“Monday. We met for breakfast before he went to work.” Mr. Northcott drew a shuddering breath. “He had an egg white omelet. He should have had steak and eggs.” Tears leaked from his eyes and dripped down his cheeks. He didn’t bother to wipe them away.
“Did you talk to him since then?” Bree asked.
Mr. Northcott shook his head. He was fighting for control. The cords on the sides of his neck stood out, and his jaw sawed from side to side until it seemed he could crack a molar.
Matt didn’t want to leave him alone.
Bree touched the older man’s forearm. “Is there someone we can call for you?”
Mr. Northcott shook his head. “No. I’m used to being alone. Julius’s mother ran out on us when he was two. After that, I never could trust a woman enough to get close.” He clenched his fists on his thighs. “It was just me and Julius. We were best friends. I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.” He broke down, sobbing.
Broken.
He would never be the same. A lifetime of memories, of work, of joy . . . had been erased.
“Parents shouldn’t outlive their children,” Northcott moaned. “It’s not natural.”
They left him in emotional pieces.
Matt slid into the passenger seat. Bree sat behind the wheel, making no move to start the engine.
“Sometimes, this job is the worst.” She stared out the windshield, clearly not focusing on the residential street in front of them.
“Julius would have been murdered whether or not we got his case.” Matt reached across the console and took her hand. “People will always kill other people. You and I know that, and there isn’t anything we can do to stop it. The very best we can do is to bring killers to justice and prevent them from committing future murders. That’s all we have.”
“You’re right.” Bree breathed. “We can’t stop a murder before it happens. Solving them is second best, but it’s our job.”
“It’s an important job.” Matt squeezed her hand. “We need to lock up the ones that kill.”
“So, we’re sure the same killer murdered Spencer and Julius?”
“As sure as we can be,” Matt qualified.
Bree nodded. “We need to stop them before they claim another life. Because they will. We both know it.”
“We’re not going to say the words.”
“You mean, serial killer?” Matt asked.
“Yeah. We’re not going to say those words.”
Matt exhaled. “We have two extremely similar murders occurring only one day apart. That’s beyond escalation.”
“You’re right.” Bree’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t some nutter who thinks bathing himself in the blood of virgins will give him immortality. I’m not sensing any insanity at these scenes.”
“What about the rattlesnake?”
Bree considered. “It felt like window dressing. Something added on to throw us off. The murders were planned. Every step of the process executed with precision. The killer easily overpowered two healthy, strong men without leaving any signs of a struggle. They brought a stun gun, zip ties, and plastic wrap. They encountered no real difficulty. Mentally unstable people can’t follow precise methodology.”
She was right.
Matt considered the snake. “Jasper would be comfortable handling a rattler.”
“Yes, but we’d need to find a link between Jasper and Julius. So far, the biggest connection between the murders is the use of dating apps.”
“The stun gun and zip ties are practical.”
Bree nodded.
“What about the plastic wrap?”
Bree’s head bobbed from side to side. “Also practical. These kills were bloodless. No mess. No fuss. The victim is incapacitated and restrained. Then they’re at the killer’s mercy.”
Of which he clearly had none.
Bree continued. “No blood means less evidence the killer can track home.”
“The Tidy Killer?”
“I doubt the media will use that nickname.” Bree snorted. “But a neat killer is smart. Sloppiness leads to evidence. Evidence leads to conviction. This killer won’t be caught that easily. He or she committed two murders in two days. No one saw. No one stopped them. No one had a clue.”
Matt’s blood chilled. “How do we catch a smart killer?”
Bree wrapped her fingers around the steering wheel. “By being smarter.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Todd stood on the old woman’s porch. The door was open to the end of its security chain. A pair of sharp gray eyes squinted at him through the three-inch gap. Near Todd’s boots, a dog snuffled on the other side of the door. “I’m Chief Deputy Harvey, ma’am. May I speak with you?”
Her gaze turned suspicious. “How do I know you are who you say you are?”
Todd gestured to the street behind him, where emergency vehicles clogged the street. “I’m with them.”
Her eyes crinkled with humor. “OK. I guess you’re legit.” She pronounced legit like she’d been watching reruns of 1960s cop shows. She opened the door and waved him inside. “Don’t let the dog—or the heat—out.”
He hurried through the opening and closed the door behind him. He stopped dead as he took in the dog, a gray pit bull with a fireplug body, cropped ears, and battle scars. She stuffed her nose into his crotch and wagged furiously.
“I’m Edna Zimmerman, and that’s Missy. She’s a rescue and friendly with almost everyone.”
Todd dropped to one knee to greet the dog. “That’s a good girl.”
Missy wagged and licked his face.
Todd stood and waited for warmth to hit him but quickly realized the inside of the house was freezing.
“I have strudel.” The old woman turned and shuffled toward the back of the house. She wore a hat and coat over purple sweatpants. Missy ambled along beside the old woman.
As he walked through the living room, Todd glanced at the thermostat. The temperature read 55 degrees.
He walked past a cat tree, where a long-haired white cat gave him a quiet hiss. An orange tabby wound around his ankles. The cat bumped against the pit bull, who gave it an amicable sniff.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Zimmerman reached for a teapot on the counter. In her midseventies, she was less than five feet tall and couldn’t have weighed a hundred pounds. The hair tucked under her knit cap was fluffy and white. She was thin, but not frail, and resembled a Q-tip. “Sit down. You’ll have tea.” She issued commands like a much larger person.
“I don’t have time—”
“Sit.”
Todd dropped into a chair like a well-trained retriever. Missy planted her butt on the floor.
“I just made a pot.” Mrs. Zimmerman set a china cup of tea and a plate of pastry in front of him. She laid a cloth napkin on the table next to the plate and set a fork on it. “You look cold. Eat. Then we’ll talk.”
Todd dug into the pastry, thinking eating it was the fastest way to get his information. The taste of cinnamon and apples flooded his tongue. “This is incredible.”
“I know.” No pride, just matter-of-fact confidence, filled her words. “Now”—she sat across from him with her own steaming cup—“you’re here about the wickedness next door.”