Dakota watched the figures emerge, pushing the stretcher with their latest victim. She could feel her stomach twist, could feel her emotions threatening to rebel against the horrible visual image. She hated this part of the job. Hated this part of life.
The seeming inevitability of death. And of her helplessness in the face of it.
She turned sharply, swallowing briefly and facing Garesh.
“Sir,” she said, trying to keep her voice as steady as possible. She could feel where Agent Clement was watching her from the side. “Did you notice anyone lingering in your parking lot? Did anyone come in earlier that caught your attention?”
The manager gave a quick shake of his head. "Nothing," he said.
Dakota shifted in frustration, moving from one foot to the other. Normally, she let Agent Clement do most of the talking. She preferred the more physical parts of the job, chasing down suspects, beating up bad guys. But she also prided herself on being able to pay attention to details.
And so now, focusing, she watched the manager.
Bodies didn't lie the same as tongues. He was fidgeting, his fingers twitching. His cheeks were red. His eyes kept narrowing whenever he glanced at someone in a police uniform. This was a man who was not particularly fond of policemen. But also, he was more angry than nervous.
Not the posture of someone hiding something. Rather, the posture of someone who wished to lodge grievances.
Dakota decided to change direction. She said, "Did anything else happen? Did the woman who owned that car," she pointed to the sedan that Homeland Security had indicated, "Buy anything?"
The manager snorted. "People rarely stop in the shop nowadays. No, she didn't. Is that all? When are you leaving?"
Dakota shook her head. She kept her tone as calm as possible. "I don't know exactly. But, she said hurriedly, "We will get you back into your store as soon as possible, sir.”
She noticed, off by the bathroom, that the body was now being attended to by two figures, where they adjusted straps, the blanket, and began to wheel it towards an ambulance.
Other figures were loathe, it seemed, to enter the bathroom. They were wearing strange gas masks, and frowning at each other. None of them seemed interested in braving the toxic nature of a gas station bathroom.
"It's like something out of a bad movie," said the manager, shaking his head and muttering. He turned away, pulling his phone from his pocket, as the device made a quiet buzzing sound. He held up an irritated finger to Dakota, as if silencing her, then raised the phone, speaking hurriedly in a language Dakota did not understand.
She frowned, watching after him, but letting him go. Clearly, he didn't want to talk, nor did it seem like he had seen anything.
She sighed, glancing at Marcus, then shaking her head. “Think the coroner's going to find anything new?” she asked.
“We'll see,” Marcus replied, watching her closely and giving a weary shrug. “Hard to think what at this point. What sort of man uses the vents of a gas station bathroom to poison a victim?”
Dakota shook her head. She pointed at his own phone which he now had in his hand. “Looking her up?”
Marcus nodded once. “Donna Windser,” he murmured, frowning at his phone. “She just graduated high school.”
Dakota winced. “Shit. Dammit. I hate that.”
Marcus sighed. “There's no connection between the victims... What does the killer want?”
Dakota considered this comment, but didn't have anything to say. She just gave a weary shrug, and a quick shake of her head. "It sounded like this attack could have been random. Unless he followed her to a gas station."
"Why would he do that?"
"Maybe he wanted it in public. If you think about it, all of these murders have been risky. The last one, he was even seen by the manager."
"He was barely seen," Marcus said.
"He's avoiding cameras, but almost seems to want the attention." Dakota waved a hand at the crime scene. "I mean, just look around."
As Marcus glanced about, his eyes moving from one figure to the next, Dakota began walking past the sawhorse, back towards their parked vehicle. A coroner's report would take some time. She wasn't interested in walking into a gas station bathroom filled with potentially hazardous chemicals. Besides, she had seen what she needed to on the video footage.
Something else was sticking out to her.
Something that the manager said. This was like a scene out of a bad movie.
The manager had reacted as if in some déjà vu. Which had gotten her thinking, what if this crime wasn't as unique as she thought? What if it had happened before?
This thought propelled her forward. She reached the front of their borrowed vehicle. Through the slightly lowered window, she spotted the dash trashcan she had once purchased for Marcus, which he now brought with them on the plane in his luggage.
She had always appreciated Agent Clement. She was glad to be working with him again. She shot a look towards the tall, musclebound bodybuilder. He was following after. He wasn't the type that needed to take the lead. She had also appreciated this about him.
He was the backbone of their operation. A steady, calm voice of reason. She had often envied how he had grown up. Protected, safe. She didn't know much about his earlier days. But she knew he had been raised with money, and sent to only the best schools.
Most people like that made her feel like dirt. Marcus was the only one who she had ever gotten along with. And he went out of his way to make it clear that he did not think he was better than her.
Now, as she peered through the vehicle, she pulled her phone and began to type.
Chemical attack. Serial killer uses gas. Chemical killer. Multiple victims gas attack.
She tried different search parameters. Occasionally entering the information into various online news sources. But, more often than not, entering it into a broader search bar.
She leaned against the hood of the vehicle. The scent of gasoline lingered on the air. The general murmuring and hubbub mingled. Occasionally, traffic would swish by outside the gas station. Drivers would blare their horns, propelling rubbernecks forward who were lingering to watch the strange scene and the flashing lights.
Dakota tried to drown all of this out, focusing.
She tried more search terms. She moved along the results, studying both news articles and blog posts.
But nothing was coming up.
Again, she tried a new combination of the same words. And again, nothing in the news. She went back a decade. A few murders, and serial killers had some similarities. But none of them fit this MO.
She was feeling frustration. She went to the next page of search results, and again glimpsed a fictional story on a blog. She muttered darkly, shaking her head. She moved on to the next search result.
Nothing. Gibberish. Unrelated news articles. And there, another blog post.
She tried to move past, but then paused. Marcus was now leaning against the vehicle as well. It swayed, shifting from his weight.
But Dakota was fixating on the search result in the center of the page.
Another fictional article. An online serial novel.
The same article from earlier search results.
The website was called, True Novelty—a look into the mind of darkness.
Most of the title was cut off. She was forced to hover over it, to read the full, wordy mouthful.
She clicked the link. It was clearly labeled as fiction. A story. Not that it would help much. But the manager's comments came back. Like something out of a movie. What about a book? More specifically, what about an online serial novel?
She could feel her skin prickling. Could feel her sense of anticipation mounting.
She scanned the page.
"What is it?" Marcus murmured.
She gave a faint shake, trying to focus.
"Dakota, what's wrong?" Marcus said, leaning in now.
She said, “Listen to this: the struggle... then silence. She lay draped inside the supply closet, one hand extending towards the door, her lips curled in a soundless scream... The poison had reached her lungs.”
Dakota looked up.
Marcus wrinkled his nose. "A bit dramatic for an article. But I've heard worse."
"It's not from a news article."
He stared at her. "That sounds like our last victim. Where is it from?"
But Dakota was now tapping her phone excitedly. “Listen to this," she said, hurriedly, "And there she lay, on the cold tile floor. The breath stolen from her lungs... choked... The scent of diesel fumes on the air, drifting through the vent behind the gas station.”
Marcus was frowning now. “I... I don't understand. That's not a news article?" He glanced over his shoulder back in the direction of the gas station bathroom.
But Dakota could feel her skin prickling. "It was posted three days ago, Marcus. And the first one was posted a week before."
"Someone is predicting the murders?"
"Predicting, or scripting," she said firmly.
Marcus frowned. "Do you think our killer is bold enough to confess like this?"
"He has been killing in public places," she said with a shrug. "He clearly thinks he is smarter than us."
Marcus was shaking his head now. He looked frustrated. “Does our online mystery author have a name?"
Dakota had already been scrolling to the “about” section on the website banner. It took her to a single page of text. No image. But there was a name. "Cleveland Bryant."
Marcus was already on his own phone. She watched as his large fingers flew across the surface, entering the information in their database.
Once he was finished, he looked up. "Wow," he said slowly, "I think I have him. He only lives twenty minutes from here. Cleveland Bryant, not a very common name. I have him listed here is a coroner's assistant."
"A coroner's assistant?"
"No, hang on. IRS had him there for the last seven years. But last year, he stopped."
Marcus raised an eyebrow at her. And it was like passing the baton. Now, it was Dakota's turn to hastily text. Again, she was searching news articles. But this time, using the name of the online blogger, and adding “coroner's assistant.”
And this time, using her coordinates to help localize the news, the article popped up almost instantly.
Dakota read the title to her partner, “Coroner's assistant fired—thief!” She read the article quickly, her eyes skimming from paragraph to paragraph. At last, she looked up. "Shit,” she said slowly. “Our wannabe author was fired from his last job... The article is a political hit piece about the local DA... But it looks like Mr. Bryant was suspected of stealing from his workplace.”
“From the coroner's?”
“Some sort of lab. Nothing was ever proven... so he wasn't arrested... but...” Dakota shrugged, looking up. “Think maybe we should visit Mr. Bryant?”
Marcus glanced across the gas station towards the ambulance. "Want to wait to hear what they find?"
Dakota shook her head. "They can let us know on the way. I don't want to just sit here, standing behind red tape."
Marcus nodded, already fishing his keys from his pocket as he rounded the hood of their car, picking up the pace to match the urgency in her tone.