Trevor continued as if his younger brother hadn’t said anything. Given the shock Sam had just received, minutes away from taking his wedding vows, Trevor felt that under the circumstances, his brother could be given a great deal of leeway.
Trevor continued with his narrative. “The first victim’s name started with the letter A, and the second victim’s name began with B. And your fiancée’s name began with—”
“The letter C,” Sam concluded. His eyes never left his brother’s as he tried to put the facts into some kind of coherent order. “So what are you saying, that this was all premeditated? That the killer is playing some kind of a sick game, copying his murders after another serial killer, then adding his own sick twist to it?”
Trevor nodded. “Yeah, weird though it is, that’s what it’s beginning to look like,” he confirmed. “Up until now, it was only speculation on our part. Two similar murders makes for a coincidence. Three similar murders makes it a pattern, and,” he added, “it also throws these crimes into the realm of the murderer being a serial killer.”
Sam paused, trying to assimilate this latest information he’d been given.
“So it’s not just murdering when the urge hits him, killing women who just happen to fit a certain ‘type,’ the way Matthew did with his nine victims of choice. This killer had to know his victims ahead of time in order to stick to his pattern of choice.”
Feeling momentarily oppressed and weary, Sam looked at his oldest brother. “How did the world get to be so screwed up?”
“Not the world, Sam,” Trevor told him. “Just certain bad seeds in it. And to answer your question, I think it’s always been like this to a certain extent.”
About to say something else, Trevor paused instead, searching for words to express his sentiments. Words didn’t seem to come easy to any of them in the family, he thought ruefully.
Still, he knew he had to give it his best shot. “Look, Sam, I’m sorry about your fiancée—” he began.
Unwilling to watch Trevor struggle needlessly, Sam waved his hand at his brother’s attempts to express his regrets.
“Yeah, I know.” And then, in a far firmer voice, he told Trevor, “Let’s just get this SOB and make sure he doesn’t kill anyone else.”
Trevor couldn’t have agreed with him more. “Amen to that.”
Just then, a thought occurred to Sam. “You think he has a list?” he asked his brother.
Trevor looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”
“A list of names,” Sam specified. “You know, women he’s interacted with or maybe just stalked for a while. Women who fit that rather run-of-the-mill description that seems to set him off for some reason. He finds out their names, writes them down, then alphabetizes them so he can eliminate them in order. All that takes time, planning,” he pointed out.
“Who knows what he thinks,” Trevor countered. “But that would seem like the logical way to proceed,” he granted, and then laughed. It was a hollow, almost sad sound.
“What’s so funny?” Sam wanted to know. The whole situation was the complete opposite of funny as far as he was concerned.
“A logical serial killer,” Trevor answered. “It’s not funny, really. More like absurd,” he corrected.
“Not to the victims,” Sam commented.
For a moment, Trevor realized he’d forgotten how very personal the last murder was. He hadn’t meant to sound so insensitive about the woman who would have been Sam’s wife by now if she hadn’t been murdered.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “I meant no offense.”
“None taken,” Sam assured him.
He felt almost guilty at his lack of grief over Celia’s death. Everyone was treating him with kid gloves, assuming he was stoically bearing up to this tragic blow. He just didn’t feel right about deceiving them this way.
But this wasn’t the time to come right out and admit he had no feelings for the woman, that all there had been was a sense of obligation, nothing more, behind the wedding.
He had no time to deal with that right now, Sam told himself. There was a killer to catch.
He thought for a moment, then asked abruptly, “Why women with long dark hair?”
Caught off guard, Trevor shook his head. “No idea,” he confessed.
“Maybe we can find the answer with the first victim. Victim A,” Sam clarified. But even as he said it, another idea had hit him. “If that actually was his first victim.”
Trevor wasn’t following him. “What do you mean?” he asked.
Sam was extrapolating as he went, building on his initial idea. “Maybe our serial killer killed someone before that, someone the police didn’t find. The person our killer actually hated,” he specified. “The person all the other victims remind him of.”
“Okay,” Trevor agreed. “But why kill these others alphabetically?” In his opinion, that ramped the murders up another notch, making them that much more difficult to execute.
Sam thought for a moment, and then he shrugged. “Maybe our killer is an obsessive-compulsive type and whatever makes those birds tick makes him want to conduct these killings in this specific, macabre, alphabetical fashion.”
It was, Trevor thought, as good a theory as any—and better than most.
“You know,” he told Sam, “if you ever decide you want to move up from being a detective in a town the size of a green pea, the FBI Behavioral Bureau could use someone like you.”
Sam knew he should be flattered by the invitation, but all he really was...was numb. But, this was his brother, and relations were still in the very early reacquaintance stages, so he proceeded as if he was crossing a river in a skiff made of eggshells.
“Thanks, but no thanks. Two serial killers in one lifetime is more than enough for me,” he assured his oldest brother.
They both knew he was referring to their father as well as to the current killer who had suddenly raised his head and thrown everything into chaos.
About to return to the church and the remaining wedding guests that still needed to give their statements, Sam turned to his brother with another, more pressing thought. “You know, before we go on with this investigation, given what’s already happened, I think we should release this story to the local papers.”
Trevor looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “The papers? What the hell for? Those reporters are nothing more than vultures. At the very least, they’ll just get in the way.”
He probably hated reporters more than Trevor did, or at least equally as much. When the story had broken about their father, the reporters had had a field day, camping on their front lawn, following them everywhere and always, always snapping pictures and shouting out embarrassing, humiliating questions.
But there was a reason for his break with protocol. “I’d be the first to agree with you,” Sam said, “but since this nutjob has already killed three women that fit a certain description and pattern, it stands to reason that his next victim will be a twentysomething, dark-haired woman whose name begins with the letter D.
“It seems only right that we issue a warning so these women will exercise extreme caution and do what it takes to stay out of harm’s way. Otherwise, if this maniac kills a fourth victim, her death will be as much on our heads as on his.”
Trevor sighed. “I wouldn’t exactly say fifty-fifty, but you’ve got a point. You want to release a formal statement to the press?”
Sam was stunned by his brother’s suggestion. He had a tendency