I'd been home for about an hour now, and I'd spent all of that time staring down a little slip of paper with Haider's login credentials for the city's police database. Earlier today I'd received an email from Doctor Delaney's office informing me that she'd been the victim of a homicide and that all of her clients were now being taken over by a colleague of hers.
I hadn't cared so much about the change in therapist, it was the call from Haider that came almost immediately on the heels of email that had set my teeth on edge.
I knew he'd figured some of it out by now, call it women's intuition but ever since our impromptu little holiday I'd guessed he either knew about the memories or that I was back in therapy. He'd even hinted at it when we went to lunch this week so when he'd called to check on me it didn't ring any bells but then he'd said he was personally overseeing the investigation as it was could be tied to the Hell's Kitchen Hacker case.
As far as I knew, the Hell's Kitchen Hacker targeted exclusively men, and his cases were supposedly unsolvable. There hadn't been a single lead since the beginning, nobody even knew what this guy looked like and speculation ran rampant over his motives and pattern.
Professionally, it was a dream come true; personally, I think I've reached my lifetime quota for loss.
None of it made sense, and now I was considering committing a felony in order to appease my curiosity. Granted, it's one Emma's committed a multitude of times but I'm scared. I don't have Emma's hacking skills, or her ability to hide her tracks and if I get caught ill end up taking her down with me and that's the last thing I want. We might be on the outs right now but she's still my best friend and I don't want to see her go to prison for breaking into confidential police records. She's far too little for prison.
Taking a steadying breath, I typed in the password and held my breath as I hit enter.
Watching with my heart beating so wildly I felt the pulse of it in my throat, I could almost taste the fear and adrenaline spiking through my body as I waited for the site to open. I'm expecting more backlash when it does, but nothing happens; the site opens, and S. W. A. T doesn't bust down my door, lighting doesn't strike me in my seat, and the sky remains decidedly where it should.
Well, that was anticlimactic I think as I type in the case number. I'd had to do a bit of journalistic work on my end to get that but thankfully, Dev's been covering the HKH case and had the case number with a bunch of other more interesting facts that could come in handy later on.
It takes a moment to load and then I'm staring at a list of sixteen unsolved crimes, crime scene photos, victim autopsy records, the works. It's like every journalists wet dream but this isn't for work. I have to remind myself that this is personal. Doctor Delaney's murder might appear random but I've learned there's no such thing as coincidence. At least not in my life.
Maybe, it's the residual trauma of losing my entire family but I couldn't just sit back and do nothing. I couldn't let another case about someone in my life go cold. I just couldn't.
Doctor Delaney's case is the first one on the list, hers being the most recent. I skip over it, not ready to acquaint myself with all of the gory details. In fact I start at the beginning, that way I have all the facts. I know I stole these login credentials to get to the bottom of my parents murders but right now this case takes precedence. It's newer which means it's more likely to be solved than a three year old cold case, anyway.
They're all gruesome, the crime scene photos depict some of the worst crimes I've ever seen and I've seen my entire family be shot to death in front of me. Whoever this guy is, he's got serious issues.
Over the next three hours I lose myself down the rabbit hole of police files, witness reports, forensic data and crime scene photos. It reminds me of when I wanted to be a forensic tech. It had been the original plan, I'd even registered for all the classes freshman year of college but then the accident had happened and blood had become an issue and before I knew it the plan had changed and I was majoring in journalism.
It no longer seemed like blood was going to be an issue. In fact, despite the brutal and uncensored crime scene photos I hadn't so much as had a hint of a panic attack. Perhaps the return of some of my memories heralded the end of my aversion to blood. Either way, I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
I haven't even made it to Doctor Delaney's file yet but one thing is abundantly clear; for all their talk of having no leads in the case the police have looked into every friend, family and acquaintance of every victim. There aren't any commonalities. It appears that the victim pool is comprised of entirely random men.
One thing that sticks out to me however, is the fact that the first three crime scenes aren't as polished as the rest. In fact they're decidedly more sloppy. The first three scenes are all at the victims homes, the furniture has clearly been disturbed and there are very obviously items missing, all probably removed by the killer because they'd been tainted. It's almost like he didn't plan the first three murders and they'd just happened.
I've been staring at the screen of my laptop for so long that my eyes burn and for the last hours there's been a slow, steady ache building at the base of my skull. A nagging, prickling sort of sensation that I've been doing my best to ignore.
It isn't until I get to victim number seven that the ache finally crescendos into an all out head-splitting pain. I get one look at the victims driver's license photo that's been added to the file after he was identified and my ears begin to ring. Breathing suddenly seems harder and my heart pounds an uneven rhythm against my sternum.
I know him. Actually, know is too strong a word but I have seen him before- in my dreams. He's the man that begs for his life right before I kill him. His screams usually send me racing into consciousness and haunt me in my quiet moments.
It can't be, I shouldn't recognize him. It doesn't make sense and yet I can't deny that his features set off some part of my brain that triggers the memory of that dream in crystal clarity. The stuffy smell of the warehouse around us, the way sunlight sliced between the gaps in the boarded windows, the cold, damp air brushing against my skin, the rough sound of his pleas as he begged for his life.
The feeling of his blood sliding between my fingers as I stabbed him
My stomach rolls, churning and I'm grateful I haven't eaten today because if I had I'd surely be seeing it again.
I look at his picture again, hoping to find something that'll prove I'm mistaken. That I'm just looking for a connection where there isn't one. Curly, dark brown hair, coffee eyes, a kind face, he looks like any average man if see in the street. My eyes flit across the page, and I'm silently praying something is going to prove me wrong and that don't actually recognize Jim.
Instead my eyes land on his name, and that nagging sensation at the base of my skull erupts causing Goosebumps to rise on my skin, my hair stands on end, and dread drags icy fingers down my spine.
David Striegl.
That's his name. That's the name of the man that was murdered by the Hell's Kitchen Hacker. That's the name of the man who's death I see in my dreams, whose face I recognize because I've become so familiar with he look of fear in his eyes as I see it in my nightmares.
I can't take it a second longer, slamming my laptop shut, I blot out the door. The sound of David Stiegel's desperate screams and helpless pleas following me as I break into a run the moment my feet hit the asphalt. His name a chant in my head and my heart the drum beat.
I don't know what this means but I'm suddenly not sure that anything in my life is as it appears.
There are darker forces at play here.