Page 32 of The Grave Between Us
“Nelson Miller was abducted in a blitz attack through his driver’s side window, too, wasn’t he?”
McHugh paled. “Yeah,” he said softly.
“Let’s get Mr. Dressler checked out,” Michael said.
McHugh nodded.
“There will be commonalities between Ingram’s victims. Some will be clear. Others will not. Ingram is like all predators: he works in cycles, with patterns that mean something for him. Blitz attacks on cars may be one of his patterns. Attacking men in parks or woodland areas may be another. It’s what he does again and again and again that will reveal him to us.”
“Try to find men near his age,” Cole said. “Or a little younger. He said he likes younger men as a sexual preference. That might be a guidepost in searching for potential victims. But it’s not a rule. Nelson Miller was slightly older than Ingram, though he looked younger than his age.”
“Cole, do you have a feel for how many victims we’re talking about?” Hillary asked. “Any estimate at all?”
He blew out a breath. “Nothing I want to put on the record. I’d err on the expansive side rather than the narrow side. Whatever number you might be thinking in your head, I’d think higher. Ingram clearly loves hunting and killing. It’s not a part-time activity for him. He’s set himself up with a job that allows him to uproot frequently and travel whenever he wants, giving him new killing fields. He can live in rural areas, where communities are always willing to welcome medical professionals. Everything about the Miller murder shows that he’s a competent, controlled, methodical predator. He’s been doing this a long, long time.”
“Any thoughts on what kind of interval he might have?” Michael asked.
Interval, the time between murders. How long a kill could sustain the killer before he had to strike again. Over time, the interval decreased as the killer’s highs became shorter and shorter. “Based on the evidence in the truck when he was arrested, possibly one to two months. But there could be other victims he managed to scrub completely—or, hell, he could have access to more than one vehicle. Whatever the interval was when he began, it’s obviously closed since then. Ingram gets satisfaction from his kills, but he doesn’t get that supersonic high that new predators get. He’s killing more and more, not to chase that high, but to sustain a level of existence. Killing isn’t a hobby for him. It’s how he lives.”
“Lovely,” Michael said, his voice flat as Hillary blanched.
Cole nodded.
McHugh buried his face in his palms, his shoulders slumped. Michael’s big hand came down on his shoulder, and he leaned in, speaking softly. Cole heard him telling the young man to go home, take a shit, grab a shower, shave, and pour himself a drink until he could shut his eyes and stop seeing pushpins. Then get some sleep and come back in tomorrow after lunch.
“Don’t be ashamed of how you’re going to feel over these next few days or weeks,” Michael told the group. “Or longer.” He fixed the agents with long looks, holding each of their gazes in turn. “For most of you, this will be the only serial killer you ever encounter. It’s okay to be upset. It’s okay to be sick. I want you to be horrified. Don’t let anything you hear become normal. Don’t let Ingram live inside your mind.” He shifted, his gaze falling on Cole. “Ingram is a psychopath and a monster. He’s been successful because he was able to blend in and live like one of us. And being in cuffs doesn’t change a thing about him. He’s addicted to murder, and every one of you needs to remember that he views each of us, and the FBI as a whole, as the roadblock between him and what he wants most: another kill. Never let your guard down. Not just physically, but mentally. Emotionally. Ingram never will.”
Michael waited for his words to sink in. He gripped McHugh’s shoulder again and then stepped back. “I’ll be heading back to Quantico this afternoon. We’ll brief every day as long as this goes. Everyone, get ready. We’re going to ride this wave all the way to shore. We’re going to find every one of his victims. Let’s get to work.”
* * *
“Morning, Ian.”Cole shut the interrogation room door behind him and took a seat at the table. After a week of all-day conversations with Ian, he’d asked for it to be brought back in the interrogation room. He needed to take notes, and he couldn’t do that effectively with a pad of paper on his lap. Now, weeks later, he and Ian had established a routine.
He slid a cup of coffee across to Ian. He’d started bringing Ian coffee in the mornings after Ian confessed to Nelson Miller’s murder. He never commented on it, but it was one of the dozens of tiny pushes he’d tried with Ian, subtle manipulations and bargains that he was certain Ian saw right through.
Day after day, week after week, his life had become filled with Ian Ingram.
Ian flicked a quick smile at him and bent back over a piece of paper. His hands were shackled together, a long chain going from his cuffs and looping through a bolt in the center of the table. He had more freedom to move his hands than he’d had at the outset, but not enough to reach across the table toward Cole.
Cole peered down at Ian’s paper, sheltered in the cage of Ian’s folded arms. Ian shot him a glare, slapping his palm over it. “You’ll see in a minute. Patience.”
“You had another session with the psychologist this morning?”
Ian rolled his eyes. “That idiot. I thought I could avoid all this bullshit by agreeing to plead guilty. Why do I need a competency evaluation if I’m going to plead guilty? Seems like a waste of time and my taxpayer dollars.” He winked at Cole, going back to whatever he was working on. He had a single red crayon in his hand, and he moved it over the sheet in short, precise arcs.
“The government needs to know that you understand what you’re doing when you plead guilty. That you understand what you’ve done and what it means. That you knew you were breaking the law.”
“Oh, I knew,” Ian said, his voice light and bright. “You know I did.”
Cole nodded. He watched Ian’s hands, thin and deft, his fingers long and lean, well manicured, even in prison. He didn’t have calluses, or scars, or bulging veins. No burn marks, no signs of old injuries. Ian had a pianist’s hands, or an artist’s hands, or a surgeon’s hands. But those same hands had wrapped around Nelson Miller’s neck, choking his life away as he dominated him, pressing himself close to Miller and drinking down his agony, his terror.
“I knew I was going to play around with that psychologist as soon as he started quizzing me on my comprehension of the court system. Do I know what the function of the US attorney is? The function of the judge? The jury?” He fixed Cole with a withering stare. “You see why you’re the only light in my life, don’t you?”
Cole’s heart pounded, and he forced his face to stillness before faking a tiny smile. “I look forward to our conversations every day, too.”
Ian studied Cole, eyes narrowing, and then turned back to his drawing. Another line, another flourish, and he sat back with a self-satisfied sigh. He spun the paper and slid it across the table.
A near-perfect portrait, done in red crayon, stared up at Cole. Ian had drawn him from the chest up, and he had his suit on, but his tie was gone, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. His hair was tousled, like he’d run his hands through it a few times. The rest of the room was blank, as if Cole sat in a vacuum within Ian’s memories.
