rid of scum. You people, fumbling along behind like you do. But now you’ve become disrespectful. You’ve made this personal.”
I thought about Richie’s notion of a program. Of Mad Dog being disrupted off it. And what he might do.
“I just want to understand,” I said, “what you’re after.”
“You,” he said. “That’s what I’m after now.”
Frank’s eyes settled on me, and I felt the muscles in my forearm tense up.
“I’m gonna show you two more magic tricks, Camden,” Mad Dog continued. “You liked LA? You enjoyed Rawlings? I’ll go one better.”
“Why don’t we talk about—”
“I’ll prove I can get to anyone anywhere. Out in the world. On trial. Man. Woman. Even someone locked behind bars.”
The line went dead, and I looked up. The sun had dropped behind a building, and the room was darker.
“He’s in a cabin in Ashland,” Frank said. “West side of the lake.”
“One road in, one road out,” Poulton added, looking at Frank’s map.
“We got a boat on the water and six deputies blocking the road, Gardner,” Frank said. “Good job.”
My hands were below the table, but my fists were in balls. Unusual for me.
Cassie came back into the room.
“Did you find out what he was looking at?” I asked. “When he logged in?”
“Personnel files,” Cassie said. “Not case files.”
“What’s it matter?” Poulton said. “He took the bait. We’re circling him.”
But Cassie’s forehead was crisscrossed with lines.
“Your personnel file this time, Gardner,” she clarified.
I turned to the far window and stared out toward the south.
“What is it?” Cassie asked.
“His questions about me not going to LA,” I said. “How did he know I was lying?”
“Did you tell anyone?” Frank asked.
“Just you,” I said. “He also said that he could get to any man or woman. ‘Even behind bars.’”
Frank paused before shaking his head. “No way,” he said.
“Anything’s possible,” I told him.
“I don’t understand.” Poulton squinted. “What’s going on?”
“Gardner’s ex,” Frank said. “Anna Camden may be his next target.”
“We could get a release,” I said. “I could drive down there.”
“You’re the lead. You’re not going anywhere,” Poulton said. “We got this guy!”
“And if he’s working with someone? A partner?”
“We’ll get her into solitary for now,” Poulton said. “Get a release into custody by end of day.”
“Thank you.”
Over the next ten minutes, Frank got on the phone and made it happen. Favors were called in, and my ex was moved to solitary confinement.
As Frank got off the phone, Cassie came over, her lips still thin, but her voice steadier now. “They got a guy in cuffs,” she said. “In Lake Ashland.”
I exhaled, nodding. “Thanks, Cass. I needed that.”
I got up and walked out of the conference room. Took the elevator down and stepped outside, my body tight in a way I was not familiar with.
I needed to hear my daughter’s voice, so I called up Mitchell Hannick and asked him to put Camila on.
“Oh Daddy, I’m having so much fun,” she said when she came on the line a minute later. “I’m learning to ride a horse. And there’s an alpaca named Flaca, because he’s so skinny.”
Breathe, Gardy.
Camila went on about the bunny-feeding area, how Hannick’s son had given her a riding hat, and how she was learning on a pony named Boba.
“Like the drink, Daddy,” she said. “She has pink circles down her side.”
I knew I had to get back upstairs. “Daddy’s gotta go,” I told her. “But I’m glad you’re having fun.”
I hung up and walked back into the building. As I got off on our floor, I saw Frank standing beside Poulton in the conference room. I’d thought the deputy director had left for D.C., but he hadn’t.
“Wasn’t Mad Dog,” Poulton said.
“What?”
“In the cabin. Kid we cuffed was a teenager. His parents showed up. Dad’s a cop. Vouched for the kid’s whereabouts at the time of the murders.”
“Mad Dog must have used a virtual location app,” Frank said.
There were four different third-party phone apps that cost less than ten dollars and allowed everyday citizens to “choose” the location their phone identified as.
Mad Dog was in the wind.
Poulton’s nostrils flared. “I’m heading back to D.C.,” he said, clearly frustrated. “Find this guy.”
Frank and I nodded, and Poulton began walking away. Then he turned.
“Incidentally, this thing with your ex-wife,” he said. “I signed the release, and we’ll hold her for a week. But it was a public matter, her getting sent away. I don’t know how you figure this guy would need access to your personnel files to get at it.”
My head was spinning. “He said he can get to any man or woman. ‘Even behind bars.’ Not sure if you were there—”
“No, I heard that,” Poulton said. “But we got a lotta serials behind bars, and she’s not one of them. So…”
Poulton looked more closely at me. I hadn’t responded.
“You okay, Camden?” he asked.
My mind was chasing something. Something in my personnel file that wasn’t anywhere else.
“He said ‘behind bars,’” I said.
“Yeah, we all heard that, buddy,” Poulton said.
“Not all bars are physical,” I mumbled. “Some are in the mind.”
Poulton squinted at Frank, confused.
I leaned over and hit the speaker button. Called Marly. “The GPS data can be fooled,” I said, “but there’s a CSLI that’s generated for whatever app he’s using to disguise his identity.”
“Yeah, we tracked it down, but the cell went offline,” she said. “Also it’s not as accurate. It pinged off one cell tower, then went dead.”
“Where?” I asked.
“West of Dallas,” she said. “Woodrell, Texas.”
I hit the button to hang up without saying anything. Grabbed my phone and dialed the number of my mother’s cell.
It went to voicemail.
I called the front desk at her retirement home, but it rang endlessly.
My mother had no connection to me that could be found anywhere. Her anonymity was why I hadn’t worried about hiding her when I’d placed Camila and Rosa at the ranch.
Except for one thing. Her married name and current address were in my personnel file, where she was listed as a beneficiary.
I tried the number again and was cycled back to hold music.
“What’s going on, Gardner?” Frank asked.
I hung up and dialed Richie’s cell.
“Richie, I’m texting you an address in Woodrell,” I said. “Go there, stat.”
“Woodrell?” he repeated. “Sure. What am I looking for?”
Mad Dog was never in Florida. He had no intention of going after my ex-wife.
He used WiFi in that café in Dallas. Then left the burner phone in the cab. Drove nearby, but not to Ashland.
“My mother,” I said to Richie, my mouth suddenly dry. “You’re looking to see if Mad Dog murdered her.”
Poulton’s face went gray, and Richie listened as I read off the address.
I hung up. Stumbled across the office toward my cube.
Didn’t I already know what Richie was going to find? That the one person who supported me was gone. The woman who taught me how to channel everything that was strange about me. The endless facts. The stored memories. The odd logic … all transformed into something valuable. Something useful.
In nine minutes, I called Richie back.
“I’m in the parking lot,” he said. “There are firefighters here. Some sort of grease fire in the kitchen.”
A diversion.
“Ignore it,” I said. “Third floor. Room 302.”
I waited sixty seconds, then hit the button to switch to video. Richie accepted, and I saw him moving up a stairwell.
“Agent Camden,” he said, breathing heavy. “Why don’t I call you once I’m inside her roo—”
“Faster, Richie,” I said, my voice hoarse.
He took two steps at a time. Rounded the corner near my mom’s room.
I saw the door open.
“Mrs. Camden?” he called out.
“Maher,” I said, using her married name.
The room was dark. My mother was turned on her side, away from Richie. A comforter covered her body, and Richie pulled it back.
“Mrs. Maher?”
I saw an injection mark on her neck. A drizzle of dried blood below her right ear.
“Mrs. Maher?” Richie repeated.
I waited.
“Come on, wake up, please,” he hollered.
I squinted into the darkness of my phone. “What is it?” I said. “I can’t see.”
The phone shifted, and I saw the vague, unfocused look in my mother’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, Agent Camden,” Richie said. “She’s been injected with something. She’s not responding.”