Page 64 of Killer Clone

Stella looked up from the screen. “What’s that?”

“He used Tor.”

That was interesting. Tor was a secure, anonymous browser. Left no trace. Criminals used it to browse the dark web, trade drugs, and share the kind of pictures that led to very long prison sentences.

Ander took another bite of his health bar. “Any idea what he was doing with it?” Crumbles of granola landed on his collar.

“Say it, don’t spray it.” Mac gave Ander a disappointed look as he brushed the crumbs away. “If I knew what he was doing, this case would be solved. Y’all found nothing incriminating in his dorm room, right?”

Stella frowned. “His home looked clean too.”

“Yeah, my guess is he was just reading stuff he didn’t want anyone to know about. Hide his search history. I’ll probably know more once I’ve cracked his phone.”

Anja came into the room. She took her seat opposite Ander and eyed Mac. “I wondered where’d you went.”

“Sorry. When Stella shouts, I come running.”

Stella nodded approvingly. “As you should. So we’ve got a white Toyota Tacoma. I’ll put out a BOLO. And some more cuneiform. The same message.” She frowned and twisted her earring before glancing Hagen’s way. “What kind of vehicle did David Broad drive?”

Shit. “A Toyota Tacoma. Not sure of color or year, though. I’ll call the sheriff to check.”

She kept twisting, looking even more worried. “Yeah, thanks.”

“But we do have suspects.” Stacy stood in the doorway. The report from the Pennsylvania case was rolled in her hand. She tapped the tube against her thigh.

“True. There’s Patrick Marrion’s mystery friend. Trevor.” Stella waved a finger toward Stacy. “We still haven’t been able to identify him.”

Ander tossed his empty snack wrapper into the trash can. He looked happier now that he’d eaten. “There’s the mortician too. Walker’s employer. That’s another.”

“But what’s the motivation?” Stella didn’t look convinced. “Why would the mortician kill Patrick Marrion? And then kill Otto Walker, his employee?”

“What’s the mortician’s name?” Anja pulled her keyboard closer.

“Chris Murray.”

Anja typed and squinted at the screen and typed some more. Finally, she tapped the screen. “Here’s a thing. He was accused of fraud a few years back. Wasn’t charged, though. Said it was all a misunderstanding. I think we’ve all come across those kinds of misunderstandings.”

Hagen was surprised. He hadn’t thought of Chris Murray as a potential fraudster. “Like you said, he wasn’t charged. Anything else about him?”

“Not on his police record.” Anja typed again. “Let’s see if there’s anything in the press. Oh, here’s a picture of him. Well, not a picture. A painting.”

Hagen raised his head.

Anja faced him. “Yes, Butterfly Tie? You have a question?”

Of course she remembered. Women had minds like steel traps, every one of them. He ignored her comment. “A painting? What do you mean?”

“By an artist called Darwin Rhodell. The article said they were friends.”

Stella was halfway across the office and heading for a vehicle before Hagen had a chance to grab his coat.

28

A service was underway as Stella strode into Chris Murray’s funeral parlor with Hagen on her heels.

Darwin Rhodell’s victims had not been lucky enough to end up in a place like this. Open caskets hadn’t been possible once Rhodell finished with them. After the team had captured him, his grotesque artwork had soared in value. Like John Wayne Gacy’s clown portraits.

Stella remembered Rhodell’s basement. The damp smell. The groans of his most-recent victim tied to the chair. The sight of Chloe bleeding from a gunshot wound and unconscious on Rhodell’s office floor. The “art” he was creating in his studio, a peace sign made up of dismembered body parts.

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