Page 13 of Possession

Chapter 7

Nathaniel

“Morgan, Crocker, get in here. Now.”

I cursed under my breath at the command from the other room. Assistant Director Reynolds was still pissed off and punishing me for my comment last week. Knowing it was best to move my ass, I stood from behind my chipped particleboard desk, my raggedy chair squeaking with the release of my weight. I was two steps behind Joseph as he led the way to our boss’ office. Once inside, we took our seats while we watched him pace and run his fingers through his hair. We waited in silence for him to finish whatever mental exercise he appeared to be engaged in. Finally, he stopped pacing and moved to perch on the edge of his desk, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I got a call from the P.D. over in Arlington. There’s a woman there who received an anonymous letter from a ‘secret admirer’ she says. Normally, I wouldn’t give a shit about some sad-ass woman getting a letter she thinks is from a crazy stalker, but from what the detective says, it sounds like this could be one of our little notes from Casanova. I need you guys to head over there and check it out. She’s probably just someone in desperate need of the attention.”

I bit my tongue from responding. Dick. This right here was why he sat his ass behind a desk and diddled himself. How he ever became the A.D., I’ll never know. He probably sucked the right cock… or pussy. The fact remained, he was a douche. Joseph, the ever-cool-headed one of us, spoke up, probably because he knew I stood on the verge of blowing a gasket.

“Yes, sir. We’ll be happy to head over and check things out. Hopefully, it’s just a rejected lover making idle threats. We’ll report back ASAP if it’s something needing further investigation.”

“See that you do.” He nodded a dismissal, and we rose from our seats and exited the office without another word.

I held my terse comments until we got to our vehicle. “What a jackass.” I slammed the door behind me in irritation.

Joseph slowly left the parking lot before responding. “That may be true, but sadly, we report to him. Which means, no matter how much he pisses us off, we have to toe the line, not nosedive over the edge of it.”

I merely shot him an annoyed glance. Soon, we were pulling into the local precinct. We made our way up to the desk where a heavyset, completely disinterested beat cop sat behind scratched up plexiglass pecking away at an old desktop computer; one with a giant boxy monitor dating back to the nineties. His name badge read ‘Hopkins.’ Officer Hopkins didn’t bother to look up when we stepped up to the window. That is, until I slapped my ID against it. His bored drawl had my teeth clenching.

“Can I help you?”

“We’re here to see Detective Roberts,” I bit out, doing my best to curb my temper.

“Do you have an appointment?”

I inhaled for control. “He’s expecting us.”

Glancing away, he picked up a phone and pressed a button. Several beats later he spoke into the receiver. “There’re two FBI agents out here for Roberts.” He hung up the phone without waiting for a response and gestured to some chairs against the wall behind us.

“Have a seat.”

I turned around in disgust, muttering obscenities under my breath, and settled on one of the hard plastic chairs. Joseph dropped into the one next to me. “Let it go, Nat.”

This was how it always went when we entered a local cop shop. Most thought we were stepping on their toes when it came to investigations and treated us with contempt. It shouldn’t bother me after all these years, and most times it didn’t. Today, though, it bugged the shit out of me. My fuse was ever shorter lately. Leave it to Joseph to know exactly how I was feeling.

We waited so long for someone to come that I was seconds away from storming back over to Officer Hopkins when a man in a suit rounded the corner and made a beeline for us.

With an outstretched hand, he greeted us. “Sorry for the wait, gentleman. I’m Detective Roberts.”

Joseph shook his hand first. “No problem. I’m Agent Crocker. This is Agent Morgan.”

I gripped his hand as he responded. “A pleasure. Now, if you’d like to come with me, I’ll let you take a look at the letter Ms. Parrish received. Then, you can speak to her if you’d like.”

The detective led us down the hall past several offices and an interrogation room before entering a conference room with a large, rectangular table in the center. At the near end of the table, in a clear plastic evidence bag was a sheet of plain white stationary with words printed across it. I reached it first, carefully picking it up off the table. My eyes scanned the contents of the letter, each word spreading dread through me. We’d need to take it to our lab to analyze, but from my personal knowledge of the case, and each and every prior letter found, this sounded exactly like one written by Casanova. Fuck.

“Now normally we handle this kind of thing on our own, but the Chief has been following this case since the beginning. He knew you Feds have been in charge of the investigation for the last couple years or so. Ever since it crossed state lines. He’s the reason I called you all.”

Casanova was the name we’d coined for the suspected serial killer. At last count, he was credited with the murder of five women between the ages of thirty-five and forty, all brunettes, with blue eyes and small-built body frames. Each one was a businesswoman with varying career choices including an administrative assistant, a paralegal, a lawyer, a CEO of a small business, and a doctor. None of them knew each other in either a professional or personal capacity.

The first death was reported three years ago. The second, six months later. Each death came almost exactly six months after the last one. Joseph and I had been pulled onto the case after victim number two, Leslie Peterson, who had been found in a wooded area along the Pocomoke River near the Eastern shore of Maryland with her heart cut out. All five women had reported receiving anonymous ‘love letters’ and all had been butchered with the same M.O.

I passed the letter over to Joseph to get another opinion. While he read the letter, I turned to the detective. “Tell me about the vic.”

“Her name is Dr. Madeline Parrish. She’s some head doctor who relocated here a couple weeks ago. She reports that she began receiving flirtatious ‘love letters’ about six months ago, but in the last month or so they’ve become a bit darker and ominous. Her words. The last letter she received, until yesterday, was three weeks ago. A week before she moved here.”

With every word Detective Roberts spoke, my muscles tightened. I could also feel the tension radiating off Joseph. No fucking way?

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