Page 34 of Killer Clone

Stella ushered the woman back inside. “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll take it from here.” Grim, she lifted her collar and spoke into the mic pinned there. “We may have a situation up here. We need everyone. Now.”

At the end of the parking lot, the doors of the SUVs opened and closed. The rest of the team wore bright-blue jackets withFBIemblazoned in yellow letters. They padded up the stairs to take positions outside Walker’s apartment.

Ander held the battering ram.

Hagen drew his weapon and nodded at Stella. It was time. He beat his fist twice on the door. “Otto Walker. This is the FBI. Open up.”

Silence.

Hagen increased his volume. “Otto Walker. This is the FBI. We’re coming in.”

Still no response. He looked at Stella, and he could tell she, too, had a strong sense about what they were going to walk in on.

After Hagen tried the knob and found it locked, he stepped aside. This was it.

Otto could be in there, waiting to strike. Or they could burst into an empty apartment and know they’d wasted a morning. Then they’d have to prepare for a search conducted mostly on screens and through data alerts. Or they could be…too late.

He nodded at Ander. “Break it in.”

The battering ram needed only one swing. A second later, Hagen kicked the door open and entered the apartment, his weapon at low ready.

He stopped when he saw it. A few steps were all he’d taken. The rest of the team piled in behind, but he was out in front.

Inside was carnage. A madhouse of blood.

A young man was strewn over the sofa in the middle of the room. His legs flopped over the back of it, bent at the knees, and his head hung off the front with his bloody hair grazing the carpet. His eyes were open, and his throat had been cut from ear to ear, like the victims in Claymore Township.

The walls were covered in marks, which he recognized as Akkadian cuneiform, the same lines and dots carved into the Claymore Township victims’ backs and scrawled on the walls of the sheriff’s shed. They were written in blood, clearly, which also covered the floor, darkening the carpet and filling the room with a heavy, metallic smell.

There was no question of who this was.

They wouldn’t be searching for the location data of Otto Walker’s phone and ATM withdrawals. They’d found him.

And if he was involved in the murder of Patrick Marrion, as they suspected, he hadn’t been working alone.

This wouldn’t be a simple case after all.

15

Hours later, Stella still couldn’t take her attention off the writing on the wall.

Once again, she was reminded that the marks of Akkadian cuneiform in the previous case had looked like bird feet or badly drawn fish. The short lines and dots and triangles were the sort of thing a giant chicken might’ve left behind after walking across the floor of a slaughterhouse.

There had to be a better way of getting across a message. Standing outside a Walmart with a placard and a pile of fliers would have been a lot more effective.

Disappointment soaked into Stella like a puddle-splash from a passing truck. She thought she’d seen the end of this stuff. Certainly, she’d hoped she’d seen the last slashed throat and the last blood-soaked floor. And yet, here she was again, so soon after the victims in Claymore Township, investigating a crime that looked eerily similar.

On the bright side, at least she was no longer standing shin-deep in snow.

There were some differences between this scene and the scenes in Claymore Tow. Unlike those murders, there wereclear signs of a struggle at Otto’s apartment. In the living room, chairs were overturned, lamps smashed to pieces on the floor. In the kitchen, shards of broken glass and ceramic peppered countertops. Drawers hung open, including one filled with sharp knives used for cooking and other miscellany.

Considering the depth and brutal nature of the cut on Otto’s neck, Stella suspected the killer had used a serrated kitchen knife. In fact, calling it a cut wasn’t quite right. Rather, his head was almost sawed clean off.

The crime scene photographer took a position in front of the wall and snapped a picture. As the flash flooded the room, the sharp light forced Stella’s eyes closed. The gore was still there when she reopened them, though.

Stella waved a finger at the marks. “Make sure you get clear shots of all that stuff. And send copies straight to me. I want someone working on them right away.”

The photographer checked the screen on the camera and gave her a thumbs-up. They were never the chattiest, crime scene photographers.

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