Flawless(96)

He knew that no one in law enforcement was to blame. Not the bureau, Homeland Security, or any branch of the local police. There were, according to the FBI specialists and scholars at various universities, anywhere between twenty and several hundred serial killers operating in the United States at any given time. This one, however, had been making headlines and had the entire nation on edge.

No one had known where he’d strike next.

Before this morning, Jude and the other members of his division had already been alerted. They’d sat through lectures by the bureau’s behavioral sciences professionals. What they learned was that this killer was organized, and he was smart. He was either independently wealthy or had a job that allowed travel. He was aware of the need to wear gloves, and leave nothing behind. This killer didn’t sexually assault his victims. He also had the ability, in a short span of time, to choose and stalk his victims, and silence them quickly. They’d all been found in or near churches; murdered elsewhere, their bodies weren’t dumped there, but displayed. They hadn’t been killed in the churches; two, at least, were murdered in the victim’s own home. Under most circumstances, Jude McCoy would have remained with the police and other FBI officers on the scene, since it was apparent that the victim had been moved from the crime scene and that the killer was long gone. He would have walked the church over and over again, making note of any little detail. He would have studied the street and determined just how the killer had traveled there with the body, how he’d brought it into a locked church and displayed it—without being seen.

But not that day.

After the medical examiner had arrived and Jude and Jackson Crow listened to his on-site findings, Jude moved back to the steps of the two-hundred-plus year-old church to survey the sidewalk and the street.

Not surprisingly, nothing was usual that day. Everything felt different. The murder, of course. And maybe it was because he’d been abruptly paired with a stranger. And, maybe because he’d heard things about Jackson Crow and his elite Krewe of Hunters unit. The Krewe had been formed right here in NOLA several years ago. Jude had received directions that morning. He would be on special assignment with an agent who knew the area well and had followed the trail of victims from Miami to New Orleans—Assistant Director Jackson Crow. When the body of Jean Wilson had been discovered, Crow had already been on his way in from Mobile, Alabama; he’d made an educated guess that the killer’s next strike might well be the City of New Orleans. He’d been on the case for some time, or so Jude understood, and in this situation FBI involvement, , was expected. Jackson Crow headed up a paranormal sector of the FBI—that was the rumor, anyway. They were unofficially known as the Krewe of Hunters—ghostbusters, some people said. Whether that was true or not, Jude didn’t know. He’d looked up their records out of curiosity; they did have an uncanny solve rate hovering at almost a hundred percent.

For Jude, the change of partners was not only abrupt change, it was one he wasn’t sure he felt comfortable with. His usual partner, Gary Firestone, was at the scene as well. In fact, with all the law enforcement agencies involved, the greatest danger was that evidence might get lost because of the number of people missing around.

But Crow seemed aware of the danger and quickly organized staff into work units. Somehow, he seemed to manage it all without incurring resentment. He was spare with words, determined, efficient in movement.

Working with him, so far, anyway, all right; they had an easy rapport, probably since they were both focused on one thing—finding the demon responsible for such heinous deaths.

However... Jackson Crow was Krewe of Hunters. And thinking about his own past, particularly a strange event that had haunted him since he’d been in the military, he was a little wary of Jackson Crow. He was intrigued that Crow had sought him out, yet slightly troubled because of it.

He quashed the feeling. He didn’t have time for that kind of emotion; they were in pursuit of a killer.

While the medical examiner worked inside the church, he and Crow had stepped outside. Uniformed police were cordoning off the area with yellow tape. A crowd of onlookers had gathered.

“Look,” Jude said quietly to Crow.

There was a man lurking on the outskirts of the crowd.

Summer in New Orleans. Hotter than the devil’s own seat in hell. And the guy was dressed in a sweatshirt, holding his head down, shuffling his feet, watching. There was something odd about his manner—and his appearance. His face was almost gruesome, and his nose was huge.

“I see him,” Crow muttered.

The man might have been a voyeur, the kind who slowed down at the scene of a car accident.

And yet his behavior made him typical of killers who returned to see the aftermath of their work, getting their kicks all over again by seeing the police run around, the crowd gawk—and the relatives break down in tears and denial. Jude carefully started moving toward him.

Just then, the man looked up. Jude froze behind one of the columns. It was important, he thought, that the man not see him.

His face was...unnatural. Not as if he was wearing a mask, but makeup. Prosthetic makeup, perhaps, giving him a larger nose, a bulbous chin, harder cheek bones. The man turned to run, as if he’d sniffed out the fact that he’d been noticed. Jude shouted to Crow and began to run in pursuit.

Jackson Crow was already beside him.

Running.

They tore across Rampart Street and into the Quarter...down, all the way down to Bourbon. And there they lost him. By then, of course, there were dozens of officers around.